Chapter title is a line in the song "Wall of Silver," by Fionn Regan.

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Chapter 13. Come and Crash the Surface

Nine Years Earlier

Mark spots Addison standing against the wall a little past the nurses' station. He wonders if any individuals filtering through the halls of St. Joseph's with questions dangling on their lips have tried to talk to her, done that whole, "Do you work here?" thing that has already happened to Mark twice today. Maybe Derek has experienced it, too. St. Joseph's is not the hospital the three of them are still clawing their way through their surgical residency at, and they certainly aren't wearing lab coats or scrubs right now, but doctor is starting to feel more and more like an appearance and an identity than simply a profession. And perhaps other people within these hospital walls can see this on them as well.

"Hi." Addison gives him a fatigued smile. "I'm glad you were able to come. Carolyn, Derek, and Lizzie left a few minutes ago. They're going home to get some rest – they'll be back in a few hours. I'm staying in the meantime, and so are Nancy and Kathleen…they stepped away to call and check in with their husbands, but they'll be back soon."

"So she's okay?" Mark asks, crossing his arms and glancing towards room 308. It has turned into a weird day. He wanted to get out of his parents' house so badly (why the hell did he tell Jenny and Everett he'd stay until the twenty-seventh?), and was sort of hoping Derek and Addison would reach out. He feels comfortable enough dropping in at Carolyn's on Christmas Day unannounced, but today is the twenty-sixth, and the feeling that Mark can come over whenever he wants (so Carolyn has said) just feels a little feebler in his head on non-holidays. But then Addison called around lunchtime to tell him what was going on, starting with the fact that Derek found Amy unconscious in Carolyn's living room this morning. And although Mark willingly drove to the hospital and came up to this floor, he would now give just about anything to be back at his parents' house instead of here.

"She's okay," Addison tells him. "Primarily thanks to your best friend's intervention before the ambulance arrived…but she responded well to the Naloxone and she's stable – no indication of anoxic brain damage, either. They'll probably release her on Wednesday. I was out here making a few calls to figure out some shift coverage stuff, but I'm going to head back in now. Come with me."

Mark clears his throat uncomfortably. "I don't know that I want to see Amy like this."

"You came here just to stand in the hallway then? None of us want to see her like this." Addison is annoyed with him, her tone makes that very clear, but it's the look of disappointment on her face that causes Mark's stomach to cramp up. "You're like a brother to her and right now she needs all the love and support she can get. Think about someone other than yourself for one freaking second, Mark."

I am thinking about someone other than myself, he wants to snap. I'm thinking about my mother, Addison.

. .
. .

"Get your fine ass in here," Mark says as he opens his apartment door. "It's been, like, eight days."

"Oh. Eight days," Addison deadpans as she comes inside. "New record for going without sex, Mark?"

Well. Mark meant without her. Not eight days in general.

"No comment."

Addison smiles uneasily. "So, I do have to tell you, I've been more slammed than usual lately, but I also haven't been here because timing-wise...and this isn't ideal…it's that time of the month. My period," she adds, when Mark blinks at her somewhat stupidly.

"Oh," he replies. "Oh, thank God."

"Uh…what?"

"That was a very dramatic way to share that, Red. I thought you were going to tell me you were pregnant or something and that it was mine, or even scarier, that you weren't sure whose baby it was. And that wouldn't exactly be an ideal scenario…"

"God, don't even joke about that. I said it more in a bummer-filled way since when I come here, it's usually…it's for sex," she clarifies. And it's true, Mark knows. She takes what she needs, chases after the heady sensation until it's time to leave again. Addison doesn't spend the night, even when Derek is on-call and sleeping at the hospital, citing the constant need to be careful…which makes sense, of course. They'll talk for a bit after they have sex, but there's always a time limit and then Mark calls down to Carlos, the overnight version of Tom (Thomas, Mark has to remind himself now), who will arrange a cab for Addison; she's never with Mark for more than two hours before she's out the door again. Mark tells her to text him when she gets home, and she always teases him about this request, but it's just common sense, so she does. And then they swipe their thumbs over their respective phone screens, deleting the existing messages between them. If they can't see it anymore, it's almost like it never happened.

Almost.

"Well, if sex isn't happening, I guess you should see yourself out," Mark teases. "I'm kidding, Red. Stay for a bit. We did used to hang out one-on-one before without having sex, you know."

