1997.

"Close your eyes." Addison's lips are pleated in a thin line as she tries to appear stern. "You too," she adds, shifting her gaze from Derek to Mark.

"It's not my Christmas gift." Mark is willing to play along, but it still feels worth pointing this out. Addison is currently standing on the salted stoop of the brownstone, with just her head wedged through one of the double doors while she conceals a present for Derek behind her back.

"You idiots tell each other everything. I adore you, Mark, but you can't be trusted. Also"—her voice becomes whinier now—"it's cold out here. Come on. Close them."

Mark—and Derek, too—does as he is instructed. When the heavy door sighs shut, Mark also bows his head and lines a cupped hand along his brows, like he would have done when he was the seeker in games of hide-and-seek with Derek and the other neighborhood kids. Well, the kids in Derek's neighborhood. All those times a flurry of bodies darted inside a designated house following a paused game in order to get a snack or a glass of lemonade…Mark knew his parents would have loathed having even just one more kid in the home.

The sound on each step as Addison proceeds upstairs is different, leaving Mark to assume she has opted for more sensible, muffle-producing footwear today instead of the clicky-clack razor thin heels she tends to favor now. Mark knows this is a testament to the frigid temperature.

He will be experiencing much, much nicer weather soon though. And a tropical climate, among other things, means the return of actual non-winter shapes, since women at the resort will not be huddled beneath bulky layers or have to don footwear that doesn't necessarily highlight calf definition.

"So…" Derek says when Addison has reached the top of the stairs and is no longer in view. "Turks and Caicos for Christmas." Mark then opens his eyes, and finds his friend staring at him. It is as if Derek was reading his mind. Perhaps not the indecent part, but definitely the vacation part. "All by yourself?"

Mark just smirks. "I'm sure I'll find a woman to keep me company while I'm there." And, if he can't, then at least the suite he will be staying in includes Pay-per-view. "I'll send you a postcard," he quips. "I leave on the twenty-second."

Being in Turks and Caicos—being anywhere else, honestly—will be a welcome escape for Mark. He needs this. He has been in a shit mood since early November, ever since getting out of a relationship—an actual, honest-to-God, serious relationship. He and Holly even reached the "I love you" stage last spring. For Mark—not that he is an expert on the subject—how he felt for his ex-girlfriend did not feel like an all-consuming, always-thinking-about-you kind of love, but he did still love her.

Holly had wanted him to open up more though. That was the problem.

"It's almost been a year," she said back in October. "I just…I feel like I still don't even know you, sometimes. We talk, but we don't actually talk, you know?" Girl flip-out, Mark knew Derek would say, but it was not like he did not know exactly what his girlfriend meant. "And, if it's been thislong, Mark, and I don't know you, I just don't see how it can ever happen."

"You open up to Derek." That was the other thing Holly brought up. More than once. It was a conversation they had multiple times. "And you open up to Addison, too, it feels like."

"Derek has been my best friend since I was seven," Mark countered. "And I've known Addison for like…eight years." Holly did not even sound jealous when she said it, in the way Mark knew women could sometimes be when you have a close friend of the opposite sex. It was like Holly was just calmly, reasonably stating the obvious. "It's different with them," he said.

It's not though. Or it is, but it also isn't because Mark can no longer use the excuse that he doesn't know better. He does know better, and when you know better, you're supposed to be able to do better. It is remarkably easy to be honest with himself these days. But, it's not like what Holly was asking for from him was a simple fix. Not in practice. It baffled Mark. It still does, actually. Did she think he likes that he struggles to be vulnerable, that emotional connection sometimes feels impossible?

"I'm not going to change who I am for you, Holly." It was a lazy, stupid, and selfish thing to conclude with. But, Mark couldn't think of anything else.

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just asking you to be the version of yourself—the real version, I think—that you are around Derek and Addie."

The Addie stung Mark to hear, because it meant Holly felt close enough to Addison to go right for the nickname. And Addison had seemed so disappointed when he shared that Holly had ended things with him. It just didn't work out, Mark stated vaguely, and neither Addison nor Derek pressured him to say more. They know better. And they are more patient with Mark than anyone ought to be. He will share more eventually. Maybe tonight, after he's had another drink.

"It is kind of cool to take a trip by yourself," Derek says now, swirling the liquid in his whiskey glass while devoting more thought to the topic. "You probably have to really like yourself to go to an island alone." He offers Mark an approving nod. "This is very psychologically healthy."

Mark would also argue that you can hate yourself enough to go somewhere alone. It's not that he's depressed. He's not. He's just…unhappy. A nameless sort of unhappy though. He is thirty now, and he has different wants and needs. He does not know what those wants and needs are though—he just knows that there has to be more than this. Thirty is too young to feel empty. Especially at Christmastime.

"Kathleen's the shrink." Mark forces a smile. "Not you." He thinks that in the new year, he'll try to see a therapist. He needs one.

"True." Derek cranes his head, more to indicate what he is going to say next, since it is not like he can see any part of the second floor from where he's seated. "What a terrible hostess," he jokes to Mark. "Addie must be wrapping the gift. I still need to go Christmas shopping." He lowers his voice as he admits, "I can't think of what to get her."

