Fact: I hate this, I really do.

It's not what I had originally planned—far from it, actually. But it's what I ended up with.

I've had this hanging around for a while. Truthfully, I considered forgetting this story altogether, but here it is….

October 28th, 2006

Change: an amalgam of events that have kept you on your toes lately. You cling to hope like water droplets on glass windows, believing that somehow – this time – you'll be spared the ineluctable fall that seemingly follows fortuity.

Days converged into weeks and weeks converged into months. Before you knew it, you were whisked into the chaotic autumn of Seattle, amidst the unpredictable.

"It's been too long since they've said anything." Mark says, hand winding worriedly through his thick, dark locks. He paces audibly, still void of any form of composure since being kicked out of the OR, and subsequently, the gallery.

Your attention is split between trying to keep him level-headed and keeping an eye out for her.

So much has happened since last winter, since your uncontested divorce…

You and Mark managed to gingerly reclaim a diminutive fraction of what your friendship used to be. He was there for you, after the dissolution of your marriage; and with you, after she left. You, of course, asserted that you were fine, making it clear that Mark and his aid were neither needed nor wanted. But Mark, being Mark, with all his self-assurance, insisted that you needed him.

Now here you are, seemingly returning the favour.

"Preston's in there, so is Webber and Bailey." You remind him, guiding his distraught form towards a chair and motioning for him to sit down.

"She's in there with the best, they'll do everything they can to make sure she's okay…..Both of them will be okay."

Mark nods imperceptibly and you slink your body into the uncomfortable chair beside him, grateful for the opportunity to sit, if only for a little while.

You—all of you, were in the ER when they brought her in. When you took in her appearance—misshapen limbs, purplish bruises and jagged abrasions on her face, raven hair saturated with blood plastered atop her head—your heart sank. Being a surgeon has never been easy, so being presented with the task of treating one of your own exacerbated the grief and pressure that came with the job. And unbeknownst to anyone in Seattle besides yourself, Callie's accident hits a little too close to home.

Mark begins a random conversation about David Eckstein and you engage him because he seems far more relaxed than he was a few minutes ago, and you're willing to do or say just about anything for him to remain that way.

Casual, sometimes insightful conversation with him has sort of become your thing lately. When proposing advice, he always knew better than to simply tell you something, but rather imply it. Mark—seemingly filled with surprising sagacity since the discovery of his impending fatherhood—played, as much as you'd hate to admit it, an integral role in helping you shed light on your past state of affairs.

"He went 8 for 22 with 4 RBI and scored 3 runs in the series including going 4-for-5 with…."

When Mark's voice trails off, you don't question why. You assume it's because his line of sight has finally followed yours. Truthfully, he lost you at "World Series MVP". At that point, you had already identified her treading in your direction.

You stand before he does, and by the time she's in front of you, you realise that she's keen on avoiding direct eye contact with you.

"I'm so sorry," She says while embracing Mark, "I'll do everything I can to ensure the best outcome for both of them."

You meticulously observe her, trying to perceive any physical changes since the last time you've seen her. Addison being in L.A entails you feeling like you're missing out on everything.

Technically you're not, but you're already too attached to the idea of what could be to think otherwise: Curly auburn tendrils and curious pale-blue eyes flooded your thoughts the moment she told you.

"I'll go with you to scrub in." You offer after Mark relays his appreciation for her coming.

The way her face pales avers that she is opposed to the prospect of being alone with you, but you ignore it because simply wanting to be alone with Addison and him or her (you like to think of it that way) outweighs everything else.

You walk together—well she leads, and you follow. Richard has obviously filled her in on everything, she knows where she's going, and she knows what she has to do. She's focused, always has been.

The room is silent, save for the sound of running water as she lathers her hands with antibacterial soap.

You observe your surroundings to ensure that you're alone, then you clear your throat before attempting to sever the silence with words.

"How have you been feeling lately?" She doesn't say anything, but you do notice the way she closes her eyes and inhales deeply.

You've heard so many stories from your mother and sisters that it's pretty much impossible for you to not imagine what it would be like for her.

You carry on resolutely, restraining the questions, it's more like brazen statements rolling off the tip of your tongue again, and again, until:

"Derek," She cuts in, "Just…not now, okay?"

"Okay." You agree, although you're a little bemused by the tone of her voice.

You reason that she probably doesn't want you making this moment about her when the focus should be Callie.

You continue to silently watch her until she slips into the OR, then you leave, having already done your part earlier.

"Dr. Shepherd," You hear, and you turn to face the familiar voice.

"He's in on-call room 4." She informs, discerning that you standing in the hallway surveying the vicinity probably meant you're looking for Mark.

"Thank you, Dr. Grey." You say with a smile before heading in that direction.

You're not exactly sure how much time has passed since you reclined on an unusually comfortable on-call room bed foolishly thinking you would have been able to stay awake, but it must have been a few hours.

When you saunter out of the room, you spot Burke conversing with Cristina and interpret that to mean Callie is out of surgery. He confirms your supposition and also adds that she's in recovery where "Sloan's keeping guard, waiting for her to wake up."

After checking on Callie, and by proxy, Mark, you go in search of your ex-wife. Your day—week, has been far from uneventful and you want nothing more than to collapse onto your bed and sleep for as long as time permits. But Addison is in town and you've barely seen her for nearly a month; therefore, you'll gladly relinquish rest since the opportunity to be with her has presented itself.

Pinpointing when it started—it being what's going on between you and your ex-wife (neither of you have exactly placed a label on it)—is quite easy.

You spotted her while passing the NICU; you were certain your eyes were deceiving you, until:

"Derek…" she said cautiously.

You, being as surprised as you were, simply returned her name as a response.