Not often though, he realizes. Maybe this is why.

"I guess so," Addison admits.

He gestures to the couch. "What's kept you busier than normal?" Mark watches as she slips out of her pumps and sits down, tucking her feet up on the gray cushion. She's so…comfortable here now.

"Mainly the quads," she reports as he sits beside her, in reference to the infants she delivered last week. "All four are finally, finally stable, so it feels like it's the first time I've come up for air in a while. And. Well. Derek came home for an early dinner, but he went back to the practice to put in a few more hours. Said he'll be back by ten or eleven. He leaves in a few days for a conference, so he's trying to get all his ducks in a row before he leaves."

"That's right. I remember him telling me. LA, right?"

"Yes. He's on one of the panels…approaches to pain management in neurosurgery. Which is good for him," she shares. "He's always had an interest in DBS and exploring pain-related dependency and addiction, so I think getting to dive into that is sort of therapeutic for him. It helps with the Amy stuff. And he's going to see Sam and Nai while he's there. But, yeah. Mostly it's just been…today was a long day and it's been a long week. And I know I texted while I was on my way to see if you were around, but it's like…I was walking here before I even thought to text. I had two glasses of wine with dinner and then Derek left and then my feet were leading me here."

Mark grins weakly. "I can tell you've had some wine. You're always chattier once you've hit the hard stuff. And I don't really like the idea of you walking here alone at night, you know. Especially through the park."

"I obviously got a cab once I hit Central Park West. And…" she smirks at him. "I can hold my liquor just fine, thank you very much."

"You can," he concedes. "You've always been able to. I remember the first time Derek and I tried scotch – you were already a seasoned scotch drinker – we could barely handle it, and we were kind of in awe of you."

"Look at you two now though. And it was a better first-time reaction than Naomi, at least. She was dry-heaving over the sink the second the Lagavulin hit her lips. Maybe while I'm here we can watch…oh, hey." Addison was about to reach for the remote, but now her hand is straining towards the copy of The Call of the Wild on Mark's coffee table. "Are you reading this right now?" She asks with a grin, holding it up.

"I'm not, actually. I keep meaning to though. The other night I had…someone told me recently that she – they – hated this book. I get that it's probably juvenile to still like it as a grown-ass man, but I still had to hide my look of disdain." Christ, Mark thinks. That was so clumsy-sounding and unbelievable. It's like he's getting worse at lying lately.

"You can be honest," Addison states, gripping the book a little tighter between her hands. "Is it…is it anyone I know?"

"No. Just a girl from a bar a few nights ago." He studies her closely, trying to figure out the expression drifting over Addison's face as she lowers her head. "You okay?"

"Yeah." She lifts her head again to look at him, and shows him a tiny smile. "I am. I was just thinking that sometimes I wish…" she inhales deeply. Color flows through her cheeks at her tentative admission: "I wish it could just be me."

"Addison…" Mark mumbles uneasily. Liquor has apparently given her boldness tonight. And his unintentional sobriety (he's out of beer) has given him nothing.

"I know why it can't," she swiftly adds. "It's okay. I'm not…I'm just saying, that's all. I'm not asking anything of you, Mark, especially since I'm the one who is married…anyway." She shakes her head. "Let's change the subject. Can you -"

Do you ever wish it was just me? Mark wants to ask. But the words are stuck in his throat. He couldn't ever actually ask her that, could he?

"Mark?"

"Sorry." He blanches. "What were you saying?"

"Read to me," Addison requests, pointing to his book. "Please," she throws in. "Just for a little bit, and then I need to head back. I can't stay more than an hour." She hands him the book and situates herself closer, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Okay, but I'm not starting at the end, weirdo. I know you always do that."

Addison laughs at this. "It's okay. Start in the middle," she suggests. "I read it back in December, so I don't need to know the ending in advance like usual. Just pick a random page."

The middle. Maybe that's fitting. Mark didn't get the beginning. And he can't imagine there's any way he could possibly get an ending. But the middle – some sort of messed-up middle with phenomenal sex and the occasional deep conversation and apparently reading out loud to Addison while she's basically melting into his side – well, that's better than nothing, right?

