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Chapter Text

Chapter 1 - Turquoise Dream 
 Fragile Bird

Sometimes the meaning of life doesn't necessarily need to have a meaning at all. Sometimes it is as simple as giving life life, itself and other times ... well, other times it's like a dark, mutilated shadow.

The question of what life means follows you everywhere, literally, even if you never actually turn around to see it tailing you.

Everyone just wants to feel like their lives count for something. Everyone wants to be assured that all this is not just a cosmic accident.

The good news is that finding a sense of purpose is possible at any age. But some would argue that it is a waste of time, to find meaning in life, that is, since the universe is a cruel, uncaring void, because the key to being happy isn't a search for purpose, but to just keep busy with unimportant nonsense and eventually, you'll be dead.

He doesn't know if -

The shrill ringing of his phone on the nightstand breaks him from his sleep, has him groaning as he shifts beneath the blankets. He squeezes his eyes shut and folds the pillow over his ears to drown it out, hoping it'll silence itself without forcing him to actually get up and move and do it himself.

But it doesn't - of course - and he remembers then that he's a doctor; it could be an emergency at the hospital. So, he huffs as his eyes peel open to pitch blackness, except for the flashing light and buzzing beside him. He pushes up on his elbows, lazily grabs for the device.

He squints at the screen, but he doesn't need clear vision to read the name; he knows the picture that's shining back at him, knows it all too well.

It's Addison, and for a few very very tempting seconds he considers ignoring it, letting it go to voicemail because it's - three-thirty-nine and very early in the morning for him to deal with his ex-wife.

He doubts there's any real emergency right now.

It's Addison. Every little thing is an emergency to her.

He checks his pager - nothing.

He really can't do this, have another conversation with her again. He can't.

What other bombshell does she need to drop on him now? And at this hour? Why is there even more secrets and lies?

Regardless, the tiny part of him that's been her husband for the past twelve years wins over in the end and he's also curious to know as to why she's calling and with a huge sigh he answers.

"Addison, do you know what time it is?"

Silence.

All he hears is breathing on the other line and he sits up a bit straighter, more alert.

Maybe more irritated is much accurate.

"Addison?"

"Give me a reason not to kill myself."

His breath catches in his throat and at the same time, his heart hammers harshly in his chest, crashing almost painfully against his ribcage for release.

No, she must be joking. She's starving for attention (in a very Addison fashion, he must add.)

"I don't have time for your antics, Addison. It's really late - or rather, it's really early -"

"All I need is one reason, Derek." she says quickly, all in one exhale, and he can tell from the shakiness of her tone that she's desperate for an answer.

She might just be serious.

He hears a noise that sounds something like a gasp, and it takes him a few seconds to register that the sharp inhale of breath came from him.

"Give me one reason not to, Derek," she repeats, and the tone of her voice sends chills down his spine.

It's not very Montgomery to do so.

Breathing.

There is breathing. She's still breathing, so he forces himself to relax his tension-filled shoulders and focus on the road.

She huffs. "No, I'm not." There's a pause. "I'm sorry. I'm so stupid. I shouldn't have -" He hears rustling on her end, a crash, then a curse, and his heart speeds up.

"Addie!"

She doesn't answer and he slams his hand onto the steering wheel, pushes his foot harder on the gas.

He can barely hear himself think over the thrashing of his heart and he tries to stay calm, rationalise this and make himself believe that she won't actually do this. It should be some sort of sick prank. She couldn't possibly be thinking about killing herself.

But she is, apparently, and that's why she's called him in the middle of the night, asking for a reason as to why she ought to still be living.

Tears rush to the surface but he pushes them back, keeps them at bay because he can't do this right now. He can't break down behind the wheel because if he does he'll just make it worse, and that's not what anyone needs.

He should call Mark, so he could check up on Addison. He's staying at the Archfield too, if he's not mistaken. But - goddamnit- he doesn't fucking have his number.

He's only a few minutes from her hotel now, he can't seem to shut his mind off, can't stop the panic from curling at his insides and suffocating him.

Were there signs? There are usually signs with these kinds of situations, right?

His mind goes wild trying to think of them, of something, anything that should've, would've alerted him that Addison wasn't herself, that she was thinking about hurting herself. But - okay, he does not know. He hasn't really been paying any attention to her lately, especially since she told him about her and Mark and everything else that happened after he left New York.

