March 20, 2010
His pager rouses him just as sleepy stars begin to blink and show their silvery faces to the moon, and as he hurries out to his Land Rover, teeth chattering, he throws a glance to the sky, comforted by the fact that Addison is looking at that same moon.
It's far away, but he prays that she'll keep looking up at that moon, even as danger wraps unwelcome fingers around her. He has always hated feeling helpless, ever since his mother got off the phone one November night and told a littler version of himself that his father wouldn't be coming home anymore.
By the time he arrives at the hospital, pulling his scrub coat over an indigo sweater Addison had bought him in the early days of their marriage, Edward Atherton, the patient he's been treating for months, has already joined his beloved Phoebe. The old man's face is peaceful in death in a way it never was in life, even in sleep – he looks satisfied, a little smug, and ultimately serene. He watches as workers from the morgue wrap up the frail husk of a body, and something like loss tugs at his heart.
"Dr. Shepherd?" Surprised, Derek looks up to find the body nearly out of the room and the nurses tidying up what is left. One of them has her arm extended, holding out a small bundle for him. "This is addressed to you."
He takes it from her, twists it around to read his name, scrawled in nearly illegible font across the faded writing of the first letter. And then he understands. Edward kept the letters Phoebe sent to him while he was fighting in WWII, and maybe she kept the ones he sent back.
Five years. It's never too late.
He shouldn't be thinking this.
What are the chances?
So he passes his 9 o'clock craniotomy off to 'Shadow' Shepherd and sinks down on the floor of the nearest on-call room, heart pounding as he pulls the rubber band binding the letters away and lets it flutter to the floor. Five years of correspondence. How long has it been since he's seen Addison again? A war ridden county. What was that he'd seen on the news about Sudan this morning?
The ancient paper is like eggshells between his fingers, and as he pulls the first envelope open and cradles the key to a couple's love and reconciliation carefully between his fingers, he wonders if he was wrong not to fight, wrong even now by not giving everything to either woman. He loves Meredith, but enough to send her love letters consistently for five years? He cares about Addison, but is it purely platonic still?
So he writes and tries to convince himself that the ink blue letters he writes spell the truth without any omissions, but doesn't quite succeed.
Addison,
I have to admit, I would have thought you'd have had enough of the desert by now, but I guess I was wrong. If Africa is good for you, though, that's good. I want you to be happy – and we lost happiness in New York, I made sure you didn't have any in Seattle, and then even when you moved to Los Angeles … well, I just wanted to let you know that I understand, but if it's not safe there, you have to come home.
I was thinking, maybe, when you come here (I don't know when you're planning to return) I could take you out or something? Show you the city, since we never really did that? The Space Needle can't compare to the Empire State Building, but it does have cute little viewfinders. We should get Chinese, too, Karev knows this great little place he's been keeping secret for who knows how long – anyway, sorry, rambling, you all about that, Adds. Let me know when you're planning on heading back.
No, I suppose we will most likely never have to label another box of sex toys. And you've threatened to kill me more times than I can count.
About Callie, Addison … well, I don't know if she's written you lately, but she … she and Mark … well, they're kind of together, I guess. I don't know how serious it is, but they've done stuff, and they have a history, and … yeah. Mark said to tell you he's going to take good care of her, and that he's committed, though. I think he's serious, Addie. Just don't freak out, okay?
I'm trying to put it in a box, Adds, but the closer it gets to my wedding, it's just all coming back now. I know it's not exactly convenient, but … I keep thinking about things, like how you looked for four leaf clovers in Central Park when we used to have picnics there, and how long you took to pick out flowers for our wedding. I don't know how not to bring it back up now.
And I want to be friends, Addie, this is going to sound stupid, and you're going to yell, but I need you. Seattle is a soap opera with surgeries squeezed in wherever possible, and talking to you distances me from that. It's … we're friends, good friends, because I know so much about you and you know so much about me. What I did with Meredith when we were married, even before Prom … it was wrong, and I don't want to hurt you or her or anyone else like that ever again.
Meredith may not be happy with it, but we still live in her house with her friends – and if I want to have a friend, other than Mark, who only talks about sex, baseball, and beer, and Richard, who's busy with hospital stuff, well, I can. I'm not neglecting Meredith to write, but she's still insecure about me – and you – even after all these years. I love her, I just … why is everything so hard?
I guess I just wish something could have been done. I know you tried to talk to me, and I brushed you off time after time, but I was afraid to face what our marriage had become, afraid that I wouldn't know how to fix it and you would look at me with tears in your eyes and I just couldn't. I'm sorry. I kind of understand about Mark, now, I guess. He was your friend too, and you saw more of him than me. In some ways I wish you would have left instead, because maybe I would have came to my senses and gone after you, but I guess we'll never know.
I always saw you as the wrinkly old lady who nagged me about everything and me as the wrinkly old man with the defective hearing aid who had to beg you to repeat the commentary on the Yankees back to me, but of course you wouldn't. Even after all this time, sometimes I still think of that when I try to imagine my life in forty years, and it's weird that it won't be like that. But I'm glad we're at this place now, because I'll always care about you. That's something I don't think I'll ever be able to erase.
Please be careful – I can't believe you can hear actual grenades. I know you want to help these people, but these are troubled countries, and if they're in the middle of a war, well, there's only so much you can do.
Derek
P.S. It doesn't feel like it's in the past, especially lately. It's eating at me. I don't think we should keep it a secret anymore.
She has just reached Derek's very last sentence when the whining begins, sounding closer than she's used to. She spins, sending sand flying as she gazes at the small village that has become her impermanent home as the high shriek grows louder and louder. She barely has time to curl in a ball, letter against her heart and hands over her eyes, before the grenade hits and the world explodes in sound and fire.
It's less dramatic than it sounded; she realizes as she sprints back, shoes dangling from limp fingers as her bare feet dig into the cool, moon-illuminated sand. She sees a few damaged huts and blown over tents, and, of course, the glow of lights turning on as people scurry about, seeking out loved ones. Other than that, however, the village and its occupants seem fine, but her panic refuses to die down until she can see it with her own eyes.
"Ahduhson?" the sound of her name slows her, blue green eyes flashing around until she spots Miri on the ground, shards of pottery impaling her leg. She pulls one the woman's skinny nut-brown arms over her shoulder and heaves, feeling her companion wince as she does. At one time she probably could have lifted Miri, but these days she has little excess strength; all of it goes to patching up as many people as she can.
She leaves Miri in the capable hands of Dr. Cailen Olivarez, the muscular, honey-eyed doctor who had recently arrived from Chicago. He kneels beside the woman and speaks in soft, comforting words Addison can't quite make out.
"W-where … where -" she begins, trying to speak, but the words won't leave her lips. And despite only knowing her for a few weeks, Dr. Olivarez knows what she's trying to say.
"Everyone's fine, Addison."
"You're sure?"
"Of course – well, everyone who isn't in here. But Kilanna brought Dai in, and …" She turns, following his glance to the three-month-old screaming on account of the burn on his shoulder. The flesh doesn't look seriously charred, just red and puffy, but they both know it can spell death for an infant of this age, especially one who won't receive medical care in a top-rate, and more importantly, sanitary facility.
Within no time the wound is bandaged and as disinfected as is possible, but even as she sways late into the night with him swaddled on her shoulder, hips rocking back and forth as years of experience have taught her, the baby's fever rises and he sobs through the night. She's aware of her other duties but also aware that someone will take care of them for her, and the only thing that escapes her notice is Cailen's gentle, tawny gaze upon her.
