Full title is An Ocean of Tears Will Spill for What Is Broken. FF didn't like how wordy it was. Chapter title is a lyric from the song "Eight," by Sleeping At Last.
. .
. .
Chapter 22. An Ocean of Tears Will Spill for What Is Broken
A logical person would have put pants on first, Addison thinks. But nothing is logical anymore. Instead, she comforts herself with the notion that it is dark outside, and even if there was a neighbor peeping out from behind a curtain right now…what does it matter? She barely knows her neighbors, a symptom of the long hours she works, and just par for the course when it comes to busy, fast-moving Manhattanites.
Addison scoops up the water-soaked garments scattered on the sidewalk, wool and cashmere and silk heavy under the weight of unrelenting rain. One trip back into the house with ruined couture cradled in her arms is not possible, but two – two is doable, Addison decides. Three would be best, but she is convinced she can (clumsily) make it in two. She likens it to grocery bags, post-shopping excursion: it would be easier to make additional trips to the car when there are multiple bags, but rarely is this the choice embraced by anyone, even if it means oddly-shaped bruises and reddened, handle-creased forearms from stubbornly trying to balance the extra bulk.
It ends up being two trips, but when Addison tosses the second pile – including the comforter – inside the entryway of the brownstone, something shiny just off the edge of the curb catches her eye. It is near where Derek flung her clothes, so she wonders if something slipped out of a pocket of one of the garments. Loose change, perhaps? A thin bangle she got tired of wearing halfway through a workday? It doesn't really matter – again, nothing does – but she decides to investigate anyway, just to ensure there are no tangible bits of tonight's events left come morning light. Morning. When Derek will be back, she thinks.
Addison's stomach lurches when she reaches the bottom of the concrete steps and gets a closer look at the object. Derek's ring. There's a brutal finality to what was clearly her husband's decision to remove the band and drop it in the street. The gutter. He threw it in the freaking gutter. Addison pinches the polished metal between her fingers and stands back up. She told Derek if he left, they wouldn't be able to find a way through this – if you go now, we're not going to get through this. If you go now, we don't have a chance. But as Addison slowly, almost experimentally closes and opens her fingers around the wedding band, pressing it into the center of her palm, she realizes that Derek already knew that.
He doesn't want to get through this. He doesn't want to try to survive this. And that's a perfectly fair outlook, Addison feels, even in the midst of all this thunderous pain and shock and grief. Why would anyone who saw what Derek saw tonight – his wife and his best friend – want to work through a betrayal like this?
These are the seeds you chose to sow.
Addison steps back onto the sidewalk, and gasps when something jagged pierces her skin, landing somewhere in the rough patch underneath her ring and pinky toes.
"Oh," she whimpers, gingerly lifting her foot. Mark's words from this afternoon slip back into her head: disgusting Manhattan streets.
She hobbles up the steps, careful to put the bulk of her weight on her heel whenever her left foot touches the ground. She keeps her foot turned out, absently thinking that Bizzy and Mrs. Sobel would both be pleased at how the fundamentals of ballet and tap still come naturally to her. She knows it's glass in her foot, but she can't bring herself to look yet. It hurts, but it's not excruciatingly painful.
Or maybe it just doesn't hurt as much as everything else does.
When Addison reaches the top of the steps, she catches sight of her reflection in the rain-smeared glass of the double doors. The fragile, weeping woman blinking back at her is a startling sight; Addison almost doesn't recognize herself. She struggles with the doorknob, her shaking hands fumbling against the wetness of the brassware. For a moment, she panics. She is seven, and Patch Gold has locked her in the wine cellar. And then she is twenty-seven years beyond seven, watching as her mother's blood spreads like lava over the cellar floor.
Addison twists at the knob again though, firmer this time, and the door gives way. She makes it. She finds her way through. Did I really make it through though? she wonders, anxiety still thick in her veins.
Her foot is pulsing now.
. .
. .
Twenty-Nine Years Earlier
Nine-year-old Mark inhales sleepily and mumbles a disoriented protest when he feels someone shaking his shoulder. It's summer. He doesn't really need to be up early.