"Okay, Red," he murmurs, flipping the book open and tracing with a finger until he lands on a sentence near the start of a new paragraph. "Each day the sun rose earlier and set later. It was dawn by three in the morning, and twilight lingered till nine at night. The whole day was a blaze of sunshine. The ghostly -"

"Sail blazer."

"What?"

"Sailblazer,"Addison repeats. "The word 'blaze' made me think about Sailblazer. That was one of the Captain's boats when I was growing up. It was the one I learned to sail on, actually. I wasn't a good sailor though…sailing is probably when I first realized my father is a tough man to please…but 'tough' is better than 'impossible," which is the case with Bizzy. But Bizzy actually is a good sailor. She didn't care for it when Archer and I were growing up, so she didn't come out with us often, but after Susan died, and after – well, just to try and keep my mom occupied – the Captain would bring her out on the Sound with him, and she ended up taking to it…and now they sail together a lot. Sailblazer. Sorry. I shouldn't interrupt you." It occurs to Addison that while she certainly isn't out-of-her-mind inebriated, she might be buzzed, especially if she's volunteering information about her childhood. And worse, talking about her father. Oh. And Bizzy, too. Yes. Definitely feeling the Cabernet then. She cuddles a little closer, nudging against Mark's chest until he drapes an arm over her shoulders. "You can keep going, Mark," she mutters tiredly. "Just…if I nod off, make sure I'm up by nine, okay?"

"Okay." Mark kisses the top of her head, hearing the quick adjustment in her breathing when long, even breaths indicate she is about to fall asleep. The comfortable thing. Sleepy because of alcohol or not, Addison wouldn't allow herself to fall asleep here (if only for a little bit) if she wasn't comfortable. "The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life," he continues, keeping his voice low. "This murmur arose from all the land, fraught with the joy of living…"

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. .

Three Years Earlier

"Maybe we could include some blue hydrangeas."

"Blue? Absolutely not." Bizzy sighs in annoyance at her daughter. "They need to be classic all white arrangements. Think roses. Lilies. Mums. Maybe some snapdragons. Limit the amount of greenery. Goodness, Addison. When did your taste become so tacky? Do you want to go ahead and make the call so we can serve French fries at the reception, too?"

Addison brought up blue hydrangeas because she noticed some pretty ones near Susan's cottage. Rather than explain this though, she lets the defensiveness and resentment brewing in her chest get the better of her.

"Bizzy, why did you even ask for my help if you're going to be upset with all my suggestions?"

"I planned your wedding. The least you can do is help me plan a funeral."

I didn't ask you to plan my wedding, Addison thinks. You insisted upon it. And the "classic all white" selection you went with for my bridal bouquet was ugly. But of course Addison will help plan this. Of course she will, and not just because she is an almost-thirty-five-year-old desperate for her mother's love and approval. She's helping because Susan was a good person who is deserving of a nice send-off. A kind, thoughtful, and patient person. All the things Bizzy is not.

"This is me helping. Or trying to help, at least." Addison takes a deep, calming breath, and leans closer to look at the personalized notepad in front of her mother. "Tell me what else I can do this afternoon."

At Bizzy's request, Addison gives Andrea a call. Andrea, who is Susan's older sister and the actual lead for planning the funeral. Addison gets the impression her mother doesn't really care for Andrea, but Andrea seems perfectly pleasant over the phone. And when the two women meet for coffee the following morning, Andrea's eyes fill with tears when Addison – the messenger – says her family would like to pay for the flowers as well anything needed for the post-funeral reception site, and anything else – really, anything – that Andrea might need.

Addison notices the prescription bottle on her mother's vanity later that night.

"Bizzy, the dosage for these is huge. Did one of those uppity psychiatrists who specifically caters to your crowd look the other way when he prescribed this? And how many are you taking a day? No more than what it says on the label, right?" The refill quantity – a generous number of refills – on the label is also concerning, but Addison can only focus on one thing at the time.

"Addison…" her mother sighs. "Does it really matter?"

"Yes, Bizzy. It matters."

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. .

It is wild and raw tonight. They are close to the end now, so it has reached the point where it is all just mutual breathlessness and hurried, messy kisses anyway, but nothing about this encounter has been particularly docile. Addison's back is wedged so firmly into the wall that she is certain she'll wake up tomorrow with nightfall-shaded bruises weaving a trail down her spine. She locks her legs tighter around Mark's waist and collapses forward, gasping into his shoulder and marveling at how this man can support her full weight in his arms so easily and keep his rhythm and make sure her needs are being met all at once. Addison has one hand curled against the base of Mark's neck, and her other hand is on his shoulder, fingernails digging unapologetically hard into his skin each time he slams his hips forcefully into hers. She won't be the only one with visible markings tomorrow.