Meredith found her crying in the supply closet the other day. But that couldn't haven been a red flag for suicide.

Right?

Maybe it's the divorce.

But she wouldn't.

Would she?

Not his Addison.

She’s not yours to claim. No, not anymore.

This is all his fault.

She asked if he had a minute last night. After his shift. He found her at his floor, waiting for him by the elevators. He was confused, irritated, knew his face said it all, but she smiled anyway.

She knew his schedule - of course, she does. She knew just what time he'd leave his office. It hasn't changed, even if he's in Seattle now.

She knew. She remembered.

She asked if they could talk, but he said no. He said he didn't have a minute to talk and just walked away, pretended he didn't see the pained look on her face at the rejection.

What if this is what she wanted to talk to him about? What if he could've stopped this before it even started, avoided this late night phone call?

She might have been ready to talk to him about whatever it is that she's obviously feeling, everything that's brought this to the forefront of her mind, but he was too busy with his own pitiful anger and wounded pride that he couldn't have even given her the time she asked for.

And now she's - now she's scaring him, terrifying him to a point that he's never experienced before.

He barely pays attention to the park job he's just done, just makes sure he's somewhat against the curb before he turns the car off and hops out, slamming the door in his haste to run across the street to the hotel she calls home now.

He's been here thrice. Three unfortunate events. The last time, he was ready to apologise for everything he's done, did and did not do as her husband. He even had an entire speech laid out, but then, Mark happened.

God, this is incredibly sad.

No, this is incredibly sad.

He looks at his watch. It's been twenty minutes since she's called. He doesn't have time. He doesn't wait for the elevator either, just takes long strides up the stairs to her floor, ignoring the tightness in his chest.

It's from both the exertion and the panic, he knows.

Her door comes into view and he pounds on it, shouts her name in the process.

"Addison!"

He's far too aware that it's the middle of the night, that her neighbours are asleep, but he can't bring himself to worry about that. Not right now. "Addison! Addie!"

The door is cracked open, and his attention is drawn to the water flooding the floor. His fists pushes the door open the rest of the way until he's in, his eyes immediately falling to the overflowing tub.

"Addie!" he tries again, but she's not moving. Her eyes don't open. "Come on, please!"

He's on his knees, pants already drenched before he stands again, uses all of his strength to pull her out and lay her gently onto the floor. Her skin is pale and he realises with utter horror that her chest isn't rising. She's not breathing. His fingers press against her wrist, praying for a miracle, for any chance that there's still a shallow pulse.

”Please, honey.”

He keeps them there for over a minute, hoping for something, but there's nothing. 

He's too late.

Chapter Text

Chapter 2 - Fallen Kites

Fragile Bird

It was an accident.

But she wouldn't have drank so much if it wasn't for him. Because of his own preventable actions, he has to - oh, god, he has to tell her family and friends that she's dead and that future conversation embeds itself into his mind and he feels the need to throw up again.

Because of him, Addison didn't make it.

He's known Mark since they were five and that's the same face he made when he secretly opened the cage of their class pet rabbit and it hopped to the busy streets and was evidently trampled.

"What did you do?"

"I’m sorry, Derek. I’m so sorry - I pushed Addison."

Because of Mark, Addison is dead.

Chapter Text

Chapter 3 - Thoughts So Cloudy

"Addison!"

Derek bolts awake and drenched in sweat, chest heaving profusely as his eyes darts around his surroundings.

Addie?

Immediately, he moves to shove the blankets from his overheated skin before dropping his head into his hands. He focuses on his breathing then, forces himself to take slow, deep breaths as he would his patients, to bring his heart rate back down to appropriate levels.

It takes him a few minutes but he eventually lifts his head and looks around, almost expecting to find himself in Addison's bathroom, on the wet tiled floor with her body in his arms.

But - no, he's in his trailer in the woods as the silent cricketing of insects and wind whistling would suggest. He's in his bed and it was just a dream - or a nightmare, actually. Though uncommon to him, the rudimentary causes are not a mystery. Addison. And the way he responded, too, isn't a surprise. Unpleasant dreams can cause a strong emotional response, typically fear, but also despair, anxiety, and great sadness.

And it is all because of his ex-wife.

The blankets rustle beneath him as he shifts, brushing against his bare legs as he pushes them off his body. It's too hot now, his skin too sticky; he can't sit under them anymore.