"Congenital lobar emphysema…Richard didn't tell you I was coming?" She offered, answering your unspoken question as to what she was doing there.

"No, I had no idea." You said, rubbing the back of your neck tensely. Why she made you so nervous in that moment, you could not explain.

"How have you been?"

"Good—great actually. You?"

Maybe if her tone had been a little less sugary, that would have been believable.

"I've been better." You admitted, stepping a little closer to her.

Perhaps it would have been best for both of you if that had been the last time you had seen each other that day or week, but it wasn't.

"Haven't I seen you around here before?" You said, leaning your body against the bar counter and turning to face her.

She raised her head and smiled brightly at you, and you found it hard to contain the joy you felt from still being able to make her smile like that.

"No, I don't think so." She said seriously.

"I'm certain," You insisted, "There's no way I could forget seeing someone as beautiful as you. Mind if I sit here?" You motioned to the vacant stool in front of you.

"No, not at all."

You made yourself comfortable beside her and ordered three shots of whatever it was that Joe deemed the house special, downing them much faster than you probably should have. The bar was neither full nor empty, with the usual Seattle Grace crew clustered at the tables lining the walls.

"Rough day?" She asked, taking in your empty shot glasses.

"Rough year."

"Yeah…" She sighed, "Me too."

"See, we already have something in common. So, what was it about this year that made it particularly rough?

She arched a brow at that, "I'm not about to disclose the personal details of my life to you, I hardly know you," she said.

You chuckled.

"Doesn't that have a certain charm to it, though?"

"Not really."

"Well, how 'bout you start by telling me a little about yourself." You said with a smile.

Whether it had been the alcohol coursing through your veins or the sheer longing you had been trying to contain long before her arrival, you found yourself inching closer and closer to her as the night progressed (the façade long forgotten, neither of you possessing the will to keep it up).

"You okay?" You asked softly, not seeing the need to elaborate because you were certain she knew exactly what you meant.

"Honestly?"

You nodded.

"No." She confessed.

You placed your hand over hers in silent agreement.

Trying to mask the hurt with saccharine kisses originating from lips that naively worshipped you simply would not—could not suffice, you put an end to that months ago.

With the woman you were once able to call your wife before you again, you were well aware of how dangerous saying how you felt would be, but not saying anything at all would have been worse—your last encounter can attest to that.

"I should go." She whispered after your lips brushed against hers.

You stood as she did and before allowing her to walk away you stated:

"I miss you, Addie."

She smiled sadly, "I don't believe you," she said.

"I don't blame you."

She slung her bag across her shoulder and walked a small distance ahead before turning around and responding with:

"I miss you too."

She would probably say that going back to her hotel was all your idea—it was pretty unanimous.

You spent two surreptitious weeks together and that was supposed to be it. She would leave and everything would continue on as it did before.

But the situation snowballed into something neither of you were willing to put a stop to when she returned more frequently than warranted—flying in for surgeries that someone already in Seattle doubtlessly had the skill and competence to perform. And you—finding yourself in LA under the guise of Sam and Naomi, as if you really gave a damn about catching up with old friends.

After fruitlessly searching the NICU, nursery, cafeteria and getting the runaround from Karev, Richard finally told you that she left for the day.

You're standing outside 1215 at the Archfield, waiting for her to let you in. Considering the length of time you've been knocking, you're beginning to think that she's not there.

But that thought is suspended the moment she appears wrapped in a plush white robe, wet hair falling heavily across her shoulders.

"I called," You say, "You didn't answer." You're not only referencing today.

She fidgets with the belt of her robe instead of offering an explanation. You're not exactly sure how she expects you to figure out what's wrong if she's not willing to talk to you. Everything seemed fine up until a few days ago, and now you can't help wondering if you did or said something that prompted her to shy away from you.

"Do you want me to go?" You ask, judging by her behaviour today you're quite certain the answer is yes.

"No." She says almost inaudibly, opening the door wider so you can step inside.

She ambles toward the bathroom leaving you standing against the door.

"Addie…"

"I'll only be a minute." She says before slipping in and closing the door behind her.

You make your way to the brown leather couch lining the side of the room.

When she returns, she's clad in black satin pyjamas that you don't recall seeing before. She goes to sit on the bed, but you pat the empty space beside you and she obliges.

"I haven't heard from you in a week." You say softly.

"I'm sorry," She exhales, "I just…I needed some time."

Her eyes finally make direct contact with yours for the first time today.

"You want to move to LA…" She repeats what you told her a few days ago.

You scoot closer to her and lightly run the back of your hand across her cheek.

"I do…" You begin, "…and you're afraid we're going to mess up like we did the first time. And I can't say that that thought hasn't crossed my mind before. But Addie, I know what not having you in my life is like, it's not something I want to experience again. I—we've been through enough, learnt enough, and are determined enough to not make the same mistakes again, and this time, you and I won't be the only ones involved," Your hand caresses her lower stomach, "I consider that extra motivation."

She lays her head on your shoulder and her damp hair tickles your neck causing you to shiver slightly.

"I'm terrified of messing up again," She confirms, "I want this more than anything…you caught me off guard when you brought up moving to LA, it's not exactly something we've discussed before…I just, I don't want you to make that decision just because of me. You love it here."

"I like it here," You correct. "But there's nothing keeping me here. I'm not only making the decision for you, Addison, I'm ready to start over with you, whether it be in LA or somewhere else. I love you, and I want to be with you."

You lean in and kiss her lips gently. She smiles brilliantly when you pull away and returns your sentiment.

You have not been more certain about anything since you asked her to marry you all those years ago. There's still a lot to figure out; what you have is far from perfect, but it's what you want.

You've both tried the whole being-with-someone-else thing: it did not—can never, surpass being with the person you truly love.