Chapter 6. After Dark, After Light

Eleven Years Earlier

Addison takes a large, unladylike swig of scotch while keeping her eyes carefully trained on the doorway that leads back into the formal living room. A lilting cacophony of WASP-ish noise can be heard in there, and she watches as women in floral dresses move around the room, crystal tumblers in hand. Addison truly just came into the kitchen for a quick breather from Bizzy and Bizzy's friends, but then she saw the Laphroaig on the counter (as good a sign as any that the Captain was here this morning), and she figures one (large) sip can't hurt. She then moves past to the other side of the kitchen to tuck the bottle in one of the cabinets. Let the Captain try to find it later in this mid-60s aesthetic nightmare of a kitchen. The rest of Addison's childhood home is immaculate, stylish, and has adjusted with the times while maintaining integrity to some of its more Old Money elements. But the kitchen, other than appliance updates, has been pretty much the same since the Captain and Bizzy first bought their Greenwich home. Outdated green cabinets and ceramic tile countertops with prominent grout lines streaking around them surround Addison as she gently closes the cabinet. Not having gutted the kitchen makes sense though, she figures – it's not like Bizzy cooks. She pays people to do that.

"Addison?"

Addison turns around quickly, but relaxes when she sees that the greeter is Susan Grant, her mother's social secretary.

"Susan!" She says happily. "I wasn't sure if you'd be able to make it."

"Not a chance I would miss your engagement party. Well. Bizzy's engagement party, right?" Susan offers a knowing grin. "Your mother has been really excited to show you and your fiancé off though. Anyway, I just slipped in…" she tips her head in the opposite direction of the front entrance. Susan lives on the estate, and her cottage is just a two-minute walk from the main house. "Derek is one of those two, right?"

Addison leans around the counter to see her mother talking with Derek and Mark. Bizzy was vaguely indifferent to Derek at first. She was polite, and not necessarily disapproving…just indifferent in the sense that Bizzy figured he was a "for now" boyfriend for Addison. But as the relationship got more serious, Derek grew on her.Charming, Bizzy called him, which is not entirely unique – Addison is certain most people would consider that to be one of the top five adjectives to describe her future husband. And then there was the potential thing. A former colleague of the Captain's told him he observed Derek on a clinical rotation once and thought he was a natural, that he wouldn't be surprised if Derek became a world-class surgeon.

Today, Derek has earned the description of tolerant from his future wife, because – like Susan pointed out – this engagement party for Derek and Addison is really more for Bizzy.

"Yes. Derek is on the left," Addison says. "The one with dark hair. Cute, right?"

"Very."

"And the one next to him is Mark – that's his best man. He's a surgeon as well. He was nice enough to be Derek's moral support this weekend. You know all of this can be…a lot."

"It can," Susan admits. "And I had it wrong, I guess. I actually thought that Mark was Derek."

"Really?" Addison asks, vaguely amused by this. Mark is attractive, definitely, and he has some good qualities, but he's also brusque, arrogant, and incredibly selfish at times. Definitely not husband material. "I'll have to tell Derek that later – it'll make him laugh. Are you…are you seeing anyone at the moment, Susan? Sorry…" Addison winces, regretting this particular brand of small talk. "That's such an annoying question."

"No worries," Susan replies pleasantly. "And no, not at the moment."

"I hope it's not because my mother is keeping you too busy."

"She's not."

. .

. .

Rain has been landing against the windows for hours tonight, pearly droplets shivering in clusters on the sills and rails until gusts of wind push them away. And by ten o'clock, when Mark and Addison are ready to go to bed, the power has already flickered on and off twice, undoubtedly the result of a storm now overpowering enough to feature snaps of lightning and thunder.

"I'll grab the flashlight before we head to bed," Addison decides as they exit the living room. "Just in case we end up needing it. I left it in the hallway closet last night."

"I promise not to pull a Patch or a Spot – or whatever his name was – on you when you get it," Mark says as he follows her down the hallway. He can't imagine it would be too dark in the hallway should the power go out. There are two skylights overhead, and a large floor to ceiling window at the end of the hall with enough landscape lighting glinting through.

