A/N: so this is Izzy's point of view. I figured it was about time to get to her.

Disclaimer: I own nothing, aside from this computer, and you'll have to march over my dead body to get it!

Warnings: talk of rough sex. That's pretty much it. Its not too graphic. Oooh --- and another warning! DON"T RUN WITH SCISSORS!

IZZY'S POV

His hands are so demanding. Like he's going to take everything I'm willing to give, and maybe a little more, even though I don't quite know if I want to let him.

Our hip bones knock together, hard, painful. There'll be a bruise tomorrow. But to Alex, that's part of it all, that rough, angry, take – take – take. Because there's something Dickensian in his hooded eyes, something that needs to take, because whatever's being offered isn't enough to make up for what's been taken from him. That's why to Alex, everything is win or lose. So I give and give and give, and worry about the bruises tomorrow.

His hands are rough on my thigh, lifting me higher, pushing me open, like he wants to see what's inside of me, watch my heart beat, watch me give it all to him, watch my blood in my veins, and wonder, as his hands cinch themselves around my wrists, banging them against the wall, if I would bleed for him, if he could find some sort of redemption in me.

They say surgeons have a savior complex. We want to be the messiah, to play god. To breathe life back into dying things. I think that's true. I know it's true. You only have to look at an intern to know it. The thing is, this savior complex is like a virus – there's different strains, different variants. Christina's infected with ruthlessness, she'll save the hell out of you, and doesn't care what she has to do to get there. Meredith basks in the glory of it. She likes to be the golden girl. Alex, for some reason, wants redemption – needs it, needs to save lives like he needs to go to confession, like he needs to talk about what happened, but wont.

And then there's George. George is selfless, but afraid of giving in to that side that knows how to take control, the side that knows just what to do without questioning it, because George just wants to help people, and would never forgive himself if he pushed to hard, listened to a wrong instinct. What George doesn't know is that he doesn't have a wrong instinct if he would just let go of what holds him back.

"Fuck Izzy. Oh God," Alex breathes, warm, tickling my neck. He's calling out to God, but it's more of a curse, like he's saying "Fuck God" with every thrust. Not like George, who says "Jesus Izzy," in this reverent tone, strange and quite and it feels like an invocation more than some random coital whispering.

A violent tug looses my hair from it's already ruined pony-tail, and I throw aside the realization that I'm thinking about George while Alex is breathing hard against me, pushing against me, slick sweaty bodies, strung out in the heat of the moment: pushing and taking and gouging every feeling from me, until its done, and the bite mark on my shoulder is throbbing a little less under carelessly thrown on scrubs, until I can catch my breath, until I feel numb all over, except for my eyes. I can feel them pooling with tears, because no matter how much I give, and how much he takes, I can never get there, get to him, become one thing, instead of two separate entities.

And maybe he doesn't know what he's doing, blocking me out with every kiss, spurning me and pushing me farther with every attempt I make to get closer.

It makes me feel useless.

I flick the light switch as I exit, and the soft padding of hospital shoes on the floor suddenly stop. I look up, knowing I look like I've just had rough sex, and meet his eyes. It hurts to hurt him like this.

It hurts me even more.

I feel hollow, like a reed when the wind blows through, like I've been plunged into cold water. He looks like he wants to move to me, like he's daring me to move. Daring me to be who I could be, instead of who I am. And suddenly, I'm so ashamed. Ashamed that I know I'm not the redemption Alex is looking for, and I'm still trying, still holding onto that savior complex.

Ashamed that George knows it too. He blinks, and George looks as if he wants to do something, balanced on the edge of it, that terrible understanding.

"I wouldn't ask you for that." He murmurs, just loud enough for me to hear him. "But maybe that's why you're with him – maybe you think you need to be someone's sacrifice."

"I –" something pulls inside my chest, and it seems useless to lie. "I don't know."