Straightening himself against the headboard, he pauses for a minute before he moves from the bed entirely and pads quickly into the bathroom. Gripping the side of the sink with both hands he looks at his reflection in the almost darkness just the light above the mirror is on, he is flushed and has a slight sheen of sweat on his skin, distressed; curls wiry and untamed, as if he had just been put through a chaotic, perilous situation.

In a way, he supposes he has.

Addison had killed herself. Or more accurately, Mark did.

But it wasn't real.

Of course not.

Addison wouldn't. And Mark - he couldn't, even if he tried. He knows the guy all his life; he can't even kill a fly and he would never lay a finger on a woman.

Never.

That, he can vouch for in his ex-best friend's credibility.

He digs the heel of his palm into his eyes.

Just a dream. Not real.

So, Addison's fine. She must be. She's alive and she's fine. She must be. Like she always is, he tries to convince himself of that. She didn't call him in the middle of the night, she didn't ask him that scary question and he's relieved to know that Mark didn't actually kill her.

Just a dream. Not real.

It wasn't real - it was simply a figment of his imagination pulling from the other day's case, the patient with the toxic blood that had inebriated almost every doctor at the hospital (except for Mark, of course).

He breathes deeply again. Everybody is okay, Addison is alive and to the best of his knowledge, well. So, why is he experiencing an overwhelming urge to check on her? To make sure she's really and truly breathing, that she hasn't slipped through the cracks in the middle of the night?

"Ridiculous," he mutters to himself.

He is reluctant to accept that it is his ... duty as her husband for the past eleven years that's making him feel riddled with crippling fear and guilt.

But he needs to be certain one hundred per cent.

His phone is beside him and he picks it up, dials her number and tries to ignore the tiny voice reminding him of what time it is and that she's going to be furious he wakes her up. Especially after how, that he's been shutting her out; a call from him is probably the last thing she'd expect, anyway.

There is no answer, and he isn't exactly surprised - it really is late, after all - but this does nothing to soothe his worries. With a growl, he gets up, throws on some jeans and a sweater, and heads towards the door.

This is ridiculous. She's fine.

But maybe she's not. Maybe this nightmare is a sign telling him that he should've talked to her when she asked, that he shouldn't have been such an ass about pushing her away. It might have just been a dream, a figment of his imagination, but Addison Montgomery is very real and if something happens to her -

He'd never forgive himself.

No, he won't let it.

The walk up to her door gives him a sinking sense of déjà vu and he feels his stomach drop, mouth going dry. But he pushes thr dread back, far far back into his mind, shaking his head to will it away as he does.

That was not real.

This is real.

Right here and right now, this version is real.

He knocks on the door lightly at first, then with more force - one, two, three - without much hesitation, and, surprisingly, to his comfort, it only takes a few more knocks for the door to open and a very dishevelled, very exhausted-looking Addison steps into his view.

She looks sincerely displeased to see him (he cannot blame her though, he too would have scowled at him) rubbering her eyes as she does.

But he is not - displeased, that is.

He's not sure he's ever been this relieved to see her.

Well, that's a lie, there was that time at the hospital after her car accident.

When he got the call, all he was able to do was beg God to not take his Addison away from him. But that was almost ten years ago. That was then and this is now. This is a close second.

And he's almost tempted to hug her.

"Derek?" she squints, surprise written all over her face even in her sleepy/irritated state and she takes all of him in. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

He nods dumbly, can't help the small smile that takes over his face or the sigh of utter relief that escapes him.

She's fine.

She really is fine, alive.

"Addison," he breathes, his hands reaching up to touch her but they fall short, left to slide limply by his sides, "I'm - I'm sorry. It's stupid, I just had to see you."

A brow arches and she crosses her arms around her chest. She looks a lot like her mother at that. Like the first time he went over to the Montgomery Mansion to meet her parents. Stoic. Stern. Serious. And very displeased because he was not like them, old money. But he isn't going to say something that should only be said in his head out loud. "What's going on, Derek?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing. It's fine."

"You're here at three in the morning. Obviously it's not fine."

Well, she's not wrong. But she's not completely right either.

Nothing is fine and nothing is not fine, either.

"I just needed to see you," he repeats again, doesn't know what else to say to her to explain his presence at her hotel room door without having to delve deeper into the nightmare he just had.

And he's not so sure he wants to anyway.

She leans against the door frame, an arm coming up to hug her torso. "Why?"