Addison manages a small smile as she looks at Mark over her shoulder. "Being potentially stuck in a dark room or a door being closed in a small room…it's less of a phobia and more of the Bizzy thing for me now."

"What Bizzy thing?"

"Derek never told you?" She asks, genuinely surprised. "I mean, I asked him not to say anything to anyone, but I sort of figured he'd tell you, anyway. If the situation were reversed, I'm sure I would have told Nai. Or my friend Savvy."

Mark shakes his head as Addison slips into the closet to collect the flashlight. "Derek is pretty ethical when it comes to secret-keeping. Plus, you know men and women are wired differently when it comes to 'don't tell anyone' stuff. What, uh…what Bizzy thing though?"

"It was an…incident about two years ago." Addison cannot – does not – want to talk about it though. Ever again, really, if she can help it. "Not long after that day you sat with me at the hospital…I'll tell you one day. Everything is fine with Bizzy now. People heal, you know?"

"Bodies are made to heal," Mark murmurs. They had an attending who said this to them a lot when they were interns, and it is one of those things that has stuck with Addison, Derek, and Mark all these years later. "Well, I'm sorry, for whatever it's worth. Without knowing the context – it sounds shitty."

"It was."

Bodies are made to heal.

Not feelings though, Addison knows. Not always, at least.

"Mark, did Derek text you, yesterday morning?" Addison shifts the flashlight (off for the time being) back-and-forth between her hands. Why this matters, she isn't sure, and why she is thinking about it now, when they are about to go to bed, she also isn't sure. "When I was outside and Derek called to tell me he wasn't going to be able to come here this weekend, I mean."

"No," Mark answers, leaning against the doorframe to the guest room. "He texted me later, but I saw you through the window and I could just…tell that he wasn't able to make it. So I came outside because I thought maybe you'd want someone to sit with you and hold your hand." He grins, almost shyly. "We have that in common, remember: childhoods with emotionally unavailable adults and zero hand holding."

Addison nods. "When I was a little girl, I used to play with dolls, and I would hold their hands. Bizzy mostly bought Madame Alexander dolls, which weren't…I can't imagine that means anything to you, but it's pretty much the equivalent of an autographed baseball – it's basically for display purposes. But one of my nannies got me a baby doll, and whenever I was rocking her, I would hold her hand. Sometimes I was the mom, but other times, I would pretend the baby was me as a baby, and that the mom was – well, not Bizzy exactly, but some sort of ambiguous character with the traits of a loving mother. Sort of silly, I know. Anyway." She takes a deep breath. "Good night, Mark. Sleep well."

. .

. .

Three Years Earlier

"I know that this is hard..." Addison says as Bizzy approaches her at the end of Susan's hospital bed, her light brown eyes flashing with anger. Addison has just told her mother no. And no one ever, ever tells Bizzy Forbes Montgomery no.

Addison has tried to explain, words and compassion dancing on that line between professional and personal, because how could this not be personal, when she is consulting on a patient who just happens to be her mother's best friend, and someone who Addison quite likes, even though she hasn't seen Susan in several years. There would have been more options if this has been caught sooner, but they are far past the sooner part. The cancer has spread. The most Addison can do now is keep Susan as comfortable as possible. Susan seems unbelievably sad and scared upon hearing this news, but also…accepting. Or at least accepting of the fact that there truly is nothing Addison can do for her. Addison was shocked the first time she saw Susan at Bizzy's request. Susan is now an ethereal silhouette of the woman she was so many years ago at Addison's engagement party. Pale-faced and thin, utterly exhausted-looking. And brownish-purple halos under her eyes. She is a woman dying by notches now.

Bizzy's jaw is set hard in refusal. "What it is," she argues, "is unacceptable."

"Bizzy...the cancer is too far advanced. At best, I could give Susan a couple of extra months, but she'd be miserable -"

It happens to Addison so quickly that she doesn't have time to defend herself. Her mother's mouth tightens into a thin line and the subtle shift of the Hermès scarf draped over Bizzy's shoulders indicates movement, and then suddenly her right hand comes in hard, issuing a stinging slap against the curve of Addison's cheek. There is enough force behind it that the momentum sends Addison reeling. She gasps, and shakily holds a hand to her cheek, feeling the tremors of heat spreading beneath it.

