A/N: Thank you, as always, for sharing your thoughts and continuing to read this lengthy story. Time to wrap up some loose ends and move forward. I hope you'll continue to let me know what you think - especially as we get down to the wire!

but when the sun shines again, I'll pull the curtains and blinds to let the light in

Thankfully, Addison's profuse apologies - and the promise of a hefty donation to the ward they would have made anyway - settle the situation enough that security officers are content just to escort them off the hall.

No one speaks until they're alone, walking the rest of the way to Annabel's room, and then the first voice is their daughter's.

"Why were you so mad at Caitlin's dad?" Annabel asks, peering around Addison for a glimpse of her father.

"I wasn't. It was a mix-up," Mark says; he sounds numb. Addison is holding Annabel by the hand; Mark is walking on Addison's other side. She throws him the occasional glance – he looks weary – sad, even, his eyes pained.

What the hell happened in there?

"Caitlin's nice." Annabel continues to chatter as they walk, a hint of anxiety in her tone that's twisting Addison's heart. "She's my friend. She lives in Washington for real and has horses and everything, that's how she fell. We did paper chains together yesterday with Miss Tanya. They're good for bexterity."

"Dexterity," Mark corrects automatically – not looking at Annabel, Addison notices.

"An' she has a little sister that knows Max and they played together," Annabel continues. "But why were you so mad at her dad?"

"Annabel…" Addison starts gently.

"I wasn't mad at him," Mark repeats, still in that calm, numb voice. "I … thought he was someone else. It was a mix-up."

"Everything's fine, love," Addison murmurs to Annabel. She shoots Mark a look: Don't make this worse.

Annabel looks between her parents nervously as Addison helps her onto the bed – she sits on the edge, legs dangling in the soft pants she was excited to wear instead of pajamas. Addison sits down next to her, wrapping an arm around her; Annabel leans into her side.

Mark crouches in front of their daughter, low enough that she's the taller one. "I'm really sorry I scared you, sweetheart," he says softly. Addison sees him try to reassure her with a smile, but then for one horrifying moment she thinks he might cry. She's prepared to intervene, but then his face settles, and he keeps talking, his voice steadier now and more familiar. "But it's okay now, Bel. Caitlin's dad is fine, and so's Caitlin, and so are you, okay?"

Annabel looks from one parent to the other. "Am I still going home today?"

"Yes," Addison assures her. "But not for a few hours. Nurse Christie is going to help you with some things you need to do before we take you home, okay?"

She exchanges a glance with the nurse, hovering unobtrusively by the door. Christie has been wonderful, the perfect combination of talented professional and nurturing caretaker, and Addison hopes she won't judge their family too much based on what just happened.

Annabel twists next to her to look at her mother's face. "Where are you going?"

"Daddy and I are just stepping outside. We'll be back in a few minutes." She leans down to kiss Annabel's forehead, smoothing her long hair and rearranging it on the shoulders of her soft button-down top. "Mark?" She gestures at the door, giving him a look that she's pretty sure makes clear it wasn't an invitation.

..

She starts as soon as they're outside the ward, in a relatively quiet part of the hallway. "You want to tell me what's going on with you? – Wait," she shakes her head before he can answer. "No. Let me rephrase that. The time for want is over. You need to tell me what's going on with you."

"Addison…" His jaw is set, his face looks tormented.

"Mark. You could have really hurt him! You could have gotten us thrown out of the hospital – and I think we've called in enough favors at Seattle Grace for a lifetime. Thank god Bel's leaving today. And you scared that poor man's daughter and you scared our daughter and, Mark … you scared me too."

She sees the instant the words cut through him like a knife. For a moment, he seems unable to speak.

"I'm sorry," he chokes out again. "I'm so sorry, Addie, that's that last thing I…"

"Mark." She sees the anguish in his eyes; she wanted to get him to pay attention, not to wound him, and now she rests her palm against his flushed cheek. "Mark, you're not a volatile person. You're the steadiest man I know. You don't react like this unless…" Her words trail off. Unless our babies are threatened. The closest she's witnessed was watching him shoulder off with a man who tried to take a cab from them when Addison was six months pregnant and shivering on Lexington Avenue. And she remembers Annabel coming home on a summer evening brimming with the story of an electric bike that jumped the curb, and how Mark reacted.