He sighs. "To make sure you're all right," he murmurs quietly, jutting up his chin towards the inside of her hotel room, "I'll let you get back to sleep now."

He turns to leave, but her hand touches his arm lightly - too lightly since he almost didn't feel her - and she nods behind her towards the living room, signalling tiredly for him to come in. After a second of hesitation, he does, walk over the threshold and past her until he's standing against her couch.

"Why wouldn't I be all right?"

"I, uh - I had a dream," he starts, clears his throat when his voice threatens to give out, "Just had to be sure."

She eyes him for a second before her face softens, realisation and understanding clouding her features. He's sitting on the edge of the couch cushion now and she moves to sit across from him.

"I died?" she asks, but she already knows the answer, "In this dream of yours?"

She's no stranger to these nightmares and knows there are only a few reasons one would have to be sure.

He thinks about it for a minute, deciding whether or not he's going to go into it, before giving her a small nod. "Well, at first it seemed like you had killed yourself," he clarifies softly, "Then, Mark showed up and it turns out he killed you?"

She stifles a laugh as her hand flies to her mouth - that's ridiculous, she finds herself thinking - muttering an apology just a moment later. "Mark, what? ... He wouldn't."

He nods. He finds himself agreeing with her, "Mark wouldn't."

But then again, what does he know about what Mark would and would not do?

He did do his wife on their bed, on his favourite sheets. Didn't he?

There's a silence that envelops them and her hotel room sets an uncomfortable precedent for their almost twelve years journey here. "You hate him that much?"

You hate him that much?

He jerks involuntarily when her hand comes to rest on his knee, and he finally brings his eyes to hers.

Her eyes widen as she looks back at him.

There. Her answer.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks before making herself clear, "Your dream, I mean."

Yes. No. Yes and no.

He lets out a heavy sigh. "You called me," he begins, twisting so he's facing in her general direction but not actually looking at her. "At three in the morning, and you told me to give you a reason not to kill yourself." she lets out a small breath she didn't know she was hiding. "I told you - I tried to tell you - I told you why you shouldn't - I tried to give you a reason, but you just told me you were sorry and hung up."

"Derek ..." she whispers shakily.

"I went to your apartment, found ..." her eyes are soft as she looks at him, "Everything looked ... the same," he adds, gesturing to the air, "But your bathroom was flooding so I went in and you were … in the tub. You had drowned yourself - Well, I thought you had drowned but Mark came out of nowhere saying how sorry he was."

She moves closer, puts a tentative arm on his shoulder. "Derek, I'm right here."

"I was too late, Addison."

This is ridiculous.

She's sitting right next to him, so close that he's touching her - or she's touching him, really - but it's suddenly so vain, so vivid in his mind again, that he can't quite let it go.

"No," she says, shaking her head, "You can't be too late for something that hasn't happened. I'm fine, okay? I'm right here." she gently caresses the back of his neck, letting him feel her, allowing him to believe that she's alive and well.

Well enough.

His elbows rest on his knees as he lowers his head, places it into his palms. "You're not - you aren't -"

She blinks. "I maybe forty and divorced and alone and living in a hotel, but I'm not thinking of killing myself, Derek."

He makes a face but gives a small, sheepish nod. "Yeah."

But she's not forty.

"No," she says firmly, confident, "It was just a dream, Derek, there is no truth to it."

He already knew that, but hearing her say it eases what tension is still left in his body.

Running his hands down his face, he lets out a relieved huff. His face rests hidden behind his palms, eyes closed as he just takes it all in once again, lets himself breathe. For a second he almost forgets where he is, forgets that he's woken his wife up at three in the morning just so he could make sure, indefinitely, that she's not submerged in her bathtub. He's only brought back to reality when the warm hand on his neck moves slowly down his forearm before vacating completely.

After a while, he brings his head up out of his hands but keeps his eyes closed, breathes out through his nose.

Her presence next to him is comforting but then he straightens up, as if just now remembering everything prior to this dream.

Ex-wife. Mark. Divorce. New York. Lies. Lies. Lies.

She had lied to him.

He's been avoiding her in an attempt to forget what he had heard and somehow, through some sick twist of fate, the universe has dumped him here. On her couch, in the middle of the night, with her sitting not even a foot away.

The last time he was this close to her, close enough to breathe her perfume and her shampoo, with distance small enough that he could reach out and cup her jawbone with his hands ... well, Mark showed up.

