Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately. Merely borrowing.

A/N: This could be considered a sequel to my two-shot Collide, or it could be read on its own. Either way, it's just something I had written and wanted to share. It's definitely AU, and I'm not entirely sure of the rating, perhaps it should be higher because of the bad words and the things implied but erm, I might just change it later! This is a one-shot (for now!) Anyway, let me know what you think! (:

After Mark, there is no one else for a long time. Three months, in fact.

Three freaking months.

You thought you could handle it. After all, it was you who ended the deal – the no strings attached relationship you had with him. You ended it because you couldn't handle being one of many, you couldn't stand him sleeping with you, talking intimately with you, telling you things you are sure he never told the others, but then that was just the problem – the others. You were one of many. You didn't matter. You probably never will.

It becomes too much. You can't just sit around and watch him laugh with other women at Joe's, his arm wrapped securely around their waist, his lips close to their ear. The flare inside you, the fire that rips through your gut, raw and painful and perfect – you know what it is.

Jealousy.

It whispers around you, its voice taunting you every time you see him, work with him, and briefly talk to him. Of course, it is uncalled for, ridiculous even, because you are over him. You repeat the words in your head every time you see him. You are over him.

You. Are. Over. Him.

Over, over, over.

So, you miss the sex, but you aren't that superficial are you? Surely, if you need it that bad, if you crave it so much, if the desire is holding you back that much, this problem could be solved with a simple flick of your hand.

The thought causes you to wrinkle your nose up in disgust.

Yeah.

Going solo never really worked for you.

So, instead, you have been patient for three months.

Three.

Fucking.

Months.

For some reason, it feels as if you are going through withdrawal symptoms.

From Mark Sloan.

You've gone fucking mad.

-I-

You caught him looking at you today. His stare had been so intense, so unnerving, that it touched you everywhere. It felt good, fiery and familiar. It caused your heart to clench and your knees to become weak and caused your mind to reprimand you because you shouldn't be doing this, you shouldn't let yourself get carried away and caught up in his perfect good looks and perfect hands and stare and words. Because, you say for the thousandth time, you are over him. You over whatever it was you had together.

The words blur together. You aren't over him. You never were.

You could feel him watching you from the other side of the nurses' station and when you looked up, he didn't look away.

He continued to stare at you, his perfect blue eyes seeing through you, until you had to look away.

You can't handle this.

-II-

As odd as it seems, you strike up a friendship with Jackson Avery. You didn't particularly like him when he first came to Seattle Grace but you've found yourself warming to him. He is amusing, witty and intelligent. There is something strangely familiar about him.

You wonder briefly, as Jackson slides into the booth next to you, his thigh resting against yours, if you should end the drought.

Jackson is attractive.

You haven't had sex in three months and two weeks.

And you are on your third whiskey sour.

When Jackson leans in close to you, his lips brushing against your earlobe as he tells you something that your mind doesn't register, you feel a spark of determination run through you.

The streak ends tonight.

-III-

"Are you sure about this?" Jackson pants before he kisses the underside of your jaw.

A part of you wants to say no, you don't want this, you don't want him. His body feels different against yours and he kisses you with less passion, softer than you are used to, and there is nothing rough about the way the skin of his cheek rubs against you.

You feel out of place next to him and you want to tell him to stop, that this is a mistake, a bad, bad, horrible mistake, but then, another thought consumes you.

It feels good to clash with him.

It feels good and you've missed this feeling (even if it was from the wrong person).

And so, you murmur something under your breath as you forcefully yank his T-shirt over his head and kiss him hard on the lips.

He doesn't ask you anymore questions after that, simply pushes you into your room and kicks the bedroom door shut behind him.

-IV-

Meredith looks at you disapprovingly when she sees Jackson walk out of the house the next morning. She stares at you expectantly, one eyebrow raised, the unanswered question hanging between you.

You roll your eyes and pour yourself a cup of coffee.

She shouldn't judge.

She slept around, too.

Everyone has.

But then, it is always more important, strange, distracting and worrying, when the perfect, nice, sensible Grey sister does it.

You roll your eyes again.

People would just need to get used to this.

You nearly have.

-V-

There are repeat performances between you and Jackson, and after a while, it becomes less scary and suddenly, you find yourself welcoming his touch, his voice, his laughter.

He isn't as bad as everyone thinks he is.

Sure, he can be sarcastic and cold and he is surrounded by a cover of steely determination, but you like that. You find it endearing that he can be cold and conniving to the outside world, and then soft and warm and comforting to you.

He welcomes you into his life and slowly, you find yourself returning the gesture.

At the back of your mind, you wonder what he would look like with stubble.

-VI-

"You slept with him, didn't you?"

A cold trickle of dread creeps down your spine as you feel him behind you.

You don't turn around.

You don't answer him.

Instead, you close your eyes when you feel his body against your back and you remind yourself to stay calm.

His hand rests against the shelves in front of you, effectively trapping you between him and the cabinet in front of you. Suddenly, you regret coming into the supply closet. In the small, dark room, Mark's scent and presence becomes overwhelming and it causes you to be transported back to a time where three seconds later, his hand would be shoved under your scrub top and you would be bending forward, eager for him and only him.

But now, that seems like a lifetime ago.

You have Jackson.

Jackson.

And then, you realize that Mark asked you a question.

Did you sleep with Jackson?

Yes.

Yes.

And it was brilliant.

You can't tell him this, though. Despite everything, you don't want to hurt him (but then you think, would the information really hurt him?)

"Yes," you whisper and you don't know if the hiss that escapes your lips is from the thought of Jackson, or the feel of Mark's hand, which is now slowly trailing up your side.