Mark nods. It is a perfect transition, since now he will not need to make the suggestion to Derek unprompted. Addison is a few months into her MFM fellowship. She got credited in a study recently, and wouldn't it be nice to frame the page that mentions her, since it's the first time this has happened for her in such a prestigious journal?

"What if you got a copy of the last publication of The New England Journal of Medicine and cut out the page Addison's name is on, and then framed it?" Mark begins slowly, as though the idea has just come to him, instead of several weeks ago. "There's a couple I work with…the husband told me he was going to do that for his wife." CJ and Elena are real residents at Mount Sinai, and Elena's mention in The Journal of Heart and Lung Transplantation was real, too, but nothing else about what Mark said is the truth—who the hell knows what CJ is getting his wife for Christmas. He is not sure why he feels the need to tweak the story, to transfer credit from himself, because it is not as if Mark suggesting a gift like this for Addison is inappropriate; it just feels more like a husband-and-wife gift, for some reason.

It is the most thoughtful present he has come up with to date. He thinks it has to do with Holly's influence—not that the whole thing was her idea, because it wasn't, but maybe just by dating her, even though Mark couldn't open up or ultimately be who she needed, he still discovered things about himself and left the relationship with more than he started with. But, it's over now, and the loss is fresh, and there are different paths to grieve, all of which are contributing to the frustration simmering inside Mark as he offers to Derek on a silver platter a Christmas present that will be a guaranteed hit.

"Thanks." Derek is grinning. "That's a great idea. She'll love that."

Mark ends up purchasing insulated travel mugs and a bag of roasted coffee beans from a café near Bryant Park for Addison and Derek. It is not a personal Christmas present, and it is not creative, but at least it is something useful. He stops by their hospital a few hours before he needs to head to the airport, and charms his way into getting the charge nurse to give one of them the plain red bag containing the gift. The nurse—who softened once Mark smiled at her—offered to see if either Dr. Shepherd or Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd was available, but Mark said it was fine, and not to worry about that, because he had to get to JFK.

He almost startles when his cell phone rings on Christmas Day. He honestly forgot he left the damn thing on—he is not expecting a call from anyone, and he was not planning to make any calls either, but he has kept the phone with him all day just in case. A combination of dread and hope fills him as he reaches for his Nokia, which is next to a tropical drink with a paper umbrella Mark is only drinking because it feels like the right choice due to the setting. Maybe it's his dad calling? They have not spoken in months, thanks to a big blow-up. It would be impressive though, if Everett were the one to apologize first.

It's not his dad though.

It's Addison.

And Mark is glad.

"Merry Christmas!" She says when he answers. Her voice is honey-warm, and shockingly clear despite the slash of miles between them. Mark feels off-kilter as he returns her greeting—it seems impossible they are still in the same time zone. He is so far away from Addison, and from everyone else. "And thank you, for the mugs and the coffee beans," she adds brightly. "I made the coffee yesterday morning, and we brought the mugs in the car with us for the drive to Carolyn's."

Of course she did. Of course they did, technically, but the gesture feels more like Addison than Derek. Mark knows she can be a damn snob sometimes, but she would still genuinely try to make a go of any gift that was given to her. Especially a Christmas one.

She must have really loved the framed page from Derek.

"You're welcome," Mark replies gruffly. He cannot detect much background noise, even though there is never any shortage of noxious-level loudness in Carolyn Shepherd's home at Christmas. He thinks Addison probably slipped into one of the bedrooms before phoning. The first time he ever saw her at Carolyn's, she seemed like she was having fun, and she was certainly engaging in various conversations, but it also seemed like it was a lot for her. And Mark gets it, because he has often felt the same way. When you come from a family who is colder, who withhold affection, who prefer children to remain quiet…the Shepherd home can be overwhelming. So, these moments of small breaks, of alone-ness, of fewer bodies, can be a comfort.

"Mark…?"

"Sorry, I'm here." He shakes his head. "You cut out a little. What did you say?"

"I was saying that a few of the kids talked Derek into building a snowman with them, otherwise he would say 'hi' to you, too. I didn't want to wait to call though since we're having dinner soon. Oh, and I also wanted to tell you that I'm really sorry—I thought you were leaving on the twenty-third. I was planning to bring your present over the night before, but by that point you would have already landed at your resort. So, we'll give it to you when you get back." Addison pauses, takes a breath. "How's it going there?"

Mark is reclining on a lounge chair close to the mosaic-lined infinity pool, one of four bodies of water on the property, while he considers Addison's question, even though the answer shouldn't require deep contemplation. This place is paradise. Grace Bay Beach is visible straight ahead, its turquoise water rippling languidly beneath a perfect-conditioned sky, a contrast to the pale, faltering Manhattan sun Mark has grown accustomed to this time of year. Large cabanas are dotting the beach like scraps of confetti. He moves his head to catch a glimpse of the vibrant bougainvillea-covered hotel walls, and then the terrace leading into his suite, which features a gourmet kitchen, a sumptuous bed raised over marble flooring, a rain shower, and a freestanding soaking tub big enough to fit two comfortably (it was not advertised this way on the brochure, but Mark can say with confidence that the tub absolutely can fit two adults).

