A/N: This story. I can't believe it's been this long since I updated. This story has a special place in my hard drive (which is what I have in place of a heart, I guess). I feel confident it's different from any of my others and that sometimes makes it hard to write, and sometimes easy. I loved the last chapter, and picking up from there was challenging. But here we are, and you can expect the next update a lot sooner ... assuming you are still reading and enjoying this story. And I hope you are, because I think you're going to like where it ends up. And for now, I just hope you like this chapter.

You may want to skim the last chapter before this one, but if you don't, that's fine too: in the last scene, Derek and Addison quasi-reenacted his apology scene from "I Am a Tree," except for Derek's line, "our marriage is over." He couldn't say it ... and then he left.

..
something sweet, something savory
..

I sit there for a while on the side of the bed after Derek leaves my hotel room, just – looking at the door.

It's not long before the buzzer sounds again.

Okay, here we go.

I don't know if I'm relieved or nervous that he's back, but I cross the carpet faster than someone with my hangover should and pull open the door.

"What did you for – "

Get, that's the second syllable that dies on my tongue once I have the door open.

It's not Derek, at all. It's a uniformed waiter whose blank expression assures me he's going to pretend not to notice anything odd about our encounter.

(If only I could pay the rest of Seattle for that courtesy.)

"May I come in, Dr. Montgomery?" he asks.

I just step back and let him cross in front of me, wheeling his linen-covered table, which seems to be straining under the weight of numerous silver-domed dishes.

He fusses just enough – they're good, at the Archfield – pouring out a crystal goblet of orange juice that I hope won't make me gag until he's left, and a cup of coffee that I think I'd bathe in if not for the temperature.

And then he pours another goblet of orange juice.

And another cup of coffee.

He's about to whisk the silver domes off two plates when I thank him and send him on his way with a hefty tip.

Then I sit back down on the bed, confused again.

The breakfast seems to be for two.

And I didn't order it.

Derek ordered it, then? When I was in the shower and he did … whatever he did to get the bed cleaned off, fresh sheets, no traces of my losing the bottle of gin or losing control?

I don't get it.

I really don't get it.

I poke a few holes in the overstuffed omelet I find under one of the silver domes. There's a fat Belgian waffle under the other silver dome, covered in berries and powdered sugar.

Something sweet, something savory.

Like we used to when – but that doesn't matter.

I'm on my second cup of coffee now, still sitting on the clean white duvet, still trying to figure out if this is actually breakfast for two or a hangover breakfast for me, so large that the wait staff assumed it was for two. Derek has seen me destroy more food than this after a night of drinking – it's rare, but it happens.

That must be it.

..

So … I'm still confused.

I'm contemplating taking another shower – it's certainly damp enough in this corner of the country for me not to feel guilty about wasting water.

But I don't really want another shower.

What I want is to figure out what's going on, to sort through the buzzing strands of confusion in my head. And routine seems like the right way to do it.

It's like the OR. Stick with routine, keep it clean.

In the big white bathroom, there's actually a fluffy white towel laid out on the counter. I guess the OR metaphor is stronger than I thought, and I smile a little when I see a silver glint when I approach.

I must be hallucinating surgical instruments.

(Bad sign? Hey, a bottle of gin at what Derek tactfully pointed out what my not-so-young-age … you never know.)

Except when I get closer I see the glint isn't surgical instruments at all.

It's my rings.

Engagement, wedding, lying next to each other on the towel.

Like I used to do when we stayed in hotels, with my jewelry. Not my rings – I showered in them, I did everything in them, but I'd take off earrings, necklaces, bracelets, whatever I was wearing, and I'd set them neatly on a spread out towel.

It's just practical, you know, keeps the jewelry from god forbid blending in with a marble counter, camouflage style. Or slipping to the ground. It's the safe way to do it.

I didn't take my rings off, though. Not here, and I didn't put them on the towel. I put them in Derek's hand, and then he showed up at the door and offered them back to me, and I said no, and then he left, and sometime in between no and left, he ordered a giant breakfast and left my rings on a towel in the bathroom.

And I thought I was confused, before.

..

I spend a lot of time fixing my hair before I leave for work. It's nice to be able to fix something, and I do the same with makeup. I can't quite cover the dark circles under my eyes, but I can at least improve them.

