A/N: Surgery time. I stressed and cut and revised, but it's still long. I can't believe this story is at 20 chapters already when it sat at four chapters for years and years, but here goes...

if all of the strength and all of the courage come and lift me from this place

When she was six years old, there was an eclipse. Archer was eight and he showed her how to make a pinhole projector out of cardboard to protect her eyes, with just one tiny hole for the light to come through. Otherwise, you go blind, Archie said.

That's what it feels like now. Her mind is a pinhole projector, as she stands in the hospital hallway that smells of disinfectant and shoe leather and watches the door swing closed on the surgery that could save her daughter's life. It's not cardboard, it's a solid sheet of terror – with just one little pinhole, allowing for one thought at a time. That's all that can squeeze through.

Just one thought at a time.

She pulls at her husband's arm. "Gallery," that's all she can say, one word for her one thought and he shakes his head.

"You're not watching."

"Not the … not the surgery, Mark," she forces the words out, "but I need to be there for the … I need to hear him say it. I need to," and her voice rises in something like panic and she feels him moving in to calm her.

"Okay, Addie. Okay."

In the gallery she rests a hand on the cool glass, looking down into the operating room at the three people she's entrusted to save her daughter's life. The only ones who will, and the only ones who can. Brains, skill, nerve.

She watches the familiar movements of a busy operating room, the glint of instruments, the sea of blue, and she waits.

And waits.

"Come on, Derek. Say it … say it …"

The microphone's off but he looks up at her as if he's heard her, just for a moment, and there's something she recognizes in his expression.

She watches as Derek turns back to the surgical team surrounding Annabel.

"It's a beautiful day to save lives." From her position in the gallery she can see his mouth move, quirking into something almost like a smile. "Let's have some fun."

Relief turns her knees to jelly. She can go now.

..

Callie's told her where to find them, so she's not surprised to find her son in a protective apron covered in plaster dust, grinning from ear to ear. He runs over when he sees his parents, Mark whisking off the smock before he reaches them, and Addison lifts him into her arms, burying her face in his soft fragrant hair.

The pinhole is Max now, her son's sweet face is all she can see.

"Did you have fun, sweetheart?"

"So fun," he says dreamily. "Dr. Callie knows how to break all the stuff."

"Thank you so much," Addison turns to this woman she thinks perhaps she can start to call a friend. "I hope he wasn't too much trouble."

"He was great." Callie grins. "Better behaved than some of my interns."

"Is Annabel awake now?" Max asks, resting his chin on her shoulder.

Addison's mouth is dry when she tries to respond.

"Not yet, bud," Mark intercedes. "She just went to sleep, so it's going to be a little while. You're going to go hang out with Ida, who is … downstairs right now," he says, checking his blackberry.

They leave with a few more thank-yous and Callie tells them to page her if they need anything. Addison has a moment of panic when they start to hand Max off, wishing he could stay with them, not wanting to let go of another child.

"He needs to be a kid," Mark says quietly after Ida leaves with both boys in tow, his arm around her shoulder, and she just nods, not trusting her voice.

Karev is walking up to them, nodding to Mark, and Addison bursts in before he can talk.

"You'll scrub in? You said you'd update us every hour."

"I will," he assures her. "They know the plan. Listen, the family waiting room on Three East is yours. If you go somewhere else, just email me. I'll come find you wherever you are. I promise," he says when Addison starts to protest.

But then the corners of the lobby shimmer for a moment and her legs start to shake.

"Addison," Mark says sharply and she squeezes her eyes shut, trying to clear her head.

"I'm fine," she says, and that's how they end up in the cool misty air of the outdoor cafeteria.

She rests her hands on the back of a chair, steadying herself, and when the pinhole opens up again she looks up at Mark, who's holding a tray in his hands.

"Your father," she starts softly, and he shakes his head.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"But, Mark, we haven't…"

"Addison, stop. Can you just … "

She presses the heel of her hand into her forehead, trying to forestall tears.

"…just come over here," he says gruffly, setting the tray onto the table, and pulls her into his arms.

For long moments they just stand there in the mist, embracing. She inhales deeply against his shoulder. He smells clean, familiar, like soap and the leather of his jacket. He cups the back of her head reassuringly and she feels contained.