He shudders in distaste.

When his eyes open he realises that she's watching him. There's something in her eyes that he can't pinpoint, but it's there, swirling beneath the surface, clouding over the blue of her irises.

Understanding, probably some surprise still; and, yeah, he is too.

He needs to get out of here before all of his progress - he almost huffs at that, because there's been next to no progress at all - is undone.

"Sorry, Addison," he says on an exhale as he goes to stand, "I'll get out of here."

"Derek, wait."

He shouldn't stop. His head knows he shouldn't. He shouldn't turn around to look at her. But his heart doesn't know any better. He shouldn't listen to that voice.

He knows he shouldn't stop, but, of course, he does. Derek, wait. Derek, listen. He stops and turns back towards her, who's now standing too, her eyes on him.

"What?"

She takes a step forward. "Why did you come here?" It's out before she has a second to think about it, about what she's saying and what she's starting right now, but the initial shock of him showing up has faded and now there's nothing but confusion.

He stopped caring a long time ago. So she stopped trying.

She's unsure whether it's the late hour, lack of sleep, or his presence in general when he's been pulling away for a while now, but it makes her brave. It makes her willing to take this jump, get some real answers while she can.

There's no turning back from this.

He blinks. "I already told you," he mutters slowly, "I had a dream -"

"That I killed myself, or Mark did," she finishes for him, nodding, "I know. I mean why are you here, Derek?"

Is it just the ridiculous hour or is she really not making any sense?

He's not sure which one it is, but he doesn't know what she's getting at. "I don't understand the question."

Her mouth twists to the side as she shakes her head, lets out a humourless chuckle. "Why do you care?"

"Why do I care?"

She nods.

"Why do I care that you - that you killed yourself in my dream?"

"Yeah," she shrugs nonchalantly, wrapping her other arm around her chest. "Why'd you care enough to come to check?"

His mouth drops open and he takes a step closer. "Are you - is that a serious question? Why do I - why do I care enough to check on you?" his voice raises, the disbelief and bubbling anger growing, "After everything, after sixteen years, do you honestly believe that I wouldn't care if you died? If you'd killed yourself? ... Or if someone else did? You know that's not true."

"You stopped caring a long time ago."

That's not true. He cares. He has always cared about her.

"What does that mean?"

"The Derek I met sixteen years ago is not the Derek who's been avoiding me like the Black Plague all week," she throws back at him, but instead of stepping forward with her arms crossed in defiance, she takes a step back, hurt and turns away. "And I don't know what I did, Derek, so, obviously, no -" she turns right back around, like she's just been hit, "It took you our divorce to start caring again? To notice me? I really don't know why you suddenly do, or why you even came?"

He doesn't even know what to say to that.

Is she wrong?

No. Yes. But mostly, no.

She has it all wrong. He always cared about her and he always will. But he will admit, he's not going to deny the fact that he was a pretty lousy husband the couple of years.

Addison.

He had spent the past few days trying and failing to get her out of his mind by distancing himself from her, by distracting himself with work and Meredith and more work than he really has. But it's just so difficult, cutting his ex-wife off and ignoring her, especially when wherever he goes it's as though she had purposefully left a trail of her perfume for him to follow suit. He even went so far as to turning a whole one-eighty degrees and walking another way, that had taken him twice the time to get to his destination, when he heard that familiar clacking of her heels.

She was wearing her Manolos - they make a much heavier sound than her usual Louboutins that are much lighter and softer. Click. Click. Click. He really should be embarrassed; he doesn't know why he knows this utterly pointless information.

Eleven years of marriage. Sixteen years of being her partner.

He only did all the things that he did because she had lied, lied to him about what really happened after he left New York. She had lied about everything from the moment she stepped foot into Seattle Grace.

With her perfectly curled hair, dressed in all black, and red lips, she regurgitated lies after lie when she stood at the lobby. Then, on the ferry. Also, at home that evening.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

Everything was one big conspiracy.

If you had the baby, we'd be together in New York right now and it wouldn't be raining.

She had calculatingly, strategically left out the parts that would incriminate her. And for some reason, it still shocked him more than anything that she would lie to him.

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself - Don't be mad. Don't be mad. - because there really is no point in getting angry with her now. What had been done has already been done and no one can change the past no matter how many times you pray on it.

"You really have no idea, do you?" his eyes match hers, but she only raises an eyebrow in challenge.