He wonders if housekeeping has come by yet, if they have changed the now-rumpled sheets he and Jennifer—a divorcée from Chicago who has a room on the third floor—were so active on last night. It was such a good fuck. Mark had a great time with her, and he certainly made sure that she had a great time, but he did not feel any better when he woke up this morning.

Maybe loneliness is just something that will never be outgrown.

"It's good so far," he tells Addison. "I'm going to try jet skiing tomorrow."

1998.

Mark has been to East Hampton more times this year than he has been in his entire life. Holly had been surprised when he shared that his maiden voyage to the Hamptons did not occur until his twenties, in the summer between second and third year of med school, when he, Derek and Addison, and Sam and Naomi rented a place in Montauk for a few days, and that he had only been out to the East End one other time since then. You seem like the Hamptons type, Holly said, and when Mark asked if that was a compliment, or meant in a derogatory way, she smirked and assured him the answer was both.

He chuckles to himself at the memory of this conversation. He does not think about Holly much anymore, save for the occasional random thing like this. There is no longer residual pain. In the grand scheme of things, even though Mark had been so moody last winter, he recovered just fine. He figures if he had been as serious about the relationship as Holly was, he would have been drowning in the hurt for longer. But, now he's okay. He's moved on.

And he actually could get used to being the Hamptons type. He has gotten used to it, in a way, since Derek and Addison acquired a home in East Hampton back in April, and they have invited Mark to join them for several of the weekends they have come here. Their place is nice. Idyllic. It is located on a quiet cul-de-sac not far from Main Beach, with tons of surrounding greenery in the form of sycamore trees with skinny, high-hanging branches. The house has cedar shake siding with a columned portico entrance, large windows that draw in tons of light, and a deck overlooking a saltwater pool. It is a single story home, and modest by Hamptons standards, but it still boasts four bedrooms. This seems excessive to Mark, but there will be Montgomery-Shepherd kids at some point, so it is not the most unreasonable thing.

He can tell that Derek is more at peace being in East Hampton this time of year, when the area is not teeming with vacationers. He would not say his best friend dislikes the Hamptons though. Why would Derek buy a home here, or support Addison buying one via the perks of generational warmth—again, Mark doesn't ask about the financial particulars—if he actually hated it? It is more like, in Mark's opinion, that there are some things Derek loves enough that makes the rest of the Hamptons experience bearable. He enjoys fishing at Three Mile Harbor, reading out on the deck, getting coffee-flavored ice cream at Candy Kitchen—the best he's ever had, Derek swears—and taking early morning jogs along Old Woods Road, because he's gotten into running in the last year (Mark doesn't think it'll last). All of this makes up for what a scene East Hampton devolves into in the summer months, even though Mark feels like there are plenty of ways to avoid the crowds if that is your preference. Derek just likes to complain. This is what Mark thinks, honestly. Derek is naturally a whiner, and if he takes on a negative attitude, that makes it clear he isn't putting on airs about having property in the Hamptons. Though, Mark isn't sure what his friend is trying to prove.

He is waiting by the front door for Derek, who is trying to track down his keys. They have just finished unpacking, and now they are going to drive to the closest Stop & Shop to grab a few things: more paper towels, coffee supplies for tomorrow morning, and whatever else Addison jotted down on a list. She will be staying here, because she's making dinner for the three of them. Beef tenderloin, apparently. Mark had raised an eyebrow when he saw the slab of packaged meat just before Addison tucked it into a cooler while they were getting ready to leave the city. He assumed they would just order pizza tonight, or get takeout from a place off Main. But, whatever. Addison had seemed so serious about making dinner, so he does not want to question it. He has gotten good at knowing when and when not to tease her.

"Got 'em." Derek pats one of the pockets of his jeans. "Sorry about that. I left them on the table next to—"

"Fuck."

It is half a word, and half a sharp yelp. Mark exchanges a quick look with Derek, and then they pace toward the kitchen, where they find Addison standing at the center island, holding a waffle-woven towel to a lifted finger.

"You flipping us off, Red, or did you slice your finger?" Mark wonders what it says about himself that his first instinct is to crack a joke. He scrutinizes the rest of Addison's immediate surroundings. There is the whole cut of meat on the cutting board, a knife, a printed-out paper with a bloody fingerprint smudge on it now, some seasonings, and a bottle of olive oil in front of her. From the state of the meat, he can tell that Addison was partially through trimming the fat when she accidentally cut herself.

"Why can't it be both?" Addison tries to smile. "It's okay. It's not that bad," she says as Mark and Derek walk over, circling on opposite sides around the island.

She lifts the towel off the back of her finger, and Mark leans in closer to study the wound. He can tell Derek is doing the same thing on Addison's other side. And, she's right, depending on your definition of what qualifies as not that bad. It is a deep, clean slice, a little over an inch in length. Addison covers the cut with the towel again when more blood starts to seep to the surface of her skin. The white material blooms red where she is applying pressure.

"Stitches?"