"You will save her life!" Bizzy yells as Addison slowly turns back to face her, a palm still cupped over her cheekbone. Her mouth is parted in shock, and she thinks Susan's is too, but it is hard to tell because a wall of tears is now blurring Addison's vision as her mother issues a fierce demand. "Do you hear me? You will save her life."

Addison quietly excuses herself and walks out of the room into an empty hospital corridor. She sends her husband a text, even though she knows he is most likely still in surgery – they agreed to meet as soon as he is out of the OR. Addison's office is nowhere near this wing of the hospital (of course Bizzy paid extra to get a bigger, more exclusive room for her friend), so Addison mentally calculates how quickly she can make it to the nearest staff bathroom. She ends up being so focused on her thoughts though that when she rounds a corner, she nearly doesn't hear Mark when he calls out her name.

"Hey. There you are. I got held up on the way up here. I was coming to see you. I saw Derek before he scrubbed in and he told me to come check on…" Mark falters when Addison turns to face him, still teary-eyed. "Addison, what happened?"

"Is…is Derek still in surgery?" She crosses her arms tightly in front of her body, feeling vulnerable and raw. Her cheek still burns. "I sent him a text, but I haven't heard back yet."

"As far as I know, he's still in the OR. What's wrong?"

Addison shakes her head, throat tight. "I just…I really, really need Derek."

"Okay," Mark replies calmly. "You said you texted him, right?" He pulls out his phone out of his pocket and gestures to a few unused hospital beds shoved up against the wall. "I'm going to text him, too, and I'll tell him where we are. And then I'm going to sit with you…" he gives her a light nudge to get her moving towards a bed. "Until he's able to come."

"You don't have to stay," Addison says softly when Mark takes a seat next to her. The bed is slightly raised, so their feet dangle off the ground. It makes her think of being a child. "I'm…I'm okay, Mark."

"You stayed for me once, when I told you that you didn't have to, and even though I told you I was okay," he says. Addison is too tired to think through when that might be, or to even ask when. "Your mom's friend…" Mark continues.

Addison takes a deep, slow breath. "Susan," she says.

"Susan," he repeats. "It's not good, is it?"

"No. It's not. And when I walked in, my mother was holding Susan's hand, which is just…not a Bizzy thing. She was holding Susan's hand. She's never held my hand." She just uses her hand to slap me, apparently.

(In hindsight, Addison wonders if she should have had more of an inkling then about the truth between Bizzy and Susan.)

She blinks in surprise when Mark places his hand on top of hers, pressing his thumb into the lines of her palm, and settling the rest of his fingers on the back of her hand.

"Oh, Mark." Addison lightly shakes her head as a laugh vibrates through her. "Thank you. You're so thoughtful, sometimes."

Mark shrugs a shoulder, as though it's not a big deal. "Bizzy's missing out, Red," he says with a smirk. "You have an excellent hand to hold. A five-star hand for sure." This makes Addison laugh a little more. "Do you, uh…want to talk about it?"

"No, but thank you…for offering, and for staying with me. I think I just want to sit here with you until Derek is able to come."

"Sounds good. And you probably never want to hear me tell you that you're in good company with me, but…my parents never held my hand either."

"Too bad," she tells him with a teasing grin. "You have a five-star one as well."

. .

. .

