Atlas

by darlingwrecks

What if you can build something out of the wreckage that you caused? Mark/Addison (and Derek), pre-Grey's. Includes flashbacks to Addison's childhood, Mark's childhood, and works off the fact that the "he was just here" comment was not accurate. Long-term affair. Mark/Addison and Derek/Meredith endgame.

48. This is the Safest Place You've Found

Reader: "I bet darlingwrecks is going to tell us she wrote a lot of words and there are a lot of feelings." YOU KNOW IT, reader. Welcome back, and thank you for your patience with this one. Hopefully it will be worth the wait! We are jumping one year into the future, BUT I did find a way to sneak in updates of what Year One of parenthood looked like, references to the people they have in their lives, etc., so you aren't really missing out on anything.

Addison briefly gets put through the emotional wringer again (TW: discussion about suicide), but it's to close a few things up, and what happens is always how I envisioned – from the very beginning – the last three scenes in this chapter playing out. AND there are a loooooot of good and happy and fluffy things in this chapter, angst aside.

A reference to the flashbacks in this chapter was made last chapter, and also in chapter 11. And a pill-related Bizzy thing was mentioned in chapter 13.

Chapter title is a lyric from "The Lightning Strike," by Snow Patrol.

And random note: because I feel like this is a good way to spend my time (it's not), I am going back and adding "X Years Earlier" for all the flashbacks. I'm doing a little at a time (I'm up to chapter 8 right now), so if you reread any earlier chapters and see the years indicator and then all of a sudden don't...that's why. I felt like the flashbacks were always easy enough to follow, and what I wrote in an author's note in Chapter 17 still stands: I've also always wanted the flashbacks to feel a bit more open-ended, more fluid, and make the reader question things, because so much of Mark and Addison's relationship is just a complex and indiscernible push and pull. HOWEVER. It was starting to bug me. I've made peace with the fact that certain things will never add up timeline-wise, e.g. how Amelia is like the ageless wonder, there's no way Addison could have obtained that many board certifications that quickly, etc. Also, I've made peace with the fact that there will inevitably be user error (math is hard, yo). There are plenty of ways I can still screw things up when it comes to addition and subtraction and continuity even if the Grey's timeline wasn't completely busted to begin with. Soooo now that I've arrived in a more zen place about that, I am going back through and adding "X Years Earlier" for all the flashbacks.

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. .

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Chapter 48. This is the Safest Place You've Found

Mark returns from the laundry closet with a crocheted blanket bunched in his arms, still warm from the dryer. He pauses at the entrance to Clara's bedroom, torn between joining his girls and watching the Bouguereau-like mother and child image play out for a few more seconds. Addison has Clara situated in her lap while she reads a book to her. Mark can see her mouth rounding and lengthening to form the words, but she is speaking too quietly for him to hear anything. Clara has one hand resting on the page, prepared to trace her fingers over the pictures, but it is the other hand where Mark's gaze is lingering, because it is just too sweet. Her arm is stretched up, and her hand is blindly cupping her mother's cheek.

"You're not going to believe what she picked," Addison announces when she senses his presence. She tilts her head to the side to kiss Clara's palm, and then holds the book out for Mark: On the Night You Were Born. It is a perfect choice given the circumstances, but damn if it doesn't make his throat tighten for a half-second as he sits down next to them in the rocking chair. They started out with a simple glider, but when Clara was a few months old, they upgraded to a double rocker. It's still a tight squeeze – the sardine thing, they call it – but it grants them the opportunity to participate equally in this portion of the bedtime routine.

"Why would you do this to us?" Mark directs the question towards his daughter, who beams happily at him and now pats at the book with both hands, oblivious to the parental emotions she has inflicted with her "night-night time" reading selection. Ever since Clara became more mobile, and also cognizant enough to realize she has a choice in the matter, Mark and Addison have not had much of a say when it comes to what books they read at bedtime. For the past few weeks, reading at this hour usually features The Very Hungry Caterpillar and Goodnight Moon. Occasionally another Carle or Wise Brown book will enter the lineup, but Clara is pretty consistent with what she wants to read as they rock her to sleep, sardine-style. She is not so consistent on her birthday though, apparently.

"She's either very sentimental, very clever, or just the tiniest bit manipulative," Addison decides while Mark tucks the blanket around the three of them, now free of stains from the frosting-smeared fingers of the younger guests they had in their home earlier who were sprawled out on the blanket's surface. Washing it with everything else tomorrow was not an option; Lynette might have made the blanket for Addison, but it is an everyone blanket now, and they know their daughter would have been looking for it if they did not have it out while reading.

"Maybe all three."

Addison smiles in agreement and flips back to the beginning of the book. "Ready, Clarabelle?" An exaggerated throat-clearing follows, the trademark start to all Addison-narrated books. "On the night you were born, the moon smiled with such wonder that the stars peeked in to see you and the night wind whispered, 'Life will never be the same.'" Clara strokes a finger over the glossy picture of a baby cradled in a bassinet near a star-splashed window, and Addison pauses to kiss the top of her head and breathe in deeply. To her, there are few things better than a baby fresh out of the bath with hair smoothed to the side. Her business formal look, she and Mark think of it as, which is one of those silly parenting things that is only funny to them. "But for you it was actually the afternoon," Addison adds. "On a day that was rainy, but got sunnier right before you were born."

The sentiment stands though, Mark thinks when Clara straightens an arm out to wrap her fingers around his thumb. She usually prefers to cuddle with Addison at bedtime when both laps are available to her, but she loves to hold Mark's hand while they read. It is maybe the purest expression of love he has ever experienced.

Life is definitely not the same as it was a year ago. It is better. And sunnier.

A year and one day, to be exact. Clara's actual birthday was yesterday (they started the day off with pancakes to acknowledge the woman she shares a name and birthday with). They have referred to today as her birthday multiple times though because they had her party this afternoon, and maybe just because they don't quite want to acknowledge yet that it is not really her birthday anymore.

"We have people," Addison whispered to Mark just before they started singing, "Happy Birthday to You," and he looked around, and realized she was right. Sending the party invitations last month confirmed they had people, but having people here in the flesh made it real. The apartment was teeming with guests. Addison's parents. Mark's dad. Archer, tanned from a week in Zihuatanejo and a little jetlagged due to coming straight from JFK. Savvy, Weiss, and Phoebe. Lynette, Larry, Charlie, Anna, Rowan, and Beckett. Paulina. Tasha, Mel, and little Booker, whose first birthday party they will be attending soon. Two other sets of parents from Addison's "Mommy and Me" yoga class along with their babies. Charlene and her boyfriend. Nina. A few other NYP people were in attendance, too; the ones they have made an effort to either connect or reconnect with over the past year. And then there were the attendees who have once again become a part of the fabric of their lives, because Mark and Addison have come to realize that when you are a little bit brave and attempt to engage with people who were once familiar to you, sometimes good things can happen, no matter what mistakes you made in the past. Caroline – a friend from Addison's childhood who she reached out to last summer – and her husband, Evan, and their four children ranging from age twelve down to seven months, came to the party. And Johnny – Mark's friend from his hockey days, who moved back to the city a few months ago – came with his family, too. His four-year-old son, who shares his father's golden curls and good-natured smile, was incredibly patient with Clara's interest in tugging on the spirals.

And these are not their only people. They invited other out-of-towners, knowing they likely could not come, nor did they expect them to, but sending the invitations still felt good. Naomi couldn't make it, but they saw her in December when she and Maya flew out for a week, both to see them and to enjoy the city at Christmastime. Maya balanced Clara on her hip as they looked up at the Rockefeller Christmas Tree, and she hummed "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer" for Clara, who smiled and wriggled along to the words. Maya was disbelieving later when Addison and Naomi told her that she used to sing this song when she was little with each "r" pronounced as an "w." It only got worse when Addison assured her there was proof, because this prompted Maya to ask what a tape deck was, so both women were immediately hit with an "Oh my God, we're old" feeling. Amelia couldn't make it to the party either due to the lengthy commute and some work-related commitments, but Addison and Mark have seen her a few times this year, most recently in January when she came up for the holiday weekend. And of all the new toys Clara got for her birthday, she seemed most interested in the stuffed unicorn that arrived in the mail from Amelia (the TV remote is still her favorite "toy" though at the moment). Addison felt tears prick in her eyes when she saw that Amelia had signed the card, Aunt Amelia.

"We have people," Mark echoed, words as muted as Addison's were when they placed a small cupcake in front of Clara. Their daughter picked experimentally at the frosting at first, uncertain, but then, when she apparently discovered how delicious the special treat was, she made a gasping noise that had everyone in attendance laughing.

They do have people, and they had a great time this afternoon, but they were also incredibly grateful when their people left – some to go home, some like the grandparents to go to a hotel for the night – and it was just the three of them again.

