A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews on the last chapter. I appreciate them all and I appreciate your reading. I hope you enjoy this long chapter, which picks up directly where the last one left off ...

..
invitations
..

Do you want to come up?

I've used those exact words way back when I first got to Seattle and I was staying at a place a hell of a lot nicer than the trailer. I'd invite him back to my room. I rented a fabulous car even though I don't care about cars – I guess I thought it might make him want to drive with me. It didn't. I'd find my way into his car, though. Do you want to come up? Usually, he said no. Once he came up once and looked around the room. I walked around picking things up and talking too fast and trying not to seem as nervous as I was. He didn't stay. The first time we had sex – after Mark, and Meredith – it was in his trailer instead.

He stayed over in the hotel sometimes, after that.

But he usually left before breakfast.

"Come up," Derek repeats doubtfully, which kind of just makes me feel worse.

Would he believe that my mouth betrayed me? That I was really planning on saying good night to him, opening the door and leaving in a dignified way but apparently my lips had other ideas?

"I mean in," I say quickly, amending it. Believably, I hope. "Come in. To the restaurant, or – we could eat. Since you here. And I haven't eaten. Have you eaten?"

Stop babbling, Addie.

I need a muzzle.

I need a drink.

"No," Derek says after a moment. "I haven't eaten."

So I guess that's that.

He parks the car and we go inside and I pretend walking into this hotel with him isn't absolutely freaking bizarre.

(Weirdly, it doesn't feel that weird. But you know what I mean.)

Once we get inside the hotel … it turns out the restaurant I prefer is apparently closed for a private event tonight. The maître d' looks so devastated to break the news that I'm surprised he doesn't offer to build a new restaurant for me right then. As it is, he assures me the kitchens are open to deliver anything I need to my room, and suggests we consider the bar.

Yeah, there's a bar, with heavy oak tables, but it's dark in there and we both kind of turn away from it at once.

Now what?

This was a bad idea from the start.

I'm going to tell him that, and send him on his way. I'll go up and have a glass of wine and eat the chocolate that comes on top of my immaculately folded, exorbitantly priced laundry if I get hungry.

"You could come up," I offer. "I mean, to eat. Since you're here anyway. We could order food. The kitchens are still open."

I swear I am going to sew my lips shut after tonight. They won't be able to say things to Derek after that, and come to think of it, sealing up my mouth should solve half the Mark problem too.

Two men, two different issues, one stone.

Derek does that pausing thing again and honestly I'm not sure whether it would be worse if he says yes or no.

He doesn't end up saying anything, just nodding again and following me upstairs.

Silently thanking god for excellent maid service, which means no stray undergarments in the room – Mark's or mine, even if I forget them – I push open the door to what passes for home these days.

Derek showed up here. After prom, he showed up here.

The other night, when I was drunk, he showed up here again.

And now I'm … showing him up here?

I don't know the term for what I'm doing, which is propping the door a little while he walks into my hotel room and then letting it swing shut on the very strange turn my night has taken.

Meanwhile, Derek's face is unreadable.

Did I mention I need a drink?

Except I said we would eat. Which isn't the worst idea, because my hands are shaking a little.

And my hands kind of smell like beer, which is unpleasant, and then I remember I touched the floor at Joe's – with my hands, with my skirt, and I'm disgusted.

"I'm, uh, do you mind if I change?" I ask him.

He looks at me for a moment.

What I'd really like to do is shower, but it feels a little dangerous when I think about our last morning together, me with wet hair in the robe and that frozen moment of confusion right before he left.

"There's bar floor on my skirt," I add, just to make the moment a little more awkward.

I would say I'm my own worst enemy … but there are so many contenders these days.

..

Changing is complicated. Because everything in my life is complicated.

I end up undressing and redressing in the bathroom, which is somehow both more and less revealing than doing it in front of him. First I waste some time with the drawer open trying to figure out what to wear without seeming like I'm trying to figure out what to wear.

Imagine being worried about what I'm wearing with Derek, who has seen me in just about everything and a few thousand times in nothing at all. I am, though.

I have a moment when I wonder if I wonder if yoga pants are too informal – too slipping into something a little more comfortable and then I think about formal and the red dress I wore to prom and have a nice little moment of black humor with myself.

