Not mine. T/PG-13. Post-3x18. Addison and Alex grapple with professional aspirations and personal yearnings. Ongoing series. Mostly Addison/Alex with references to Addison/Mark and Addison/Derek.

Chapter Nine. "The Burning of Uncertainty." Addison debates the merits of Alex's proposal. (Heavy on the "personal," I'm afraid.)

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Constant proximity had worn them down. Each had experienced a single moment in which they realized how they felt, but the feelings had been there all along. They had started with lust. They were both good people. Neither had someone else. And they saw each other ten hours a day. After three years of the same, it might have been possible for their hearts to remain free… but it was highly unlikely. Maybe they weren't meant-to-be—but there they were, anyway. As the fount-of-wisdom Hannibal Lecter would say, we begin by coveting what we see every day.

Not that either of them had desires quite so kinky as that sage's. (If Alex occasionally had the weird bondage dream, he'd never tried it in real life. And Addison counted herself lucky if her fantasy lovers remembered foreplay.) Nor were they starry-eyed adolescents who fell for each other through metaphor: it was possible that each knew the flaws of the other even better than their own. (And both were egoists well-stocked in self-loathing.) Love or not, the friction between them persisted: in both its sexual and simply-irritating forms.

Really, it was about mutual dependence, and their commitment to it. They knew each others' weak spots but chose not to repair the walls. (Because everyone needed to be noticed from time to time.)

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For several minutes after Alex left her office, Addison didn't move. Her lips still tingled from their last contact with Karev's. She was afraid even to swallow—and risk losing the taste of him. Had that really happened? It seemed absurd, almost unrealistic. It was something out of a fluffy romantic comedy: with characters whose hair never moved and whose kisses always hit the mark (no trouble with the noses). And Karev—Alex—Karev, well, that speech of his had come out of nowhere. He'd never struck her as the sappy type before, but those words? That look? That touch? Made her heart palpitate with hope entirely against her will. Oh, but it had been a long, long time.

She'd never been the sort to fall in love at first sight. Derek had certainly had his work cut out for him, when he'd first begun pursuing her. And Mark? Well, that was the product of more than a decade of flirtation and the occasional, unexpectedly serious conversation here and there. Both were objectively gorgeous men (as was Karev), but that alone had only ever stirred her below the belt. Feelings, for her, took time. But she'd had plenty of time with Karev—all day, every day for nearly three years—and he'd taken root in her heart for awhile now. (Oh, dear, that made her heart dirt and him some form of weed, didn't it.) In any event, she'd come to… care about him, at least. And that made the kissing a problem.

Ah, yes. Problem. Finally, her wits had returned. The exhilaration of the moment had slowly subsided, and in its place was a jumble of fears and speculations. If she told him, "no," what would happen to their working relationship? If she told him, "yes"—but no, she couldn't possibly tell him "yes." Or could she? And again, Addison wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of her situation. Alex Karev, asking her on a date, giving her time to think about it, planning romance? It was as though they'd stepped into a Victorian novel and she was some cloistered virgin awaiting missives from a respectfully distant suitor. She didn't see Karev as the planning type. No, he was sudden, fast, and rough liaisons in on-call rooms. He was unexpected kisses and gruff signs of affection without flowery words. He was surprise.

She, however, was a planner. She'd never been good with spontaneity when sober. The over-analyzing, the obsession with all possible consequences—that was hers. She supposed he'd caught it from her, somehow.

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Mornings-after had never been Alex's strong suit. He'd acted nonchalant at the time, but he was on pins and needles waiting for Addison's answer. He didn't really know where those last words had come from—probably lines dredged up from bad romance films he'd been dragged to by ex-girlfriends. "No pressure"? Like hell. At the moment he felt nothing but pressure; well, nothing but that and an overwhelming sense of, d'oh! (Sometimes, Homer was the only way to go.) Because the mad frenzy had left him, and now he remembered, with agonizing clarity, the four-hundred-and-one reasons why he wasn't supposed to do what he'd done the day before.