Addison closes her bedroom door and quickly works her way through her nighttime routine. Something tells her that the power is going to go out again, and she'd prefer to be under the covers when it happens. Once she has washed up, she tugs her Isabel Marant sweater over her head, and while she unclasps her bra, she feels a flash of irritation at several semi-sheer camisoles tucked into her suitcase as some sort of twisted wishful thinking on her part – surely packing them would guarantee Derek would be coming to the Hamptons, even though she and Derek are well past the point where enticing lingerie is expected. Not the case though. Instead, Addison puts on a CBGB shirt of Derek's that hangs loosely off her. Comfy, but decidedly unsexy. She reaches for pajama bottoms, but you know what, fuck it, she thinks, and slips on a pair of black low rise panties first, and quickly finds herself slightly embarrassed about how good the eyelash lace and polyamide material feels against her skin. It has been almost two months since Addison and Derek last had sex, and Addison has never been a scratch-your-own-itch kind of girl. She's not a prude; she just thinks of sex as a two-player game, and flying solo – not that she's ever really given it much of a try – doesn't really do it for her.

(This utterly flummoxed Naomi when the subject came up once, and she went as far as to ask if Addison at least owned a showerhead massager, and if not, why the hell not).

Addison thinks tonight she might give it a try though with her fingers, if only because she's desperately, desperately sex-deprived, and the chances to have two-player encounters with her husband are getting fewer and farther between lately. She might as well have sex with herself, and while she's at it, she might as well fantasize – also not a typical thing for her – of someone other than her self-centered, absent husband.

Then she hears the abrupt hum of the power going out, and darkness suddenly envelops her. And Addison almost laughs as she grapples for the flashlight by her feet – God, this is what it has come to. She clicks the flashlight on and walks towards her bedroom door. That had to have been some sort of sign, or at the very least, the universe making fun of her for being this desperate. She feels a little ridiculous poking her head outside her room to confirm the power has gone out, but senses Mark will do the same.

"Power's out," Addison says, concealing a smile when Mark does in fact open his bedroom door moments after she does. "I mean. Obviously."

Mark nods. "Yes. We are both very smart people to have realized this. Man, it sounds crazy out there. Anyway, I just figured I'd check…" his voice softens. "You okay?"

"I'm good. We should probably…go back to bed. I can leave the flashlight in the hallway if you want, in case you want to go get a glass of water or something at some point?"

"It's okay. I'm fine," Mark says. "And…it's not silly, by the way." He feels weird saying that word – silly. It's childish-sounding. But then, in many ways, Mark hasn't quite grown up. He is just a more fucked-up version of Peter Pan. A version of Peter Pan who has suddenly started to lust after his best friend's wife, apparently. All because of one kiss. "Sorry, I was just thinking after…what you were saying earlier about the dolls. You know what the crappiest thing I ever did to the Shepherds was when I was a kid?" He watches as Addison shakes her head, and he takes a step forward so he can rest his back against the wall near his doorframe. "It was…I took Wish Bear from Liz. I was maybe ten or eleven, and Lizzie was still pretty little. She liked Care Bears…remember those stuffed bears? And I just…one day when I was leaving the Shepherds' house, I put Wish Bear in my backpack. I don't know why. It's not like I actually wanted the bear. I shoved it in the back of my bedroom closet – maybe I just liked knowing the bear was there. There was one night though when I was home alone – Everett had just started managing a second hotel, so he was busier than normal and my parents were going out more – and I had all the lights on, but then the power went out. I was way too old to have freaked out the way I did, but I just…freaked out. And then I remembered Wish Bear, and I got it – her, I think it was supposed to be a her – out of the closet. I'm sure I didn't come anywhere close to taking care of her in the way you would have with a doll, but I slept with her that night, and got to pretend I wasn't alone. And the lights were out, so I guess I didn't feel safe, but mostly…I didn't want to be alone. It's hard when your parents are absent. When the people you love are absent."

"Yes. Yes, it is," Addison says softly as she toes a bit closer to him. "Thank you for sharing that with me, Mark. And I'm sorry that you know that feeling – this feeling – too."

A sudden clap of thunder perches close enough in the sky above them that its extending shock wave makes the house and windows briefly shudder. Addison jumps at the sound, and ends up dropping the flashlight. It skitters away down the hall.

"It's okay," Mark murmurs, curling his fingers around her elbow. "You're okay, Addison."

And she is okay, in that moment. Everything is dark, but suddenly she sees.

. .

. .

Seven Years Earlier

"You're going to do something, right?"

