Archive of Our Own

The club reeked of cheap perfume, spilled drinks, and body odor–Addison Montgomery hated it. The tacky multicolored lights, sticky floorboards, people brushing past her–it was distinctly not her scene. 

Her friends had practically manhandled her through the door.

“C’mon, Addie,” Mark had cajoled. “It’ll be fun!”

At her answering scowl, he’d switched tactics. 

“Sam and Naomi are gonna meet us there–we haven’t had a good hangout in ages! C’mon!”

Now, here she was, sitting on a questionable couch in a strip club–Mark had left that detail out when he told her where they were going–sipping on an extra dry martini that perfectly matched her mood. 

She scanned the room, taking in the drunk throng, the strippers dotted among the crowd, and the center stage, where a few employees dressed head-to-toe in black were adjusting lights. She sighed, downing her drink and heading to the bar for another. It seemed the night’s saving grace would be the presence of alcohol.

When she rejoined her friends, Sam and Mark were swapping surgery stories, and Naomi was drunk enough that she’d latched onto her husband like a barnacle.

“Oh my god, Addie!” Naomi squealed, trapping her in a crushing hug. 

“Hey, Nai,” Addison murmured, gently patting her friend on the back. “I see you guys have been busy,” she gestured to the two empty bottles of wine on the table.

“Well, not all of us can be James Bond!” Sam laughed at his own joke, Mark joining him. 

Addison simply rolled her eyes, used to the old joke. Order a martini once, and you were James Bond for the rest of your life.

“So, I heard we’re in for a treat tonight,” Mark said conspiratorially. “Their top dancer, ‘Layla’, is performing tonight. Last minute switch.”

Addison raised a skeptical brow. “Is that why this place is so ridiculously crowded on a Thursday?”

Mark grinned. “Yep.”

The bass swelled, cutting off any hopes of further conversation as the lights shifted, multicolored beams sweeping across the club before converging on the center of the stage. Addison shifted in her seat, leaning forward slightly, curious about the so-called ‘top dancer’ the crowd was so eager to see. 

The lights dimmed, purples and blues converging to a single point, music shifting from booming drums to soft, sensual basslines and crooning vocals. 

And then–Addison saw her.

Layla stepped into the light, spotlights swiveling to highlight her figure. Her hips swayed sensuously as she stalked forward to the pole in the center of the stage. She wore deep blue garments, a simple navy mask firmly affixed to her face, blonde hair falling in soft rings, bouncing gently at her shoulders. 

Every movement was deliberate, practiced, from the slight twitch at the corners of her lips to the tilt of her head. She was in total control–untouchable, magnetic–and Addison couldn’t look away.

The martini weighed heavy in Addison’s hand as she stared, transfixed. She’d expected dancers, of course, once she’d realized exactly what kind of club Mark had brought her to–and she could appreciate the effort and showmanship. But this? This went beyond that–Layla had absolute, total control of the room, commanding it without words, just the soft sway of her hips and wicked smirks. As Layla reached the pole, gently swaying in a circle to give everyone a good look, Addison’s mouth went dry. 

Addison tried to tell herself it was admiration for how effortless she made the routine look–Addison had tried pole dancing with Naomi, once, ‘for exercise’–but the warmth spreading through her told her differently. She leaned forward unconsciously, her friends’ voices melting into background chatter, completely absorbed in the blonde’s movements.

Layla’s mask-covered gaze swept the room, engaging without singling anyone out–except for a fraction of a second, when her eyes caught Addison’s. Her head tilted minutely, lips twitching in a knowing grin. Addison’s breath hitched, the spark in her chest igniting to a full-on inferno. Her world narrowed–it was just Addison and Layla.

The set ended, Layla slipping behind the curtain, and Addison blinked, applause and music thundering. Her friends’ voices rushed back into focus, praising the performance, pouring more wine. She picked up her forgotten martini, half-empty and warm by now, sipping it delicately, pulse roaring in her ears.

She knew one thing–somehow, she’d be back. 

Four nights later, after a particularly tough case and with Derek in surgery until god-knows-when, Addison found herself in front of the club’s door again. It still wasn’t her scene–never would be–but maybe, it could become her escape. A place where she could get lost in Layla’s dancing, forget her collapsing marriage, the countless tiny lives weighing on her shoulders–if only for an hour or two.

She ordered a martini–extra dry, naturally–and perched at the edge of the stage, heels clicking on the well-worn floorboards. The familiar thrum of the bass reverberated through her chest as she sipped her drink, and unfolded the set list she’d procured from the bartender. She scanned the names–unoriginal, trashy, simple–until one leapt out at her: Layla.

The lights dimmed, music swelling, and Addison found herself riveted, scanning the curtain for any hint of movement, any glimpse of blonde hair–there! Layla sauntered out from behind the curtain, confidence bleeding from her posture.

Addison’s breath caught in her throat as Layla moved forward, reaching the pole in center stage–reaching Addison. She stared up at the dancer, close enough to see the light shimmer of sweat beading across her forehead, the flex of her thighs as she gripped the pole, the light definition of her shoulders. 

Layla arched back, held up by her legs’ grip on the pole, and made direct eye contact with Addison through her mask. A teasing smirk wound across the dancer’s face at Addison’s slack-jawed staring, and she winked.

Addison felt heat rush to her face, and knew if she looked in a mirror, her neck and ears–the only parts left untouched by her concealer–would be ruby-red. Every move Layla made was kindling to the bonfire igniting in Addison’s chest, consuming her thoughts until all that was left was heat. By the time the set ended, Addison felt like the fire had consumed her whole–hollowed out her chest, leaving her dependent on teasing smirks and sultry gazes. 

Her martini shook slightly in her hand as Layla departed, tossing a flirty kiss over her shoulder–ostensibly at the crowd, but she’d made eye contact with Addison as she’d done it. Addison knocked back the remainder of her drink, wandering back to the bar on shaky legs. 