"Morning, sleepyhead." Jenny's voice sieves through the foggy remnants of slumber Mark is still wrapped in. "Do you want to do something fun with me this morning? I thought maybe…I thought maybe we could go to Skaneateles Lake. Just the two of us."
"Skana-ta-what?"
"Skaneateles Lake. It's one of the Finger Lakes…it's not too far from here," Jenny tells him. "I know it's early, so I was thinking we could just walk around and then stick our feet in, if you want. And then maybe…maybe get a bite to eat afterwards? There's a diner close by the lake that I know has really good pancakes. I just thought that – that we could do something nice together. I know yesterday was really scary for you, honey."
"I wasn't scared," Mark says defensively. This is a lie though. He was scared – so scared – when he found Jenny unresponsive in her bed.
"Of course not…" Jenny replies after a noticeable pause. "But you shouldn't have had to see me like that. I'm supposed to take care of you, not the other way around."
Mark thinks this is sort of an odd thing for his mother to say. Maybe it should be that way, but it's not. If he's not being immature about this – a word Kathleen Shepherd says all the time now, because apparently all her siblings are immature compared to her – he knows that's not entirely true. Jenny does take care of him. She makes him food, drives him places, reminds him to shower, buys him things, knows the names of his football and baseball and hockey coaches, takes him to the doctor when he needs to go, tells him not to sit on the counter when she catches him doing it, signs his permission slips, and makes sure he has clothes to wear. Mark is just a kid, after all.
But there are also a lot of ways in which he takes care of himself. He always has.
. .
. .
Addison positions herself sideways on the couch, straightening her legs out and pressing her lower back into one of the inside arms. She uses her right foot – the good one – to nudge down a back pillow so she can prop up her other foot. She keeps her eyes closed while working the pillow down, just in case her foot turns inward in the process and she is forced to see whatever is visible of the glass still embedded in her skin; she doesn't want to look. She thinks it will make her queasy, make her sick, and of course she recognizes the irony of being a doctor in this moment. Addison's own blood rising up from her body and exiting it has never left her terrified before (even as a child, it always vaguely fascinated her), but she thinks this might be the time it does induce nausea.
She's not bleeding much, at least. She can see a few droplets that indicate her path from the front door to the couch, but it's nothing substantial.
She does the only thing that makes sense to her and reaches for her phone, currently face-down on the coffee table. The thing that makes the most sense is momentarily put on pause though when Addison sees a text message on her lock screen from Derek. I'll be home in about an hour. Stopped for gas.
The tension in her chest shifts as hopefulness starts to find its way back to her. Maybe –
And then her heart sinks as she keeps reading. Nancy's kiddos all came down with colds. Decided to come back tonight. See you soon.
Addison stares at the words and makes the estimate in her head, and then doubles back to look at the timestamp. She and Mark were probably still downstairs when Derek texted her with his change of plans. All you had to do was keep an eye on your phone, she thinks, but her phone was on silent and she definitely wasn't looking at it, because she rarely does when she's with Mark. She only wants to focus on them when they're together, as though she can put away the other parts of her life and return to them later when it suits her. And tonight is confirmation that what she and Mark were doing – sneaking around – just wasn't sustainable, even if they were being as careful as possible. Addison shakily scrolls through her contacts now.
And obviously they weren't being as careful as possible. Maybe they never were. This was inevitable, wasn't it? How could the ending be anything but this?
"Hi." Mark answers on the last ring before the call goes to voicemail. He sounds hesitant.
"Hi. I…I need you to come back here." And then Addison can hear how heavily Mark breathes out, and it almost comes across like a disbelieving chuckle.
"I think I've done enough damage for one night."
"He's not here right now."
"Even more reason for me to stay away. Red, I -"
"He's not here," Addison repeats. "He's coming back in the morning to get…to get his stuff. But I need – I think I might need stitches."
There is a long pause, and then: "Addison." Mark's voice comes out croaky, breaking between the second and third syllables.
"No, it's not what you think," she says quickly. "He didn't do anything. I just…I didn't have shoes on, and I was outside and I stepped on some glass…I think. I can't look at it."