And if all else fails – I choose a shirt that will hopefully provide enough distraction. It's black, with a neckline I'd describe as tastefully plunging. At home I used to wear it with a chunky gold necklace Derek bought me for one of our early anniversaries.

I don't have it here, so I leave my throat uncovered. At least I don't have any hickeys today. Baby steps, right?

The hall is empty when I leave, just a row of folded newspapers on the floor. At least I don't have to be at work at the crack of dawn anymore, but I can't help noticing that among the people I don't see, is Mark.

I've gotten used to seeing him before I leave for the hospital, in the lobby or the hallway, making his way to or from the gym, whatever. Sometimes I'll catch a ride with him to work and frankly I wouldn't mind that this morning. My head is still throbbing.

But there's no sign of him.

No text either, or call.

I'm not sure why – it could be any of a number of reasons. It could be he's giving me space. He could be mad about Derek. He could have gone to work and forgotten about me, he could be screwing the latest Miss Puget Sound.

You never know with Mark.

I think one of the things I miss most about Derek is that you do know with him.

Or at least I did.

..

My head feels no better by the time I get to work. I know I look good – well, from a distance anyway – but I can't help feeling I'm wearing morning after like a second perfume. I find myself making little decisions on the way through the halls, making sure I avoid awkwardness.

As in avoid Derek.

(Also, I mean, I pinned Meredith's tiny panties on the bulletin board of this hospital, the avoid awkwardness ferry has definitely left the terminal.)

I kind of sidle past the turnoff to his office like I remember doing with his desk at school a hundred years ago, the morning after the first time we … well, you know. I had wet hair from his shower and even though I stopped at my dorm and changed my clothes, I still felt like everyone could tell.

Mark winking at me, in that Mark way that's mostly leer, didn't help, either.

And then I did see him, and I blushed, and he blushed, and god, we were babies. It felt worth it, then. I made him wait – just kidding, we were twenty-two. Basically walking hormones. By the time he got up the nerve to ask me out the only waiting we did was barely waiting until we'd left lab to start tearing each other's clothes off.

(And later we did christen the lab. More than once.)

"Good morning, Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd," a resident says brightly, and I'm thankful she can't see what I'm thinking.

I just nod at her instead of greeting her. Or correcting her. I'm tired of it. Can't I just hire someone to cover up the scarlet A on my back with a D instead – for divorcee?

Or an L for loser.

I lost Derek.

A long time ago. Back in New York. But I lost him again here, after I lost my practice … my friends … and my home.

Am I looking for sympathy? I don't know. Just throw on a P for pathetic and pretty soon my back will be covered with letters, like the acid-wash jean jacket I used to think was the height of cool.

"Good morning, Dr. Shepherd."

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Good morning, Denise."

I wonder if I sound as tired as I feel.

And even though I'm avoiding him, now's the time I would normally want to see him. Because up until last night, the only bright spot in half of Seattle apparently being unable to put two and two together and spell divorce was how uncomfortable I know it makes Derek when someone calls me Dr. Shepherd.

Or worse, Montgomery-Shepherd. Because it's a reminder that we used to be joined. He's still Dr. Shepherd. I used to be Dr. Shepherd. But I was also Dr. Montgomery-Shepherd, and I was the only one. I'm the only connection point between our two names.

Our two families.

Put them together, and make a new family.

Now I'm just Dr. Montgomery again.

(And, to be clear, I didn't really have a family before.)

It occurs to me, as I keep making my way down the gauntlet with my blackberry in hand like it can protect me: in some ways, my whole life in Seattle has just been one long morning after.

Stares and whispers.

Awkwardness.

People knowing way the hell too much about my sex life.

And just … people looking at me, always broken down along gender lines: men assessing my fuckability, women assessing how likely I am to try to fuck their men.

I mean, I get it, you know? I just think people should be more direct about it.

Don't wait until I pass to scope out my legs. Just be honest about it, go ahead and shout out your score:

Eight point five!

Maybe nine in the nineties, assuming she didn't abuse shoulder pads!

Derek used to think I was vain.

But he also used to think I was beautiful.

He used to do a lot of things.

..

I'm taking a chart from Martha – who greets me with Good morning, Dr. Shep – I mean Dr. Montgomery, which, fine, whatever – when I feel someone coming up behind me.

I turn around and as usual he's a step too close. I lean back against the desk – a mistake, because he leans a little closer and rests his hand on the surface of the desk next to my hip.

