Chapter title is a lyric from the song "Same Mistake" by James Blunt. This chapter is kind of a long one and is sad and angst-heavy (the next one is too), but there is also a drunk trio and a happy trio flashback in here, so at least there's that! As always, reviews are appreciated. :)

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Chapter 23. Look at the Stars Fall Down

"I can get you something to wear," Mark volunteers once Addison has gloomily agreed that going back to his place for the remainder of the night is probably for the best. He figures it would be easier to just gather her stuff for her – clothes and anything else she asks for – so that she can stay off her injured foot for a little longer. Mark also gets the sense that she has zero interest in returning to the scene of tonight's extramarital crime right now. "Can you just tell me what you need, maybe?"

"Um. Yes. Um…" Addison screws her eyes shut, trying to think. "Just a bra and some sweatpants. The long dresser in our room…" she shakes her head and opens her eyes again. Our. It's still accurate, except it's not. It's not. "My stuff is in the drawers on the righthand side."

"Okay. What about shoes?"

"Yes," she answers woodenly. "Shoes. I…I need shoes."

Mark paces up the stairs, reciting a list of items in his head, both the ones Addison told him to get, and other practical ones that went unmentioned: a bra, sweatpants, socks, some sort of coat, and shoes. He thought his last question was clear enough that Addison would tell him what kind of shoes, and where specifically to find a comfortable pair hidden among the designer heels lining what Mark has previously been informed is an entire side of Derek and Addison's walk-in closet, several rows high. Addison's personal Mecca, Derek once joked.

It feels uncomfortable for Mark to be fishing through the dresser, experimentally opening and closing a few drawers in order to locate socks, a pair of dark gray sweatpants, and a bra – it just seems so intimate and personal, and also just plain weird when it comes to trying to decide which bra to grab for Addison. Mark finds one he recognizes though – a no-nonsense and full-coverage, decidedly unsexy beige one. He is sure Addison has had it awhile, but it only started coming into their clothes-then-naked rotation a few weeks ago. He knew the first time he peeled off her dress and saw it, that it was a sign they had transitioned into a new stage in their relationship: not feeling the need to always wear lacy, cleavage-spilling-out lingerie in front of the man – well, one of the men – that she loves.

Mark doesn't like Addison and Derek's bedroom, though he has tried not to focus extra hard on the details; the guiltiness of being in here with his best friend's wife was bad enough without compiling observations about the artwork, mahogany-stained furniture, and some sort of large-leafed plant positioned close to their TV. Mark had never been in this room before the first time he and Addison had sex here, not in all the years his friends owned the brownstone. They gave him an official tour when they first moved in, but while they were upstairs, Addison simply flicked her wrist towards the end of the hallway, indicating hers and Derek's bedroom ("And that's the master"), which was not too far from the guest room ("Your room, Mark," Derek teased during the walk-through). That was it.

The bedroom is just…cold-looking. Like the happiness and warmth were sucked out of it long ago. Mark knows the same critique could be applied to his own apartment, with its monochromatic gray and all the sleek chrome surfaces, but something about the color of Addison and Derek's walls in here – a pastel bluish-purple – and the black and white wall prints everywhere juxtaposed against polished furniture vaguely depresses him. And Mark has never understood their bed. King-sized. Yes, space is nice, but wouldn't Derek want to be as close to Addison as possible while sleeping? Mark would, if he was in his best friend's shoes.

Shoes. Mark heads into the closet, pausing first to pick up a silky-looking blouse that must have slipped off a hanger. Then he notices a large gap along the closet rod, a Red Sea parting that he imagines is the section of Addison's clothes Derek must have grabbed to fling outside. Mark gathers a wool peacoat into his arms, and mulls over a few casual-looking footwear options at the far end of the closet, ultimately selecting a pair of flat, sheepskin-lined boots he can't picture Addison ever wearing anywhere outside of the house.

"I called for a cab while I was upstairs…" Mark announces when he returns to the living room. He walks back over to Addison, holding out the clothes and boots for her. She doesn't reach for anything though; she is staring distractedly at her cell phone. "The cab should be here in a few minutes. Let me know if you don't like any of my fashion choices...I can always get you something else. Addie…?"

"Sorry." She sets her phone back on the coffee table. "I was just setting the alarm on my phone for tomorrow. I set it for five-thirty. I know that's early…I'll try not to wake you up when I leave."

"It's okay." Mark puts the boots on the floor and sets the clothes next to her, and while Addison gets the rest-of-the-way dressed, he distracts himself by going into the kitchen to collect her purse (he remembers she put it there when they arrived at the brownstone this afternoon…which feels like a lifetime ago). He wants to tell her that five-thirty is way too early, that she doesn't need to leave at that hour, but he also doesn't want to wipe away the glimmer of hopefulness that crossed over Addison's face when she shared this plan. Mark knows she'd prefer to beat Derek back to the house by several hours rather than several minutes, and he knows what else she's thinking, too: that maybe, just maybe, when Addison sees her husband tomorrow, she can convince him to stay.

Maybe things will be different in the morning.

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Ten Years Earlier

"Now – that. Okay." Mark points towards Addison as she rounds a corner and approaches one of the New York Hospital waiting areas where he and Derek have been sitting since their shift ended. Mark smirks in satisfaction, eyes moving back and forth between his two friends. "That is what I'm talking about. That face so clearly says that Baby Bennett is here."

"Baby Bennett is here," Addison replies cheerfully, swinging her blue and turquoise scrub cap in her hand. "Seven pounds, three ounces. I can't tell which parent she looks like, but she's absolutely adorable. We can go see them now, and then we can get the hell out of here."

All three of them sigh inwardly with pure, blissful relief at Addison's last remark. They are off tomorrow, finally. Long weeks are the norm when it comes to being surgical residents, but this week in particular felt really, really long.

"Oh, and on a me-related note," Addison shares, "I was supervised the whole time, but I got to deliver the kid. What did I miss here though?"

"Mark is making fun of my doctor faces."

"I think you make great doctor faces, Dr. Shepherd," Addison tells Derek. "Your other half disagrees?"

Other half. Other half and better half. It's become another joke between the three of them. They are inching closer and closer to their third year of residency, and somehow the second year feels even more exhausting than the first. And at the end of a long shift last month, Mark was walking alongside Addison and asked her, "Where is the other one?" The other one. Because apparently names are just too, too hard when you've reached the point where your eyes are half-closed while you're upright.

Mark wanted to just go home and fall face-first into his bed tonight, but Derek asked if he wanted to come over for a bit and have a drink – to celebrate Sam and Naomi's baby arriving, and honestly, just to celebrate this damn week being over – and Mark agreed immediately. They are his friends, after all, and everything is great, despite the exhaustion. It really is great. There is the scrub-gown-glove of being a surgeon, the thrilling opportunity to cut (even if still under the close observation of superiors), and the excitement of splitting off into specialties and looking towards eventual fellowships. It is all worth it, even when it leaves him and his friends with a heavy-limbed sort of fatigue at the end of each day.

Mark inclines his head towards Derek following Addison's query. "What I think is that he thinks I'm the crazy one for not being able to tell from what across the hall during post-ops what he's trying to tell me with his face."

"It was a meaningful look, Mark."

"First of all, maybe don't give me meaningful looks."

"Okay, just watch." Derek twists away from Addison, and then slowly turns back around in his chair so that she can observe the specific expression Mark has critiqued. Addison watches her husband, studying him closely. His head is cocked slightly to the side, and his lips are pressed in a thin line, stretched just a bit at the corners, a hint of a smile attempting to work its way through. And then Derek carefully explains this was supposed to be an "excited, but also reflects a measured calm" face indicative of the fact that Naomi was still in labor, but everything was fine.

"I guess I kind of see it…" Addison says slowly, giving it some more consideration. She's not lying, but she also knows that she's at least questioning her version of truthfulness. She does kind of see it, yes, but it's hard to tell if it's because it's a perfect expression, or because of her love for her husband's face in general.