"Why were you -"
"Mark. I can't…he's not coming back and I can't do the stitches myself. Please." Addison's breath stalls, and then she exhales raggedly. "Please come back. I need you. Please."
"I'm on my way. Keep your foot elevated."
. .
. .
Twenty-Nine Years Earlier
Mark was too sleepy when he was woken up by Jenny to give today's plans much thought, so he didn't really think through what he should bring, and in classic Jenny fashion, they are missing some things. No, this isn't a typical trip to the lake because it's too early to swim, which is fine, but there are still some basics they are lacking: towels, water bottles, sunscreen, and maybe some beach toys, even though Mark feels too old to get down in the sand and play with a shovel. It's the sort of stuff Carolyn Shepherd would have remembered though – she would have had it packed the night before, actually. But then, Mrs. Shepherd is just a natural at being a mother. It seems easy for her. For as long as Mark can remember, he has had the sense that being a parent doesn't come naturally to Jenny. He knows that since he's only a kid, he doesn't understand everything going on around him, but he still feels like he understands a lot of things, and in particular, how to cope with certain things. This is just who Jenny is, and there isn't really anything Mark can do about that.
He watches his mother now, peering up at her from beneath the brim of his Yankees cap as they stand almost knee-deep in Skaneateles Lake. Mark has been told all his life that he looks like Jenny – more like her than Everett, at least. Jenny used to do something called "print modeling," and Mark knows that it was on a photoshoot that she met Everett. Everett's then-company apparently owned the building where Jenny's pictures were being taken. Mark doesn't understand much about what it was that Jenny was doing and who she was doing it for while she worked in her late teens and early twenties, but he can understand why people would want to take pictures of Jenny. His mother is tall and graceful-looking, with a wide smile and long, golden brown hair that hangs past her shoulders. Her eyes are the same color as Mark's, but they are bigger and wider, and the lashes that frame them are as long as any one of Mark's fingernails, even without the goopy-looking black stuff Jenny coats them in. She's just…pretty. Really pretty. And Mark feels like it's gross to think that about his mom because she's his mom, but he can't think of any other mom he's seen in real life who is prettier than Jenny. She's prettier than some of the TV moms, too, actually.
Jenny lightly nudges Mark's shoulder. "I know it's kind of cold."
"It's okay. I like it." The water is definitely cold, so much so that it has turned Mark's legs and feet strawberry-red, but it feels sort of nice anyway. The water is a beautiful blue that seems to stretch forever, and it's so clean and shiny that at certain spots in the distance Mark swears he can see the clouds above them reflected in the water.
"I really am sorry about yesterday, Mark. I'm really, really sorry."
"Why…why were you like that?"
"I take pills sometimes, to help with…my nerves. And you're not really supposed to drink alcohol – you know, like cocktails and stuff – when you take special medication. Or drink at all, really. But yesterday I was drinking, and I guess…I guess I wasn't very careful."
"Can you just…" Mark inhales so deeply that his shoulders nearly rise up to his ears. "Can you just not drink? Or just…not do it very much?"
This is the only life Mark knows, but he is old enough now that he can look outside of his own home situation and make comparisons. And when it comes to comparisons, Mark always jumps first to his best friend and his best friend's parents. He has seen Mr. Shepherd sometimes have a beer with dinner, and as far as Mrs. Shepherd…Mark doesn't think he's ever seen her drink, but he figures she does from time to time. And even in Mark's immediate family, Everett usually has a beer when he gets home from work, and sometimes a glass of wine with dinner, but that's it. Everett doesn't ever get "drunk" or "sloppy."
Jenny does though. She does a lot.
"I can try, Mark. I will try," Jenny says. "I know it seems like I'm choosing to do this, and that's kind of true, but it's just – it's just not always that easy for certain people to stop. I'm one of those people. But I know that…I know that I'm not always a very good mom, and that I…disappoint you."
"You don't disappoint me, Jenny."
