Notes: Chapter title is from the song "You Are Enough," by Sleeping At Last.
When we grew up
Our shadows grew up too
But they're just old ghosts
That we grow attached to
The tragic flaw is that they hide the truth
(I'm doing a thing here, so most chapter titles will be by this band, but not all)
This chapter is more Mark-centric. It's easier for me to write Addison, but I do enjoy writing about our favorite (male) dirty mistress. More of his backstory will come later, but here is just a teaser.
NYP = NewYork-Presbyterian. It bothers me immensely that there is no space in NewYork Presbyterian (known as New York Hospital before 1998 – one thing Private Practice did get right), but I don't make the rules, so.
. .
. .
Chapter 4. When We Grew Up, Our Shadows Grew Up Too
Addison is not the only one whose childhood was filled with loneliness in the margins. Her adult loneliness probably trumps Mark's at the moment, but he is certain his childhood melancholy could give hers a run for its money. It's not the most charitable thought to have, but it is the one Mark finds himself contemplating as they pick a spot on the mostly-deserted beach. They spread out a blanket, and Addison casts Mark a doubtful look.
"Mark…" she murmurs. It's a weakened voice though, a relenting one. "Please be careful. Don't dive, either. I'm not coming in after you."
"You know, years from now when someone brings up 'that fateful weekend' on Dateline -"
"Mark."
"I'm kidding. Relax. I'll be quick."
"You're an idiot and it's going to be too cold."
"You just had to make those separate statements, didn't you?"
Addison peers up at him, large blue-green eyes shaded beneath the brim of a Bowdoin Hockey hat that belongs to her husband. "It was a conscious choice."
"Mm. I'll be fine, Red." Mark steps away from the flannel blanket and saunters towards the water, grains of pale sand lifting beneath his feet. "Hold my beer," he calls out ironically, and Addison manages a short, choppy laugh.
It's harder to breathe in cold water. It's more a habitual recitation for Mark than it is a distinctive thought. It's just one of those things he learned as a kid – from Derek's dad – without really knowing the reason behind it or thinking to question it. Now he understands blood vessels constrict in cold water and certain physiological responses occur. Shock is really just the precursor when things go fatal. If you gasp as you go under in freezing temperatures, you can drown without ever coming back to the surface.
When Mark was in fourth grade, he wrote briefly about what swimming in cold water felt like. He and Derek exchanged told-you-so smirks when Mrs. Lewis began the first day of school by having all the students write predictable 'How I spent my summer vacation' paragraphs. Mark and Derek suspected it was coming, but then Mrs. Lewis upped the ante by asking them to include in the assignment something they learned over vacation.
"Can't you pick something else?" Derek grumbled when he realized Mark was writing about camping at Cayuga Lake. That was what he was writing about.
"I'm not copying you," Mark said quickly. It might have been Derek's family trip, but he was invited too, so he was just as entitled to this memory as Derek, wasn't he? "That really was my favorite thing I did this summer. And I did learn something."
"Okay," Derek said, shifting his gaze back to his lined paper. "Just…don't write about fishing. That's going to be my 'something I learned' thing. About brown trout."
"I won't." Mark never planned to write about fishing (he thinks it's boring), but it seemed important to assure Derek he wouldn't. Derek wasn't particularly selfish about sharing his family with Mark, but he was an overwhelmingly conscientious student, so the idea someone might be copying him was unacceptable. Mark gets it. They've been best friends since first grade, so he understands the things that make Derek "Derek." Shepherd and Sloan – seated next to each other on account of their last names. And the rest is history, Mrs. Shepherd often said while pushing a plate of cookies in front of them.
It's harder to breathe in cold water. You also can't hold your breath for as long if you are under water and the water is cold, Mark wrote. During a pause between sentences, he succumbed to feeling a flash of annoyance towards his best friend. You could have picked something else too, he thought. You have more fun memories to choose from than me.
Mark wiggled his pencil absently between his fingers, imagining himself writing down a different lesson from this summer (just imagined, because he never could or would actually write it). You have to turn your mom on her side after –
"Was it worth it?" Addison calls out when Mark collapses next to her, dampening the blanket and still locked in memories of fourth grade.