When she draws back he brushes his thumbs lightly on her face, wiping her tears.

"Come sit down, Addie. Sit down and eat something."

You can tell me what to do but I can't ask you about your father who just died. It's uncharitable and she doesn't say it aloud, but Mark can see her face and knows her too well not to get it.

"I'll eat too," he says, his tone a compromise. "We need to. Come on."

They share a sandwich that tastes like dust in her mouth, as hard to chew as rubber. She's not hungry and she's not certain she can keep food down right now, but just as her surgical training taught her to grab sleep whenever possible under any circumstances, so did it teach her that keeping her body fueled was absolutely essential to being able to provide care.

So she chews, swallows, chews more. Takes a sip of coffee. Slowly, her legs start feeling less like jelly.

But it's only been forty minutes.

She raises her eyes to meet his. "What are we supposed to do now?"

He touches her cheek. "We wait."

The pinhole pulsates in her mind, making her dizzy. "I can't."

He rests his hand over hers. "We have to."

She nods slowly, taking a shuddering breath.

He's looking at her, his blue eyes soft, and like so many times before, they don't need words.

I can't take one more thing.

"No," she whispers. She's not ready to talk about it.

"Please, Addison."

She shakes her head.

"It's going to be hours. I can't – we can't have doubts. Not now." His voice cracks on the last word and that's what makes her nod her head, slowly.

"Addie. I would never –" he stops, draws breath, starts again. "You, of all people-"

She cuts him off, her heart pounding. "That's what he said you said." The words burst out of her. "Addison of all people would understand."

"That's what who said … what?"

"Someone … told me about it, afterwards," she says, loyalty to Philippe keeping her from naming him, but he's still looking at her expectantly. "A waiter," she says finally, "I asked him."

"You asked him." He shakes his head. "Jesus, Addison, what is this? A French farce? Why didn't you ask me?"

"You don't get to be angry about this," her voice shakes. "You're the one who…" She starts to push her chair back and finds it won't move; she looks down to see Mark's foot is keeping it in place. "Stop, I want to get up."

He doesn't move. "Don't, Addison. Please. We need to finish this."

She strains to push the chair one more time; it doesn't budge. Resigning herself to staying seated, she turns her body away from him.

"Addie." His voice is gentle. "I know you don't want to talk about this, but we need to. Every time you told me you didn't want to talk about it I listened, and we didn't talk about it, and then it just – sat there and festered, and it's enough now. It's enough."

She feels his hand on her shoulder, big and warm. He says her name again, and she turns her body, just slightly, so she can see his face. His jaw is set; his eyes are dark with concern.

"Why didn't you come talk to me?"

"You don't get to ask the questions, Mark. I get to ask the questions."

"Okay. You ask them."

"Are you having an affair?"

"No, Addison, of course not, and I told you that last week when you – "

"You said it wasn't what I thought. That's what everyone says."

"I'm not everyone."

She looks away.

"After all this time, Addie, you don't trust me?"

"I saw the way you looked at her," she says finally.

His brow furrows. "What do you mean? You were there?"

She shakes her head.

"What, then? Another spy?" Off her expression his eyes widen. "You've got to be kidding me."

"My resident took a picture," she spits, finally deciding to put it all out there. "I saw it, and I saw you, and I do know you, Mark, I know the way you were looking at her and it wasn't like the way you look at med students or … whatever. You were looking at her like you … cared," she says finally, the best way she can express it.

"Addie."

She glances up at him.

"A picture and a … waiter, and you think I'm having an affair?"

Her cheeks flush with heat, and she doesn't respond. It sounds ridiculous, the way he's saying it, but…

"Since the moment you told me you were pregnant, it's only been you, but that's where your mind goes first?"

"She's practically young enough to be your daughter!"

"Not just practically."

For a moment her head spins. "Wait - what?"

"She is my daughter."

And her world shifts. She stares at him and slowly, he nods.

"I had no idea." Mark grimaces. "None. Not until she showed up at the hospital."

"How…" she can't form words. "Who…"

His face is set, gaze intent on her. "I wanted to tell you, Addie, and the kids, but ... I … needed to be sure."

Her brow furrows as she does the math. "Med school?"

