Title: All the Difference
Author: slimwhistler
Pairing: Alex/Addison
Disclaimer: They belong to Shonda and friends, not me.
Summary: After her trip to LA, Addison needs to find out something.
Okay, so this is my first GA fic ever, and therefore my first Alex/Addison. I'd like to thank my betas for all of their help and encouragement. I'm thinking this may have three or four parts, with the possibility of more chapters and/or other stories in the same universe if I can figure them out. Let me know what you think, and if you'd like me to continue…feedback is love.
Oh, yeah…I know the chapter title might seem like it's hitting you over the head with the reference, but it refused to be called anything else…I tried, I really did.
All roads lead to Meredith Grey, thinks Addison wryly as she gazes up at the door of the house that has surely become La Maison Intern. But she knocks anyway, because that door also leads to the enigmatic young intern who refuses to leave her thoughts.
She went to LA to try to reconnect with herself, out of a sudden desperate need to feel the sun on her skin, to be free of the pall that Derek and Mark cast over everything, the inevitability of Callie's heartbreak. And, of course, to distance herself from her certainly ill-advised preoccupation with Alex Karev.
And it had worked. The weeks in LA had centered her, the reminiscing with old friends shoring up the shaky foundation of her sense of self, reminding her of who she was and what she wanted. The miles of open road and the feel of the wind whipping through her hair had carried away much of the sting of Derek and Mark while the time spent with friends had cemented her resolve to help Callie in whatever way she needed.
Yes, LA had done it, had allowed her to take control of her life again. One aspect, however, remained unresolved.
Alex.
Her thoughts of him had remained impermeable to the hours of retail therapy and spa time she had indulged in, completely resistant to her people-watching on the beach, and had even persisted through an evening of endless margaritas and freshly made guacamole. She had pictured him there through all of it: laughing at her primping and pampering (even as his eyes smoldered at the results); insisting that he could drink her under the table (even as he disparaged her margaritas as being too girly); and mocking the perennial perkiness and disingenuousness of the young and beautiful in LA (even as he refused to leave the hotel room wearing anything but a sleeveless shirt himself). She had even (and this is when she decided that her mission to forget him had utterly failed) imagined him sitting with her on the beach at dusk, his arms solid and warm as they encircled her.
And so now she stands here, in front of his door, in the face of all that is rational and sensible. She has an offer waiting for her in LA, one that she should be jumping at, one that would allow her to leave the dampness and heartache of Seattle behind. But she can't accept it, not without finding out from a certain prickly intern whether frenzied sex in a linen closet, followed by a night of slow lovemaking in a hotel bed, could be the start of something more.
No one answers and she wonders whether he's spending his day off enjoying the rare sunshine. She rings the bell and knocks again, reluctant to relinquish the chance of speaking with him without his fellow interns listening around a corner. When she finally hears the sound of footsteps, she smoothes her hair and takes a deep breath, telling the ridiculous, traitorous butterflies in her gut to buzz off and mind their own damn business. She knocks again for good measure, because the butterflies aren't diminishing, and her only alternative is turning around and running like hell. She hears a "Yeah, yeah, coming," followed by a thump and a muffled curse and then suddenly the door swings open and she's face to face with Alex Karev.
Of all the people he might have expected to find on his doorstep on a Thursday afternoon, Addison Montgomery is nowhere near the top of the list. Alex is suddenly grateful he decided to answer the door rather than simply slinging another pillow on top of his head although he can't help but wonder if she's some sort of drug-induced hallucination or wish fulfillment or something, because seriously, her, here? Not something that would happen outside of his head.
He's staring at her. He's barefoot, in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama bottoms and one of his tank tops (she refuses to call them wifebeaters), and his hair is sticking up in tufts. He looks rumpled and groggy, and his eyes are still heavy with sleep. He looks wonderful.
Wonderful or not, since he doesn't appear to be capable of anything but staring at her at the moment, she decides she'd better start. When in doubt, go for something approaching levity. "Sleeping in the middle of the day, Karev?" she inquires, raising an eyebrow.