It's a lie though. A white lie. Mark learned about this concept recently. He and Derek were in the Shepherds' kitchen a few weeks ago, picking over chocolate chip cookies while Carolyn expertly multitasked (as usual), sliding another tray in the oven, balancing a sleepy-eyed Amy on one hip, and admiring a drawing that little Lizzie was holding out to show her. And the drawing, well. Mark caught a glimpse of it, and it really just looked like a brown scribble.
"You can turn around now, son," Mrs. Shepherd said once Lizzie was out of the room. She was busy securing the drawing to the fridge with alphabet magnets, and the timing of the comment surprised Mark; Derek's mom wasn't even looking at him, but somehow she knew that when Lizzie showed her the picture, Derek was going to have to turn around to hide the fit of giggles threatening to bubble from him.
"Mom…" Derek quietly laughed when his mother shifted away from the fridge in order to face him. "That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It looks like poop or something."
"It's not ugly to me, kiddo. And even if it was…it's just a white lie. Do you know what that is?" Mrs. Shepherd grinned when both boys shook their heads. "It's a different kind of lie. Not like if you were to lie about doing your homework, or lie about pushing someone, or lie to your parents – those are bad things and things you shouldn't lie about, ever. A white lie is something harmless though…it's when you lie in order to not hurt someone's feelings. You do it to be polite. Derek, you sort of just told a white lie in your own way by turning around so your sister wouldn't see you laughing."
Derek nodded and smiled. "So a white lie would also be like…" he ducked his head, an errant curl falling across his forehead as another laugh started to rise from him. "Like when I tell you your meatloaf tastes really good?" And then Mark laughed, too. Mrs. Shepherd is a really, really good cook (he thinks), but Derek has never liked meatloaf.
Mrs. Shepherd raised a teasing eyebrow. "Get out of my kitchen and go play before I put meatloaf on this week's menu."
But Mrs. Shepherd didn't always know that thing about white lies – Mark knows this for sure. Someone taught it to her. You learn things from your parents, and maybe this is how you learn to be a mom or learn to be a dad – it has to be that way, right? Mark thinks maybe he'd like to have a kid one day – a son so they can play catch – but he thinks being a parent would come easier to someone like Derek, who lives in a home where artwork (no matter how poop-like) is put on the fridge and no one gets left alone at night and I love you is said a lot.
"That's kind of you to say," Jenny replies after Mark tells her that she doesn't disappoint him. That's kind of you to say. Mark is sure Jenny knows he's lying – white lying – but she doesn't say anything else about it. He sort of likes that about her. And he sort of likes Skaneateles Lake, too…and this is something he can share.
"I really like it here," he says softly.
"Me too. I haven't been here in a long time, but when I woke up this morning, I just sort of felt the urge to come here, and for you to come with me. I dream about this place sometimes. I used to come here with my dad when I was little. Every summer actually, until I moved to Brooklyn." Mark knows that's where Jenny met Everett, at the photoshoot thing. They lived in Brooklyn for a few years before relocating to Syracuse for Everett's job. And then Mark was born. "I doubt he comes here anymore though." Jenny's voice has gone soft, and it's almost like she is thinking out loud rather than talking to her son. "Too far of a drive from Buffalo at his age."
Mark's eyebrows furrow together as he turns his mother's words over in his head. "Wait. Your dad is alive?"
"Yes. I think so."
"But I've…I've never met him." Mark has never really felt like he's had a grandparent. Everett's parents both died by the time Mark reached Kindergarten, and since they lived in North Carolina, Mark wasn't close with them. And Jenny said her mom died when she was a baby, and that her dad was…what was it? She told Mark once, when he asked a few years ago. He's no longer around. It was something like that, which led Mark to the conclusion his maternal grandfather was also dead. And Mark apparently just didn't care enough – or was too busy with other little boy things – to ask for more information.
He's met Carolyn Shepherd's parents before: Mr. and Mrs. Maloney. Mrs. Shepherd told Mark that he could call them Grandpa and Grandpa if he wanted to, but it felt too weird.
"No, you haven't," Jenny says. "And you won't. I don't want you to be around him. I wish you could have a grandpa, but it can't…it can't be him. He's not a very nice person, Mark. It's been a long time since I've talked to him."