“Does… Layla ever do private dances?” she murmured to the bartender, barely audible over the music, ears still pink. 

The bartender raised an eyebrow, wordlessly accepting her empty glass. “Layla? No. I don’t think she’s done any in the time I’ve worked here–not that there haven’t been requests.” He sprayed a towel, wiping down the sticky bar. “You want a refill?”

Addison shook her head. “No, thanks. Just… heading out, I suppose.”

The bartender grinned. “There’s a first time for everything, you know–based on how she looked at you, Layla might actually consider it.” He winked. “Ask for me next time you’re here–I’ll look into it for ya.”

Addison smiled, soft and embarrassed, slipping some cash into the tip jar. “Thanks…”

“Jackson,” the bartender introduced himself.

“Jackson,” Addison repeated. “I’ll remember that.”

Jackson laughed, bidding her goodbye as he headed down the bar to service another customer. 

Addison strode to the exit, mind whirring. Had it… not all been in her imagination? The bartender certainly seemed to think Layla was interested–but was it just a strategy for extra tips? 

Two nights later, Addison found herself at the club again, telling herself it was just to unwind. Derek had bailed on their dinner plans, again, with the excuse of emergency surgery–but when she’d checked the boards, it was a fairly routine tumor removal, no sudden downturn in patient prognosis. Nothing that couldn’t have waited until the next day. She’d sat in their apartment–candles lit, wine poured, dinner fresh from the oven–for two hours before she’d realized he wasn’t coming. No call, no text–not even a ‘gonna be late, sorry!’

Without realizing what she was doing, Addison had found herself hailing a cab, giving the club’s address. She strode to the bar, only slightly disappointed Jackson wasn’t there–it was his day off, apparently. She’d have to wait for her answer about a private dance. She ordered her martini and returned to her spot by the stage, eager for a distraction from her broken marriage. 

The lights and music changed, and anticipation prickled at the back of Addison’s neck. She sipped at her drink, waiting–and Layla appeared. 

This time, though–she was different. Her previous outfits–which Addison had admired in a strictly innocent way, of course–had been bikinis and corsets in blues and purples, colors rippling like undersea scales. 

Tonight, though, Layla was in blood-red, a delicate, glittery mesh robe barely concealing lace lingerie with matching garters and stockings. Her mask, usually plain and solid-colored, also featured lacy red accents. 

Addison felt heat pool low in her stomach–that was her color. The blouses she’d been wearing the past two visits had been a vivid red, making her scarlet hair pop. Tonight, though, she was in silky black, fabric shifting like ink as she squirmed lightly, entranced by the sight of Layla in red.

She watched, transfixed, as Layla sauntered to the pole, hips swaying with deliberate intent. The lights made her robe gleam like she was wearing the milky way, hints of lace peeking out beneath. She circled the stage slowly, smirking as patrons begged her to remove the robe, slowly letting it drop from her shoulders, inch by tortuous inch. 

Addison’s martini shook in her hand, and she downed it, placing the empty glass on a nearby table, eyes never leaving Layla. The dancer turned towards Addison, stalking forward, and winked, finally letting the robe pool at her feet, light catching on the soft expanse of skin revealed, muscles flexing beneath the delicate lace. She wound her fingers deliberately around the pole, arching her back delicately, grin widening at Addison’s visible inhale. 

Addison was melting into a puddle of want with every glance, every smirk. Layla’s masked gaze flicked directly to Addison as she ground against the pole, and there was no mistaking it this time–the dancer was putting on a show for her. Addison’s chest constricted, hands twitching as her imagination ran wild–every hair flick, flash of teeth, and lingering glance chipping at the edges of her restraint. 

Layla seemed to be enjoying riling her up, actions only increasing as Addison’s chest heaved. She made her final round for tips, kneeling so patrons could place bills in the straps of her heels and her garter belt. She halted in front of Addison–but instead of kneeling, she leaned over, hips swaying provocatively, eyes gleaming as Addison fumbled for the bills she’d placed in her pocket for this moment. 

Addison reached for her leg, but Layla stepped back, smirk blooming as she rolled her hips, breasts bouncing lightly, red lace leaving nothing up to the imagination. Addison’s mouth went bone dry. Was she–

Layla pointedly ran her hands up her sides, gently cupping her breasts, and Addison let out a garbled wheeze. Her hand trembled as she reached out, hesitant and slow in case she was misinterpreting this. 

Layla grinned mischievously, hand snaking out to wrap around Addison’s wrist, guiding her to tuck the bills into the cup of her bra. 

Addison’s fingers brushed the soft skin of Layla’s breast, and she felt like she might spontaneously combust from the sensation alone. Layla gently let go of her wrist, blowing a kiss before sauntering away to collect more tips, leaving an Addison-shaped puddle in her wake. 

Addison stumbled out of the club, cheeks flushed, pulse racing, drunk on Layla’s teasing smirk. The journey home was a blur of cab horns, streetlights, and the memory of Layla’s soft skin, enhanced by the delicate crimson lace. She barely registered when she arrived at her brownstone, fumbling with her keys as she entered on autopilot. She showered quickly, ridding herself of the sweat of the club, and crawled into bed, still dazed, wrist tingling where Layla had made contact. 

Derek arrived hours later, sliding into bed beside her as if nothing was wrong. No mention of their dinner plans he’d ignored, no apologies. He paused, hand halfway to his bedside lamp, when he noticed Addison was awake. “What’s going on with you?”

Addison blinked, staring at his blue eyes–wishing a different set of blue eyes was climbing into her bed. “I… I’m actually not sure,” she murmured hesitantly.

He hummed noncommittally. “Well… goodnight, then.” He flicked off the light, and Addison stared at the ceiling, suddenly suffocating under his presence.

By lunch the next day, the tension had curdled, turning the very air between them sour. Addison cornered Derek in his office, clutching two sandwiches. They each took a bite, contemplating.

Addison broke the silence first. “This isn’t working,” she said simply, placing her rings on the desk between them.

