A/N: This is an Addek story, but it's not a Flip the Script - it quickly grew too long, plus it's more than one scene. It doesn't start out particularly fluffy, because it stands alone in a universe where the screen didn't fade to black after Addison and Derek got into the shower at the end of "Blues for Sister Someone." (Episode 2.23) And we all know what happened next. But there's a happy ending if you give it a try. This story idea belongs to LuvAddek, who generously shared it with me and encouraged me to write it. Thank you, LuvAddek! I hope you and the rest of the Addek Revolutionaries enjoy it.

All the pre-shower dialogue is straight from the episode; all the characters belong to Shonda and her genius. (Oh, and bonus points if you know why Barbie dolls are Judy dolls in the Grey's universe.)

death or glory becomes just another story

Satan's had a terrible day.

Even rulers of all that is evil have terrible days, and today's her turn. No, not just a terrible day: the mother of all terrible days. Her hair is frizzy from the terrible weather, her shoulders are tense from her terrible intern, and she has the same terrible pit in her stomach she's had since her husband caught her in the throes of her terrible affair.

She feels, in a word … terrible.

To top it off, she's staggering home to a trailer in the middle of nowhere instead of a Central Park brownstone, and it's an understatement to say it's not exactly set up to help her shake her terrible day. The echoes of Richard's disappointed voice and Karev's smug-bastard voice battle for dominance in her pounding head as she mixes herself a drink in the minuscule part of the trailer dedicated to alcohol – one of the few hobbies she and Derek still agree on.

She can tell from the first sip that she's going to need another.

It's quiet – too quiet, because the only creature in this trailer who seems to like her at all is sick … again. She felt his absence the moment she opened the door, before she saw the note from Derek. His bowl of food is still untouched; poor Doc. He'll make it, she's sure of it – Derek's at the vet with him right now, and he's a good vet. He needs to make it because she's started to get used to the warm weight of him flopped out on the bed with them while she falls asleep, to having someone actually happy to see her when she walks gingerly into the trailer at night.

She winces as she lowers herself onto the uncomfortable trailer bed. What she could really use is a massage. Her husband used to give really, really good massages. And if she had a bad day he could always tell, as soon as he walked in the door. She closes her eyes for a second, indulging in a spot of fantasy. Derek will come home from the vet's office, actually look at her instead of past her, and not with disappointment or loathing in his eyes. He'll look at her and see what a terrible day she's had and offer her ... a massage.

And maybe it will turn into something else – she smiles a little, thinking of all the times over the course of sixteen years it's turned into something else – or maybe it won't, and he'll be satisfied just knowing how much better he made her feel. She'll fall asleep in his arms like she used to, so comfortable and sated she won't even notice that the rain on the tin trailer roof sounds like the South firing on Fort Sumter … only less peaceful.

She takes a long swallow of her cocktail. Alex Karev is an idiot, an ass, some punk college athlete kid who has no idea what it's like when a woman looks into your eyes and asks you to help her with the most intimate possible dilemma, with the shape and scope of her own future – and she took an oath.

She took an oath, and now she takes a sip, and then another.

Okay, the cocktail is finally starting to help. A little. But her tense shoulders still need something else entirely. Seated on the edge of the bed, she starts to undress, slowly - not that there's any other way to do it one-handed and clutching a drink.

Maybe she'll take a shower. If only she could take a hot bath instead, laced with some of that argan oil her salon at home imports from Morroco – the really silky, fragrant one with the price tag Derek thought was a practical joke. Wistfully, she recalls the oversized bathtub in the master bathroom of their brownstone, with its powerful bubbling jets and sturdy marble surface sporting the perfect little indentation to hold a wineglass. That tub was more than big enough for two people, too. Even two … slippery people.

But she lives here now, so that means no bathtub, and no shower with a two-foot rain head or a full row of jets, either. The shower in the trailer is about the size of a telephone booth, except less dignified, and even though she's a scientist with a top-notch education and it's a bit embarrassing to admit this – she's not a hundred percent sure where the water in the trailer is coming from. Which means she never actually feels clean when she's done.

