Chapter Text
Addison sits on her hands for two weeks (she wakes up everyday for those fourteen days thinking that she is going to make the appointment to get an abortion, but instead tells herself that she needs to give herself another day to decide), because this isn’t a decision she wants to take lightly since she can’t take it back.
They’re settling into their routine (now almost a quarter of a year together), and even though he moved in after week 2, they still make time to see each other, and she’s happier now than the majority of her marriage to Derek. Sometimes she catches him acting like a guest in their brownstone, or really, her brownstone, but he’s moved in and his stuff’s mixed in with hers because they’re together. He still sits on the grey one-seater that’s off to the side because it’s still “his seat”, but then goes and sits next to her on the bigger sofa where Derek usually sat. Habit never changes, she thinks. She’s happy, though, and he is too. But it’s happiness with guilt. So much guilt. Especially with the baby.
Mark suspects something’s up: she doesn’t accept the wine he offers when they have their weekly date nights for two weeks in a row (because she usually doesn't hesitate to pour more than enough into her glass). The lie she's telling is that she has the flu. And he believes her, for now.
She thinks that it’s the universe sending her karma when she lies in bed at night, next to Mark, where Derek used to sleep. Because whenever Mark moves and does boyfriendly things all she can see is Derek doing the same thing in the exact same spot. And the brownstone - it’s as much Derek’s as it is her’s, but it isn’t Mark’s. She decides that she’ll move out to a house of their own as soon as possible, once she tells him about the baby.
Mark asked if she wanted to get lunch together after his morning surgery (their first one in the hospital publicly), but she turns him down because she says she needs to get some extra work done. I’ve been behind because of the flu, is what she uses as an excuse. She can remember the look on his face dropping at her response. Oh, he says. He went to bed after that.
Addison wakes in the morning and the spot next to her is cold, and she groans and hits her fist into Mark’s pillow. She regrets not taking up his lunch date, because now he might think she’s avoiding him, but she doesn’t mean to, she just needs to make a decision without looking at his face because it’s just too hard. And he woke up in the morning without waking her, which he usually doesn’t do (normally he wakes her up and she’ll walk him to the door, before going back to bed).
The clock on her bedside table reminds her that it’s 7 in the morning, and after a few big gulps of water she scrambles to get her things together (pager, glasses, an extra pair of glasses, scrub cap, she counts in her head). She pulls together a presentable outfit, up to her standards, and soon enough she’s almost out the front door. She’s just about to pull the door open when she feels this violent urge to throw up: her things clatter around the front door, she almost runs into the plant in the living room, and her head immediately falls into the kitchen sink.
Her stomach lurches as she throws up what is mostly water and the burning acidity that remains in her throat forces her to turn on the sink to wash away the stifling taste in her mouth.
Oh, shit. She hits her head on the tap and moves her hand to feel a lump starting to swell at the back of her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she spots a towel hanging on the handle of the oven. Which Derek bought a year or so ago. She stretches her arm out to get a hold of it, and an open pill container spills across the kitchen island, a mixture of blue and red splattered all over the counter.
As she wipes her mouth, she uses her other hand to shove as many pills as she can back into the container, and reads a note Mark had left for her. His messy, scrawled writing on a post it note, reminding her to take her flu pills. It’s sweet, and a little overly domestic for them, but she can’t complain because he’s become so good for her. She knows she’ll either have to tell him soon to find out what he wants or to schedule the abortion. She remembers that Mark would come home earlier than her today, so she writes her own note, We need to talk.
Her eyes scan over the curves and troughs of her handwriting, and she decides that it sounds too serious (she tosses that one in the trash), so she pulls another post it note from the fridge door and writes: Hey, we should talk tonight.
She signs it A, with a small heart right below it, and leaves it on the kitchen counter for him when he gets home. And then she remembers the pills, so she picks one out and flicks it into the trash, straightens herself out, and heads towards the front door to pick up her things.
Addison knows she doesn’t look like she usually does as she walks into work, she’s sickly pale and feels like her chest is so tight she can barely breathe as she passes through the hospital doors. She feels as if she’s not going to make it through the day, and her hands tremble when she’s flipping through charts.
The whole hospital now knows about Derek and Mark and herself - gossip spreads like wildfire - and it was difficult enough and now it takes an even bigger toll on her. She can barley function at work. Now that she and Mark are actually, together together. Getting to work and going home, together. 13 years married and more thrown away together . She can hear the whispers in between charting, in between scrubbing in. And it’s too much. Too much to even think about Mark, about Derek, because the hospital walls are just filled to the brim with Derek, threatening to appear as tears. Even in her name - Dr. Addison Montgomery-Shepherd - he’s still here.
