A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! I am so glad you enjoyed the last chapter. Please rest assured (if that's reassuring) that this very much an Addek story. Will it take some legwork to get them where I want them? Oh, yes. Including some side trips. But the destination is Addek. It will take some time and it may start surprising you in the coming chapters, so I hope you will stay tuned. So. Where were we?

..
stop me
..

We're close enough that I can feel his breath on my face – warm, not hot but warm – and time freezes for a moment.

No, I mean it. It really does.

You know that feeling, right before you kiss someone new?

God, it's almost better than the kiss itself.

Actually, in some cases, it's definitely better than the kiss itself, especially early on when you're just growing into your hormones, wobbling around in them like your first pair of three-inch heels.

(I'm a lot taller and a lot older than the first time … but sometimes I think my hormones never made it past about sixteen.)

Because we're in each other's space now – that indefinable bubble you're not supposed to cross because if you do … then there's no going back.

Because this close I can smell him, a mix of the harsh green soap in the hospital locker rooms, bleach-cleaned scrubs, the cheap spicy scent of drugstore deodorant, and something else. Something a little earthier, more pungent – not sweat exactly, but just … body. His body. His very male body very, very close to mine and he smells like man, and we're all just animals.

(Aren't we?)

Because I can feel my heart thumping. There's a fluttering in my stomach too, making its way south, and if I took the time to evaluate myself I might be embarrassed to look so desperate – pushing forty, divorced, basically panting over a kid half my age who purposefully picks scrubs a size smaller so he can look extra muscular.

Like a peacock's plumage.

It works, too. He's straining his scrub top at the chest and arms and I want to ask isn't that uncomfortable, is it really worth it, and I remember I'm one to talk since I won't walk down the hallway in anything less than a three-inch heel unless I'm straight from the OR.

I tell people it's for the height if they ask, it's a male dominated profession, blah, blah. It sounds better than I look hotter this way.

And maybe they're both true, I don't know.

It doesn't matter now because my eyes are lingering on his shoulders – the way they're filling up the edges of his scrub top. I'm remembering the way they looked when he stood in front of me in the scrub room, testosterone practically rising in lines off his body as he blocked Derek from me. He was close, then.

Close enough to touch.

But he's closer now.

Then he catches me looking and smirks.

Great, just what I need. To feed the ego of yet another man at this hospital.

And still … nothing.

We're still caught in this game of chicken. This close, his eyes are a spectrum instead of brown, paler around the pupil, ringed with a darker chestnut shade.

I could stop. I could stop right now. I could walk away.

I could actually make a good decision.

(Theoretically, I mean. I can't remember the last good one I actually made.)

The things is, sometimes I feel like instead of the angel on one shoulder, and the devil on the other shoulder, I have a devil on each one.

I close my eyes just for a second and imagine what the good influence would say.

Hmm.

Don't do it, Addison, it might say. You're better than this.

And that seals the deal.

Because I'm not.

So I move first.

Yeah, I'm the one who makes the first move. Surprised? Is it because you think I'm passive-aggressive? I know my husband does.

(Ex-husband, whatever.)

The point is, take a look at how active I can be when I'm pushing what's left of my life off a cliff.

Somehow, somehow, despite the world's most drawn out lead up, he still seems surprised when my lips make contact.

Surprised in that he just stands there, for a minute, while I envision sexual harassment lawsuits and try not to notice that I can feel the heat of his skin through his scrubs.

And then he kisses me back.

Hard.

With that sheer enthusiasm you have at that age, when everything is still new enough, and high enough, and tight enough, and … hormonal enough that it's exciting as hell no matter how bad a decision it is.

There's only a second of crushing sensation, in which my body that's been crying out for touch basically seizes at the contact –

And then doorknob turns and we jump apart.

God.

And all that buildup turns to smoothing my hair down, standing up straight and regulating my breathing and answering the nurse's question like I wasn't just about three shades of arousal from making one of the stupidest sexual decisions of my life.

(And that's one area of life where I've set a pretty high bar.)