She's just starting to peel off her stockings, hoping some of the terrible day will slip away along with the silk, when she hears the door open. The question about Doc dies on her lips when she sees her husband; instead, all the terrible of her day just bubbles up and spills out.

"You would not believe the day I had. I went out of my way to give a patient exactly what she wants only to have it explode in my face. I mean lawsuits, threats, Richard's pissed, don't even get me started on Alex Karev."

Derek doesn't respond, just opens the shower and turns on the water.

"Get in the shower."

"What?"

She looks up at him, confused, as he pulls his sweater off over his head.

"Get in the shower with me," he repeats as she methodically opens the buttons of her blouse.

Now she's even more confused. "Honey, it's a very small shower." Understatement of the freaking year, that one.

He shoves off his pants and stands naked in front of her.

"You want to have hot sex?"

Does she … her eyes widen when she sees what he's offering. He actually got the message – he knows what she needs. Her face melts with gratitude.

Oh god, does she ever.

"Thank you."

She strips off her blouse as fast as she can – not missing the appreciative way his gaze slides over her breasts – and rushes forward into his arms so he can make her feel better.

His lips are locked on hers as they stumble into the shower together, one of her arms reaching for support somewhere, anywhere, but the door is slick with steam and she can't breathe with the water pounding all around them. He's crushed her against him and he undeniably wants her if the feel of his body and his staggered breaths are any indication.

This morning, the sex was boring. It was serviceable, it was fine – but it was boring. It was the sexual version of washing your face after a night out: no frills, no time wasted on fancy techniques, just plain old getting the job done and checking it off the list.

Boring sex is the last thing on her mind now, as he grabs a fistful of long, wet hair and yanks her head back, feasting on the tender skin at her neck. She cries out when his teeth scrape sensitive flesh, coughing as water slides into her mouth. He releases her briefly and she has only a second to rub a shaking hand across her mouth before he's captured her lips again, all over her with hands and mouth and the crush of hard muscles.

He can't seem to get enough of her, grabbing handfuls of whatever slippery flesh he can reach. His eyes are hooded with lust as he grins at her, and she smiles back weakly. This is what she wanted, isn't it, and he lifts her against his body, shoving her into the wall of the shower. Fuck, that'll bruise. She wraps one leg around his waist and grips whatever she can as wave after wave of water flows over her and he drives her hard into the shower wall.

Apparently, he's determined to screw every memory of the boring sex right out of her.

With that thought, she opens her eyes to look at him, and instantly regrets it.

In general, she likes to close her eyes – maybe it's old-fashioned, maybe it's romantic; Derek used to tease her about it but she's pretty sure he actually found it endearing. She'd open them sometimes, either to change it up or because he asked her to, amazed all over again at the intensity of his gaze when she did … there would be love in his eyes, yes, and lust, but something more, too, just this … focus, on her, that went directly to her heart. Like she was the only person in the world.

Maybe she should have kept her eyes closed this time, because when she opens them it's painfully obvious that this time, he's not looking at her.

Oh, his eyes are open, but he's not looking at her. He's looking past her, at something she can't see, and by the way his hips are slamming into hers he's venting his frustration – anger – passion with whatever that something is directly into her body. Frustration with what, anger at what, passion for what – she cries out when his teeth sink into her shoulder – she has no idea. He has a good grip on one of her legs still, enough to flatten her against the slick shower wall and for a fleeting moment she wonders if he's going to screw her right through it. God, she hopes it's made of something sturdier than it looks.

"Derek. Derek!"

He just pants her name back to her, grinning, and then he grabs her other leg to hoist that one around his waist too and she's left the earth completely and she doesn't tell him to stop.

He would stop if she asks, she's certain of that, almost completely certain, but … she doesn't. She wraps one arm around his neck, braces the other as best she can on the slippery shower wall, and just hangs on for dear life.