He nods. "I met her mother at a bar, it was –it was just a few times, and then … she got pregnant."

"You never told us." Her voice sounds high to her own ears; she reverts to us like they're still in medical school.

"She told me she was going to get an abortion. It … didn't seem like a big deal at the time," he sounds embarrassed. "I was an idiot. She asked for money, I gave it to her, and I only saw her one time after that, a few weeks later, and she said she'd had it done."

"But she didn't."

"But she didn't," he says heavily. "And she didn't tell me."

"Are you sure…?"

"I ran the test myself. I needed to be sure."

He's not holding her chair anymore, but she finds she's no longer in a hurry to get up. She rests her hand on his arm.

"I did say that to her, that you of all people would understand. You would know why I needed to … know her, to try to make up for everything. This kid went her entire life without a father."

She nods. "But, Mark … it's not your fault. You didn't know she existed."

He shakes his head. "Samantha would rather pretend to have an abortion than let me get involved in her child's life. Would rather her kid had no father at all. That's what she thought of me. You knew me in med school, Addie. Can you blame her?"

"Yes, I can blame her," she says firmly. "You were … young, Mark, but you were a good guy. You were always a good guy," she says quickly when he starts to interrupt. "And that's no reason to keep a baby from you. That baby had a right to know you."

For a few moments they just breathe, Mark's gaze on the table.

"Mark…"

He meets her eyes.

"What's her name?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Sloan."

"She has your last name?"

"It's her first name."

"Oh." Addison nods, taking it in.

"I'm sorry, Addison. I'm so sorry. The last thing I wanted was to hurt you. I want you to know her. Hell, I want to know her myself. But I had to be sure, before I did that, and then …"

"We'll figure it out." She moves her hand on top of his, squeezing reassuringly.

"I'm sorry I … didn't think there could be another explanation," she says quietly.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tell you earlier, Addie. I couldn't find a good way to say I have another kid and leave it at that, not with …everything else that was happening at the same time."

He turns his hand and their fingers weave into each other automatically. There will be time to talk more about this – and much to say about it, she's sure – but for now it's enough just to breathe together.

..

"Doctors?"

Addison stands up so quickly her knee slams into the table, eyes watering.

"Everything's going well."

She exhales a short, painful breath of relief as Karev turns away with a nod of farewell.

For long moments they sit in silence, fingers intertwined.

..

"Mark…"

"Yeah?"

"I want to pick the next topic."

He glances at her.

"I want to talk about your father."

"Addison…"

"It happened and then it was like it didn't happen at all."

"Because it doesn't matter."

"It does matter," she says insistently.

"Leave it alone, Addie."

"No!" she's louder than she intends, and sees they've attracted a few glances. Embarrassed, she curves her body closer to Mark's for privacy and lowers her voice. "No, Mark, that's not how it works. We don't leave each other alone."

"Addison, please."

"We don't walk away and we don't say not now and we don't leave each other alone, Mark." Her tone is insistent. "That's how it works. That's how we work. You need to-"

"My daughter's skull is open on the table!" He turns on her, raising his voice, and her eyes widen with shock. His blue eyes are glistening. Instinctively she reaches out to touch his cheek, holding her hand flat against the heated skin of his face.

He turns to kiss her palm. "I'm sorry," he murmurs against her skin. "I'm sorry, Addie."

She leans closer to rest her head against his shoulder, no longer caring who's watching. "I know. It's okay."

She feels his body shifting against hers, one arm coming up to hold her.

"He never knew the kids," he says quietly into her hair.

She's quiet.

"He never knew me either."

"He missed out," Addison offers tentatively.

"He just didn't care. Not about his kid, not about my kids … he didn't care. He didn't care at all."

He's quiet for long moments and Addison just feels his steady breathing, his chest moving rhythmically against her body.

"I don't care that he's gone," Mark says finally. "I don't. I really don't care."

Addison just holds on to him.

"I don't, Addie."

She doesn't say anything.

"I don't … I don't want to. I don't want to care that he's gone. I don't want to care about him at all."

She shifts, holding him tighter. "I know. But you do care. You care so much about all of us, Mark – you do," and she hangs on when she feels his body tense under hers, before he can push her away. "I know it feels like it would hurt less if you didn't care but he's the one who missed out. Not you."