"Good morning," he says.

"If you say so."

"Well, you do look a hell of a lot better than you did last night," he smirks.

Only because he's not looking at my face, but I let that one slide. It's not like I didn't know what I was doing when I chose this top.

"You okay?" he asks when I don't respond, his face wrinkled in some suggestion of concern.

I look up at him. He sounds – sincere, I guess, at least for Mark, although I notice his gaze slides right back down to my breasts a minute later.

I guess my blouse is working. Here's to you, Diane von Furstenberg, patron saint of adulteresses everywhere.

"I'm fine," I tell his averted eyes.

He doesn't say anything.

"If I was in such bad shape last night, then why did you leave?"

I don't why I said it.

Or what I expect him to say.

There are other people around, too, but they're giving us space, talking in their own clumps. Mark and I are old news now, I guess.

"Why did I …" He stops talking, frowning a little. "How much do you actually remember about last night?"

Nothing I'm particularly interested in repeating. I just shrug.

"I have a patient," I tell him, gesturing at the chart. When he doesn't respond, I turn back around to the desk. I ignore his breath on my neck.

"Hey, Addison – "

Ugh, fine.

I turn back around.

"What."

"You kept your promise," he says.

"What promise?"

He leans a little closer. "You didn't sleep with me," he murmurs.

And one more time: ugh.

I wait for it …

"You'd look a lot better if you had," he adds, smirking a little.

Huh. Not where I thought that would go.

I figured he'd be more likely to take it the other way, that I'd look even worse. He's Mark, he got a kick out of leaving me wrecked, in New York. I'm not saying I didn't enjoy it, just that Mark was more into the aftermath than I was.

His reputation is for liking the chase, and he does. Don't get me wrong.

He just likes the leftover carcass, too.

Two parts predator to one part scavenger. And I was the carrion.

I wrinkle my nose.

"What?"

For a moment I imagine saying: You. You, Mark. You disgust me and that's not fair because the truth is, I disgust me. Just like I disgust everyone else.

"Nothing." I shrug when he continues to look at me. "I need coffee."

"Aha." He pulls his other hand out from behind his back, and he's holding a paper cup of coffee.

"For me?"

I can feel my eyes widening. In spite of myself, I'm a little touched.

Until I take a sip.

"That's revolting."

"A little milk, what's the big deal?" He smiles at me. "Beggars can't be choosers, you know. Plus … calcium."

"It's not the milk," I tell him, although I'd much prefer it black and he knows it. "It's whatever disgusting syrupy thing is in there with it. Do I look like a – "

And then I stop talking.

Like a teenager?

Like a cheerleader?

Like the perky, perfect little nurse I caught you with last night?

… or all the ones in New York.

"You didn't get this coffee for me," I point out.

My voice shakes just a little – it's the hangover.

"And yet … you're drinking it," he observes.

"Not anymore, I'm not." I put the cup down. "I wouldn't want to give her my germs."

"A little late for that, Addison. Anything you have … she already has too."

I wince a little. When he gets like this, it's hard to remember why I did it.

Why I threw my life away for someone who's leering at me the way he is.

"And anyway," he adds, grinning, "you didn't seem too worried about her germs last night."

"We didn't sleep together last night," I remind him, keeping my voice down.

"Not for lack of your trying, though."

Any caffeine-related headache improvement is pretty much gone now.

And then I feel his big hand on my neck – warmer than my skin, massaging a little, easing the pressure. The pain dissipates, and I remember why I did it. In New York, and in Seattle.

It was easier than feeling bad.

I end up feeling weak … and stupid.

But what else is new?

Mark releases me and puts the coffee cup back in my hand. "A little syrup won't kill you," he says, "and it's skim milk."

"Which is basically water."

"Which is another liquid you could consider adding to your repertoire," he says, "you know, if you run out of gin."

"Very funny."

The word gin is making my stomach turn a little bit.

To distract myself, I take a sip of the coffee.

Or whatever it is.

Ugh. It tastes, somehow like a combination of those butterscotch candies the housekeeper kept in her apron pocket when I was a kid … and that awful, perfume-y deodorant favored by teenaged girls.

"Snob." Mark smiles at me. "All right. I need to go. I have another cup of coffee to buy."

I try not to roll my eyes.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asks, his voice gruff.

I already am. I told you.

I don't answer, though, just take another sip, and make another face.