Mark sets her down carefully afterwards, and Addison is grateful he doesn't let go right away – she doesn't quite trust herself to stand on her own yet. His hands are still rubbing attentively over her ribs and hipbones, this time over the outside of an old Columbia shirt of hers rather than under it. Her shirt and bra are still on, which is a true testament to how badly she wanted this. The quickie of all quickies, really. Right inside the front door. They couldn't even make it to Mark's bedroom. Well. Actually. Addison knows that isn't entirely accurate. She couldn't make it to the bedroom. Mark probably could have. Not that he objected when Addison came into his apartment, and immediately kicked off her heels and let her bag fall unceremoniously to the floor. "Here," she told him, voice low and sultry. "Against the wall. Please."

"You know," Mark replied with a chuckle while undoing his belt, "I'd still have sex with you even without the politeness you always throw in there, Doctor Manners."

Addison wants to tell him that she doesn't say please because she's well-mannered (even though she is). She says it – she pleads – because she desperately, desperately wants and needs him. She's sure that Mark knows that though, and besides, there's been enough stroking going on without involving his ego in this, too.

Mark smiles when Addison lifts her head to kiss him. She makes a happy noise against his mouth when her lips touch his. And Mark can't help himself. She's happy and practically purring in his arms and earlier this evening when he suggested – as casual-sounding as he could – that Addison just spend the night rather than trek back to the brownstone (Derek landed at LAX a few hours ago), she smiled shyly and said okay.

He takes her face in his hands, palms warming her jawbone and thumbs sweeping over her cheekbones. "Addison, I just wanted…I want you to know…" Mark adjusts himself, sliding forward to rest his cheek against hers and speak into her ear, a little too nervous to see the look on her face. Him. Nervous. Mark's never nervous about anything. But then, he's never been in this particular situation before, with this particular woman before. "I think I'm falling in love with you," he says, sucking in an anxious breath as he whispers the words close to her ear.

Addison tenses in his arms. It only takes a second for the entire atmosphere to shift and it's clear that he was right to be nervous. Of course she wouldn't want to hear this. How could he be so stupid? What they've been doing together isn't supposed to be about feelings.

"Don't," Addison tells him, an edge crashing through her voice.

"Don't say that to you? Or just…don't fall in love with you?"

"I don't know," she answers. And then she shakes her head. "Well, no. Both."

"I didn't do it on purpose." Mark thinks it's important for her to know that. "I didn't expect…I know that it's not..." he sighs when she pushes off the wall and takes a few steps away from him. "I'm just trying to be honest, Red."

Addison shakes her head again. "You can't just…I'm in love with my husband, Mark. And you're…you're not in love with me. You're not. What you're feeling isn't…" she pinches her thumb and index finger to the bridge of her nose, taking a moment. "Mark, you might think you're falling in love with me, but trust me: you're not. It's just that this is different for you. I mean, we've been friends for a long time, and you don't exactly embrace repeat performances with most of the women you've been with, so what you think you're feeling -"

"I'm actually capable of assessing my own feelings without your input. And I am capable of loving someone, Red, if you're trying to imply that I'm not. I'm just…I'm just trying to tell you how I feel. Derek, he…he doesn't deserve you."

"And you do?" Addison grinds her teeth together. Mark can see the unspoken words flashing in her eyes, bouncing off the slight shake of her shoulders. She thinks he's ruined everything – what they currently have – by sharing this. And maybe he has. Mark thinks of his father, standing over him when he was a just a child and releasing a disappointed sigh once the paramedics left. You don't always have to say so many things, young man. This whole thing turned into a circus because of you.

"I didn't say that," Mark tells her. "I'm not saying that. And I'm not trying to make it weird for you or upset you…but I needed you to know. This isn't a game to me, Addison. Having sex with you is fun, but it's not just fun, because if it was just fun, if it was just a game, if it was as strictly and only as casual as all the other times I've had sex with different women, then I don't…I don't think I'd feel this way."