But Annabel wasn't even in the activity room when he snapped.

"Mark … is there something you're not telling me?"

He can't seem to meet her eyes, but with her hand on his face he can't effectively look away, either. He's so much bigger than she is that it's never really occurred to her to control his movements like this – she doesn't intend to, not really, but she doesn't move her hand, and he doesn't back away, either.

"What happened in there to set you off?"

He doesn't answer.

"Mark…"

But they're interrupted before she can ask again.

"What's up, Golden Gloves?" Amy's cheerful voice feels all out of place in the intensity of the moment and Addison's hand drops almost automatically; she watches as Mark half-turns away.

"Amelia," Addison says tiredly. "Can you give us a-"

"I heard what happened. Wow. From, like, three different people already! So, which do you prefer? For the renaming, I mean, 'cause there are a bunch of choices out there. There's Psycho Sloan, that was a recovery nurse who came up with it, and Mark Tyson – that one scans well, I like it, but there's also-"

"Amy!" Addison raises her voice, surprising both of them, it seems, but Mark's shoulders have been looking stiffer and stiffer since she started her monologue, and she can't bear it.

Amy's eyes widen. "Sorry," she says, looking from one of them to the other. "I was just …"

"Well, just don't," Addison snaps.

Amy looks hurt – very much like her younger self, the teenager Addison met so many years ago, who would nip and nip at her older siblings until one of them took the bait, then Amy would pout … and usually tattle. For a brief crazy moment Addison pictures Amy running to the Chief's office to complain that they're picking on her.

"We're right in the middle of something," Addison says, calmly now, after drawing a shaking breath. "Amy-Amelia, can we just … talk a little later?"

"Sure." Amy holds up both hands, a declaration of innocence. "I was just coming to check on Annabel so I can sign her discharge papers."

"Thank you." Addison sighs, feeling guilty for snapping. "Amelia, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine. I'll see you in there."

Amy is so expressive, head to foot, that Addison can actually see the hurt in her gait as she walks away. Damn it. She'll just have to deal with that later.

"Mark." Addison touches his arm as soon as Amy takes her leave, and he winces. Glancing around, she leads him into an empty exam room and looks at him appraisingly once the door is closed.

"What did you do to yourself at the gym?"

"Nothing. Just overdid it a bit. It happens."

"It happens when something's upsetting you. Mark, I know you. I watched you practically break that rowing machine when you lost your first patient."

He doesn't respond.

"Look, Mark, I don't want to steal all your lines, but Annabel's coming home today. Derek's career is on the mend. The bad stuff … it's over. And you were fine through that, you were more than fine, actually, you were amazing. So why now? Why are you freaking out now?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Throttling a complete stranger who was playing with his sick kid is freaking out, Mark!"

She folds her arms, waiting for him to say something. This has gone on long enough.

"Annabel…" he says faintly.

"She's okay." Addison. "It's you I'm worried about right now."

"I thought she was Annabel," he mutters, finally, still not looking at her.

"You thought who was … oh." And suddenly it makes sense. "Oh, Mark."

She'd unloaded on him, the other night, and he was Mark, he absorbed her confession and her tears like he has so many times before, until she felt lighter, unburdened.

Because she burdened him. It's obvious he didn't sleep last night. She left him alone with Annabel and the mental images he must have of his wife at seven years old, unprotected, with no one to turn to.

No wonder he's been angry. No wonder he's seen threat at every turn.

She sighs, shaking her head. "Mark, I shouldn't have … I wish I hadn't told you. It's ancient history, I knew it would just upset you, and…"

"No," he says fiercely, gripping her upper arms and pulling her close to him, sounding desperate to make her understand. "Don't say that, Addison. Please don't say that."

"Okay," she says softly, not moving in his grasp. "Okay, I won't."

"I'm sorry." He releases her and presses a shaking hand to his face. "I'm so sorry, Addie, I don't know what I'm doing. I'm so angry, I just…"

She moves against his body instinctually and feels his arms come down to hold her, strong and familiar. For a long moment they stand there quietly.