Mark lets out a hoarse chuckle. "Not sure," he admits honestly. Swimming in water that cold has activated his endorphins, but it was also pushing right up against the barrier of pain. That's kind of his sweet spot though. And when he's feeling a bit warmer and a little less breathless, he'll tell Addison that there are actually some health benefits to swimming in cold water. Should he start with the one about increased libido? Or finish with it?
After. Mark completes the memory in his head, tipping his face towards the sun peeking out behind wispy clouds. You have to turn your mom on her side after she's been drinking too much.
That way she won't choke on her vomit.
That way she won't drown without ever coming back to the surface.
. .
. .
Mark frowns when he realizes his phone – set on his nightstand in the guest room – hasn't been charging. It's under twenty percent, and the hell if he's not going to distract himself before bed with it. What else is he supposed to do? Just try to sleep and be alone with his thoughts? Nope. His thoughts are weird enough as it is at the moment. Everything from breakfast onward has been fine and basically normal between him and Addison, but his heart about beat out of his chest after the accidental-almost-kiss this morning. It hadn't really been that weird. It was actually kind of funny, but then he made it weird, didn't he, by saying they shouldn't tell Derek?
"Hey…" he goes back to the kitchen, where Addison is finishing up her tea before she turns in for the night. "Partial power outage, I think," he says when she glances up. "The light in my room isn't turning on and the outlets don't seem to be working. Hallway light is out, too. Where's your breaker box?"
A long pause.
"Um…"
"You're a terrible home owner, Red."
"No – no." Addison grins and shakes her head. "I know this one! It just took a sec. Hall closet. Hang on. I'll grab a flashlight to hold for you."
. .
. .
Twenty-Eight Years Earlier
Nine-year-old Mark flips the switch in his parents' bedroom, flooding the room with light. There are a few short, sparkly dresses scattered on the floor – Jenny must have had trouble deciding what to wear tonight. It feels like his parents have been going out more lately. It has something to do with shares in a nightclub. Mark isn't exactly sure what "shares" means, other than the fact that his parents tell him to be in bed by nine as they head out the door to meet up with friends. Mark falls asleep in an empty house, but in the morning he is woken up by either Everett (who is getting ready for work) or Jenny (he isn't quite sure what his mother does all day), who is smiling but sleepy-eyed, face partially concealed by a steaming mug of black coffee cupped in her hands. At least they are home in the morning. That's something.
That's the last one. Every light in the house is on now. It's another thing that is different between his parents and Derek's parents. Everett and Jenny don't seem to mind that Mark turns on every light in the house when they go out for the night. Derek's dad doesn't exactly get mad if someone leaves a room and forgets to turn the light off, but it does always seem like Derek or one of the girls is being talked to about this. It wastes electricity.
Mark settles beneath his Yankees comforter and curls onto his side, certain that sleep will not come easy. His parents love him. He knows this. But they don't seem to love spending time with him, and he sometimes wonders, if he were a dog instead of a boy, maybe they would have "rehomed" him by now. He imagines this is harder to do with a person, to give up something that came from you, rather than to you.
Mark was born in January of 1968. He has no way of knowing this as a small child, but as an adult, every once in a while it has crossed his mind that if Jenny found herself pregnant just two years later, when abortion was legalized in the state of New York, perhaps she wouldn't have been pregnant for very long.
. .
. .
"You okay, Addison?" Mark asks quietly while she aims the flashlight at the breaker box.
"Yeah. I'm…" her eyebrows furrow when he looks at her. "Oh, yeah. I'm okay. I think everyone is a little claustrophobic. Thanks for asking though. And I wanted to tell you – I'm going to stay up here a bit longer. I already talked to Derek about it." Mark's fingers pause on one of the breakers. They were planning to leave tomorrow afternoon. They took Addison's car here (well, Mark did the driving; he hates how she drives). "I already took Monday and Tuesday off," Addison continues. "I can take you to the train station whenever you want tomorrow though."
"Okay," he answers evenly. What other response could he possibly have? "That's fine with me."
"Sorry – I know it's a bit last minute to change plans like this. I think I just…need to stay up here a bit longer and not return to reality just yet. I'll drive home Monday afternoon. I promise you still have dibs on Tessa though. I won't make a move on her in your absence."
Mark smirks teasingly. "I'm okay if you do, provided that I get to watch."
"You're so gross," Addison retorts. "Though, I suppose I have heard worse from you when we're stuck in confined situations together."
"Definitely true."
. .
. .
