Well hello there - it's been a lifetime of a Cicada since the last time I updated (they live between 3-6 weeks). Anyways, sorry about that, but this chapter is pretty long, so hopefully I'll be forgiven by the end of it. Enjoy, my lovelies.

"Keys. Keys. Crap. Keys." She mumbles under her breath as she rummages through her bag; shaking it, then listening intently for the sound of familiar metal clinking. Nothing. "Crap."

"Looking for these?" She freezes. She can't look at him, let alone talk to him. She kissed him. She kissed him and she like it. She kissed him and now she can't look at him without thinking about the way his tongue tasted; she can't talk to him without staring at his lips, without licking hers. She's losing her mind, slowly and it's both terrifying and infuriating. She turns around, staring at the floor, fingering her sweater nervously. "Your keys?" She just nods her head and stretches out a shaky hand. He crosses the room in a few swift steps, until he's standing in her personal space. His scent is overwhelming – the familiar cologne, fresh and masculine and so very him; and she feels his breaths, they tickle her skin, she hears him chuckle softly, it makes her breath hitch and her mouth widen into an involuntary smile. He reaches for her hand and somehow, despite all logic, his touch – it still feels like the first time; the electricity still surges through her, the power of it still makes her lightheaded. The cool of the metal keys against the heated skin; against the burning skin. His fingers linger, and his thumb brushes against her knuckles and before she can think better of it – she's looking up at him. A pair of grey eyes alight.

"Thanks." But she doesn't move away; she doesn't even move her hand. And he just looks at her; he's staring at her lips, and she's staring at his. Their eyes meet. And it's fire and ice, confusion and familiarity; passion and tenderness, all at once. They blush. She blinks, furiously, trying to focus, think of anything, anything other than his damn lips. But her mind, for all its intellectual capacity, all it's well-established brilliance – is blank.

"We should talk about the ki-" It breaks the spell instantly and she cuts him off, before he can even finish.

"I have to go." She turns around, throwing her keys in her bag, than cursing under her breath as she goes back to rummaging through it.

"Liv…" He calls out tenderly, his voice vulnerable, pleading.

"I have a surgery thing." She stammers, her voice foreign in her ears. "A surgery. Um, thing, operating… Yeah. I have that." He just nods his head, but she can sense his disappointment; she can see the hurt in his eyes. It stings. Knowing she caused it; it stings. "We'll talk tonight?" It's out there; she's said it before she could stop herself, before she could think better of it – she just wanted to leave him with a smile on his face, even if it is faint, barely there.

"OK."

She reaches for the handle "Her lunch is on the counter, so just don't forget it before you guys leave; she finishes an hour early today, first day and all, so-"

"Yeah, I'll try not to forget to pick her up." He says as he rolls his eyes. "You should go. Don't want to miss your surgery-thing." And he finally flashes her a grin; it's a small courtesy, letting her know they're OK, he's not mad. She smiles back.

"There's fresh coffee in the pot."

"Thanks." And their eyes just linger; for another moment. Neither blinks. Neither breathes. Her pager beeps. And with that she's stumbling out the door, uttering something – a word vomit; a sound vomit really. She keeps pressing the elevator button until the loud ding sounds; she tries to focus on the flashing numbers instead of the heat in her cheeks and her suddenly very limited vocabulary. She doesn't realize she's forgotten her coat until she's shivering in the frisk winter wind. She doesn't go back. She can't. She doesn't recognize herself, not around him; it's like she's a completely different being. She can handle the cold; she knows it; she can predict it; unlike the heat.

/

"I'm out of here. Done. Finito. Leaving." She exclaims triumphantly as she hands him the heavy chart.

"Please. Don't hide your excitement." He retorts following her in step. "Rub it in, to the rest of us mere mortals who can't get away, because we don't have a cute little orphan that our boss has a soft-spot for, at home."

"I cannot believe you just said that." She sounds offended, but she doesn't even try to hide her grin.

"Really? Because, it's totally something I'd say. I mean I love you for thinking I'm a better human being than that but Liv, I'm not, really."

"Clearly."

"Now in all seriousness," and his tone shifts, it's no longer playful, it's concerned, caring, "how are you doing?"

"OK."

"Liv. You can talk to me."

