A/N This is for all my regular reviewers. You guys are the best!

Chapter Thirteen: Words I could Never Say

Denny Duquette died that night. Izzie lay stretched beside him, unwilling to leave him. Unable to leave him. He'd already left her, but she couldn't let go.

The night before, Cristina had been judging her. Doubting her love, calling her crazy, for doing this for a man she barely knew.

Cristina knew Burke. She shared his O.R, his food, his bed, his thoughts, his dreams. She knew Burke.

Yet Izzie refused to leave the one she barely knew. And Cristina Yang was nothing if not competitive. Or at least in her mind, this provided a good excuse to do what she'd been aching to do all along.

She went to Burke's room. She watched him flex his trembling fingers, anguish etched into his face. She crossed swiftly to him, and seized his hand. She refused to leave.

In the coming weeks and months, she learnt the full meaning of this choice. Being with Burke had never been so difficult, and she was stretched to her limits. But perhaps she had to endure what she did to realize her choice was limitless.

After the initial terror of losing him began to relax its grip on her, her choice was simple at first. It meant that Cristina Yang, for the first time in her life, was letting her resolve melt.

She lay in his arms one night in his hospital bed, tracing small circles on his chest. She sensed rather than saw him slipping into sleep, but she knew sleep wouldn't come for her. She'd suffered from bouts of insomnia her whole life, and it had returned full force since the shooting. Still, she'd been getting a little more sleep since getting into the habit of sneaking into his hospital room after hours, and spending the night with him. She'd never noticed the expanse of their bed at home until Burke wasn't lying in it, and that was enough to keep her up at night.

Her lids fluttered open and closed intermittently throughout the night, until a hint of grey light crept into the room. Groaning slightly, she shifted, trying to sit up. Burke's left arm immediately tightened around her. "Where are you going?" he whispered.

She smiled into the darkness. "You know I have to go and steal the good patients before the others arrive."

"It's good to know some things never change." He pulled her close for a moment, his lips brushing against her ear. "Thank you for staying. I need you here to sleep. I think I'm going to need you for a lot of things, in the coming months."

Cristina couldn't say anything. She just kissed him reassuringly, before leaving. She knew what meant for him to say this. Because though he held her every night since she walked into the room to claim his hand, he hadn't said much. The scars of her initially walking out on him lingered, and she was yet to discover how deep they ran. So it was a matter of great trust for him to admit his need for her. Cristina vowed to remember.

She remembered, during his mother's stinging accusations. She hardened her shell, and took the comments. She'd do it for Burke. He needed her.

She meditated on it when he lay on their couch, helpless and sullen. She walked home one night to find him reading a gossip magazine, of all things. Preston Burke, catching up on the latest celebrity news? She wanted to pin a picture of that on the hospital bulletin board. It was better than panties. Instead, she ordered him to practice his sutures, and stood by as her boyfriend temporarily transformed into the Chicken Surgeon Extraordinaire.

She recalled that whisper in her ear when she found him in the morgue, desperate with despair, fearful his future was slipping away. She helped him finish the surgery. He needed her for that.

She remembered during endless nights, when insomnia wasn't the problem – when her body was screaming for sleep, but she slogged on through endless pages of diagrams and text. She wouldn't slip up in surgery. She remembered and endured jealousy from her fellow interns, suspicion and crap (quite literally) from Bailey.

She remembered even when he didn't. When he leveled accusations at her in on-call rooms. When she decided enough was enough, and went to the Chief. When he shut the door in her face, and when she walked into the elevator with him.

He needed her, dammit. He'd said so himself. She wouldn't let him forget it, even when he wanted to.

Walking into their apartment that evening, after that tumultuous day at the hospital – Cristina had helped Dr. Hahn save George's dad, and Burke had tests for his second surgery – Cristina was exhausted. She collapsed backwards onto the couch, throwing a hand over her face. The silence around her didn't phase her. She couldn't remember what it was to have the apartment filled with laughter, with quick quips, with aroused cries. She couldn't remember anything beyond exhaustion.

So she was startled when Burke broke the silence. "I guess we have a lot to talk about."

Struggling to sit up, Cristina propped herself up on her elbows. "Yeah." She met his eyes, and drowned in their depths. It hurt, just looking at him. But looking away would hurt even more.

"We will. But you know all I can think about?"

"What?"

"When was the last time we had any fun?"

Cristina wracked her brain. Weeks and months stretched on end blurred into each other. "Nothing's really been fun since before the whole 'sleeping during sex' thing. I mean, I did strip for you, but that didn't exactly end well."

The corners of Burke's mouth twitched. Was he actually going to smile? Cristina didn't know how to respond.

"Not exactly. But you know what was really fun, and something there should definitely be a repeat of?"

"What's that?"

Burke grinned, and Cristina sat up straighter. "Dirty scrabble."

There was a moments silence, when she stared at him incredulously. "Seriously? Seriously? That's what you're thinking about?"

Burke lipped his lips. "It's all I can think about. Go get the scrabble board."

"You go get the scrabble."

"Fine. I'll get the scrabble board."