This story is told in Mark's POV and in the second person narrative.

Hope you enjoy and please leave a review.

Not This Week

She's wearing blue.

Blue like her eyes, your eyes, the eyes of the child you'll never see, never touch and never hold.

Then, there's that green too.

Bright and warm and you are reminded of home, like a spring morning, like the first hints of life chirping through the solid cold of the Central Park soil, and it clashes with the blue of her dress.

She said you'd be a terrible father, and you reciprocate the statement too, but you also think you could have been a good father if she hadn't done what she had done ... so soon. Could have, being the operative word here - meaning you'd never really really know now for sure.

Could have.

That opportunity to prove yourself, not only to Addison but to yourself, too, was ripped, sucked (no pun intended there), torn from your flesh.

Absent choice.

But your 'could have', 'would have' wasn't good enough for Addison.

Nothing is ever good enough for her.

Don't blame it all on her, though, because you, yourself, still is uncertain whether or not you'd be a good father. You imagine you would, could and - see, even you're not convinced.

A good father but a lousy partner, would she have settled for that?

That's how couples end up in Paternity Court.

But they say when men become fathers, they undergo biochemical changes that affect the way they think and it's true; it happened to you. It happened in those few days you thought you were going to be a father. It happened when you bought that Yankees onesie and circled today's date on the calendar and hadn't foreseen that eight months later you actually wouldn't have a baby to love and hold, but it ... still feels like it's happening.

Biochemical changes.

It's eight months later and today you would have become a father. Would have. And the biochemical changes hadn't yet reverted to the old you, the one you don't like.

Oh - it's not as if you're fond of this new and improved miserable version of you, either.

What kind of father would you be?

You wouldn't want to be your father, that's for sure because what you see in the mirror now, is your father. The lying, the cheating. You are your father's son and it's not something to be proud of.

So, what kind of father would you be?

You would like to be the kind of father Mr. Shepherd was. Yeah - he was a great father.

How quickly humans form attachments to something that does not yet exist?

You are not attached.

You are only anticipating attachment.

They say that humans have a deep-seated need to interact with their children because it helps them discover who they are.

But you know who you are.

You can't look away from the blue even as you ignore the green; new beginnings were never an ease for you.

The colour clashes more with the heap of ribbon you see through the little cracks between the blinds, there's that explosion of pink and blue and all that is squishy and bright and inviting in the NICU, erupting in the wake of the baby Addison is bouncing in her arms.

The baby whom you swear you just heard her say 'baby Sloan'.

Sloan is a name claimed by hundreds and thousands of men for centuries, on both sides of the ocean, but it's still the one you claim as your own. And you must be mistaken with what you had heard because that is not your baby.

She does not have your baby anymore.

It's been eight months and you have finally accepted the fact that you can never plan a family with Addison because you are no Derek Shepherd, but the complacency and emptiness of today have been eating at you, your thoughts, too, and filling your week with dread and stomach pangs.

It's stupid but somehow your eyes cling to every infant that passes your way and sometimes you catch yourself watching how her slender waist only gets tinnier and tinnier by the day.

When you got to Seattle the first time, you don't know why you had hope, you don't understand how you could have convinced yourself, and so pathologically at that, because you were there - of course, not for the procedure itself, but for the after part. The post-procedure and Addison isn't that pathological in the head to fake it just to get far far away from you with your baby.

Though her skirt was tight, you remembered feeling nothing stir within, the day that Derek sucker punched you for merely conversing with his dirty mistress, you only felt disappointment and you don't get disappointed easily because most of the time you are the cause for disappointments.

There wasn't a bump that screamed baby and she looked the same the last you saw her and ... not at all, too. That falsehood of prosperity did not grow with the passing months. There were no developments that would have made you so happy to be it's father.

You would have made a terrible father.

Some days are harder than others. Most days you don't even remember. Some days you wish you could have treated Addison better. Most days you wish your father hadn't killed your mother. Some days you feel your mother's thin arms wrap unconditional love around you, like she did before she took all those pills. Most days you still feel her holding you close to ease the pain gnawing a hole in your heart.

You know what it's like to ache.

Every time an infant passes now, you search for your face. Sometimes, you think you see her eyes and your nose.

Your day is long and your head hurts, eyes aching, your control is slipping from your fingertips like a weight bearing down on your shoulders and you're underwater realising that the way out isn't the kind of escape you need. You long to be anywhere, anywhere but here with her just a floor below.

Her perfume lingers, still. Rich and indulgent, just like herself.

Vanilla. Brown sugar. Amber wood. Musk.

It lingers from before, from when she stopped by to say that she did what she did because you didn't want to raise a child.