Derek’s eyebrows rose at her straightforwardness. He sighed, taking another bite of his sandwich to create a pause in the conversation. “I… yeah. I guess you’re right.”

Addison’s brows furrowed. This… this was too easy. Suspiciously so.

Later that afternoon, she got her answer. She pushed open the door to an on-call room, hoping for a quick nap between surgeries–and there he was, naked with a nurse. The worst part–she wasn’t shocked. Part of her had known for months that he’d checked out of their marriage. She’d even contemplated doing something drastic–Mark was hot, available, and there–but Layla had gotten in the way of that, thank god. 

She sighed as Derek scrambled for his pants, nurse sitting wide-eyed, blanket curled around her naked form. 

“We’re done, Derek.”

With that, she closed the door on eleven years of marriage.

Addison didn’t pretend that night, simply heading straight from the hospital to the club. In the face of Derek’s very real physical affair, her unconsummated emotional one seemed a hell of a lot better. She ordered a few shots before her martini, this time–she needed to banish the realities of divorce from her mind, of the lawyers and paperwork awaiting her the next morning. Right now, she just wanted to get lost, have fun, and find a hotel room to sleep in–no way she was sharing a bed with her adulterous husband for even one more night. 

The bass thrummed through her bones as she wound through the crowd, alcohol settling, pleasantly warm in her veins. By the time Layla appeared, Addison was wasted, clutching to her barstool to stay upright, swaying in time with the music. 

Addison didn’t remember much from that night, but one image was burned into her memory, unmistakable and vivid: Layla’s concerned expression as they made eye contact, the dancer’s careful control of her expressions slipping for just a moment.

The divorce proceedings had been brutal, yet simple; Derek had signed over everything important with little resistance, thanks to Addison’s parents’ insistence on an airtight prenup–but the emotional toll ached with each step, each heartbeat. The brownstone–which had once been Addison’s brownstone, then Addison-and-Derek’s brownstone–felt too empty and too full, all at once. Addison found herself reaching for Derek’s coffee mug in the mornings, ready to place it next to her own, only to be met with empty air. 

Worse, still, was the hospital. Her white coats still read Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd, and despite speaking with administration, they wouldn’t be able to replace them for another week. So she’d been wearing an unlabeled white coat over her attending scrubs, which led to far too many people assuming she was a nurse–or worse, an intern. 

She couldn’t handle the blatant disrespect. She'd received a job offer from a former mentor–a position as chief of her own service, even–and she was going to take it. In three weeks, she’d be moving to Seattle, Washington, clear to the other side of the country. Some might call it running, but honestly, Addison didn’t feel she had much left tying her to New York–Sam and Naomi were moving to L.A., and Mark had always been Derek’s best friend–if one could get a person in the divorce, Mark was most certainly Derek’s. 

And that left Addison–all alone, in a hospital that couldn’t even change her name properly, with coworkers that couldn’t recognize her without her name stitched into her coat. Even after nearly ten years of working at that hospital, working her way up from lowly intern to lofty attending, they’d never truly seen her. 

Addison stepped out of the cab that night, feeling the familiar thrum of the speakers settle in her bones. The bouncer didn’t bother with an ID check–he’d evidently recognized her, waving her through with little fanfare, checking her name off the VIP list. She’d protested, at first–she hadn’t become a VIP, or at least she didn’t remember doing so–but the bouncer had simply responded, “Layla put you on.”

Addison was still pondering what that meant when she slid into a barstool, eyes finding Jackson behind the bar. The man grinned at her, already reaching for the shakers and vermouth. “The usual?” he called, and at her affirming nod, swiftly combined the ingredients. He set a glass in front of her, and as he poured the drink, he leaned in. 

“I managed to speak with her about your… interest,” he murmured. “She asked me to give you this.” 

He slid a red business card across the bartop. Addison caught it with interest, looking up to thank him–but Jackson had vanished back to the other end of the bar, leaving Addison with a martini and a mysterious card.

She turned the card over, surprised to find a handwritten note, in slightly sloppy scrawl–clearly there’d been a serious attempt at calligraphy, but the author simply wasn’t particularly talented in that area.

Red,
Request Granted.
-L

Addison grinned. Suddenly, her day was turning around. As she maneuvered between bodies to stand in her customary spot, a bouncer clad in a sleek black suit intercepted her. “Ma’am, if you’ll come with me.”

Addison startled, confused, but followed the man to a small table, pushed right against the stage. He unclipped a velvet rope, ushering her inside, gesturing for her to sit. Addison stared at her surroundings–a champagne chiller rested on a side table, bottle neck peeking out amid the ice; two glasses sat beside it. The alcove was semi-private, with no patrons above, separated from the crowd by velvet ropes. Another red card waited for her on the table:

Enjoy the show. ;)

Addison felt herself flush. Clearly, her request was being more than granted. She took a sip from her martini, eagerly watching the stage as the lights and music dimmed, and a powerful guitar riff echoed throughout the speakers.

A grin wound its way across Addison’s face after the first few notes–Layla. Certainly not a traditional song for a club such as this, but it appeared Addison’s favorite dancer made her own rules. She emerged in a black fur coat that covered much of her figure, heels clicking against the stage–Addison was spellbound. If she hadn’t been in a chair, she certainly would’ve been ‘down on her knees’ for Layla. The blonde peeled off the jacket slowly, flicking it towards Addison with a wink. 

The security guard strode forward, collecting the garment and laying it on the loveseat behind Addison as Layla strode forward to center stage, wrapping a hand around the pole and twirling slowly. 

The dancer was in red and black this time, a lacy bodysuit with a plunging neckline below her sternum. Addison felt her brain evaporating with every step she made, every flick of her wrist. 

The music shifted into a smooth, seductive groove, and Layla began to flip around the pole, muscles flexing with each spin. 

In the dances Addison had seen, Layla had stayed on the center pole, never moving to another. Tonight, though, she stalked predatorily towards Addison–or, more accurately, the pole placed right in front of her alcove. 

