Post by Rach on Jul 25, 2007 7:47:51 GMT 10
This is full of lots of Addison angst because I was listening to "Cold as You" and this is what happened.
You sit at the table, which you have immaculately prepared, spending a whole day to set the mood, create the perfect meal. You wanted perfect for him. You wanted for him to see just how much he meant to you. ‘Train in Vain’ plays in the background on repeat because even though you hate The Clash, and this song does nothing to enhance the meal you have made, you know how much he loves it and that tonight isn’t about you.
It doesn’t matter though.
You assumed that tonight would be different, that he would come home on time, that a night with you trumped a night standing on his feet for hours on end, hands working, only thoughts of a successful surgery on his mind. You thought that he would want a night cuddling next to you, legs intertwined, the steady breathing of another person rather than the cold empty bed in an on-call room. You know all too well how uncomfortable they are and it baffles you to think that he would rather be there than with his wife. He has yet to even call and let you know that he’s working late and your breathing becomes ragged as you let a few tears fall, realizing that you rank lower on his list of priorities than even remembering to pick up the dry cleaning, which hangs on the back of a chair. You begin to wonder if you are even on the list at all.
The room is dark now, the candles you placed so strategically on the table have long since burned out, the wax dripping on the table cloth you spent over an hour picking out at the linen store earlier in the day, convinced that choosing the right one would make all of the difference. White meant hope, peace. You would settle for nothing else, the blue one they showed you all too wrong, scarlet creating the wrong mood, beige too meaningless for tonight.
You wipe at the tears with the back of your hand and look down at the plates of food, now cold. You carefully pick them both up and throw them in the sink welcoming the sound as they collide with the metal and break. You move back to the table and pick up the bottle of wine. You’ve lost count of the number you’ve downed tonight, watching the clock and waiting for the sound of an opening door. You pour the dark liquid into your wine glass and proceed to take a long sip before carefully moving to place it and the bottle on the counter. You take what would be his glass, part of a set you received the day of your wedding, and throw it into the sink along with the plates of food now splattered on the wall behind. It too shatters and it only urges you on. You pull on the tablecloth wrapping the candlesticks and silverware into it and seconds later, you’ve flipped on the garbage disposal and are desperately pleading for it to rid you of every memory of this night.
Tears are freely falling now as you discover that you’ve broken the disposal and you sink to the floor. You know Derek will have someone out immediately to fix it and you scoff at that thought. He’s good at that, you reason, focusing on anything and everything that isn’t you.
The phone rings across the room and you know that your heart will break all over again but you can’t help but believe that it’s him, apologizing, offering promises of rain checks and romantic meals on top of the Empire State Building, the way things were. You calm your breathing as best you can and pull yourself up, making your way to the still ringing phone. You choose not to look at the caller I.D. allowing yourself to bask in your fantasy for just another moment. It’s short-lived as you recognize the voice on the other end as anything but your husband’s.
“Hello? Addi?”
You try to answer but you find it hard to make the words come out without a string of sobs following. You hear him sigh before he starts to speak again.
“I’m on my way.”
You hear the line click and you slowly put the phone back down. How is it that Mark understands exactly what is wrong, without a single word spoken by you. And more importantly…why can’t your husband do the same?
With unsteady fingers, you dial the number and put the phone to your ear expecting nothing but the voicemail that mocks you every time you try to get in touch with your husband. The fact that on the third ring, you hear his voice startles you so much that you almost drop the phone, so you clasp onto it tightly, your knuckles turning white.
“Derek?” You have to make sure that it really is him, that your ears aren’t playing tricks on you, that the many glasses of wine aren’t catching up to you.
“Yeah.”
Now that you’ve gotten him on the phone, you have no idea what you should say. It’s been so long since you’ve communicated through anything but voicemails that you’ve forgotten what a conversation with your husband should sound like.
“You didn’t come.” You try so hard to keep your voice from breaking, but you know it makes no difference. He wouldn’t notice anyways. “I told you I was making dinner and you didn’t come.” You don’t care that your voice breaks this time.
“Sorry.”
He mumbles it and you know that he doesn’t mean it, at least not like he used to.
“Are you because it doesn’t sound like it?” You let your voice rise as you let crying get the best of you. “Why don’t you care, Derek? Why couldn’t you call and tell me that it was pointless to cook a meal for two? Why do you want to sleep at the hospital instead of with me?”
“I have to go.”
That’s all he gives you, a series of one-word answers before he ends the phone-call and you’re still desperately clinging to the phone, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You take a step and lose your balance, falling to the ground and that’s where Mark finds you minutes later. He takes one look at you before you feel yourself being pulled into his arms and seconds later, carefully placed on the couch. The phone is taken from your hand and ‘end’ is clicked, stopping the constant reminder that he deserted you yet again.
“Addi?”