"Yeah." Mark tries not to let it show on his face, but he is flattered that Addison looked at him, not Derek, when she posed the question. It makes sense, since Mark's in the Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery training program, and he spends a lot of time in Trauma Services, but it is still an unexpectedly good feeling. "Definitely." He's hoping there are supplies here, because he's not sure where the closest urgent care facility is. Addison and Derek probably know though. He watches as Addison experimentally removes the towel, and then puts it back in place when more blood arrives. Her shoulder twitches, capturing more of Mark's attention, and he realizes for the first time that she is wearing a full apron. Something purple and floral-ish, with thick straps that crisscross below the base of her neck. It's weird. "Do you guys have—"

"We have a suture kit," Derek finishes, and in retrospect, Mark cannot believe he considered for even a second that they might not. It's them. "And lidocaine, too. It's in a box in the hallway closet. Second or third shelf, I think. And you can have at it, Mr. Plastics, once the bleeding stops. It's not because your stitches are better—I just don't want to be the one to do it," Derek says. "It's too hard to see her in pain." He kisses Addison on the temple. "It's kind of like how physicians don't like to give their own kids shots."

"Addison…?" Mark asks. He is not even sure he heard what specifically Derek's pansy-ass excuse for not doing the suturing himself is. And of course he's noticed this new development before Derek. It is a mean thing to think, but sometimes Derek is just so oblivious to what is going on around him—he might be an extremely talented surgeon, but the limits of his intelligence have always been clear to Mark. "Uh." He fumbles to find more words. "Are you okay?"

She is not though. She is absolutely not. The grimace and slightly pained look on Addison's face—both normal, given the circumstances—are gone, and in its place is something else. Her jaw is clenched tightly. Mark can see the muscles of her throat straining, waving like long blades of grass caught in the wind. Addison lowers her head. And then she bursts into tears.

"Oh…" Derek says softly. "Addie." He circles an arm around her waist, and Mark, suddenly feeling every bit like an intruder, like he no longer belongs here, busies himself with dragging over a nearby barstool so that Addison can at least take a seat.

"Thanks, Mark." Derek helps Addison hoist herself onto the stool. He has taken over holding the towel for her. "Maybe just…um…go get the kit, and I'll take her to the sink to rinse her finger once she's calmed down a little."

Whenever that is. Addison is full on sobbing now. Loud, untamable choky-battered noises. And it truly might be the most heartbreaking thing Mark has ever seen, and yeah, he is aware of throwing stones in glass houses vis-à-vis the pansy-ass accusation from earlier. Addison shed a few tears at his mother's funeral, and he can remember her doing the same thing after a frustrating day of clinicals when they were on the same rotation, but that was subtle, maybe even graceful. This is mouth-parted, breath-hitching, mournful kind of crying. Yeah, mournful. That is what it is. It is also confusing. The cut itself is not painful enough to generate this kind of reaction, so it is the shock, or maybe she is just overwhelmed, Mark thinks. It is horrible though.

"Mark." Derek prompts, impatience starting to creep into his tone. "The kit…?"

"Right. On it."

"Sorry, Mark. I'm sorry." That is the first thing Addison utters when Mark returns with the suture materials and lidocaine. She is staring at him. Her eyelashes are damp, split into small triangles from her tears. She looks embarrassed.

"It's okay. You don't have to apologize." Mark is glad he got to say this before Derek steers Addison to the sink to rinse her finger, but while he slips a pair of gloves on, he considers that she might not have heard him, and for some reason, this makes him sad. Addison is still crying, and he said it too softly, so she probably didn't hear him. And now the water is running. It is too late to repeat what he said, it feels like.

Mark takes a seat on the other stool. Derek must have dragged it over for him while he was out of the room. Eventually—it feels like forever, though it hasn't been—Derek brings Addison back over to the island. He helps her sit down again, and then Mark gingerly takes her hand with the wounded finger, and positions it how he wants it. She is no longer crying as harshly, but she is still making these fractured mewling noises that are causing Mark's stomach to topple over and over.

I can't stop crying. That is what she manages to whimper. Derek is murmuring indistinct susurrations close to her ear, and is stroking her hair. And Mark is just sitting there, wishing he could sink into the floor while he waits for the numbing cream to take effect. Time has again slowed to a crawl.

"Addison," Derek says. "You're fine. Just relax. Why don't you rest your head for a bit?" He reaches for a new towel, folds it into a fluffier square, and then Addison completes the remainder of his thought when she starts to bend toward the towel to cushion a cheek against it. "Face this way." Derek's fingers arrive beneath Addison's chin, coaxing so that she will face in his direction, and away from Mark. Or, well, more accurately away from her injured hand. "Do you have enough light?"

This last question is for Mark, who exhales a gravelly yeah. Somehow, even though Addison's chest is heaving and every part of her seems to be vibrating with a hurt that does not feel specific to the injury itself, she is keeping her left arm still, her hand becoming a vessel inside Mark's. He knows that only a surgeon could be this disciplined, could have her limbs trained this well.

Addison makes a water-logged gulping noise, and then starts to settle down as Mark guides the needle through her skin for the first time, bringing it out the other side as he gets to work, stitch by stitch. It should be a boring task, a menial one, and frankly, something utterly beneath Mark given how minor an ailment this is, but he has always enjoyed simple interrupted sutures, even when it is as low as low stakes can be. The practice of stitching, of being the one to promote someone else's healing process, is centering for Mark. There is something soothing about the movement of the needle, and the delicate, taut stretch of the thread. It is not just science. It is art. It is poetry in motion.