Once Clara has fallen asleep, Mark carefully extracts his thumb from her grip. He gets up to turn off the reading lamp and dim the bedroom light so the soothing waves from the projector nightlight are visible on the ceiling. Then he returns to the rocker and hoists his arm over Addison's shoulders; they cannot bring themselves to put Clara in her crib just yet.

"This is all I've ever wanted." Addison's words are quiet in the combination of light and dark surrounding them.

It was not always what she thought she wanted, because of course it was not ever this specific scenario. How could it be? All the cruel-infused debris it took to get to this part would have been unfathomable in the years preceding the affair. But now this is what Addison has, and she wouldn't trade this "forever" for anything. The feelings that come with it – a partner who is in love with her and very much present, a heart that is fully healed, and the gift of getting to be a mother to a child who is every sweet dream amplified – those are things she has always wanted. She equates this new life as sort of like looking into a kaleidoscope, and rotating the tube until the filtered light from the reflective mirrors finally produced the exact bouncing burst of colors she was looking for. No pattern is ever exactly the same, so then it stood to reason that she would only know it was the right image – the image she wanted to hold onto – when she finally saw it in the object chamber. Not a second sooner. How could life be anything but this? Mark told her that was one of his thoughts the first time he held Clara. And Addison agrees.

An ocean shimmers above them in place of stars when Mark tells her that this is all he has ever wanted, too.

. .
. .

Four Years Earlier

"We have to stop meeting like this." Addison offers her fellow attendee and childhood friend – maybe more of just an acquaintance now, really – a weak smile. She does not attend this event every year, and assumes the same can be said for Caroline Roland (whose presence is also one of daughterly obligation), but when the two women do run into each other, it is typically here. Addison sneaks a glance over Caroline's shoulder, and she can no longer see Derek and Mark. Good. They got out. She will track them down later. They were steadily inching closer to the exit sign after spending a respectable amount of time in the exhibit room. Two hours, she assured them both. Derek was able to keep his face relatively neutral, as this was not his first floral rodeo, but she could definitely tell Mark was regretting saying he would join them at this year's Spring Awakening Flower and Garden Show. Just a quick sweep upon entering the convention center made it clear nothing about the event was going to be fun. Two hours of looking at flowers, making small talk with Bizzy and a few of her garden club friends, and wearing a fake smile. You two can probably escape and just stay at the wine bar outside the show area after you say hello to my mother and compliment her roses.

Caroline takes a sip of her wine. "Right? I know that's usually the kind of comment reserved for funerals, but this is sort of like death in its own way, too." She makes a gesture with her unoccupied hand, meant to indicate the overall frigid ambiance and the people in attendance. There are over two-hundred standard booths positioned throughout the large room, each situated with pristine flower arrangements. "It's making death appealing, actually." Caroline lifts her shoulders, a little sheepish. "Sorry, I know that's dark."

You have no idea, Addison thinks. "How's Grant?" She asks, trying to assume a pleasant expression. She is a bit envious of Caroline's still mostly-full glass; Addison drank hers too quickly, and right when she was thinking of getting another drink – and some fucking air, because it is so hard to breathe in here – she locked eyes with Caroline. The helix of anxiety is continuing to expand in her stomach. It was difficult enough to be here this year without having to hear direct comments about funerals and death. The smell of all these flowers in close proximity is unbearably cloying, and there are too many people in the show area, gathered in tight clusters as their eyes rake over lilies and marigolds and dianthuses and every other flower in the amateur horticulture entry class.

"Still an asshole. Oh…" Caroline frowns when Addison looks rather taken aback by this candidness. "Sorry, did you not know? No, of course not. I'm sure my mom never mentioned it to yours, and you and I don't…anyway." Addison nods quickly, encouraging Caroline to keep talking. Neither feels the need to put a spotlight on the fact that they are not close anymore. "We've been separated for a while, but the divorce wasn't finalized until last summer. I'm doing well though. So are the kids. And I'm actually…I'm actually seeing someone." Caroline's face brightens at this. "We're taking it slow – he hasn't met James and Arabella yet – but it's good. Second time's the charm, I think." She makes another flourishing hand movement, and a ribbon-like memory uncurls before Addison. For a second, everything is blurry in the reflection of sharp glass and light, dulling the color of the streaky blue veins on Caroline's inner wrist that caught Addison's attention. "How are things with you, Addie?"

Addison sees the woman in front of her with the sun-speckled glass at age twelve, at their fall piano recital, fingers positioned over the keys. It was a Beatles-themed concert Ms. Hoeffel and Mrs. Lawrence put together, so each of their pupils selected a different Beatles song to perform. Addison picked "Here Comes the Sun." Caroline went for broke with "Eight Days a Week," which in Addison's opinion (not that she would have said it aloud), was above Caroline's skill level. But Caroline had so much fun playing it, and Addison could remember the stomach-cramping jealousy she felt watching from the wings when she saw parents' heads in the auditorium bobbing along to the music. They were so engaged with Caroline's performance. They either didn't notice the multiple mistakes Addison's friend made, or they didn't care, because Caroline was smiling the whole time and looked like she was enjoying herself. Addison played her song perfectly, and could have played "Eight Days a Week" perfectly, too. She knew for sure that she could. Addison's playing matched her personality at the time though, which was maybe what contributed to her lack of connection with the audience. In her younger years, she was quiet, serious, concerned. There's a difference between playing a song well and playing the piano well. She remembers Mrs. Lawrence saying that once. Addison was technically sound, definitely the most technically sound for her level at the studio, but turning emotion into movement with her fingers did not come easily; she was too worried about making a mistake. She realized the difference in hers and Caroline's style that day, an unearthing that came to her slowly, just as slowly as the ice melting in the song she performed before her friend took the stage and brought the sun out for the audience. Addison used her brain to play. Caroline played with her heart.

And even now, what is failure to share your heart if not a long, cold, lonely winter?

"Addie?"

"Sorry." Addison looks away from Caroline's wrist and meets her eyes again. "Things…things are…" her chest remains constricted, as though someone has wrapped a hand around her heart and started to squeeze. Well, no. Not someone. Just feelings. Grief. Regret. Fear. Loss and almost-loss. It has only been a little over a year since Bizzy tried to kill herself. "They're…um." She is horrified when she realizes how close she is to crying. "Things are…"

"Are you okay? Oh…oh no." Caroline watches as Addison's eyes fill with tears. "You're definitely not. Come here." She grabs Addison by the elbow, and drags her behind one of the booths, where a large black drape affords them some privacy.

"It's j-just work lately," Addison gasps out, shocked at how quickly she has fallen apart, how ragged her breath has become. The lie about the reason for this reaction comes easily though, at least. "God, I'm sorry. I'm okay, Care, I just -"

"Here." Caroline gives Addison her wine glass and does some lightning-fast maneuvering inside her leather tote bag. She then holds out her palm, where a white pill is sitting. The pill is shaped like a house, and for some reason, this detail is what helps Addison release a puff of air. "It's Ativan. It'll help. And yes, yes, I know…" Caroline offers a small shrug. "I'm not supposed to share prescription meds…especially with a doctor. But it's us."

Addison discovered a prescription bottle of Ativan on Bizzy's vanity the day before she attempted to die by suicide. It confused her in the aftermath, because the contents inside the bottle were plentiful, and the dosage was borderline-alarming. Why do you think she slit her wrists instead of just taking a fistful of pills? Addison asked Derek a few weeks later, when she was doing her best to connect with him again, and to forgive him for leaving and to forgive herself for telling him to leave. Derek breathed out a tired sigh at the question and told her, I think you need to ask her that, Addison. Not me.

"No, no. I couldn't. Thank you, Caroline, but -"

"It's fine. I don't mind. Look where we are. We're spending a perfectly beautiful Sunday trapped at a flower show. And there's no way your mother's spray roses or cut chrysanthemums are going to place higher than my mother's this year, so you're probably going to have to interact with Bizzy later when she's somewhere private and is allowed to emit angry steam from her nostrils for not taking 'best in show.'" Caroline holds her hand closer. "Come on, it'll help. You know your mother would die if she saw you having a panic attack in public."

"Bizzy would call it 'the vapors,' actually," Addison responds just before she swallows the pill with a larger-than-needed gulp of Chardonnay.

When she and Caroline part ways a few minutes later – once Addison has calmed down again, either because the pill is already working its neurotransmitter magic or because she has remembered exactly where she is and exactly who she is – they do their usual hug and let's keep in touch routine, even though they both know they will not. Afterwards, Addison decides to leave the exhibit room for a bit, and make her way to the wine bar.

She knows she should not have another glass, not after taking medication, but she knows her limits – Montgomery-tolerance or otherwise – and one more glass will not hurt.

And it is better than having to feel all of this.

. .
. .