Addson’s mouth went dry, and she swiped her sweaty palms on her black pencil skirt, hoping Layla didn’t notice her nerves.

Based on the dancer’s teasing smirk, Addison hadn’t entirely succeeded. She flipped lazily on the pole, threading in a few more complicated moves, much to Addison’s delight. She grasped the pole between her thighs, back arching as she leaned out towards Addison. 

Addison gulped as they were suddenly face-to-face, scant inches separating them. She could feel soft puffs of air as Layla inhaled, see every detail of her bright blue eyes through the mask. Layla licked her lips seductively, and Addison’s eyes traced the movement helplessly. Those ruby lips twitched in a wicked smirk, and Layla’s hand reached out, plucking the olive pick out of Addison’s martini–two olives left. She brought it up to her lips, running her tongue along the first olive, moaning softly. 

Addison felt her core clench involuntarily, a whimper escaping her own lips as Layla ate the olive, and, grinning, held the second out for Addison to take. Hypnotized by the music and the soft sway of the blonde’s hips, Addison opened her mouth obediently, and Layla fed her the olive off the skewer. 

The crowd screamed at the display, and Addison blinked, dazed–she’d forgotten about anyone beyond the two of them. Layla winked, placing the skewer down, and walked back to the center pole, resuming her routine like nothing had happened, leaving a very flustered and turned on Addison in her wake. 

As Layla disappeared behind the curtain, set finished, Addison remained frozen as the crowd erupted in applause. She leaned back slightly in her chair, hands trembling as she tried to steady herself, calm her racing heart. Her martini sat abandoned on the table in front of her, condensation beading on the glass, empty pick lying beside it. 

She exhaled a shaky breath, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt and running a hand through her hair, but the memory of Layla, inches away, the olive–her stomach fluttered, heat flooding her. 

She heard the soft click of the velvet rope, and turned to see Jackson enter, grinning. Addison raised an eyebrow–in addition to his all-black uniform, a crimson pocket square poked out from his breast pocket. He strode to the champagne bucket, lifting it easily, twin glasses clutched in his other hand. As he turned to leave, another flash of red caught her eye, and she inhaled sharply.

A small, red card was pinned carefully between his shoulderblades. Written in the same careful handwriting of the other notes were two words:

Follow me.

Addison’s stomach squirmed as her heart raced, all efforts to calm herself failing in the face of the new note. She rose from her seat, hands running down her red silk blouse, ensuring it was perfectly tucked into her pencil skirt. Jackson stood next to the rope, waiting, teasing smirk playing across his lips. When she was satisfied with her appearance, she made eye contact, and he beckoned her forward, cutting a path to an unassuming door, painted to blend into the wall. He tapped a card to the handle, and it flashed green, and he opened it, revealing a dimly lit hallway. 

The door clicked shut behind them, loud club music fading, a lower, sensual melody taking its place. The lights were warm, almost intimate, and the soft scent of flowers lingered in the air. 

Jackson halted at the final door, tossing a smirk at Addison over his shoulder. He gestured for her to wait, and he entered, emerging a few seconds later without the champagne and glasses. He grinned. “She’s waiting for you. Good luck.”

Addison’s pulse thundered in her ears as she stepped inside, door closing softly behind her. The room was dim and sparse, a small loveseat, table with the champagne placed atop it, and a raised platform with a pole in the center. And gripping the pole–there she was, Layla, a vision in her lace, red silk shirt–a match to Addison’s own–unbuttoned on top, mask still firmly affixed to her face. 

The dancer’s eyes sparkled as they met Addison’s, and she nodded towards the loveseat, hint of a smirk ghosting across her lips at Addison’s dumbstruck expression. Addison couldn’t move–couldn’t breathe. Layla was here, with her, for her. She swallowed, eyes raking over the blonde’s figure, breath hitching slightly as she took in the small details, visible now that she was still–delicate flowers stitched into the lace, slight tightness to the lace where Layla’s shoulders flexed against the fabric. 

Layla smirked, enjoying the attention, stepping forward, placing her hands on Addison’s shoulders, gently maneuvering her to sit on the loveseat. When Addison’s body hit the cushions, Layla grinned playfully, running teasing fingers up Addison’s chest and neck, before stepping back to spin slowly around the pole, shirt flapping open, exposing her delicate lace lingerie. She wound around the pole, circling like a predator savoring the hunt. Each sway of her hips was careful and deliberate, yet somehow spontaneous–a delicate balance, a tightrope walked for Addison’s eyes only. 

She swung herself upward, a smooth climb, body suspended by her legs, shirt slipping off her shoulder as she moved, revealing tantalizing glimpses, skin and muscles flexing as she danced. Addison’s fists clenched with the effort of remaining still, heart hammering in her ribs. Layla twisted herself upside-down, smooth and controlled, and leaned out as far as she could go, face hanging inches from Addison’s, lips parted slightly, eyes shining with mischief. 

Layla righted herself, reaching out for the champagne, holding it between her legs as she spun, popping the cork in an overtly sensual fashion, bubbles pouring down the bottle and coating her thighs. 

Addison groaned at the sight, watching Layla’s back arch seductively, pouring a single glass. The dancer took a delicate sip, and extended an arm, smirking, intent clear. Want some?

Addison shuddered, nodding jerkily, leaning forward as Layla tilted the glass, lips touching lipstick marks left behind by Layla as she took a sip. 

Layla’s eyes sparkled with mischief, and she placed the glass down gently, stalking over to Addison, looming over her despite the dancer’s shorter size. 

Seeing her up close, Addison realized she likely had four or five inches on the blonde, and felt her ears grow warm as she imagined how nicely Layla’s body would fit into hers.