Because the baby isn’t with her husband of 13 years. It’s with his best friend. And she tries to keep her mind on the pages in front of her, making notes on patients charts as she checks on them, but she can’t because the baby is living and breathing proof that she and Mark are going too fast.
And it’s then Mark gets out of surgery and spots her, and it’s not until he plants a kiss on her temple as he pulls her into the break room, she feels better. Safer.
“Did you take the flu pills this morning?“ He asks, and she nods in response. He juts out the hot coffee in his hand, offering it to her.
She declines it - the stench of it turns her stomach, but she tries to keep her face neutral. She’s able to hold a conversation for 5 minutes as Mark talks about the surgery (it feels like 30), before she mutters an “I’m sorry, excuse me,” before she rushes into the bathroom and hurls into the toilet. Mark follows closely behind her, and a few nurses walking by giggle as he moves towards the female bathroom.
“Part of the job, ladies.” He says in their direction, as he pushes the door open.
He’s there just in time to pull back her red hair and her coat, as she hurls the empty contents of her stomach out into the bowl. Addison can feel his hand rub her gently at the small of her back, coaxing out the last of the vomit.
“Addie, you should take a day off.” He says. “You’ve been feeling like shit,”
“No, no, I’m okay.” She pulls down the toilet cover to sit on top.
A shuffling comes from the door, and an intern comes in holding charts.
“Dr Sloan?”
Mark doesn’t answer.
The intern clears his throat. “Dr Sloan, Mr Davies, brother of Mrs Davies from your morning surgery, has asked to see you. He says it’s urgent.”
“Again? Tell him that the surgery was Mrs Davies’ idea. He doesn’t have a say in it.”
“I did. He says that the surgery interferes with their spiritual beliefs.” The intern pauses. Addison and Mark can hear him shuffling through the chart again. “And he’s going to be at the chief’s door in a few seconds if he doesn’t talk to you, Dr Sloan.”
Mark rolls his eyes; he’d much rather be here with Addison.
She gestures for him to leave, and he fake pouts in response. She mouths a “I’m fine,” before he finally turns the lock and follows the intern out. The bathroom is quiet now, and she appreciates that, taking a few more moments before she’s paged to check on a patient again.
At 10 she sees Mark again - he’s called in for a consult on one of her cases.
“Mrs Young, is it?” Mark says, flipping through the chart as he enters the room. Addison stands at the foot of the patient’s bed. He joins her, standing close enough to her that the patient asks: “Are you Dr. Shepherd?”
Addison almost corrects her, but he cuts her off.
“No,” He says, through gritted teeth, though still throwing a signature Mark Sloan smile at the patient, “I’m the ENT surgeon here at New York Hospital. I’m Dr. Sloan.”
12’o clock slowly arrives and Addison finds herself sat in the NICU, after a long surgery delivering premature twins. Mark’s familiar face pops up through the glass, and he pushes open the door and seats himself next to her. A half-eaten salad sits in front of her, in between the incubator the twins share. Her job feels more personal now.
“You ditched me for an empty office?” He stares down the salad right in front of her.”A salad? And preemies?” He snorts, lightly.
“Yeah,” she gives him a weak smile. “I’m sorry.”
They sit in the silence for a moment, absorbing the silence the NICU holds, watching the chests of the babies rise and lower. Rise and lower. Heartbeats registering as green lines on the monitor, thumping breath and life into the baby.
“When are you gonna divorce Derek?” He asks, catching her off guard.
“Mark what- is this about the Montgomery-Shepherd thing?” She sighs.
“Yes- because 5 other patients also thought I was ‘ Dr Shepherd’ in the past week.”
“I’m sorry.” She says, “but Derek isn’t taking my calls, he’s not replying to my emails - I just - I’ll do it soon, okay?”
He doesn’t look convinced. He’s waiting for her to say something, she can feel it, and she can feel her voice waver as she opens her mouth, the trepidation running through her body. “Mark?”
She can feel the rush of pain that travels through her as he acknowledges her with his ice-blue eyes. And she needs to tell him, tell him that they’re moving too fast, that this was not the plan she had in mind for the rest of her life. She loves him, she does, but she just needs it all to slow down. Maybe its the pregnancy hormones, she thinks. But she can’t stop her mouth from saying what she needs to say.