She wants a challenge?

Fine, she'll get one.

"You want to know why? I guess I just don't like being lied to."

Her brows scrunch together in a line, confused. "Lied to?"

"Lied to." he echoes and before she could play clueless and say that she has no idea what the fuck he's talking about, he speaks first, "I heard you, Addison," he says on an exhausted sigh, "I heard you and Mark." Shaking his head, he turns away from her for a few seconds before looking back. It's a little uncomfortable talking about this with his wife - no, ex-wife. "The office behind the nurses' station."

Yeah, if the wide-eyed, panicked, deer-in-the-headlights look is any indication, he knows she knows what he's talking about now.

She drops back down to the couch as though she can't hold herself up any longer and he mirrors her.

He doesn't think he's ever heard a silence so deafening before. He's watching her, studying her - she's so uncharacteristically quiet and her eyes are glistening with unshed tears of something that's neither guilt or reproach. She eyes the red in the glass right in front of her on the coffee table, and he has no idea how it got there or when she had even poured herself one. He knows from the way she's chewing her bottom lip, a nasty habit of hers as she has a tendency to chew them raw unknowingly, she's strongly debating downing the whole thing quickly and crudely.

"You were pregnant -" he begins.

She quickly reaches for the glass and as predicted, gulps it down greedily.

Lies. Lies. Lies.

They are still silent and he notices her fingers dancing so ever briefly over the flat of her abdomen that it almost look as if she hadn't.

She shakes her head, runs a hand over her face before it all sinks in again. "You heard us."

He just nods.

"You heard ... everything?"

He's certain she's thinking what more can she omit from the truth right now.

"You mean when Mark said he was supposed to have a baby and not walking pneumonia or when you walked in on him and the nurse?" his gaze fixes on the faint stain on his jeans as he rubs his palms against each other. He doesn't know what to do with his hands.

The tells her that he knows, heard everything he needed to hear but doesn't, wouldn't dare mention about the other thing Mark and she talked about. It's not his place anymore. He's not her husband. Not anymore. "Yeah, I was there."

Karma is a bitch, he thinks only to himself, won't say that out loud, because he's ashamed that such petty thoughts would even pop into his mind.

He won't insult her.

She doesn't deserve that.

Her chest puffs out with a deep breath and her eyes flutter closed, a hand coming to pinch the bridge of her nose. "And that's why you've been ignoring me?"

"Not entirely. No."

She was pregnant.

She was pregnant. And it wasn't his.

Pregnancy. Offsprings. Fertility.

It's a big deal for his family, to be able to bare children, and it's something she never was with him. For eleven years, five years being together before finally exchanging rings, she had never said the words I'm pregnant to him. And barely a summer with Mark - he thinks he's going to be sick just thinking about them - she gets pregnant.

Eleven years.

One month.

Is there something wrong with him?

There must be.

Addison. Pregnant. Babies that are not his.

But they're divorced; he shouldn't be this troubled of the fact that she could very well have children that aren't half his.

Divorced. Civil. Mature.

Addison. Pregnant.

He imagines her body would begin to change. The new fullness of her face would make her look exceptionally youthful again, help her round out the sunken cheeks she seems to be sporting. Her belly would grow right before his eyes, firm and curved, and her hips would flare to accommodate the ever-growing life inside of her. An ever-present flush would bloom her cheeks, too. Her nausea would improve, and she would constantly look at her profile in the mirror more than she would ever admit.

"I'm not angry," he starts, his eyes unfocused, looking somewhere past her shoulder, "I am not angry that you lied, Addison."

Not anymore.

At least, not since he woke up just this very early morning. Perhaps not since knocking on her door.

Yesterday? And the day before that?

Yes. Yes. Very much.

There's no point in dwelling on what he cannot change. Life is too short to be holding grudges, he finally realises.

She nods, her clenched fists resting on her lap. "I wanted to tell you, Derek - I should have - but I ... I couldn't. I ... just couldn't get myself to." She finally finds her voice ad he is amazed that he could even hear her over the pounding of his heart. "Would you have taken me back if I did, Derek?" she asks in a quiet whisper, a voice so small that he's not certain she's said the right words.

He tries to relax his tightened muscles and fiddles with his wrist because that's all he can manage right now.

No. Yes. No. No. No?

But he doesn't look at her, just shrugs. Now, he's looking at anywhere but her and he knows she's seen the answer she was seeking - no - and he finally peeks a glance at her and it makes him nauseous again.