Layla’s fingers ghosted up Addison’s arms, settling firmly on her shoulders, and the dancer straddled Addison, laughing softly when Addison’s hands settled on her sides automatically, thumbs tracing delicate circles across lace-covered ribs. Layla rolled her hips, a slow, deliberate grind that sent the air whooshing out of Addison’s lungs, fingers tightening reflexively, digging into the lingerie. Layla simply smirked, tutting softly, and guided Addison’s hands to rest lower on her hips, beneath her silk shirt, where lace met skin. 

Addison swallowed, nodding faintly. No touching–message received.

Layla smiled softly, almost innocently–and began to move.

She sank down onto Addison’s hips, thighs bracketing, back arching to reveal the line of her neck. Addison whimpered faintly at the sight, and Layla leaned in close, breath ghosting the shell of Addison’s ear, hips rolling in devastating circles as she ground down, hands roaming across Addison’s chest. 

Addison bit her lip to halt the steady stream of expletives that threatened to escape, but as Layla threw her arms up, back arching to press her breasts against Addison’s, a soft curse escaped the redhead. 

“God,” Addison breathed, arms shaking slightly with the effort to remain still. 

Layla smirked, hands lowering to bracket Addison’s jaw, sliding to tangle in the hair at the back of her head. At Addison’s answering low moan, Layla’s smirk deepened, and she leaned in, lips brushing Addison’s. 

Addison writhed beneath her, desperate–and Layla crashed their lips together. Addison’s restraint snapped, one hand snaking up to cup Layla’s jaw, the other winding around her back to pull her in closer. 

They pulled back, gasping for air, and Layla pressed their foreheads together, staring deep into Addison’s eyes. 

“I’ll miss you, Red,” she murmured softly, voice breathless and slightly raspy. 

Addison immediately committed the words to memory–the only ones she’d ever heard Layla say. Her chest heaved in time with the other woman’s, and she tried to dip her head again, only to be halted with a firm finger pressing against her lips. 

At Layla’s teasing, but melancholic grin, Addison sighed, hands dropping to her sides, nails digging into the couch. 

Layla cupped her jaw gently, pressing a soft kiss to Addison’s lips as the dancer slid off her lap, hips swaying seductively as she strode towards the door. She paused in the doorway, glancing back at Addison–pupils blown, chest heaving, absolutely wrecked on the couch, and blew a teasing kiss, door sliding shut with a resounding ‘click’. 

Addison didn’t move for a time–couldn’t. 

The click of the door closing reverberated through the small, dimly lit room, a tether she hadn’t even realized existed snapping, backlash pinning her bones in place. 

Her fingers trembled as she attempted to make them work, untangle them from the cushions. She tried to breathe, but every inhale was shaky and shallow–like her lungs refused to work without Layla there to guide them.

She had been kissed before–touched before–but it never felt like that. 

Her lips tingled, swollen from Layla’s kiss. Her hand trembled as she raised it to her mouth, feeling the searing heat still residing there. Her legs felt like jelly, the ghost of Layla’s heat pressing down on her hips. 

She pressed her hand to her mouth, hard, trying to center herself, to steady the shaking. 

‘I’ll miss you, Red.’

Layla’s words replayed in her mind–soft, raspy, tender in a way Addison hadn’t expected, from a near-stranger who set her on fire with a single glance. Her eyes stung–it was a goodbye, another ending to add to the dumpster fire that was Addison’s life. This–all of it–had been Layla’s sendoff, heat and heartbreak intertwined in red lace. 

She pushed herself up slowly, legs trembling, swaying slightly. Her hand shot out, and she grabbed the pole to balance herself–the metal was cool to the touch, the ghost of Layla’s warmth already gone. The dancer’s absence sent a pang of pain through Addison’s chest, mourning for what could’ve been. 

She opened the door slowly, checking for anyone on the other side. An empty hallway greeted her, the faint sound of bass thumping from the dance floor. Addison walked to the exit, heels clicking, sound echoing, warped by the hallway. There was a small mirror affixed to the back of the door, and Addison examined her reflection–hair mussed, lipstick smeared, blouse wrinkled. 

She ran her hands across her hair, attempting to change it from just-fucked to artfully messy, largely unsuccessfully. She pulled her blouse straight, wiping all traces of lipstick away with the back of her hand. She made eye contact with her reflection–eyes bright with unshed tears, lips swollen, hair still messy–she looked, and felt, ruined. She’d gotten too close to the sun, and here were the resulting burns. 

She slipped through the club like a ghost, heart desperately scanning for a person her brain knew she wouldn’t find. Layla was gone–she wasn’t coming back. 

The cool night air hit like a physical blow–the opposite to Layla’s heat. Addison sucked in a breath, tasting the burn of cigarette smoke and city air, chest hitching involuntarily. The music from the club poured out onto the sidewalk, entry line stretching down the block, disappearing around a corner. She looked back at the entrance–and a wave of pain nearly knocked her to the pavement. The soft reds and purples of the flickering lights spilled out, a poor mockery of Layla’s colors. 

She turned her back, then, standing at the curb, waiting for a taxicab. The excited murmurs of clubgoers hummed in her ears, muted as if underwater. A taxi appeared, and Addison’s hand flew up instantly, flagging it down. 

She opened the door, sliding in–and paused, halfway into the backseat. For a single moment, she waited, leaving a sliver of space, an opportunity–a chance for Layla to appear, to climb in beside her, finally take off the mask.

The driver cleared his throat, and Addison startled, door clicking closed–and with it, the last flicker of hope, the remnant of the torch her heart carried for Layla, guttered and extinguished with a hiss of pain. 

As the city blurred past, muffled through the window of the taxi, a single tear slid down Addison’s cheek. She’d come for distraction–and she’d found it, in the form of a fiery blonde who had managed to incite more heartbreak than the ending of a decade of partnership.

Three weeks later, Addison marched into Seattle Grace Hospital in Washington, a fresh start on a new coast. The hazy morning light cast soft shadows across the buildings, making them seem taller–almost reminiscent of New York. 