When the door closes, mercifully, I take a minute to adjust my lab coat, pulling at a few loose pieces of hair, hoping it doesn't look as disheveled as I feel, before I make reluctant eye contact.

"That … should not have happened."

He doesn't respond.

I try again: "I'm … sorry, Karev, that was – "

"Don't mention it," he cuts me off with a cheeky grin and then he actually leers at me, catching me off guard, and that little flame ignited in my stomach gives a hopeful puff.

"After you." He gestures toward the door.

"Right. Of course."

Okay, so, is it tasteless, practically mounting someone in the viewing roomwhen a patient is waiting?

Yes.

I'm going to play the doctor card here, though. Different standards, you know? When we were interns, two of our cohort were caught having sex in the morgue and the only question anyone asked was if blond Sven's drapes had a matching carpet.

So we walk out like things are normal and then we're outside Hannah's room again; Karev's ahead of me and he pauses.

I watch him for a second.

I watch him watching them.

Karev … he came through today.

He came through for Hannah. For just a minute I consider how wrong I was to think Stevens would be the standout from their year.

Inside the sad little room, Hannah and Tad are still sitting with baby Alexander.

Their heads are resting against each other's, comforting each other. They look almost … peaceful.

When Karev turns around, he actually looks … tender? It throws me, and I take quick action to put a stop to it.

"Dr. Karev," I say firmly, gesturing for him to follow me a few paces down the hall, and waiting for him to reach me before I continue. "Going forward, we need to … remain strictly professional."

He raises his eyebrows. "As opposed to what?"

"As opposed to…." My voice trails off, all that certainty suddenly gone.

He looks almost amused. "One kiss and you think I need a lecture or I'll, what, fall in love with you?"

My cheeks burn. "Dr. Karev," I start sharply, but he just shakes his head.

"You think everyone is dying to get with you, don't you? You just snap your fingers and men fall into your pocket."

I guess I'm relieved he said pocket, but I'm still offended. Time for defense; that's always been where I score anyway.

"Really, Karev? You didn't exactly seem unwilling in there. Maybe I'm not the only one whose judgment is … questionable."

"Maybe I just like working with you," he counters.

"Grey likes working with me and she's never kissed me."

"Yeah?" He grins. "That's too bad, I had a nice mental image going."

Ugh.

(I guess he also reminds me of Mark in the bad ways, too.)

"I'm still your superior, Karev. And always have been," I add.

"I'm not worried," he says easily. "You can't really do anything to me."

"Excuse me?" I prop a hand on my hip. "Why is that?"

"Because it turns out, and believe me I'm as surprised as you are, that I actually like working with you, so assigning me to your service isn't much of a punishment."

"All right, then, how about I throw you off my service … permanently?"

"But you won't do that either because … let's face it, I'm good at your specialty. I know, you hate admitting it, but I also know you know it's true and you're not going to cheat patients out of … all this."

I almost laugh at the cocky grin on his face while he gestures to himself. What is it, is it something I'm putting out there? How do these guys always seem to find me?

Smug? Arrogant? I want to hear from you! Call Addison at 917-555-2334.

(Yes, I kept my New York number. Karev wasn't wrong about my questionable taste in men, but I do have some standards.)

"Stay with the patient until she's ready to surrender. I expect to be paged immediately if there are any issues," I tell him coolly, and then walk away.

..

"I have no standards," I announce.

Callie looks up; she's sitting on a gurney with a chart in her hand. I'm taking a chance here, I get that, but I'm desperate and despite what Derek might say it's not just for male attention.

At this point, in this town, this lonely? It's for any attention.

(Which is not to say Callie is a … consolation prize, or something. I actually think she's great. To the point that I have no idea why she wants to talk to me, but then again I am also a tiny bit self-loathing. Maybe.)

"Tell me more," she says, closing the chart she's holding.

I take a deep breath.

"I just kissed an intern."

Callie's eyes widen. "You kissed the help!"

"I kissed the help," I admit.

"You need a drink."

"I really do." I check the time.