"Oh."
"I'll try harder to be better mom, honey. I promise I'll try harder." Jenny sets her hand on Mark's shoulder. "You know that I love you, right?"
"Yeah, I know. I love you too, Jenny."
"It's such a big, crazy world out there, but you're going to grow up and be just fine. You're so smart, and you're so funny and confident – you can be anything you want to be, honestly."
Mark smiles. "I want to be a doctor. One who saves lives."
"You'll be a great doctor – the best doctor. And one day you'll meet someone special, and then maybe have a kid of your own…if you want to, I mean. You don't have to. If that happens though – if you want it to happen – you'll realize how much you're capable of loving someone. And you'll do absolutely anything to make the people you care about feel loved and safe."
. .
. .
Mark wonders if he should have stayed. He's been agonizing over it, because it's not like he realistically thought he would get any sleep tonight. Or, actually, more specifically, he wonders if he should have tried harder to stay when Derek walked in on them. Addison scrambled off Mark with a surprised shriek – or something between a shriek and a scream, Mark reflects – and Mark sat up quickly, reaching for his briefs, which were tangled somewhere between the comforter and the flannel sheets. Derek's back was to them by this point, and though he was facing the window, Mark doubted his friend was really actually seeing anything.
"Derek -"
"Get out, Mark." Derek's fists were clenched together and he was breathing heavily. "Just – just get out."
And that was that. Mark grabbed the rest of his clothes as fast as he could, pulling them on haphazardly while moving down the hallway. He stepped into his shoes, picked his leather jacket up off the stairs, and was out the arched front door. He was nearly at Central Park – practically jogging during the worst rainstorm the City has seen so far this year – before he finally flung an arm out to hail a cab.
Mark thinks about how many times he pushed Addison to tell Derek the truth. It never occurred to him that maybe he could be the one to tell his best friend about the affair. It just didn't seem right, and it definitely didn't seem fair to Addison. But then tonight, when faced with an opportunity to say something – say anything, especially anything about tonight's encounter being something that didn't just happen – Mark didn't fight. He didn't fight for himself, for her, for them.
And he also didn't get to say how sorry he was.
And now Mark is back at the brownstone, all because Addison called him. Even without the mention of stitches though, he suspects if Addison needled him a bit more, he would have returned. He always does. Even when he's cowardly, even when he's selfish, even when he wants to make a point – he'd do anything for her. All she has to do is ask.
"Sorry," Addison says quietly when Mark opens the front door, which she left unlocked. She gestures towards her long, bare legs. "I meant to put more clothes on." She still only has her panties on and a CBGB shirt she pulled out of the nearest drawer – Derek's drawer – when she climbed off Mark. It seemed easier and quicker than trying to locate wherever her shirt got tossed. She did mean to put pants on, she really did, but she didn't want to go back upstairs, even before the incident with her foot and the glass happened.
"It's okay," Mark answers, voice equally quiet. He is momentarily distracted by the wet, dirt-streaked comforter and clothing bunched up at the foot of the stairs. He can sort of figure out what happened, and how Addison ended up with glass in her foot, but now really isn't the time to break down the events that took place after his departure. He walks over to Addison, first aid kit in hand.
Addison recognizes what Mark is doing when he sets his kit down. He looked briefly at the bottom of her foot, but now his eyes are carefully raking over her face, neck, arms, and legs, assessing for any signs of harm.
"You honestly think he'd hit me, Mark? That he'd hurt me like that?"
"No," he admits. No, Mark can't imagine Derek ever actually hurting her. Not like we hurt him, he thinks. "But when you said stitches…that scared the hell out of me." He wouldn't ever admit when he scared as a little boy. Hell, he doesn't like to admit it now, either, but it's the truth. He was terrified in that moment. Love can heighten fear.
Addison nods in understanding. "Right. Sorry. I didn't think about how that sounded…I'm sorry for scaring you."
"Don't worry about it. It's okay. Do you have any blankets down here?"
"For…for what?"