Nine years Earlier
"At least we're not interns," Derek says with a resigned sigh. "Just imagine. We'd have gotten so much shit for this."
They did everything they needed to do as soon as the elevator made a funny lurching sound and stopped working somewhere between the third and fourth floors. Derek pressed the call button, alerting building maintenance that he and two colleagues are stuck. And Mark and Addison sent off a flurry of texts to fellow third-year residents and the Chief of Surgery to give them the heads-up that they are indisposed at the moment.
Mark shakes his head. "I've got news for you: we're still gonna take some shit for this." He sits down beside Derek and Addison. There really isn't anything they can do now but wait. "This has to be the plot of at least fifteen adult movies…" he adds, more to himself than present company, but still loud enough for his closest friends to hear.
Derek rolls his eyes while Addison groans. "Mark…" Derek warns. "You're about to be banished to the pee corner."
"We already have an established pee corner? It's been, like, two seconds."
"I have established that corner…" Derek points to the far left corner. "As the pee corner, but I'm hoping no one has to use it."
"Derek…"
"Seriously? Already?"
"No, Derek." Mark tips his head towards Addison, seated on Derek's other side. She has pulled her knees up to her chest and has gone quite pale. Derek is a good, kind person, but sometimes he can just so unobservant, Mark feels.
"Oh, hey. Sorry – I wasn't thinking about…" Derek loops an arm over his wife's narrow shoulders. "Just try to stay calm, alright? We'll be out of here in no time." He looks back at Mark. "When Addison was little, Archer's friend Patch locked her in the wine cellar. So she's not a fan of small spaces. Or being trapped in them."
Addison offers a smile at this. "To be fair, I think even people who don't get claustrophobic from time to time would probably lose their minds if they were trapped in an elevator."
"True," Derek says. "How about you take your phone out and look at cute baby pictures to distract yourself? And I really will banish Mark to the pee corner if that will make you feel better."
Addison smiles wider at the mention of her goddaughter. "I'll text Nai, too. She's been up all night with a colicky baby. She could probably use a laugh."
"Wait, sorry…" Mark says. "Banish me if you must, but are we really going to skip over the fact that this kid's name was Patch?"
Derek smirks. "And his brother was Skippy."
"WASPs are so weird."
"Patrick and Phillip," Addison tells him. "Patch and Skippy were just nicknames."
"Yes. Addison went to prom with Skippy. And Patch…" Derek trails off as Addison's cheeks regain some color. He seems to think better of whatever he was about to say.
Addison rolls her eyes though, and is apparently comfortable enough to tell Mark, "Patch was the first guy I ever slept with."
"You lost it to a bully who once locked you in a cellar. Doesn't say much for your taste, Red."
She grins. "My taste has improved a lot since then."
"That's debatable." Mark can't resist.
Derek feigns offense and then smirks. "Go to the pee corner, Mark."
"No."
"Yes," Addison counters with a giggle. And both men know that she is the boss of them, most of the time, so of course Mark will listen to her. "You are hereby banished, Mark."
. .
. .
In the dark of Mark's bedroom with a phone that is now charging, he finally responds to a text message he received from Derek about an hour ago.
DS: Assuming my crazy wife has a plan for you to get home? Sorry about this. She just needs to cool her heels a bit and then she'll be fine.
Mark is certain that he has also called Addison crazy before. Probably more than once. And he's definitely called his fair share of women crazy. It strikes him now just how mean it is, how insulting. Especially when Addison is just trying to tell her husband how she feels. Yes, Mark suspects there are sometimes better ways she could go about it – she can be passive-aggressive and self-involved, sometimes – but still.
What did he tell Derek once, at his wedding? Besides God intending for them many, many women…something about them being best friends. The exact phrase escapes Mark at the moment, but he suspects it will come back. Mark holds onto memories. Hoards them, really.
Derek has been different for a while now. A year? Maybe two? It's not like their friendship is "deep" or laced with discussions about their thoughts and feelings – an evening on Derek's couch drinking beer and watching a ball game is their norm. But something is just off with Derek. And it's making his wife jumpy and sad and self-doubting, Mark thinks as he types out a response.
MS: Yeah all set. Taking LIRR home tomorrow. I will be at NYP on Thurs. Want to watch the Giants-Bengals game after work?
DS: Yes sounds good. Are they home or away?
