A/N: written for Greys Exchange on livejournal. Thank you to EscapismRocks for beta-ing. I hope you enjoy it!
"I believe in love. And second chances." Callie Torres, Grey's Anatomy, Episode 4.11
It's Thursday, it's 9:30 at night, it's inevitably wet – what else? It's Seattle - and you don't quite know what you're doing and, frankly, you're terrified.
The last time you were here, you simply hated him. He was so quintessentially the worst possible parts of himself. Arrogant – it was your surgery, after all, and you'd managed to get by without claiming deification; sexually harassing – you'd lost count of how many times he'd sleazily tried to get you into on-call rooms and closets; and a manwhore, still. Because as soon as you gave him the brush off at Joe's, he turned his attention to Callie and went off for a spot of public foreplay, while you were left to make small talk with Erica Hahn.
He drove you crazy. And yet, when you got back to LA, you were overwhelmed. You were sad. Your life, for all the wine on the beach and killer diagnoses, had fallen apart on the inside and, for the first time, you truly knew it.
At first, you hadn't known why and you went so far as to schedule an appointment with Violet. She—trying to get you out of her office as quickly as possible, you suspected— gave you plausible explanations and went over the stress index with you: 36 points for a job change; 73 points for a divorce; 25 points for a house move. It all sounded so reasonable. The average person could handle 100 points without problems apparently and you had never thought of yourself as average. But these categories only scratched the surface. When you went through the index by yourself later on, you notched up nearly 300 points without even trying.
But none of that explained the longing. It didn't explain the dreams. It didn't explain the smile on your face or the heat in your body during the first few seconds when you woke up and your nostalgic mind tricked you into expecting to find him next to you in the bed. It didn't explain the prickling tears when you discovered that he wasn't there. It didn't explain why you couldn't stop thinking about all the sex, all the love, all the friendship and why all the pain and problems and reasons not to be together had evaporated into insignificant nothingness. It didn't explain why, suddenly, Mark Sloan was all you thought about.
Because when you sat on the beach, alone with your wine and your thoughts, you couldn't remember his worst parts, you could only remember his best. His patience and kindness which he always hid behind a deflecting smirk; the way he made you laugh; the way he made love to you — he'd always call it fucking, but it never had been, not one single time, not on his part, not even the first time, even though that was what you'd screamed at him. That he'd fucked you and fucked over his best friend just to scratch some kind of pathological itch. He hadn't. He'd stepped outside his slutty, protective comfort zone and more or less ruined his life, just so he could be with you, the only woman he loved. Guilt and misinterpretation had never quite let you see that before.
And so you got on a plane. Because that's how you did things, you and him, except that usually it was him doing the flying and this time it was you and you hoped this would make the difference.
He's sitting, not at the bar where you expected to find him, but at a table in the back, by himself. He has a bottle of scotch in front of him, but he's not drinking. He's just staring vacantly at the space before him and he doesn't seem to see or hear you or register much of anything that's happening around him in the unusually unbusy bar.
But Joe catches sight of you and he raises a friendly eyebrow and smiles as you shake off your wet umbrella and your wet self.
"Good to see you, Dr Montgomery. Can I get you something?"
You hadn't even thought about drinking and you don't know what you want. You need a clear head to admit that your dreams are full of a re-lived love you hadn't fully noticed or understood until your heart insisted on replaying it for you.
"Evian?" you suggest.
"Coming right up," he says and reaches into the refrigerator behind the bar for the pink and blue-labeled bottle. As he places it and a tall glass in front of you, he indicates Mark with his head and asks, "What about him?" Joe always understands everything effortlessly. Seattle Grace should probably appoint him Head of Psych.
You shrug and smile hesitantly. But it's always safe and reassuring to confide in Joe. "He's what I'm here for," you whisper. And he nods slightly and smiles his encouragement. He probably knew you'd be back from the first day you left.