"Yes," Derek says in response to his irritated wife's question. "I'm just…thinking it through. Like a surgeon would. There's more than one approach. So, if Mark takes a few steps forward and I -"

"And I'm thinking about the obituary for this," Addison snipes. "The obituary will say, 'Woman who told her husband and her husband's best friend that there was absolutely no way they could get the futon down to the first floor was in fact correct, but before she could properly strangle them both, she succumbed to her injuries as a result of being pinned between the wall and the futon couch."

Mark shakes his head. "Request for a description revision: the very ugly, very heavy futon couch."

"No backsies, Mark," Derek says while Addison makes a disgruntled noise from where she is somewhat trapped between the futon and corner wall of the L-shaped staircase. "You said you wanted it."

"I do," Mark answers. "But I can want it and also acknowledge that it's both ugly and heavy."

Both descriptions are true, so neither Shepherd argues. Derek and Addison have been married for three years and are finally making the big move from their Murray Hill apartment to a stunning brownstone overlooking Central Park (dipping into Addison's trust fund helped a bit with the down payment). They have been trying to separate things out that they no longer want or need, and at the last minute (most significantly, after the movers were done for the day), Mark decided he would take Addison's futon couch that she's had since med school after all.

"I feel like this doesn't bear repeating, but with you two idiots, perhaps it does: I am pinned to the wall right now, and it's…" she glares at Mark. He was the one who convinced them this was doable without the help of professionals. "It's because of you. You have pinned me to the wall."

Predictably, Mark smirks. "Not all women would complain about that, you know."

"We are not talking about you pressing a woman up against the wall with your body, Mark Everett Sloan," Addison snaps while Derek mumbles something to the effect of Mark, cut it out under his breath. "We are talking about a futon pressing me into the wall."

Several years later (it took some time, but they did in fact negotiate the futon the rest of the way down the stairs), the three of them watched the somewhat iconic "pivot" scene from Friends. Mark asked, with a jokey smile playing at his lips, if the writers had stolen this idea from them.

"More likely they stole it from New York City in general," Derek answered. "I'm sure everyone has a similar story when it comes to the hellscape that is moving apartments here."

"It was Mark's fault though," Addison said. "But I guess...it was my very ugly and very heavy futon couch, and I desperately wanted to get rid of it."

Mark smirked at her. "Thank you for taking some responsibility for your role in this."

. .

. .

It's slow again. At first, at least. And Addison started it when she erased the remaining space between them, settled her hands on Mark's shadow-covered shoulders, and grazed her lips against his. Again. She started it again. That feels like an important distinction for Mark, even though he is making no effort to stop the long, soft kisses they are exchanging in the dark.

"Addison…" Mark finally pulls back when he feels her tongue parting his lips. It's the first attempt she's made to ensure the encounter becomes more frenzied, steamier. "Don't do this because Derek isn't here, because you're lonely and sad. The absence thing…this won't help. It won't numb the pain or make you feel better." He knows that is sort of a lie though. It will feel good for her for a little bit, at least. Probably really good, honestly. Same with him.

Addison shakes her head. "It's not about Derek. I…I want this, Mark. I'm not even thinking about my marriage right now." Her words thread gently over his chin as she inches closer again. Addison's eyes are wide and her body is full of heady lust when he looks back at her, and she finds herself grateful that there is still enough light coming through the window at the end of the hall that it's not complete darkness they are wrapped up in. She wants to see him.

"Yeah," Mark responds with an edge in his voice. That's my concern."

"I want this. It's just this -"

Mark holds up a hand when she leans in to kiss him. "Don't say just this once," he says. It feels like they are well past that now.

"Just this…" she smiles, almost hopefully. "Just this weekend?"

"Addison…"

"It's not about Derek," she says again, and once again, Mark doesn't believe her. But he does find he cares a little less about her insistence that this is not just some sort of comfort thing. "I mean, I totally get if you don't…you can say no. Tell me no and I'll go back to bed. Tell me you don't want me. Tell me no." It ends up sounding like a challenge, even though Addison might not mean for it to. Mark isn't quite sure.