"I'm on backup call," she says, "and I don't trust the fetus who's manning my patient. So I can't really drink."

"And I drove here," I respond.

"No drinks for us, then. Okay, so … coffee? With a rain check for the actual drink?"

"Coffee sounds great," I tell her, and she hops down from the gurney.

We turn out to be the only ones in the attendings' lounge, thank god, because this isn't exactly a conversation for public consumption. People here may not have shown much interest in talking to me, but they've always had plenty of interest in talking about me.

(It sucks. And I'm pretty sure the only other person who really gets it … is Meredith Grey.)

"So. Which intern?" Callie takes a sip of coffee, holding the mug in both hands. It's green and yellow, with an alligator on it. Something sports-related and southern but I can't remember what offhand. It just reminds me that she's had a whole life before she came here.

Like I have.

Like everyone has.

"Addison?"

"Hm?"

"Which intern was it?" She leans in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "It wasn't Grey, right? Because that would be kind of amazing, no, like, actually amazing, for a few reasons, but –"

"No," I interrupt her, actually laughing a little, "it wasn't Grey." I glance around to make absolutely sure no one is in earshot. "It was Karev," I whisper.

"Alex Karev." Her eyes widen. "Wow."

"Right."

"Right. Wow," she repeats. "You, uh, you really have a type, huh?"

"A type?"

"Karev," she says, "Sloan." And she kind of squares her shoulders like she's trying not to burst out of a scrub top.

It's a remarkably perceptive impression.

"What about Derek?" I ask her mildly, since she seems to have some of psychic ability.

"Derek? Oh. …him." Callie looks distinctly unimpressed. "Well, he doesn't have the … stuff," she says, which I guess is Callie for physique or maybe something more graphic, "but he walks around here like he does, you know? So there: same type."

Perceptive again.

"Are you sure you only met him this year?"

Callie grins. "Shepherd? Yes. Guys like him, though? … they're everywhere."

Are they?

It's an interesting thought.

More than one Derek Shepherd.

Some buried part of me feels a flash of something at the thought.

Defensiveness? Protectiveness?

I mean, yeah, he's arrogant, but it's not like he doesn't have reason. It was different when we met, when we were kids – babies, even – but he distinguished himself quickly even then. It's what he does.

Callie is watching me when I look up from the rim of my mug.

(Mine is white and ceramic with SGH in blue. As in, the free mug I got when I signed my contract. Exactly the same as everyone else's mug. You see, my past walks around the hospital glaring at me; I don't need to look at it when I'm drinking my coffee too.)

"So, uh … how's everything going with … that?" Callie asks.

"That? You mean Derek?"

She nods.

I don't know how to answer.

A couple of hours ago we were sparring in Mark's hotel room, a couple of days ago he was tearing me apart in a supply closet, a couple of months ago we still wore "trying" like a badge, shared our bed, laughed a few times, had some pretty decent sex, and I actually ….

Well.

"It's … going," I say finally.

"That good, huh?"

"Pretty much." I take a sip of coffee.

"I know I don't have to ask about Sloan," she says, rolling her eyes, which makes me smile a little.

It's kind of nice to talk to someone who … knows him.

Hell, it's kind of nice to talk to anyone.

Derek and Mark don't count. I've been talking to them … to them, about them, around them, with them … for so many years now sometimes it just feels like screaming at my own reflection and wondering why it won't budge.

And I guess it's pretty clear that I don't have any friends here.

For a fleeting moment I thought Stevens and I might be friends, or at least friends, you know, the way Vivian and I were friends after my fellowship.

But thanks to Richard – another not exactly a friend – that never happened.

Which means that my two closest friends from New York are holed up in a hotel room right now, probably discussing what a bitch I am.

(Which wouldn't be that terrible, I suppose, still better than if they forgot about me completely – which, based on their apparent Hardy Boys reconciliation is the more likely scenario even if it's also the more upsetting one.)