Admittedly, she usually loves this kind of thing, loves letting him take her weight, hold her up. But for all his enthusiasm tonight, she notices, as she tries – and fails – to redirect his angle, he doesn't seem particularly interested in her pleasure this time.

So much for a balm for her terrible day.

Resigning herself, she unlinks her arm from his neck to shove a hand between them – with some difficulty, she doesn't exactly have freedom of movement, and takes care of it herself. Her clenching muscles drive him over the edge with one final thrust that bangs her skull against the shower wall. She curses with a half sob then and he grabs her harder with something like apology. Sorry, he pants into her hair, sorry, Addie, and sets her down slowly on shaking legs to catch his breath. She has to grab his shoulders when her feet hit the slippery surface of the floor, with some shame, to support herself, and she lets him run his fingers over her scalp, gentle and practiced, to make sure he did no real damage.

Apparently satisfied, he rinses himself off quickly, the change in his mood palpable. "That was incredible." He smiles broadly at her. "See? We're still good at this. I knew it." He beams, drops a kiss on her cheek and fairly bounces out of the shower.

Alone, she stands under the cooling spray for a while, the remnants of his anger sliding down her legs, and wonders what the hell just happened.

"I feel great," Derek announces brightly as soon as she closes the shower door behind her. "Really great. It's amazing what some hot sex can do for your night. Right? We should start prescribing it. We should actually have a code for it and the insurance companies will thank us, because it will keep everyone young. Young and healthy. We could change the face of medicine." He's lying on the bed with his hands behind his head, his classic, never-fails, post-sex posture, and he looks … pretty damned happy.

He's still talking: nothing like an orgasm to bring out his chatty side. She should try that next time he's avoiding her in the hallways and refusing to talk to her.

"Addie?"

She sees him glance over at her, but she can't bring herself to do anything other than stand there, dripping cold water onto the bathmat: dazed, exhausted, her body aching.

"What are you doing over there?"

"Just drying off," she mumbles, turning her back slightly. Not like there's any privacy in this tin can.

She reaches for another towel and rubs weakly at her wet hair, trying to figure out what went wrong. They've had plenty of shower sex; it's always been a favorite for Derek. All kinds. Slow and intimate, healing, in their first apartment after Richard tricked her into thinking she killed that preemie. The morning after their wedding, in the ridiculously opulent shower at the Plaza – that time was memorable: teasing, half laughing, half crying, because oh my god, we're married. And, of course, countless times in the brownstone. Sometimes for the very reason she thought was happening tonight: one or both of them had unusually stressful days and needed the combination of soothing sensation and rushing endorphins that come from thirty-thousand dollar German rainshower jets and practiced hips and hands.

Even here in Seattle, in the hotel room she was reluctant to forfeit because the bathroom wasn't actually in the kitchen, which wasn't actually in the bedroom, so she felt like an actual person there.

That was good sex. Incredible, even.

Tonight, though? She winces as she towels off, very, very carefully.

Ouch.

And it's not like she's a stranger to the occasional – or even more than occasional – sex injury. In the early days of their marriage with younger libidos, didn't their make-up sex sometimes blur the line between fight and forgiveness: angry, up against the wall, battling for dominance, leaving marks? And didn't she once show up unblinking to a poorly-timed routine gynecological exam with what amounted to two palm-sized bruises on her very exposed ass? She's no porcelain doll, and Derek has never treated her like one; she's always appreciated that.

So it's something else. What happened tonight was something else. Or maybe it's not what happened … it's who. Because she's starting to realize she wasn't a participant in whatever that was. She wasn't a bystander, either, she thinks ruefully, rubbing at the spot on her lower back she knows will bruise. She was more like … a stand-in.

A replacement.