MS: Away. It'll be awful either way though.
DS: True. Come over around 8.
Mark sighs. That was incredibly easy. Is Derek not trying to do this with his wife? Or does he just not want to do this with his wife anymore?
People change. And so do plans, sometimes.
Mark's plans do.
If he had just gone home Sunday morning, as discussed with Addison while he was bringing light back to the entire house, maybe everything that followed wouldn't have happened. Months later, he is still mostly sure of this.
And maybe he wouldn't have fallen in love with his best friend's wife.
. .
. .
Sunday morning brings broody, overcast skies and light rain. Pearly droplets collect leisurely on windowpanes, smearing the outside world as Mark works on tucking his last few items into his suitcase. He probably should have told Addison he'd take an afternoon train back, he thinks while coaxing the zipper around the shell of his suitcase. They are going to be cutting it close in order for him to make the next train.
"Hey." Addison raps on the open door of Mark's bedroom. He's about to respond that he's almost ready, but she cuts him off. "How would you feel about taking a later train?"
Well. He was just thinking about it.
"Missing me already, Red?" He teases, looking up at her.
"I will miss you," Addison tells him earnestly. "But. Well. You're gonna laugh…"
Mark does start to chuckle, even without the context, because it's been fifteen years of friendship and he knows that particular voice and that expression. "Let me guess: there's a spider and you need me to kill it."
"Worse. It's a bee in the kitchen. So you might need to take the afternoon train, because leaving right now means I'm going to come back to a bee in the house. Can you please get rid of it?" Addison makes a sweeping gesture with her hand, and Mark moves past her in the direction of the kitchen.
"First of all…" he peers back over his shoulder at Addison and smirks. "A little compassion from you would be nice in the face of this guy's homelessness. It's probably a guy, and drones get ejected from the hive in the fall."
She laughs harder as she follows after him. "Oh my gosh…Mark, you absolute nerd."
"Yeah, trust me: I know. I have a weird amount of knowledge about bees. Anyway. Where is it?"
"Over by the sink." She points to the left of the faucet, not too far from their empty glasses. They each had a mimosa this morning (Mark judged the hell out of himself for having such a distinctly non-masculine beverage, but that's what Addison was making, and he's not young enough anymore to stomach a beer at nine in the morning) with cereal.
"Okay," Mark says. "Get me a cup and a plate to trap him with, please. And then look up the next train time. Unless…"
"Unless what?" Addison asks distractedly as she reaches into the cabinet, trying to keep an eye on where the bee is as well.
"I was gonna say that I could stay longer, if you want. Unless you want to be alone, that is."
"To protect me from all future bees? Or this particular bee, if he tries to come back?"
Mark chuckles when she hands him the cup and plate. "I was thinking more if you want some company. This weekend went too fast," he says. "I don't have anything too pressing tomorrow, and I can get Lee and Burman to cover my consults. And then I'll just head back tomorrow afternoon or evening…whenever you do."
Addison smiles hopefully. "I would really like that. It's been nice having you here."
If only he had just taken the next train.
. .
. .
Twenty-Six Years Earlier
When Mark is eleven years old, he walks across the street to get the mail (hoping to find the latest Dynamite issue), and on his way back, he steps on a bee. Barefooted. It's the first time he's ever been stung, and he's embarrassed for tearing up. He hops inside on one foot to inspect the wound. Everett is at work, and Jenny is out with friends. Luckily, he's not squeamish, and the stinger is mostly exposed, so Mark is able to pull it out of the fleshy part of the bottom of his big toe. He watched once when Mrs. Shepherd removed a stinger from Nancy's finger, so he sort of knows what he's doing; he washes the irritated area with soap and water, and then buries his toe in a unopened package of frozen peas.
He walks to the library the next day in search of books on a specific topic. He is now on a mission to learn more about bees. He has the time, after all. His All Star team got eliminated three days ago. It was a painful loss to Fulton Little League. A preventable loss, Mark feels. His team blew the lead, but they were tied going into the top of the sixth. They just needed to hold their opponents, and then the top of the order – Mark in the two-hole – would be up. They really should have won. If only Mark had gone with the 6-3 play himself. Why did he bother to put any trust in his teammates? Fine, so he probably wouldn't have beaten the runner to the bag for the force out, but he would have rather lost on his terms, than how Syracuse National actually lost. He threw to Brian, the second baseman, who, instead of finishing off the easy double play to end the inning, was too slow getting the ball out of his glove. And Brian's arm is nowhere near as strong as Mark's, so of course the kid on the other team beat the throw to first, allowing the runner on third to score.