Richard Webber, the Chief of Surgery, greeted her with the same paternal smile he’d worn during her residency–specifically, the one where he wanted something. In this case, it wasn’t too bad–he wanted her to revamp the neonatal and OB programs, and was giving her free reign. He handed her her new white coats with a flourish: Dr. Addison Montgomery, M.D., F.A.C.S., F.A.C.O.G., Chief of OB/GYN and Neonatal Surgery, SGH. She clipped her new ID to her lapel. “How do I look?” She asked Richard, doing a celebratory twirl.

He smiled, and she could see the pride in his eyes. “Excellent as always, Addison.”

She grinned happily, excited for her fresh start, free of Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd. “So. Where’s my first patient? Give me an intern, I’ll use them as a built-in map.”

Richard laughed heartily. “She’s waiting.” He raised his voice slightly. “Dr. Grey, you can come in now.”

A shorter blonde woman entered, stack of charts in hand. “Hi, Chief Webber–Dr. Bailey said you’d requested me?”

Addison looked her up and down, assessing. The intern was slight, with dirty blonde hair pulled back into a pony, shoulders slumped, eyes fixed firmly on Richard. There was hesitancy to her posture, in the curve of her spine, that told Addison she must be new. 

Yet–something about the small blonde tugged at Addison’s memory, the way she raised her chin to meet Richard’s stare head-on, the steel Addison somehow knew hid deep in her bones. 

“Ah, Dr. Meredith Grey, meet Dr. Addison Montgomery, new Chief of OB/GYN and Neonatal Surgery. Addison, Meredith will be your intern for the first week–she’ll help you get settled and used to the hospital.” He beamed at them both, and Addison knew instantly that Richard had a soft spot for this Dr. Grey–similar to the one he still held for her, all these years after her own residency. 

The intern turned, extending a hand to shake–and froze, blue eyes widening. Addison frowned lightly, taking the now robotically offered hand and shaking. When their hands made contact, a bright red flush creeped up the intern’s neck, taking up residence in her cheeks. 

“Uh, Dr. Montgomery, was it?” Meredith said finally, hand coming up to rub the back of her neck. “I–I’ll be assisting you this week, looks like.”

Addison smiled softly at the skittish intern. “Perfect. Are those the patient files, Dr. Grey? I’ll need a full run-down as you show me to her room.”

Grey jumped slightly, blush intensifying. “Um, yes, of course.”

Addison followed her intern through the maze of hospital corridors, noting the nervous energy that hung around her like a storm cloud. It was oddly… endearing, Addison thought.

“So, Dr. Grey,” Addison began, taking the patient’s chart and familiarizing herself, “have you been an intern long?”

Meredith’s eyes flicked to hers, wariness evident in her gaze, as if Addison were treading dangerously close to something she’d rather keep buried. “Not long,” she replied, tone forcefully light. “It’ll be a month next week.”

Addison felt a piece of the puzzle click into place–though she still had no clue what it was forming. Wherever the intern had come from, she’d done it roughly three weeks ago. 

“Well, you certainly know the layout well for only a few weeks,” She said, attempting to lighten the mood. 

“That’s what happens when you grow up in a hospital,” Meredith deadpanned. “My mother… she used to work here, and brought me along.”

Addison winced internally at the intern’s acerbic tone, and decided to give up on the small talk, as they’d arrived at the room indicated. 

“Layla,” she murmured, lips twitching in a small, amused smile as she read the patient’s name off the chart. 

Beside her, Dr. Grey jumped, muscles tensing, eyes wide in shock, blush returning, full-force. 

Addison quirked a brow at the intern’s odd reaction, amused. “Interesting name,” she tested, watching Meredith’s spine stiffen, jaw clenching. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with, shall we?” Addison murmured, entering the room. 

Meredith followed, still red-faced, leaving Addison to quietly ponder just what was so familiar about the intern–and why the name ‘Layla’ incited such a strong reaction.

The next morning, all the interns were acting strange, gathered just outside a patient’s door, intently observing. They were so engrossed, none of them noticed Addison’s heels click to a halt just behind them. 

Addison peered over the male interns’ heads at the three female interns in the room–one of them hers. They were studying the patient’s television, heads cocked. Addison thought of intervening–then decided this would be an opportune time to get a read on their personalities. 

The blonde next to Meredith–Dr. Stevens, according to her lab coat–coughed lightly. “Damn. Wish I knew how to pole dance.”

Addison’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. The patient… was watching pole dancers? On the hospital TV?

Meredith scoffed. “That? That’s not pole dancing–hell, that’s not even possible. They must’ve used wires and a harness–it doesn’t matter how good your core strength is, you can’t hold yourself in that position, and you definitely can’t have sex like that.”

Addison choked–luckily, so did the other interns, heads swiveling to Grey like wide-eyed baby birds, shellshocked. 

The final female intern, Dr. Yang as per her coat, snickered. “Something you want to share with the class, Mer?” She said, laughing at Meredith’s answering stutters. 

“I–uh–Dr. Montgomery!” Meredith yelped, jumping nearly a foot in the air when she noticed Addison standing in the doorway. 

The other interns whirled around, and, realizing there was an attending among them, began to mutter hasty excuses and run away. Addison stepped fully into the room, heels clicking softly. She looked from the television to her intern, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.

Meredith shrank back into herself, reddening. “Uh… I… watched a documentary? Physics?” She offered, hands upturned in capitulation. 

Addison’s eyes narrowed. “A documentary?” she echoed, scanning the intern’s face for any tells. 

Meredith pursed her lips, clearly embarrassed, and took a deep breath, posture straightening as she faced Addison. “Yes. Um, it’s, well…”

Addison felt her lips twitch in amusement despite herself. Right. Physics. She stepped closer, sliding into place beside the intern, arms brushing. She examined the patient’s television–and realized, with a start, that Grey was right. The woman in the video was holding herself horizontal with only one leg hooked to the pole–they weren’t even trying for realism. She snorted, ghost of a smirk crossing her face. 