He leans down a little, and then we both notice the shadow of a pair of scrubs about to cross our path directly. So much for faux-privacy.

He stands back up and just rests one of his oversized hands on my shoulder. It's a little too close to a caress to be friendly-professional, but it should pass.

And besides, it's Mark. I should be grateful he's not trying to unzip my skirt in the middle of the hall.

(Not trying to unzip my skirt in the middle of the hall again, I should say.)

"I'll see you later," he says.

"No, you won't," I remind him, a little too late.

He's already gone.

..

"You made coffee." I raise my eyebrows – which doesn't help the headache. But this is the first bright spot of my morning, since the carafe was empty the last time I stuck my head in the attendings' lounge.

Callie texted me and asked if I wanted to meet for a quick coffee and despite the pain in my head, I had an embarrassing quick little frisson of friendship, she likes me, she really likes me, so of course I said yes.

(Saying no has never really been my inclination, if you haven't noticed.)

"I didn't make coffee. But … someone did." Callie frowns at the now-full carafe; she's got her back to me. "And it's bubbling, and steaming, and … brown, so I guess that's all we need to know. It smells like coffee, anyway."

She turns around then looks me up and down. Softly, she whistles. "How bad is the other guy?"

"What?" My pulse is loud all of a sudden. All I need is for the whole hospital to buzz about me in a hotel room with both of the guys who are not mine.

I guess they're both the other guy.

"Just an expression," Callie says mildly. "I didn't mean anything. Just you seem –"

"I'm not," I say before she can finish.

"Oh. Well, good." She pauses. "Hey – are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little tired."

She gestures for my mug and fills it with coffee.

Heavenly black coffee.

It tastes a little burned, a little watery, but also like manna from freaking heaven and I'm not about to complain.

"You're just a little tired?" Callie repeats.

I nod, taking another long swallow of much-needed coffee.

"Just a little tired like when I work an overnight shift, or just a little tired like when I end up dancing on the table at Joe's?"

I guess I remember how to smile after all. "You dance on the table at Joe's?"

"No," she says. "Not yet, anyway. Why – are you interested?"

"Don't let Mark hear this conversation," I warn her.

Now she's smiling. "He's pretty bad," she says, "and he can make anything sound filthy, but this time we're kind of doing the work for him."

"True." I lean against the wall. Standing up is hard work.

Callie is still looking at me, like she's waiting for something.

"I don't think I'll be dancing anywhere until this hangover wears off," I say finally. "So at this rate, maybe … 2018?"

"So it is that kind of tired." Callie sips her own coffee. "I figured."

"The makeup didn't help?" I try to sound like I'm joking, gesturing to my face. It would be less funny if she knew how long I actually spent on it.

"You look great," she says. "You always look great," and I swear she puts emphasis on the word look like she's trying to tell me something.

But here's the thing.

I'm hungover.

I'm regular-tired, too, which doesn't help.

I have a band of steel around my forehead and a colony of tiny stampeding buffalo in my gut.

And to top it all off, I woke up in bed this morning next to the husband who spent most of the last week doing fairly public – and pretty painful – battle with me.

Ex-husband.

"Damn it," I say out loud.

Callie props her hips on the counter, sipping her coffee. "You know what, Addison?"

"What?"

"I can't believe I'm saying this to someone as hungover as you are right now, but … you really seem like you could use a drink."

I'm smiling again. I can't help it. "It's not even eleven. In the morning."

"Practically lunchtime," she says, "which is practically quitting time, which is practically happy hour."

Not like either one of us have ever quit at a normal time. You want to quit at a normal time, you don't become a surgeon.

"Very funny." I take another sip of coffee. "Wait … are you serious?"

"No." She grins at me. "But I do still want that rain check. You know, when you're not so … tired."

I'll take it.

And I tell her that.

For some reason, when I leave the lounge, I feel a little better.

..

I feel a little more better – I know, that's not a thing, but it kind of should be – when I've managed to get up to the cafeteria for another black coffee. I'm not opposed to free coffee, but since whoever is in charge of the lounge carafe is opposed to good coffee, I end up in the cafeteria paying for it.

Where I walk right into Derek's path.

Well, that's a record-scratch on more better. Instead, I have to concentrate on not throwing up again.

I knew this would happen: I can't avoid him all day.

But still.