(I've been my only friend pretty much since the plane landed at Sea-Tac, so I have quite the bed of inside-jokes built up at this point; add it to the list.)

Yoga pants it is. I don't do yoga, to be clear. I just appreciate the functionality of its uniform. See also: sports bras. And, I suppose, the fishing hat I wore for my day of drinking after I found the panties. I took it with me, too, figuring Derek didn't deserve to fish in it anymore.

I wonder what he did about it.

… probably just replaced it.

This time I'm also wearing a shirt that's free from history – I mean, it's from my drawer in New York, but everything's been washed at this point and smells like high-end hotel laundry instead of my laundry.

(My laundry the housekeeper did, but the point is the scent, not the labor.)

Which just leave the task of looking in the mirror and thinking that if life were fair at least the lines next to my mouth would be faded since I haven't been smiling much for a while.

They're not, though.

And my tailbone is throbbing.

I'm rubbing the sore spot distractedly when I leave the bathroom. Derek is standing pretty much where I left him.

"Pain?" he asks.

You have no idea.

I shrug a little. "It's fine."

"Can I … ?" he asks.

Why not? Everything else about tonight is already bizarre. So I make my way to him and he does this barely-there gesture with his chin that makes me turn around enough for him to see.

Even though I know he's going to do it, I jump a little when I feel his hands on me.

It's silly considering his hands were on me, a lot, the night he stayed over. He doesn't say anything about it. He just waits a few seconds and when I don't stop him, he lowers the waistband just the slightest amount. I can't help hissing a little when he runs his fingers over the spot I'm certain is going to bruise.

"It's not broken," he says.

Yeah, bruised-but-not-broken is pretty much my specialty. Because the thing is –

"It's actually less painful when you break it," he muses.

Obviously, I know this.

"It's fine, really."

He lets go and I turn around and I move my lips into what I'm pretty sure is a smile.

"You should ice it," he says.

"I will. Later."

He looks like he's about to object.

"Food," I say quickly, figuring it will distract him. "We were going to eat."

I have a refrigerator – a pretty little silver one – and I see his gaze track over there with something like amusement. Yes, Derek, we all know I don't cook.

I don't actually have anything in the refrigerator other than champagne, which makes him grimace. I'm not actually hungry – but to placate him, I order two burgers from room service.

"Do you have anything to drink other than champagne?" he asks once I've hung up.

I glance at the wine fridge. I don't think that's what he means.

"I had water," I tell him. "I think. I guess it's gone."

He looks like he's trying not to roll his eyes. "Is this hotel too fancy for a soda machine?"

The first time I ever stayed in a motel was with Derek and I thought the loud ice machine outside our room was absolutely fascinating – he didn't tease me about it when he realized I was serious and then we both ended up laughing at the competing loudness of our squeaking mattress and the groaning ice machine. We were so young – and flexible – and he used to joke after that that ice machines would get him going so he had to be careful not to –

"Addison?" he prompts.

"I don't know if there's a … soda machine." I remember where I am. Where we are. "There's a shop in the lobby, but it might be closed."

He could call the concierge and have a bottle of water or, you know, an American bald eagle in about three minutes but I know how he'd react to that suggestion.

So he leaves in search of water and when he comes back with two water bottles tucked under his arm, there's a strange expression on his face. And it's not his I'm a fabulously successful surgeon who still acts annoyed by decent hotels expression.

It's something else.

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he says, and he closes the door quickly.

Which means it's obviously something, and as soon as he's in the room I slip past him and open the door again to see whatever it is.

"Addison, don't – "

But I do, and I can see down the hall to Mark's room – I can see the clear outline of him, and Callie, against the door.

"I told him to go inside," Derek says.

I didn't realize he was standing behind me.

He holds the door open for me.

"Does it bother you?" he asks once we're back inside and he's leaning against the closed door.

I consider the question. "It bothered me in New York."

He looks at me. "You caught him with someone else," he says. Those are my words, the ones I said to him.

"Someones," I correct him, emphasizing the plural. "The last one was … a nurse I knew." I'm probably giving Derek too much credit that he'd remember Charlene, but some part of me wants to protect her name even though I certainly wasn't too thrilled with her when I saw her legs in the air that night. We poor-decisions-about-Mark-Sloan-makers have to stick together, I guess.