"Mark, it was forty years ago. I know it's raw for you, but you have to figure out a way to work through the anger or at least…" she pauses. "...not assault strangers."

"He's not a stranger," Mark says ruefully. "He's apparently the father of Annabel's new best friend."

"Yeah." Addison leans back, smiling at him. "We'll figure out a way to make that work for us."

"He said he was going to press charges."

"People say a lot of things when they feel like their kids are being threatened."

"Touché."

She's leaning against him, then, and waits a few moments to speak again.

"Mark?"

"Yeah, Addie."

"You need to talk to someone." She draws back. "Someone who isn't me."

"Yeah. I know you're right." He sighs, pulling her into his arms again. "The Sloans are gonna line yet another therapist's pockets when we get back to Manhattan, aren't we."

They both laugh, the kind of laugh that sounds a bit like a sob, and without discussion, they rock silently from side to side. It's an old dance, the kind where it's not clear who's leading and who's following, but their movements are perfectly in sync anyway.

..

They've returned to Annabel to reassure her further, and to make sure her discharge timing is on target.

"One final CT." Amy smiles at them, apparently having forgotten her hurt feelings earlier. She's not a teenager anymore, Addison reminds herself. "What do you think, kid? You ready to leave?"

"Yeah, but I'm not really leaving."

"You're not?"

"Not going home, I mean." Annabel is patiently undergoing Amy's exam, silent for a moment while Amy tracks her eyes.

"But you're leaving the hospital. Smile, kid." Amy pockets her penlight. "That's step one, and everyone has to start with step one."

Addison waits until Annabel has been wheeled to radiology with Nurse Christie at her side.

"Can you check on Max? I'm … going to get some coffee."

"Sure." He glances at her, looking slightly confused.

"Thanks." She leans up to kiss him. "I'll bring you a cup – but it's going to be a few minutes, because I have a coffee date."

"Callie?" he asks. "I hope she's wearing more-"

"Mark." She swats him lightly. "Actually, no, you don't know her."

He looks confused.

"But you do know her husband."

He shakes his head. "I don't get it."

"The guy you choked," she says patiently. "He has a name – Stuart Johnson – and he has a wife, and I'm going to have coffee with her."

"You are?" His eyes widen. "Is this some kind of – old west thing? Like a score-settling duel?"

"No, this was already planned, actually, but the timing now is – pretty fortuitous when you think about it."

She can see he's confused.

"We wanted to do it before Annabel was discharged – you know, they're local, Caitlin's around Bel's age and the two of them have gotten along so well. I thought it would be a good idea for her to have a friend who's had brain surgery."

"It's a great idea." He looks sheepish. "I hope I haven't ruined it."

"Let me talk to her," Addison suggests.

"Addie." He shakes his head. "You're good, but no one's that good."

She stands up, and can't help smiling. "What'll you bet?"

..

Seattle Grace must be named that way for a reason, that's what she thinks as she makes her way back toward Annabel's room, fingering the card in her pocket.

She sees Meredith talking to a resident outside her daughter's room, really just proving her point. She looks up with concern when she sees Addison.

"Are you okay?"

"You heard what happened."

Meredith signals to her resident, and when they're alone, turns back to Addison. "I heard what happened."

Addison leans against the wall, drawing a deep breath. "I'm so sorry. We both are. Just … don't judge him too harshly? I know it's asking a lot, but it's been hard. Traveling here, all the anxiety around Annabel's condition and … " her voice trails off. "And he worries about me. I worry about him, too, you know, but – it's different."

Meredith is watching her. "And your father's here."

"And my father's here." Addison sighs. "And he's, uh, not exactly father of the year."

"Yeah, I have one of those too." Meredith shrugs. "He went off and started a new family and … pretty much disappeared."

"Mine only disappeared emotionally. Well, he wasn't around much, but he did … live at home. Technically. And, uh, he used to have me lie for him, so my mother wouldn't know he was having affairs."

"That's pretty screwed up."

"I don't think I realized how screwed up until … for a long time, anyway. You can imagine that my brother and I ended up with some pretty flexible ideas around fidelity … well." She looks down at the floor for a moment. "I'd say I'm … recovered, and you know my brother's gone." There's a little slice in her heart when she says it, every time. "But the Captain's still going. He's the ultimate opportunist, always has been. I caught him hitting on Callie yesterday."