Oh, god. And then the pieces slip into place, and she has to grab on to the nearest surface – some part of the bathroom … thing– as her mind swims with memories and regret. This fucking trailer that's about the size of the Judy dream house they built for Derek's nieces that one Christmas: up all night, laughing and drinking spiked cider and tossing the overly complicated directions back and forth. When they finally finished it was close to dawn; they stumbled up the creaky staircase and made love on well-worn flannel sheets, Derek finding a piece of crushed candy cane in her hair that would always, from that moment on, turn the scent of peppermint into something unbearably arousing.

The dream house Christmas was a good Christmas. Sometimes, like right now, the trailer actually feels smaller than that pink plastic mansion they built together. Like Judy's dream house is actually a nightmare and her dream-suitor, Cal, made her move to the middle of the goddamned woods.

Except Cal would never do that.

Cal may have plastic hair that pales next to Derek's very not plastic hair, but … as far as she knows, Cal is the ideal mate, with his firm plastic biceps and fixed little pink rubber half-smile. Cal would never screw Judy while he's thinking about Mickey. And if he did, he'd at least get her off first. Wait … is it Mickey? She furrows her brow. Nicki? Whoever the other one was. The brunette one, which is Little Girl Toy-language for the other woman and why is she thinking about Judy and Cal right now?

"Addison?"

If he asks what she's doing again, maybe she'll be honest. I'm trying to remember the name of Judy's brunette doll friend because that's how crazy you've made me. That's what my life is now. Judy's fucking nightmare house on wheels.

He doesn't ask.

"I'm coming, honey."

She gives herself one last glance in the mirror, dabbing at the red stain blossoming on her lower lip. Combing her fingers through her hair, she sighs heavily. There's nowhere to hide in this trailer, it's the definition of now of never, so here goes.

"Hi," Derek says warmly when she approaches the bed, wrapped in a towel. He toys lightly with the terrycloth hem once she's close enough to touch, which she would ordinarily find cute and even sexy but right now just makes her feel vaguely nauseated.

"How's Doc?"

"Doc is sick." Derek's voice hardens for some reason.

"I know, but what does the vet-"

"I don't know, Addison, he's not psychic, he has to examine him. These things take time. You'll know as soon as I do."

"Okay." So much for his great mood.

He pats her hip distractedly. Once again, she feels like she's not the only other one in the room. And it doesn't feel good.

"Um, Derek…"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" She pronounces the words carefully, touching the spot on her lip where he drew blood.

He looks up at her, confused. "What do you mean?"

"That … in there. That shower," and apparently he can tell what she means now because his face darkens for a moment, then softens just as quickly to look almost hurt.

"You seemed to be enjoying yourself," he says.

"I was." It's not a lie, not really: it was a little rough, a little weird, a little off, but it was still the two of them and she enjoyed the attention, even if it was only physical. So it's a truth, if a shameful one.

"Good. So was I. What's wrong, did I get too carried away?" He swings his legs out of bed and flicks on the table lamp, looking vaguely concerned. Easing two fingers under her jaw to tip her face toward the light, he runs the thumb of his other hand over her bottom lip.

"Sorry about that," he says mildly.

"It's fine."

She hates feeling like this, like a … spoilsport. She did want sex. And it's not that she doesn't appreciate enthusiasm, or passion, or the fact that he's pretty damned skilled at throwing her around considering she's practically his height. Taller, in her favorite heels. But she wasn't wearing heels in the shower. In the shower, she could have been anyone.

Or, you know, one person in particular.

So she tries again. "Was it about me at all, Derek?" Her voice sounds thin to her own ears.

"Was what about you?"

"The … this. Tonight." She gestures vaguely toward the shower with one shaky arm.

"Addison." He exhales with annoyance and seems to wilt back onto the bed, like just hearing her voice sucked out the rest of his energy. So much for endorphins. "Do you ever give it a rest?"

"Derek…."

"How about five minutes of afterglow before you start nagging me again, Addie, can you manage that?"

"Afterglow - is that what we're calling first-aid these days?" She shoots back, knowing it will bother him.