She leans her head against him again. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't care."

After long moments his fingers start threading through her hair. It's soothing, and she lets her breathing even out against him. She can't see his face but she can feel his cheek against her skull and feel him stroking her hair, feel the weight of his other arm against her back.

She feels the change in his breathing, but doesn't move, just holds on tightly.

It's over quickly. He kisses the top of her head. "I'm sorry," he says hoarsely.

She tilts her head back to kiss his damp skin. "I'm not."

They breathe together as a light rain falls, mist beading on the edge of the overhang like tears.

..

Mark reaches around her to snag her coffee cup and takes a long sip, then looks at his watch. "Shouldn't Karev…"

"There he is."

Addison stands again, missing the closeness as soon as it vanishes, but eager for news. Karev gives them a thumbs-up as he approaches.

She shivers a little as she watches his retreating back. Mark wraps his jacket around her shoulders, which is nice – it smells like him – and as they watch the mist turn to rain outside the sheltering roof, he suggests they go inside.

The family waiting room is … waiting for them, just like Karev said it would be. It's that forced kind of homey that just looks more sterile. Sadder. There are baskets of snacks, bottles of water, boxes of tissues. The couches are puffy as if stuffed cushions can offer comfort.

..

There's something about this period of waiting, this hour by hour countdown, that reminds her of the hours they spent waiting to meet their daughter, waiting for Addison's labor to progress. Except then they were waiting for birth, and now they're waiting for…

"Talk to me," she says abruptly, needing to interrupt her own thoughts.

Mark meets her eyes and seems to realize what she needs. He holds out one arm and she settles against him on the overly stuffed couch, and he talks to her about Annabel. He starts with the day she was born and then she joins in.

Annabel at birth, tiny and curled, little hands and feet drawn up like she's trying to recreate the womb. They swaddle her and hold her close in an attempt to imitate that safety, that security. They can't stop staring at her with wonder and with something else – recognition. Addison sees it in the way her left foot rests higher than the right one when she sleeps, just like her sonogram pictures. The way she'd kick her, from inside. They stretch out on either side of her in the big bed, propped on their elbows, and just watch her. Annabel lies on her back, blue eyes opening and then closing, struggling to focus, and everything she does is the most incredible things either of them has ever seen. She wraps tiny trusting fingers around Addison's thumb and they know she'll grow, she won't be this tiny forever, but she'll grow day by day so they won't see it. They just have to trust it.

Time ticks away, slowly.

Annabel at six months, filled out and snuggly, with a cap of dark hair, soft round cheeks and a ready, gummy smile. She laughs and coos and gurgles. Addison nurses her in the big white chaise in the corner of their bedroom and her eyes flutter shut with the rhythm of it, especially when Mark sits on the ottoman and massages her feet at the same time. Annabel reaches for everything, chunky little arms waving with excitement. They spend a lot of time moving things away from her grasp, and putting better things near her, but she doesn't want plastic keys, she wants their keys. She wants mashed bananas, which she gums with glee, and even peas, which she uses to decorate her face first. Green is her color, Mark says, deadpan, and maybe it's because she hasn't really slept since her daughter was born but it's somehow the funniest thing Addison has ever heard.

Karev comes in for another update, raised thumb preceding his body into the room before they can panic.

Annabel at a year old, pulling herself up on anything and everything. They nurse backaches from walking hunched over as Annabel pulls them along, using their fingers for leverage. When she lets go they clap. She sits down and her mouth forms a little pink o of surprise – then she, too, claps. She's back up then, and they make a little track for her, sitting with their legs outstretched and feet touching each other's, so that Annabel can walk between them and tumble, when necessary, onto one or the other of them. She loves this and never tires of it, giggling when she reaches either parent. Addison loves how everything feels so new, so exciting, as their daughter discovers it.

The pinhole of light expands. She sees her daughter's face in it.

Annabel at a year and a half, tearing through the apartment. She relishes her new power, desperately attracted to the stairs they've blocked off with gates. She won't give up, rattling the gates like a condemned prisoner and calling to them. Mama, help! Finally, they relent and teach her how to climb up on hands and knees, scoot down on her bottom. Her world opens up and she's thrilled, and Mark jokes that they'll never need to join a gym again, not with how much time they spend crawling up and down the stairs with their daughter. Their knees creak sometimes, but Annabel shrieks with laughter every time she reaches the top.