"Isn't Callie kind of not available right now?"

For a moment Addison considers telling her what she saw in the on-call room the other night – Meredith feels like a friend right now, and it's nice– but she knows how much hospital gossip has hurt her in the past, so she just smiles vaguely. "I don't really think the Captain really had a shot."

"Why do you call your father the Captain?"

"Everyone does."

"Like … a pilot?"

"No, like a sailor."

"You don't want to come sailing with us today, kitten?"

"I have ballet," she mumbles.

Bizzy, passing through with a cocktail in her hand: "She's suddenly interested in dancing again. I think it's an excellent idea." She looks at Addie, up and down, with something almost like a smile. "Anything that improves her grace."

Addie frowns. She's not a baby, she knows what it means when Bizzy says things real quiet under her breath. And she knows she grew practically a foot last spring, that's what Nanny Jane said. She's the tallest girl in the third grade. Her arms and legs sometimes feel a little loose and overly long sometimes, but Nanny Jane says that's normal when you're growing. Addie's not sure how her nanny would know that, since she's not much taller than Archie herself, but it's a nice thought. She likes the idea of being normal.

"Well. We'll miss you on the boat." The Captain smiles at her, reaching for his jacket from the maid who helps him put it on.

For a moment Addie has a pang. It's nice to think of being missed. Like her father wants to have her around.

But normal girls go to ballet on Saturdays. No one bothers them at ballet, no one-

"Addison." Bizzy frowns at her. "Run upstairs, dear, and have nanny get you ready for ballet."

"Class doesn't start 'til noon."

"And don't talk back." Bizzy looks at the Captain. "I don't know what I'm going to do with her."

The Captain doesn't look too bothered by Addie's terrible manners. He pats the top of her head on the way out the door, and for a minute Addie wishes she could go sailing, too.

"Addison," Bizzy says sharply. "Are there bees in your ears?"

"No, Bizzy."

"Then go upstairs. I'm having company this afternoon and I don't want you underfoot while we're preparing."

Addie's heart thumps. "Who's, um, who's coming over?"

"Don't ask questions, dear, it's rude."

"But-"

Bizzy raises an eyebrow and moves toward her, very slightly.

Addison takes the hint and darts up the stairs before she comes any closer. Bizzy doesn't follow through very often, but better safe than sorry.

"Meredith..." She puts her hand on the other woman's arm, ready to change the topic. "How are you feeling?"

"Physically?" Meredith scrunches her nose. "I threw up twice on the way to work."

Addison gives her a sympathetic look. "It probably doesn't help to say that's a good sign, right? There's this one brand of ginger chews that really helped me, when I was pregnant. I'll text you the information."

"Thanks," Meredith smiles at her. "But other than that, everything else feels … pretty good."

"How's Derek?"

"He's excited. He's …" she smiles fondly, and Addison notices how her eyes soften when she talks about her husband. "He's convinced it's a girl, and that seems to have caused some kind of macho surge because he and Thomas stomped around last night playing football in the house." She shakes her head. "I'll be equally happy with a girl or a boy, but … I wouldn't mind not being outnumbered."

She nods at Meredith and starts to head into Annabel's room, then looks back when she hears the other woman's voice.

"Addison ... I'm not judging you. Either of you."

"You're not?" She knew it, before she said it, but it still helps to hear the words.

"I'm not." Meredith smiles at her. "You cut my husband slack ... I think I can do the same for yours."

..

She's not really surprised when her blackberry buzzes to tell her the Captain wants to meet with her – he's still hanging around, apparently – but at least he's only looking for her this time, and not the rest of her family. They meet in a thankfully empty patient lounge on the second floor; she doesn't want to risk running into Mark or Annabel.

"Thank you," he says, as soon as she walks in, "for letting me meet the children."

She just nods; he gestures at a chair but neither one of them sits.

"Your husband didn't seem too excited about it," he adds.

"It's fine."

"And your daughter. She's … outspoken."

"Mark and I don't think children should be seen and not heard."

"Well, she's a lovely girl, anyway. She reminds me of you at that age."