"I know… but I just. It's a lot. I'm raising my best friend's kid, who's been through hell, and I feel like I'm screwing her up more and more every single day. And the only person who could give me advice is gone. And then, there's him. He's everywhere, all the time, Stephen. He's in my kitchen and his stuff is in my bathroom, and in my living room, he has all these opinions about everything. And he is so stubborn. And he is so damn charming; he can just charm me into right about anything. And I keep losing fights to him. And it's infuriating. He is infuriating. But then he's so great with Lynn and he has this way of knowing what's on my mind and he's amazing, and that, that is even more infuriating. It's just… too much." She ends with an exasperated sigh, as she slams shut her locker.

"Oh-my-god! You're falling for him!"

"No, I'm not!" It doesn't come out as strong as she intended it to. Her arm is stuck in her sweater, and her hair is in her mouth; the words are breathy and soft; an admission, rather than a rebuttal.

"Right." And he just gives her a knowing look; not blinking. If he wasn't so handsome, it would border on creepy.

"I'm not." She shakes her head, as if to confirm the veracity of her words. But it achieves nothing of the sort; the soft smile lingering on her lips speaks louder than the words she keeps uttering; words she's trying desperately to believe. She grabs her bag from his hands and heads to the locker-room door.

"Where's your coat?"

"Oh, I left it at home." She says casually; her eyes on the floor, as she holds open the door.

"Why? It's two degrees outside."

"Oh, just… it's good for circulation."

"Freezing to death is good for circulation?"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger?"

"This guy is really messing with your head, huh?"

"I don't know what you're talking abou-" And the beeping of her pager cuts her off. "No! I was so, so close!" And she slaps his arm, before running her hand down her tired face.

"Just go, I'll take it."

"You sure?"

But before he can respond, "Liv, I'm sorry, I know you were leaving, but it's an emergency. I need you in the ER, STAT." Cy shouts as he rushes past them. A vein dangerously pulsing on his forehead. She takes off her sweater and hands it to Steven together with her bag, as she ties her hair into a high ponytail.

"Can you just… Can you let Fitz know I'll be late please?" He just nods his head. She takes a deep breath, then sprints off down the hallway.

"Dr. Pope!" A nurse calls out as soon as she steps into the busy room.

"Fill me in, Quinn."

"A nine year-old. Hit by a car. Multiple fractures and extensive internal injuries. His right pupil is dilated.

"CT?"

"Still waiting. They're very busy." She says apologetically, avoiding eye-contact completely.

"Quinn! This is a priority! Call down and tell them I'm coming." She takes the stethoscope from around her neck as she approaches the bed.

"Are you Sam's doctor?" A panicky voice and a shaky hand stop her before she can reach the patient. A pair of blood-shut blue eyes greets her as she turns around.

"Yes I am. But I really need to examine your son, Mrs…?"

"Marano." The woman says, shaking her head. "Is he, is he going to be OK? He has to be OK." She pulls on her arm, as if she's holding on for dear life.

"Linda! Let the doctor go!"

"Do not tell me what to do John!" She howls back, at the tall man.

"Well it makes no difference anyway! I mean you know the best. All the time. You always know the best!"

"Do not start with me now! If you weren't too busy criticizing me, you would have been watching him. You would have been paying attention to him! He wouldn't have ended up under a car!"

"Look! I really need to examine your son, so can you take this someplace else! Or maybe, just cut it out completely. " Her tone is flat and icy and does the trick. The woman is no longer gripping her arm tightly; and the man is opening and closing his mouth, but no sounds leave his body.

"The CT's ready!"

"Thanks Quinn! OK, let's roll him!"

There's something calming about the CT. The soft humming, the quietness that surrounds it. But then, there's also something so unnerving – the cramped space; the anticipation; the knowledge that it holds the answers to problems they haven't even grasped yet. And then there's the moment when the image appears on the screen and the heart skips a beat. And then there's the rush. A rush to operate; to cut; to repair. A race against time; to do more, to do better; to save a life. A rush. It's steady hands and the smell of cauterized flesh; it's red, all the red; and the quiet power.

"Mr. and Mrs. Marano!" She calls out as she peels her scrub cap off. The two figures approach – all slouched shoulders, puffy eyes and lips swollen from nervous biting. "He's made it. He's going to be OK. He's in the ICU now. You'll be able to see him shortly." And the man sighs, tears of relief falling from his eyes. The woman pulls her in for a hug, uttering soft – thank yous – into her hair. Liv just pats her back, repeating – He's going to be OK. It takes a while for her to hear it; to let herself believe it. She steps away from the embrace and looks at Liv, before hanging her head and staring at her feet.