Perhaps. Perhaps not.

How could she have known that?

This - this sinking, drowning misery is not not wanting their baby.

You're miserable.

You don't hate her. You can't hate her. You can't help but love her, still - oh, you're terrible.

You know you're a terrible colleague and an even worse boyfriend, you're not ready to lose again.

You won't lose again because -

"I didn't expect you'd still be here," a voice interrupts and you glance up from the report you've been trying to read for the last hour to find her there - again - clinging to the worn wood of your doorframe, a pert golden clip perched on the side of her hair and her coat hangs loose to showcase the blue and green of her dress.

This looks all familiar. Déjà vu. But she's not in her white lab coat this time and you know that the latest research into déjà vu suggests it's nothing but the frontal regions of the brain attempting to correct an inaccurate memory.

"Burning the midnight oil is more - my habit than yours."

You smile tightly as if to suppress the words from purging out, but, come on, you know she actually meant to say that it was Derek's habit.

You know.

You don't make a huge fuss about it, you're 'friends' and nothing more, you're both civilised and mature with each other - and not the kind of civilised and mature Addison and Derek claims to be, because that's just a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

It's late to be here and Addison is right, you don't normally stay past clock out. Failure is something you're used to but you're not ready to concede defeat.

"Redundancy will do that to a man."

She smiles in that far away style of hers and reaches for the buttons of her coat, fingers stilling before she can slide it close. "It was a girl," she says softly, eyes wide, like she can't believe the words that just came out of her own mouth; her fingers twitching over the curve of her stomach.

Her fingers grip the doorjamb for a minute, half a second longer, and she grabs the folds of her coat like a lifeline before letting go.

You're confused. She's confusing. Nothing she said makes any sense. It was a girl. It wasn't even old enough for her to find out.

She turns around, about to make her leave. She's going to leave, take her secrets and your secrets and walk out of your life all over again.

"That's all you're going to say?" you manage to sneer and your voice is even and level while your heart pounds so hard and your lungs beat so fast you're shocked you're still standing on two feet. "This isn't confessional, Addison. You don't get to say something like that and walk out of here with the slate wiped clean."

She shudders, grips the doorway harder, and her gaze slides to the floor.

"I meant to say I ... I felt - I can't explain it but I felt like it would have been a girl."

"It would have been a girl."

She nods.

Would have been.

"It was a girl." you whisper.

It was a girl.

You don't want a daughter and no - it's not like that. You're afraid to be a father to a baby girl. You're scared to death to have a daughter because you know there are terrifying people like you in this world, terrifying people who would have hurt her, like how you've hurt her mother.

Maybe it was for the best.

"It was the hardest decision I ever made, Mark," she says and keeps her eyes locked to the ground, a lock of hair escaping its pins to hide the curve of her cheek.

"Getting rid of her," you say, hands shaking around the cup clasped between them. You can't help yourself. Your daughter would have own you. "I heard it once, Addison. We were a mistake. We wouldn't still be together. We shouldn't have happened. We weren't a couple. We're not good together," you mimic her, "You didn't give us a chance first. Look, you still haven't taken out that damn ring," you point towards her hand fisted at her side, and the diamond winked, mocked you and your face contorts unwillingly. "It's a little pathetic when divorcees hold onto their wedding rings. Don't you think? You should really learn to let go. Derek has. He picked her. He chose her. He loves the intern, Addison. You're alone. You're divorced. You have nobody ... She had nobody."

Wincing, "She wasn't anything but a clump of cells," she tells you in her defence, "And you know it ... Why are you doing this?"

"You didn't want her."

"No …" she starts but her voice skids to a halt and she sucks in a deep breath to gather her courage. "I did. Just -" you stop her with a wave of your hand. You can't let her finish that sentence. You know. You know what she's going to say - she just didn't want to have a baby with you. "I bonded with barely more than the idea of a child and you take it away. You screwed me over."

"You also screwed me over. I was planning my whole life around this. Just you, me and our baby - And that question hanging over my head."

"What question?"

"I had to try and save my marriage, Mark. I had to know that I did everything I could."

You clear your throat, trying and failing to set your tone even. "You were gonna have a baby. I was gonna be a dad. And then, you just throw it all away. Everything is so easy for you."

"Easy?" she quips, "Have you been paying attention to my life? I'm forty and divorced."

"You're not forth - and that's not the point. You picked Derek over our baby."

"I picked you over Derek. I threw away my marriage for you -"

"No, you didn't. You did it for you. I just happened to be there that night you decided to throw away your marriage - but you still picked him over me."

Addison shakes her head.

"You got your answer?"