"Do you actually remember me at that age?" She stares at him, not sure what she's starting, just letting herself follow her own lead.

"Of course I do."

"What do you remember?"

He furrows his brow. "You were … a lovely little girl, Addison." When she still watches him he seems to think she wants something more. "Smart, and, well, you were always busy with your own things, I suppose. Reading or playing or … off doing something."

"What did I like to do?" She feels reckless, but she asks anyway.

He looks confused. "What do you mean?"

"You said I was always off doing something. Parents know what their children like to do. Annabel skates, she likes to dance, read chapter books, she pretends not to like playing dinosaurs with her brother but she actually loves it because he always lets her stage the final battles and she can reach higher when they build castles. So, Captain, what did I like to do?"

"It was a long time ago, Addison."

"Try," she persists. "Derek's mother still remembered every Little League position he played thirty years later."

"Well..." He furrows his brow. "You went to dancing school, I think. Did you … play the tuba, or was that later?"

"That was later. And it was the trombone. Actually, ballet was later too. I wasn't dancing when I was seven. But I used to sail, with you and your friends and their kids … well, some of their kids."

"Ah, that's right." He smiles. "Were you only seven then? You were better with the ropes than your brother. A natural."

The mention of Archer makes her sad.

"When are you flying back?" she asks suddenly.

"That's very … direct."

"Maybe it's not so bad to be direct."

"It's not so polite, either."

She pauses for a breath. This isn't going particularly well. "Well, maybe I don't care about being polite."

"Addison … I'd think you'd be happy with the result of the hearing."

"We don't have a result yet."

"The unofficial result, then. Didn't you give testimony yesterday?"

"If you call having three old men call me a whore 'testimony,' then yes, I gave testimony."

He visibly flinches. "Please don't use that kind of language, Addison, it doesn't become you."

"Maybe I also don't care about what you think of me."

His brow furrows. "What's come over you? I thought we could … talk, now that your daughter has recovered, now that the hearing is over, maybe spend some time-"

"Skip Rutherford." She interrupts him with just those two words, waiting to see his reaction. She studies her father's face carefully, seeing nothing but neutral recognition.

He just nods, still looking confused. "He used to sail with us. We lost touch for the most part when they moved to Chicago. Your mother was friendly with his wife. What about him?"

All of a sudden, she has no idea what to say. She wanted him to ask – pushed him to this point, even, but now that they're there, she falls silent.

"Addison? I'm … I must be missing something here. Forgive an old man."

"I don't know if I do. I don't know if I can forgive you."

"Addison. I don't understand."

She touches her necklace absently, fingering the gold links. "How well did you know Skip?"

The Captain shrugs. "Reasonably well, I suppose. He sailed, you know that, at the club. He ran the same shipping company his great-great-great-"

"-he was from a fancy old family, I know you know that part. I mean, how much did you know about his … other activities?"

"I'm afraid you've lost me, Addison."

"You lost me a long time ago." She feels cold all over, realizing there's no going back now. "Forty years ago, I would say. Right around the time your friend Skip started molesting me."

His face isn't neutral anymore.

It drains of color, the healthy, ruddy shade he usually sports turning a shade of cold oatmeal. He looks ill, in fact.

She can't bring herself to feel sorry for him. Not yet. "Too direct for you?"

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, apparently searching for words.

When he finally speaks it's just her name, and it sounds painful, his voice cracking in the middle.

"I needed to ask you that way," she explains, and she knows it's true once she says it, "to see what you knew."

For a moment he sways on his feet and she's nervous he might pass out.

"Let's … sit." She can't bring herself to touch him, but she indicates the row of padded benches along the windowed wall and he makes his way there, slowly.

Once seated, he rests his head in his hands for a while. His eyes are bleak when he raises them to meet hers.

"You never said anything."

She can't tell if it's a question or a statement, so she just shakes her head. "Would you have heard me?"

He looks at her for a long moment.

"I mean, it's not like I wasn't already keeping a bunch of secrets."

He looks pained: it was her intent, but she's still a little bit sorry.

"Addie…"

She doesn't want him to call her that. It's what people who love her call her.

Then his expression darkens. "Biff Stockton."

"He didn't do anything to me. Except apologize, yesterday, because apparently he had some idea of what was going on."