When Addison steps inside the apartment, the activities of this mid-March evening are immediately visible before her. Wooden blocks, several stuffed animals, a baby doll, a push-and-pull elephant toy, books, the green shape-sorting cube with all of its shapes dumped out, and what possibly amounts to every single food item from Clara's play kitchen are strewn throughout the living room, leaving little of the actual floor visible. It is a pattern that is equal parts love and chaos. The mess is a Clara-made one, yes, but also a Mark-involved one. Their nanny, Paulina, is somehow able to attend to Clara and keep the place reasonably tidy while doing so, which is more than Addison can say for her boyfriend most days.

You're going to see your guy. And your baby. And then you'll feel better. Addison told herself this when she left the hospital, and tried to recite it like a mantra on the cab ride back from NYP, but it was really only once she opened the apartment door that she felt that missing warmth start to spread through her. Her heart feels at its most full here. She can hear Mark in the kitchen, unloading the dishwasher.

"I know what you're going to say." Mark's back is to her when she drops her bag on the kitchen counter and sidles up behind him, but Addison does not have to see his face to know that he is smirking.

"About it looking like a bomb went off in there? Hi." She presses her lips to his in greeting when he turns around, electing to skip over the part where Mark assures her that he will clean it up tomorrow morning. She has been through this enough times to know it to be true, or that if Mark makes breakfast for them, she will handle putting the toys back where they belong. He makes great pancakes, so it feels like a fair trade-off.

The kiss they exchange is one of those quick, habitual ones that Addison has come to appreciate so much, just another all-I-ever-wanted constant in their lives. Hello, goodbye, good morning, good night. And while what Addison wanted most tonight was to be home in time to put Clara to bed, this is the next best thing; there is just something special about being in the kitchen with Mark at the end of a long day, talking about Clara and their respective work days. Their words emerge between light kisses and affectionate hands coasting over each other.

"I missed you. And her. How was she?" Addison rests a hip against the counter, waiting for a rundown. In the early days, How was she? was a way to ask if Clara cried, how many ounces she ate, if she went down for a nap without a struggle. It was the equivalent of asking the parent who looked after her, Do you have any remaining shreds of sanity left? But now the landscape of the question is different because life has moved beyond those incremental movements of soothing a newborn. Now Clara has interests, a non-potato personality (the most wonderful personality, Addison believes), and can better communicate what she wants, so How was she? is presented with complete joy. Three simple words that can mean so many things. Which books did she want to read with you? What did she try to climb? Did she do the thing where she stops halfway through the crawl tunnel just to see what you'll do? Did she only want to do the farm animal puzzle, or was she interested in the other ones, too? Did she want to wear the footie pajamas with the rainbows on them again? Did she wrap her hand around your shirt while you rocked her to sleep?

Mark provides the highlights, and ends his summary of the evening by informing her, words very gentle, "I told Clara you'd see her first thing in the morning." They would never actually say it this way, but it is something they both know to be factual: during the week, he spends more time with their daughter than Addison does. He gets off work earlier, especially on Fridays. And his schedule allows for more stability and flexibility.

"Priya emailed me again," Addison replies as she takes a sippy cup Mark has removed from the dishwasher and stores it in the appropriate cabinet. This is one of the ways they do actually talk about it. She is considering all her options, and Mark has assured her it's okay to take her time thinking about it. "They wear purple scrubs when they're operating."

"Is that a selling point?" He knows all about the efforts of a gently persistent doctor Addison completed her obstetrics and gynecology residency with. It is a women's healthcare group practice on the Upper West Side, with a focus on prenatal and obstetrics services, preventative gynecological care, family planning, and genetic testing and counseling. Seven OB/GYNs on staff, a maternal-fetal medicine specialist, a genetic counselor, two reproductive endocrinologist and infertility specialists. But no neonatal surgeon, or anyone, technically, who is a world class surgeon with several specialties under her belt – yet, at least. And Addison would still have operating privileges at NYP, so while she would be leaving to venture into a different type of medical practice, in some ways, she also wouldn't be leaving when the situation calls for an operation that cannot be addressed as an in-office procedure.

"I think she'll try whatever she can to get me over there. I like my pink scrubs, but I do like dark purple, too." Addison grins. "I told her I would get coffee with her sometime next month, so that we can talk. Really talk. It would be different, but the hours are more consistent, and I'd still be able to cut. Priya said most of the doctors at the practice have kids, too. And they're usually willing to cover for one another if someone really can't be available because of family stuff. Isabelle McKinley works there. She was at Lenox Hill before that – she's really good. She's their maternal-fetal medicine specialist. Well, one of two, if I were to join. And Greg Herskowitz is there now, too. He came on board last summer. Do you remember him? He went to med school with us."

"No." This is not the first time this has been Mark's answer to a question like this. "God." He shakes his head, laughing. "Did I even go to the same school as you?"

As you. Not as you guys. Slowly, over time, they have made the transition. They have found ways to let go of the weight. They remember him. They miss him. They are sorry for hurting him, and always will be sorry. But all the feelings are softer now, as though something has shaved down the jagged edges of pain. Mostly, they wish him well and they wish for him to have peace. Amelia said he's doing well. That's really all they know – all they want to know is if Derek is doing well and if he's happy. Yes and yes are the answers. Any additional details, and the question of whether Derek has ever asked about them, are not things they have voiced to Amelia. Not in the handful of times they have seen her in person over the last year, and not in the fairly regular correspondence Addison has with her through text messages. It feels too intrusive and scary to ask, so they don't. Or haven't asked yet, at least.

But everything is going to be okay really did eventually become everything is okay.

Addison smiles at his question. "I think the women in our program probably caught your attention more than the men did, Mark Sloan."

"Well, now it's just the one woman. One woman and one baby." He knows he could say toddler, but no thank you; she is still so little. "One baby who is very, very busy."

"Speaking of…I'm going to peek in on that busy baby of ours and blow her a kiss." Addison gives him a warm smile. "And then get into something comfier."

Mark finishes unloading the dishwasher, and by the time he makes his way into their bedroom, Addison is already there, specifically near the hamper in the walk-in closet. She has not gotten far into the undressing process yet, but Mark can see that her wrap top is hanging open, the knotted segments now loosely gathered at her sides. He eliminates the remaining space between them, and reaches a hand out to touch her hip. His thumb slides between soft skin and skirt, tracing over a panty line. He remembers how Addison laughed this morning – mostly flattered – when she saw him watching her get dressed. She was slipping on a bra made of dark blue silk with hand-embroidered lace covering some of it (frastaglio, because this is the kind of thing Mark knows now), and the scrap of fabric covering her lower half was equally as enticing. And Addison gave him a look that very much implied he would have an opportunity later to do more than just enjoy the visual.

"You wanna get in the shower?" He asks, voice low and wanting.

Addison sighs contently when he brushes some of her hair away and presses his lips to the back of her neck. The shower. Another routine with some consistency, and one they both love. Clara sleeps soundly through the night (with a few notable exceptions when sleep regression popped up, and when the cold she had at the end of February left her miserable for a week), which makes showering together more of a possibility. It does not always involve sex or other acts they like – it does not usually, honestly, especially when the typical weekday exhaustion is hanging over them. But it's intimate. It hides nothing. It relieves stress. It breaks down barriers.

And more than anything else, it is what made Addison feel comfortable with her postpartum figure again. It was how they first started being physically intimate again. She had been so anxious, even though it was her idea, the first time post-baby she asked him to join her; it was the night after they returned from visiting her parents and Archer. She kept looking over at the baby monitor they placed on the bathroom counter, and she rubbed at the glass whenever it started to fog over. Mark was able to hide it better, but he was similarly worried they would not be able to hear the audio portion over the rush of water, whether it was real or not real – just like her, he had been hearing the occasional phantom cry while showering – or that they would somehow miss the flashing light on the monitor indicating noise coming from Clara's room. It took a while for this concern to ebb. Now, they have more faith in the baby monitor, and faith that if Clara does cry for a few minutes, she won't be negatively affected. They both recognize their insistence on offering immediate comfort for what it is, and would have understood it even without therapy: his nighttime experiences with physical aloneness as a child and hers with emotional aloneness have made them eager to ensure their daughter's needs are met the moment she expresses them.

And as for the physical parts of sharing a shower…that took faith, too. And time. And patience. That first time, Mark just washed her hair and held her close. Relax, he told Addison as he threaded his fingers through her wet locks. Just relax. I have an eye on the monitor. It's been a while though, and you're wet and naked and standing really close to me, so you're going to have to forgive me if I can't control my physiological response, he warned with a devilish grin, which made Addison both laugh and groan. And when her tears eventually mixed with shower water, and she murmured anxiety-riddled words about wanting him to be satisfied, Mark squeezed her a little tighter and placed a wet-lipped kiss on her cheek. I am satisfied, he said firmly. I miss having sex with you, yeah, I really do, but I'm satisfied in all the other ways, which you and therapy have made me realize are the important ones. It's not a rush. We'll build up to it. We'll have sex when you feel ready again.

