A/N: Faithful readers of this departure story, I am so appreciative. It's on a roll right now, and I'm going to encourage you to stick with it because hey, I want to keep writing it ... and I think you're going to like where it's going. Thank you for the comments on the last chapter, and I hope you enjoy this one.

..
healthy decisions
..

So, where was I?

Right. I get the privilege of informing Derek that my patient has specifically requested that he replace Walter Graves on her surgical team.

Fine.

I don't do it yet, though.

I'm waiting for the scans to come back from the fetal MRI; the plan is for Derek and Walter to both reviewing them, and I'm not going to be the one to break up the neuro party by telling Walter he's been fired for a serious lack of clinical cuteness.

Because we're professionals.

Right? I mean, kind of?

And Walter is … Walter.

He's not exactly one of us.

I realize this might make a little more sense if I tell you a little bit more about Walter Graves.

I like him. I actually do. I think he's pretty damned good.

I lucked out that Walter Graves did a fellowship in neonatal neurosurgery in one of the big centers. He actually worked with one of the pioneers on infant vascular surgery techniques. We made a plan, and he's easy to work with and everything has been going fine.

(No drama. He really doesn't fit in here, but that's another story entirely.)

Graves is also pushing fifty and has a nice reassuring grandpa-ish manner with patients – well, a grandpa from a book or a movie, not my grandfathers in particular. I didn't have that sort, of course, I had Grandfather Montgomery who told me when I was five years old that if I couldn't learn to mix a better cocktail I might as well leave for boarding school already, and Grandfather Forbes who died before I was born falling off a horse – one of the Top Three WASPiest ways to die if you didn't know, the very opposite of unseemly. Grandfather Forbes reportedly hated only one thing more than he hated outward expressions of emotion, poorly cooked pheasant, and non-subservient underlings: children.

(Oh yeah, I suppose it's not a surprise that he raised my mother. Well, "raised," the same way my mother raised me.)

As for Walter – yes, he's here in Seattle, which in theory should mean he's sub-normal IQ, but he's actually reasonably bright. He's done specific training on this type of fetal surgery and I think he'll do a good job.

Plus, you know, his grandpa-ness is probably a good thing.

I mean, he may not be dreamy or steamy, but he's also never gotten – or given anyone else – syphilis (and yes, I know about that, it's not like anyone in this place can keep a secret). He hasn't screwed a single intern. He's married and actually seems to be okay with that. And yeah, to be fair, he also hasn't slept with his wife's best friend.

(What? I never said I wasn't part of the problem here. I just said I don't want to be here, which is actually part of the problem. And the other part is that I have no idea where I'm supposed to be instead.)

So, yeah. Goodbye Walter, hello Derek.

Great.

..

I'm avoiding the task.

Obviously.

I check on a patient instead, then check in on the fetal MRI progress again – apparently, it's underway.

Finally.

I can hear Mark's voice as I round the corner – he sounds arrogant and casual, and a little amused. So he's talking to an intern.

And it's Karev. Great.

At least I can turn along this wall, and they won't see me.

… in theory, but it doesn't work.

(Shocking. When does anything I try actually work?)

"Dr. Montgomery," Mark says, dragging out the word a little bit, "just the woman I was looking for."

"What do you need, Dr. Sloan?"

He smirks at me, as if to say so many things.

Join the club, Mark.

"Karev here is looking to get in on my surgery. Is he still in OB prison for the foreseeable future?" Mark jerks his thumb toward Karev. "I've got a Stage II microtia repair first thing in the morning, but I'm not paroling him if you don't okay it. You're the boss."

You'd think he was backing me up, but he's leering at me at the same time.

I glance at Karev, who is avoiding looking at me – not that I can blame him after how I acted in the attendings' lounge.

Mark's eyes slide over my blouse again, and then he smiles. "Maybe you and I should discuss this before you make a decision," he suggests.

Karev looks pretty disgusted, even in half-profile, and I feel the same, come to think of it.

"Talk to Dr. Bailey if you want Dr. Karev on your service," I tell Mark. "He's her responsibility, not mine."

"And the boss has spoken." Mark grins at me. "No more babies for you, Karev."

It's such an unfortunate thing to say after our last procedure together, and something in the set of Karev's shoulders tells me he doesn't disagree.

I don't want to think about Hannah in front of Mark, it's too close to the rest of the things I don't want to think about. The best defense is an offense, in my experience.

"Actually, I have a fetal CNS abnormality coming up that may result in a partial delivery procedure – and this malformation is rare enough that it's not going to swing by Seattle again any time soon. But by all means, Karev, go with Dr. Sloan for an interesting surgery."

… even if it's not an offense against the right person.

I know. I know I'm being a bitch, and I know I'm not being fair to Karev. He's not the one who denigrated my specialty. He actually sought me out to try to get on the triplet surgery.