“I see your point, Grey.”

Meredith’s blue eyes widened up at Addison, and Addison could tell the intern had picked up on her amusement. “Let’s set that aside for now, however,” Addison continued. “Give me full patient history, vitals, and lab results. And Grey?”

The intern squeaked, and Addison’s eyes flicked to her, sharp and teasing. “No more ‘documentary studies’ without an attending present to… supervise.”

Meredith flushed, opening the chart and reciting the requested information. As she processed the intern’s words, Addison mused on why Meredith felt so familiar. The pieces seemed to suggest–but that wasn’t possible. Skittish, blushing mess Meredith Grey and confident, sultry Layla? More likely the intern had simply taken some pole dancing classes as a passing interest, or truly had watched a documentary, like she’d claimed. 

Addison blinked, pushing the thought to the farthest recesses of her mind, focusing on the patient. One step at a time, Addison, she told herself firmly. Patients first, pole dancing interns second.

Two weeks passed in a blur of surgeries, patients, and endless charting. But, beneath it all, Addison couldn’t shake the nagging familiarity of Meredith Grey, the mysterious, potential connection between the intern and Layla. There was something… flashes of movement, a confidence Grey never seemed to possess, the steel of the intern’s spine when she entered the OR–it was a jagged, irregular puzzle piece, edges stubbornly refusing to join any of the other clues Addison had collected. 

That evening, Addison accepted an ortho resident’s offer to have drinks at the local bar, Joe’s. It was dimly lit, abuzz with the sounds of clinking pool balls, whistling darts, and the hum of conversations overlapping. They entered, and Addison’s eyes locked onto a lone figure perched at the end of the bar, elbows propped on the counter, head in her hands. 

Meredith Grey sat there, untouched extra-dry martini in front of her, staring into the glass as if it contained the answers to the universe. Her hair was escaping her loose ponytail, falling in soft waves down her back as she almost glared at the drink, like it had wronged her somehow. 

But that focus, that intensity… Addison caught sight of the olive pick, and a memory sparked to life: intense blue eyes staring deeply into Addison’s own, soft lips, a wicked smirk, heat… Addison felt her cheeks redden, and was deeply thankful for full-coverage concealer; no one would notice her rising blush.

She sat with the resident–Callie–and exchanged stories, half her mind still reliving late nights in New York, with a different woman.

The next morning brought with it another surprise for Addison–this time, in the form of a man. 

“Red!” Mark beamed at her, stepping forward to gather her into a bear hug. 

Distantly, Addison heard one of the interns choke–she glanced, and Meredith was coughing, eyes wide and slightly watery, doubled over with a glass of water. “Wrong pipe,” the intern croaked.

“Mark–what are you doing here?” Addison asked, holding him at arm’s length to get a look at him. 

Mark grinned boyishly. “Richard called me–I think he’s trying to reassemble the Dream Team! Derek said no, though–soon as he learned you worked here, he said he was going to avoid Seattle like the plague. Seriously, what happened between you two?”

Addison sighed. Guess Derek never told Mark what prompted the divorce… guess I can’t be too surprised, Derek doesn’t come out looking very good. “I… we just weren’t working, Mark. We weren’t happy. Does there have to be some big, great ‘reason’?”

Mark blinked, contemplative. “Guess not, but still–I found out you were divorced after you’d moved halfway across the country! What the hell, Red!”

Behind them, Meredith descended into another coughing fit. 

“One second, Mark.” Addison murmured, turning and striding over to the still-sputtering intern. “Grey–Meredith. Are you okay?”

Meredith flushed the color of a tomato–a seemingly constant reaction to Addison’s presence. “I–uh–fine! Peachy!” Meredith rasped, and Addison froze, memory conjuring the echo of another raspy voice. ‘I’ll miss you, Red.’

Addison rubbed soothing circles into the intern’s back. “Relax, Grey. Slower sips.” 

Mark walked over, grinning in the face of chaos. “You look familiar… Wait, Grey?” His head snapped to Addison, who nodded in confirmation. “Damn, that’s hardass Ellis Grey’s kid? Ouch,” he muttered, shaking his head. 

Addison blinked. Was that why Meredith was oddly familiar–glimpses of Ellis Grey, memories of residency? But that doesn’t quite fit, does it, her mind murmured. Doesn’t explain her reaction to ‘Layla’, the pole dancing, the martini… Her mind raced, trying to reconcile the pieces. Meredith’s body language, her reactions… they were familiar, but not through a parental mirror. There was something Addison was missing, a piece hovering stubbornly out of reach. 

Dr. Bailey arrived, taking control of her interns and assigning them, introducing them to Mark, but Addison’s mind remained far away, reviewing the facts, trying to connect dots she couldn’t quite see–but was starting to feel.

That night, seemingly everyone had ended up at Joe’s–the bar was full to capacity, speakers blaring to be heard over the din. Addison sat calmly in a booth, eyes scanning for Mark, who’d volunteered to get the first round of drinks. Callie had disappeared to the restroom, leaving Addison alone in their booth, idly watching the chaos.

Addison’s eyes alighted upon a familiar head of blonde hair–Meredith Grey. The intern was weaving expertly through the crowd, two glasses in hand. Addison watched her–and startled as a familiar riff blared through the speakers–Eric Clapton’s Layla. She watched, transfixed, as Meredith’s spine stiffened momentarily, before her body started rolling, movements practiced and fluid, unconscious, unaware–and impossibly magnetic.

Addison’s heart raced–no way. Pieces snapped into place, flooding Addison with a sudden, startling clarity. Layla, pole dancing, Red, the blushing… it all fits. 

Meredith’s path curved right past Addison’s table–as the intern approached, Addison smoothly plucked the drinks from her hands, placing them safely on the table. As Meredith turned, confused and outraged, Addison’s hands found her hips, tugging the blonde forward into her lap. 

