REVISION of chapter 1. . . I gave it a title and I changed a few minor details!

Here is a plot bunny that ran rampant in my mind! I originally intended to have this act as a one shot, but then wonderful reviews came in and I discovered that I am ruled by my artistic ego! And also, Mark AND Izzie have taken over my mind and demand that I write this story. So, I must give in or lose my sanity.

A special thanks to Andrea…you know how vital you are to my writing!

Thanks for all of the reviews! Keep them coming!

ABC and Shonda own Grey's and Mark and Izzie…it's quite depressing actually.

Chapter 1: Snowflakes and Lamp Posts

She was sitting alone, outside, on a bench made out of wrought iron. The temperature was below freezing, give or take a few degrees, and the thin blue scrubs she had worn for the last thirteen hours were growing damp due to the falling snow. But her senses seemed to have flat-lined into nothingness leaving her unaware of the shivering of her body.

He had stood there watching her silently for a few minutes, with his duffle bag over his shoulder and heavy wool coat wrapped tightly around his body acting as armor against the cold. He had just finished a long and tiring day and was ready to find a comfortable bar stool, and have a heady glass of bourbon (and perhaps a warm female companion for the night as well.) But he had stopped in his tracks when he had looked out through the large glass windows of the hospital lobby and saw her, silhouetted by the glow of from a lamp post.

He had no clue how long she had been sitting out in the winter weather, alone, in nothing but scrubs for warmth, but he had a sinking suspicion she was fast becoming a prime candidate for developing hypothermia if she didn't snap out of it. Figuring he was due for his "good deed" of the month, he made his way though the sliding doors, and over to the intern.

"Dr. Stevens."

He looked at her, seeing only the top of her head, her face hidden from his view. Her body was tense with shivering and he looked at her hands, gripping the bench tightly, tinted with a purplish red from the cold and knuckles white from suppressed emotion.

Suddenly, he had a sinking suspicion that his strong bourbon and future bed companion would have to wait.

Clearing his throat, he called her name more forcefully. "Dr. Stevens." When no acknowledgement came, he grasped her shoulder and bent down to level his face with hers. "Dr. Stevens!"

"I heard you the first time, Dr. Sloan."

He returned to his originally position, not bothering to hide the annoyance on his face. "Really? You could have fooled me. I was beginning to wonder if I needed to get the psych team out here." He folded his arms across his chest, peering at the woman before him. "You should go inside, Stevens. Only a fool would sit out here in nothing but scrubs."

Her eyes never wavered from the ground before her. She seemed intent on ignoring him and her lack of response further ignited his irritation. He did not like the idea of being so easily dismissed.

"You do know that it is twenty-nine degrees with a wind chill of seventeen. Why don't you go inside and save your hands from frost bite? Oh, that's right . . . I heard talk that you don't mind taking chances with you surgical career. But if you lose your hands…you really won't have a chance at being a surgeon then."

Her blue eyes flew to his. The old cliché of "if looks could kill" leapt to his mind, knowing that if it had indeed rang true, he would be lying on a gurney being rushed into the ER.

He watched as she mentally controlled her temper, impressed at her ability to do so. Despite having been at Seattle Grace for a short time, he had been able to get a good read on all of the personalities of the doctors and interns at the hospital. And he knew from gossip and his own keen observations that Doctor Isobel Stevens, in particular, was ruled more by emotion than a cool rationality and distance.

"That was a low blow, even for a worm like you."

His eyebrow went up at that. "It seemed to have worked." Sitting down on the cold bench, he put his duffle bag on his lap, opened it, and began rummaging through it. He felt her curious gaze slide towards him and ignored it looking for a particular item. When he found it, located at the bottom of his bag under three pairs of dirty scrubs, and two pairs of tennis shoes, he looked at her triumphantly.

"Here, take this and put it on." He said to her as he held out his black polar fleece. He rolled his eyes as she scrunched her nose in disgust. Two could play at that game, he decided.

"If you don't put it on, I will put it on you myself…and don't be surprised if I try to cop a feel or two." He lowered his brows, expecting a challenge.

Her head turned sharply at him. "You wouldn't dare."

"Oh, really? You wanna find out?"

Cool blue clashed against warm brown, in a battle of glares, neither party giving an inch. Silent moments and puffs of air were all that passed between them in their battle of wills.

"Fine…have it your way." He smirked at her as he unfolded the fleece, turning towards her.

"I can do it myself," she snapped as she grabbed the fleece from his hands. Yanking it over her head, she roughly shoved her arms in the sleeves. Turning again into her previous position, she asked with disdain, "Are you happy now, Dr. Sloane?"

"Exceedingly so." He kept his eyes on her as he returned his hand to his pockets and leaned his back against the bench.

"It smells bad."

"It hasn't been washed in over a month. What do you expect?"

"Ugh!"

Silence over came both of them once more.