"He didn't …"

"No, he didn't do anything."

"But you said he apologized."

"Yeah." She looks at her hands. "That's why he apologized … because he didn't do anything."

For long moments they're silent.

"I'm sorry," he says finally, his voice rough. "If I had known, I…" he pauses. "Well. That's too easy, maybe. We don't know, really, what we'll do until we're tested, do we?"

"No." She looks down at her hands. "We don't."

"You're angry," he proposes. "You think I didn't protect you."

"Can't get anything past you."

He doesn't acknowledge her sarcasm. "I didn't know. I had no idea. How can you think I would have let that happen if I'd known?"

She just presses her lips together, heat building behind her eyes. She's not going to cry, not in front of him.

"I am sorry, Addison."

She shrugs. "That … doesn't really mean much." To her discomfort, the tears come anyway

He doesn't say anything, thankfully, just sits quietly on the bench beside her as she cries. After a few minutes, he passes her a handkerchief. She unfolds it and sees it's the same type he's always carried: white broadcloth – heavy, almost like a sail – with navy embroidery in the corner. CMA, the M larger than either of the other two letters. Charles Atherton Montgomery.

He sees her looking at his initials.

"You know, I wanted to name you Adrienne," he says casually, gazing somewhere beyond her across the room, maybe at a memory. "My great aunt Adrienne Atherton was one of my favorite people. She's the one who taught me to sail."

She glances at him, and he seems to take this as a cue to continue. "Your mother insisted on Addison – for her grandfather, Addison Bradford. And he was named for – you know all this. The Bradford history. But she did let me use Adrienne as your middle name."

Addison doesn't say anything.

"Addison Adrienne," he says thoughtfully. "A lot of name for a little – you had red hair, right from the beginning. A surprising amount of it, actually, and it was curly. …Addison Adrienne," he says again. "It didn't exactly flow, but somehow it seemed...right."

"It flows okay," she says after a while, sniffling and then blowing her nose.

"You can keep that." He indicates the handkerchief, and she laughs briefly before more tears flow.

"Addison," he says quietly as she rests her head in her hands, the damp handkerchief balled in one fist. "I didn't know. I know I failed you in many ways when you were – well, throughout your life, but Skip …I didn't know." His tone takes on more urgency. "Please. You have to believe me."

She takes a long, shuddering breath and lifts her head. The tears are over. "I don't have to believe you, actually." Addison sighs. "But … I do."

He meets her eyes and she wonders if she looks as tired as he does. As beaten-down. It's been a long day already … in a series of long days. She folds and refolds the handkerchief in her hand, studying the embroidered initials.

"Remind me how old Max is?"

She glances over at him when she hears the unexpected question. "He's four. And a half."

He nods. "When you were that age, I used to take you out on the boat. We'd sail, just the two of us."

She tries to summon a memory. "I guess."

"Those were our best times," he says wistfully. "You don't remember?"

"Maybe, I … I'm not sure."

"But you took your children sailing," he says quietly. "Max said – well, you must have some … positive associations…" His voice trails off.

"I like the water," she offers finally, because he seems to be waiting for a reply.

"As do I," he says, and then his tired face has even more lines, deeper wrinkles, because he's smiling. "You get that from me, Addie."

The water is the most generic thing in the world to like – that's what she wants to say, that it's meaningless, really – but she decides she'll give him this one.

..

"What have you been doing?"

"Filling in some gaps." She doesn't go into detail. She knows he can tell she's been crying, and she's not surprised when he wraps a protective arm around her, but he doesn't push.

"You okay?"

"I am if you are."

"I am if you are." He drops a kiss on her lips.

"Let's take our daughter home," he says, and hand in hand they walk into Annabel's hospital room for what will – she hopes – be the last time.

Okay! Difficult conversations have been had, with more to come. Much more Derek in the next chapter. And don't worry – I'm not going to drag you into another hearing or anything; Mark just needed to release some anger and realize that Addison's not the only who will need help dealing with this. So, his outburst will come up again in this story, but maybe not in the way you expect. Still reading? Still want to read this long, long story? Let me know!

Title Lyric from Death Cab for Cutie's Marching Bands of Manhattan