"Addison." Mark almost growls her name, and Addison squirms and presses her thighs tighter together, feeling turned on just by the sound of her name in his mouth like that. "Don't ask me to say no if you don't want me to say no."

Addison shakes her head, and her words follow slowly, but with certainty. "I don't want you to say no," she says. "I want this, Mark. I want you right now."

The right now slices Mark in half. He's heard this from plenty of women. Hell, that is his preference too; he has an utter distaste for any sort of intimacy that could be meaningful or serious. The words are different coming from Addison though. The words on her lips invoke the same sort of desired short-term gratification Mark has heard before, simultaneously as reckless and commonplace as the shallower breaths she is drawing in. But something about it causes a quiver of disappointment in him.

Mark steps forward, molding his large hands on Addison's hips to help her keep her balance as he pushes her backward. He presses her against the opposite wall, and Addison makes a slight gasp and an "oh" sound as her shoulders jerk against resistance and her head thumps into the eggshell-finished wall. Respite, Addison thinks distractedly. That's the name of the color she selected for this stretch of the house.

"Sorry…" Mark says immediately. His facial hair scratches over her cheek and the square of her jawline as he leans in closer, trying to make sure his words reach her over another chorus of thunder drumming above them. "Did I hurt you?"

"No. Not at all."

Not even a little bit, she thinks, as Mark tangles his tongue with hers. And that truly is the last thing she thinks for a bit, because she is too lost in the sensations and how fucking good this man is making her feel with just his mouth and hands.

When the power comes back on a few minutes later, it reveals a contrast of shadows between them, a beguiling lattice of light and dark that stretches over their flushed faces. The light startles them and they briefly break contact, though Addison's hands remain cradled around Mark's cheeks. Mark stares at her questioningly. Their kisses have grown lustier, and they are starting to inch into other forms of unexplored intimacy as well. One of Mark's hands is still palming her bare breast through her shirt, his thumb rubbing over her nipple.

"I still want to," Addison says quickly. "Do…do you still want to?"

"Yeah. I want to." Mark purposely pushes himself against her and moves a little, side to side, just for emphasis. His sweatpants are loose, and leave nothing to the imagination as he rests the bulk of his weight against Addison's hip and scatters kisses on her throat. Addison draws in a heavy breath when she realizes how hard he is, and it drives her wild that it's for her.

Mark's voice is gruff as he copies her earlier statement, his words warming the slender dip at the bottom of her neck when he speaks: "I want you right now."

Addison nudges him after hearing this. She does so with a little reluctance, since this means his body temporarily isn't grinding against hers. "Let's go to your room," she whispers.

"You're sure," Mark says. It is very much a statement and not a question.

"Yes. Just this weekend."

They both know – even if it is a thought that is just stored away at the moment – there is a big chance this will be a lie.

But adults can play pretend, too.

. .

. .

References:

Chapter title is from "The Knife," by Maggie Rogers.

While meeting with a divorce attorney and discussing the assets brought into the marriage:

Addison: "Well, I had my trust fund. And a sparkling personality. And a futon couch."
Derek: "Yes, Addison had a very ugly, very heavy futon couch."
Addison: "Whatever happened to that couch?"
Derek: "We gave it to Mark." (Grey's, 3x05)

The CBGB shirt – Addison was wearing this in Grey's 3x01 in the flashback (aftermath) of Derek walking in on her and Mark. And Addison not being a DIY kinda gal is accurate, and is pulled from PP 1x05, in a delightful conversation between Addison, Naomi, and Violet.

The following are from PP, 4x11:

Addison: "[Susan has] Stage IV Ovarian Cancer and Bizzy Forbes Montgomery never asks anyone for anything and she asked me to do this. She asked me to save Susan's life."

Addison: "[Bizzy's] holding Susan's hand. Bizzy never held the Captain's hand…she never held my hand."

The slap and the "you will save her" comment also happened. :(

(If you've watched PP all the way through, you know that I am deviating from how the Bizzy-Susan storyline actually played out, when it started, etc.).

Thank you for reading! Reviews are always appreciated!