"You can judge me. I'm judging me. It's my fault. What happened to him."

"I'm not. And it's not. It was an accident. They happen."

"No. This, this is on me. His dad and I, we're divorcing. And we got so stuck in our little world of resentments and arguments; we were so blinded by our own hurt that we literally lost sight of him. He ran into a street, and we didn't notice. We were too busy shouting. I just… somewhere along the line, I let myself get lost in this thing and… it almost killed him."

/

It's almost 2am when she finally stumbles in, earphones in her ears; her scrubs sticking to her sweaty body; her eyelids barely open. Tired, tired was hours ago; this is a whole other level of exhaustion, a level that requires a quick shower and a warm bed. She drops her bag to the floor, and pulls her sweater lazily over her head, throwing it on the couch – the laundry basket can wait. She pauses the song, as she opens the bathroom door. Why is the light on?

"Oh my god! I am so sorry!" She practically yells as she drops her iPod to the floor, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. "I didn't realize you were in here."

He turns around, grinning, desperately trying not to laugh at her reaction as he wraps a towel around his naked body, slowly, very slowly. "Don't worry about it."

But her eyes are no longer on his; no, now they're resting on the bulge rising under his towel. She can't look away. She's staring at his crotch, her breathing getting shallow, and she knows, she knows he's noticed, because she's being anything but subtle; and she knows he's now staring at her, she can feel his eyes burning her skin. And he's moving towards her, until he's in her personal space; and his hands are on her hips, and she's grinding against him. And then he's lifting her up on the sink and she's kissing him – and it's rushed and it's deep; and they don't breathe; no they forget all about breathing. And his towel is on the ground, and her scrubs are being untied and then – a scream. And they freeze, his hand resting on her thigh, his thumb massaging it softly. He kisses her cheek, and grabs the towel from the floor, "I'll get her." And with that he's gone.

And the reality, everything rushes back; sinks in. She showers, the cold water numbing, calming. He's waiting for her on the couch, his navy shirt wet around his chest – she's been crying again.

"We can't do this?"

"Have sex?"

"Have sex, kiss, do anything. We, we need to be there for Lynn."

"Who says we can't be there for Lynn, and be together?"

"Be together? We can't be together. We both have the emotional maturity of baby whales!"

"Actually, whales have been found to have the same emotion-producing brain cells that we have, so that analogy really isn't great."

"Fitz! That's hardly the point."

"Maybe emotional maturity of a goldfish. No, nope, that's not it. That's the memory of a goldfish. What's a really immature animal?"

"Ftiz!" She finally shouts, and instantly he's focused and back to being 35-going-on-3. "See. This is case in point. We can't be together. We can't date. And we can't just have sex, because sooner or later it will get messy. Whatever we do, it will get messy. We'll get lost in the mess and our emotions; we'll get messy and selfish and we'll lose the sight of Lynn and then she'll end up getting hit by a truck and she'll die. She can't die. We can't screw her up!" And she's sobbing, before she even has time to process what's happening; what she's saying; she's sobbing and shaking, and she can't breathe. Her lungs are constricting and her chest hurts; and the breaths they get lost in the back of her throat. She can't breathe, the panic suddenly overwhelming; her unspoken fear finally out there; filling the space between them. He's scooping her up before she knows it, carrying her to the kitchen and sitting her down on the counter as he pulls out a paper bag. He gives it to her and she instinctually opens her legs, letting him step between them, resting her forehead on his shoulder. He just massages small circles on her back. Her breathing finally steadies, and she utters a broken, "Sorry," trying desperately not to look at him.

He lifts up her head with his finger and kisses her temple tenderly, "Don't ever apologize for letting me in." She just nods her head and he helps her off the counter. She turns around in the doorway and smiles; mouthing a "Good night."

He hears her cursing under hear breath and smiles to himself.

"Looking for your keys again?"

"No, I'll have you know I'm actually looking for my ID." She says, as she shakes her bag once again.

He walks over to the couch, and picks up her sweater, smiling as his fingers run into the cool plastic. "Wouldn't be this one, would it?" He's not even trying to hide his cocky grin as he takes in her face – frustration that he found it, mixed with relief that she hasn't lost it.

"Give that to me." She says bitterly, as she snatches it from his hand, shaking her head. "And stop looking so smug about it. It's an ID, it's not like you saved the planet."