She shrugs. "As you said, I am alone, divorced and I have nobody."

Her voice is steady even as her fingers tremble against the fine wool of her coat. She isn't telling the full truth but you don't force it out. You're too good at your own craft to call another's bluff.

She finally raises her eyes to meet yours and they're wide and blue and aching in the dim light. "It was choosing not to tell you, Mark."

"You wanted other things," you remind her, toss her words back in her face. "You could have had me but it wasn't what you wanted."

"It would have been what I wanted if I hadn't caught you. Three other women. You think Charlene was the only one I knew about?"

"I ..." you're speechless and you feel your cheeks redden in shame and embarrassment. You should have, could have treated her better.

"It wouldn't have been what you wanted, either."

That night flashes before your eyes, her cool demeanour and the relaxed set of her shoulders and the way she blew your world apart with those two expertly played sentences.

I'm pregnant, Mark. Four weeks.

"It wasn't only your choice to make," you manage to say and wrench your eyes away from hers. You can't bear to see yourself reflected in the watery blues staring back at you.

"There was no other choice to make."

You know she's right but it doesn't hurt any less. Your relationship is still a sham and your home is still empty and your eyes will never stop searching for hers in the tiny faces of others. You shake your head and down the rest of the coffee. It's no scotch, but it's black and bitter.

Your fingers suddenly ache.

What's done is done.

"I said I was sorry, and I'll say it again. I am sorry. I don't know what else to say to that."

You shake your head, "Well, there's nothing you can say." Shrugging, because it's the truth. You really don't think there's anything she can say or do to make you forget. "You've made your choice."

"So, what, that's it? We're done? We're just going to go our separate ways?"

You lift your head, just the ever slightest, to meet her gaze, it's the saddest you've ever seen. The corners of her lips are turned upside down, trembling. Those blue orbs of hers match the ocean blue sea, shiny and reflective and melancholic.

You're sad too, but, you're better at hiding your emotions than she is.

"I guess so."

"Look," she starts with a calm voice, "I know you how much you hate it when I'm happy -"

You swallow, eyes darkening as you look straight at her. You don't know why that struck a cord in you. Her words crawl under your skin for some reason and you can feel them creeping it's way into your brain, irritating you. "Oh, that is such a load of -"

"Admit it. You're happiest when I'm miserable." she's suddenly indignant.

How can you be happy when she's miserable?

"I mean, come on, isn't that our thing? Because then you don't have to look at how miserable you are!"

"Shut up, Addison!"

"But I refuse to be miserable for you. I am going to try to be happy and if you can't deal with that, then - then, you're even more pathetic than I thought!"

Her words hurt but you try to steady your breath, your chilled demeanour as icy as ever. She's wrong. She's so wrong - you don't get off on her misery. You don't, but then again, you did kind of liked it when she was begging for attention from her husband.

"Get out of here!"

"Go to hell, Mark!"

You're already there.

She turns to leave you as per demanded but you don't really want her to go.

No. Not yet.

You were expecting a confrontation, riffraff, a bit more passion than 'go to hell' because she beat you to it. So as she was about to twist the doorknob, you quickly take hold of her wrist, yanking her back against your front. She struggles, but you refuse to release her, your harsh breath hoping to sting the back of her neck.

"Stay."

"Stop it."

"Just fucking talk to me," you rasp, your voice echoing in the room you now call your office.

She spins in your arms, the emotion in her eyes betraying her cutting tone.

"You are the last person I want to talk to right now, Mark," she says, "Go catch up with one of your whores."

"Whores," you raise a brow, "Do I detect jealousy?"

"You detect nothing," she practically yells, shoving your hands away. You stand in shock as she pulls away, stumbling back. "God. Don't you understand?"

You don't.

Silence.

You watch her, and you know she hates you, hates you for being you, for being so relentless.

Sorry.

You are sorry for being you. You want to apologise, but you don't - you don't say those exact words. "Stay with me," you finally say against the quietness between you and her.

"Just stay with me tonight?" you insist, fingers finding purchase in the curve of her hips, pulling her in, "Please."

"Why?"

It is strange, how things borne from lies and deception can suddenly bloom into euphoria, infatuation and ... naïf sometimes.

Clarity.

Years ago, when you both had unwittingly drifted into the same circle, your feeble friendship existed only through tireless banter. She was your best friend's girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, fiancé, and then, wife for many many years before the title was thrown out the window and the rest is history. And here you are now – touching her without a second thought.

You pull her behind one of the arches at the back of your office, backing her up against the old plaster wall separating your room from the next.

Mark -

Of course, Addison would try to protest, claiming that you are going to put a rip in her skirt or tear her new stockings.

