DISCLAIMER: Grey's Anatomy and its characters are the property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. No infringement intended.
ARCHIVING: Only with the permission of the author.

Seattle Nocturne
By BadTyler


Miranda Bailey made her way through the emergency room doors and rolled her eyes as she scanned the crowded waiting area. "It never fails. Full moon on the weekend always brings out the crazies…"

She could have chosen to send one of her interns down to evaluate a possible surgical patient, but Miranda had the feeling it wouldn't have been a good idea. Something was going on. She'd figure it out. She always did. Taking the clipboard from one of the nurses, she glanced at the chart. After a quick but thorough examination of the teenage girl who'd been injured in a motorcycle accident, she nodded, turning to the girl and dropping her voice a notch. "When are you kids going to realize you're not immortal? You know what we call those machines? 'Donorcycles'! You're lucky it wasn't any worse."

The girl moaned softly. "It really hurts…"

Miranda placed a reassuring hand on the girl's shoulder. "It's going to be fine. You're going up to the surgical floor now."

George O'Malley sprinted in, pager in hand. "Sorry, I was in the…"

"Never mind, O'Malley—get her prepped for surgery. You're with Dr. Torres on this one."

"Oh, swell," George said, not realizing that Bailey was still there. "Peachy keen."

"I'll personally peachy keen your ass if you don't move, now!"

"Yes, Dr. Bailey." George had been avoiding Callie as much as possible. The distance between them had gone from a small gap to something resembling the Grand Canyon.

The locker room was nearly empty when Meredith Grey wandered in. Stifling a yawn, she pulled off her scrubs, exchanging them for a low cut sweater and jeans.

"Going out with McDreamy, I assume." Dr. Yang was rummaging in her locker.

"Oh, hi, Cristina. Yeah… we're going out. Or maybe not really out-out, just.. in. Staying in, I mean. You know… just. Stuff. Yeah, that's it. Stuff."

"Recent research shows that too much sex burns out brain cells," Cristina replied tartly.

"Um, yeah, I don't think I read up on that…"

"Oh my God—you haven't heard a word I just said, have you?"

"Stem cell research… stems. Roses have thorny stems. Actually, I think I like daisies better. I wish Derek would send me flowers. No—it would be more romantic if he came to the door with them…"

Meredith didn't even look up when Cristina slammed the door.

"You sound cranky. Are you and Burke still not speaking to each other? Because… Cristina? Where—people are so rude here!" She gazed at her reflection and yanked the sweater even further down, baring her protruding collarbone. "That's better," she smiled.

Seriously, it wasn't.

Izzie Stevens needed a breath of fresh air. Picking up her cold coffee that she'd forgotten about earlier, she walked outside and looked up at the moon. The night sky was clear, for a change, and the moon was almost directly overhead. She gulped in fresh air, grateful for a stolen moment away from Dr. Mark Sloan, self-appointed God's gift to mankind. Ugh.

Alex Karev burst through the front door. "Izzie? What the hell are you doing out here? Sloan wants you to…"

"What? Pick up his dry cleaning? Fetch him a cappuccino? Wax his car? How much more of this crap are you going to take from him, Alex? Jesus!"

"Hey—I can learn a hell of a lot more if I do what he asks! You know, Izzie—he has a whole group of other interns who'd gladly take my place. So, I do a few small things for him every now and then—what's the harm?"

"God, Alex! Didn't you see 'The Devil Wears Prada'? He's Meryl Streep and you're Anne Hathaway!"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"It's a movie!"

"It's a chick flick!"

"Well, seeing as how he's got your balls stashed somewhere in his office, you're getting pretty close!"

Alex was torn between continuing the argument or kissing Izzie. He would have been better off arguing. Izzie pushed him away so hard that he stumbled, nearly falling backwards over a bench.

"Seriously!" Izzie tossed the dregs of her cold coffee into the trash as she strode back into the hospital. "I so need to get laid…"

Alex watched her go. "Damn. I need to get laid."

Addison Montgomery slowly walked out of the delivery room. She was exhausted, drained, in dire need of sleep. There was no way she'd be able to drive home without falling asleep at the wheel. It had been a long and difficult delivery. She wanted to stick around, just in case there might be complications. I'll finish my notes later. I just hope the on call room is empty.

She looked down and realized she was holding one of Burke's favorite surgical caps. He'd accidentally left it in the scrub room and she'd meant to give it back to him.

Addison put it in the pocket of her white coat. She was so sleepy that she didn't notice it had fallen to the floor. As she drifted off, her last conscious thought was: I need to get laid.

Cristina, fresh from her annoying conversation with Meredith, felt the need to do something, anything. She checked the board, but there were no surgeries she might get to scrub in and assist with. She wasn't even sure if Burke was still in the building: they hadn't actually spoken more than a few words to each other after she'd gone to Webber and confessed what they'd done. As she rounded the corner, she was surprised to see Burke's cap on the floor outside the on call room. Good. Now, maybe we can talk and actually put some closure to this stupid fight… She was initially reluctant to awaken him, though—but it might be nice to just take her clothes off and climb in there with him. It might help.