The competitor in Mark is simply furious. And the child in him is disappointed that this is what the remainder of his summer will be like now: boring and lonely. Football doesn't start until the end of August. True, Derek is just at sleepaway camp for a few more days, so things won't be boring and lonely forever. Sleep will be tough though in the absence of gritty competition. Mark can always fall asleep easier after games.
(He can still remember Derek's horrified reaction when he got back from camp and Mark told him about the mating of drone bees: "Their what gets ripped from their what?")
It's hard to sleep alone though.
He finds that this doesn't really change when he grows up.
. .
. .
"I figured you'd kill the bee," Addison says, handing Mark her empty (third) glass, which he rinses out. They both have had two more mimosas once it was determined Mark was going to stay until tomorrow afternoon, and while neither is anywhere near drunk, Mark could definitely use a post-alcohol nap, and Addison is probably hovering near buzzed. Not quite there, but just about – she can hold her liquor well, and Mark was surprised how even at twenty-three, she could drink Scotch so smoothly (she was the one who got Derek and Mark into it). "But apparently you have a thing for bees."
"Not as much as I have a thing for mimosas, apparently," Mark says, twisting a hip against the countertop so that he can face her. "I'm like a thirty-year-old woman at brunch." He dries off his hands with a towel, and then sets it aside. "What is wrong with me?"
"A lot of things." Addison smiles up at him, looking happier and more relaxed than he has seen her look in days. Coming to the Hamptons is clearly good medicine for her. She is barefoot at the moment, no expensive heels in sight. This is the only time Mark really has a few inches on her, because when she's in heels, they're evenly matched (he has given Derek – who is the same height as his wife – a hard time once or twice for being at a distinctive disadvantage when Addison slips on a pair of Manolos).
Mark taps her on the nose, which makes a cute crinkle line briefly appear. "I could say the same about you, you know." He watches as Addison's lips part open, and then slip closed again. "What?" He asks softly as the gap between them continues to shrink. The air feels heady around them, but he isn't sure what to do other than to keep talking.
"Nothing." She blinks up at him, eyes rounded with more black than anything else at the moment. They have shared plenty of eye contact this morning, but it's the first time he's noticed that her pupils are dilated. Her teeth have sunken into her lower lip, expression thoughtful.
"Tell me," he insists.
"I'm just…" Addison sets a hand on top of his. Her left hand. He feels the shiver of cold metal wrapped around her ring finger. "I'm glad you stayed, Mark." Her words are close enough now that they feel floaty and dangerously warm against his mouth.
"Me too."
She closes the remaining space between them and brushes her lips against his, just a quick peck. But then she arches, lips finding his again. It's tentative and slow. But it's also wrong, Mark thinks. Even though it doesn't feel wrong.
It feels amazing, honestly. Like they were meant to do this. Because if they weren't meant to, it wouldn't feel this fucking good, would it?
"Addison…" he mumbles against her mouth between kisses that continue to be slow. Saying Addison is almost like a warning, but he circles his arms around her waist, drawing her closer, and that can only be considered encouragement and nothing else. Fuck, he wants her. She jerks back suddenly though at the feel of his large hands palming the beads of her spine.
"Oh, God…" she whimpers, burying her face beneath his chin. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay. Addison -"
"D-don't tell..." she chokes out, trembling against him as her sobs increase. Mark hugs her a little tighter in response. "Please don't -"
"I won't. I won't say anything. Hey, hey. Listen to me: it was just a slip. One slip, one time. It's okay. It's not your fault. It's mine."
She sniffles into his shirt. "How? I started it. Mark, I started it. Oh my God, how could I -"
"You also finished it. And I know better."
"But I – I don't know better?"
"No, just. I just mean…I didn't stop you." Mark sighs. "You're lonely and sad. And sometimes when people are lonely and sad they'll look for comfort wherever they can get it…even if it's the mouth of their husband's best friend. So. It's my fault, Red. Not yours. And it won't happen again. Let me take the blame for this one." He slides a hand back so that he can squeeze her elbow. "Addie, do you want…" he hesitates, trying to think of what to say, what could possibly make this better. "I can take you home, if you want."