Running into him when he ignores me is one thing. When he baits me is another. When he does both, his party trick of the last few weeks? Yeah, that too.

But I don't know how to run into him this morning. It's not fair that I have to see him. It's not fair that I can't even do my job without this screeching reminder that the guy who stomped all over my heart and the guy who took care of me last night, so gently that it humiliates me to remember … are the same freaking person.

I know the drill. Pretend it doesn't hurt … and even if it still does, hopefully no one will know. With that in mind, I manage a smile and kind of hold my coffee aloft. Like a salute.

Hungover adulteress, reporting for duty, sir!

He pauses when he sees me, pocketing his blackberry.

"How's the headache?" he asks.

"Gone." Another lie.

"Good."

Neither of us speaks for a moment.

And it's awkward, yeah, but it's so calm, it's hard to believe what the last twenty-four hours were like, fighting for control and for breath, and now we're just …

Calm.

No barbs.

No words.

Don't get me wrong, I'm still nauseated. My headache is still pulsing out De-rek-Shep-herd in beats of one two three four, one two three four, but what's weird is that all the fight has sort of gone out of us.

Both of us.

(Not that there is a both of us, but you know what I mean.)

We just sort … exist, for a minute, in the same space. Derek doesn't mention finding me all over Mark last night and I don't mention his taking off this morning and leaving my rings on a towel.

We're quiet, enough so that even though the cafeteria has its typical late morning hum, I can still make out the rhythm of his breaths.

It's probably seconds.

It feels longer.

"You should drink water today," Derek says finally, nodding toward my coffee. "In addition to the caffeine drip, obviously."

"Obviously," I repeat, pushing up the corners of my mouth, as if we're still people who tease each other.

It's just a reflex.

He might as well have hit my knee with a hammer.

I can't help scanning his face quickly, just to see if anything changed, to see if there are answers anywhere in its familiar lines.

If there's to fix the confusion from this morning.

(There isn't.)

"And maybe take the night off," he adds while I'm taking stock of the lines around his eyes. They used to crinkle up when he smiled at me.

"Off work?" I ask.

"Off the bottle," he says mildly.

"Oh." I look down at my bare hands. "Yeah, that's probably a good idea."

I feel like I should say something else. He's here, in the cafeteria, and I can still remember what his heartbeat felt like under my cheek last night. And I can still remember the way he looked right at me in that supply closet just a few days before that and told me all I'd ever been for him was someone to fuck.

(Not because he meant it, remember. Because he knew it would hurt me.)

And this morning happened. And we're here now. And I should say something.

"I had a long day yesterday," I blurt.

Oops.

I meant I should say something, something … intelligent, not I had a long day yesterday, but I guess I have just about the same amount of control over my speech as I do over the rest of my life.

"Yes." Derek clears his throat a little. "I did get that impression, last night."

That's when I get the distinct sense that this is it.

This is the most we're ever going to talk about last night.

The first time … and the last time.

He's looking at me now, like it's my turn, exactly the way he used to look at me when we'd play cards to pass long nights on call.

Okay, Addie, you're up. One time. Make it count.

"Derek … thanks. For, um." I pause. Great work, very articulate, A+. "I was pretty drunk last night," I say finally, keeping my voice low, not wanting to give the scrubs around us more gossip fodder.

Something flickers in his eyes, but he doesn't say anything.

"So, yeah. Thank you," I say again. I take a sip of coffee when he doesn't respond, and wait.

He tilts his head a little, looking at me, and I swear I see his lips start to move.

But then he just nods – brusque-but-polite Derek-language for don't mention it – gives me the briefest of impersonal smiles, and then I'm watching the back of him walk away for the second time today.

..

I have lunch with Callie outside, aware – and not particularly upset – that at this point she and I are basically reenacting that one summer at equestrian camp when Missy Lowell and I decided we would be best friends and proceeded to eat every meal together and roll our hair out on matching orange juice cans for evening program.

That time, it lasted exactly four days before Missy decided I was weird and she was going to be best friends with Catherine Halsey instead.

I didn't really mind; a four-day stint was better than nothing.

(You see, this isn't new. I have a long history of taking what I can get.)

"Addison."

"Hm?"

"You're miles away," Callie says. She drizzles her fingers in the air to get my attention. "Is it somewhere nice? 'Cause I'll come with you. I was thinking a beach, but hey, I'd also go wherever you got that blouse."