Derek takes a sip of his water. "Mark's never been monogamous," he says simply. "I've known him for … almost 35 years now. I knew his first girlfriend – Patty Cambrie, in the second grade – and I also knew the girl he kissed on the jungle gym later that same day."

"What was her name?" I ask. "The other girl."

"I don't remember," Derek says. "Jenny – Janie? Something like that. She had freckles, though."

Of course she did. Probably red hair too, like all the best cheaters. For some reason, it makes me sad that he can't remember her name.

"You knew who he was," Derek says. His tone is … thoughtful. Not accusatory.

I don't answer.

I'm tired but I don't want to sit down on the bed, so I kind of fumble my way to the armchair on one side of the room – it's padded, for which my posterior is grateful – and Derek pulls over the one from the desk.

There. Totally chaste, totally normal. I pull my feet up under me to take some pressure off my tailbone.

"Did you really think you could change him?" Derek asks the question like he's curious, genuinely.

"Kind of. I know how that sounds," I say before he can respond. "Ridiculous. I know that. But I did think I was different. He said I was different and I know he says it to all the girls, but …"

"…but you thought you were different," Derek prompts.

I nod. I don't know why I'm handing him more ammunition to use against me. It's not like he doesn't already have sixteen years of it. His face is neutral and I guess he's just quietly adding it to his belt. File actually thought she could change Mark Sloan under M for Mark, or S for Sloan. Or S for stupid.

I was so stupid.

"I thought so too," Derek says abruptly.

"Hm?" I'm lost. Derek thought I could change Mark?

"I thought I was different from all the other sad-sack middle aged attendings at hospitals across the country," he admits. He's using my words from earlier, the ones I threw at him for sleeping with an intern and acting like it was a great love story.

I consider this. "Do you still think that?"

"I don't know," he says quietly.

"You had feelings for her, though."

"I did."

"Do you still?" I ask again.

"I don't know," he says again.

I want to ask if he feels anything for me. If he remembers that he used to feel everything for me.

The buzzer sounds instead, announcing the arrival of our burgers.

..

Revelation of the night – unrelated to my failed marriage – is that it's not so bad, drinking water. I should probably do it more often.

I uncork a bottle of wine too, of course, but a glass of wine is pretty much a glass of water when it comes to my bloodstream, and when I pour one for Derek too out of habit he doesn't object.

We're sitting across from each other at the little rolling table the busboy brought, staring at the burgers – his medium, mine medium-rare. He has a pile of feathery spring greens next to his burger instead of fries, a substitution he hissed at me while I was ordering like I wasn't married to the man for eleven years.

The burger's not half bad. Maybe I was hungry after all.

Then I remember the double breakfast that arrived the morning after Derek left my hotel room. After he stayed over.

I wait until we've gone back and forth about the triplets a few times, making the kind of work conversation that's always flowed easily between us, before I bring it up.

"You ordered me breakfast."

He blinks, the burger halfway to his mouth, and sets it down again. I don't say, the night you stayed over. I know he knows.

"You always eat breakfast when you're hungover," he says after a minute.

"It was a lot."

"You can eat a lot," he points out, and I make a face at him.

"Thank you, for that."

"I'm not saying you do eat a lot, just that you can. Although you're not doing such an impressive job on the burger."

"It's the size of a newborn," I tell him. "And I'm doing okay."

He's looking at me in a way I'm not sure I want to analyze. "Yeah," he says quietly. "You're doing okay."

So I push it.

"Derek?"

He takes a bite of salad and waits until he's finished chewing to answer me – that was me, you're welcome, Mom, and everyone who's sat next to him at a fundraiser since 1995.

Then he nods and I go ahead: "Tonight, at Joe's – you really weren't on a date?"

It's none of my business.

But I want to know anyway, okay?

"I really wasn't on a date." He pauses. "I know you were married for eleven years – "

You, he says, not we.

" – but you must remember dating a little bit."

"Barely." I take a sip of wine. "Although … I think we were good at dating."

"I know we were good at dating." He gives me a trademark smug smile. "We were very good at dating."

We take a minute to be arrogant together, like the old days.

"I guess we weren't so good at marriage," I concede.

"We?" He raises his eyebrows.

"Yes … we." I say it firmly.