Mark.

She nods.

"I do care, Addie," he says slowly, "I want you to know that. I do care about you. I do - I have - always have ... And I'm sorry. I know it must have been ..."

He doesn't finish.

She nods again.

"Yeah - well, I guess everything worked out for the best. You deserve better. Someone who's not like me. Someone who's not a mess."

Meredith?

He looks at the side of her for a moment. "You both got issues."

They both have issues stemming from their narcissistic and absent parents. Yes. They both love hard liquor a tad too much. Yes. They both have serious problems with abandonment. Yes.

They both have the same issues essentially.

"Some more than others," she murmurs, her voice low. This could not have gone any more different than he thought it would. "I'm sorry, Derek. I just - I couldn't."

He takes a breath. "I know."

And he does, now.

He really does understand; he doesn't like the way she went about it, but he understands. They both needed to see it for themselves - a year wasted or not, they have both learned and grown.

Ultimately, he shouldn't get off scot-free either. "And I'm sorry too," he says again; he can't seem to stop apologising. For what? Everything, he supposes. "I should've just talked to you instead of giving you the cold shoulder."

"I don't blame you."

"And I'm sorry about that night, too," he winces. He can't believe he's going to apologise for that night in New York because, he'll say it time and time again, he's not the one at fault, not at all, but then again, there were other, more productive, ways for him to deal with that situation in the same city rather than running over a thousand miles to the West Coast.

"I could have handled things better - I shouldn't have given up so easily." he say quickly.

After the high comes the crash, as a vague sadness rises up around him, a tide of second thoughts and regrets plunders.

"I shouldn't have ran away."

She quirks a brow, not convinced.

"It made things a lot more complicated than it already was. I should've stayed in New York. We might have worked it out. You and I. We could have. The least I could've done was just ... talk to you ..."

It looks so simple, so redundant saying all of this now because they are, you know, divorced, but he knows it would have been harder than it looks. He could have tried. He should have fought harder for their marriage. They would have survived like she said they would.

"We - we never talked to each other," he says softly, like wonder, as though he's realising it for the first time.

In New York.

He sees it now, the last couple of months before everything fell apart, he doesn't think he's even said more than three sentences to her at that brownstone. He doesn't remember much of being home either. Just that if he was home, Addison would either already be asleep or in a bad mood or nagging him about something or the other he doesn't particularly care about. Or all of the above, plus tears.

She chuckles a little - maybe in sheer disappointment that it's taken him this forever to finally notice that - her shoulders jump with the vibration and a small smile that doesn't reach her eyes forms and he thinks he's never seen her so incredibly sad before. "We really made a mess of this, didn't we?" she whispers as if a too loud noise could shatter the fragile silence around them.

A little.

He focuses on her. Her eyes cloud with exhaustion and her pale face increasing the look of a worn-out woman. He frowns at her and couldn't help but reach over to tuck a loose strand of red hair behind her ear, cradling her face in his hands and caressing her cheeks with his thumb.

He could feel her skin warming beneath his hand and almost - just almost - for a split second, as her eyes flutters, he thought she would close the distance between them and lean into his hands like she used to.

"Stop," is what she say quietly instead, pulls away from him like she's been stung by a tiny kiss of pain.

Perhaps she has.

"Why?"

Her eyes shot up to meet his, and unfamiliar emotion on display all over her face. "Because I already have a reputation here, Derek," she grits, "Because you have a girlfriend. And I don't want to be your slutty mistress." she mutters then, voice smooth and precise - irritable at his oblivion most likely.

She turns her back to him as she strides a few steps to stand beside the window, letting him stand rooted to the spot with confusion written all over his face.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

She is being particularly dramatic but - okay.

"This is incredibly sad." His words are stilted. Angular and staccato.

She's heard that one before, right before a practically naked Mark walk in on them. But she thinks this time feels a hell of a lot worse than the last time. Maybe because she is a lot less drunk and sated and numb from the waist down than the last time.

She looks at him from over her shoulder, her arms still folded around her chest. "Yeah," she mumbles, another sad chuckle leaving her soon after, "Yeah, it is."

"But that doesn't mean we can't fix it," he says optimistically. His voice suddenly at her back, his chest brushing her shoulder as he snags her wrist, gentle but firm, and he exposes the snowy white scar, peeking out from beneath her sleeve.