God, I miss Savvy sometimes, but I can't exactly call her and unload. She has her own things to deal with. And she's still SavvyAndWeiss, and I don't really know how to be just Addison with the two of them, instead of AddisonAndDerek

"I think Mark moved out here for Derek," I tell her. "You know, so they can be friends again."

"Really?" Callie looks doubtful. "Sold his practice, shipped across the country, just for his buddy?"

"His best … buddy," I correct her, tripping over a term a little too cute for how I'm feeling about those two right now.

"Well, that would be … kind of touching, in a weird way," Callie says tentatively. "I didn't really figure Sloan for the sentimental type."

I have the slightest flash of recollection – and then it's washed away with guilt – and it's not much, just pale eyes twinkling and then his hands that always looked comically oversized wrapped around the tiniest little blue and white –

"Addison?" Callie is looking at me. "You okay?"

I'm fine.

There's no other answer.

"Truthfully?" I ask, not really sure why.

She nods.

"Not really," I say, my voice shaking a little. "But, uh, don't quote me on it."

She gives me a sympathetic look. "That was a rough case."

I have to reorient myself before I respond. "Hannah … yeah." I shake my head, trying not to feel like a terrible person for basking in my own pain instead of my patient's.

"Do you, uh, do a lot of that procedure?"

"Terminations?"

We're talking around it again.

She nods.

I shrug.

"I'm a provider," I tell her. "The vast majority of terminations are in the first trimester. So obviously it's a very different procedure."

A very different procedure.

A handful of pills, or a minute or two of whirring suction.

It's quick.

Don't try to get up yet. It's normal to be a little woozy. Just stay there.

All you need is a positive test.

Good air in, bad air out.

And a heartbeat.

Your friend? She's waiting for you. Dr. Shepherd – Addison – you really should take a minute. Let me get you some more water. Cindy? Cindy, can you bring Dr. Shepherd some more water? She's fine, she's just … she's fine. You're fine.

"Addison," and it must be the third time Callie's tried to get my attention – she's never going to want to have coffee with me again, she must think I'm crazy – but she just looks concerned.

Concerned – and kind of like she's staring up at me from underwater.

Just for a second, the lounge blurs.

Just for a second, I forget where I am.

"Addison. Have you slept at all?"

"I'm fine," I tell her quickly. "It's been a … long few days."

Few days?

More like few months.

Hell … few years, but who's counting?

"Okay," she says, sounding a little uncertain. "And it was a rough case, I know. God, it's depressing around here sometimes, especially when –"

"I aborted Mark's baby."

Nice work, Addison, interrupt the only friend you've got right when she's starting to open up to you. It's always about you, isn't it?

Callie's mouth is partially open.

She blinks a few times, processing.

"Okay, then," she says. "Floor's all yours. Go ahead."

I take a deep breath.

And hope this goes better than my last confession.

"It was, uh, right before I came out here," I start. "We were –"

Callie's pager goes off.

She groans, dropping her head into her hands. "Addison, I'm so sorry, I swear my interns have the worst timing ever." She pushes her chair back. "I'm sorry, really. I want to talk more. Let's – we'll find a time. You should get some sleep, though. You look wiped out."

She's standing now, surveying me, and looking vaguely concerned.

"Thanks," I say, trying to laugh it off.

"Seriously, I'm kind of worried about you."

I thank her and wish her luck with her patient, all the while focusing on stirring more milk into my coffee.

Milk in coffee is disgusting.

But more disgusting than that … is what it felt like to hear her say she was kind of worried about me.

It went right through my stomach – which, I am realizing now, I haven't exactly been feeding, no wonder it feels queasy – and into my face, making my cheeks hot and threatening tears in my eyes.

They don't happen.

Thank god.

But the threat is there, and I'm grateful when she leaves so I can press my fingers to my temples and force them back.

I take a minute to collect myself – doesn't take long, plenty of practice there – before I head out.

And then I just stand in the hallway, contemplating what to do next.

I have a text from Karev: she's not ready yet.

I know the feeling.

And I know he'll be there when she surrenders ... and I know I can barely keep my eyes open right now.

So what to do?

I mean.