It took time, but as they fell into a nightly routine, touches that were just casually loving did eventually shift into sultrier ones, and innocent conversations and recaps of their respective days sometimes reshaped into different verbalizations when Mark would ask what she wanted, if she wanted more. And she would usually return the favor.

Addison recalls that first time they had sex again last June, and even now, her cheeks swirl with heat at the memory. She is certain it was their most erotic encounter to date. It was different, somehow. It was not like the drawn-out first time where the guilt was as prominent as the pleasure, when she had wanted to savor what it felt like to be physically joined, to experience the length of someone who wasn't her indifferent husband. It was not like the winter when their affair first gained traction, when most of their explosive couplings were just-shy-of-too-hard and designed to coax as many moans from her as he could. It was not the same as the transition to a more tender kind of sex when she acknowledged she was in love with him, too. It was not like the possessive, claiming encounters when she first moved into Mark's apartment and there were more uncertainties than there were answers. And it was not like the what-feels-most-comfortable and sometimes experimentally slow unions throughout her pregnancy. That time in June was different, somehow. It was anything and everything more. And erotic. So erotic. He explored her body in detail, surely able to feel the changes in her figure, to realize the grasp of looser skin and see the stretch marks she assumes she will always carry with her, but it stopped mattering to her. Addison murmured her appreciation when he rose from between her legs. He resumed massaging her curves with a foaming shower gel, and she told him, You're making me feel so good. And beautiful. She hooked a leg around him then, ready, practically beyond ready when she told him she wanted him, that she did not want to stop. The rhythm as Mark moved inside her that night was just exquisite.

Mark's touch is purposeful right now, so she knows his thoughts are aligned with hers. Tonight – and this morning, from the way they were looking at each other when Addison was getting dressed – definitely has the air of being more than just rinsing off. Realistically, things are heading in the direction that they can skip the shower entirely and go straight to the sheets. Addison can feel herself melting from the attention he is giving her, and although it would be easier in some ways to just wait to talk about it, to let him move his body over hers and offer sweet release, she knows it will be more difficult the longer she allows reminders of a past trauma to stack up inside her. And above all else, they are in the habit of being honest with each other.

"Another time," she says when Mark's hands slide up to cup delicate lace. Her neck feels cool when his lips are no longer a teasing suction on her skin. "Today actually…it wasn't…it wasn't…"

Mark uses his hands on her waist to turn her around. "It wasn't a good day," he finishes. And he can see it so clearly once she is facing him. She manages a small nod, and then goes still. He feels a pang of regret move through his chest, because of course it played out this way. Of course Addison didn't share anything Not Good the second she got home. She wanted to know how Clara was. She wanted to know how he was. She was present, checked-in, and as usual, tending to her loved ones before herself. "Okay." Mark is about to offer to get some new clothes for her, but then he notices her eyes flicker towards the built-in dresser, where she has laid out a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a Rangers shirt of his that became hers not long after she moved in with him.

She does not protest when Mark eases her top the rest of the way off, nor when he removes everything else, but he can see the mild twitch in her jaw, indicating some embarrassment. He is not sure what else to do though; it feels like she has locked in place.

"I'm just being helpful." He guides her arms one at a time through the sleeves, and then slips the blue shirt over her head. "I know you can do it."

Addison manages a rueful smile when her head appears through the neck opening. "You've had to change both your girls today," she states.

"Yes, but my odds of getting peed on are significantly lower with you."

Mark waits until they are both settled under the comforter, bodies angled towards each other, before he broaches the subject. "A patient?" He strokes a thumb over Addison's temple when she nods. "I'm sorry," he offers. "I know it's hard." It is more difficult for her. He has lost patients, yes, but her losses are more personal. They just hurt more. And while she has always been a compassionate surgeon who tends to take the losses hard, being a mother now adds an extra layer of hurt when something goes wrong in the OR, or when she has to deliver bad news.

"She's okay. And her son's okay. I was just…I was really just brought in to check on her, and…and monitor the baby for a bit." Her teeth sink into her lower lip. "I didn't…I didn't really do anything. She's seven months pregnant."

"What…what is it that's causing you to feel this much?" Mark asks, not entirely successful at masking his confusion. This is a new one though, and he makes a small, sympathetic noise when her eyes fill with tears.

"She was…she was in the hospital because she tried to kill herself."

His eyes widen. "She's pregnant and she tried to -"

"Don't." Addison's tone is fierce, but it only takes a second longer for her to crumble completely. Her lower lip trembles, and her face becomes damp with tears. "It's…it's not…" she stammers. "It's not her fault she was feeling this way."

"No, I know." He gathers her closer, apologetic as he dips one arm under her neck, and wraps the other over her waist. "I'm sorry. Of course it's not her fault. I didn't mean for that to sound…it's just not what I thought you were going to say. How…how is she now?"

"As okay as she can be. She'll be there overnight while they…while they figure out next steps to help her. Sabrina was about to talk with her and do a risk assessment when I left."

"Lucy's mom," he states. Lucy's mom also happens to be one of the hospital's clinical social workers, and they both like Sabrina a lot, but they tend to refer to her as Lucy's mom first. Clara and Lucy – whose name was also inspired by a literary character – are only a month apart. Mark and Addison suppose it's one of those things that truly makes them parents now before anything else, to be tied together by the children in their child's life, even though Addison has grown closer to Sabrina in the last year, and Mark likes the husband, Ian, who works in the rehabilitation medicine department.

"She's in good hands with Lucy's mom," Addison says quietly. "The patient…she and her husband moved here from Maryland two months ago, and he…he works long hours, and travels a lot for work, so I think she was feeling pretty isolated. And her previous OB…it sounded like he just wrote her off as being 'emotional,' and 'just pregnant,' and didn't ever properly screen for suicidal ideation. And it's more common than you'd think, among pregnant women. She…she didn't want to hurt her baby. She said she even tried to research if there were ways she could die without the baby dying." Addison lets out a fresh whimper at this admission. "And I stayed…I stayed longer than I needed to. I just wanted to be here with you guys, and do the sardine thing, but at one point I squeezed her hand, like in reassurance because I was going to leave, because the baby was fine, but she didn't…she didn't let go. So I stayed with her until Sabrina was able to get there."

"I'm sure she was grateful you stayed with her. I'm sorry though, Red. This must have been so hard for you."

She isn't really crying anymore. Just shaking a little. Mark holds her as close as he can, able to feel each uneven breath fluttering against his collarbone, and he wonders how she suppressed this for five years. It seeped out the night she slept over at his apartment after Derek caught them, but only for a minute – there was so much blood – and then she packed the trauma away again, and at the time, no matter how connected they were, it still felt like there was a continent between them. They have talked about it plenty of times since then, but each of those times feels so different than what is happening right now.

You haven't let yourself cry like this before. Addison told him that, once, when he was falling apart over his mother. He imagines what is happening now is like that. He knows she did not talk about what happened with Derek very much, or at least not in the sort of way where she allowed herself to be vulnerable. And while she does talk about Bizzy and what happened with her therapist, Mark suspects she hasn't ever gone into a session immediately after being triggered.

"When do you see Marie next?" He asks in a hushed tone. They both have cut down to every other week with their respective therapists, and admittedly, there are times they either need to cancel or postpone due to other things going on. "You saw her on Tuesday, right?"

"Yeah, I did. My next appointment isn't until the second. But I'll…" Addison touches her hand to his chest. Her head is still tucked beneath Mark's chin, but she does not have to see his expression to know that he is worried about the length of time between now and then. "I promise I'll email her first thing on Monday if I think I need to see her sooner than that. I barely…" she hiccups sadly. "I barely saw her today."

Mark recognizes the shift in subject, and does not need any clarification. Addison has arrived at the numb-nerved intersection of the burden of events: the pain of what she experienced today, and the classic parental guilt of being shorted time. She starts to cry harder.

"I know. But tomorrow is Saturday, so you're going to see Clara all weekend. And if you want one-on-one time with her, I can always run some errands. I don't even need to leave, actually. I'll just ignore her. Won't give her the time of day." He grins when he hears a short laugh bubble out of Addison. "Even if she looks at me and does the thing where she wants me to hold her…" Mark pauses, the image coming into his head. An adorable closed-mouthed smile that he feels like Clara sometimes reserves just for him. And her chin tipped up and head back so she can see him, arms stretched out, so trusting and expectant, because of course he will always pick her up. "Forget it. She's going to be iced out completely," he adds, and Addison coughs out another laugh. Mark hopes it is enough for, well, something, but tears are still weaving a path down her cheeks, and her chest is rising and falling a little too rapidly. "Take some slow breaths for me, Addie. It's going to be okay. Slow breaths." He brings an arm around so that he can hold her hands in one of his, but she moves her hands first, wrapping both around his shirt, the fabric bunching between closed fists. He settles for cradling her wet cheek instead.

"They…they were…they were still stitching her up when I came in to do the ultrasound."