"Well the number of times you said – crap – while looking for it; you could have fooled me."

"I realize now that mornings are your – funny time."

"I don't have a 'funny time'. I'm hilarious all the time. My sense of humor has no connection to the solar movements."

"Yeah. OK." She says, trying her hardest to keep on a straight face.

"I don't! I wake up and instantly, I'm Charlie Chaplin!"

"Well, your cockiness sure as hell, doesn't have any connection to solar movements. It's omnipresent."

"Aren't you running late?"

"Actually, I am." She says grinning; clearly she's under an impression that she's won this morning.

"You taking your coat this morning?" And her smile deflates instantly; her cheeks turning red.

"I left it intentionally. It's good for circulation. It's this new thing I'm trying." And with that she's opening the door, wrapping her arms around her body, hugging her sweater tightly. "Goodbye Fitz." He just laughs as she slams the door shut. She's the most stubborn person he's ever met. And it's infuriating. She's infuriating. And she's so damn charming. And he can't stop thinking about her lips and the feel of her skin under his fingertips; the texture of her tongue against his. Infuriating.

"Morning Fitz." A soft voice breaks him out of his thoughts.

"Morning C." And he picks the little girl and swings her on his back, holding her in place with one arm, as he shuffles around the kitchen cabinets with the other one. "So what can I get you for breakfast this fine morning, m'lady?"

And she giggles, patting his shoulder lightly. "I'll have Eggos with Nutella and a white coffee, please."

"Coming right up."

He makes her cocoa and pretends it's coffee. She eats while he reads papers and gives her words to spell.

"So are you and Liv a boyfriend and a girlfriend?"

He chokes on his coffee, coughing until it's dripping out of his nose. He wipes his face with a napkin, then asks, inhaling deeply, "Why would you say that?"

"Well she's the last person you see before going to bed, and the first one you see in the morning. And she gave you her cookie."

"She what? She didn't give… How did you?" He stammers out, looking into the girl's eyes.

"I saw her do it when we were moving. You guys were packing in the closet and she gave you her cookie. And it was a really good cookie as well." The girl replies, patting his hand reassuringly.

"Oh, right. An actual cookie."

"What do you mean?" Her eyes widen, the discussion seemingly going down a path she could find interesting.

"Oh nothing. Yeah, C, it was a really good cookie."

"So does that mean she's your girlfriend?"

"No. We're just friends."

"But you always smile when she's around, or when she calls or when she texts you. And my friend Amber says that that means you like her. Her dad has a girlfriend. And his girlfriend always gives him cookies too. But Amber says that that's probably because she has an eating disorder. Is that bad? Does Liv have that?" And suddenly it's a million questions being fired at him and he has no idea how to stop it, or even pause it for long enough to begin to answer.

"C! Liv's fine. She's great. But we're not dating. We're friends. Now… just finish your breakfast."

She takes another bite and chews slowly, her face pensive. "So if you're friends, does that mean you're not having sex?" And he spits his coffee out again. "Because Amber said that her dad and his girlfriend started off as friends. But then they had sex. That's what her mom told her, when she visited her in rehab."

"OK. Now. First off, I want you to stop hanging out with Amber. Secondly, do you even know what 'having sex' is?"

"Well Amber says it's just dancing strange and yelling loudly, and then you're really happy."

"OK. Definitely stop hanging out with Amber-"

"But her dad's girlfriend was going to take us to Sephora to look at makeup."

"C, listen to me very carefully. Her dad's girlfriend is never, ever, taking you anywhere. And no, Liv and I are not having sex, and please, for the love of god don't say sex for another 10 years and-" A beeping of his phone interrupts him and he grins as he reads the text – Stop playing around and get ready, or she'll be late. "Time to get ready. We're leaving in 15 minutes. And I will check, personally, that you've brushed your teeth."

"OK." She says happily as she jumps off the chair. "Say hi to Liv." And she grins before skipping off to her room.

"C?"

"Yeah?" She asks pausing at her door.

"Would you mind if Liv and I were a boyfriend and girlfriend?"

She thinks about it for a moment, then tilts her head, smiling, "No. Not really. As long as I could have both your cookies."