“Mark, I love you.” She blurts, and he looks confused, as if that wasn’t what he expected her to say. And when she opens her mouth to speak again she can feel every fiber in his body tense, waiting for the incoming but. “I’m sorry - I just, do you think we’re moving too fast?” She says.
And that’s when it hits him, and he’s moving towards the door, back turned, face hidden from her.
“Everyone’s talking Mark. Everyone. And I can’t live like this-” she says, her throat constricts her from taking big, deep breaths. “It’s just, this hospital, the brownstone, hell - new york city, it’s all Derek. He’s everywhere. They’re all talking;all gossiping; all watching.”
Mark doesn’t raise his head, pain and tears in his eyes, before he finally says: “I have to go.”
“Mark - I’m walking away from a 13 year marriage. I just need some time, okay?” She says to his back, and he walks out of the NICU.
And she feels like shit. Fuck, she thinks.
She doesn’t see him in the halls of the hospital afterwards.
It’s almost midnight when she heads back to her brownstone. There’s a few lone people making their way home like her, none of whom she recognizes, as she moves under the streetlights towards number 20. The rain thrums a gentle frequency throughout the street. A chill runs through an alleyway just as she passes it, and she pauses to pull the edges of her jacket tighter around herself. She feels the baby one more time, and she can imagine the pulsation of the baby’s heartbeat align with her own. She thinks of things to say to Mark as she nears her house, and experiments with the shape the words form on her mouth. She needs to apologize, and tell him that she just needs to move out of the brownstone and the neighbourhood. And if she can, maybe to a different hospital.
She’s practically shuffling as she arrives at the stoop, and just looking at the stairs makes her head ache. Through the translucent windows she can see only a few lights on in the living room, with Mark’s silhouette hunched over on the couch. She takes a breath and smooths down her hair, a light clicking from her heels the only noise as she moves up the steps and pushes the door open.
“You’re going after Derek, aren’t you?” Mark asks, though it isn’t a question, it’s an accusation. It feels like a punch to her gut. Her stomach drops as his words hang in the air. She can’t do anything but stand frozen in the doorway, one hand still clasping onto the door handle.
She can tell he’s more than past his first glass of wine - his lips are stained a dark red and his head lolls back and forth a few times. She doesn’t say anything, because she didn’t expect him to say that, and she’s frozen in the spot and she wills her feet to move but her feet don’t respond.
“You’re going to Seattle?” He’s louder now, and pushes himself off his one-seater grey sofa, setting down his glass which still sloshes with wine. He rips off her post it note from the coffee table, and walks towards the doorway to meet her. She still doesn’t say anything. Tears prick her eyes, because this somehow confirms her suspicions of Mark being too immature of being a father, confirms her fears of not ever being able to raise a child of her own again. He’s too loud but at the same time the silence is as well, and she pushes past him to go up to their room. “ To fucking Seattle?”
Suddenly she’s yelling, and Mark’s yelling back at her, neither can hear what the other is saying, and it’s a horrible karmic deja vu moment from a few months ago when Derek left her, standing on the exact same step.
“Did the last few months mean nothing to you? Hell - the last year?” He runs a hand through his hair. “ Fuck, Addison . I thought we were - I thought....”
She’s quiet, unresponsive, on the stairs. She looks at anywhere but him. She can feel the heat of his stare on her demanding answers, but when she finally looks him square in the eye she knows he isn’t demanding them, instead pleading her for an explanation.
“No, no…..no I’m not Mark.” She finally says, on the halfway step up to the second floor.
“Then what?” He slams his fists on the hallway table.
Silence crackles in the air.
“You can barely look at me, even at home, and Addie, ” He says, out of his drunken trance, she can feel him barely choke out the next words. “If you’re still in love with Derek, just go.”
“No, Mark.” She says, tears still running down her face. “I’m pregnant. And it’s yours. 6 weeks now. I’m sorry.”
Mark’s face contorts into a mix of shock, guilt and shame, as he stands in the doorway processing this information. She can practically see the wheels turning in his head. She watches his every move, for some indication of a reaction, hoping for the best and that he’ll say he couldn’t be more happy and that he always wanted to start a family with her. Her heart is thumping so loud in her chest, but she’s focused on him, focused on his face and his words and the rising and dipping of his chest.
“And you didn’t tell me?” His words are like stabs to the heart. Eyebrows furrow in confusion, tears pricking his eyes.
She opens her mouth to speak, to say something, to say anything really, but nothing comes out. All the things she wants to say but can’t form into words are bundled into a lump into her throat, and she watches as he flings the door open and steps into the rain.