"You just want what Derek has. You've always been this way, Mark. You're both so competitive with each other. You want to trump him. You want to win, and that means you're -"

"I just told you this wasn't a game. And the way you are when you're with me…the things you tell me and some of the things we talk about…you're just…" Mark hesitates. It's not fair to put words in Addison's mouth – she's doing it enough for him at the moment – but still, there have been…things. Things. The book Addison got him for his birthday was only from her. And she told him something about her mother – the thing with Susan – that she's never told anyone. Sure, their brief pillow talks before she splits don't usually entail anything deep, but the conversations still feel meaningful enough to convey something beyond just friendship or friendship-with-benefits is happening here. Mark thinks this is the case, at least. He and Addison were close before they started sleeping together, but not like this. There's an emotional intimacy now, and he doesn't feel like he's the only one feeling it. And sometimes it's just the way Addison says his name. Mark. He can't explain it, but Addison has started to say it – both when they're having sex and she's keening underneath him, and also when they're not having sex – in a way that evokes emotion. It just sounds different in her mouth now. "You're kidding yourself if you seriously think this is still just about sex."

"I'm in love with my husband, Mark."

"But he's not in love with you. And he's not even trying to hide it."

The fact that Mark said it softly doesn't make the words any less harsh. It's cruel. And spiteful. Addison's blue-green eyes grow glossy with tears, and it's only seconds before she's crying, shoving at him when he reaches a hand out to apologize and offer comfort.

Mark watches her shakily tug up her panties and slacks, wiping at her cheeks as she scrambles around in search of her Bottega Veneta bag and heels. Her now fist-creased, messy hair – creased from his hands – falls like a curtain over her face and helps cover her tears, and Mark thinks of so many acts of unkindness that have brought him to this moment.

"Addison," he says, voice croaky. "I…I didn't…I wasn't trying to…"

He is six, pulling a blue plastic chair with powder-coated legs out from under Heather Price just to watch her fall backward.

He is ten, putting Derek's favorite frog in the microwave just to see the looks of distress on the faces of Derek and his sisters.

He is twelve, reaching around to unplug the Space Invaders machine at the arcade during the middle of a game so Robert Campanelli won't beat his score.

He is fourteen, bringing down a wide receiver on the Fayetteville Gladiators with a horse collar tackle just because he can.

He is seventeen, bragging to his jock buddies in the cafeteria that Lainey Hess can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch, fully aware she is sitting just one table over.

He is twenty-one, working his way through a string of Tri-Delt girls with overly-plucked eyebrows and not caring one bit when they start making the connection none of them are the only ones.

He is twenty-nine, pretending not to see the hurt look on Carolyn Shepherd's face when she arrives back at St. Joseph's and asks him to go into Amy's room with her and he says he can't right now.

He is thirty-one, cheating on Peyton Hughes the weekend she goes to visit her parents in Colorado, because he really does like her and he's upset that she's probably going to move there.

He is thirty-four, sending an intern to get him a bone-dry cappuccino because he's not in the mood to teach – he's never in the mood – and he doesn't feel like having company when it comes to picking glass out of the face of a DV victim.

He is thirty-six, unhappily at his childhood home for Thanksgiving and yelling at Everett to get off the damn couch. Jenny isn't coming back. Get up.

But it all pales in comparison to this. Mark is thirty-eight years old, reducing someone he loves – actually loves – to tears with his words. She yells Let go! in his face when he lightly curls his hand around her wrist, trying to apologize.

The problem is that the hurt Mark caused this time wasn't intentional. It wasn't an action so much as it was a reaction. He just wanted Addison to know that he loves her. He didn't mean for it to happen this way or to hurt her.

Mark isn't sure she'll understand that though.

. .
. .

The flowers Addison comes home to the following evening after work – carefully positioned near the front door by the delivery service and tucked close enough to a stone planter that she nearly overlooks them – are colorful. She likes that the bouquet features a burst of overly bright colors, even though she can't help but think Bizzy would dub this arrangement as tacky, and she certainly wouldn't like the idea that carnations, marigolds, and dahlias are touching one another in outright defiance of seasonal growth times.

It's obvious who they're from, even without a personal note attached to the card marker from a local flower shop. That would be reckless. And Derek might still be out of town for a few more days, but Mark isn't stupid.