Her voice shakes. Mark suggests that she lie down, but that won't work. She needs to talk.

Annabel at two, nestled in what's left of her lap, listening to a story as they rock in the glider in her bedroom. Hi, she says, resting her hand on her mother's belly, because she's been told there's a baby in there, and Addison laughs. Annabel starts to feel just a little heavier as she gets sleepier, her skin warm through her pajamas, her head lolling. Addison waits until she's deeply asleep before she stands up with her, because she doesn't want to risk her waking up again and getting upset. Well, that and because she wants a few more minutes with that sweet smelling bundle dozing against her.

Karev comes in for another update. "She's okay," Mark says firmly when he feels her shaking against him. "She's okay."

Annabel at two and a half, nestled between them in the big bed, hands molded carefully around her baby brother. Mine, she says softly, one little hand touching his cheek. They smile, because it's her favorite word and everything is mine, mine, mine, but it also feels like more than that, like she knows that their family is complete. My baby, she says when Addison lifts him from her arms to feed him. Mine, Mama. Addison strokes her dark curls. You're both my babies, she says, and Annabel is indignant. Big girl, she corrects, and she leans against her mother as her brother nurses.

"Where's Karev?" Her voice quivers. "He should have been here-" but then he is there, and he's smiling, and she can breathe again.

Annabel at three, one little hand in each of her parents' as they walk with her to preschool. Ida is home with Max, because they worry Annabel feels left out with so much focus on the baby. They don't want her to feel any less special. Where's Max, she asks when he's not there. When he is there she says, watch me, Maxy, and she shows him how to push the little model of a subway train along the play mat. Watch me, Maxy, and she stacks the wooden rings of his puzzle in a row. He claps with glee when she does almost anything. With the baby at home Annabel looks so small again, barely more than a toddler. She has two dark pigtails and Mark's tilted nose and a big smile. Swing me, she says, so they do.

They sit and then stand, walk and then sit. Their bodies move through the room while their voices move through the last seven years.

Annabel at three and a half, holding Max's chubby little hands in hers, showing him how to walk. She doesn't let go until he could do it and then she claps with glee. He did it, Mommy, he did it! Max plows forward like a steamroller and Annabel laughs, chases him. It's okay, Maxy, she says when he plops down onto his thickly diapered bottom. Just get up, you can do it. He reaches for her, and she tugs on his hands until he's standing again. Watch us, Annabel orders, watch us, Mommy. Watch us, Daddy. He can walk!

"Everything's going well." Her voice breaks when she whispers her thanks.

Annabel at four, picking out letters and starting to sound out words. Every A is for Annabel, every M is for Max. They find her reading to Max as the two of them share the child-sized easy chair in her room, Max gazing at her adoringly as she makes her way through picture books from memory. There was a little boy, she recites, and he loved a tree. Tree, Max repeats solemnly around the thumb in his mouth. Annabel bends her dark head closer to his fair one and giggles.

The room feels hot and close, shimmering like they're in the desert.

Annabel at four and a half, insisting she's big enough for single bladed skates, mouth set stubbornly, little arms folded, and when they give in she wobbles, at first, on the ice and Addison moves forward to intercede and Mark says wait, give her a minute, and then she regains her balance and off she goes. She still likes to skate between them on Saturday mornings in the park, one mittened hand in each of theirs, but she's fast and darting now like a little hummingbird. She likes freshly cleaned ice, slick and glistening. Watch me, she'll call, as if they could do anything else but track her swinging dark ponytail as she twirls.

"Addison … you should eat something." But she ate already, and it isn't sitting well.

Annabel at five, trying on her school uniform, too excited to start kindergarten to stand still even for a moment. She wants to put it on every morning, even though school won't start for months. Is it today? She starts asking each morning, even though it's only May. Is today when it starts? She swims in her blue and white polka dot bathing suit, running through the grass of the backyard in Connecticut. All summer she waits. Is it today? Is it today? You're in such a hurry, Addison teases. Slow down, Bel.