"Stitching…? Oh." Mark swallows hard when he understands. "Oh, Addison." She is shivering again, but her skin feels warm beneath his palm. Too warm. Her anxiety is a spark lighting her up. Her fingers tighten around his shirt. "Bunny…" he presses his lips to her forehead. "I need you to tell me what I can do to help you right now." He cannot help completely; he knows that. Most of this is going to fall back on her therapist. But he needs to know what he can do in this moment, and all the moments that will precede her next appointment with Marie. "What can I do?"

"I d-don't know…" she bleats out.

"Okay." Mark tries to stay calm as he scrambles to think of anything beyond his embrace that might offer some comfort. "No, that's okay." He shakes his head when she cries an apology into his shoulder, not for feeling, but for not having an answer. "Don't be sorry. You don't need to be sorry. I'm…" he lightly touches her hands, which are still fisting the material of his shirt, and she is curled so close to him that it isn't easy to negotiate a hand between them. "I'm gonna reach over and grab my phone. And then let's sit up and look at some pictures of Clara until you start to feel a little…" the words are selected carefully, wanting to favor gentleness over frankness. Less traumatized. Less scared. Less trapped in your head. "A little more tired," Mark finishes. "I'm sure there are pictures I didn't send to you from this afternoon. Are you okay if I pull away for a second? My phone is on my nightstand." His hand is still covering Addison's hands, and he waits until her grip relaxes on his shirt before he rolls over to get his phone.

"Can you…can you go to the album?" She asks once they are sitting up and his arm is wrapped protectively around her. The album. They both have one on their respective phones that is devoted to their favorite pictures of Clara. "The beginning," she adds when Mark selects the album called Clara and is about to ask if she has a starting point in mind. She rests her head on his shoulder, watching as he starts to swipe through the pictures.

The first one is them at Front Beach in Rockport, with Addison's palm spread across her stomach. Fetus-Clara for this one, not Earth-Clara, since Addison was sixteen weeks pregnant at the time, but they still love this one, and Addison was so touched when she realized this was the first picture in the album Mark created (she copied him, and now it's the first in hers as well). Then there are ones from the hospital. So many from the newborn photoshoot. Clara on her activity mat. Clara sucking her thumb. A video of Clara shortly after waking up from a nap, her limbs slowly stretching out and her fingers unfurling. A picture of Clara with her stuffed fox. Clara lying on a blanket in Sheep Meadow last June, shaded by an umbrella. A video of her babbling. Clara in Mark's arms at Gapstow Bridge, looking at the ducks in the pond below them; that was taken on his first Father's Day. And then last summer in one of the suite boxes at Yankee Stadium, piled together for a picture with Tasha, Mel, and Booker. And then one of just Clara and Booker, propped next to each other on the leather couch in the suite. Her first photo with a non-Phoebe friend, Addison commented at the time. A picture of Clara placing a big, open-mouthed kiss on Mark's cheek. Then pictures taken at Brighton Beach last August. Savvy, Weiss, and Phoebe were with them that day. Phoebe and Clara were in matching rash guard suits. Clara wasn't sure about the sand, but she loved it when they brought her closer to the water and allowed the white foam to rush over her little toes. A video and then pictures of her trying solid food for the first solid time. A picture of Clara at NYP, in Nina's office, holding onto a blown-up glove the chief gave her. Clara in a laundry basket, surrounded by clothes fresh out of the dryer. A picture of the first time they put her in a bucket swing at Ancient Playground. She loved it, and started crying when they lifted her out of the swing to go home. A picture where Clara's first tooth is on display, pearl-sized as she smiles, that gummy mouth almost cavernous. A picture of her holding the remote control. The three of them on the porch at the house in Westhampton last September, snapped by their real estate agent right before she dropped the keys in their hands. I'm sure you'll be very happy here, Robin told them. And oh, how they are.

"We should go back soon," Addison says. Her voice is raspy-sounding, but Mark can hear the fondness in her words. "I know we were just there at the beginning of the month, but -"

"We'll go back soon," he assures as he goes to the next image. This one is Bizzy holding Clara under the wisteria trellis on the Montgomery grounds, the weekend before Halloween. Addison took a candid photo of Clara looking up while Bizzy pointed out the purple flowers hanging above them, and then there was a less candid one when Addison asked Mark if he could take a picture of the three Montgomery women. "This is new for me," Bizzy said with a smile, offering up a rare joke when Clara extended a curious hand towards the clumps of wisteria. "Having a family member who enjoys flowers as much as I do."

Mark brushes his lips to Addison's hair. She is breathing softer now, and no longer crying. He makes a quiet suggestion, knowing she will not want to fall asleep in this condition, so they take a break to wash their faces and brush their teeth, before diving back into the pictures. There are a handful from Halloween. Clara wore a polar bear costume. Next is a picture of Clara with yogurt smeared in her hair, and then several from Thanksgiving, when they were over at Savvy and Weiss's – it was their second year in a row doing this, and at dinner they made a pact to spend all their Thanksgivings together going forward. Then a picture of Clara crawling. A video of her crawling. A picture of Clara with two stacking cups in hand, tongue poking out of her lips as she concentrated on trying to put them together. A video of Clara clapping. A video of Clara waving. Pictures of Clara with Maya and Naomi. So many from Clara's first holiday season, and their first holiday season as a family of three. Clara in an elf outfit. Clara in front of their Christmas tree, lights reflecting off her cheeks. Clara with Addison near the Lincoln Center, next to a standing banner with a promotional image for The Nutcracker. Next are a couple seasonally festive pictures taken by Danielle, who also shot their newborn photos. The pictures were done on Bow Bridge this time, and the one they ended up selecting for their holiday card featured the three of them wrapped in a plaid fleece blanket, Clara nestled between them and grasping a tiny stuffed penguin that kept her smiling for most of the photoshoot (it wasn't until later that Addison remembered Bow Bridge was where they were when they officially decided what their daughter's name would be). Clara opening presents on Christmas morning, looking curious as Mark helped her peel back the wrapping paper.

"That's my favorite Christmas one," Addison says when Mark goes to the next picture. It's his, too. It's the three of them on Christmas Day in front of the fireplace in matching Christmas pajamas (Addison's idea, and Mark was a good sport about it). The mantle behind them is festooned with garland, the stocking that Lynette made for Clara, and the stockings that she made for Addison and Mark; Mark's dad took that picture.

Next is Clara sitting in Amelia's lap at the kitchen table in January, the hot chocolates the three adults were sipping pushed far out of the baby's reach. Her mother's daughter, Amelia proclaimed when Clara let out a whine and tried to grab for the mug again anyway. Then a picture of Clara standing up. Addison is crouched behind her, and Clara has a hand on her knee for support. She took her first steps later that afternoon.

There are a few close-ups of Clara's face, and they linger on these images the longest, drinking in every detail. Her eyes are blue, falling somewhere between their respective shades, as far as they can tell. Everything else is pure Addison though in that area; Mark is certain of this. There are the dark lashes that rest on her pronounced cheekbones when she is napping. The eye shape. And the eyelids, which Addison doesn't really understand as being a thing, but Mark assures her it is, and it's one of his favorite things about her. It's just something about the spacing and exposure of skin that is simply beautiful in its sweeping, dramatic curve. And maybe Mark's dad was on to something when he saw Clara's ultrasound pictures, because they really do think she has Jenny's nose.

There are so many from her birthday. And then they reach a video. A merged one, snippets ranging from nine and-a-half months of age to just last week that their technologically-uncertain selves had no idea how to do, but Charlene took both their phones and did it so quickly they thought it was magic. It was not the first time Clara said any of the words, but the first time they caught them while recording. Dada. Mama. Hi. Duck. Bee-bee (they initially thought Phoebe, but it could just be baby. It's the most recent one, and Clara has only said it twice, so they aren't quite sure yet).

"Remember your reaction when she first said, 'Dada?'"

Mark chuckles at her question. "I told you: I'm not proud of how I handled that."

It was sometime in mid-December, and Mark had just gotten back from playing racquetball with Ian…Lucy's dad. "Clara, look who's here, baby," Addison cooed when Mark came into the living room. "Dada's back. Do you see Dada? There he is." And then Clara's little voice came through, angel-soft as she said Dada.

Mark's head quickly jerked towards Addison, who had gasped in surprise. "Did she just…?" he began, needing confirmation, and Addison nodded, smiling widely. "Holy shit, Clara," Mark added as he paced over, unable to contain his enthusiasm (or control his language, apparently). "That was amazing." They fussed over her for a few seconds, talking a shade too loud and trying to coax her into saying it again, and then Clara started to cry and buried her face in Addison's shoulder, startled by the volume of attention her parents were showering her with.

"I'm never going to let you live it down though," Addison tells him now. The aftermath was sweet, of course. Once Clara stopped crying, Mark took her into his arms and rubbed her back. Her hand was curled around his shirt, just like she would do in her newborn days. She whispered Dada again later that night. And although it wasn't on her mind, Addison remembered Mark telling her after Clara was asleep, "Your name will be next." It didn't bother her though, that his name came first. How could anything like that bother her when she watched Mark with their daughter? He loves her so much, and she thinks that she loves him more for seeing how much he loves Clara.