"For you, Addie." He squeezes her cold hand. He gestures with his free hand to the gooseflesh covering her arms like ineffective armor, and then to her damp, tangled hair. "You're freezing."
"Oh."
Mark stares at her for a moment, but when she looks blankly back at him – as though the concept of coldness has not occurred to her – he prompts her again. "So…blankets?" He initially thought about draping his jacket around Addison, but it's still pouring outside, so the leather material has water clinging to it, and it's nowhere near as comforting as a blanket would feel.
"Um…" Addison looks right at a large wicker basket on the other side of the living room that has a few throw blankets shoved into it, and Mark follows her gaze. "I don't know." Her words come out funny, come out wrong. Mark lets go of her hand though and goes to retrieve some blankets. He moves slowly and carefully – recognizing how fragile and lost inside herself she currently is – as he wraps two blankets around her shoulders and spreads another over her legs. And then he turns his attention back to her foot, lifting it gingerly so that more of the light from a nearby floor lamp casts over it.
He cleans the area, and warns Addison of the uncomfortableness that is coming when he pinches the shard of glass between his tweezers, but she doesn't flinch when he removes it.
"It actually doesn't need stitches. It was a clean sliver," Mark informs her. "I'm just going to clean it up a bit more and bandage it. Maybe lay off the heels for a few days though and try to keep the pressure off it. But no stitches."
"Okay. Thank you," she whispers. "It was…it was his ring," she adds after a lengthy pause, tilting her chin towards the coffee table, where Mark now sees Derek's abandoned wedding band. "He must have…he must have taken it off when he went out to his car. And just…let it fall in the gutter."
"Addison." Mark moves further up the couch. "Come home with me."
Tears fill Addison's eyes. "But this…this is my home. I live here. I…I…" she shakes her head. "He said…it's not his house. He said to 'get out' of his house, but it's…it's not his house. It's mine, too. The down payment was thanks to me. It's not just his house."
"I know," Mark says quickly, not entirely understanding the context of the his-hers-ours thing Addison is rambling about, but knowing better than to ask right now. "I didn't mean – I just don't think you should be alone. I can go upstairs and get you something to wear."
"But if…if I'm not back in the morning, then I won't…" she shakes her head again, strands of hair fluttering wildly around her temples. "Derek, he – he didn't say what time he was coming, but he's supposed to come back in the morning. He…he said that -"
"He knows how to reach you, Red. And I'll make sure you're in a cab tomorrow morning as early as you want…and if…if you call Derek or he calls you or if he decides to come back home before then, you can just say you went to a hotel for the night or something."
"Right. A hotel for the night." Addison hangs her head. "Because what's one more lie at this point."
. .
. .
References/Nods to Various Episodes
Grey's 3x01. In the Derek/Addison flashback, Derek threw an armful's worth of Addison's clothes outside, as well as their comforter. At the end of the scene, he said he'd be back in the morning to get his clothes. I used some of the dialogue Derek/Addison exchanged throughout this chapter (not much, but some). And during that scene, Addison was wearing a CBGB shirt (presumably Derek's). You can see Kate's hands near her hips at the beginning of the scene and she's sort of stumbling, so, um, most likely underwear was being put back on (I try not to watch this scene much if I can help it. It was really, really well-acted, but, oh man, the angst…I watched it while rewriting MTGOF and frankly, once was enough for my poor heart.)
Maloney is Derek's mother maiden name. This was mentioned in Grey's season 1.
This chapter is one of the first ones I imagined while outlining this fic. I wanted Mark to come back, but to come back at Addison's request/on her terms (which is so much of what their relationship always was, anyway). We don't know what Mark's role was when Derek waked in on his wife and best friend…I imagine he tried to at least say something, but in no scenario do I imagine he really, really tried to stay and explain himself. I love the guy, but he's kind of a coward – especially in earlier seasons – when faced with feelings-related confrontation.
Thanks for reading! It'll be a rocky journey, but I'm going to give these two idiots a happy – though realistic – New York-based ending, and eventually tie Derek back into the fold…think something along the lines of Addison reaching out to Derek when Archer needed help, but not that specifically.