Number one on his list of fears? Was the prediction that she'd go into hiding, now. Because, dude, that was her M.O. And that would kill him. 'Cause he'd hoped they were past that stage; he thought they were really friends now. Sure, she was still his teacher and his boss, at work, but he'd been there for her on practically everything else for some time. She had Torres and Bailey, he supposed, but they were "lunch date" friends. He was the default. When they pulled off a great surgery? Every other time, he bought the beers. When she was moody or down, he brought by juju. Hell, when her fuse at home blew and she couldn't screw in the replacement, she'd called him up. (He'd had to promise not to tell a soul—the female technological incompetence thing embarrassed her.)

And, he guessed, she'd been there for him, too. His sister got married to some broker, in New York City, and he went to the wedding. He'd been dreading the confrontation with his mother, who had never really forgiven him for the Incident with His Dad. (It turned out that she'd rather lose her son than that asshole.) He mentioned it to Addison in passing while they were double-checking charts. She surprised him with the offer of free housing… and her company, if he wanted it. He surprised himself, by accepting.

The brownstone was imposing. He had thought her silly for not selling it, but standing in it, he got at last why it was hard. She hadn't been back since Seattle, it seemed, and he wasn't sure if his presence was a hindrance or a help. It was unnerving, how she tiptoed like a ghost along its passages. She paused especially long before the stairs. She didn't speak of it, and he didn't ask.

That first night, around 4 a.m., he heard the master bedroom door creak open. Then she was sneaking into his room, clad in plain, unsexy cotton pajamas. Well that answers that, he thought, and pretended to be asleep. The bed dipped as she crawled in on the other side. They didn't touch. In the morning, by the time he woke up, she was already gone.

When they made their entrance at the wedding, all were suitably impressed. He introduced her as "my friend, Addison." She was glamour and grace personified: pearl earrings, Chanel scent, and cashmere clothes. His mom was awestruck, and she looked at him with new respect. His sister grinned impishly every time she caught his eye. Though terrified of dancing, he even stumbled through a few waltzes, and one of them was with her. (She beamed when he asked her.) The day went unexpectedly well.

As their plane touched down in Seattle, Alex turned to her and said, "hey—thanks." She sighed and responded simply, "Likewise."

And now, Alex stood to lose all of that. For sex. Man, but that was stupid. He sucked at life, he really did.

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After Alex finished rounding on Addison's patients, he went in search of her. His feet dragged, a little. Then he saw her, their eyes met, and he knew. It was all up. She'd made up her mind, and it wasn't good. Her greeting was a lot stiffer than usual. As he reported on the status of her patients, he watched her face attentively. It was expressionless—too expressionless. It didn't move. It was the face of a woman who had bad news to give, but hadn't figured out quite how to phrase it. His heart sank. Well, fine, then. And his brain went to work—how could he get to the point first? Alex hated rejections. He preempted them every chance he got. But he was at a loss for how to get out of this one. Backing down hadn't been part of his plan, yesterday. And he hadn't left himself any loopholes.

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When Alex found himself alone with Grey at the nurse's station, he was seized by an unhealthy confessional impulse. Grey and him, well, they'd always had a sort of bond. A we're-both-screwed-up-and-get-each-other connection. So a few minutes after they'd exchanged nods and gone back to focusing on work, he found himself leaning over and muttering to her:

"So, what gives with Shepherd, huh? He's your teacher—hell, your teacher's teacher—so how come he was all fine with trying to get you to sleep with him, anyway?" Her eyes widened and she cocked her head at him.

"I… I don't know, really. I mean, I had a problem with it at first, you know? But he was just so, well, persistent. So I figured, whatever, right?" Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you ask?" He felt himself turning red. "Nothing, dude, forget it."