(It's a good thing it didn't bother her. Mama was not next. Hi was, a few days after Christmas. And then duck, which was pronounced more like "dack," but it was clear what Clara was saying).

"Sort of like how I don't let you live the duck thing down," Mark says. He modifies his voice in an attempt to imitate Addison. "I live here," he quotes. "Ducks don't live here."

(Okay, fine. The duck one sort of stirred some feelings in Addison. Yes, Clara sees ducks at various places in Central Park and also in a book they read to her, but honestly, she sees Addison a lot more than she sees ducks. But then Mama came at the end of February, and her heart soared in response.)

They keep going through the pictures, arriving closer to the end of the album. Clara with mashed sweet potatoes oozing out of her closed fists. Clara in the bathtub, with a carefully sculpted bubble beard, thanks to Mark. Clara lining up her stuffed unicorn next to the remote; they immediately texted that one to Amelia. And Clara holding a baby doll in her lap.

"She'll be such a good big sister." Addison's words are becoming slower with fatigue. "One day, hopefully."

"Yeah, she will. Addison…we're gonna lie down now, okay?" He can feel how heavy she is against him, but her limbs are loose, yielding to his movements as he helps guide her back under the comforter. Floppy tired. That's what they call it with Clara. "Can you shift over just a little?" He does the work again, rolling her so that she's halfway between lying on her side and lying on her stomach. "There. Perfect." Mark works his hand over her back, and although he has rubbed her back plenty of times, this time he tries to mirror the way she offered comfort after he found out what happened to his mother. He remembers how soothing it was when Addison swirled her palm over his muscles with no particular pattern in mind, and when she lets out a soft sigh, he can tell that his trailing fingers feel nice. A few more tears escape, but they are now the kind that are just an avenue to sleep.

Her voice is hoarse when she tells him, "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. We take care of each other. You taught me that one."

"We do. And tomorrow…we can do the sardine thing."

"We can. Hey." Mark uses a finger to lift her chin up so that her eyes can meet his. "You're loved," he says quietly. "And you're safe." Not his words. This time, Marie's. They are truer than anything else he knows to be true though, as long as he is with her and Clara. "And your daughter is just down the hall, and I'm right here with you. I've got you."

Addison's eyes slide shut. "Loved and safe," she repeats.

"Yes. Loved and safe."

. .
. .

Four Years Earlier

It does not take long after Addison has refreshed her wine glass to find one of the men she is looking for. It's Mark, who is scrolling away on his phone at a high-top table, probably bored out of his mind. Poor guy. No Derek though. Addison wants to be positive, to not immediately jump into accusatory mode. There are logical explanations. Maybe he stepped away to use the restroom. Maybe he is getting another drink, and she missed him at the crowded bar. Maybe one of Bizzy's friends recognized him and pulled him away for a minute, either to make small talk, or to tell him about her migraines, because people love to talk about their brains with Derek once they find out what he does for a living.

But, there is another logical explanation, one that is worse, given how much Addison could use Derek's support today. Is he answering a work call? He promised he wouldn't.

"Hi," she greets when she reaches Mark. "Sorry, I got caught up with a friend. We don't have to stay much longer. The awards aren't being handed out until six, and I told Bizzy we weren't going to stay for those. Where's my husband?"

"Still at the floral arrangement demo upstairs." Mark says this completely straight-faced. "I just got back from the garden design seminar."

Addison starts to laugh, chest vibrating as the welcome release washes over her. "I am so, so glad I wasn't taking a sip of my drink when you said that. Where is he really?"

"He ran into someone your mom knows when we were leaving the exhibit room. I'm sure he'll be back soon." Mark watches the slight narrowing of Addison's eyes before her face becomes a blank canvas again. He can tell that she doesn't outright think he is lying, but she doesn't entirely believe him, either.

Cover for me, Derek muttered when he walked away from the table, not even bothering to look at Mark first. And Mark knew exactly what cover for me meant, exactly what needed to be said and done when his friend paced away, phone cradled to his ear. It annoyed Mark that it was not a question, or even a request, but of course he covered for Derek; it benefits him as much as it does the other two members of his party. Addison must have said something to Derek about being off the medical grid this weekend, and covering is in the best interest of everyone since Mark does not want to have to sit through a tense car ride back to his hotel. He doesn't feel good about lying though. Not to her.

Addison sighs when a few minutes have passed. "He's taking too long."

"Better than it being over too quickly for you."

"Oh, stop." She looks amused though. "And, sorry," she adds. "That was rude of me. You're good company."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not boring you," Mark replies, tone light. Her remark did actually hurt a little, because they're friends, and in recent years, this tends to be the context in which Mark is friends with her. Not the flower part, obviously, but the one-on-one part. It's not that they are never a threesome anymore (he fights off a smirk at the double meaning), because he does still occasionally go over to the brownstone to watch a Yankees or Giants game with Derek, and Addison is usually close by doing other things, or sometimes they will all go out for dinner, but it's just…less frequent now. Most of his contact with Addison and Derek takes place at the hospital between procedures, and it is generally just one of them at a time, not both. Friendship felt easy, even effortless, in their twenties. Mark has realized that friendship in your thirties apparently has to be more intentional. They are all so busy though, and Mark assumes his two closest friends would rather spend time with each other when they actually have time. He mostly understands this. Isn't that what marriage is, after all? Choosing each other?

Sometimes it is really lonely though when you're not married and your best friend is. He looks away from Addison now, focusing across the room on a dark-haired woman with green eyes who caught his eye earlier.

"She's married," Addison warns. And a bitch, she thinks as Mark directs his attention from Tara LeFevre back to her. The married part Addison isn't sure about – at one point Tara was married, that much she knows – but the bitch part still stands, and while Addison normally doesn't care who Mark sleeps with, something about the idea of him trying to bed a woman who was an absolute monster to her when they were little kids just rubs her the wrong way.

"I was just looking. What?" Mark shrugs when she lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "I am able to just look, you know. I look at you plenty and you don't see me trying to mount you, do you?"

Addison feels her cheeks become hot, and she takes a sip of her wine so that she has something to focus on. She is certain Mark does look sometimes, because it feels like Mark is never not looking at women, even the ones who are off the market and married to his best friend, but he usually isn't this brazen with his words towards her. Or his gaze. Addison wonders how much he has had to drink. Or maybe she's taking it the wrong way, because regardless of how much Mark has had to drink, she has certainly had too much now.

"She looks married," Mark muses, thumbing at the stumble on his jawline. "I have a sense of these things, even without checking for a ring. I can tell if a woman is married, and if she's happy. It's a gift."

"And I suppose it's your job to give her your…gift if she doesn't seem happy." Addison finishes the rest of her drink, fast and unapologetic. "If you didn't know me and you looked at me…" she says, voice dropping as she twists the stem of her wine glass. "Would you think I'm happy? That me and my husband are happily married?"

"Yeah. Aren't you?"

What Mark really wants to ask is, Are you okay? Something has seemed off about Addison since she joined him at the table, and he regrets the sleazy and suggestive remarks that have been sprinkled in their conversation as a substitute for something more vulnerable. He probably should just ask her if something is wrong.

"Yeah. I am. We are. I was just curious." Addison holds up her empty glass. It is as empty as she feels. "I'm going to get a refill."

. .
. .

The food dance. It is another one of those quirky parenting phrases that Addison and Mark feel like they have invented, just another one of those things they feel is specific to their daughter, even though Clara is certainly not the only baby who, while in her highchair, wiggles around while pinching bits of food between her fingers. She just always seems so happy to get to eat, and it amuses them to no end to see her in action. Clara typically presents as most excited about breakfast though (she gets it from her paternal grandma, they think), and this morning is no exception. Addison has scattered blueberries, a sliced banana, a scrambled egg, and torn bits of pancake on her daughter's tray (Clara likes the sizzle sound of pancakes on the griddle, but it was a long night, so today's pancake came from a box in the freezer with Sesame Street characters on it), and Clara is doing her usual side-to-side rocking while contently eating her blueberries one at a time. Addison has a Spotify station quietly playing in the background to add to the cheerful setting, and she grins when she recognizes the opening notes to "Here Comes the Sun."

"This is one of Mama's favorite songs," she tells Clara as she rinses off some more halved blueberries. There are still plenty of other items on the tray, but blueberries are Clara's favorite at the moment, so Addison knows there will be a loud protest if more are not delivered soon, and she would prefer to keep the volume at a respectable level since Mark is still sleeping. "And it makes me think of you."