He doesn't say anything.

"I know I screwed up, Derek. A lot. It's my fault. Most of it is my fault. But I'm not the only one who screwed up." I don't raise my voice; if anything, I'm speaking quietly.

I don't want to fight. I don't think I do, anyway. But I don't want to shoulder the end of our marriage by myself, either. Not when he's sitting in my hotel room eating a burger I ordered for him and he hasn't answered any of my questions, not really:

Why did you give me back the rings?

Why did you leave like that the next morning?

Why did you drive me back here tonight?

Why did you come upstairs?

The thing is, I know his non-answers: he gave back the rings because they're mine, he left like that in the morning because he had to go to work, he drove me back here tonight because he was partially responsible for my falling on my ass at Joe's and I had no car since Mark drove me to work and Mark was planning to use that same car as a screwmobile for him and Callie.

Oh, and he came upstairs for burgers. I think that about covers it.

"I know you're not the only one who … made mistakes," he says after another bite, another silence. "I'm fairly certain I've already acknowledged that."

He's getting all formal-irritated now. He's going to whip out heretofore any minute.

The thing is, he did acknowledge it. Back when he was still pretending to try: I was indifferent. I was absent. I'm partly to blame. And then he screwed Meredith and left me standing alone like an idiot on the dance floor with a freaking French braid because I wore it that way to some gala in the nineties and he said he loved it. More than said – God, that was a good night, he couldn't stop looking at me on the dance floor and we ended with that braid in his hand while he –

Yeah. A good night. My scalp tingles a little with the memory.

Honestly? I think a little part of me was fantasizing that we could recreate it after the prom.

(I know. I'm not an innocent victim. Prom night, with the red dress and the French braid and we're trying, we're trying, I still hadn't told Derek the truth about Mark. Any of it. There's plenty of partly to blame to go around, with us.)

I swirl what's left of the wine in my glass. "If you marry Meredith … you'll have to do a better job."

"If I marry Meredith," he repeats, raising an eyebrow. "You want me to marry Meredith?"

"Not particularly, no."

I trail a French fry around my plate a few times without looking at him; he takes it out of my hand and eats it. This is what happens when you insist on the side salad instead of fries. You move in on your wife's plate because her side is better chosen. Derek's health kick only works so well because he has me there to cheat once in a while.

… but I probably should choose a different word to describe his occasional indulgences in fried things, considering our shared history.

"How are you going to marry her if you aren't even dating her?" I say it casually, like I'm kidding instead of testing.

"She doesn't want to date me."

I wait for him to blame me, but he doesn't. Not out loud, anyway.

"I ran into her," he says after he's eaten another of my fries and then returned to his salad. "Tonight, on the way out of the hospital, I ran into her. I was leaving to get a drink, they were leaving to get a drink. We walked together."

"She made you smile," I say, before I can censor myself. I hope he can't hear in my voice how it felt to say it. Or to see it.

"Did she?" He tilts his head. He looks like he doesn't remember.

I wonder if he remembers the last time I made him smile.

It feels like a very long time ago.

He's looking at me and his eyes are soft and they're going to kill me, one of these days. If he weren't such a terrific surgeon Derek would make a pretty effective serial killer.

(It's part of why I can't blame Meredith for sleeping with Derek at the prom. Or any of it, really. I'm ten years older than she is and those eyes have made me do some pretty stupid things. I'm just hoping tonight won't become another example.)

"Derek – "

"I didn't," he says, interrupting me.

"You didn't what?" I drink some more water; it's warm in here – I don't feel like getting up and fussing with the custom digital thermostat thing – or maybe it's the meaty, charred smell of the burgers. Really gets into your nostrils. Which is an issue if you eat most of your meals in your room. If all you have is a room.

"I didn't mean it," he says, and I find myself actually sitting up a little straighter.

If I were a cartoon my ears would whip forward right now: go ahead, I'm listening, I gotta hear this. That kind of thing.

And I wait for him to speak.

He clears his throat a little first. "What I said before, about – " He stops. "We used to be friends. Before we dated, before we got married. We were friends first."

Screw cartoon ears, now I have to look down at my plate for a second so my face doesn't give away the effect his words are having on me. Because even though I knew this already ... it means something, hearing him admit it.

