Nothing about this should feel wrong.
It's not like he's still her, like he loves you. It's not like he's back at your apartment, waiting patiently for you to come home. That part of your life is over and he's god-knows-where and you're here.
But you're not alone.
A hand skims your waist, grips tightly just an inch or two lower and the body you find yourself pressed against isn't the one that you want to be pressed against. His lips are different, he smells different and really, you don't have any feelings for him.
You don't even feel anything with him.
You're both numb and it's supposed to be some sort of comfort, some sort of revenge and some sort of weird way to bring them back all rolled into one.
It shouldn't feel wrong but it does.
And you can't.
There are no words exchanged after you push him away because he doesn't have to ask. Alex knows exactly what you're thinking and can tell you how you're feeling.
It's because he feels the same way.
Days turn to weeks and weeks to months.
You wonder when you're going to stop feeling like half of a person.
It's not like she was some big thing to you, like Burke was to Yang. It's not the same and you feel pathetic for even entertaining the idea that it's even comparable. You're a pathetic half of a person.
Exactly three times, you've come this close to losing it with her. Twice, she's shut it down. She's stopped before you could get very far. The third time, it was you who pushed her away. She was drunk and saying things that barely made sense and no matter how good her tiny body felt, no matter how hot her skin was against yours, you knew what she'd feel like in the morning.
There's nobody there and you're not doing anything wrong, except it's all wrong because she's supposed to be with Burke and you're supposed to be with Ava. You're supposed to be making fun of her for being some married old hag now and she's supposed to be giving you shit for fucking your patient.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions.
Your back hits the cold wall of the call room and you hiss a name that feels so foreign on your lips. Your fingernails rake against his back and his flesh, pale in comparison, welts up beneath your nails. There's no teasing or easing you into it, there's no foreplay because it's not about love or caring.
It's revenge and it's wrong.
Nothing about it is supposed to feel right.
This is his fault, really. He's the one who won the goddamn Harper Avery, he's the one who had his smug picture all over the Seattle Times article. He's the one who forgot to mention your name. Who forgot to come home to get his own things.
He's the one who forgot you.
Alex is inside you now, moving roughly and saying things in your ear that you'd roll your eyes at if you weren't too busy thinking about somebody else.
It's supposed to feel wrong.
You know your place in this arrangement. It isn't about two jaded people falling in love or finding each other, it's not even about healing. The wounds are still open, still festering, never fading.
They never will.
She struggle against you and you hold her down harder, just the way that she likes it. With abandon, you drive into her, fuck her until she's crying hysterically. Her fingernails tear into the flesh of your arms and you mutter a string of cursewords. She's left her mark on you numerous times, a permanent reminder of the time you fucked Cristina Yang.
When you come, her body shudders one last time beneath you. She doesn't move as quickly afterward and she glances at you exactly twice while she dresses. There's no emotion in her eyes and there's no words to be exchanged.
It's wrong and you both know it.
You don't want her and she doesn't want you.
You need each other.
It's another gray Tuesday in Seattle when the whispers rumble the four walls of the hospital. You don't believe it until you see it with your own eyes and when you do, there's a rush of emotion that you didn't expect.
You don't love him and you probably never would have. Except now that he has his person, now that he's got the one thing he was missing, you're jealous. You feel rejected all over again.
There's nobody to discuss it with; Meredith doesn't know about the two of you and she never will. Not that there's anything to tell because it was all wrong and even though she's defined by the words dark and twisty, she just wouldn't get it.
It's another gray Tuesday in Seattle when you quietly turn in your resignation rather than a paper detailing every man at the hospital you've ever slept with (exactly two) and pack your bags.
He was going to move back here. You were going to make him wait and make him grovel and maybe give him something to get jealous over but none of that matters now. Alex has the person that he's wanted and now you want yours.
You want everything to feel right again.
There was no goodbye and no explanation. It's not like Cristina owed you anything. You two weren't about all of that but now you're back to square one and she's back to being whatever it was that she was whenever she was with Burke.
Ava is gone, just as quickly as she came and you're alone.
Again.
You know that it all felt wrong when you were with her, that you weren't supposed to be doing the things you were doing. You know that Cristina was about getting over it and moving on but now that she's gone you can't help but think how right it all felt.
No expectations, no feelings, no problems.
Except one.
You fell in love with her.
-fin