He doesn't reply at first, his ghostly fingers working their way up your arm, and then he is touching your collar bone, slowly, so agonizingly slowly, moving south. "You shouldn't have," he murmurs, his lips against your ear as his fingers press against the heated skin above your scrub top.

You should move away from him, you know that, he is being arrogant and unreasonable because surely, it's not his business who you sleep with but you aren't angry with him. You like this, you like the feel of his body against your back and so you can only reply, "I wanted to."

Mark's deep laughter runs over you as he moves his hand away from your chest so that it now rests against the bottom of your scrub top.

Fuck.

"You wanted me," he whispers before slowly pressing his lips just below your ear. When you feel his fingers work their way under your top, you squeeze your eyes shut because it felt so good and familiar and fuck, you shouldn't do this.

"You wanted…this," Mark says when his fingers brush the underside of your bra. It takes all your strength not to whimper. "You wanted me."

Your head shakes on its own accord as he gently caresses the exposed skin of your breast. "No," you whisper and the word sounds pathetic even to you.

He knows you don't mean it, you know you don't mean it and so perhaps that is why he moves closer to you – if that was even possible – and your mind registers the feel of his hard body against your trembling back.

"Yes," he stresses as he kisses your neck.

Fucking hell, you think as you squeeze your eyes shut tighter. "Mark…" I have someone, I have someone better than you, you want to shout this, scream it until your heart can forget about him, but you can't seem to form the words.

You don't want to.

Now, as both of his hands caress you, soft and familiar and perfect, your heart races because he is so gentle that it brings a tear to your eye."Lexie…" Your name sounds beautiful when it comes from his lips. Carefully, he presses his lips against your cheek and whispers, "Tell me you want me." His lips run over your cheek, working their way closer to your mouth as he says with a new sense of urgency, "Tell me you want this."

Your voice shakes as you choke, "I-I can't."

You feel him breathe a sigh against your heated skin. "You won't," he bites out before he squeezes your body.

He knows you too well.

Once his fingers move away from your chest, for a brief moment you feel both relieved and upset at the loss of his heat, but then he is on you again, this time his hand is resting above your scrub pants.

"I miss you," he growls, before his tongue flicks out against the skin of your neck.

His scent is overpowering and as soon as his fingers slide beneath the waistband of your pants, your heart lurches in your chest, causing you to let out a strangled but sincere, "Fuck."

You feel him smile against your neck. "I miss the way you smell…" Inhaling your scent, his lips move to place open mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck.

His voice is like gravel as he pushes himself against your ass. "I miss the way you feel against me…" Carefully, his ghostly fingers slip beneath your underwear. "I miss the way your voice…" He trails off when your breath hitches at the feel of his fingers pressed so intimately against you, which causes him to chuckle and finish, "…does that."

As he moves his fingers against you, you know that this is the perfect moment to tell him to stop, to push him away and run out of here, but fuck, it feels so right and why did you ever think you could survive without this, without him?

Apparently, Mark feels the same because you feel him pant next to your ear, his words strained as he growls, "I miss the way you taste…"

It is then that your lips finally meet and a sharp electric shock crackles between your moving lips, but you do not mind because this it is exactly how you remembered it.

You let yourself indulge in him for a moment before you tear your lips away and look into his hazy eyes and pant, "Jackson…"

Mark shakes his head and lowers his forehead to yours, his fingers moving more urgently against you. "He isn't me, Lex," he whispers, and it may just be your imagination, but you sense a note of desperate sincerity behind his words. "And I'm what you want. Not him, me." His lips run agonizingly slowly over yours before he murmurs, "Choose me, Lex."

This is what you have wanted to hear since the moment you broke up with him. He wants you. No-one else but you. Although you want to convince yourself that this is what he means, you know it is another lie. Choosing him doesn't guarantee he will only choose you. There will be other women. There always is.

Somehow, you manage to pull together enough strength and determination to jerk away from him, his hand effectively snapping out of your pants.

And immediately it causes a sense of loss and heartache to wash through you, but you ignore the feeling and instead turn around to face him, your back flat against the cabinet. His eyes are hard and unreadable as he stares at you but you choose to block this out of your mind but squeezing your eyes shut. Taking a deep breath, you quietly stutter, "Y-You don't want me. You think you do, but, but you don't. You just…" You need to swallow to stop your throat from constricting. "Please, you can't do this to me, you can't choose to sleep around when you're with me and then, when I think I-I'm moving on you just turn around and decide you want me again. I-It isn't fair."

Your eyes snap open on their open accord and you see the way his mouth twitches, as if he wants to reply, but he says nothing. As usual.

"You just want sex, Mark. That's all."

The words hang in the air and at first he doesn't make any indication that they have effected him but then you see his chest heave and he moves closer, ever so slightly, before his deep voice says your name in that way that always makes your knees go weak.

"Lex…I…"

He wants to say more, you know it, but you are tired of waiting for him.

You don't look at him when you reply, "Jackson wants more than that. A-And you know what? I want more than that."

And before he can say anything, you swiftly unlock the door and leave.

-VII-

That night with Jackson sleeping next to you, his arm wrapped protectively around your naked waist, you wonder what it would be like if you resumed your agreement with Mark.

It is like a never ending battle in your mind.

Great sex vs., potential heartache, great company vs. guaranteed despair – you know it isn't worth it, not when Jackson is so willing to provide for you, look after you, care for you.

But…

He's not Mark.

And no matter how hard you try to deny it, the fact will remain.

He's not Mark.

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think (: