Me: "This is the chapter where I manage to only write like 7 or 8 pages."
Narrator: "It wasn't."
Chapter title is a slight twist on a lyric from the song "West," by Sleeping At Last:
Another pin pushed in
To remind us where we've been.
And every mile adds up
And leaves a mark on us.
Look, do I like that this chapter title technically ends with Mark's name? No. But here we are. Also, I'm assuming the speed of the updates isn't bothering any readers (or the length of the chapters, because holy crap…but idk take a break halfway through and grab a snack if you need to, I guess). The speediness will slow down a bit now though; I wrote a LOT of scenes before I actually started working on this fic (figuring I'd eventually weave them into something), and I have also have had lengthy paragraphs in my head about other scenes for months now (my brain is a lot of fun), which translates to quick typing. Anyway. Hope you enjoy! There is lots of angst, but also, um, smut.
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Chapter 24. Every Mile Leaves a Mark
The storm passes at a certain point. Gone are the flashes of lightning whipping in jagged streaks, and gone is the thunder that followed each burst of white. Addison and Mark can no longer hear droplets of rain collecting on the floor-to-ceiling windows in the bedroom, nor the sound of the wind heaving against the glass. It is quiet outside now.
And it is quiet in here now, too.
Just like the storm, the flares of sickness rumbling through Addison eventually come to a stop. She waits at first, stomach clenched in anticipation of more gagging, but after a few minutes have slipped by, she concludes that it is over. She mumbles an okay that is probably too faint for Mark to hear, and then she pushes away from the toilet. This automatically slides her into Mark, who is sitting behind her. She doesn't protest when he adjusts her limbs with care, moving her body around until she is slumped against him, sweat-slicked at her hairline and utterly exhausted.
It is not entirely quiet, actually, in the absence of words and the storm. Addison's head is on Mark's chest, and she can feel the strength of his heartbeat against her right ear. The sound is comforting. Grounding, even. The simple rhythm and expression is keeping her calm. Mark's heart feels like so much more than just a muscular organ in this moment.
And it has been a while since Addison has cried, too. She thinks of how rain stops when there is not enough moisture left in the clouds, when the ability to hold onto anything else has been depleted. The growing, unstable heaviness that falls from the atmosphere cannot last forever. Addison wonders if the same is true for her tear ducts.
"Better?" Mark's words rise above the heartbeat that is soothing her.
"Better," Addison echoes. She scoots away from the warm, solid wall of his chest with some reluctance. "I think…I think I can get up now. And...and brush my teeth and wash my face. I really need to do that."
Mark helps Addison to her feet and remains close by while she cleans herself up. She brushes her teeth first, and then scrubs fiercely at her skin when he hands her a washcloth.
"Wow, that's lovely," Addison murmurs with a sheepish half-smile, taking in the freckled black smears left on the washcloth once she is done washing her face. "I can take this home with me, tomorrow, if you want. And wash it." It is a silly offer since Mark is quite capable of doing his own laundry, but she still feels like she at least has to acknowledge the remains of her not-cried-away mascara.
Mark shakes his head, as expected. "Don't worry about it. I have a washer/dryer here. And even if I didn't…" he puts in with a burgeoning smirk, "there are plenty of interns who would happily pick up my dry-cleaning for a chance to scrub in on an ear reconstruction or jaw straightening this week."
When they head back into the bedroom, Addison automatically goes to the pillow on the left. She has never said anything about it, and Mark has never really cared where she chooses to lie when she's here, but eventually he was able to deduce – based on which nightstand at the brownstone was distinctly more girly – that she sleeps on the opposite side when she's with Derek.
"I'm really sorry," Addison says when Mark lies down beside her. He positions his pillow close to hers. "I know that…I know that I'm being a lot right now."
"To be fair, Red, you're kind of a lot on a good day too," Mark replies with a teasing grin. The corners of Addison's mouth twitch at this comment, and a giggle follows, as light as a thread when her breathy exhale dusts over Mark's throat. "But you don't need to be sorry. You've been through some shit tonight."
"Are you doing okay?" She asks him quietly.
"I texted Derek," Mark says, which is not really an answer. "Once I got back here, I mean. I just said that I was sorry." Well. I'm so sorry, technically. "I didn't get a response, and obviously I'm not expecting one, but…but, yeah." It is true. Mark has no expectations. He thinks that in time, Derek could maybe find a way to forgive Addison, and be willing to reconcile, if only because they exchanged vows; Derek has always had a strong sense of duty. But would he really forgive Mark? It's a friendship, maybe even a brotherhood, but it's not a marriage. There were never any promises made; Derek has no obligation to forgive him.
I just hope you didn't forget the rings, Derek had said to Mark when they were having a light-hearted exchange before the wedding ceremony started. Mark didn't forget the rings, but he did feel a sense of paranoia about somehow losing them, so he discreetly patted his suit jacket every few minutes just to reassure himself that the rings were still inside the flap pocket. And then he handed them over to his best friends when it was time for the ring exchange. That was it. It was so uncomplicated then; Mark didn't think about what it really meant, the weight of that commitment when those circles of white gold were released from his hand, from his charge. And he for damn sure never thought he'd be the one to take everything those rings symbolized away from them.
"I'm sorry for leaving you," Mark tells her. "As soon as I was out your front door, I wanted to go back, but I just…kept walking. I know me being there probably would have made it worse, but, Addison…I just…I can't even put into words how sorry I am. I wish there was something I could do to help you. Or to just…fix this, somehow."
"You've been amazing tonight, Mark. I've been out of my mind and I just…" a flush travels over Addison's cheeks. "I like when you hold me," she admits quietly.
"I still love you," he says, words blurted out in a rush of air. "Sorry. I just…I just want you to know that."
"Oh, Mark." Addison's knuckles trace a delicate line from his ear to his chin, mapping the length of his jaw. "I still love you, too. That hasn't changed. Everything else has changed, but not…not that."
Everything has changed. That's the problem, Mark considers, as he holds her close. The sum and the whole of it. The entire landscape of their being together – in whatever scope being together is – has been altered. Where do they go from here? And more importantly, in Mark's wide-awake eyes, where does Addison want to go from here?
Eventually, he hears a shift in Addison's breathing, signaling that she has found a way to fall back to sleep. At least one of them will be able get some more rest tonight.
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. .
Nineteen Years Earlier
Addison makes a displeased face when Archer saunters through the door on a Saturday evening in mid-December. She is in the thick of studying for finals, so yes, the scowl working its way over her features is mostly jealousy that her brother is done with his first semester of college and is free to not study until he returns to New Haven next month, but it's not only that. She knows who he was out with this evening.
"Come on, sis." Archer sighs when he sees the textbooks and pages of notes surrounding her. "On a Saturday night? You don't take any exams until Wednesday. Live a little. Oh, also – can I please, please be there when you break the news to the Captain? I'm dying to see the look on his face." He grins, and although it is a joke and supposed to be meant lovingly in that big brother sort of way of his…it is also not a joke, Addison feels. Her early acceptance letter to Columbia University arrived a few days ago. Montgomerys go to Yale though. It's just what they do.
"Speaking of requests…can you please leave Laurel alone? Or just…tell her to leave you alone?" Addison doesn't know how it started. She just knows that her Latin tutor – well, officially Bizzy's secretary and more of a flashcard and pronunciation-helper for Addison on the side – has been busy with Archer the past few nights. "I don't want to lose her. And even Bizzy likes her." Well. Sort of. Bizzy likes her might be a stretch.
"I don't know how I feel about her for the family office..." Bizzy said to Addison a few months ago when she hired Laurel. "She seems competent enough though, and polite. A little young, and she likely won't stay more than a year, but she'll do for now. Oh, and she studied Classics or something at Barnard, so perhaps she'd be a good resource for you?"
I don't know how I feel about her...
Archer knows how he feels, apparently. And right now he shrugs at Addison, unaffected by her request. "I'm not the Captain…me messing around with Laurel isn't grounds for an automatic dismissal from Bizzy. Don't get so worked up. She's not gonna quit or anything. Keep working on the deadest of all dead languages with her."
Addison rolls her eyes. French would have been more practical, yes – and the easier choice, given that she had French lessons when she was younger and already completed three years of French at Carrington Prep with high marks – but she has no regrets about deciding to take Latin her senior year. It's not dead, she has told Archer more than once. It's classical and liturgical. And its etymologies are important to medicine. I like the idea of being a doctor who knows the origins of medical terms and conditions, not just how to treat things. And at any rate, Addison is happy with her choice – just like she is happy with her choice to go to Columbia next fall.
"I just think that -"
"Laurel knows it's not serious, sis. You always do this." Archer sighs in annoyance. "You get on your high horse about these things. Your time is coming though; with parents like these...what hope do we have when it comes to successful relationships?"
"You're wrong. Maybe not about yourself," Addison says, "but you're wrong about me."
"Well. Here's hoping, I guess."
. .
. .
"Make sure you go back to sleep," Addison tells Mark the next morning when they reach his front door, prepared to say goodbye. Her voice is raspy, still caked with vestiges of slumber. It is far too early to leave – Derek probably will not be back until seven at the earliest – but if nothing else, at least leaving Mark's apartment at this hour ensures less people on the street will see Addison on a Sunday morning with disheveled, unbrushed hair and sweatpants tucked unflatteringly into a pair of boots. "I kept you up last night," she continues, feeling remorse. Mark looks so tired. "And not even in a fun, sexy way." Her lips stay parted for a moment. She can't think of what else to say though. Thank you? I'm sorry? I'm scared to go home but I'm also scared to stay here?
"Yeah, I'll get some more sleep." Mark touches her elbow, meaning for the motion to be brief, but then Addison guides his hand down so that she can hold it in one of her smaller ones. "Text me later though, Red…just so that I know you're okay. Or as okay as you can be, given the circumstances."
He loosens his grip on her hand, and Addison's fingers break away. The dropping motion – the towards and then away ofthe connection when Mark opens the door for her – makes her think of the quick, insistent press and release of the strings of a violin. Addison selected the instrument at eleven. She didn't feel any earnest tug towards it, anything that made her point to a violin at the music shop instead of the harp or cello (Bizzy's requirement was just any string instrument; Addison was fairly accomplished on the piano at this point, but her mother wanted her to be able to play something else as well). Maybe it was just curiosity. Addison took to the violin though, skilled and steady with her hands even then. She remembers her instructor telling her that when the bow moves over the strings just right, the violin is an extension of the human voice, a pure and perfect canvas for emotional expression.
For some reason, she equates this description with the sound and feel of Mark's beating heart last night.
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Eighteen Years Earlier
"Was that the last one?" Addison asks when Bizzy comes back into the drawing room.
"Yes. That was Susan. Susan Grant."
"What did you think?" Addison is mainly looking for an excuse to keep the conversation going about the series of interviews her mother has just concluded. This allows Addison the opportunity to take a break from pouring over pre-med internship applications. It's a bit overwhelming, but she keeps reminding herself that one of the benefits to an internship or some sort of summer research program is that she won't have to spend the summer in Greenwich.
She waits for a response from her mother: I don't know how I feel about…
"I quite liked her," Bizzy replies, and Addison barely manages to avoid lifting her eyebrows in surprise. "And her résumé is good. She's an acquaintance of the Golds – they were the ones who recommended her."
"Oh. That's great. I'm glad you liked her."
I don't know how I feel about…
It has always been such a common pronouncement from Bizzy. Addison has heard it all her life. I don't know how I feel about the new florist at Walton Flowers. I don't know how I feel about the new housekeeper. I don't know how I feel about one of your dance instructors – the short one. It is such a Bizzy-way of saying, I don't personally care for or about the person, but I can't write them off just yet. It took Addison years to realize this wasn't just her mother being blindingly, maddeningly self-involved, and believing herself to be better than those who worked for her in some capacity. It was also Bizzy's way of not getting close to anyone.
And then a few years after Susan started working in the family office, there was Archer, ever his mother's son, making the same observation about Derek: "I don't know how I feel about him."
"Shocking," Addison replied. "You would say that about any guy I've been with."
"Wait." Archer glanced up sharply. "How many have there been?"
"None of your business…not that it's anywhere near the astronomical number of women you've probably been with. Besides, Archie…I don't need you to feel any particular way about Derek. I'm the one who is with him, not you."
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. .
"Addison?" Mark cautiously cracks open the front door after testing the movement of the doorknob in his hand and determining it was left unlocked. If the circumstances were anything but the current circumstances, he would consider lecturing her about that; it's not safe. He opens the pale green door a little wider, but still only enough to be able to gaze into the entryway one eye at a time. "Um...Derek?"
"In here," Addison calls out. "And still just me," she adds.
It takes Mark a moment to spot her. His eyes automatically go to the couch, but she is actually sitting on the floor by the far end of the coffee table. Her body is half on and half off the area rug spread beneath the table.
Mark waits for a moment, expecting her to, at the very minimum, express signs of annoyance and offense at this drop-in visit. It would be valid; Mark didn't contact her first. Not really, at least. She texted him in the early afternoon: Derek left this morning. I'm going to lie down for a bit, and Mark responded immediately, asking if she was okay and if she wanted him to come over. And then he waited, and about four hours later when there was no response – and surely that's considered the advanced end of a lying down period, right? – he made his way over. He figured that worst-case scenario (and he feels bad for classifying it that way), Derek would be home and would be the one to open the door. Mark would let him swing if that was the case, honestly; Derek should be allowed to get one good punch in. And at least if Derek was here, Mark would have the chance to apologize in person…even if the words fell on deaf ears.
Mark cocks his head to the side, studying Addison on the floor. "Are you…sitting shiva in his absence or something?" Addison actually seems mildly okay though. Her hair is freshly washed, soft and straight again. She's still dressed casually – some sort of NYP shirt and matching sweats – but somehow she looks more put-together. Broken, to be sure, but there are maybe a few less cracks in the glass for right now.
Addison manages a small smile at Mark's joke. "No. I sat down here to paint my toenails." She tips her head towards a purple bottle on the coffee table. She actually had an appointment today for a pedicure, but canceled it. She may have cleaned herself up physically, but she certainly hasn't cleaned up mentally and emotionally. "And then I just never stood up. I'm sorry…I'm sure you texted me back, but I put my phone away after I texted you. I just wanted to sleep for a bit." She pats the floor beside her, and Mark comes and sits down next to her.
"Yeah. I figured you probably weren't spending much time on it," Mark says, feeling hesitation lodge in his throat as he considers his next question. "So Derek...he came and got clothes and stuff?"
"Yes. Two suitcases' worth. I guess he's just…not going into work tomorrow." She frowns, as though this is a minor inconvenience or annoyance, rather than a life-changing event she and her husband have undergone. "There are two other surgeons at Derek's practice, but I didn't ask about…about his plans. He made it sound like he wasn't going to stay in town…at least for right now."
"Maybe he's going to crash with one of his sisters or something?"
"Maybe." Addison has already considered this. "He didn't say where he was going," she adds, which is the truth. "Probably a hotel somewhere that's woodsy, maybe upstate. He sort of made it clear when I tried to ask…that it wasn't my business. That seemed to be how he felt, at least." She inhales deeply, grappling for a steadier breath. "I'll give it another day or two before I started blowing up his phone and demanding, just like, some sort of answer."
"Are you going to work tomorrow?" Mark asks. "It might be a good idea to take the day off – or maybe a few days."
"I have surgery tomorrow morning to remove an SCT," she responds. "I can't bow out of that, but afterwards I'm going to talk to the chief to see if I can take the rest of the day off for personal reasons. Maybe a few days if she's able to spare her head of neonatal on short notice. I think…I think work will be good for me though in the long-run. I want to keep busy. And Derek just…I tried to talk to him, but it didn't…go well. Or go at all, really."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Not right now. I can't revisit it yet in my head. I'm hanging in there though…so you don't have to look so worried, Mark. The initial shock has worn off and my tear ducts seem to have regained some dignity again. But thank you for asking." Addison leans her head into his shoulder, voice teeming with affection. "I've always loved that about you."
He isn't sure what exactly she means. "Loved what about me?"
"You've just…always been this way. I know the emotional stuff can be uncomfortable for you and it's not your baseline, but you've always been willing to listen. To just...listen and be there. You never judged me or anyone else in our circle of friends. And you…you noticed me. You saw me this past fall when I was starting to feel like I was invisible." Addison moves without warning then, so quickly that Mark inhales sharply when she straddles him.
"Addison…"
"I just want to feel good, Mark. Please…please make me feel good. I also don't…I don't want..." she swallows the tension worming its way into her throat. "The last time we had sex...I don't want that to be the time that's freshest in my memory."
"You're gonna feel good for a few minutes, and then you're gonna feel like shit all over again." Mark sighs. He's already palming the back of her toned thighs and ass though, because no matter what alarms go off in his brain, his body never seems to be able to practice much restraint in her presence. "You know that, right?"
"I do. And I can live with that. And if you can too, then…then we can make each other feel good. I…I want you. Don't you want me?"
Mark glances uneasily towards the front door. "What if he comes back?"
"Trust me: he's not." Addison leans forward and kisses him, long and slow. Their tongues sweep against each other when she parts her lips. "But…" she eventually leans back, breathing heavy and eyes hooded with desire. "You didn't answer my question." She smiles, almost shyly. "I asked if you wanted me."
"Yeah, I want you." Mark smiles back at her, and then he smiles more for himself when his searching hands discover she isn't wearing anything under her sweats. "I always want you, Red." His fingers move between her legs, and he fights back a groan when she sinks down, already warm and getting wet where the pads of his fingers are touching her. It's enough for Mark to nudge her by the hips and stomach, coaxing her to lie back. Her legs fall open immediately, instinctively. It would have been the right thing to say no, Mark considers when he scoops his hands under her thighs, tilting her up a little and making the lower half of her body more accessible to him. But that's the thing: he can never say no to her.
Addison mumbles his name when he first flicks his tongue against her, the start and stop of the four letters interrupted by a gasp. Mark is used to hearing it when they are in any number of compromising positions, but it is different now. Mark, Mark, Mark. It used to be verification that she didn't want this to stop, just his name in between moans and directives – yes, right there, keep going, harder, and whatever else Addison breathlessly and sometimes incoherently mutters when she is close to climaxing. She didn't want it to stop. Mark has thought for a while now that maybe Addison doesn't want it to end, and he absolutely loathes himself for thinking that, for creating some sort of spun-sugar reframe in his head, for analyzing the words spoken and unspoken.
"It always feels so good with you…" Addison whispers now, eyes fluttering closed when the tip of Mark's tongue presses more firmly against her. "Mark…"
"We're good together," he replies quietly. He can't believe this is who he has become sometimes, that lust and physical responses have opened up space for love and emotional responses. Now he just…thinks things about her and sometimes says things to her that feel entirely ridiculous. It's automatic though; it's rare that he can stop himself from thinking what he thinks and saying what he says when it comes to her.
"Yes…" Addison says, heading tipping back. We're good together. It could be that she is in agreement. Or it could just be that Mark has finally curled the two fingers he has been unhurriedly moving inside her. He flicks his wrist just once, and Addison thrashes hard, legs and hips moving as she strains for more contact, for more of Mark. She's imploring and insistent, now absolutely writhing – the way she always gets at this point. Her polished toes flex when Mark purposely slows down and resorts to tracing lazy circles with his tongue – Mark, please, please, please. Mark.
We're good together…yes. But now is not the time for clarification. Mark speeds up the motion of his fingers and lips, working her into a frenzy and driving her closer to the edge. He keeps her there for as long as he can, until she's begging him to let her come. And then he pushes her over. Again and again and again until she's gasping for breath.
"Still feel good?" Mark asks afterwards. He grabs a throw pillow off the couch for each of them, and he can't help smirking cockily as he lies down next to her. He rubs a hand over her side, aware of the muscles surrounding her ribs expanding and relaxing while she works to regulate her breathing. He swears he can see the relief in her eyes. She needed that, apparently.
"Mmm, yeah. You were there, and, well, responsible. You know exactly how good I'm feeling. You should join me now though…" Addison grins in a cheeky way and moves a hand between them. Her fingers are soft as they curl around him, her thumb brushing his skin, applying pressure in a way she knows he loves. "So that I can make you feel good, too."
Something is wrong though. It's been wrong for Mark, from the second he first tasted the warm flesh between Addison's legs that he's become so familiar with; he was able to mostly file the worry away in order to efficiently work his lips and fingers over her though. Normally, just thinking about pleasuring her is enough to get him hard, and actually pleasuring her has him throbbing to the point of near-painfulness by the time he scrambles back up her body to push inside her.
"Addie…" Mark taps his fingers to her stroking hand, and he gently pushes her hand away from the limpness between them. His cheeks feel hot with humiliation. He can't remember the last time this happened. Maybe a night when he had too much to drink? It's been years though…he never has this problem. And he has certainly never had this problem when he's with her. "I think maybe…" he tries to figure out what to say, but he goes silent when Addison's eyes start to water.
"Am I doing something wrong?" She asks, voice small and brittle.
"No. God, no. It's not you at all. I think I just -"
"What's the matter then? Not interested in fucking me anymore now that it's not a secret? Is the thrill gone for you?"
"You know that's not true," Mark replies angrily. The coldness of her words – the absolute immaturity – shocks him, makes his chest tighten. "Seriously, Addison? How can you even ask me that?"
"I'm…I'm sorry." Her tears spill over now, a river of shiny dampness on her cheeks, and then of course Mark feels apologetic, too. He thinks it isn't really fair that her crying is an automatic trigger for him to console her, to ask for forgiveness. But it's just one more action and reaction he no longer has any semblance of control over.
"No, I'm sorry," he says. "I shouldn't have snapped at you."
"I'm so embarrassed…" Addison rolls away, twisting onto her other side so that she is no longer facing him. Her hands come up, shaky as they cover her face. "I'm sorry…"
"Why are you embarrassed?" Mark lightly places an arm around her, and when she doesn't fight the gesture, he lets the weight of it sink into the dip of her waist. "I'm the loser who apparently needs a pill to make this happen." He tries to weave humor into his voice, and thankfully, Addison does choke out a short laugh at this remark. "Red…it really, really isn't you. I think I'm just tired…like, mentally. And physically, I guess – I didn't get much sleep last night. But if you want me to go down on you again so that you can keep feeling good, trust me: I'm more than happy to."
"It's okay." She glances over her shoulder at him and offers a small, teary-eyed smile. "I don't have any plans for tomorrow other than my morning surgery – assuming I get the rest of the day off – but I need to be able to walk, and if you keep doing what you're doing with your tongue, I might not be able to. You should...you should probably head home though in a bit." Addison tunnels out from under his arm, and pulls herself into a sitting position. "I have a lot I need to do before tomorrow."
Mark reluctantly sits back up, too. "I can stay, if you want." He reaches out for her discarded sweatpants, and hands them back to her to put on. "Or I can wait while you do whatever you need to do, and then you can come back to my place."
"It's okay. I'll be okay."
Mark traces a finger through the rug beneath them, drawing figure-eights in the hand-knotted wool. Addison's insistence on staying by herself is an anchor dragging him down. So your answer is, "No, I don't want you to stay with me," he thinks.
"Okay. Well, in the meantime…" Mark finally peels his eyes off the rug, and glances back at her, hoping his expression appears pleasant, impervious. "Just make sure you don't throw any crazy plans into your half-planned day."
"I think I already hit the 'crazy' quota this weekend." Addison grins weakly. "What would I do that's crazy?"
"Oh, you know." He shrugs. "It was mostly a joke, but people tend to act impulsively when a life-changing event takes place. You know: crisis minus the midlife thing. Buy a sports car, knock down a wall in your house to start renovations you haven't thought through, a new hairstyle…stuff like that."
"I don't have an Eat, Pray, Love thing or a long hike planned. I promise."
Mark grins at her response, and also because something has just occurred to him. "I'll try not to judge for crazy purchases though…remember I got that motorcycle after my mom died?"
"Oh, do I." Addison rolls her eyes. "I was soooo pissed at you. And then Derek and I…" she swallows noisily. Even just saying her husband's name feels like it is cracking her heart wide open. Derek has colored nearly every memory since her early twenties. "We yelled at you – mostly in emails and texts – until you returned it. I think I texted you like every twenty minutes."
"I remember. It was incredibly annoying…but appreciated, I guess, because you were right. And so was he. My stupid self would have crashed that thing immediately. But hey, Addison…" Mark nervously exhales. "I know you didn't get to talk to Derek for long, but does he know the whole story?"
She shakes her head. "No. We haven't exactly had a lengthy conversation yet. And even if…even if it had just been one time, I don't think he wants to fix it. The marriage, I mean."
You told him it was just one time. That I was just here. And you didn't know how it happened. Mark remembers her saying this last night in between sobs. And he wonders if that's the story she intends to stick with.