Ooh, I've missed having female friends who appreciate my wardrobe.

(Yes, as we know, I've missed having female friends, and friends, period, but you get my point.)

"I'm sorry." I shift some salad on my plate. "I guess I'm still a little hungover."

"Food will help," Callie says cheerfully. "I mean, assuming you eat it instead of just redecorating."

I smile weakly. The salad is kind of turning my stomach, but there wasn't anything more appealing in the cafeteria. I would have skipped lunch entirely, but the appeal was, to be honest, Callie – as in, a human being who isn't either disgusted by me, ignoring me, or trying to undress me – and I don't mind the fresh air, either.

I never told Derek that I kind of liked the open-air seating in this cafeteria. It beats the way the outdoor benches used to get covered with grime, back home. You could run your finger along it on a late night break and even after sunset still see the black smudges.

I never told him I liked anything about Seattle.

Is there anything you like about me?

I asked him that, and he didn't really answer.

And I moved here anyway.

I put a cucumber in my mouth so I won't have to talk and let Callie start a story about muscling some semi-pro athlete into line with her ortho skills.

"Don't look," she says abruptly, interrupting her own story, and I pause with a forkful of lettuce halfway to my mouth and follow her gaze to the doors leading back inside.

"I just said don't look," she mutters. "Why do people always look when you say that? But since you're looking anyway … manwhore alert at eleven o'clock."

She turns her back, purposefully, but I still have a practically straight-line view to Mark. He's smirking at both of us across the open-air cafeteria and if I know him at all it's taking most of his self-control not to follow it up with an obscene gesture.

That's Mark for you. He thinks if he contributes to the ACLU it doesn't matter that he can't conceive of a single reason why two women would be interested in spending time together if not for his personal entertainment.

Then he waves at me, and it would probably look jaunty to an outsider, even friendly, but I've been around Mark enough to be aware it actually says you know what I can do with these fingers.

Ugh.

"Sloan?" Callie asks, I guess reading the look of disgust on my face.

I nod, continuing to ignore him.

"Now what's he doing?"

"He's just … being himself," I report.

Callie leans back in her chair. "I am so glad he's out of my system," she sighs.

"Me too." I swallow the rest of my coffee without looking at her.

..

I actually do feel better after coffee and food and time and all those old-wives' tales. Maybe next I'll try something crazy like getting a good-night's sleep or drinking eight glasses of water a day.

Miracles can happen.

And I actually have a light afternoon – nothing in the OR, thankfully, but I do need to check in on one of my grumpier patients. She's on bed rest, much to her chagrin – she's having triplets, she's waiting for them to be big enough for me operate. One of them has an unspecified spinal malformation. And Eleanor, well, she's been here a month at this point, and the end result is that she's not exactly Miss Mary Sunshine.

Then again, if you've ever had three small people pressing against your organs and been tilted back at an angle all day long to keep your cervix closed … you might not be happy either.

"How are you feeling, Eleanor?"

"Lousy," she grumbles. I can't see her face that well in the inclined bed, but I can tell she's rolling her eyes, all the way to her dyed-platinum hairline. "So I guess you're not operating today?"

"The babies still need more time to make the surgery as effective as possible, and increase the chance of success."

"I thought you were a fetal surgeon," she snaps. "If you're just going to wait until they're born why don't you get me a regular surgeon?"

Oh, this is so not what I need right now.

"We've discussed this, Eleanor," I remind her, giving her my best the patient is never right but we might as well be nice to them anyway smile. "The spinal cord development in the weeks after – "

"Would you just get out if you have nothing useful to say?"

I blink when she cuts me off, trying to decide how annoyed I am.

There's a knock on the open door.

I turn around, surprised to see Derek in the doorway.

"You wanted a consult?" he asks.

Confused, I cross the room to speak to him with relative privacy. "Graves has been working with her," I tell him slowly. "He did the initial exam. I paged him."

"He's in the OR. Can it wait until later, or do you want me to look at her now?"

"It can wait forever, apparently," Eleanor calls from her bed. I guess our voices carry more than I thought.

"Good luck," I mutter to Derek, who frowns at me, like he's never had a bitchy patient.

Let's see him dreamy this one up.

"Mrs. Rivers!" he says cheerfully, sounding a hell of a lot happier than he did when he was talking to me. "Good to see you. Dr. Graves is with another patient right now, but Dr. Montgomery has asked me to examine you."