He's not in love with you. And he's not even trying to hide it. Addison recognized the truth in Mark's words. She doesn't even disagree at this point…but that didn't mean it didn't feel like a knife carving figure eights in her chest to hear them.

It's wrong, but sometimes Addison wishes that Derek is having an affair, that there is another woman. It's just that if there was another woman, Addison could sort of wrap her head around why her husband has become disinterested in her, and so absent. The reality that there isn't anyone else…that means that she's not enough. And this has always been Addison's greatest fear, and now it seems to be coming true.

Addison brings the small bouquet inside and sets it on the kitchen island with only a few minutes to spare before Derek calls. He is currently with Naomi and Sam, which is honestly the only reason he would call rather than just send a quick, check-in text. Derek probably likes the idea of getting to play the role of "good husband" in the presence of his friends, she figures.

"Those are nice," Naomi exclaims over FaceTime, crowding close to Derek and Sam in order to share the screen. "The flowers behind you," she adds when Addison looks confused.

"Oh, yeah. They are, aren't they? They're from a patient." Addison is surprised at how easy it is to lie now. She's had more reasons to lie since October though. Mark hasn't said anything about her poker face in a while; maybe she's just a good liar now.

"There's like no male equivalent for thank-you gifts like that from a patient," Derek murmurs thoughtfully. And then he smiles as something occurs to him. "Do you guys remember the time the old lady whose son I operated on gave me a five-dollar bill? I think it was so I could treat myself to a coffee or something, but I like thinking that she was just doing that classic grandma thing of putting a five or ten-dollar bill in a birthday card."

"I remember. It was so cute. And you still have that bill in your wallet," Addison replies. She likes this about Derek – it's charming and it's thoughtful and it's sweet. That's the thing, even now; the moments might be few and far between, but there are still moments where Addison is on the receiving end of her husband's love and attention. So because of that, how can she feel tempted to walk away, when there's still a chance things can get better?

And how could she possibly feel something for anyone else?

. .
. .

"Thank you for the flowers."

Addison doesn't appear surprised to see him. Her tone isn't necessarily welcoming, but it isn't cold-sounding, either. And the fact that she opened the door at all – because who else would she imagine to be on the other side of the brownstone front door at nine at night? – leads Mark to believe she can't be that mad at him still, or she is at least willing to hear him out.

"I really am sorry, Addison. But just…can you just listen for a sec?"

"Mark…"

"I'm falling in love with you. Wait." He holds a palm up when she inhales sharply and starts to interrupt him. He comes forward, and she doesn't protest when he steps inside and gently shuts the round-headed door behind them. "I'm not asking you to say it back or to feel the same way. And I won't say it again – it's probably easier for both of us if I don't. I just…I just needed you to know. And I'm sorry if this makes things harder for you, and if I'm unburdening myself only to burden you because I'm sort of a human disaster that way and this felt like it was eating me up inside, but I'm just trying to be honest."

"I…I understand," she replies, voice faltering. "And I appreciate that you're being honest with me, but I can't say it back, Mark. I care about you, but I just…I don't feel that way…but I also just don't…I don't know what I feel."

Yeah, he thinks. That much is obvious.

"That probably doesn't make sense," Addison continues, "but all I really know at the moment is that I don't know anything about anything anymore. And I'm married. I have a husband. A husband who may not be in love with me anymore, but is still my husband."

"I'm sorry for saying that. I didn't mean…it was a really shitty thing to say."

"It was. But you aren't wrong. Probably not wrong, at least." She steps forward and rests her head on Mark's chest. "I don't think…" she sighs when he wraps his arms around her. "I don't think I can give you anything more than this."

"Hey, 'this' is fine. I just want you to be happy, Red," he says, which is the absolute truth. And then Addison steals away the rest of his words when she starts to rub him through his slim-fit trousers, moving her fingertips slowly back and forth. He goes perfectly still, breathing heavily and letting her start to stroke him hard. "Fuck. Addison…" he pants out. "Let's…let's call a cab." It's not a question. Mark would ask normally, in a tone that simulates nonchalance, but he doesn't think she'd be touching him like this and kissing his neck like this if she wanted him to leave by himself.

"We shouldn't stay here," she acknowledges.

"No, we shouldn't. But I can't really focus enough to take my phone out of my pocket when you're doing this to me…" Mark unintentionally thrusts into her hand. "You're driving me crazy."