You pick up your water and glass and carry them over to his table. To your ears, your high heels are loud on the floor but he still doesn't notice you, he's still lost in thought.
"Mark."
He looks up finally and you're moved when you see his face, although you try to maintain your smile. He looks finished; he looks like you felt the day you left for LA; how you'd feel now if hope hadn't gotten the adrenaline rushing through your body. It's beyond hurt, beyond depression; it's terminal disappointment at the way life screws you up and lets you down.
"What do you want, Addison?" His voice is quiet and rough and doesn't quite work at first, as though he hasn't spoken for a few hours and you briefly wonder whether he's always this lonely these days.
"I flew here," you say. "I looked everywhere for you."
He narrows his eyes at you and rubs his nose tiredly, then picks up the bottle of scotch and pours a very small measure, not the habitual double, and drinks it down.
"Everywhere?" he asks cynically. "By which you mean the hospital, the hotel room and this bar? The sum total of my life in Seattle."
"Well, yes . . ." and you smile uncertainly and add, brightly, "I flew here to see you."
He stares at you with skeptical, darkened eyes. "Well, whoop-de-do!" he says and you flinch at his harsh tone. "I turned over a new leaf. I don't do transcontinental . . . or even west-coast . . . booty calls anymore." He sighs and pours another small measure of alcohol, but doesn't drink it. "I'm done running after women who don't want me. I'm not your fucking substitute, Addison; or Callie's; or any other damn woman's." But his abrasiveness subsides as quickly as it came and he sighs again and listlessly pushes the glass of scotch around the table, following it with his eyes.
You swallow. "You're not doing the running after, though," you eventually manage to say. "I'm the one doing the running after this time." And you pause, holding your breath, before you add what comes next, because this is your trump card. This is the best you've got. And if he doesn't get the significance of this or doesn't care, you'll admit defeat and go home and schedule a series of appointments with Violet.
"I flew coach," you say in a small voice and then wait.
Mark stops playing with the glass and runs his hands over his face and at first you think he's still mad at you and that you've failed. But when he looks up at you again, you realize by the expression in his eyes that he's trying not to laugh.
"You flew coach?!" he teases you. "Well, gosh, Dr Forbes Montgomery, that must have been just awful for you." He pauses a for a second and then adds, in a soft, wondering voice, "You flew coach to see me?"
You nod vehemently. "They didn't have any first class seats and I wanted . . . I couldn't . . . I wanted . . . " You stop babbling and try to master your words. "We're good together," you say, repeating another conversation you once had in this very place, but taking the opposite role. "It was never just about sex. I . . . I had too much on my mind to understand that properly. But now," you look into his eyes, "I want to be . . . I want to be Addison and Mark."
He holds your gaze and as he does so, his eyes transition through more emotions than you ever gave him credit for and the last one, the one that stays, is pure love.
"Sit down," he says. "Have a drink with me." He smiles; he remembers the conversation too. "We should celebrate or something."
Your heart's thumping in your chest. "You really want to?" you ask shyly, not sure you can believe this is happening.
He laughs slightly. "What did you think I was going to say?" he asks, his smile deepening and infusing his eyes and adding to the love that's already there. "It was always you, Addie. You know that."
"But you said—"
"That was before I knew you flew coach."
You pull out the chair and sit down and he reaches across and takes your hand. His hand feels the same as always; and you smile to yourself when you realize it's the same feeling you had when you woke up and thought he was next to you. Mark pours a little scotch into your untouched glass, picks up his own and you pick up yours. He touches his glass to yours and leans into you. "To Addison and Mark," he says and you murmur softly back and you both take a sip of your drinks.
You sit together in silence, holding hands, looking into each other's eyes. And part of you wants to break it and explain and say you love him. But it's not necessary. This is right. You both know it and there's no need for words. All you need is feeling. It's all you ever needed. You love each other. You have a second chance. It's no longer dreams or nostalgia; it's real, you and him, finally. You can talk later. Right now, it's enough just to be.