The lyrics do make her think of Clara. And her boyfriend. And the life the three of them have. It was a long, cold, lonely winter when her marriage started to collapse. And then everything changed. The ice did start to slowly melt. The sun crept over the horizon with Mark, when they decided they wanted to make their relationship work. She remembers telling him that when she was able to set aside the marriage in her head, being with Mark felt freeing and light. And that lightness continued as they grew more and more comfortable together, and then when Clara was born, she brought the sun all the way out with her.

"Here's some more, love." Addison makes a lip smacking noise near Clara's cheek that usually produces a smile and a belly laugh. "You know, you were once the size of a blueberry when you were in my tummy." She stays close by, relishing a few more cheek kisses and stroking the back of Clara's head, attempting to smooth down the soft, wispy strands that tend to stick out in the back after she has been sleeping. Clara has stayed a strawberry blonde, and although the odds of this coloring were pretty strong from a genetics perspective, Addison had assumed her hair would darken with time. So far, that is not the case. Clara is blonder from a distance, but more red-hued in the sun. She has a full head of hair, but it is not long enough yet to really do much with, and for that, Addison finds herself a little grateful. She remembers Phoebe at Clara's age, with enough length that Savvy could scrape her dark locks into spiky little pigtails. Addison fawned over Phoebe the first time she saw the pigtails, because they were adorable, but there was also a part of her that felt sad, because the style made Phoebe look older, much more child than baby.

Clara reaches up and calmly pats what she can of Addison's face while trying to grab a berry with her other hand. The hand thing. There is cheek-cradling when they read books. There are the times when Clara will reach up to stroke her fingers over Addison's face while being rocked to sleep. And there are all those ordinary, everyday moments where Clara will suddenly stop whatever she is doing, and come over and touch Addison's cheek. Addison even loves it right now, when the gesture seems less about love and more of the thanks, you can go now variety since she has ensured that Clara has not been deprived of more blueberries. She can't help being sentimental though. Especially this morning. "My heart beats for you. And for your daddy. And for…" she smiles when she hears footsteps, and peeks up in time to see Mark coming into the kitchen. "Oh, hey. Good morning." She leaves one more kiss on Clara's cheek, and then returns to the sink for a wet cloth to dab at the portion of her skin that is now a bit sticky from Clara's fingers.

Mark greets their daughter first, and she cheerfully holds out a blueberry for him. "Thank you, baby," he says softly as he eats a mostly-crushed blueberry (declining it is not an option). He then turns his focus to Addison, and comes over to her. He feels a little guilty, wishing he had heard Clara first this morning, as he would have really liked for Addison to have gotten more rest.

"I was already awake when I heard her stirring," she says, interpreting his unvoiced concern. "Here." She slides a warm mug in his direction. "I made you a cappuccino."

"You're too good to me."

"I think that's the line I should be starting with," Addison replies. His hand arcs up to rest against her jawbone, and she can see the question in his eyes. "I'm okay. I'm feeling a lot better. Being with you – and being home and getting some sleep – helped a lot. I'm going to email Marie on Monday though, and ask if she's able to see me sooner than April. It's probably a good idea not to wait." She studies him closely. "Are you okay though? Last night…that was a lot for you."

"I'm okay, too. I'm just glad you're feeling better." Mark pulls her against him. "Love you, Red," he murmurs close to her ear.

"I love you, too. You know, last night…when you told me I was loved, and safe…you were quoting my therapist."

"Don't your sessions get discounted when I do that?" He kisses the top of her head.

Addison laughs. "I'll have to ask. She'd be pleased to know you're a fan of her work, and probably even more pleased about how open we are with each other – well, she knows that, I've told her before. I needed to hear that last night, so I'm glad you said it, but you actually left off the first part of the quote, so it probably only qualifies for a partial discount."

"Where did I mess up?"

"It's been a while since Marie has had to remind me, but the full quote is: 'you deserve to be happy, and to be loved, and to feel safe.' And that…that brings me to…there's something else I want to tell you." Addison leans back so that she can look at him, and his arms drop, circling around her waist. "A happy thing," she says. "A good thing. I didn't want to talk about it last night though, because of…because of everything else going on. I didn't want the things to be tied together."

"Separate boxes," he states. Also a Marie thing.

"Exactly."

A happy and a good thing. The reality is that so many things are happy and good about their life, but it still strikes Mark as interesting phrasing. The immediate thing that comes to mind is something they only just recently put back on the table, so there is a part of him that doesn't think it's that, but then again…this moment reminds him of another moment he will always carry with him. It's Addison's smile, and the look on her face, like she's dying to tell him something. It's the cappuccino she made for him. It's the fact that she is wearing one of his shirts, and her face is bare of makeup. It's the light shining in through the window. And it's how they were standing in the kitchen, not too far from here, when she told him not that she was pregnant with Clara, but that she was ready.

"I'm pregnant," Addison says softly. "I…" she stumbles for a moment, mesmerized when she sees how broad his smile has become. God, she loves this man so much. Her expression matches Mark's when he excitedly tugs her into his arms again. "I brought home a pregnancy test last night," she says, wanting to share the details. "And I took it first thing this morning. I suspected for a few days now, but I wasn't officially late until Thursday. I was feeling like how I felt with Clara though. And just like with Clara, I didn't have to do any LMP calculating. I know exactly when it happened." She cannot explain it. It is just a feeling. She felt it that night in Montauk with Mark when they conceived Clara, and she felt it earlier this month when they spent the weekend in Westhampton. She pauses, and then cannot help letting go of a light, teasing giggle when she tells him, "You asked for this, you know."

"Wait…it was that time?" Mark grins when Addison tells him that, yes, it was in fact that time. "Damn." He joins her in laughter. "I'm really good." And then he hugs her tighter, sobering as the news settles into him a little more. He wonders sometimes how he could possibly deserve this good and happy of a life. This beautiful of a life.

"Dada."

"Clara, your mother and I are having a moment here," Mark says, but he is already turning in their daughter's direction after his good-humored words, completely jubilant. He cleans off her hands and face, removes her bib, and then scoops her into his arms. He returns to where Addison is, and adjusts Clara in his embrace, shifting her to a hip so that he can hold her with one arm and drape the other around Addison again. The peaceful stillness will not last long, he knows. Clara is always a little snuggly after breakfast, but soon enough she will want to get down and play. "Baby." He kisses her cheek. "You're gonna be a big sister." He looks at Addison again, who is looking up at him, her blue eyes a shade darker in all these threads of morning light. "I can't believe it."

"Mark…let's get married."

His lips peel back into another smile. "Yeah?" He asks.

"I don't want to not be married to you anymore. But I kind of…I kind of want you to ask me." Addison shrugs, a little bashful. "Not right this second, but sometime soon, will you ask me to marry you? I think I'd like to get married before I reach the beluga whale stage of pregnancy. The proposal doesn't have to be a big thing…I just want you to ask because I want to be able to say 'yes' to you."

Mark nods. "I promise I'll ask sometime soon."

"I think I'd like to do something small…like just us. Like, a courthouse wedding, then have a nice dinner or something with our closest friends, and family. And a honeymoon, of course. I wouldn't want to deprive you of a honeymoon," Addison says, which makes him chuckle. "If a wedding plan like that is okay, I mean. If you want something different, or something more traditional then we can -"

"Whatever you want is fine with me."

Because the truth is, he'd marry her anywhere.

. .
. .

"You should sleep in tomorrow." Addison loops an arm over Mark's waist, intent on rubbing his back. So we're even, she had said when they first got into bed, but her touch turned into something else when he kissed her deeply and stroked his tongue over hers. They have made love twice tonight, taking their time with drawing the experience out for one another. Addison thinks it is a combination of making up for last night, and today's big news. "I texted Lynette," she continues, "and she's going to bring the boys to Bendheim. I thought we could meet her there. That won't be until later though, so you can still get a bit more rest."

"I think you should sleep in, actually. You were up first this morning. And I remember how tired you were during your first trimester with Clara." Mark hooks his hand under Addison's elbow, guiding her arm back between them. He grins when she makes a noise of displeasure at him for interrupting her. "I'm all right," he assures. "Really, I am. And I was able to sleep once you nodded off. I was just worried. When you were shaking, I didn't really know what to do other than hold you and just…let you process what you could." He rolls onto his back, bringing Addison with him. He waits until her head is settled on his chest before he shares, "Then I thought of the picture thing, and the loved and safe thing. I wasn't sure if there was more I could do to help though. It felt like I was just winging it. It felt right, I guess, but it also felt like I was winging it."

"You definitely did everything right. You were wonderful. And if I hadn't…I eventually would have settled down, even if you hadn't shown me pictures of our cute kid. Showing me the pictures was good, and probably fast-tracked the calming down part, but being close to you would have been enough. You know, I didn't…" Addison briefly loses her words when one of his hands starts mapping her upper back. She snuggles a little closer, welcoming how good it feels when Mark outlines slow circles. "I didn't really know what to do the night you…you found out what happened to Jenny. Not completely, anyway. It was like you just said: right but also winging it. I just wanted to be there for you. So I did what made the most sense. I think that's all we can ever really do for each other, and it always seems to work somehow."