Addison giggles into his neck and doesn't make any attempt to stop. "I thought I always did that."

"Yes, but particularly right now. Please." He grabs at her hand and stretches it away from his body. "Sorry to press pause on all the fun you're having with driving me crazy, but please let's just go."

"Look who's the one with manners now." Addison smirks and peers up at him. "And I just meant not here-here, by the front door. Let's go upstairs." Mark seems shocked by this suggestion. And Addison is too, honestly. They've never done it here before. They've never, ever planned to. "I don't think I can wait that long," she adds when Mark looks like he's again ready to suggest they go back his place. She leans up to kiss him properly, shifting her momentum forward to press her body against his. Mark groans again at the contact and grabs desperately at the flesh behind her hips, and Addison loves it, she absolutely loves it. She thinks of what it's like to be out on the water, how even when you're pointed directly at the wind, stuck in irons, shadowed in the no-go zone, you're still moving a little anyway. You're not entirely trapped; you just have to recognize what is and isn't in your control, and heed to the weather. The stronger the wind, the greater the pressure. "Come with me. Let's go upstairs."

"But -"

"Derek's on the other side of the country," she states insistently. "And I don't care about the optics of this and how on a scale of all the wrong things we've done, deciding to have sex here might just top the list. I don't care about that though. I just care about this, Mark."

. .
. .

REFERENCES

Mm-kay. General Amelia stuff, which I have mentioned in previous notes: she overdosed as a teenager and was revived by Derek. She mentioned that this happened as a teenager (I went with age 18 for the purposes of this story). Amelia then got sober and spent most of her twenties holed up in a library studying. She stayed sober for quite a long time before she slipped on Private Practice.

Subtle nods to two scenes:

- Grey's 2x18 (when Mark comes to Seattle post-bomb episode):
Addison: "I'm in love with my husband, Mark."
Mark: "But he's not in love with you. He's in love with that intern and he's not even trying to hide it. Why would you want to stick around for that?" (CUT TO ME SOBBING)

- Grey's 3x12, Addison to Mark: "You didn't want to raise a child, Mark. You wanted to trump Derek. You wanted to win." (Hi, I'm still sobbing)

Re: Mark going eight days without sex (except not really in this case) in this fic. Soooo, you know that scene in Titanic when ol' Rose is rambling on about Jack now existing only in her memory? THIS IS HOW I FEEL ABOUT THE EIGHT DAYS THING. Shortly after Mark and Addison made their 60-Days No Sex Bet on Grey's, there was a preview for an upcoming Grey's episode (either 3x18 or 3x19), and one of the clips included a very cranky, frustrated Mark telling Addison, "I haven't had sex in eight days," and then Addison replies in a complete deadpan tone, "Oh. Eight days." And then there was also a quick snippet of a super-sweaty Mark jumping rope (to keep his mind occupied). This ended up being cut from whatever episode it was intended for, and I have never been able to find it in deleted scenes. So it really does exist, but I can't prove it (unless an absolute angel out there has tracked it down). As an aside: I slip an "eight days" joke into almost every Mark/Addison fic I write, so if someone has read all my stuff and has no knowledge of this unaired scene, they are probably just like, "jeez, this girl REALLY draws the line at eight for days without having sex, I guess?"

Bizzy planned Addison's wedding (mentioned in PP season 4…when Addison is planning Bizzy and Susan's wedding).

In a scene in PP 2x17, Addison asks the bartender for "scotch, neat." And I don't know what I was expecting, but I was not expecting that. And my incorporation is AU, but I sort of love the idea of ADDISON maybe being the one to get Mark and Derek started on scotch and thus serving as the catalyst for their affinity for double scotch, single malt drinks.

Also: I get that if this is being written in "current time" – more like current time-ISH since I'm trying to be vague about that – there are plenty of ride services available besides cabs, but…cabs are absolutely the sexiest when it comes to being mentioned in relation to illicit affairs. Don't me on this. BTW, Mark and Addison have their own cars (mentioned during the Hamptons chapters), but driving/owning a vehicle in NYC is for the most part bonkers impractical, so in this imagining, their cars are kept in private parking garages most of the time.

(Oh and they don't get caught next chapter, just FYI. That's coming though, and I'm sure you knew that.)