It is what he does best.

Sometimes it feels like it is all he can do.

Derek clears his throat, breaking the silence. "You're doing great, Addie."

"Yeah," Mark echoes. "You are."

A car door whacks closed nearby and Addison lifts her head. She is looking forward, through the window spread over the sink. Mark can see that the hair close to her temples has started to frizz from sweat. He still feels so bad for her. She has, however, at least calmed.

"Just a few more," he adds, pulling the needle again. "I'm almost finished."

"That's Leah's car," Addison reports. She is still staring out the window. Mark's eyes briefly flicker in that direction. There is a black car in the driveway directly across the street that was not there before. And the house's porch light and kitchen light appear to now be on, too. All of the names other than the wife's escape Mark, but he knows that Leah lives in that house with her husband, and two little kids. A boy and a girl. "They're home. Derek, honey, you should go over there. You can take the stuff with you." Mark knows Addison is referring to a tightly packaged to-go box from Orwashers. When he got to the brownstone this morning, Addison—ever the early bird—was just returning from Orwashers. She said that Leah's family loves the Chocolate Chip Rugelach there.

Derek frowns at Addison's suggestion. "You don't want to do it with me? I thought we were both going to—"

"Please just take care of it." She is still peering out the window. Anywhere but at Derek, it seems to Mark. Did he miss something? "Before it gets completely dark. You can tell them I say 'hi' and 'happy holidays.' I'm sure I'll see them tomorrow." Addison's voice is controlled now, but there is a bitter-edged quality to it, too. "Derek. I'm okay." This time, she does look at him. "But, I'm asking you to do this."

It is as if an entire world of unspoken grammar is sitting squarely between them after that. It takes Derek a moment, and then he is up, a steadfast gait to this odd punctuation as he collects the box on the counter, and then heads out of the kitchen, following his wife's orders. Mark is uncomfortable. He's heard Derek and Addison bicker before, but this feels…different, somehow. Because it is not actually bickering. It is something else.

"We both have whorls." That is all he can think to say to Addison when he hears Derek close the front door behind him.

She quirks an eyebrow. "What?"

"Your fingerprint." Mark uses his free hand to point out the red fingerprint that Addison inadvertently planted on a paper with cooking instructions when her finger first started bleeding. "It's a whorl," he explains as Addison looks closer at the web-thin lines forming a smaller, central ridge. "See how it spirals out from the middle? Mine does the same thing. Derek and I—we partnered up—we did a science project in fifth grade where we had each kid in our class press their thumb into a stamp pad and then onto a poster board. And we tracked our observations, like how many kids had what type of print. I can't remember if Derek was an arch or a loop…I just remember he wasn't what I was. Only cool people get to be whorls." Mark watches as Addison smiles a little at this comment. "And, I'm all done, by the way." He pats her wrist after he finishes positioning a bandage over the sutures. "You okay?"

"I'm not squeamish," Addison says as she studies her hand—or studies Mark's work, really. She is wiggling her hand back and forth.

"Yeah, I didn't think you were. You'd be a walking liability in the OR, if that were the case."

"It wasn't the blood." Her voice is hollow-tinged. "And it wasn't even…it didn't hurt that bad. I just lost it. I know it was a ridiculous reaction, but I was trying so hard to learn how to make this dish and—"

"Did you not hear that crackhead in Midtown the other day who told us the world was ending on the first? I don't think there's any point in learning to make beef tenderloin now."

The look Addison gives him then is sharper than the knife, sharper than the needle. Mark averts his gaze, feeling shamed. He catches a flash of her apron out of the corner of his eye. It is still weird. So fucking weird. He swears it is like Addison's playing a part, like she's trying to be exactly who Derek wants her to be. When the hell did that start happening? He remembers what Holly said once about people sometimes being different versions of themselves, about making minor character substitutions and rearrangements to accommodate others.

"Don't be mean," Addison scolds.

"I wasn't." Well, okay. He could have said it nicer, but she missed the part that particular morning where he doubled back and slipped the poor guy a ten while Addison and Derek had gone into FAO Schwarz to buy something for Maya for Christmas. Sam, Naomi, and Maya are moving to California next month. Mark knows this will be a painful loss for Addison. For all of them, because Sam and Naomi are their friends, but it will be most difficult for Addison, and it is probably not helping with her current emotional state. "Fine. The—uh, let's see—unhoused individual, who is struggling with mental illness, and a substance abuse issue, both of which have been further exacerbated due to stress that comes from the constant threat of police sweeps thanks to some of our mayor's policies. Does that cut it?"

"Yeah. Thanks. Making dinner for you guys came with an ulterior motive—I was actually doing it as a trial-run for Carolyn's. She's doing tenderloin again this Christmas. And last year…well, I'm already on permanent shaky ground in her kitchen because of—"

"The hot dog Thanksgiving was like three or four years ago. I promise no one thinks about it anymore."