Those are basically my words he's speaking. That awful day in the supply closet. And then he scoffed at me with that – dismissive look.

Were we? Or was I just trying to screw you?

I can see what his face looked like when he said it. It's the same one across the rolling table from me now, in my hotel room, except for the eyes.

They're so different.

Of course I know we were friends first. And I know that he only said we weren't, that day, to hurt me. And like most things Derek does … he succeeded.

I don't know what to say so I just stare at the crisp edges of the fries that are starting to melt into each other and the semicircle indentation of my last bite of meat. Why is he telling me this?

"Why are you telling me this?"

(Oh hey, look at that. I guess I knew what to say after all.)

"Because it's true," he says simply.

"A lot of things are true."

"And you asked me," he continues. "You asked me if I meant it."

I did. I guess I did. Of all the unanswered questions between us, that's the one he's deciding to address?

Now I'm annoyed again.

"Then I suppose I should thank you for answering me." I give him my nicest deb smile. "It's so gratifying to hear you admit that I wasn't just a … receptacle for your baser medical school needs."

"Addison." He shakes his head.

"No, I mean it. It's touching. You should have included it in the wedding vows," I tell him.

"Why, would that have helped you keep them?"

We both stop talking for a minute and take a breath. I wasn't really expecting him to fight back, much less with a cheap shot – which should tell you I've gotten a little too comfortable. Burgers and wine and talking and I can almost forget.

"Derek … why are you here?"

He looks surprised. I remember two things at once: it's pretty hard to surprise Derek, and Derek doesn't like being surprised.

(Case in point: his reaction when I told him about the abortion.)

"You invited me," he says.

"But I didn't invite you the last time."

"Were you asking about the last time?"

I press the bridge of my nose, willing back the headache, burger grease be damned. I'll use extra toner later, whatever, because this conversation is going in freaking Alice in Wonderland circles – even for us. And not to mix fictional metaphors but it's really about fifty percent Alice – or the Red Queen anyway – and fifty percent Groundhog Day with Derek in my hotel room and me asking him fruitlessly why he's there.

"Derek – "

"We were friends, Addison. We can be friends. That's all I was saying, before."

"Wait." I put the silver dome back over my burger. I can't take the overpowering meat smell anymore. I'd call the busboy to come get it but I can just imagine how well Derek would handle it. He'd probably want to wheel the cart back down to the kitchens himself, after one of his boy scout stories about the summers he spent waiting tables.

(Do I sound uncharitable? It's just Derek doesn't object to room service. He objects to someone associating him with it. … and someone pointing out the difference, too.)

"Friends?" I study his face for a moment. I mean, this is pretty much what I decided – without him, mind you – when I realized we'd be working together on Eleanor's case. Why am I not surprised Derek's making it sound like it's his idea?

"Friends." He looks at me for a moment and then covers his own plate. "If you want."

"That's a step up from civil and mature," I remind him. "And we didn't do civil and mature particularly well."

"No," he admits. "But we've done friends before. Civil and mature was new."

There's a little bit of a twinkle in his eyes but he also sounds so serious that I have to hide my own smile.

I look down at our two covered plates. "Friends … eat burgers," I suggest.

He nods. "What do civil and mature people eat?" he asks.

"Salad," I tell him without a pause.

He looks amused now. "But hold the peppers," he says.

"Always hold the peppers."

You remember, I want to shout. You remember something about me.

I don't. I don't say anything. I just think.

Here's the thing: friends scares me a little.

Fine, maybe more than a little.

But I don't know how to tell him that even though I definitely don't want him to hate me, I'd still rather he hate me than nothing me, because the idea of never seeing him again – of his just blanking me, forgetting me, walking past me like I never existed – I don't think I can handle it. Maybe I don't really know what's going on, still, but I do know that right now I need to be something with him. If friends is the something … it's a lot better than nothing.

"Are you finished?" Derek asks. He's glancing down at our covered dishes on the table between us.

"Yes, I'm finished."

I prop my chin in my hand (yes, with my elbow on the rolling table – take that, Bizzy) and watch as he stands and goes over to the phone and calls down for them to pick up the table.

I'm about to thank him when he seems to remember his role and starts trying to push the table toward the door – to lessen the busboy's load, I suppose. I'm busy wondering whether my eyeroll is as obvious as it feels when the table jerks to a stop and then he's scrubbing at a spreading wine stain on his jeans.