"It should be more like this." Mark ducks his head down in preparation, and then lifts it back up, his features arranged in a way that immediately triggers Addison to laugh.

"Mark," she says, "that face is basically the same one Derek just made. Gosh, you guys really are the same person sometimes."

"Sorry for that – I know one of us is bad enough," Mark replies with an easy smirk. "We apparently haven't done enough studying at the feet of the expert. Your faces have always been clear…whenever we used to rotate together, it was obvious whether you were going to tell a patient good news, bad news, or vague, wait-and-see news."

Addison raises an eyebrow. "Am I that easy to read?"

Derek shrugs and gets to his feet. "Well, if Mark says so, then perhaps it's true," he answers with a small, tired smile. "C'mon. Let's go meet this special Addison-delivered baby and then go home."

. .
. .

"Cold," Addison mumbles into Mark's jacket collar. She has tucked her legs up on the back seat, knees digging into one of Mark's thighs while he cuddles her closer during the cab ride back to his apartment. He is holding her against his chest and keeps working a hand over her forearms to try to draw some warmth back into her, but it doesn't seem to be helping yet.

"I know." He brushes a few strands of still-damp hair away from her glistening eyes. They showered at the brownstone before Derek walked in on them, and her hair was still a little wet while they were tangled together in the flannel sheets – air-drying, Addison told him at one point when she leaned forward and the curtain of red tresses fell around Mark, tickling the stubble framing his jawbone. And then of course being outside during the storm got Addison wet all over again. "Do you maybe…want to take a shower when we get to my place?"

"Twice today wasn't enough for you, Mark? Going for a Hat Trick?"

Mark can't tell if Addison is trying to be funny, is simply joking about today's two sexual rounds in the shower, or if she's being mean, petty. Addison's words all sound so hollow right now. "You know that's absolutely not why I'm asking if you want to hop in the shower," he says, failing to keep the edge out of his voice.

"Right. Sorry," she replies quietly. "I think…I think maybe I'll just towel-dry my hair and then we…we can sleep. I'm so tired."

"Okay." He nudges at her shoulder, desperately trying to come up with something to say that might make her smile. He'd do anything to see her smile right now, honestly. "I'll let you pick out the colors on the nightlight tonight," he finally adds when their driver slows in front of Mark's building.

Addison scoots away from him, heading towards the door. "It doesn't matter," she says.

They walk close to one another as they approach the building, a little slower due to the cut on the bottom of Addison's foot. Mark's arm is anchored around her waist, offering some support. She's not quite limping, but she's certainly not comfortable.

Mark arranges a small, forced smile onto his face in preparation for the doorman in the lobby. Carlos, Mark almost tells Addison, because even in the wake of her distress, he knows she'll ask him the name of the doorman who works the late-night shift. And usually, it's Carlos. Except –

"Oh. Hey," Mark calls out when Thomas appears from behind the reception area. "You're working late," he adds, feeling odd for pointing this out.

"I'm covering for Carlos for a bit. His kid is…" Thomas trails off when Addison comes into better view. His eyes rake over her in concern, and Mark doesn't blame him. Her hair is frizz-framed and disheveled, and her cried-down mascara looks like a gathering of ashes on the delicate curves of skin beneath her lower eyelids. Their cabbie had also raised his eyebrows in the rearview mirror when they climbed into the darkened backseat. "Rough night," Mark said, which was enough to make the guy grunt in acknowledgment and then look away. Mark suspected the cabbie's reaction was more about the car than anything else, because the easiest assumption to make based on Addison's current appearance is that she is drunk, which inevitably heightens the risk of puking in a moving vehicle.

Too bad drunkenness isn't the issue here, Mark thinks. It seems so easy and quaint compared to what is actually going on.

"Hi, Thomas." Addison says, blank-faced. "I'm okay, Thomas. Just kind of a rough night." She decides to echo Mark's earlier statement.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Thomas responds, and he genuinely does look sorry. "Do you – either of you – need anything?"

"Just the ability to go back in time so that my husband didn't walk in on us in bed together," Addison tells Thomas, almost sing-song like, while they are passing by on the way to the elevator. Mark can just make out the ruby-red flush that rises in Thomas's cheeks before their backs are to him.

"I probably shouldn't have said that," Addison murmurs during their elevator ride, dazedly leaning against Mark. She reaches down and threads her fingers through his.

Of course you'd choose to hold my hand now, Mark thinks. He grips her fingers a little tighter, meaning for the gesture to be comforting, but he can't ignore the feeling of bitterness that swirls in his chest. No one is here. And I'm your only choice.

"Did he know?" Addison continues, allowing Mark to lead her out of the elevator and down the hall to his apartment. "It's been a long time since Derek and I have come here together to see you, but…I always wondered if Thomas knew."

"I don't know, Red." Mark lets go of her hand so that he can reach into his jacket pocket to grab his key. "I don't know."

He touches her lower back once they are inside, guiding her towards his bedroom. Addison slips out of her coat on the way, letting it fall unceremoniously onto the floor, and she makes no attempt to pick it up (which, in Mark's eyes, is a sign more than anything else he has witnessed tonight that she isn't okay).

Mark helps her to the edge of his bed and encourages her to take a seat while he gets her a sweatshirt. It has occurred to him that in the absence of a coat, Addison probably needs something a little warmer on top. She still seems chilled to the core.

"Here." Mark yanks out the first crewneck his fingertips brush over in his bottom drawer. "Put this on for now, and then just lie down and rest. I'm going to get some water for us; I'll be right back." He dims the bedroom lights just a little on his way out. Mark wonders if he should have asked Addison if she wants to wash her face or brush her teeth (there is a just-for-Addison spare toothbrush here) or dry her hair before getting into bed, but he seriously doubts any of these are a priority for her right now, and if nothing else, Addison knows where the bathroom is if she wants to do any of the above.

By the time Mark returns with two glasses of water, Addison has put the sweatshirt on, but she hasn't moved. She gives him a crooked, sad smile instead and points to the faded shield on his UPenn sweatshirt.

"Leges sine moribus vanae," she recites, and while Mark isn't sure if that is the correct pronunciation, it sounds convincing (and he figures whatever preppy, one-percent high school Addison went to probably did offer Latin). "Laws without morals are useless." Her reddened eyes blink sadly and knowingly, and it only takes a moment for those beautiful blue-green eyes to overflow with tears again. Mark sighs softly.

They have discussed this motto before, of course. And there are no morals left tonight, with or without laws in place.

"Addison…let's lie down now, okay?"

Mark hugs her close once they are under the comforter, and Addison cries in his arms, her sobs achingly rough as they land in a steady rhythm against his chest. Mark cycles through any gestures of physical affection he thinks might help her to relax; he strokes her hair, thumbs away the tears on her face, and rubs her back. Nothing seems to help though, because really nothing actually can be done to help. Tonight happened. They can't undo that. And wishing tonight didn't happen also won't work – tonight, or all of it, because there wouldn't have been a tonight without the all of it.

If only though. Mark understands now that this is a part of what true love is. He doesn't want to take any of this back with Addison. He wants her, and he wants her to just want him. But if a magic button was placed before Mark and some divine-like being told him pressing the button would fix Addison's marriage and make her happy, even if that meant none of this – him and her – could have ever happened, he would press it.

Mark wants to tell that he loves her, but he thinks that might somehow be too big of a burden for Addison to have to hold onto right now.

"It's going to be okay, Red," he offers instead of a declaration of love, even though he knows she won't want to hear that. But this is what you're supposed to say, isn't it?

"It's not o-okay," Addison responds, words spaced out by sad hiccups. "He left. He really left. And he d-doesn't…he doesn't w-want me back."

I want you though, Mark wants to tell her.

"We're such awful people," she cries out, and Mark doesn't feel like a counter argument is warranted, so he just brushes his lips soothingly to her hairline, and keeps rubbing her back. She inhales sharply and buries her head beneath his chin.

"Addison…try to get some sleep," Mark says once the breaks between her sobs seem to be lengthening. "And I'm here, okay? I'm right here."

Mark knows that she understands he's physically here if she needs anything. He wonders though if Addison also knows that he means that he is here, for as long as she wants him to be here, and in whatever capacity she wants him.

He is here. And the husband Addison is crying over is not.

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Ten Years Earlier

"Naomi's body knew to go into labor on a day when I was scheduled to be off the next day." Addison beams widely, and then takes a long, messy swig of her beer. "And God knew, too. God just knew, you guys." She moves the back of her hand across her upper lip, swiping away any lingering flecks of moisture.

"You're not religious, honey."

Addison lifts her chin, challengingly, as though her husband's remark is something beyond just a simple, truthful observation. "I could be," she says insistently.

Mark laughs while reaching for another beer. "No, you're just drunk," he states. He's getting there too though. It's already been decided that he's crashing on Derek and Addison's couch tonight. It's a very ugly, heavy futon couch (but comfortable) that his friends told Mark he can have. Derek and Addison are currently looking to buy a home near Central Park, and they want to get new furniture once they've moved out of this apartment. "Hey," Mark lifts his drink up, and it occurs to him that if he's happily giving a toast, he's definitely tumbled over the line that divides sober enough and drunk. "Here's to Maya, the proud new parents, and the proud new godparents."

"No, no," Derek tells him. "To the godmother, and to the godmother's better half. Sam's cousin is the godfather, actually. They're pretty close." Derek clinks the neck of his beer against Addison's and leans forward to catch her gaze. "I guess we don't do everything together, after all."

"You'll get a chance one day," Addison says. "You'll be the godfather to our baby, and -"

"Wow. Please try again," Derek interrupts, chuckling and shaking his head. "I'd like to think I'd be a little more than just the godfather to our baby, Addie."

"Oh, right. Right, right, right! Well, you know what I was trying to say. Derek, listen. Listen."

"I am. I'm listening."

"You'll be the father-not-godfather to our baby, obviously, but then you'll be the godfather to Mark's baby, and he'll be the godfather to ours," she says with a smile. "See? I know how to explain things."

"One day. She's not pregnant," Derek clarifies when he notices Mark look over at him, eyes holding a question. "Wait." Derek turns back to Addison, and his beer tips clumsily in his hand. Apparently no one is sober anymore. "You're not, right?"

"If she is, that kid is more scotch and beer right now than it is an embryo," Mark mutters. They have moved on from hard alcohol, mostly because the Ardbeg is on the counter, and the beer they picked up at the corner bodega is on the kitchen table, where they're currently seated. Beer is here, Addison said when Mark asked if anyone wanted more scotch (he wasn't exactly volunteering to stand up and get it though). And how hard Addison giggled at her inadvertent rhyme was definitely the first indicator she was tipsy.

"I'm not pregnant," Addison says. "And also, don't even try to explain pregnancy to me, Mark. I know what you think about my specialty."

"I didn't -"

"But anyway…" Addison speaks over Mark while reaching for another beer. "We'll be the godparents to Mark's kid, and he'll be the godparent to ours. It's like the Law of Transitive Property."

"It's really not though," Mark says. "And just in case it needs to be put on the record, I haven't knocked anyone up…"

"Yet…" Derek replies with a cheeky grin.

"Nor do I plan to. Sorry, man, but I guess Addison is gonna be one godkid up on you for the foreseeable future. But, on that note, if I am the godparent, and if, like, something were to – and obviously nothing would, and I shouldn't even say it, but -"

"Godparent doesn't automatically equally legal guardian, Mark. Don't worry," Derek says with assurance, which prompts Mark to heavily exhale. It is done with humor, but of course there is an element of seriousness to it, too. It's been years since Mark has assumed he would have kids, and years since he has even thought he wanted kids. "You're just on the hook for the fun, easy stuff. If anything were to happen to Addie and me…" Derek looks at Addison. "We'd go with Kathleen, right?"

"We would," Addison agrees. "But we don't have to worry about that, because we are never, ever, ever going to die. And you are never, ever, ever going to die either, Mark."

"Does she come with an off button?" Mark asks Derek.

"No," he replies with a grin, "but at least you're free to walk away from her whenever you want to. The husband has no such luxury."

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. .

Mark's eyes slowly open when he feels impatient, restless movement in his arms. Addison is wriggling against him, pushing at his chest and gasping. He moves a hand up to cup her cheek, intending to soothe her, assuming she is having a bad dream or has simply woken up, remembered, and started to cry again. Mark blinks, waiting for his vision to become less fuzzy. It is still dark out, but he didn't dim the bedroom lights very much and he never turned off his nightstand lamp, so fortunately he will soon be able to get a clear picture of what exactly is going on.

(They never turned his galaxy nightlight on. Like Addison said: it doesn't matter.)

It has been a long, long night so far. It took Addison about an hour to fall asleep. She just kept crying into Mark's chest, long after he encouraged her to close her eyes and try to get some rest. Her fingers were knotted around the collar of his shirt, and her tears dripped hot and fast between them. And she was talking. Talking in between the crying, talking in short, clipped sentences that lacked transitions and often lacked any semblance of coherency. I told Derek I wanted him to be around more, but I never tried to define it, like list out what I actually needed…I should have tried harder…I've been so selfish…I was lazy about the marriage, too…he grabbed me and threw me outside and I didn't think he was going to let me back in...

Mark's stomach clenched in concern when Addison shared the outside comment, but before he could grovel for more information and determine if he actually does need to take a swing at his best friend, Addison moved on to other crying-talking observations: we could have tried couples' counseling…I'm a cheater...I'm such a terrible person...I'm no better than my parents...my life is over now…

Every single comment that Mark has heard from Addison tonight (or maybe this morning, because although he can't see the clock on his nightstand and doesn't have his phone near him, he suspects they have tipped past midnight now) indicates that she still wants Derek. She wants her husband back. Which means she doesn't want him.

"Sick," she chokes out now, trying harder to fight her way out of Mark's embrace. And then he realizes the gasping he thought he was hearing is actually gagging. There are bubbly sounds stalling in Addison's throat, and her chest is heaving from the effort of trying not to throw up in his bed. Or at all, if she can help it. "Sick," she repeats, whimpering.

Mark helps Addison get out of bed and quickly brings her to the bathroom, half-dragging her as she sinks to the floor in front of the toilet and starts to vomit. He kneels behind her, using one hand to scrape his fingers through her hair, gathering it into his fist to keep it pulled back, and gently resting the other hand on her back while she empties the contents of her stomach. Just straight bile at this point, Mark assumes.

"Sorry about this," Addison mumbles a few minutes later. She has dry heaved several times, but nothing else has come up since the initial bout of sickness. She rotates her face to the side so that she can rest one of her temples against the cool porcelain. Her watery, bloodshot eyes connect with Mark's.

"It's okay." Mark lets her hair fall out of his hand. "You don't have to be sorry, Red. Are you feeling a little better? We should probably stay here for a bit just in case -"

"There was…there was so much blood," she weeps.

Mark glances down at her sock-covered foot, wondering if he is about to see a pool of red spreading through the material. Nothing though. Of course it's nothing, he reminds himself, annoyed over that half-second of self-doubt. He might fuck up every other aspect of his life, but he is a brilliant surgeon. He doesn't make mistakes. The subtle movement and manipulation of tissue, the rotating and suturing of skin, the opportunity to be an artist and a scientist, and the fact that he can picture the outcome, not just the visual result – it all makes sense to Mark. It sustains him. He can heal the inside and the outside of a person, because despite what most of the people in his life think – including his closest friends at times – it's never just cosmetic and it isn't always shallow and it doesn't always involve a patient who willingly signed up for whatever pain they'll be guaranteed to experience post-procedure.

He has always appreciated the irony of his line of work. There is a certain amount of selflessness that comes with being a healer. Mark can help anyone in need of medical intervention. He just can't ever seem to help or fix himself. He consistently finds ways to destroy anything good that comes along in his life. And tonight? Tonight he was a co-conspirator in the destruction of a marriage.

You have more raw talent than any other intern here, and the steadiest hands I've ever seen, an attending told Mark during his first year of residency. But your bedside manner and communication skills are poor, and you're not really a team player. You need to work on those things. Shepherd and Montgomery both have you beat there. You're selfish, Sloan.

"Your foot is fine, Addison." Mark strokes her back while she whimpers and cries. "I promise. Whatever you saw earlier after you stepped on glass, your foot -"

"No, not…" she closes her eyes for a moment, and he sees her try to shake her head without lifting it off the seat of the toilet. "I mean when Bizzy…when I found Bizzy…"

Mark is not sure why her mother's suicide attempt is on Addison's mind, if this is just the place that pain has escorted her to, or if something triggered her. It's being locked inside, trapped in small spaces, that has unsettled Addison in the past. But then Mark considers if what she said earlier about Derek throwing her outside earlier is true, she was certainly trapped in that sense, too. Stuck. Wanting to be somewhere else. A bystander in her own life and nothing more. Mark gets that, honestly.

"Oh," he whispers sadly while she continues to cry about Bizzy and maybe-not-Bizzy. "Honey…"

"Don't." Addison does raise her head this time, and she twists to face him, wild-eyed and furious as she shrieks at him. "Don't call me that." Her hand bats at the crook of Mark's elbow, angrily knocking his hand away from her back. "Derek sometimes…I sometimes…"

"Sorry. I wasn't trying to…" Mark's cheeks burn red, but before he can cobble together an explanation, a more thorough apology for using a name that doesn't and won't ever belong to him, Addison starts to vomit again. Honey. Yes, he has heard Derek and Addison call each other that from time to time; it would slip into their sentences so easily. But for Mark just now, it wasn't meant to be pet name-ish. He's never thought of calling Addison anything remotely lovey-dovey, because that's not who they are as a couple, or whatever the hell it is that they are. It was just…instinct or something, Mark decides. Sympathy and empathy rolled into a single word. Jenny always called Mark "honey" when he was sick. She was a crappy, negligence-wielding parent in a lot of respects, but Mark knows she really nailed it whenever he was sick as a kid. She wiped his sweaty brow when he was feverish, outlined circles on his back whenever he threw up, stayed close to him, and would whisper honey so kindly, so tenderly that in those quiet moments, Mark didn't doubt that he was loved. Certain words just sound like love.

There doesn't seem to be much point in explaining this to Addison though. Mark considers that maybe it would be selfish, to make it about him.

And he's trying really, really hard right now not to be selfish when it comes to her.

. .
. .

References/Nods to Various Episodes

Private Practice reference: Addison delivered Maya (mentioned in PP season 3). She is also Maya's godmother (it was never stated if Derek is the godfather…I always suspected he wasn't).

Grey's 2x03. Addison and Derek are discussing a patient, and arguing over whether or not it would be appropriate to operate (Derek thinks no):

Addison: "You're not God, Derek."
Derek: "Excuse me?"
Addison: "I'm sorry, honey, but you're not. You don't get to decide -"
Derek: "Wait, did you just call me 'honey?' Don't call me 'honey!'"

Callback to Addison's futon couch (Grey's 3x05).

Grey's 3x07, Mark to Meredith during one of his surgeries: "People don't come to me to fix what's on the outside. They come to me to fix what's on the inside." And on a similar note, Grey's 3x11, Addison to Alex: "Is that why you wanted to go into plastics? 'Cause people sign up for the pain they get?"

The "God knows" comment from Addison in this chapter was a vague nod to Grey's 3x02, when Addison tells Richard (in all the glory of her coffee-stained sweatsuit and the ugliest hat I have ever seen) that she needs the day off in order to do some drinking. There were no laboring moms that day at Seattle Grace, because, per Addison, "I think God knows I need to do some drinking today."

Oh, and the ugly hat makes a reappearance in PP season 3, when Addison is hiking with Sam (I am 99% sure it's the same hat). And here I was just innocently thinking that ugly-ass thing was some sort of fisherman hat that belonged to Derek. But…no. It was Addison's hat. This was a real choice.

Thank you for reading!