Addison smiles wanly. "And I promise you that's not true. But, anyway, last year I offered to help with food prep. Well, I always offer, and Carolyn always tells me I can help the guys keep an eye on the kids—as though they aren't capable of that—or she'll give me an easy task, like setting the table or washing off some of the used stuff. She acts like it's a burden to have me anywhere near the kitchen. So, last Christmas, Carolyn handed me Butcher's twine, and said I could tie the meat, if I wanted to help." Addison winces, and Mark readjusts on his stool so that he can face her more straight on. "And I didn't…I understand the concept of tying meat, but I didn't know if there was a specific way to do it, like where to begin, and if there were supposed to be multiple ties. So, I started to tell Carolyn I didn't know how—there's a part of me that feels like she knew I wouldn't, and that's why she gave me that task—so she took the twine back and asked Kathleen to do it instead, and she told me I could just go watch the kids, if I wanted to be useful. And I…I know she's making beef tenderloin again this year, so I just thought if I tried to make it myself ahead of time, then I would actually be helpful in the kitchen, come Christmas Day. But, as you can see"—Addison holds up her hand—"I didn't make it to the twine part. Anyway. When you and Derek go out, maybe you can pick up something for dinner. Pizza, since that's probably what you wanted in the first place. We could get it from where we ordered the last time we were here."

"Pizza sounds good," Mark says. "I mean, today's not the right day anymore, but I know how to make beef tenderloin, and I know how to tie meat so it keeps its shape. If you wanted to sometime, I could show you how—"

"Carolyn hates me."

"I don't…I don't think that's true, Addison."

He really doesn't think Carolyn hates her. That's too strong a word. But, there have been tiny missteps on Addison's part throughout the time she has known Carolyn, that, no matter how tiny, have not helped Carolyn to completely warm to her daughter-in-law. And Mark has noticed—of course he has. Maybe no one else ever sees the jerking shift in Carolyn's expressions, or how carefully she selects some of her words when she converses with Addison, but Mark does. At his core, he is an observer. And a doer, yes—in more ways than one—but he is so acutely aware of what is happening around him at all times. He can see Derek across the street. The door is cracked open now. He is talking to the neighbor lady.

Mark has felt embarrassed after each Addison misstep he has witnessed over the past nine years. Misstep does not feel like the right word either though—Addison is so kind; she would never be purposely insensitive, or ignorant. It is just that she and Derek are from such different worlds. There was the bottle of wine Addison brought the first time she spent Christmas with the Shepherds, a bottle that was at least one-hundred bucks more than what Carolyn would have spent on a Cabernet. And the gifts Addison gives tend to be expensive, too, and even though the gifts are now from Addison and Derek, it is clear who does the picking and who hands over the Amex. Maybe you should save that for a special occasion, Mark can remember Carolyn saying once while Nancy thanked Addison for a sweater she bought for her infant son. It was obvious what Carolyn thought of the sweater. There was the time Addison mentioned that Morgan horses were the easiest breed to ride—as though Carolyn was actually going to pursue it when Amy announced that she wished she could take horseback riding lessons. The time Addison almost laughed, and then said "No," when Carolyn—who talks a big game about women leading whatever kind of lives they want to, Mark thinks, but ultimately still hangs onto antiquated ideas about marriage, motherhood, and gender roles—asked Addison if she had ever made Derek his favorite meal. And there was the time Addison said that the blue and violet brushstrokes on a painting in Carolyn's den reminded her of a Cézanne piece, when Carolyn probably just bought it because Kirkland's was having a sale.

Mark never said or did anything though following these exchanges that he witnessed, and maybe he should have. He could have discreetly pulled Addison aside and checked on her to make sure she was okay. That does not only have to be a husband's job. Because, the missteps were obvious to Addison, too, after they occurred. Mark could see how her cheeks would briefly pinken, and her smile would briefly tighten, but then all her features resettled, and she pushed past it. And that makes sense to Mark. This would have been what Addison has done her entire life, after all. It must be lonely sometimes though. Mark wonders if Derek has noticed the missteps, or whatever the appropriate word is. But, even if Derek hasn't ever been smart enough to notice, what Addison is telling Mark now…surely she has told this to her husband, too?

The problem is the reaction. That has to be it. Maybe Derek does not react how Addison wants him to when she floats her belief that Carolyn does not like her. Derek, after all, thinks his mother walks on water. He probably insists that Addison is wrong.

Mark wants so badly to say the correct thing. He is realizing now that even though he did not mean for "I don't think that's true" to sound dismissive, how could it not sound dismissive? He has already messed this up.

Addison has always been sort of stiff when she hugs Carolyn hello and goodbye. Mark has noticed that, too. She happily embraces Derek's sisters and brothers-in-law, and she is so, so good with all the kids, but she is tenser in her affection with Carolyn. Is it because she senses Carolyn does not like her? Or because of her own mommy issues? Likely both. Even when Mark has heard her say Mom in reference to Carolyn, Addison's voice ticks up at the end, like it is still a question of whether or not she should.

He can recall talking about it with John, Nancy's husband, the first time he heard the guy refer to Carolyn as "Mom." He likes John the best of the three husbands. Kathleen's husband is too serious and too political, and Liz's is kind of quiet.

"When did that happen?" Mark side-whispered to John. He could remember feeling vaguely wounded. Carolyn had never told him he could call her "Mom."