You know he’s waiting for confirmation that you hear him, a word, a look, anything to signify that you’re alright, but you’re anything but and you know he realizes this as he sits down beside you. He reaches towards you then, pushing the strands of hair that cling to your tears-streaked cheeks back, so that he can see your face.
“He…”
You can feel that he isn’t sure what to say and for as long as you’ve known Mark, ‘speechless’ has never been a word associated with the man.
“Why?” is all that you say as you turn your face so that you’re staring into his eyes. “Why doesn’t he love me, Mark?”
He’s struggling for words again, so instead he pulls you to him and rubs your back.
“Everything will be alright.”
He assures you of this, but you don’t believe it. There’s no reason to think that anything has a chance of being okay. You have a husband who hasn’t had an actual two-way conversation with you in weeks and being in Mark’s arms is the closest contact you’ve had with a man in at least three months. You shake your head vigorously when he repeats himself and wrench yourself from his arms and the couch.
“It won’t be alright!” You scream at him as though he is the culprit of everything wrong in your life. “Everything is not f**king alright!”
You leave him and go to the kitchen remembering the glass you left there and finding it, gulp the rest down in mere seconds before grabbing the bottle and frantically filling the glass to the top, the liquid falling onto the counter. You know it will leave a stain if you don’t clean it now, but you leave it as a reminder.
Mark follows you and as you try to place the glass to your lips, he grabs it from you, wine spilling onto the floor. You try to take it back when he sets it on the counter, but he grabs your wrists, turning you to him.
“Stop, Addison. Just…Stop.”
He’s begging you and as you look into his eyes, you see that he is trying to keep his own tears in check. You sag against him and both of you stand this way for a while.
“What the hell did you do to the garbage disposal?”
He tries to make you laugh to lighten the mood because he’s always been good at that, but the wounds are too new and it only makes you cry again, so he just starts to rub circles on your back. You let him until you find the strength to step away and look again into his eyes.
“What do I have to do to make him see me, Mark?” you ask him, your voice small, broken. You know he has no answers, but you think you may have found one, so you step forward and without warning bring your lips to his. You know that he is confused and it takes a moment before he starts to kiss you back.
As the kiss grows more intense, you can’t help but will Derek to come home. You want him to walk in on this. You want to see him jealous. It proves he has feelings, and that is why both of you are making your way to the foyer and as Mark shrugs his leather jacket off, you quickly slip the buttons of your blouse through the holes and let it fall and mingle with the jacket.
You take a quick glance at the door as you continue to pull Mark up the stairs, hoping to see the headlights of a car. Maybe if he sees you now, he will actually see you and you can handle the anger, the betrayal as long as you know there is something behind it. You can’t be angry or feel betrayed or jealous unless you are in love. You tell yourself this as you pull Mark into the bedroom you share with your husband.
You don’t realize that jealousy doesn’t have to go hand in hand with love as you see hear the creaking of the door, Mark on top of you. You turn and your eyes meet his and it scares you that you find nothing in the deep seas of blue that stare back at you.
It’s now that Mark notices you aren’t alone and he jumps up, scrambling to pull on his jeans. You see how Mark looks at Derek and now he’s standing in front of you, but you plead with him to leave, so Mark reluctantly grabs his shirt and brushes past your husband and you hear his feet on the stairs before the door shuts.
Derek says nothing to you. You aren’t even certain that he is still breathing. He isn’t moving and his eyes are still fixed on yours and this is the first time you have ever felt fear in a room with him.
----------------------------------
You don’t look up when you hear the door open, your place on the cold, hard floor suits your mood. You’re too tired from crying and the idea that maybe Derek has returned too much for your body to hope for at the moment.
You hear the rustling of something and the sound that his wet shoes make on the hardwood and then out of the corner of your eye, you see that he is placing your clothes in a heap on the floor. He makes his way to you now and promises that he will pay for the dry cleaning. Your hands play with a hole on the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing and it smells like him. If you close your eyes you can almost believe that he is still beside you and that everything you’ve lived for the last year has been only a horrible nightmare. He will cradle you and promise you that he will always love you. Then he will call in sick to the hospital and both of you will stay in bed all day, laughing, loving, but as Mark places his large hand on each side of your face, your eyes open and the reality of the situation sinks in.
“I was wrong.” You speak clearly and you note the way Mark’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t love me.”
You collapse against Mark then, and he pulls you into his lap, placing soft kisses in your hair.
You aren’t certain of anything anymore.
You aren’t certain of your husband’s whereabouts.
You aren’t certain that your tears will ever stop falling.
You aren’t certain that you want Mark to be sitting on the floor holding you.
You aren’t certain that your body will ever stop shaking.
You aren’t certain that you hate the feel of his arms wrapped around you.
Your heart will forever ache, of that you are certain.