Addison shakes her head quickly. "No, because – because I don't think I-I can look at him yet. Not that he'll be there, or even care that I'm there, but…"
"Okay," Mark cuts in gently. "What about if you go lie down then and just take a nap for a bit? Or take a bath or watch TV in your room or something. And I – I can always take a cab to the station, if you want me to leave. There's still probably like two afternoon options and an evening one."
She shakes her head again and pulls back, stepping out of his embrace. "No, it's okay." Her eyes briefly take in the wet spot she has created on his shirt. "You don't have to go. I just…you're right. I think I'll go lie down for a bit."
"Okay. I think I'll do the same, and just – text me or knock if you need anything. No beating yourself up over this. It's one time. That's it. But, Addison…" Mark draws in a heavy breath. "I…I really am sorry."
"Me too."
. .
. .
You fucking idiot.
Of course Mark takes the blame. It's easier, that way.
He's not all that benevolent though. It's not like he hasn't thought about her or looked at her before. He's human, after all. And she's Addison. The hair, the smile, the full breasts, the perfectly toned legs that go on forever – she's fun to look at. She's beautiful, really. But it's never meant anything. All men fantasize. It's just dirty and hypothetical and Mark is borderline disgusting just by virtue of being a member of the male sex.
But then this happened. And the hypotheticals, the steamy imaginations – they don't feel as ironclad anymore. If Addison had kept going, Mark is not convinced he would have stopped. His brain definitely hasn't stopped.
He is positively throbbing under the blanket at the moment. There's not a chance he can wait this out. And definitely not a chance he can fall asleep.
Stop it. This is your best friend's wife. This is your better half's wife. This is your brother's wife.
He can't clear his head though.
She probably looks incredible naked. Stop it. She probably doesn't mind – probably likes it, even – if her hair is lightly tugged on. Stop it. She probably has a lot of stamina. Stop it. She probably tastes good. Stop it. She's probably pretty vocal, at least if you're doing it right. Stop it. She can probably put that pouty, full-lipped mouth to good use. Stop it. She probably isn't shy about asking for what she wants. Stop it.
Mark kicks the blanket off with an exasperated sigh, heading for the shower in the bathroom connected to the guest room. The water is punishingly hot once he's stepped under the spray, but he makes no adjustments. He wraps a hand around himself and thinks about Addison as he increases his tempo. It's quick and furious as steam envelops Mark while his grip tightens and loosens. The feel of his hand on his heated flesh nearly pulls an involuntary gasp from him that makes him think of cold shock response, even though that isn't at all what this is. Maybe he is drowning though, just in a different way. He presses his free hand against the slippery wall tiles in order to remain steady, groaning as he strokes himself to an overwhelming finish. He sees Addison's face behind tightly closed eyes.
That fateful weekend. Just yesterday at the beach – which now feels like several lifetimes ago – he made a stupid, stupid joke about this being a significant weekend. At that point it was just a joke. Nothing was going to happen.
No one was actually going to drown as a result of their own choices or mistakes.
That's not the case anymore though.
. .
. .
References:
Mark talking about his parents: "I was raised by parents who weren't very interested in having kids. They had friends, they had lives. They weren't around much at night. And before I went to bed, I'd turn on all the TVs and every light in the house, even in the closets. Still couldn't sleep. It's hard to sleep when you don't feel safe in your own house, isn't it?" (Grey's, 5x09)
I exercised some creative liberties with Mark's parents. There could be plenty of things I missed, of course (and please tell me if I missed something), but my sense has always been that we don't know much about Mark's childhood, other than the fact that he considered Derek to be his family and his parents apparently weren't around much at night. I see them as just very social, self-involved individuals who are borderline neglectful at times (without necessarily crossing the lines into substantiated general neglect).
Mark about Derek: "Derek and I? We go way back. We grew up together, went to med school together. He's…he's kinda like my better half. Not the better-looking half, mind you." (Grey's, 7x06)
"Established pee corner" is loosely based off a scene in The Office with Pam and Dwight.
Welp. Not a reference to anything, but definitely the first time I've ever ended a fic with THAT kind of male scene. Smirk slash cringe slash man that felt classless.
Oh, and the Bowdoin hat referenced – Derek wears that in Grey's 7x10 when he takes Cristina fishing. It's also where he went to college.