Meredith blinked, startled, then unconsciously settled, thighs bracketing Addison’s hips, body still swaying gently to the music. Addison pulled the intern flush, foreheads touching, noses brushing. 

“Red,” Meredith breathed out, a quiet confession, blush rushing up her neck, blooming to life across her cheeks. 

Addison’s chest tightened, and her restraint evaporated in an instant, head tilting, lips crashing into Meredith’s. Addison pushed her feelings into the kiss–shock, desire, annoyance, want. Meredith returned it with equal fervor, hungry, bold, and exploratory, letting their bodies do the talking. 

They pulled back briefly, foreheads still pressed together, staring into each other’s eyes, panting slightly. 

“Layla,” Addison murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of Meredith’s mouth–the name that started it all. 

When Mark finally returned with drinks, he found the booth empty, two abandoned vodka sodas sitting in Addison’s place. A small, red business card was stuck half-under one of them, and Mark pulled it out, curious. 

IOU
-Addie

Mark blinked, shaking his head. “Honestly…” he muttered, scanning the bar for fiery hair. He caught a glimpse outside as someone entered the bar; a red haired woman pinning a smaller figure to the wall outside, lips clearly locked. He couldn’t tell exactly who it was, but… “Damn, Red!”

Callie slid into place beside him, lifting her drink from the tray. “Damn what? Where’s Addison?”

Mark grinned, taking a sip of his scotch. “Red’s… busy.” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively, and surprise flitted across Callie’s face. 

“With who?”

Mark shrugged. “Dunno. Couldn’t see properly. We’ll just have to ask tomorrow.” He chuckled lowly, already savoring tomorrow’s inevitable gossip.

Meredith and Addison stumbled into the back of a taxi together, settling into the backseat–Meredith stayed firmly in the middle seat, half on top of Addison. 

At the driver’s raised eyebrow, Meredith buckled her seatbelt, raising an eyebrow in return. The cabbie obviously figured out he wasn’t going to win this one, and simply asked, “Address?”

Meredith rattled off her address, hurriedly cutting Addison off with a kiss when the redhead attempted to also give her own. 

“I’m not letting go,” she murmured into the redhead’s jaw, pressing soft kisses down the curve of her neck, hips gyrating torturously slowly on top of one of Addison’s thighs. “Not when I’ve finally got you.”

Addison shivered under the touch, fingers winding into Meredith’s hair, a thrill shooting through her at the prospect of being able to touch, to reciprocate… Addison tugged Meredith into a bruising kiss, feeling her nerves spark with pure heat. 

By the time the taxi pulled up outside Meredith’s house, both women were flushed and breathless, resolutely avoiding the driver’s eyes as they paid and shuffled out of the cab. 

No sooner had the front door closed than Meredith hungrily pressed Addison up against it, hands winding beneath her shirt, teasing the edge of her bra.

“Mer, baby, slow down,” Addison gently grasped Meredith’s wrists, detangling them from her undergarments. 

Meredith pouted, fixing Addison with devastatingly effective puppy dog eyes. Addison rolled her eyes. “You little minx. Bed–and this time, it’s your turn to watch me.”

Addison smirked as Meredith’s pupils dilated and she flopped to the floor, tugging frantically at her laces. 

Meredith guided them up to her bedroom, and Addison yanked the door closed behind them, engaging the lock. 

“Now… where were we?” She smirked at Meredith, pushing the blonde onto the bed, looming over her. 

“Oh, I’m watching,” Meredith murmured, licking her lips seductively as Addison peeled off her blouse carefully, Meredith’s hands roaming across her shoulders and arms, encouraging and teasing. She slowly pulled off her skirt, revealing–

“Holy fuck,” Meredith breathed, jaw hanging open. “You actually wear garter belts?”

Addison grinned at her, flush creeping up her neck. “I take it you’re a fan?”

Meredith reached out, hands making grabby motions in the air. “Please?”

Addison laughed, letting Meredith maneuver her until she was spread across the bed, Meredith kneeling between her legs. 

“I’ve always wanted to do this,” Meredith murmured, unhooking the garter belt with her mouth. 

Addison shivered as Meredith’s lips and teeth ghosted across her thighs, heat pooling low in her stomach with each snap undone. Her hands tangled in Meredith’s hair, urging her onward, shifting to give her better access. 

“God…” Addison breathed, arching her back as Meredith pressed soft kisses to her skin. 

Meredith grinned, lips trailing up her inner thigh. “You’ve got moves, Red…” She pulled Addison into her lap, guiding her hips in a slow, teasing rhythm, easing her through the motions of a lap dance. 

Addison groaned softly, hands roaming across Meredith’s torso, tugging off the blonde’s shirt, bra flying across the room. “You’re stunning…” She murmured, thumbs circling Meredith’s nipples, delighting in the answering moan. “I finally get to touch.”

Meredith leaned in, kissing her soundly. “I hope you’ll do a lot more than just touch, Red.”

The blonde rolled them over, shedding their remaining clothes, hand snaking between Addison’s thighs. 

“Fuck,” Addison muffled her cries into Meredith’s shoulder, back arching, seeking more. Meredith’s fingers moved with practiced ease, circling and teasing, winding Addison up higher and higher. 

“Mer–please,” Addison begged, nearly incoherent with desire.

Meredith captured Addison’s mouth in a fierce kiss, swallowing her moans, fingers finally dipping inside, curling and thrusting. Addison gasped, muscles clenching, hips stuttering as she came. Meredith kissed her through it, flicking her clit with her thumb to prolong the aftershocks until Addison collapsed, breathless. 

“You’re… a fucking tease,” Addison groaned, grinning. 

“Almost like that was my job, isn’t it.” Meredith smirked, wicked and triumphant. 

Addison rolled her eyes. “Pretty sure fucking clients isn’t in your job description.”

Meredith laughed, eyes bright. “Good thing I’m not Layla anymore, then, isn’t it, Red,” she purred, grinning as Addison shifted to reciprocate, ready to touch–and never let go.