------------------------------------
A/N: Okay, so that’s it. I hope it’s okay.
You sit at the table, which you have immaculately prepared, spending a whole day to set the mood, create the perfect meal. You wanted perfect for him. You wanted for him to see just how much he meant to you. ‘Train in Vain’ plays in the background on repeat because even though you hate The Clash, and this song does nothing to enhance the meal you have made, you know how much he loves it and that tonight isn’t about you.
It doesn’t matter though.
You assumed that tonight would be different, that he would come home on time, that a night with you trumped a night standing on his feet for hours on end, hands working, only thoughts of a successful surgery on his mind. You thought that he would want a night cuddling next to you, legs intertwined, the steady breathing of another person rather than the cold empty bed in an on-call room. You know all too well how uncomfortable they are and it baffles you to think that he would rather be there than with his wife. He has yet to even call and let you know that he’s working late and your breathing becomes ragged as you let a few tears fall, realizing that you rank lower on his list of priorities than even remembering to pick up the dry cleaning, which hangs on the back of a chair. You begin to wonder if you are even on the list at all.
The room is dark now, the candles you placed so strategically on the table have long since burned out, the wax dripping on the table cloth you spent over an hour picking out at the linen store earlier in the day, convinced that choosing the right one would make all of the difference. White meant hope, peace. You would settle for nothing else, the blue one they showed you all too wrong, scarlet creating the wrong mood, beige too meaningless for tonight.
You wipe at the tears with the back of your hand and look down at the plates of food, now cold. You carefully pick them both up and throw them in the sink welcoming the sound as they collide with the metal and break. You move back to the table and pick up the bottle of wine. You’ve lost count of the number you’ve downed tonight, watching the clock and waiting for the sound of an opening door. You pour the dark liquid into your wine glass and proceed to take a long sip before carefully moving to place it and the bottle on the counter. You take what would be his glass, part of a set you received the day of your wedding, and throw it into the sink along with the plates of food now splattered on the wall behind. It too shatters and it only urges you on. You pull on the tablecloth wrapping the candlesticks and silverware into it and seconds later, you’ve flipped on the garbage disposal and are desperately pleading for it to rid you of every memory of this night.
Tears are freely falling now as you discover that you’ve broken the disposal and you sink to the floor. You know Derek will have someone out immediately to fix it and you scoff at that thought. He’s good at that, you reason, focusing on anything and everything that isn’t you.
The phone rings across the room and you know that your heart will break all over again but you can’t help but believe that it’s him, apologizing, offering promises of rain checks and romantic meals on top of the Empire State Building, the way things were. You calm your breathing as best you can and pull yourself up, making your way to the still ringing phone. You choose not to look at the caller I.D. allowing yourself to bask in your fantasy for just another moment. It’s short-lived as you recognize the voice on the other end as anything but your husband’s.
“Hello? Addi?”
You try to answer but you find it hard to make the words come out without a string of sobs following. You hear him sigh before he starts to speak again.
“I’m on my way.”
You hear the line click and you slowly put the phone back down. How is it that Mark understands exactly what is wrong, without a single word spoken by you. And more importantly…why can’t your husband do the same?
With unsteady fingers, you dial the number and put the phone to your ear expecting nothing but the voicemail that mocks you every time you try to get in touch with your husband. The fact that on the third ring, you hear his voice startles you so much that you almost drop the phone, so you clasp onto it tightly, your knuckles turning white.
“Derek?” You have to make sure that it really is him, that your ears aren’t playing tricks on you, that the many glasses of wine aren’t catching up to you.
“Yeah.”
Now that you’ve gotten him on the phone, you have no idea what you should say. It’s been so long since you’ve communicated through anything but voicemails that you’ve forgotten what a conversation with your husband should sound like.
“You didn’t come.” You try so hard to keep your voice from breaking, but you know it makes no difference. He wouldn’t notice anyways. “I told you I was making dinner and you didn’t come.” You don’t care that your voice breaks this time.
“Sorry.”
He mumbles it and you know that he doesn’t mean it, at least not like he used to.
“Are you because it doesn’t sound like it?” You let your voice rise as you let crying get the best of you. “Why don’t you care, Derek? Why couldn’t you call and tell me that it was pointless to cook a meal for two? Why do you want to sleep at the hospital instead of with me?”
“I have to go.”
That’s all he gives you, a series of one-word answers before he ends the phone-call and you’re still desperately clinging to the phone, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. You take a step and lose your balance, falling to the ground and that’s where Mark finds you minutes later. He takes one look at you before you feel yourself being pulled into his arms and seconds later, carefully placed on the couch. The phone is taken from your hand and ‘end’ is clicked, stopping the constant reminder that he deserted you yet again.
“Addi?”