"Last Easter. She said that I could call her 'Mom,' if I wanted to," John said. "And with all these people in the house already calling her that…I don't know, man." He shrugged. "I guess I got used to it."

Mark wonders if Carolyn ever told Addison the same thing. You can call me Mom, if you'd like. Probably. But in what tone? An obligatory one, because what the hell else was Carolyn supposed to say, when her other kids' spouses already called her that? Or a threatening, I-dare-you-to-call-me-that one? Mark loves Carolyn deeply—she is five times the mother to him that Claire was—but he is not blind to her flaws. She can be judgmental—probably the very thing she believes Addison to be. And stubborn. And blunt. And unapologetic, which time has taught Mark isn't always a good thing, even though he's often guilty of this trait himself. And Carolyn truly believes her son is perfect, which is annoying, because he's not.

Sympathy and empathy can be painful. And Mark wants so much to make Addison feel better.

"Hey." He drums his fingertips against the island. "If for some reason Carolyn does hate you…she's missing out. It's her loss, if that's how she feels about you." He can remember Addison telling him this once about his own mom; it had been such a comfort. "Do you, uh, want to talk about it?" Maybe Addison just needs him to listen.

"No, it's okay." She is able to smile at him. And it's just as well, Mark figures. He can see Derek walking back across the street now. "Thanks for the stitches, my fellow whorl friend."

"Consider it your Christmas gift."

She laughs in response. It was just a joke, but as Mark hauls himself up from the stool to go meet Derek outside, he wonders if it is for the best. He has been at a loss for what to get Addison for Christmas, and he only has two more weeks to figure it out. Derek does not really care—he would be fine with Mark just getting him booze. But, Addison does care. She likes to read, so Mark was initially thinking he could get her a book about Marie Curie. He can remember Addison quoting her once.

"All finished?" Derek asks when Mark meets him near the car.

"Yeah. Quicker than the average patient, since I don't have to explain care management and healing time to her. Here." He holds a hand out. "I can go to the store." He makes a wriggling gesture with his fingers, signaling for Derek to drop the keys into his palm. "Just give me the list. You stay here with her. She mentioned pizza. If you want to call Fierro's and place an order, I can pick it up after I go to the grocery store."

So much for the off-season. The pizzeria winds up being just as busy and crowded as it is during the summer months, so while Mark is waiting for the order to be completed, he wanders a few doors down to a seasonal holiday store. One of the first things he sees are kitchen towels. He knows Addison and Derek have Christmas-themed ones at the brownstone, but he did not see any at the Hamptons house. Addison would probably like some. And, despite the fact that she bloodied one of her existing towels this afternoon, it doesn't really feel "too soon" for Mark. An early Christmas gift, he will say when he hands her some new towels, and he can picture that raspy, joy-sparked laugh he's gotten out of her so many times before. Laughter would be good. He could use some too right now, because when he heads back to Fierro's, the conversation he had with Derek is still on his mind.

"I'm sorry." Derek had released a frustrated breath as he gave Mark the keys. "I know Addie can be a lot sometimes. She's too sensitive."

A lot. And too sensitive. It was cruel-sounding, especially from a guy who has always seemed to regard marriage as grabbing the brass ring. In some ways, Mark has learned from Derek what a healthy romantic relationship is supposed to look like. But, in that moment, he felt like he was seeing what a marriage shouldn't look like. It has been four years of marriage and nine years of togetherness for his friends, so no, not everything about building and maintaining a life together can be beautiful, but Derek's comments just felt ugly.

"She's fine," Mark replied, which felt like a neutral enough response.

He does not want to upset either of them, or pick a side if he can help it. Mark knows his role. He is the fun one, the easygoing one, the one who is supposed to keep things simple and carefree and light. It was an interesting development though, to not automatically be on Derek's side. The thing is, you're supposed to respect someone just as much as you love them. Mark can acknowledge this is an area where he often falls short, but at least he is aware of it. And, on the flip side, Derek seemed wholly unconcerned when it came to the way in which he was speaking about his wife.

Before Mark got in the car, it felt like he was standing next to a stranger.

1999.

"There's your candle."

"There it is," Mark confirms, giving Addison a warm smile. It's a thing. They do this every year when he comes over for the first time after the brownstone has been decorated for the holidays. Addison points out the candle he got her for Secret Santa years ago, and he, in turn, acknowledges it. It's still too pretty to burn. Addison usually says that, too.

Mark is glad he is here. The cranky and shrug-shouldered version of himself he can often be in December and the subsequent winter months is not here right now. It has not been here at all this month, in fact.

"This is for you guys." He holds out for Addison a large bag with a Christmas lights print skating back and forth across the paper. "I know it's early, but I thought you might want it now, in case…well, you'll see." Mark wonders if the therapist he is supposed to see would have something positive to say about the fact that he did not want to wait to give Addison and Derek this gift. Like, that Mark cares so much about his friends that it is difficult to wait to experience the joy of giving them a Christmas present, or something cheesy and stupid like that. He can't exactly predict what would be said, because even though he finally caved and made an intake appointment with a therapist, he had to cancel it when a surgery ran long. A receptionist from the therapist's office called once and left a message, requesting a call back to reschedule, but Mark never called back. Maybe he will in January.