"Like how you tore your marriage apart? Our relationship?" you murmur into her ear, sliding your hand down her thigh, tracing imaginary words over the nylon stockings there.

"Our relationship was not a relationship."

"Stop saying that."

"We weren't in a relationship."

"Stop it."

"It was just sex -"

"No -"

"You used me; I used you. We both did what we wanted to do."

"Stop."

"Open your eyes, Mark."

"You open your eyes," you grasp her chin, jutting her face up. "And stop lying to yourself."

The last time you were this close to her ... you were close enough to breathe in her perfume, close together with a distance so small that you could reach out and cup her jaws with your hands -

"More ..." Her nails dug into your arms so deep you bled and she clawed at your wrists and pulled. Not once. Not twice, relentlessly. "Tighter ..."

She looked terrified. Terrified. Eyes huge, ocean blue and glassy, her pupils were pinpoint sharp at the confusing game of pain and pleasure. And then, you were squeezing, and she barely moved from where you were straddling her and pinning her to the bed.

Your fingers made marks on the skin of her neck.

Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, and you push deep with your thumbs until she choked and coughed and gasped - until her entire face held a tinge of gray blue -

You rip your gaze away from the projection of your blues in hers.

"I'm not lying to myself," she spits, yanking her arms away from you when you attempt to pull her closer, fighting you viciously when you grip her shoulders.

"Let go."

"You're not a very good liar," you say, a sharp twist in your voice.

You hold one wrist, keeping her in place. She breathes in wheezily before letting out an empty sob, falling to her knees in front of you.

She hunches over, tears dotting her blue and green dress when she drops her head and you take the sight in of you for a moment, releasing her when you are sure she wouldn't go anywhere.

She is so beautiful, even more so when she is broken like this, raw and bare and real.

You don't hesitate before dropping down beside her, yourself.

"Mark, just -" she lets out a shaky breath. "Just leave me alone."

"No."

"Please."

When you don't make a move to leave, she turns her head towards you. "You really hate me, don't you?"

"... Sometimes ..." you say, "Sometimes you just make it so hard to love you." It was then that she finally looked at you, her eyes nearly going black when she tilts her chin up, defeated.

"I wanted more for us," she murmurs in a whisper but you heard her loud and clear. "You know, I actually considered turning a blind eye from all your - extracurricular activities but then, I started thinking what our life would be like."

You pause for a while, thinking, "We'd be our parents," you say and like a Sloan, you know when to surrender. You shrug. "Would that have been so bad?"

She turns to look at you, her mouth pressing into a thin line and you see the answer to your question in her eyes. You chuckle to yourself because you are your father and you remembered how you had longed to be loved by him, how you waited for his approval, the nights you stayed up waiting with your mother for him to come home, only to find the next morning that he had gone on a 'last-minute business trip'.

You don't want that for your children.

Well, Addison is right then.

Your children will end up just like you.

Her hair moves. Those thin strands, the locks that had fallen out of her French bun, they move like they were trembling. Her lips are parted, and you can tell she is breathing through her mouth. Her eyes are full, and the way she is looking at you will be seared in your brain for months afterwards.

"Reality doesn't go away because you stop believing in it. It's stubborn like that," she whispers.

"What are you so afraid of, Addison?"

"Nothing."

You don't believe her.

"Tell me."

You reach out for her and lace a hand through her hair, tangling your fingers into the open mess of waves. Your fingers curl at the back of her head, yanking her closer to rest your forehead against hers and for just a moment, you brush your lips along hers.

"You won't understand," You feel those words against your own mouth.

"Then, make me understand," you say softly against her lips, kissing her when you capture her lips in yours. A kiss that drags you into oblivion, one that only ever comes from intoxication.

Only Addison can do that to you.

You breathe out through your nose, and she breathes you in. You pull her hair harder, pushing and pulling until your hand hit the floor and you pin her to the ground, her chest rises and falls visibly and she stares up at you with lost dark eyes.

"Mark -"

"You said you wanted more," You fall between her legs, her dress bunching up around her waist. "If you do want more, show me."

"What?"

"Show me how much more. Take more. Take all that you want, don't be afraid. It's all here, Red. Give us one more chance."

And so she did.

"Take it, Addie. Take everything." Every word comes with a fragile, broken kiss as she grinds herself against you. It is not gentle, nor is it nearly satisfying. You had always thought the act of kissing drunken harlots to be irritating and sloppy – but with Addison, you wanted more.

One hand of hers fly to your nape and she drags you down, her back arching from the ground almost painfully as a moan escapes her lips. And then your mouth drag over hers, heavily, forcefully, so strongly that your teeth scrape together and the grasp she has on you is almost - just almost painful.