You know he’s waiting for confirmation that you hear him, a word, a look, anything to signify that you’re alright, but you’re anything but and you know he realizes this as he sits down beside you. He reaches towards you then, pushing the strands of hair that cling to your tears-streaked cheeks back, so that he can see your face.
“He…”
You can feel that he isn’t sure what to say and for as long as you’ve known Mark, ‘speechless’ has never been a word associated with the man.
“Why?” is all that you say as you turn your face so that you’re staring into his eyes. “Why doesn’t he love me, Mark?”
He’s struggling for words again, so instead he pulls you to him and rubs your back.
“Everything will be alright.”
He assures you of this, but you don’t believe it. There’s no reason to think that anything has a chance of being okay. You have a husband who hasn’t had an actual two-way conversation with you in weeks and being in Mark’s arms is the closest contact you’ve had with a man in at least three months. You shake your head vigorously when he repeats himself and wrench yourself from his arms and the couch.
“It won’t be alright!” You scream at him as though he is the culprit of everything wrong in your life. “Everything is not f**king alright!”
You leave him and go to the kitchen remembering the glass you left there and finding it, gulp the rest down in mere seconds before grabbing the bottle and frantically filling the glass to the top, the liquid falling onto the counter. You know it will leave a stain if you don’t clean it now, but you leave it as a reminder.
Mark follows you and as you try to place the glass to your lips, he grabs it from you, wine spilling onto the floor. You try to take it back when he sets it on the counter, but he grabs your wrists, turning you to him.
“Stop, Addison. Just…Stop.”
He’s begging you and as you look into his eyes, you see that he is trying to keep his own tears in check. You sag against him and both of you stand this way for a while.
“What the hell did you do to the garbage disposal?”
He tries to make you laugh to lighten the mood because he’s always been good at that, but the wounds are too new and it only makes you cry again, so he just starts to rub circles on your back. You let him until you find the strength to step away and look again into his eyes.
“What do I have to do to make him see me, Mark?” you ask him, your voice small, broken. You know he has no answers, but you think you may have found one, so you step forward and without warning bring your lips to his. You know that he is confused and it takes a moment before he starts to kiss you back.
As the kiss grows more intense, you can’t help but will Derek to come home. You want him to walk in on this. You want to see him jealous. It proves he has feelings, and that is why both of you are making your way to the foyer and as Mark shrugs his leather jacket off, you quickly slip the buttons of your blouse through the holes and let it fall and mingle with the jacket.
You take a quick glance at the door as you continue to pull Mark up the stairs, hoping to see the headlights of a car. Maybe if he sees you now, he will actually see you and you can handle the anger, the betrayal as long as you know there is something behind it. You can’t be angry or feel betrayed or jealous unless you are in love. You tell yourself this as you pull Mark into the bedroom you share with your husband.
You don’t realize that jealousy doesn’t have to go hand in hand with love as you see hear the creaking of the door, Mark on top of you. You turn and your eyes meet his and it scares you that you find nothing in the deep seas of blue that stare back at you.
It’s now that Mark notices you aren’t alone and he jumps up, scrambling to pull on his jeans. You see how Mark looks at Derek and now he’s standing in front of you, but you plead with him to leave, so Mark reluctantly grabs his shirt and brushes past your husband and you hear his feet on the stairs before the door shuts.
Derek says nothing to you. You aren’t even certain that he is still breathing. He isn’t moving and his eyes are still fixed on yours and this is the first time you have ever felt fear in a room with him.
----------------------------------
You don’t look up when you hear the door open, your place on the cold, hard floor suits your mood. You’re too tired from crying and the idea that maybe Derek has returned too much for your body to hope for at the moment.
You hear the rustling of something and the sound that his wet shoes make on the hardwood and then out of the corner of your eye, you see that he is placing your clothes in a heap on the floor. He makes his way to you now and promises that he will pay for the dry cleaning. Your hands play with a hole on the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing and it smells like him. If you close your eyes you can almost believe that he is still beside you and that everything you’ve lived for the last year has been only a horrible nightmare. He will cradle you and promise you that he will always love you. Then he will call in sick to the hospital and both of you will stay in bed all day, laughing, loving, but as Mark places his large hand on each side of your face, your eyes open and the reality of the situation sinks in.
“I was wrong.” You speak clearly and you note the way Mark’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. “He doesn’t love me.”
You collapse against Mark then, and he pulls you into his lap, placing soft kisses in your hair.
You aren’t certain of anything anymore.
You aren’t certain of your husband’s whereabouts.
You aren’t certain that your tears will ever stop falling.
You aren’t certain that you want Mark to be sitting on the floor holding you.
You aren’t certain that your body will ever stop shaking.
You aren’t certain that you hate the feel of his arms wrapped around you.
Your heart will forever ache, of that you are certain.
------------------------------------
A/N: Okay, so that’s it. I hope it’s okay.