I apologize like a good hostess even though it's his own fault, and I'm about to say something about sending his jeans down to the laundry when I remember I'm not his wife anymore. His clothes are his business now. And then he's looking at his sleeve with annoyance; trying to manage the stain just ended up with red wine there too.

(Which wouldn't have happened if I'd handled the spill, but – you know, divorce.)

He contains the rest of the spill and then gestures toward the bathroom; I wave my permission for him to go try to salvage his clothes.

Truthfully, I don't think it would be the worst outcome if the shirt ended up in the trash; it's not one I bought. It's plaid and it's – let's just say the wine isn't doing much damage to the color scheme. But like I said, that's not my concern, not anymore.

Of course he can use my bathroom. We're civil. Mature. Friends?

The door buzzes a few minutes after Derek shuts himself into the bathroom to attack the wine stains – the busboy coming for the table. But when I pull open the door, it's not the busboy.

It's Callie.

I blink in surprise.

(I know, I know, I really need to start asking who it is before I open the door. But in fairness, I thought I knew … this time, and the others.)

Callie's long hair is damp and she smells like shampoo; she's wearing what looks like a pair of Mark's sweats and one of his t-shirts. They're not her size but they're not doing the cute-oversized thing either, and I feel her pain – it's me in Derek's clothes all over again.

And she looks rueful.

"I'm sorry," she says, and I don't know if she means for screwing Mark or for showing up without any warning. "I was just hoping you had some eye makeup remover I could use …? Mark doesn't have any."

Honestly, so many women move in and out of that room I'm surprised he doesn't have a complimentary toiletry basket at this point, but I nod like I agree.

Callie looks relieved. "I'm going to be a raccoon tomorrow," she says, gesturing at her face. It's a little smudged. And she's pretty damned good with the smoky eye – I remind myself to ask her about it next time things are normal.

(Normal, as in, neither of is freshly fucked and neither of us has an erstwhile ex-husband in our hotel bathroom.)

Speaking of which … I should probably get her out of here before she sees Derek. Not that anything – it's just that it would look strange, that's all.

"I, um, I need a minute to – dig it up," I say, which sounds like the lie it is. I could tell you right now the exact latitude and longitude of all my favorite products. I could draw you a map so specific even Christopher Columbus wouldn't end up on the wrong continent. The point is – she needs to leave.

"Okay. Sure," Callie says, looking a little confused. Then her face brightens. "Ooh, I like your room. It has a better layout than his."

Wait. That's not how this is supposed to go.

"Callie? I can just bring it to you when I … ." My voice trails off as she strolls into the room and now I'm following her like an anxious hostess.

Great.

The thing is, if she doesn't leave soon, it might get awkward.

Awkward is one of my many middle names these days, as you've probably noticed, so naturally I'm still trying to think of an excuse to get her out of here as soon as I can – we're only a couple of yards from the closed bathroom door at this point – when the door opens

(because of course it does)

and Derek emerges.

Callie's head swivels from him to me and then back to him again.

I take in what she's seeing.

Derek is standing in the brightly lit doorway in just boxers and an undershirt. He's holding a washcloth in one hand. He already looks a little confused; when he sees Callie, his expression changes to surprise.

Oh, this looks bad.

This looks very bad.

But the worst of it, the biggest problem – I don't actually notice until he unclenches his other fist.

And then I see the moment Callie sees – her eyes with their smeared mascara get huge – and I wonder if it's too late to call room service for some cyanide.

To be continued. Almost 5,000 words and they're still in the hotel room. Oh, Addek. You're going to kill us all one day. Quickly: the first is that one of the things about early Season 3 Addek that drives me nuts in both good and bad ways is that Derek was constantly changing his attitude - snapping at her, being overly friendly, being semi-civil, being kind of a dick, being weirdly flirtatious at the end of the season (enough so that I wrote an entire one-shot about that moment). If you're only Addison and you only see Addison's perspective, those shifts are confusing as hell. They were confusing enough for the viewer!one.

Thank you again for reading! You are great. And you know the drill: your reviews power my fingers, and your reviews help me pick where to direct spare writing time. So I hope you'll let me know what you think.