She raised her eyebrows at him and turned back to her chart. Half a minute more, and he burst out, "It's just—she's so f---ing honorable, all the damned time. And I know it could work, but she won't let us try, and it's pissing me off." His face scrunched in annoyance. Meredith blinked first in confusion, then in mild surprise. Recovering quickly, she gave him that patented sweet-sympathy face and offered: "Keep at it. She likes you, that's pretty obvious, and so she'll probably give in eventually." She shrugged. "I did, after all." She shut her chart, threw him a nod of solidarity, and headed off. If only he could believe her. Alex sighed and tried to focus on the patient stats in front of him.

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He had put himself out there, and she was going to have to shove it all back in his face. There had been a moment—when she'd stopped breathing and her tongue was dueling with his—in which she had been ready to throw caution to the wind. But the brain-addling lust was gone. He'd been impulsive and fool-hardy. (And good.) Alas, she was supposed to be the responsible one in their relationship. She'd asked for his help, before, and he'd given it to her. It was her time to return the favor now. Whether or not he asked. Regardless of what he wanted. And irrespective of her wishes, too. She just had to find the right way to say it.

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Preston Burke was not a gossip. He had a supremely dignified air about him; it was almost magisterial. In fact, in the vapid, ditzy world of Seattle Grace, there was only one person who seemed to Addison less likely to throw around names and sex talk. That would be Cristina Yang. (Addison had never witnessed a Cristina-Meredith gab fest.) They were a perfect match, really.

Going by personality, the logical man to talk to about the headaches of dating-when-superior would be Derek, of course. Now he was Mr. Fuzzy Feelings himself. But somehow, the notion of sitting down with her ex-husband—to dissect the development of his Great Love with the woman he'd left her for—just didn't appeal to Addison. And George was still a sore topic with Callie. So here she was in the attendings' lounge, pretending to eat her cereal, eyeing the handsome cardiothoracic surgeon over bran flakes and skim milk.

Richard Webber had been right to compare her to Stevens. Not the identifying-with-patients problem—the blond outdid her there by miles. But the randomly personal questions habit? The you're-rich-right or you've-tried-adultery verbal hiccup? That, unfortunately, they shared. (Usually Miranda was the one to suffer the results.) So finally, she spit it out. "With Cristina, how'd you know it wasn't just a greatest-student-ever thing?" Preston turned toward her, one eyebrow up. "I mean, how'd you know it was a separate feeling—how'd you know that it was love?"

He leaned back a little and gazed at her impassively. She was immediately ashamed and wished she'd kept her mouth closed. There was a long, painful pause. "You don't," he suggested finally. "Not at first. You just go with it. And then one day, you wake up and look over at them, and the hospital is nowhere near your thoughts. It's no longer connected. And you just know."

She nodded gratefully. She didn't know what she'd have done if he hadn't responded at all. She hadn't a clue what to make of his answer, just yet—but at least it was there. Dumping her bowl in the sink, she headed off. On her way out, she tossed over her shoulder, "Oh, and this conversation never happened."

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The afternoon surgery went smoothly. For the patient and her baby, at any rate. The two surgeons standing over them were not so lucky. They had difficulty making eye contact; the scrub nurses assumed Karev had done something to piss the attending off, again. Angry silences were not unusual with this pair. The nurses didn't recognize the contemplative sadness in the air.

Addison was at a loss for words. She wished there was a handbook for this situation, a chapter on the being propositioned by the help in 'Attending' Excellence: Melding Surgical and Pedagogical Greatness. Somehow, she suspected even Amazon-dot-com would fail her there. It hurt to see (out of the corner of her eye) how beaten Karev looked, how defeatist and resigned. She never meant to hurt the people she cared for. It just… happened, sometimes.

Perhaps the damage had been done. Because that kiss would not leave her mind, and she would always be thinking about what-might-have-been, every time she looked at him. He had passed that on to her. She repressed a sigh.