Something flickers across his features. "If you didn't like it, why didn't you tell me to stop?"

"I didn't say I didn't like it."

"Then can you just please give it a rest?" He closes his eyes as if that will close the subject too and lies back again, hands folded behind his head, apparently determined to recapture some of his faded afterglow.

She blinks, taken aback.

Recapturing … she can do some of that herself.

She drapes her towel-clad body over his, resting both her hands on his chest. He doesn't open his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. She leans closer so she can whisper in his ear, much like she did the first night she waltzed into the lobby of Seattle Grace. She's always known how to push his buttons.

"…are you still thinking about her right now, Derek?"

In a flash, he sits up and grabs her arms, pushing her away from him. A startled breath flies out of her mouth as the damp towel falls away from her skin and for a moment, just a moment, she's frightened. But he wouldn't – she knows he wouldn't.

Still, she's tender from the shower, from its roughness, and she winces in his grip.

He releases her like she's burned him and tosses the discarded towel to her so she can cover herself. "I could ask you if you're thinking about Mark," he hisses, eyes cold as ice. "But I don't. Because I don't want to know."

"Or you don't care," she counters tremulously.

"Give it a rest, Addison, for once in your goddamn life, just quit while you're ahead."

"I'm not ahead," she spits. "I'm not ahead when my husband uses me like some …. you can't do this to me, Derek, it's not right. I'm not a whore."

He lifts his eyebrows. "Oh, are we taking a vote on that?"

Blood rushes to her face and for a moment she can't speak.

"Addison…"

"Don't." She holds up a hand. "Just don't." She stands shakily, trying to open the cabinet that holds her clean underthings, but her fingers aren't cooperating. "I'm leaving," she mumbles.

A hand, bigger and warmer, closes over hers. "Don't be ridiculous, Addie, it's late." She can tell from his tone that he's sorry for what he said, but she's not sure it's enough.

"I'm not being ridiculous." Now her voice is shaking, too.

"You're not dressed."

"That didn't stop you from throwing me out in the rain the last time!"

"You really want to go there?" When she glances at him, she sees that his jaw is set, his eyes hard, but he's managing to look just very slightly ashamed at the same time and it's sufficient … for now.

"No," she admits. "I don't. I want to leave. I just want to leave, Derek, so let go of me."

"Addison, stop." He grips her forearm this time and turns her around to face him. "I didn't mean it. Just … stop."

She tries, and fails, to pull away from him; he tugs her closer in response.

"You get that shoving me around is only fun for me during sex, right?"

He looks down at his hand on her arm as if he's seeing it for the first time.

"Addison … can you just give it a rest?" They're the same words from before but now his tone is tired, exhausted, not harsh anymore. "Please. The sniping, the – all of it." He releases her and rubs absently at the rosiness that's risen to the surface of her skin, his fingers gentle now.

She could.

She could give it a rest. She could accept this marginal comfort and the minimal pleasure she gave herself and just go to sleep. Go to sleep and hope for a better day tomorrow, which at this point seems about as likely as Seattle seeing more than four seconds of consecutive sunshine.

It would be so much easier to say nothing at all. So much easier.

"I deserve to know why that happened," she says quietly.

He gives her a curious look. "Didn't you say you wanted hot sex?"

"No, you asked if I wanted hot sex."

"I don't see the difference."

Of course he doesn't. "I want you to want me," she explains.

"I would think it was pretty obvious I wanted you."

"Want me, Derek. As in want me, not use me."

"I never said I was using you."

"You didn't have to! I've been sleeping with you for practically half my life, you think I don't know you well enough to know when it's not about me?"

He scans her face for a moment, eyes cool. "Addison, don't do this."

There's a warning note in his tone with which she's well acquainted - like so many other times in their marriage, it comes across like a dare.

"Maybe you forgot how small the shower is," she taunts, "because it's easy to throw someone around in there if they're about, oh, ninety pounds, isn't it? Must make it seem really roomy."