Addison knows that therapy helps, but most of it is just knowing each other and knowing how to meet one another's needs. She has realized that love the first time around is more about learning, and love the second time is about discovering. And even though it really hasn't been that long that she and Mark have been together, and have been in love, she still thinks he knows her better than anyone.

"Also…I'm supposed to be doing this for you right now," she says in reference to the back rub. It feels too nice to object any further though.

"It's fine. I want to do this. Clara had a role that night too, with my mom." Mark smiles warmly at the memory of the one part of that night that was not excruciating to live through. "Remember? You shook me awake when she was hosting a World Cup match in there."

"I remember." Addison quiets for a moment. "I know other people are good. It's right to have a support system, and I'm glad we have one, but you and Clara…you're all I really need. Just the three of us. I think that's why…I've had the big wedding before. A large, fairytale wedding, with the music and the flowers and the dress. Well, you know all that…obviously. And it's not like…no matter how we became a couple, we are no less deserving of a large, fairytale wedding with the music and the flowers and the dress than any other couple, so it's not anything like that at all, but…" she rotates so she can rest her chin on Mark's chest and view his face properly. "Whenever I've thought about us getting married, I've pictured us eloping, even if it's just to Lower Manhattan. Something about it is just more intimate, and when I have memories of that day, I want you to be the only thing in the memories. The details don't matter to me; you matter to me. And Clara, too, because in all those pictures in my head, she's by our feet when we exchange rings, and she's holding the stupid remote. So, the three of us. That's my dream."

"I like that picture. And I like that dream." Mark moves them over again, and Addison is excited to learn that their night is not quite over yet. Not for her at least, when he starts to maneuver a hand between her legs. "You're wrong about one thing though, Red," he says just before his lips press against the hollow of her throat and she emits a soft moan. "It's the four of us, now."

. .
. .

Addison sighs blissfully as she watches Lynette push Clara in her bucket swing, with Rowan close by, eager to help with guiding her daughter back and forth. They are currently at one of Addison's favorite playgrounds in Central Park. She supposes there is nothing particularly noteworthy about it, but she likes that it's close to the Reservoir and Conservatory Garden, and she knows that when it's a bit warmer, Clara – who still loves the water so much – will lose her mind with excitement over the red sprinkler tunnel. The sentimentalist in Addison also likes that Bendheim Playground is not far from where Clara was born. And where the next one will be born, too (they agreed to give it a few more weeks before they tell Lynette and their other loved ones their good news). And right now, Addison is definitely appreciative of the fact that after a little time conversing with Lynette while Clara played in the sandbox (because she likes sand today, apparently), Lynette encouraged them both to sit down, and said she would look after Clara. Addison and Mark took her up on the offer to go relax for a bit on one of the shade-surrounded benches, because they are now at the point in parenthood where they do not feel as guilty if someone offers to do something nice for them.

From where they are seated, they can see their daughter's mouth open, positively joyful as long as the swing stays in motion. Next comes her froggy little laugh when Rowan – who definitely is more obsessed with Clara than he is with Addison now – makes a funny face at her. Just Rowan today though. Not his eighteen-month-old brother.

"Lynette said that Anna and Charlie took Rowan to a movie yesterday, so right now they're having a little mommy and daddy time with just Beckett. I think that's really sweet," Addison shares. "I guess we'll have to figure out ways to do that too, the balancing thing, when this next one comes. I know Clara adores other babies, especially ones that are littler than her, but she's definitely going to be jealous when she realizes that she has to share in being the center of our world."

"We'll figure it out," Mark says. "We'll adjust."

"We always do."

Addison wonders about his hand movement, the way his thumb keeps burying inside one of his pockets. It occurs to her now that Lynette was really, really insistent on them both sitting down and taking a break, and perhaps it was not just out of motherly and aunt-ly love. And Lynette's back is to them now, which seems like such a weirdly deliberate choice, as though Lynette – who is dotingly in their business quite a lot – is trying to offer them privacy. And, oh. There it is. A jewelry box is now in Mark's hand. And Addison cannot help it; she starts to giggle. His expression shifts into one of confusion.

"Oh, Mark, I'm sorry." She skims her fingers over his elbow. "I'm not laughing at you. I just – I know we're on a tight timeline here, but I didn't mean to make you feel like you had to blast off on your jetpack and immediately get a ring." He did end up running some errands yesterday afternoon, both to pick up their dry-cleaning and to grab a few things from the grocery store, and although he did take a while, Addison had originally chalked it up to what Savvy refers to as, "typical male incompetence while food shopping."

"I actually…I actually bought it last fall." Her eyes soften in surprise at this revelation. "You mentioned something in October…you were complimenting Savvy's earrings, and you said that you wanted to get studs in that color. So I asked her about them when you were changing Clara – she said they were amethyst. And I didn't want to forget, so I went out a few days later and got a pair for you."

Addison nods. "They were a Christmas gift."

"Right. And while I was at the jewelry place, I started looking at rings. And I…I got one for you. I almost proposed at Christmas. The box was in one of my drawers, but I couldn't bring myself to go get it. There was just so much going on," he says, and she knows what he means. Neither wanted to miss a single minute with Clara, or with each other. "And it's not like…it's not like I was waiting for the right time, because it didn't really feel like there was a wrong time. Maybe I was just waiting for you to tell me when to do it." They both smile at this. In all those Mark and Addison gradually, and then suddenly moments that it took to get here, Mark waiting for her is what sort of makes the most sense. "So." He inhales slowly. "Before I show you, I just want you to know it's not really a traditional engagement ring…you know, like a diamond. It's a halo-style, so there are diamonds, but it's not really a diamond ring. It's just when I saw it – or well, a similar one in the store, I mean, because I had to customize it – it's just what I pictured proposing with. But I'll get you a diamond ring, of course. A huge one. Any one that you want."

She smiles at the closed box. "You're going to let me see this one though, right?" And, then, finally, Mark opens the velvet box, revealing a platinum triple halo ring with three round, colorful gemstones surrounded by diamonds.

"It's our birthstones," he tells Addison, though it was clear to her even before he said it. Garnet, aquamarine, and emerald. His birthstone and hers, and Clara's nestled in the middle. "I'll need to take it back in anyway, since eventually we're going to need to add another jewel. I'm not sure what November -"

"Topaz," she tells him. "It's gorgeous, Mark. I love it." It is gorgeous. A diamond would be gorgeous too, and honestly, yes, there is a part of Addison that does want a diamond ring, she cannot pretend there isn't, but she can understand why Mark wanted to propose with this ring. It's a perfect ring to propose with. Her whole dream is right there in this ring, minus the November part. She blinks a few times, not wanting to shed tears, even though they are happy ones. She wants to see all of this. He slides the ring on her finger. It glimmers in the afternoon sunlight that is pushing through the trees.

"I'm glad you like it. You know I'm never certain with the jewelry stuff." He grins. "And this was just a 'me' one. I didn't even run the design by Lynette or ADA Jacobs-Levin. It just…it felt like this was the right one."

"It's definitely the right one." Addison gives his knee a quick squeeze. "And the answer is 'yes,'" she tells him, lips tweaking into a smile. "But…you haven't actually asked me, yet. I don't need you to do the bended knee thing. I just want you to ask."

"Right." He starts to chuckle. "You're right; I still need to ask." He has had the ring for five months, but was still not really sure what he would say when he proposed. The words come easily now though, the simplest and truest ones he knows. "I love you," Mark says softly. "More than anything. I've loved you for such a long time. I love who you are, who we are when we're together, and what we've created together. Will you marry me, Addison?"

"Yes. Yes, Mark. I'd love to marry you."

. .
. .

---

References/Nods to Various Episodes

Books mentioned: The Very Hungry Caterpillar (Eric Carle), Goodnight Moon (Margaret Wise Brown), and On the Night You Were Born (Nancy Tillman).

Songs mentioned: "Here Comes the Sun" (including some lyrics) and "Eight Days a Week," both by the Beatles.

"Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer" but make it W's is a Maya thing from Private Practice 3x23. It was also referenced in an earlier chapter (including the tape deck, which makes me LOL).

In the Private Practice series finale (6x13), Addison made a video for Naomi, and she mentioned in it, regarding her first wedding, "I had this very large fairytale wedding. You know, with the music and the flowers and the dress."

The next chapter will probably feature a similar waiting time, due to stupid life stuff and because there are still some things I need to figure out (I think there will be 4 more chapters, but you know better than to believe me). I debated so many times about ending the fic somewhere around this point, but nothing about this story has been easy (purposely), and ending it here would have been the easy way out. I still intend to bring Derek (and Meredith) back into the fold to allow for some closure, so that's coming very, very soon.

There will be another time jump, but I will have some flashbacks, including at some point, um, that time that Addison and Mark mentioned. Thank you for reading! Stay safe out there.