She turns to look at him, face contorting in confusion but he's not going to say it, not going to repeat the question she had asked prior. We really made a mess of this, didn't we? Their eyes lock and both knew they have wasted long weeks of suffering over stupid pride and plans.

Her head lifts, voice shaking a slightly with what he thinks is hope as she speaks, "You think so?"

Friends?

He's not blinded by revenge and rage and betrayal anymore.

No.

And he sees the moment she opens her mouth as if to say something, but nothing voices. Friends? Then, she tries to pull her lips into another smile but that doesn't happen either. He watches her face slip into a cry, lips trembling before she hesitantly steps into him, resting her head on his chest and that's when he feels her racking body as she begins to cry. Hot and raspy, tears trekking down her face in parallel lines and into the fabric of his shirt. "I'm sorry," she repeats, and he brings his hands around to curl at her back. "I wish this was easier, I wish I could ... I wish we could ..."

Be friends?

"Do you know what the saddest thing is?" she asks once her sobs have somewhat subsided.

His chin comes down to lean on the top of her head. "What?" he retorts, quietly.

"To love someone who used to love you."

She turns to him slightly and he is looking down at her fondly. Blinking, she keeps her eyes away on their long lost civility. She cannot make eye contact with him.

His eyes go watery and sad. He shakes his head and breaks her grip, gently forcing her body away from his.

"I don't just want to be your friend ..."

"Derek. I can't be your friend ..."

We were dating, you were my boyfriend, then, fiancée ...

"I'm sorry. It's just too much for me ..."

Husband. Ex-husband. We were everything but friends ...

He grips both her shoulders, "Listen," he insists, holding her still, "Me neither."

He was trying to gauge where she stands in all this.

She releases a sigh then as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders and yet, she is confused.

He doesn't want to be her friend either and she tells him to stop messing with her head.

“Do not fuck with me, Derek."

"I'm not."

He's not.

"What about Meredith?"

"Oh, um, Meredith and I are no longer together."

"Since when?"

"Tuesday."

"Tuesday? How come I haven't heard about it?"

He shrugs.

“I'm surprised the whole hospital doesn't know already."

The horror of his nightmare had led him here, to open his eyes and see.

I see. I see.

It's nice to be seen, especially by the people you love, and what she wanted was to be seen. Desperately. The nightmare is not gone (not tonight or tomorrow, soon though) but it feels very far away, like something that might have happened to someone else.

"Come," she beckons.

"Where?"

"You can't have your wits dulled from lack of sleep, Derek. A little rest is better than none at all."

"Addi -" he starts to protest because that's not what they need to happen to them right now because sleep with Addison always leads to a lot more than just the act of sleeping.

"Not that, Derek," she hisses playfully, "Actual sleeping. There's no point of you driving all the way back to the trailer when it's almost four in the morning."

He supposes so.

He nods solemnly and takes her hand in his as she lead him to the direction of her bed, as obediently as a child would. He removes his jacket and climbs in beside her and they lie side by side in silence. Addison feels her pulse slow, but is still acutely aware of Derek's muscled form lying to her right.

There is only the softness of the pillow and the mattress that hugs her body like a glove. The sheets smells good - vanilla and clove and ... Derek she realises. The bed is finally warm, warmed by him. He shimmers in her peripheral vision, bathed in an almost candlelit glow.

His crackling fire bright warmth beckons to her and she wraps her hands about his neck, trying to tug him closer. His chest is clothed but she still long to burrow her head against it.

She tilts her head like a debutante waiting for her first kiss. Derek smiles at her and fingers the lock of hair at her temple, the part that is now streaked with grey. They are both a bit older and sadder than the last time they did this, she thinks. He shakes his head and breaks her grip, gently forcing her hands to her side. "Not tonight, Addie. Not like this."

When she murmurs to him in protest, he cuddles her to his warm chest. Her tense muscles unwinding and she presses herself more closely to her ex-husband; her body now languid and pliant, fitting ideally against his, under his chin.

Just how he, she remembered.

She feels the smallest pinprick of rejection, but a night in Derek's arms is a fine consolation prize. After all, she thinks before falling asleep, "not like this" does not mean "not ever".

By the time his arms wrap around her, she is already asleep. A flicker of a new reflection remains kindling within him; one grateful that his body recognises and understands the needs of his heart better than his stubborn mind.

Thanks so much for reading, guys! Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a review!