For a moment she thinks he's going to snap, but then his expression changes to one of calm.

"It's easy to throw you around," he says mildly, even affectionately, and as if to prove it he pushes her gently down on the bed, his hands molding around her carefully this time. Covering her body with his, he kisses her with surprising tenderness – so much that it barely stings her cut lip and her mouth opens to him of its own accord with a soft moan that should probably embarrass her.

He draws back finally, hands on the bed on either side of her head. Containing her.

She sighs a little. It would be a lot easier to hate him for making her feel terrible if he couldn't still make her feel so damned good.

"Addison…" his voice is an entreaty, a familiar one. "Now can we go to bed, please?"

She gives in. In the end … she always gives in.

Covered in some respects by one of his old shirts, she slides under the quilt. Carefully. She's going to be sore tomorrow.

Which means it's probably going to be another banner day in a long list of Satan's banner Seattle days.

She glances over at her husband, or as much as she can see of him without the lights. He's lying on his back again, hands behind his head – staring at the darkened ceiling, of course, because the ceiling is more interesting than she is. Or maybe he just likes it better.

She feels the air in the trailer shift as he starts to doze off. It's now or never.

"You didn't ask about my day," she says quietly, but she can tell just by the infinitesimal tensing of his muscles inches away from her that he heard.

"What did you say?" His tired voice cuts through the darkness.

"I was telling you I had a terrible day - or I was trying to, when you got home, but then you made me get in the shower."

"Made you. Is that your story?" She sees the shadow of him shake her head out of the corner of her eye, apparently deciding to drop it, because his next words are in a more purposefully placating tone. "Can you tell me about your day in the morning, Addie?"

"Yeah. I can tell you about my day in the morning."

He rests a conciliatory hand on her hip, obviously pleased by her response.

"I can tell you about my day in the morning," she continues, voice shaking only a little, "but … I would rather tell you now."

"Addison …"

"Derek."

After a few long seconds of détente, he rolls onto his side, facing her.

"So tell me."

She gives him the shortest possible version, and he listens.

"Is that all?" He asks when she's done.

"That's a lot!"

His tone suggests he disagrees. "Come on, Addison. Richard will take your side. And Karev is just another arrogant intern who needs to be taken down a peg. You love taking apart arrogant interns. It's sport for you. So what's the big deal?"

"My malpractice premiums are going to skyrocket."

"It's not like you're hurting for money."

"It's my reputation on the line, too, Derek!"

"Your reputation can take it." He shrugs, then seems to notice her dissatisfaction with his reaction, adding: "I'm sorry you had a terrible day."

"All my days in Seattle are terrible," she mumbles.

"With that attitude, it's no wonder."

"Thanks for your support," she says sarcastically, sitting up.

He sighs and sits up too, the mattress squeaking a little as he does so. "Addison." He waits for her to look at him; his eyes are clear in the mostly-darkness. "I have the utmost confidence that an ass who's been out of medical school for five minutes isn't going to make a dent in your world-class career, and isn't even worth thinking about … and you should know that too, but if you need me to say it, I'll say it."

"Okay," she says, slightly mollified. "Thanks."

"Thanks for the pep talk, or thanks for the sex?"

She shoves him without any real malice. "Neither, after that."

"I figured." He pulls her down against him and adjusts the quilt around them both. "Good night, Addison."

..

"Gloria Steinem would be so proud."

She glances up from the chart she's been reviewing at the bizarre non-sequitur. Oh, great, her favorite intern. Just as she predicted: another terrible day, and it's just beginning. "I beg your pardon?"

"Siccing your husband on me – real nice. Very feminist."

"What the hell are you talking about, Karev?"

"I'm talking about Shepherd. The other Shepherd, calling me on the carpet. All you'd better start treading very carefully here, Dr. Karev, or I can guarantee you that you will live to regret it. Threatening to black mark me for the rest of my career for tipping off some poor jerk whose wife his wife sterilized. Jesus."