"And…how do you feel about the not fixing it part?" He asks.
"I don't know," Addison says, which sounds more like I don't want you to know in Mark's head. "I promise I won't do anything crazy though," she adds, changing the subject. "But, you know…I really do feel like I could pull off blonde hair." She raises a hand and playfully fluffs some of the tresses near the side of her head.
"You could, but for what it's worth, I like you as a redhead. About the other thing though...are you sure you want to be alone tonight?"
Addison nods. "I've spent many nights sleeping alone in this house in the past few years. I'll be okay."
"I'm saying you don't have to sleep alone tonight, if you don't want to."
Mark watches as she nods again, chin lifting and dropping persistently. "I'll be fine," she tells him. "I promise."
And that's that. They exchange a hug – a long one – and then Mark is leaving again. They do not talk about any plans; there is no see you tomorrow, no see you later this week, no I'll call you tomorrow night. It is just a goodbye. Nothing more.
"Wait. Actually…" Mark starts to say when his driver pulls away from the curb. He flagged down a cab not too far from the brownstone, and grumpily provided his address. But something else has occurred to him. And he hesitates – he does hesitate – but then he finishes the thought: "Can you drop me at the corner of York and Seventy-Eighth instead?"
It is a bar Mark has gone to from time to time, a hole-in-the-wall place he imagines will eventually become trendy, given the influx of young people filtering into apartments in this neighborhood. It's quieter this evening, but Mark stays long enough that he ends up leaving with a woman, wavy-haired and full-lipped. She is too young, probably just a hairsbreadth past being able to provide valid identification for the whiskey they consumed. Not an appropriate choice, Derek and Addison would have said before…before everything. The woman came up to him though. At least there's that, Mark thinks. It still makes him feel dirty, the vast age difference and the fact that there is probably zero overlap when it comes to their general life experiences, but feeling dirty is better than exploring any of his other feelings at the moment.
And it turns out he can still get it up just fine when it's not his best friend's wife.
. .
. .
References/Nods to Various Episodes (a lot of them in this chapter)
A few PP references, circa seasons 3 and 4: Susan Grant's job was described as running "the family office." I want to say there was another time it was stated that Susan was Bizzy's social secretary, but that could be wrong. At one point in S3 Addison said that Susan had worked for her family for twenty years. Obviously, no one ages in these damn shows, but by that point Addison would have been in her early 40s, so presumably Susan began working for the family in some capacity when Addison was in her early 20s.
The motorcycle is a teeny-tiny nod to when Derek told Meredith in Grey's 1x08, "The scar right here on my forehead…that's why I don't ride motorcycles anymore." Derek is truly the LAST person I can imagine on a motorcycle, but…mm-kay, sure. Mark on a motorcycle at least feels within the realm of possibility for me (and is, uh, also a really nice image to picture).
Addison to Richard, Grey's 3x15: "I dyed my hair blonde the day after Derek moved out. Change is good. Your marriage is over. You're starting over. So am I." Her hair will stay red though for this fic. :)
Addison told Derek it was just "one time" with Mark. A future episode of Private Practice disputed this. Grey's 3x01: "It was one time. I know that's what people say. I know that's what always gets said, but it...I don't even know how it happened. I don't know what I was thinking. He was just here." And the brownstone doors are double arched ones and some sort of shade of light green.
Grey's 2x18, Mark/Addison/Derek elevator scene (all the heart eyes and angst when Mark's knuckles brushed over Addison's cheek – like, so lightly that it's more like his fingers are just hovering there – and how her eyes followed the movement of his hand):
Mark: "How come you can forgive her but not me?"
Derek: "I didn't forgive her. And with you I have no obligation to try."
Grey's 3x03, Mark to a very flustered Addison: "We're good together."
Also, congratulations to myself for the least-classy line I have ever ended a chapter with. When it comes to everything post-affair and Mark and Addison potentially living together, I'll ultimately be deviating from canon, but hopefully some canon compliance is still recognized throughout when you're reading this. I do want to honor the fact that these two are both idiots who are too scared to communicate their feelings and what it is they actually WANTED and NEEDED from each other. I don't think they had many lets-sit-down-and-talk conversations while they lived together (if any at all), which, if they had, perhaps the outcome would have been different.