I'm not proud of myself.

And half of me wants Karev to call me out.

But he doesn't. He just stands there, while I glare at Mark and wonder why I can't seem to hit him no matter how much swinging I do.

Then Mark turns to Karev: "You have the rest of the night to read up on the procedure before you scrub in. Don't make me regret this. … and don't show up empty handed."

Mark mimes sipping from a coffee cup – sorry, cappuccino cup, and Karev nods before he's gone in a puff of intern, leaving without meeting my eye.

"Addison..."

Oh, I know that tone.

"Don't."

Mark looks down at me – well, down my shirt more likely – and shakes his head a little. "Come on. Hey. So you drank a little too much last night. And got a little upset. We all need … release sometimes."

The way he says release makes it clear what he means. It's so Mark, semi-aware that I'm not thrilled, sort of sympathetic … but still can't help making everything sexual.

"What's your point?"

I need to keep my distance from him. That's how I keep from making bad decisions.

"My point is … stop beating yourself up." He reaches out and moves a piece of hair away from my face. His fingers are warm.

"I'll keep that in mind," I say as his hand falls back to his side.

He smiles down at me. "I'll see you later."

"I have a case tonight."

"Come by when you're done, then."

He leans in and I brace myself on the edge of the filing cabinet, just in case. " …wear what you were wearing yesterday." He's speaking in a low voice, close to my ear so no one else can hear, although I'm sure the people walking by can't miss the subtext. "I didn't get to enjoy it."

I'm sending that bra to the dry cleaner as soon as I get back to the hotel.

Or burning it.

Mark leans back, grinning now. "And on that note, maybe this time try not to drink a bottle of gin first."

"Maybe this time you should try not to screw a nurse first."

"Maybe this time you should show up a little earlier and join the party." He raises his eyebrows.

Ugh.

"Dr. Shepherd?"

I don't want to see Mark's face when I answer to my married name, so luckily the well-timed interruption is an intern telling me the radiologist is finished reading the fetal MRI … which means I can make a hasty escape.

..

I find Walter and Derek together in the viewing room, staring at the lit-up scans, and Derek gives me a kind of he's a mystery to me too shrug. Add to Walter's list of non-dramatic attributes: he doesn't need to hog the spotlight, and he's not possessive of his patients.

The man's a freaking saint.

"Son of a gun," Walter is saying, indicating the evidence of the VGM like a proud papa. "Shepherd … that's quite a catch you made."

(Yes, he actually says gun. That's the kind of guy he is.)

That – and he actually sounds admiring. Not competitive. No edge to his voice, no hidden meaning. What you see is what you get.

Meanwhile, Derek is now doing his modest saving-lives-is-just-in-a-day's-work thing: lowered eyes, boyishly handsome smile. So not-surprised to be right.

I roll my eyes and don't bother trying to hide it. Much.

Whatever. I'm immune to his so-called charms at this point.

(Sort of.)

Now Walter is kind of glancing at me like he's waiting for me to admire Derek.

How long do you have, buddy?

I don't say that out loud, of course.

"Yes, Derek is an excellent diagnostician," I say, because it's the kind of thing that sounds like a compliment – and in fact Walter does smile paternally at me like I've just apologized nicely for stealing one of Derek's toys.

But … if you're Derek, and I'm me, it's not a compliment. Because we both know that Derek is a surgery snob, and diagnostician is a little too close to neurologist – which of course is, to him, a dirty word.

Derek makes a face at me behind Walter's back and I do the same when Walter turns around.

Walter, though, smiles at both of us. Then he clears his throat, looking from one of us to the other. "I hate to get personal," he says.

(Literally, the only human in this hospital who would say that, including some of the preemies waiting for me in the NICU right now.)

"…but I can't help noticing that the two of you have worked out your problems, and I think that's wonderful." He sounds … happy like all is right with the world. "Just wonderful."

"Worked out our – what?" I glance at Derek, unsettled.

Now Walter looks unsettled, and I realize what he means.

Shit. How to draw attention to my brand spanking new Addison Forbes Montgomery, M.D. badge without making Walter feel bad – and without calling too much simultaneous to the fabulous black blouse that was definitely not intended for him?

Derek steps in before I can.

"We're divorced," he says quickly, and then extends his left hand, I guess to show Walter his bare fourth finger.

Walter just looks at it.

"What do you want him to do, knight you?" I hiss at him.

"He asked!" Derek protests.

"Actually … he didn't."

"I'm so sorry," Walter says, looking embarrassed now. "I certainly didn't mean to pry. I suppose this is why they say you should leave your personal lives out of the hospital."

And the thing is, he's not being facetious.

God, I can't figure out if spending time with Walter is incredibly uplifting or depressing. Either way, he certainly has his own view of things.

"I've always said that personal and professional lives should be kept separate," Derek announces. He raises his eyebrows at me when Walter isn't looking.