But you're sure your grip over her nape hurts too.

You look at her, and you see an obsession – something eating at your bones, forcing you to want her with every passing second. The pieces of your heart are much too jagged to mold into anyone else's but her.

Addison.

Ten Months Prior

She is your earth, your heaven and your hell.

She came to you like a bit of snow, a grace shredded from the sky and fluttering down, this wisp of a thing that rested on your brow and kissed your thick skin.

Addison had been a spark of brilliant white in an existence so full of grey, so shrouded and swathed.

She was a flame that flickered, a tiny little magnificent flame. A flame so bright you had to shield your eyes just to see her, but, also a flame so small that in mere seconds, she was gone.

She has to be protected.

She came to you, melted into your skin until the shadows of the world melted away with her.

It was a dream, that night, when she finally noticed you, gliding to you like a phantom, soft and fragrant when she leaned over as you lay on the bed she had once shared with her husband, your best friend.

"Take that off. Take it all off," she whispered quickly, and you almost couldn't gauge her words.

When she kissed you again - after that night - and you felt the cool air where her lips had been, at once you knew she was a dream. You, in real life, would never again be visited by such an angel. It had happened one too many times in your lifetime, and you had turned her away like she was the physical form of your doubts and your crimes.

She is.

"Stop it, stop it, Red," you said, "Derek?"

"Derek left me."

Whenever you see her, touched her, buried yourself inside of her on those silken sheets that aren't from your apartment, your stain on her thighs carves the name, Derek, on her skin. And then, you cannot remember to forget that she is still your best friend's wife.

"Derek."

His name had become a way for you to make her stop ... whatever that is she was doing at that time.

"Do you want to fuck him, Mark?"

You have never been as tied to the earth as you were when she was wrapped around you, limbs entwined with yours, her hair hanging from the arm that held her up against your chest. Never been closer to heaven either than you were in the mornings when you wake to find her sprawled over you. Never been as close to hell as you were when you burned kisses from the inside of her elbows and licked your way to her fingers, to taste, with your tongue, the metal of her wedding ring.

And then, you cannot again remember to forget that she is still your best friend's wife.

"I can't take it off."

"You said you wanted to be with me."

"I do, Mark, I do. I love you, okay," she holds your face with shaky hands and her jagged breaths blew promises into you. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Let me show you how sorry I am."

You ignore the ring on her finger like you have been doing so all these years, but it's gotten a lot harder not to resent that silver band on her finger.

"You're an angel," you tell her then, when you see her on the red silk pillow with matching hair and a halo around her perfect head. With her lipstick smeared, a red stain around her mouth, the covers prim over breasts that had been bare to your hands only moments before.

She is an angel, and you are the devil.

Your earth, your heaven, your hell.

Eight Months Prior

Every memory, every kiss, every sigh.

Even the worst day of all - they would be in your memories. You may look as though you are fine, you may act as though you don't care much anymore, you may never even broach the subject, but no matter what she did or will ever do, it will make you forget.

Like your mother always said you can forgive, but never forget.

That day, Addison had been too perfect, too fast, too inexplicably sweet. And you just knew that nothing in life ever came so easily, so freely, so merrily.

And it didn't.

The worst day of your life, you did not scream, nor yell, nor burst into a temper - no, not at her, but later that night, that temper of yours had caused you to attack a patron at a bar.

It was a quiet pain, silent with this raging fury that was picking, picking at your flesh, bones and blood. It consumed you so much so that all you could manage was to look at her.

She did not look at you - could not, perhaps. But you didn't care, you were the one looking at her, through her in disbelief.

You might have even hated her, then.

"Mark?"

Hastily, she wiped at her tears as soon as they fell. Strangely enough, what she did not want you to see is the most you noticed - those crystalline droplets, reflective in the light, those tears that had drained from her.

You poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and did not offer her one like you usually would. You used to be averse to whiskey because it was your father's drink, then, your mom's - it was what she had drank to chase down all those pills she had taken that unfortunate winter night. And now, you see it in it's true form and appeal - it does a magnificent job in numbing all the pain away.

Whiskey.

It's is best friend's choice of drink, too, a kiss and she would remember the taste of another man, her husband, your ex-best friend. But you do have self-control, self-preservation and you are determined to not be kissing her tonight or any other nights to come.

You are supposed to hate her. Forever.

Forever is a long time.

"Mark," she says again softly.

You don't want to hear her voice; you cover your ear. It doesn't work, though, she has this power, this ability to capture you, her voice draws to you, drives you to the brink. You swallow the knot in your throat and take a long exhausting sip of your drink. It burns its way down your throat to warm your stomach.