"Um. Addison, Dr. Montgomery, hi."
She frowns. His voice is too raspy, even for someone who's just woken up. "I heard you had the day off, so I thought I'd come by and see if you were home, but…are you sick?"
"Yeah, sorta." He rubs the back of his neck. "Bronchitis. I was working, and all, but then Bailey caught me sleeping standing up, drooling on an armful of charts." He grimaces. "Anyway, she and the Chief made me take some time. I'd be bored as hell. If I wasn't sleeping all the time, I mean."
Feeling suddenly awkward, and somehow vaguely ashamed of herself, Addison apologizes. "I'm sorry, Alex. I guess I should have called, or something. No one said you were sick. I'll just go."
She turns to leave, but his voice stops her. "Hey, don't do that. I should probably eat something anyway. No point in you coming over here for nothing. Come in."
Smiling uncertainly, she gives a little nod and follows him into the house.
Okay, so she's definitely not a hallucination, which, all things considered, is probably a good thing. However, this does leave him with the problem of making a generally favorable impression, something that usually eludes him even with all cylinders firing. Plus, the whole staring-dumbly-with-bedhead thing probably already cost him a few points.
He makes his way to the kitchen, figuring that the intricacies of sandwich-making will excuse any preoccupation, while the gathering of ingredients will give him plenty of opportunities to surreptitiously check her out.
First thing's first, however. "You want tea?" he asks, filling the kettle.
Addison blinks, looking surprised. "You drink tea?"
He shakes his head and chuckles, wincing when the laugh ends on a cough. "I do. I'm not a complete Neanderthal, you know. Anyways, I'm sick." She smiles and murmurs a thank you, and he moves on to the fridge. "Besides, if my mom found out I wasn't taking care of myself, you'd hear the screaming all the way from Iowa."
She laughs at that, and he turns to look at her. "So, LA was good? It looks like it agreed with you."
She grins and suddenly he's insanely jealous of that city of smog and palm trees because he's never seen her look so genuinely happy before. He wishes he could have figured out how to put that look on her face.
"It was great," she says. "Tons of sun, the beach, good friends, and designer shoes. What more could a girl ask for?"
Her shoes are pretty impressive, some of those flimsy, strappy things that he's never been able to figure out…how do women stay upright in them, anyway? But she makes them look good, so what does he care? Besides, it's probably a rich people rule that you have to wear designer shoes with designer clothes, and her outfit definitely appears to be designer: a simple white skirt and a sleeveless top in two shades of yellow gold that sets off her tan and the new glints of gold in her hair. As he hands her a mug of tea, he notices the new scattering of golden brown freckles across her nose and the impulse to kiss every one of them hits him like a sudden punch to the gut. He's staring again and she's looking at him funny, so he clears his throat hastily. "Well, the shoes don't really do anything for me, but the rest of it sounds pretty good." He glances away. "They, uh, they make you an offer down there?"
"They did."
"A good one?"
She raises an eyebrow, as if to say, 'have you forgotten who I am?,' and he shakes his head. "Right, yeah. Stupid question." He swallows. "So…you take it? Is that what you came by to tell me?"
"I…I haven't decided yet."
He takes an angry bite from his sandwich. "What's to decide? Hell, if I were you, I couldn't wait to get out of here. Away from the rain, and all the ex-assholes, and everything. You've got friends there. They even have your shoes." He tries to turn the last bit into a joke but fails, and so he just stands there, holding his sandwich like an idiot, staring into eyes swirling with uncertainty and a touch of hurt.
His dark eyes are boring into hers, and suddenly her legs feel just a bit unsteady. Still, she manages to get the question out: "Are you telling me to leave, Alex?"
"Why would you stay?"
He glances down at his feet, and suddenly she can't stand it anymore. She moves forward, and then her hands are resting on his arms, and she's so close she can see the flecks of copper in his eyes. "I don't know," she breathes. "You tell me." And then there's no more need for talking, because she's kissing him, bronchitis and all, and she thinks maybe she should care more about that. But then his arms are around her and he's kissing her back, and she decides that, no, she really doesn't care at all.