What to do before I got back to the big empty room that's the closest thing to a home I have in Seattle.

I drove here, that's what I told Callie, and it's true, so I figure it shouldn't be too hard to drive back. Sure, I'm so tired I can barely see straight, but I'm used to that too.

Being this tired is no guarantee of sleep; if anything, it counsels against it. But there will be a bottle of something in my hotel room, if the concierge is as good as his word.

So at least there's that.

I've gathered my things and I'm heading out, walking practically sideways

(for a different reason than the other time, thank god)

when I see the back of Derek's oh-so-familiar head. I can't see that much of him, he's blocked by the nurse's station, but the top of his white lab coat is clear.

It's definitely him.

I blink with surprise.

Derek's here?

He's – working?

I suppose he's had enough time to dry out by now.

I should go see him. I should update him on Hannah; he's technically still consulting on her team.

That's all it is, really. Okay?

No lingering recollection of how I'd seek him out in hospitals past after a hard case.

None at all.

Those days are over now.

(You reap what you sow, and I apparently sowed a hell of a lot of fuck you.)

My blackberry buzzes as I'm walking toward him, and I'm trying to read email at the same time. Derek always said that would get me trampled on the sidewalk or hit by a car crossing the street; he used to confiscate my blackberry when we walked to work together.

Kind of nice to remember that. These days I'd expect him just to step over me, maybe vaguely annoyed that my getting run down mid-email made him late to work.

(Well, that or shove me in front of the car himself.)

I'm still scrolling as I approach so I don't look up until I'm pretty much at his side.

"Derek – "

Oh.

Oh.

I didn't realize he was talking to Meredith Grey. I mean, she's so pocket-sized she was completely hidden from view.

Talking.

Talking?

In fact, his hand is lingering on the nurses' desk about two inches from her.

Hot color creeps around my cheeks to my neck and I can see Meredith looks about as embarrassed as I feel.

The only person who doesn't seem embarrassed is Derek. No, he seems … pleased with himself.

(Shocking.)

"Were you looking for me, Addison?" he asks coolly. He sounds almost bored.

Yeah, Derek, I was looking for you for a long freaking time and you were never there, so I gave up.

"Yes," I say as professionally as I can. "Just to, uh, to update you on the patient."

I hate it.

I hate feeling wrong-footed in front of him.

I feel awkward, fifteen again with braces and frizzy hair.

"That won't be necessary, Dr. Grey has already updated me."

He says her name so warmly.

Dr. Grey.

It makes me want to slap his face again.

I can't, so I turn to Grey.

"Oh, did you … Dr. Grey?"

"I – thought it would save you time – " Grey glances uncomfortably from Derek to me.

"That was very proactive of you," I tell her. "I like a self-starter."

She looks like she's not sure how to respond.

(And I realize this is lousy of me, okay? She hasn't done anything wrong, not really, she did a hell of a job with my patient, and she was actually willing to go to bat for Hannah when she thought it might mean a black mark on her chart. I get that. I'm the bad guy here. I'm the bitch. I know that – it's just not enough to stop me. If I had any idea how to stop me … well, my life might have turned out a little differently.)

"Grey?" I smile coldly at her knowing I'm making her uncomfortable and hating myself for it even as I need it, desperately, to try to get back on my feet.

But it's Derek who responds.

"Did you need something else, Addison?"

I actually flinch when he says this – imperceptibly, god I hope it's imperceptible – like he's slapped me.

For a second his words hang in the air.

And then I just stare at him and try to keep my face steady, as if he's kidding.

As if he didn't just dismiss me in front of the twelve-year-old he left me for.

My mouth starts to open but no words come out.

Fuck. I've had this nightmare before.

No, wait, not this particular nightmare, I realize, as he stares first at my hand, and then at me.

This one … is worse. Dawning horror clouds my vision.

"Addison," he begins in a tone of neutral, faintly amused surprised.

Don't say it.

Please don't say it.

"You're wearing the rings?"

(He says it.)

To be continued. I would love to know what you think, so please review. Thank you so much!