Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews, story alerts etc on the last chapter, great to hear that you're enjoying it. I'm in the UK and we're only on Season 3 at the moment, so it's all about the Alex and Addison right now, and I have to say, I love it.
Disclaimer: As before
The morning of his interview dawned as grey and overcast as the previous day, and he hadn't even reached the breakfast table before he realised it was true, the Brits really were obsessed with the weather. Even the concierge he shared the lift with felt the need to tut gravely and say, 'awful morning, isn't it sir? Been like this for weeks on end,' and Alex found himself responding in kind.
Wow, he thought, guess I could settle here just fine.
At breakfast, he ended up mainly just moving his food around his plate. He'd gone for a proper English breakfast and right up until the point where he speared a sausage with his fork, he'd been really looking forward to it. Now though, his stomach was knotting up with nerves and food was the last thing he wanted. After a while of shifting his food aimlessly around his plate with the words 'don't play with your food' in his mother's voice echoing in his head, he gave up and sat back with his coffee instead.
Coffee always reminded him of Addison. Of sometimes when he would bring her a coffee before they started rounds of a morning, of occasionally when she would bring him one. Of the way she would look after she'd taken a sip of much needed caffeine, as if she was sampling nectar or something.
And of course, the vanilla latte incident. He'd hated Sloan for hurting her, making her feel vulnerable and taking away her confidence and even though bringing him the wrong type of coffee was a pathetically childish way of getting back at him for her, he'd still felt a sense of satisfaction.
He'd also, selfishly, hated him for knowing her well enough to know how to do those things to her. Which was ironic, given that he'd managed to perfect the art himself only a matter of weeks later.
A waiter broke into his reverie. 'Are you finished with your breakfast sir?'
Alex sat back from the table. 'Oh. Yes. Thank you.'
They both looked awkwardly at the full plate of mangled food sitting on the table.
'Was everything to your liking sir?'
'Yes, it was fine. Sorry, job interview this morning,' he explained. 'Too nervous to eat.'
'Quite understandable sir. Good luck,' he replied, before removing the plate and whisking it away.
Alex dressed in a new suit for the interview. Izzie had made him buy it, insisting that his perfectly adequate although not exactly designer black suit was neither smart or new enough to be worn at such an important event. As always, it was never worth arguing with her, so he had allowed himself to be dragged around Seattle's most overpriced shops by a relentless Izzie and Meredith intent on dropping every possible hint about Addison without actually mentioning her name. It had driven him up the wall, but he had to admit, the suit did look good.
He took a cab to the hospital to save getting caught in the rain but sitting in the rush hour traffic he wished he hadn't. It wasn't helping the nerves in the slightest. The closer it came to the time of the interview ('please report to the surgical reception on the third floor at nine o'clock sharp') the more his stomach seemed to twist around itself.
He wasn't generally a nervous guy. It had been a very long time since he had felt so physically sick at the thought of what was coming ahead. He was so used to himself as cool, professional Doctor Karev that the sensation was completely unfamiliar to him, and he didn't much like it.
It was just he wanted this job so much. He didn't even know why exactly it meant so much to him, just this sense that it was the right job. It was where he wanted his next step in his life to go and if it didn't work out, he wasn't exactly sure what Plan B was.
Bailey had coached him with the interview process every step of the way. Hours had been spent at the hospital, far longer than their shifts lasted, doing research, finding out who the other candidates were, how good they were. They had been through everything that the interview process might contain, right down to what knife and fork Alex should use if dinner somewhere expensive was involved. When Bailey first suggested the cutlery lesson, he'd been convinced she was joking, but when he realised she was serious, he had decided it might not have been the worst idea in the world. He was more a simple steakhouse kind of a guy, and it had been a while since he'd been somewhere really posh.
In the end, he didn't need the cutlery lesson, but at the meet and greet for candidates – coffee in the surgical consultants' lounge – it did require every ounce of his old arrogance to hold his own. Within about ten seconds, he realised he was the youngest person to have made the shortlist by the better part of twenty years and easily the least experienced. Most of the doctors there seemed to have double barrelled names and talk like something out of a Charles Dickens novel. Well, okay, so he might be stereotyping somewhat, but it came down to the same thing. He was the young hot-shot American, and not one of the other candidates was willing to give him the time of day.
Fortunately for him, the interviewing board did not seem to share their opinion. A distinguished looking man who didn't exude the same air of self importance as many of the other people in the room did came over to him and stuck out a hand.
'Michael Newton-Jones. I'm the Head of the Surgical Department here at Great Ormond Street. Doctor Karev, I understand?'
'Yes. Pleased to meet you.'
'Likewise. In fact, to put it more accurately, I should say I'm intrigued to meet you.' Alex wasn't sure if he was meant to respond, so he smiled politely and let the other man continue. 'You have had a remarkable career so far. We're very pleased that you've found the time to fly over here for this.'
'You, you are?' His cool professionalism dissipated for an unguarded moment of surprise that one of the most renowned hospitals in the world were actually honoured to have him on their candidate list. It was… surreal.
Newton-Jones had chuckled. 'Yes Doctor Karev. We are.' He indicated around the room. 'Despite appearances here this morning, we are a young hospital. We would never allow youth to count against you. After all, we are a paediatric hospital, we put a lot of value on youth.'
'Well,' Alex stuttered, 'that's… um… nice to know.'
They shook hands again. 'Good luck with the interviews Doctor Karev.'
The interview process lasted for two days, although he was one of only three candidates that progressed through to the second one. It was mainly made up of meetings and formal (scary) interviews with people in even smarter suits than his own across intimidatingly large polished wood tables, but he was also required to make several presentations on what he would bring to the hospital and along those lines, endure lunch on both days with board members and various charitable backers of the hospital and even scrub in on a fairly straightforward hernia repair in a newborn.
Then, just as it was beginning to seem that the feeling of being on show was never going to end, it did. On the third day, he was summoned back to the hospital and one minute he was shaking hands in greeting with a number of the best paediatric specialists in the world, then suddenly he was being told he was one of them.
'Congratulations Mr Karev.' Straight away, he noted the new title. It seemed strange that after slogging his guts out for so many years to no longer be called 'doctor' but it was a position of respect here and he wasn't going to complain. 'Welcome to the team here at Great Ormond Street.'
It was Michael Newton-Jones, his new boss he supposed, who was breaking the news. 'Thank you Mr Newton-Jones, I can't tell you how honoured I am.' He was surprised at how steady his voice sounded. Inside, he was shaking. Then he added, hoping he wasn't speaking out of line, 'and please, call me Alex.'
'Alex it is. And no standing on ceremony as we're colleagues now. Michael.'
They shook hands again. 'Michael,' Alex repeated, with a broad smile. He'd done it, he'd actually pulled it off. He'd got the job.