You need the warmth.

You have been feeling so very cold lately.

"Mark, tell me what you're thinking."

"I should hate you," you say quietly. There is no sense in denying that, she might as well see the fire and ache burning in your eyes and latch on the answer for herself.

Ugh - but there's that stupid ring back on her finger again.

Of course, it should not have come as a surprise that she would get rid of every last trace and drop of the two of you - Nancy had told her last week that Derek was in Seattle and you know, you just knew then that she's been thinking about running back to him.

You feel hate and guilt and ... forgiveness. Forgiveness, because you have made a place for your child in this world.

Your heart.

It is the only place you could make for him/her.

You're surprised how she had managed to keep it quiet for so long, how she had hidden it from you and the rest of world for the past three days. You did not know - not yesterday when she kissed you in your office or the day before when you noticed her pallor; you just thought it had something to do with Derek, and that's a 'don't ask, don't tell' policy. She didn't tell you until it was done past the point of no return.

"I want to hate you."

"Do you?"

xxx

When she reaches to touch you, you push her away. She winces as if stung by the rejection.

What the hell did she expect?

"You waltz back here three days after the abortion, which you never said a word about - not yesterday, or the day before or ever and think everything will go back to the way it was - you made me think you wanted us to be a family," you close your eyes then, because when she grasp your cheeks and forces you to look at her, you know you won't be able to bear the pain you see.

You keep your eyes close tightly because it is her strategy to make you look. She's manipulative like that. You cannot look now. No. You cannot lose. No. You cannot cave into her pity.

"We've both made mistakes, Mark - "

There are tears in your eyes and you just can't keep them close anymore.

"No. No. Stop," you snap, wiping your eyes with the back of your hand. You are nauseated at her for calling your child a mistake. "You made the mistake, not we. It was your mistake, your choice to kill our child, Addison. It's all on you, not me."

She draws a shaky breath and just look at you; her eyes huge and unblinking. Sad and miserable like yours.

"Why?" you ask, "Why did you do it? Was it some revenge ploy to hurt me? All because of that nurse?"

"This isn't about Charlene or the other women, Mark."

"Then, what is it about?"

"I couldn't fathom bring it into our world, Mark. This is our world and I just - couldn't."

You hold her gaze and all you see is her face when you came home with that stupid Yankees onesie.

Was that a truly truly genuine smile or a fake one to have you fooled that night?

"I don't believe you."

"Why don't you believe me?"

"Because you're a good actress, dammit."

"Or because you know I'm right, too," she argues.

No. No. You know it's not that one.

You don't say it. You look at her tear-streaked face and the spot on her printed blouse where her tears had plopped and gathered. Her cheeks are pale and hollow and there are shadows under her eyes that says she hasn't slept in days.

Isn't that all supposed to make you feel better? Her pain? Her misery? Her sleepless nights?

But her words are too tempting to ignore. It's your turn for a complete one-eighty in attitude. "You're still married, Addison. You have your ring back on. So, what are you doing here - I gave you everything. All of who I am," you cannot help himself.

"And you think I didn't?"

Not enough.

When you scowl, you bare your teeth.

xxx

In your dreams, she stood, this phantom at the corridor. You faced her, reached out for her, and when you burst into a sprint she grew farther and farther away from you.

It was your subconscious hinting you, you suppose.

That pale face of an angel, with its halo of red hair, with her closed eyes and the smear of red around her mouth. She lay over blood silk flowing underneath her.

It was the colour of your nightmares.

Red.

It was late at night when the phone rang. The hospital emergency line you had hoped, more than often, to never hear ring, but secretly wished it would tonight, just so you could get out of bed and distract yourself with some old fashioned work. And when you answered hello, you almost saw the curling smoke and the damp mountain air, like you're high up in a helicopter and you can't hear much of anything.

Static voices cut in and out, and you finally heard the words you had dreaded to hear the most since you were first told of the news that Derek was in Seattle

It scared you (you don't scare that often) because she knew about it. She knew about it and you can't do smack about it. You cannot stop her even if you wanted to.

You couldn't have stopped her.

"You're in Seattle."

That was your answer to her "Hello, Mark".

"You're in Seattle," you repeat. "So, you're leaving me."

A statement.

"No. Not leaving you. It's for a case. I won't be long. It'll only be a week," she pauses then, and you can practically hear her swallowing that lie, "Hopefully."

"Yeah. Hopefully." you snort.

"Mark."

Hopefully, this time, she won't deceive you, like she did the last time, with your kid.

You pause. You don't know what to say. You wait. She was the one who phoned you, she ought to be the one to say something.