/

He walks into the hospital, two avocado salads in a paper bag; special delivery from her favorite place. He needs to see her and talk to her, really talk to her. Because yesterday, she talked and then, well then she had a meltdown, and admittedly it took him a little bit by surprise; so he didn't tell her; he didn't tell her that this, them, it could work; they could make it work. Sure, she's worried about Lynn, and… He finally understands – that's not it. He's standing in the lobby, looking in; the glass doors opening and closing. She's in his arms, in a tight embrace, her head buried in the crook of his neck; his hands resting low on her back, as he whispers something into her hair. It makes sense. The phone-calls at all hours of night and day, the fact that he called him yesterday to say that she was running late; her insistence that she doesn't want a relationship. This isn't about Lynn; it's about him, not being good enough. It's about her, having a guy; a guy who doesn't have the emotional maturity of a baby whale, a guy who is there, all the time; who doesn't say weird things and who doesn't fight her on everything. It feels like his insides are sinking, and his throat is burning, his head pounding. It feels like everything is crashing and there's nothing he can do about it. He lost her, before they even started. He turns around, dumps the bags in the trash and walks out into the crisp winter afternoon. He takes his phone out and hovers over a name for a moment. He shakes his head – it's not revenge; it's not about her – this, this is just who he is.

/

He's ready to go when she comes back. He hears Lynn running towards the door to greet her, he hears her laugh as she tickles her. He hears her ask about him. And he smiles, he smiles before he can stop himself. He still cares. More than he should; more than he's allowed to. He grabs his jacket from the bed and steps into the living room.

"Hey, you're back." He says in a cool tone, trying to keep his emotions in check. All of them, the irrational anger, the disappointment, the joy that he can't control, the joy of merely being in her presence.

"Yeah, you going somewhere?"

"Meeting an old friend."

"Oh. OK." And she tries to smile, but it's faint, sad; disappointment in her eyes not matching the curve of her lips. She seems hurt, and for a millisecond it makes him happy; but then, there's the burning twinge of guilt. He suppresses it, extinguishes it.

"I'll see you tomorrow C." And he kisses the girl's cheek. He stops for a moment as he passes Liv, inhaling her scent. He can't help it, even if she's not his to have. Then, then he just walks away.

The girl is nice enough. Dark hair and blue eyes. She's smart. But it's dry smart, ivy-league mind. She smiles, but it's not like Liv's smile; it doesn't radiate happiness, it doesn't make his heart melt. And her laugh, it's too high-pitched and too formal; she doesn't close her eyes, or throw her head back. And she doesn't stop him when he says something stupid; she doesn't roll her eyes and she doesn't make fun at him. She pretends he's smarter than he is, and they both know it. He's with her, and he feels so lonely. He drinks. One, two, three, and is it a double or a single, does it matter really; just keep them coming. And the ice clinking makes her voice sound warmer; it makes her presence enjoyable. And she grabs his hand as they stumble into the street; and he holds on, because he fears that otherwise, he could drift away, drift into the nothingness. And then they're in an alley and she's grabbing his crotch, and he's kissing her; and temporarily he doesn't feel like he's drowning.

She smiles to herself as she hears his door open. "You wouldn't happen to know where I left my phone?" She asks as she shakes her bag, yet again.

"Sorry." Her hands freeze and she looks up, suddenly lightheaded. "Fitz is asleep. I just got up to get some water. You must be Liv." And a leggy brunette walks over, his shirt barely covering her ass, and she extends her hand, "I'm Mellie." Liv just nods, speechless. She feels sucker-punched. "I know this is awkward. We would have gone to my place, but he said he had to drop Lynn off at school this morning." And she gives her a small smile, clearly aware that she stepped into something, but unsure of what it is.

"It's really not a problem." She says weakly. She grabs her coat from the hanger and turns to leave. "There's coffee in the pot."

It feels like her insides are sinking, and her throat is burning, her head pounding. It feels like everything is crashing and there's nothing she can do about it. She lost him, before they even started. As she steps outside she shivers. And she can't handle this cold; it's paralyzing.

Before you decide you hate me - the story is called - Grow Up, so you know, they have to be a little immature in the beginning. And you know, it's cute, endearing even, most of the time. But yes, I agree, Mellie needs to go away. And she will. Pinky promise.

Now, please let me know your thoughts, I LOVELOVELOVE reading them. I really, really do. And it really gets me going and back into writing. So yeah, it really helps. ANd your support for this story has been incredible, and amazing and mind-blowing. So thank you.

(And I sincerely apologize for this a/n. I'm just high on writing. I've been typing for five hours straight and I've reached the stage when my fingers are quicker than my brain).