"Don't you have a hot date with a silicone Barbie or something to get to?"

He cut his eyes towards her, chuckling at the aggravation in her voice.

"Nope."

He felt her twitching movements vibrate through the bench and smirked once more.

"Aren't you cold?"

"Aren't you?"

Silence met silence.

He watched her as she hid her hands in the much to long sleeves, covering them for warmth. Her legs were starting to bounce in irritation and her brow furrowed.

"You can leave now."

"Yup."

"Then go."

"I could."

"Well, why don't you?"

"Misery loves company."

"I'm not miserable."

"Of course, you aren't."

Her eyes shot to him, pursing her lips together. He acted like he didn't notice her scrutinizing glare, as he gazed down at his Italian loafers. "Are you enjoying the view? I've heard that the ladies of this hospital enjoy looking at it. What is it Grey said people call me? Ah, yes. 'McSteamy'…" He turned to look at her, a smirk on his face. "Do you call me McSteamy, Stevens?"

She narrowed her eyes at him. "I don't like you."

"I'm wounded, believe me."

She turned back around, more annoyed than before. He didn't know why he didn't just get up and leave, now that he had given her his fleece. The reckless intern at least had some protection from the night's cold thanks to his generosity. His good deed was done. He had offered warmth to the needy and he could officially say he was a 'Good Samaritan.' Yet . . . he stayed.

And so did she.

He couldn't deny the fact that he was a little baffled. He knew that she didn't particularly care for him, as she had so clearly stated just moments before. He liked pushing her buttons and watching her push back. She was very amusing when annoyed.

"Why don't you just leave already?" She asked exasperation in her voice.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I bothering you, darling?"

"Don't call me 'darling'!"

"Whatever you want, sweetness."

He knew he had pushed her "press at your own risk" button when she slammed her hands against the bench and turned to glare at him, hot breaths of anger escaping her lungs.

"Do you seriously take some kind of sick pleasure in pissing me off!?"

He sat back and looked at her innocently. "Now, why on earth would you say that?"

"Oh, let me see. I was sitting out here, alone, because I wanted to be alone, and I have dropped many not-so-subtle hints that I want you gone!"

"Why?"

Her brows came together in consternation. She bit out, "Why what?"

"Why, Dr. Stevens, do you want to be alone?"

"Because I…I…" Her words dropped off as movement to her left caught her eye. Watching her turn her head, Mark's gaze followed hers and saw O'Malley and Torres, the newlyweds, walking together hand-in-hand to her car, seemingly oblivious to them sitting on the bench.

Mark's eyes turned back to her and started to chuckle. "You— Stevens, you're in love in with O'Malley!?!"

Disgust crossed over her features and she hit his arm with her fist. "No, you idiot! I am not in love with George."

"Well, then . . . if you're not in love with him, why are you sitting out here about to turn into a block of ice?"

Mumbling, she answered. "It's nothing…I just…"

"I wouldn't say it's nothing judging by the way you glared at the new Mrs. O'Malley." He studied her, trying to figure out the puzzle in front of him. "What's wrong with Callie and George being married? She's a nice girl and—

She shot him a look.

--and I think they're good together." Mark said completely ignoring said look. "If you're not hot for O'Malley…then what's your deal?"

More silence met his question and he waited patiently for her to answer.

"It should have been me." She said it so softly that Mark wasn't sure if she said anything at all.

"What?" He asked leaning towards her. He felt the sudden shift of moods in her and knew in his gut that the ice within her was about to crack. And for some reason unbeknownst to him, he was scared...scared shitless of what he may discover.

Closing her eyes, she ground out, "It should have been me!" She turned to look at him straight in the eye, the browns and golds of her eyes shining against the redness of tears, her face crumbling. Pointing her finger at her chest, she yelled. "It should have been me! Me! I was the one engaged! I was the one that was supposed to get married!"

Mark looked at her in confusion, unsure of how to handle the fragile woman in front of him. "Izzie—

"Don't you see? I should have been the one to get married. He had gotten a new heart! He should have lived. . ." Her sobs were growing louder, shaking her tiny frame with their intensity. "I should've been the one to walk in and shout 'I got married! I'm Dr. Stevens-Duquett!"

She looked at him, her heartbreak clearly showing her in her eyes. "But, I'm not . . . I'm still just Dr. Isobel Stevens . . . and the only ownership I have of his name is spelled out in white letters."

"The clinic?" He asked in a whisper.

She bent over, holding her head in her hands. "That's the only legacy I have of him."

Mark sat there, in stunned silence, listening to her sobs not knowing what to do. He had never been one to deal well with female emotion and the self-confidence in his abilities with women had quickly dissipated in the last five minutes.

Doing the only thing he knew to do, he grabbed Isobel Stevens into his arms, cradling her body with his own, and held her, listening to her tears as the snow fell silently around them.