"Who the hell is Dr. Montgomery? And who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Shepherd," he says, and I stand there waiting for the floor to swallow me up, amazing blouse and all. Hopefully they have good dry cleaners in hell.

Eleanor looks about as happy as I feel. "If you're Dr. Shepherd, then who is she?" She jabs a finger toward me, the one with the pulse-ox monitor, and it falls off.

Naturally.

When I move to put it back on her, she jerks her hand away, knocking the chart out of mine.

"Hey." Derek moves forward, putting himself between us. "Let's settle down, Mrs. Rivers. I don't want you to overexert yourself."

Then he leans down to pick up the chart, which – I'll give him credit – is pretty damned dreamy, at least to someone who would probably throw up if she had to lean over that far.

He also puts the monitor back on the patient's finger once he's returned the chart to me, speaking quietly to her, and I can see her softening.

Of course I can. Eleanor Rivers may be a bitch, but even bitches aren't immune to those eyes.

(If they were, I might be in a much different place.)

She's calmer now. Of course she is. He's got his gaze fixed on her, all … soft.

"Are you feeling better?" he asks. His tone is gentle and reasonable. Derek's always been great with patients.

He used to be great with me too. But even after he stopped being great with me – he was still great with patients.

"I'm fine." Eleanor is glaring at me for some reason, her face flushed. "Dr. Shepherd," she begins.

"Yes?" we say at the same time and now I'm the one flushing.

And then Derek glances at me and I find myself hoping for a quick aneurysm. Nothing too painful, just wipe me out once and for all before I have to deal with this.

It doesn't come.

Derek looks like he's about to say something. He inclines his head toward me, just slightly. "Add – "

"Is Dr. Graves coming or not?" Eleanor asks loudly, interrupting him.

"Dr. Graves is in surgery right now," I tell her. "Dr. Shepherd is going to examine you."

She looks from Derek to me irritably.

"What is this, Who's on First? What's the matter with you?" She glares at me, and then back to Derek. "I don't have time for this," she announces, which is pretty amusing considering she's on mandated bed rest.

I'm the one who doesn't have time for this.

And Derek's the one who speaks.

"Mrs. Rivers, I'm so sorry for the confusion," Derek says smoothly. "I'm a colleague of Dr. Graves – "

Actually he's his boss, chief of neurosurgery and all, but Derek is also surprisingly great at being less arrogant when it suits him.

" – and if it's all right with you, I'm going to take a look at you now, so that I can tell Dr. Graves how you're doing."

"Fine." She leans back against the pillow huffily. "Is my husband here?" she asks without looking at either one of us.

Do I look like fucking guest services?

"I don't know, Eleanor," I tell her patiently, "but if you'd like someone to – "

"Forget it. Just do it," she tells Derek.

"Dr., uh, Dr. Montgomery … Shepherd," Derek adds quietly, glancing at the patient. "May I …"

Oh, right. I'm blocking his access to Eleanor.

I step out of the way, and let him work his magic.

I'm fine with it.

I really am.

I'm always happy to have Derek consult on one of my patients, our previous case together notwithstanding.

And if I have a shameful moment – just one – where I'm jealous of poor Eleanor Rivers with her sixty-pound weight gain and her uncomfortable tilted bed and her fragile unborn triplets, just because Derek's hands are on her face now, gently? If I admitted that, you wouldn't judge me too harshly, would you?

Yeah, I know.

You totally would.

It's okay, I can't really blame you. I'm judging me too.

The thing is, I know it's stupid and I know she's a patient and he's just … doctoring her, but my head hurts, my stomach aches, and I can't seem to helping thinking all that might feel better if I were the recipient of Derek's focus right now.

Go ahead. Judge away. No argument here – it's humiliating.

And it's stupid.

But at least admit that Derek gets some of the blame, too.

It's not my fault he was there last night, in my hotel room, saying things, leaving the rings, making me remember – after all of the garbage that's happened between us and all of the swings he's taken at me – making me remember just how good my husband can be.

Ex-husband, I mean.

Damn it.

Damn it, damn it, damn it.

It's not even two o'clock and the verdict is in.

It's going to be another long fucking day.

To be continued. Thank you for reading, and I hope you will review because first of all, I love hearing your thoughts, and second of all, I'm on a crazy posting roll and reviews feed me like nothing else.