Earlier in the fall, a record label released a Bing Crosby compilation album, with his most popular Christmas songs recorded from the thirties to the fifties. Mark knew Addison would really appreciate a copy, so he went ahead and purchased one, opting for the vinyl record over the CD. Addison and Derek have a record player—it actually belonged to Derek's dad. Mark throws in a bottle of scotch as well. He wants to make up for the last two Christmases. He did not put much thought into the coffee thing, and while the towel thing involved some thought, it still was not the best gift.

Addison keeps one hand on the now-opened record, and uses the other to draw Mark in for a loose, lazy hug. She also pecks him on the cheek, which is new. She has never done that before. It is entirely friendly, entirely innocent, but it is different. Mark cannot help but reflect on that. Addison might be formal, and WASP-like in practically every way, but she has never been a kissing as a form of friendship or social greeting kind of formal. Mark looks over at Derek, who grins and says he will put the record on while they watch the Knicks game on mute. It is better without having to hear the commentators, anyway. So, Derek is completely unaffected by what just happened. As he should be. It is just…different. And Mark recognizes he's probably being the weird one about this. So, great. He is not unhappy this year. Just weird.

"It's perfect," Addison praises. "I was actually thinking of buying this. So, you read my mind."

Mark's throat feels constricted when "I'll Be Home for Christmas" eventually fills the room. He knows why, of course. This is not his house. This is not his home. He has a home. But, Addison and Derek are here, and they are a part of him, and all the scotch Mark has consumed tonight has made him feel like he is a part of them, too.

"You should stay over." Addison words sound soft and slurry when the game comes to an end. None of them have to work tomorrow, so they drank accordingly. "It's awful out there."

Severe weather. That is the term that keeps being used to describe the next few days. Mark glances out the window. Everything looks hazy, uninviting. It is a quick walk to the cab from the brownstone stoop, and a quick one from the cab to the entrance to his building, but he would not mind staying here. It is so warm in this room. And he's tired. It is tempting.

"Yeah," Derek agrees. "Stay. I'll make pancakes tomorrow. You can borrow whatever you need from me. And the guest room is all set up. It's kind of like it's your room, actually—until we have kids one day."

Mark does not know what the "regular" guest room comforter looks like, but it is safe to say Derek and Addison's regular comforter is not a red and white Scandinavian-looking one covered with reindeer, snowflakes, and decorated Christmas trees. Oh, these two. He feels such a rush of love—drunken love—for Derek and Addison as he peels back a corner of the holiday-joyous blanket, trying to keep himself busy while Derek gathers something for him to wear. He knows that their room is at the end of the hallway, but he has never seen it before. Funny, how guests always tend to avoid peeking into the primary bedroom, as though it is the ultimate violation.

"Hey." Addison is standing just inside the doorway now. Her hair is scraped back into a ponytail, but everything else about her is still the same as it was earlier: Yale sweatshirt, a pair of jeans, and fleece reindeer slippers that Mark knows Naomi got her one year.

"Derek's on the phone," she explains as she comes further into the guest room. "He's checking in with one of the younger residents about post-op stuff for a patient who had a pituitary tumor removed yesterday. He's been given so much more responsibility this year. I'm sure he'll be made Chief Resident of the neuro program next year. Anyway." She is smiling widely now, and her cheeks are flushed. She is clearly so proud of her husband. Mark has always been impressed at how his two closest friends have built each other up, how they are pushing and cheerleading each other to be the best they can possibly be in their respective fields. "Here you go." She sets down on the bed an unopened toothbrush—an extra from the dentist, probably—a CBGB & OMFUG shirt with blocky, grainy-dashed silver letters, and a pair of flannel pajama pants.

Addison pokes a finger against the red and blue pajama pants. "In case you want these, too."

"In case…?"

"I mean, I just figured you had boxers. I used to sleep over a lot at the apartment you and Derek shared, remember?" She maintains eye contact with Mark, but her cheeks have filled with color in a different way now. He wonders if she feels silly for bringing this up. "There were plenty of mornings when you stumbled out of your room while I was making coffee, and you'd be wearing nothing but a T-shirt and boxers."

"Yeah, and the shirt was only on because we had company. You're welcome for the show." Mark smirks. "And, for the record, I'm actually a boxer briefs guy now." He generally would not say something like this. Not with only Addison, anyway. When he shares his usual, admittedly-lame double entendres, or asks if something is a euphemism, it is always when Derek is present, too. It is all in good fun. Sure, he checks Addison out each time he sees her—always subtly though—because that is what he does with all women, but Mark has always prided himself on not being like this, on not saying inappropriate things when it is just the two of them. Even though there are worse things he could say or talk about than what specifically covers his dick. He is kind of enjoying this bashful reaction from Addison though. "Regular boxers are for boys, not men," he adds.

"Thank you for the overshare." Addison rolls her eyes, but he feels like it is done with affection, or at least something more than just her usual baseline tolerance for his bullshit. "Mark…you'll come with us this year when we go to Carolyn's, right? Or, if you go to your dad's" —she is careful not to press, not to push the subject much—"you'll still stop by at some point? It's just been a while since the three of us have gotten to be together on Christmas."

Mark smiles. "Yeah, I will."