"Oh, yes. It's Derek's mantra." I smile at him until Walter goes back to the chart and then it honestly takes all my self-control not to stick out my tongue.

Derek has the nerve to look amused.

I'm reminded of getting told off as interns for cracking each other up, a hundred years ago.

That's all it is now, memories. What's strange is that apparently it looks like marriage to a salt-of-the-earth guy like Walter Graves.

..

We go back and forth on the VGM for a while, Walter offering expertise and respect for everyone else's opinions like the boy scout leader he is, Derek managing to give a pretty good impression of someone who thinks other people's opinions matter. And so forth.

And then Walter gets paged and it's just the two of us in the room.

Divorced us.

Not-Addison-and-Derek.

"So, Walter Graves." Derek is tilting his head back, looking at something on the top row of films. "I guess he's not up to date on current events."

"He needs to listen to more hospital gossip," I suggest.

"Or we need to create less of it."

"Yeah … but that seems like a stretch."

"Fair enough." Derek pauses. "Addison. I wanted to help, with Baby C. That's the only reason I ordered the fetal MRI."

Actually, I ordered the fetal MRI, but who's counting?

"I know that," I tell him. "I can tell when you actually want to help and when you …." I stop talking. It's hard to put the rest into words.

"All right, then," he says. "The rest is up to you and Graves."

… oh, yeah, I forgot to tell him that Eleanor wants him to take over.

Damn it.

I need to.

I really do.

So I open my mouth.

"I have to go check on a patient," I tell him, and when I'm walking down the hall I realize that my mouth is yet another thing at Seattle Grace that's working against me.

..

The thing is, even if this all started when I wrong-footed Derek in the supply closet … I feel like he's the one who keeps wrong-footing me now.

Charming Eleanor, catching my eye over the ultrasound and behind Walter's back.

Making me remember how much fun we used to have.

He loved me. I know he did, when he did, even if he wants to deny it now. I felt it, in all the big and small ways it would be too hard to describe right now. There's a heaviness to it that sometimes outweighs the lighter parts, but it's those parts I'm reminded of now.

So it's not totally my fault that I'm confused.

It's already hard enough that Derek can be the same person who told me he never wanted to see me again, ripped me apart in that supply closet, and put me back together in my hotel room when he didn't have to. Add to it that all I have to do is catch his eye and we have more than sixteen years of history – all the references and inside jokes and reminders that you build up when you're together a decade and a half.

I miss it.

I want it.

I'm a selfish bitch, we already know this, and I'm sure both Mark and Derek would be happy to swear to it in court if necessary.

But I want it. I want the good parts. Even if I don't deserve them … I want them.

Okay, so healthy decisions, take two. We work together. On a case that doesn't bring up any low points in our careers or marriage, or involve hospital ethics committees. We just – work together.

Other than battering Walter's self-esteem, I think this could be a – good thing.

So we can't avoid each other, so maybe I never get over it – but maybe that also means we can actually be friends instead of pretending we've never even met.

We were friends first.

No matter what Derek said in that supply closet, no matter how deeply he meant to cut me, we were friends first.

..

Healthy decision confirmed, Rivers chart in hand – now it's time to find Derek and let him know that my patient has specifically requested him.

This should be fun.

Friends, I repeat to myself, sounding as disbelieving as I feel.

Friends work together.

They don't argue.

I find Derek at the nurses' station on three where I expect to, and we start arguing pretty much straight off.

Great plan, Addie.

But it's okay, it's just about easy things – the options for treatment strategies that came up when we were reviewing the scans, and Walter's preference to hold surgery for immediate post-delivery.

"I thought you were done with her case."

"I am." He frowns. "These observations come from my consult."

Okay, then.

"Derek, you met Eleanor Rivers for ten minutes," I remind him. "Walter has been working with her from the beginning."

"It was more than ten minutes."

"Fine, it was more than ten minutes. You really think you know her better than Walter does?"

He doesn't answer, but he looks just smug enough to remind me that he's Derek, that there's no such thing as a patient he doesn't know better. His arrogance is part of who he is and, let's be real, it's not like I don't have some of my own to match it.

"Walter's good," I tell him. "He's very good. At surgery, I mean – which I understand is not necessarily what this hospital is known for."

For a minute half a year disappears and I'm standing in an identical hallway wearing a visitor's badge to argue with him about Meredith: Oh, so you do recommend her. Just not for her medical skills. We're sparring, hard, so I don't have to feel guilty, and I still have hope – stupid, blind hope – that I can erase the previous two months.

And then I'm back in the present.

"Fine. He's good." Derek blinks. "You're welcome for the consult, by the way."

"It's your job," I remind him, like he reminded me earlier this afternoon.

"Yes. It is." He looks like he'd like to exit the conversation.

Me too, honey, believe me.