And God knows, we both need to get laid.

Cristina undressed quickly in the dark, trying to be as quiet as possible. She heard Burke stirring, then sighing as he changed positions. That's odd. He sounds funny. Oh, shit, I hope he's not coming down with a cold: I really want in on that endartorectomy! God, I love clogged carotid arteries…

Addison slowly awakened at the slight movement of the thin mattress. "Mark? Is that you?" Cristina froze. "Please tell me you're not Derek… hello? Would you mind telling me who you are and what the hell you're doing?"

Cristina opened her mouth, but no words seemed appropriate. "Well—I'm not Derek, if that helps."

"YANG? Turn on that light. Turn it on, now!"

Cristina flipped the light switch. As she stood in the glaring light, wearing nothing but a flimsy black thong, she was mesmerized by the sight of Addison, sitting up in the bunk, looking extremely pissed—and holding a…

"Vibrator? You were planning on hitting me with your vibrator?" Cristina stifled a giggle. Nothing could have been less threatening than Addison Montgomery, eyes heavy with sleep, pointing a vibrator at her.

"Oh, God," sighed Addison. "Why me? Why now? Why are you still standing there, Yang?"

"I—don't really know… what the right thing to do would be, under the circumstances."

Cristina was surprised by the feelings that were causing her to stammer and blush: to remain standing in the harsh fluorescent glare. She did know she looked damn good in her underwear, though. For some unfathomable reason, she didn't want to leave.

"OK. Get in. Come on." Addison threw back the blanket. "And turn off the damn light."

"Would you… put down the vibrator first? I'm not comfortable with you pointing it at me." Cristina took several small steps closer. She knew that once she finished the short journey from the doorway to the bunk, everything would change.

And it did. They both had experienced sex with women, though it was never discussed.

They both had their reasons for coming together, and although their reasons were quite different, they were sexually on the same page, and at one point, the very same paragraph. "Keep it down," whispered Addison.

Cristina looked up from between Addison's thighs. "I wasn't making any noise…"

"That's not what I meant. Oh, keep doing that. And that. Cristina, I… damn!" A moan escaped from Addison's lips, and she turned her head into the pillow to keep from screaming. Cristina, hair tangled and damp, heart pounding, pulled Addison closer, burying her face in the redhead's neck. Somehow she knew this was going to be one time, never to be repeated, nor even alluded to—and the idea inflamed her desire all the more.

Callie Torres pulled off her surgical gloves. "You can finish, O'Malley." She turned on her heel and left the operating room. "And stop making that face at me!"

George guiltily changed his expression. "Does she have some kind of, like, sixth sense or something?"

The scrub nurse shrugged. "I have no idea."

Izzie Stevens was off, her shift was over. She was pulling a sweatshirt over her head when Callie entered the room. Inexplicably, Izzie turned to her and said, "Hey—feel like getting a drink?"

"You? Me? Us?" Callie was pleasantly surprised, but what the hell.

"Yeah. You… me. Us."

"OK. Maybe we could even have—two?"

"Maybe we could."

On their way to Joe's, it seemed perfectly natural for Callie to sling her arm around Izzie's waist.

And in silence, Cristina and Addison dressed, ready to go back out into the busy hospital.

Addison lowered her voice. "This—us—will never happen again, nor will it be a topic for discussion. Is that clear, Cristina—I mean, Dr. Yang?"

Cristina nodded. "My lips are sealed… Dr. Montgomery."

"Good. See you tomorrow, then?"

"Right. See you tomorrow."

Alex Karev looked at the clock, even though he'd done so just five minutes earlier. A quiet night—and no chance of a Plastics consult, nor opportunity to watch Sloan do anything more interesting than reading the latest issue of 'GQ'—had put Alex in a foul mood.

"Hey—Karev? You can leave now, if you want to. I'm going as soon as I get these abstracts back to—wait, you take them. Then, you can go home."

"I'm on it." Karev leaped to his feet.

"Wait… you know what? I really should stick around for another hour. So—take these articles back, file them, bring me a double espresso—and then you can leave."

In the elevator, Alex dropped the thick stack of documents. As he kneeled down to pick them up, he realized that Izzie was right. He was Sloan's bitch. McBitch, to be precise.

Miranda Bailey had finished her charts, checked on her patients, and tied up every loose end she could think of. It was time to go home; to spend her few, precious hours with her family.

As she walked the familiar hallways, she realized what was going on. All of her interns—and a few other surgeons she could name—needed to get laid.

And as far as she could tell, not all of them had succeeded.

But the ones who had? She'd be able to tell just by looking at them.

The End

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