It looked, Alex reflected, like his troubles were here to stay. He had no idea how to repair what he'd broken. Gone was the easy camaraderie of the previous year; the space between him and Addison was fraught with hidden dangers, unseen harm. Him and his 'grand gestures.' If Frank had been on the table right then, Alex would have been tempted to let the scalpel slip. Look at me, he wanted to say. Tell me we'll be okay. But it was useless to ask: pointless for her to turn her eyes toward him, if he hadn't the courage to face them.

She let him close. He had, after all, learned something from Sloan: his stitches were now usually tidier than her own.

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"Hey there, Amy."

There was no one else in the NICU, but Alex kept his voice down anyway. Just in case. Wouldn't want to wake the other sleeping babies. A lot of things had changed in his years of neonatal training, but this refuge? Still remained. He was stressed and disappointed and unhappy, and he was dreading the final moment of truth. But the calm atmosphere of the room managed to seep into him all the same.

The door opened. Alex knew who had walked in without turning around. "Hey," he greeted her softly. Joining him at Amy Turner's incubator, Addison returned the hello. The tension in the silence which followed was excruciating, but Alex couldn't think of anything to say. How did he take back what he had said yesterday? How did they get back to normal? What could he possibly say or do that wouldn't make him feel like an even bigger idiot than already? She sighed. Here we go, he thought. She's going to beat me to it; I'm going to be the one who gets rejected. He really, really wanted to be the one to call it off. But his tongue was stuck. She turned to face him, and it took enormous effort to raise his eyes to meet hers.

She looked terrified. I did a better job, that day in the closet, Alex thought. And it was true—when he'd said he wasn't interested, he'd at least had the decency to appear convincing. This look she was giving him—a look of I-want-to-but-I-can't, please-don't-hate-me, I-can't-say-it-but-I-love-you—this look only made the words that were about to come that much worse. To his horror, he felt his eyes begin to water. Great, real f---ing manly, Karev. He didn't recognize this pathetic sap she'd turned him into.

At least there was no one else there. Normally, it'd be just his luck, to have a nurse he'd slept with witness the whole ordeal. But there was just the beeping of the monitors and the sound of their breathing to fill his ears. Hers was especially shallow. She was gathering her resolve, getting ready to take the leap.

"I'm Dr. Montgomery," she said, finally, and Alex looked at her like she'd lost her mind. Well, duh.

"And I'm Karev," he responded with a roll of his eyes. "Yes, exactly," she breathed with relief. What? Now he was confused.

"Here at the hospital, we can't—we have to be twice as professional as usual. No touching. No flirting. No first names. Nothing that shows—nothing out of the ordinary—nobody can know." She inhaled. "Got it?"

His breath caught. Did that mean… His heart swelled three sizes in his chest; his lungs had trouble expanding around the new obstruction. "You mean…"

She leaned closer and whispered: "8 o'clock. Zagi's on 80th." Then she drew back. Well. Alex felt his cheeks stretch out, almost to the point of pain. He straightened, every inch of him wired with fresh energy. Yes! His eyes were suddenly drawn to her mouth, and he reached out to cup her face.

She slapped his hands away. "Karev. What did I say?!" He recovered quickly, stepping back a few feet. Oh, right. He cleared his throat.

"So, uh, I'm almost done with the Liam chart, Dr. Montgomery. Should I just leave it on your desk when it's finished?"

"Sounds good, Karev. After that, you can go home for the day." She nodded curtly at him and sailed away. Home for the day. As if. There was no way he was staying in, tonight.

He waited until he'd stopped grinning like a moron to exit, grab his things, and head home for a quick shower.

End of Chapter Nine.

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A/N: Oy. GG is just a tad exhausted. But if I can make it through the next two, the final two (fun! happy!) chapters are already well on their way to done. So, please do stick around!

Next up, a short chapter: Alex and Addison go on a first date.

Thank you so much for your lovely reviews! You're marvelous, all of you.