"So, uh, Eleanor Rivers." I'm playing with the catch on my bracelet to try to postpone the inevitable.

"Eleanor Rivers," he repeats when I don't continue. "She doesn't seem very happy," he says mildly. "Maybe she'll feel better when Graves is back on her case."

About that …

"She's a nightmare," I correct him.

He frowns. "That's not very compassionate," he says. "She's obviously uncomfortable."

Compassionate.

Seriously?

I just raise my eyebrows without saying anything. First of all, compassion is … well, I'll get back to that.

And second, I know Eleanor's uncomfortable. Derek doesn't have to tell me Trendelenburg sucks. I've tried it.

(Okay, fine, it was ten minutes during a compassionate care exercise when I was a resident, but the point stands. It definitely sucked.)

And even if Eleanor is actually having a worse time in Seattle than I am – and I am not conceding this, to be clear – I'm still not in the mood to deal with it. Especially in front of Derek. And especially when there's no clear end in sight.

Not to mention, speaking of compassion, do you notice how much of it my husband manages to spare when it's not me?

Ex-husband. Damn it. I need more coffee.

And yes, I know he had compassion for me last night. Don't remind me, okay? It's embarrassing enough and my days are long enough that I'm hoping I just might forget it.

(I won't.)

"Addison." He interrupts my train of thought. "… did you need something, or were you just stopping by to complain about your patient?"

"Do I have to pick one?"

He actually almost cracks a smile.

All right. Here goes.

I take a deep breath.

"Eleanor likes you," I tell him, and I don't bother hiding my opinion of her opinion.

"She likes me," he repeats. He has the nerve to look amused. "Well, if she passes you a note for me in gym class, let me know."

Ugh. "It's not a compliment, Derek. It's just this side of malpractice."

"Excuse me." He looks a little annoyed now, which I think I prefer. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you. Walter Graves has been working with her since she came in," I remind him. "Walter and I, we've planned this out."

"I'd hate to interfere with your plans with Walter," he says, now sounding amused again. Great. "Addison. What does Eleanor liking me have to do with it, anyway?"

I just keep talking, feeling my voice get a little higher. "Walter was a Fetal Treatment Center fellow when it was new. He worked for Jarvis – who wrote the book on pediatric CNS malformations – "

"I know who he is."

I ignore him. "Walter's done immediate post-natal surgery here in this hospital in three different parallel cases. He's co-qualified in Peds, he just published that new paper on Chiari malformations after the thirty-eighth week of pregnancy." I pause for breath.

"I'm aware of his credentials. He's my surgeon," Derek says, his tone clipped. "What's your point?"

Now he's back to being department head again, of course.

"My point is," I say with dignity, "Walter has an excellent record with this procedure and Eleanor was comfortable with him. Everything was fine. But now, because you showed up, it doesn't matter how qualified Walter is. It doesn't matter how much time he's put into her care. Walter doesn't have freaking … soulful eyes, so he's fired."

Derek doesn't say anything and I've kind of run out of steam. He's just looking at me.

"What?" I ask when he continues to look at me.

"You think I have soulful eyes?"

…and he's apparently back to amused, raising one eyebrow.

"Oh, shut up, Derek. My point is … Eleanor wants you on her case instead. She wants you to do the surgery."

"Yes. I'm gathering that." He pauses. "She's your patient," he says.

"Don't remind me."

"Addison …"

"What?"

"Nothing." He checks the time on his blackberry, pointedly.

Message received, Derek, you have more important things to do than talk to me. Just like half of 2003, and then pretty much every day since then. Copy.

"So. You want me to take over for Graves on Eleanor's team," he recites when I don't answer.

Want? Um. That seems like a pretty radical interpretation of my words, but …

"My patient wants you to take over," I correct him. "Yes."

"Fine." He closes the chart.

"Fine." I pause. "Great. That's settled."

I'm still in the doorway, which doesn't escape his notice. He raises his eyebrows, a say it or go away look if I've ever seen one.

I just smile, my best deb smile.

"So, Derek … the only question left is: who's going to tell Walter Graves that he's not dreamy enough to perform a surgery he's specifically trained for?"

"I think I'll let you handle that part," Derek says mildly. "I know how much you dislike it when I interfere in your cases."

And with that – and one disarming smile – he's gone before I can even think of a good comeback.

To be continued. I think one of the strangest things about canon-early Season 3, in addition to how terribly everyone behaved, was how whiplash the relationships felt. Addison was in and out of bed with Mark, she and Derek were sniping at each other or ignoring each other or being nice to each other for five seconds ... it was exhausting. A lot of tone shifts. I mean, of course I loved it. I wanted to push on that confusion a bit for this story.

All that is to say, I hope you're enjoying it, and there's a lot more coming. So, since I'm about as subtle with reviews as Mark is with potential conquests ... thank you for reading, and I hope you'll review and let me know what you think!