She reacts immediately, instinctively, to his vocabulary before she can process the rest.

"I didn't sterilize her, Karev, I'm neither an autoclave nor a Nazi, and you'd do well to remember that your patients are human beings, not vessels for you to pour your resentment at having to answer to a superior you don't like – and yes, I use the word superior very, very literally in this case."

She pauses to catch her breath and wait, what did he say?

The other Shepherd … Derek … threatened Karev?

Before she can make sense of this new development, the same irritating voice cuts into her thoughts again. "Does this mean I'm off your service now?" Karev asks hopefully.

"Unfortunately for both of us, no, you are not off my service. I wish you were," she says evenly, "because I'd love not to have to look at your face anymore. And you'll wish it even more by the time I'm done with you, believe me. But unfortunately, I signed on to teach, and you, Karev, seem to have a particularly difficult time learning." She glares at him, not bothering to hide her distaste. "Go get Donna Chowalski's lab results; if they're not ready, sit your ass down in the lab until they are and don't make me look at your face again until you have them."

"Sure thing," he says insolently, "… doctor," and saunters off still looking far too pleased with himself.

Damn it.

..

"You threatened Karev?"

She's leaning against the open doorway of his office. It's different from his office in New York – a lot of things are different – but Derek can still be counted on to review particularly difficult brain scans while listening to the Clash on faint, but not inaudible, volume. If she knows him, it's something from London Calling playing on his iPod right now. Probably Death or Glory, since according to the board he's operating in an hour.

It used to be a Walkman, and then a Discman. Now it's an iPod. Technology changes; her husband doesn't change.

Derek glances up from his computer screen, where she can see the brightly colored image of a brain looking back at her, and removes the earbuds from his ears.

"Sorry. What did you say?"

"I said, you threatened Karev?"

His expression is impossible to read. "Alex Karev? I had words with him, yes. I wouldn't say I threatened him."

"Oh."

"Why do you ask?"

"I was just … surprised," she admits.

"Were you?" His tone is mild. "This is a teaching hospital. He needed to learn. I taught."

"Oh," she says again, feeling totally at a loss for words. "Right."

He indicates the computer screen. "Sorry, Addison, I really need to get back to these…."

"Of course." She hovers in his doorway for a moment feeling almost … shy. "Derek?"

He pauses with the headphones halfway to his ears. "Yes?"

"I just wanted to say um, well, thank you."

He studies her for a moment. "You're welcome," he says, and slips the earbuds back in, obviously assuming they're done

"Derek…"

He removes the headphones again, managing, to his credit, not to look as impatient as he probably feels. "Yes?"

"Will you wait for me? To go home tonight, I mean."

"Tonight…" He glances at the computer screen. "I can try," he says after a moment, "assuming Mrs. Greenblatt's temporal lobe cooperates. I'll try." With a brief smile, he sticks the earbuds into his ears again and turns back to his computer.

Try. Okay, then. Try has been their theme for a while, in theory, but it will be nice for a change if both of them are trying this time.

..

She's debating French vs. Italian food, still hoping they'll make it out at a decent hour for a decent dinner – at which she's going to beg Derek to be designated driver so she can have the multiple cocktails her body is screaming for – and looking for her hated intern at the same time, when she hears a familiar voice behind a closed exam curtain. She can tell by the shadows there's no patient there, they're just using the seemingly private space to – gossip? Little bastards!

Okay, fine, she, Derek, Sam, and Naomi did much the same thing as interns, but that's different. Completely different. She pauses outside the curtain and listens to their none-too-quiet voices.

"Rescue me. Anything. I'll stitch up drunks in the pit, I'll give no-smoking lectures at the goddamned elementary school, anything."

No question who that is.

"You know, maybe you could actually make the best of it? I'd love to have one on one attention from a world class surgeon, even one who hates me. You realize there are like seven surgeons in the world who can do what she does." She recognizes Yang's superior, vaguely annoyed tone.

