Sam/Addison - "the unexpected"
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The Great War
- Mid Atlantic
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"Did I do something?" Sam asks, wiping his mouth with a cloth napkin as they feast on Chinese food out by the noisy ocean. She's touched almost nothing, said even less, and has been stand-offish since before bed last night. She jumped out of a kiss after lunch, excused herself during their morning meeting, and spent most of the day in and out of ORs.
"No," Addison replies with a weak smile. He's been annoyingly perfect, patient, there.
"Did I forget something?" Sam asks, calculating dates in his head. He never thought her to be one of those women who celebrated silly things like the first time they ever kissed, but he's been wrong before.
"No, Sam, it's fine," Addison shrugs, pouring another glass of wine. Her third. And God willing, she'll drink the whole bottle by herself, if she can do it undetected.
"Talk to me, Addison, come on," he pries, his chopsticks falling rakishly into a pile of chilled noodles. "Did you lose a patient?"
"I did four c-sections. Three boys, two girls, all as healthy as can be expected," Addison replies softly. Her heart just isn't in it, but she can't say it out loud yet either. It's so surreal, the conversation, the aching moments that followed the dial tone. It's almost as if it never happened, but it did, she knows, because it hurts when she swallows, when she breathes, when she blinks.
And the worst is, she wants Naomi, not Sam. Because the situation calls for her best friend, not her boyfriend (however rapidly he may be filling the void). But she has her pride, and crawling to Naomi's doorstep drenched in tears seems like a below the belt shot. She avoided her office all day, stayed cooped up at St. Ambrose to avoid the temptation, to strengthen her resolve.
"I can't help you unless you tell me what is going on," Sam tells her, wishing for once it would come easy, because seeing her in this kind of pain isn't a great way to spend the night, and it makes him want to hug her until she can't inhale.
"Nothing is going on," Addison refutes. There are probably a million things going on, but not on this side of the United States. There's nothing here, no remnants, no memories flooding her mind.
She watches him clear their plates, her's laden with food, rinse the glasses slowly. He's buying time, she doesn't blame him.
"You should stay at your house tonight," Addison tells him, sneaking into the kitchen with glass of wine number four.
"What did I do?" Sam yells a little too loudly, as she retreats up the stairs alone. He loads the dishwasher, refills Milo's water, and then takes to the banister determined.
"Addison," Sam starts, breezing through the previously shut door. "I'm sorry, whatever I did or didn't do- I'm sorry-" He stops when he sees her lump, completely under the covers of the bed, no clothes discarded on the floor. There's a delicate shaking, a sound he wishes he didn't recognize, and he peels back the comforter.
A ball seemed like the most comforting thing at the time, pulling her knees to her chest, it was all she could do to hold it in until the sanctuary of her own space. And then, fist in mouth she let herself go. All air sucking, lung burning, clinched eyelids, sticky hot tears. Sobbing, like a ridiculous child. And of course Sam wouldn't leave her like she asked, not after being so aloof all day. She should've known.
She can feel him form his body around hers, hear him grunt trying to get the sheets back up over both their heads, his breath a welcome breeze on the back of her neck as she fights for composure. She wants Naomi, because Naomi wouldn't pretend it was all okay, and she wouldn't try and stop her from drinking too much and eating too little. She would just know what to do and say, and Addison longs for that understanding, fears she's forever jeopardized it.
"Addison," she can hear him repeating over and over, distantly, as if he's ten feet behind her.
Her hands are locked under the weight of his tight hold, feet tangled around his calves, and she feels like she's suffocating. She wants him off, she wants to wallow incoherently, she wants to cry herself to sleep but he's hellbent on pacifying her.
She gives, crumples in a fashion entirely disgraceful, and whispers, "Archer's dead." again and again until he relinquishes his grip and allows her to mourn in the only way she knows how- alone.
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