"Is that all, Addison? Because I'd like to get back to my date," you try to chuckle through the lie, make a joke out of it while you're doing so but it just sound so dry and unpleasant to your ears.

You're alone in bed and in your apartment. There is no date to get back to.

You sigh. You pause again. And you continue to wait for her response.

"Addison?" her breath quivers as she says her own name, "You said 'Addison'?"

"That is your name, isn't it?"

You know what she means, you always do, but you don't want her to know that.

Ever.

"You only call me by my name when we disagree."

You ignore her. You know yourself all too well too and you don't disagree with her. Hell, you don't care.

"You're coming back, right?" you say, in a small voice that is so unlike you, "You have everything here. What about your patients?"

"It's all taken care of."

It was not the answer to your question.

"But you're coming back?" you ask again, "Promise me that you'll be back in a week."

She promised, but it held false truth because a week later when you had spent the entire night not sleeping and just waiting for it to be Monday morning, waiting for her phone call, you got a message saying that she had actually decided to stay in Seattle.

With Derek.

To work on her marriage.

You're happy for your friends, you tell yourself, but you know that is bullshit too.

She broke her promise.

But even the devil could keep their promise to an angel.

You kept yours. You slept with no one else but her since Charlene.

She left you. Everyone you've ever loved leaves you.

It started with your mother and ended with an angel.

xxx

They say crystals hold the captive souls of lost human beings.

When crystals turn fuzzy, misty, when what was supposed to be transparent were suddenly cloudy and almost opaque, that meant that the captured spirit inside was fighting for release.

You aren't afraid of death. You had told her that once. You aren't afraid of feelings either. You taught how to do just that yourself. Now, you relished on hate. Because it was the hatred you have for her that would see you through.

Because all sorrows can be borne if you put them in a story.

xxx

Your gaze slam to your desk, the photo frame displaying prominently there. You had bought that one too, that same day you bought the onesie, so you could proudly display the best day of your life - well, the what would have been the best day of your life.

A picture of Addison, your son, maybe even a daughter, and you.

You shake your head, graspbthe cheap-ass crystal pendant and grit your teeth. She cannot possibly do this to you again.

Fuck her.

"I have to do this, Mark," she begs through the telephone, "Please understand. I screwed up my marriage -"

"Derek is to blame, too."

"Mark, I have to stay here and fix my marriage. Derek has taken me back, Mark. I've made a lot of mistakes. God knows I've made one too many already," she pauses, "One day, someone will force your heart open, then you'll understand what sacrifice is."

Someone will force your heart open ...?

You are not sure if you had hung up or she had but what you are certain is that you were so furious then, you saw red and had murdered glasses and bottles and mirrors nearby.

How dare she accused you of not baring your heart? How can she not see your love for her?

xxx

The New York skyline is beautiful and lonely. It doesn't usually feel lonely, but the city feels especially melancholic today, like a broken-hearted man walking down the streets.

It is your first day out of the hospital since Addison left you, after over a week of basically living in your office, and your first day back at your apartment, and the skyline is lonely. So lonely that it is crying for you, crying for the man who can barely find the strength to blink away the tears puddling in his eyes.

Your clothes fit oddly, too loose (you don't think you've lost that much weight) and your whole frame is sagging under your clothes, and you feel like a rag doll, no life left in you.

You swear, you can still smell her. But even her dresses, left over from when she used to spend the night, don't smell like her anymore.

She's not even in the state. She's in Seattle, and her smell should be lingering in coffee houses, bakeries and - and for goodness sake, what right does Chanel No.5 have to be in your apartment?

Maybe it's not really the skyline that is lonely. Maybe the skyline is exactly the way it used to be, it has always been.

(Or maybe even Manhattan cannot help but cry for a broken man.)

"Go home, Mark," Addison advises as if she has the rights to, as if she's still your girlfriend - or whatever you both were - as if you will ever trust her word again.

You will, though.

"There's nothing for you here."

You turn towards her and you see her all spent and sprawled out next to you. You smirk, you like the sight and you reach out for her. She allows it, lifting her arms as you tug at the dress from her body. You make a point of dropping to your knees, following it down to the floor, ghosting over her thighs until there is nothing more to touch. But when you glance back up ... a harsh breath falls from your lips. Her panties is barely there – black lace and thin silk, creamy thighs and a flushed chest. And then you see it – a thread of violet weaved into the fabric over her hip. You cup her thigh with one hand and trace the ribbon with the other.

You love things wrapped in a bow.

Addison watches too, resisting the urge to smooth out you tussled hair.