"Whatever."

"And anyway, Evil Spawn, maybe you could also do with learning a little bit more about the vagina."

"That's not what Izzie thinks."

"Shut up!" But Stevens sounds like she's smiling.

Ugh.

"I need to get out of this," she hears Karev again. "I'll do anything to avoid another day with that miserable bitch."

"If she's such a miserable bitch, how did she get Shepherd and Sloan under her thumb?"

"Simple. She's hot, and they're dudes who think with their-"

"Alex!" She hears Stevens giggle.

Well. That part wasn't so bad.

Then she hears Karev again. "Oh god … I need to go before she flies to Bailey on her broomstick and demands my actual balls for her collection. She's gonna have me on her service forever at this rate," he groans. "Torturing me. While the rest of you get to practice actual medicine."

"They don't call her Satan for nothing."

With one sweeping gesture, she draws back the curtain and asks a question in her most pleasant debutante voice, shaded over with just a bit of ice: "Did I hear my name?"

"Dr. Shepherd!" Stevens proceeds to blush to the roots of her not-very-professionally bleached hair, stammering out some kind of unintelligible excuse. Yang doesn't seem to be capable of shame – no surprise there - but Karev is shifting on his feet with obvious embarrassment. She takes a moment to enjoy his discomfort.

"So nice to see that you're all having a productive morning. By the way … just to refresh your memories, I'm an attending, which means I get to review every single one of you at year's end. I'm required to, in fact. And you also know those reviews stay on file for your entire career. My own intern reviews, of course, were all stellar." She pauses for a moment. "So … I'd recommend in the future you stick with Doctor Satan."

None of the three interns seems to know where to look. She smiles and starts to leave, then turns back on her heel as if she's just remembered something.

"Oh, and Karev?"

Yes?" He replies sullenly.

She raises an eyebrow.

"… Dr. Shepherd," he adds grudgingly.

"Since you've already learned so much about fetal development on my service, you're aware that one complication presenting in the pregnancy of multiples is severe constipation?"

"Yes, Dr. Shepherd."

She smiles pleasantly. "Good. You have fecal impactions waiting for you in 318, 212, 215, and –" she checks her list – "502. The patients aren't pregnant, by the way, but they'll be good practice for you. If that's not enough, it shouldn't be a problem to find you some more. For as long as necessary. And, Karev … if I hear from either a nurse or a patient that you've been anything but as gentle as a newborn kitten, I will turn your medical license into confetti to throw at you when you finally leave my sight for good. Do I make myself clear?"

His face is flushed and he looks miserable. God, she forgot how much fun this can be.

I guess Derek still knows me pretty well.

Karev mutters an answer, looking furious and humiliated. Mostly humiliated.

"Dr. Karev? I couldn't quite make that out. It's important for a doctor to enunciate precisely or all kinds of mistakes can happen. And I know how you feel about … mistakes."

"Yes, Dr. Shepherd," he says, louder this time. "You make yourself clear."

"Excellent. Doctors," she says politely, nodding farewell at the other interns, and saunters away from the open-mouthed interns with a bounce in every step of her four-inch heels.

Oh, Satan's gearing up for a good day today.

Finally.

Reviews are love in typed form. (And I don't hate Alex, at all, but Season 2 Addison does, and it's her story.)

Thanks again to LuvAddek - in all my viewings of Season 2, it's never occurred to me that Derek would do anything supportive concerning the Alex debacle. It's such a sad little scene, with Addison just sitting there trying to get over her terrible day and have a drink and unwind and ending up the unwitting recipient of Derek's frustration with Meredith. I loved LuvAddek's idea that the super depressing shower sex could actually turn into something positive if Addison confronted Derek and he actually got the hint, listened, and stood up for her with Alex.

As for the title, from the Clash's Death or Glory: it's a great song, but it's also pretty perfect considering how much I've been posting lately. I'm on a bender, what can I say?