She takes a bite of a granola bar at his insistence and regrets it immediately when her stomach curdles around the unwelcome intrusion.

Annabel at five and a half, finally walking to her first day of school, polished mary janes slapping the sidewalk because she can't contain her excitement. The air smells like promise and freshly sharpened pencils and they cross the street with dozens of little boys and girls bathed and sparkling and uniformed for a new school year. Max cries when they get to the big double doors of the school and she hugs him. I'm coming home after school, silly, she says, but Addison has tears in her own eyes too, and Mark wraps his arm around her.

She has just enough time to leap to her feet, pound into the hall and sink to her knees in the small bathroom off the family waiting room. It's unisex, a family bathroom, that's what they're called, and she hears Mark steps behind her before she feels his hands pulling her hair away from her face as she heaves.

The paper towel he rests on the back of her neck is rough, but the cool water is soothing. For a moment she just tries to catch her breath, lets him rub circles into her shaking back.

"Easy," he says quietly when she starts to push herself into a standing position, and she knows he's right and just melts sideways into him instead. He leans back to the wall and pulls her against his body and she stops herself from wondering when the floor was cleaned last – it's cold, cold tile seeping into her bones, and she just lets his warmth surround her instead.

After a minute she lifts her head. "Karev," she says hoarsely. "We need to go back."

She doesn't protest this time when he suggests that she lie down. He places one of the throw pillows from the couch on his lap and she rests her head on it, curling up along the cushions. With his fingers combing soothingly through her hair, she regulates her breathing, waits for her stomach to settle, and they pass the time talking more about their daughter.

Annabel at six, wearing a silver paper crown at the skating party she begged for, pink cheeks from the chill, towing Max across the ice so he won't feel left out. She skates backwards so he can go forwards. She wants a pink cake with vanilla frosting and Ida insists on etching a skate in icing and little silver sugar bells on the top of it. I love it, Annabel breathes when she sees it, blue eyes wide. It's the prettiest cake in the whole world. She wants to eat the part with the laces, and Addison cuts it for her, carefully, so it won't smear.

"It's been so long," she whispers. He doesn't answer.

Annabel at six and a half, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen island in her pajamas, detailing how different first grade will be from kindergarten. Knee socks, Max, she announces, with a dramatic pause. He stares up at her with fascination. His big sister. I want to go to first grade too, he says, blue eyes starting to fill with tears. You have to go to kindergarten first, Maxy, she reminds him. She's the only one who calls him that, her baby name. Mom, she says, because she's saying Mom more often now, not Mommy, and it gives Addison a little pang. Mom, are my socks ready? Are my knee socks ready?

"It's been too long." She checks her watch. "Six hours, forty-five minutes. Forty-six. They should be done."

She pushes herself up to stand and Mark catches her hand. "We knew it could go long. It doesn't mean anything."

"No. They should be done." She stands, shaking fingers knotting together.

"Addie."

But she paces the linoleum floor, wanting to move, but knowing she can't outpace the stress of waiting for the answers.

Mark stands up and starts to walk with her; she turns around and hangs onto him tightly.

"Keep talking," she says into his shirt.

Annabel at seven.

But she won't be seven for another week.

Annabel at seven.

She is still six for eight more days.

Annabel at seven.

"Annabel," she whispers her name, and she thinks she'll be the one to start a story, another memory, but she finds that her voice isn't working.

Annabel at seven.

Annabel.

Her face is wet. A button on Mark's shirt is pressing into her cheek.

Annabel.

Annabel.

"Doctors," and she pulls her face away to see Karev in the doorway, a broad grin on his face. "They did it. They got everything. She came through and they got everything."

"It's over?" Her voice sounds high, unfamiliar, and Mark is hugging her, and he's hugging Karev, and they're laughing as the edges of the room start shimmering.

Annabel.

The pinhole of light contracts and everything goes dark.

Please review and let me know what you think. Even I, angst monster, can't make you wait to see how the surgery went. (Surprised?) I hesitated to pack so much into this chapter, but I think those conversations needed to go here. The air had to be cleared. Agree, disagree? Click that button, pretty please - don't make an angst monster beg.

Title Lyric from Sarah McLachlan's Full of Grace