"Red," you whisper, pulling on the purple ribbon, glancing up despite yourself, "There's nothing for you here too," you purse your lips, knowing that you didn't really need to further throw her divorce in her face.

She covers your hand with the intention of prying your fingers away from the purple ribbon, but your touch serves only to drag her in and you feel her hand tremble against yours. "You're as alone as I am and we're both alone without each other. Why don't we go home and be alone together? We'll be less - alone that way."

"Mark," she whispers shakily, shimmying out of your grasp. You hold her gaze for a moment before turning away.

"We're not good together." You hear her say in more ways than one.

We're not good together.

We're not good together.

We're not good together.

We're not good together.

You grin in triumph, in farce to not let your fragile little black heart feel the ache gnawing its way out of your chest. Because like a shark, you smell blood in the water and you can't handle vulnerability.

You nod. "Right. You're right. Wouldn't want what happened last time to happen again, yeah?"

Good. You're a good liar.

Lie.

The angel manages to fool you one more time and you let her.

"You loved me."

Closure. You need closure. You need to see, need to feel. Need to know when she knew there was no way for a happily ever after in your now-make-believe little family.

When?

"I love you," you correct her, "Present tense."

Your lips curl into a grin at the lightness on her features. You are not one to cry. No. Though you do feel one coming on, your eyes are stinging and burning for some unknown reason.

The thing is you just don't cry - not the day your mother died, not the day Nancy pushed you off the swings and your wrist broke as a result, or the day your father looked at you with sheer and horrifying disappointment. No. Not even three days after the abortion when Addison showed up at your doorstep with that very information.

No.

"I -" you cut off as if someone has you in a chokehold.

You just don't cry but you're hurt. You love her and it crushes you so deeply because you are so madly in love with the wrong person, the person who will never love you back.

You feel foolish for turning on that light now, for exposing yourself in this way. Because suddenly, it all comes down to this one moment. Perhaps it is because of the way she's looking at you, that same way that always made your chest ache, or because there is no Derek to lose her to now –

"Mark."

And at the mere sound of her voice saying your name, at the slight sight of her figure swimming through your hazy vision, you feel more drops spill.

Do you love me?

She reaches towards you, and because you cannot back away you suffer through the touch of her hand, her soft skin as she lays her palm over your chest.

But she loved you.

You don't ask her that question.

Your heart is already bleeding red, you can smell it. Red is the colour of fury. Grief and fury - you wish you could have a marvellous time of it remembering Addison when you get back home.

You swallow deeply, lowering your head until she lays her forehead against yours. You grasp her hands in yours, "I wanted to hate you. I wanted to hate you so bad," you confess, "I even went to see a hypnotist. That was how much I wanted to hate you. I really do."

"I'm sorry," she answers quietly.

She raises your hands to her lips, showers them with kisses and tears. "I love you," she swears. "I love you so much. So much so that I can't bear to see you hurt or lost," she pauses - oh, that infamous pause of a second, "But I don't love you the way you want me to."

"I know."

You look up sharply, find yourself staring into rapidly steeled-blue eyes. You know you can't make someone love you, no matter how many times you wish upon a star.

She is a ball of flame, overreaching, overwhelming. And you had entered into her world of masks, confusion and tears and you were gone, consumed completely, destroyed by everything she is.

She is fire, and you burned inside her as joyous as the day you realised there was no escaping her.

Someday you'd both combust.

"Tell me," you say sharply, "Just tell me the truth. Please. I won't get angry - I just need to know the real reason you had the abortion."

"Real reason?"

"Don't you think I deserve the truth?"

Addison nods her head, more to convince herself that this is real, that all of what they have been through was worth something. "I was afraid - of what people would say."

You say nothing, only swallow, tightening your jaw.

She takes your chin in one of her small hands and forces you to look at her dead on. She asks you a silent question, and your answer is a shake of your head.

You're not angry at her - no, you promised you wouldn't be.

See - still, even a devil like you could keep his promises.

This is your closure.

This is it.

Your eyes lock before she turns the knob on your door. She's already back in her blue and green dress and coat and heels and you watch as she straightens her spine and forces the tears to slip from her face.

"Mark," she says and her hands slip to her sides.

"What?" you retreat to your desk, the battle yet to be won, but she surprises you yet again. "You're not redundant, Mark."

You stare at her. You are not redundant but it still feels as though.

"I'm sorry - for everything."

You turn back to your work.

You are sorry too.

"I'm so sorry, Madeline."

You're naming your daughter Madeline. You've always been fond of that name. It was from the only story your mother ever read to you.

You glance up to watch her leave and all you see is a flash of green walking into the light.

Thanks all for reading. Hope you enjoyed. And please leave a review.