"A Fair Trade"
Author's Note: This is my response to "Don't Deceive Me (Please Don't Go)." I am so infuriated with Grey's right now; it's not even remotely funny. This was my way of coping; sorry it's sad.
...
He can almost hear the realization explode in her brain. He can see the way her face hardens just infinitesimally, but enough to show him that she knows.
"I saw the heartbeat today," he tells her quietly. "This is my kid." He gives her a small smile. "This is a part of me." Lexie steps closer, but doesn't meet his eyes. She's looking down, setting the dishrag on the countertop. Though her movements aren't violent, he can tell there's rage just beneath the surface. And it's going to come out. "Please," he asks her—begs her, really. "Is there any way that we can—"
And then her voice is breaking before she even has a chance to speak, and he's sure there are tears in her eyes, even if she doesn't want her to see them, as she tries to hide her emotions. The hurt runs too deep, though, and it breaks easily through her weak mask of indifference. Her skin hasn't gotten thick enough yet, not thick enough to ward everything off, to ward him off. He's always been the one to get underneath her skin in the most delightful—and now, the most betraying—ways.
"How the hell did you get me in this position—TWICE?" Her hands slaps the countertop as if to emphasize her point, but something tells Mark that she wasn't planning it that way. He thinks she only hit the granite so she wouldn't have to hit him.
"It—it's—it," she breaks off, chuckling and shaking her head. "Unbelievable. You are unbelievable!" This time the word isn't said with a smile, it isn't said with carefully concealed interest. It's angry, it's pissed off, it's fucking furious. And before Mark can say another word, or even turn around, she's grabbed her coat, her purse, and her keys. She's out the door—out of his life—in less than five seconds, letting it slam shut behind her, a final insult.
He doesn't stop her, and minutes later, as he's still sitting motionless in his chair, he wonders if it would have mattered if he'd even tried.
…
It's a few hours later that there's a knock on the door. Mark sighs, setting down his glass and getting heavily to his feet. If Callie wasn't pregnant, he'd just yell at her through the door to deal with her own lesbian problems. He's got enough of his own. But she'd asked him not to yell at her. And seeing as she was the one playing host to what was practically a parasite—at least to his love life—he shouldn't be the one to complain.
"Look, Torres, I really don't have time for th—" Mark's protest catches in his throat when he sees who's on the other side of the door. Lexie meets his eyes, biting her lip.
"You were expecting Callie?" She asks after a silent minute, her voice hoarse and cold. He wonders, idly, how long she's been crying.
"No," Mark replies quickly. He hopes it wasn't too quickly, but it's hard to gauge your own reflexes when you've downed more than five glasses of scotch in less than two hours. "No, I just assumed…" He pauses, swallowing heavily. "Did you forget something? Did you…Did you want to talk?" He asks hesitantly, opening the door a few inches, hoping but also knowing that he's pushing his luck. Lexie blinks, staring at him silently. He hopes she won't turn and leave. He hopes this invitation isn't too much too soon. It's just talking. She can see that, right? It's just talking.
Lexie ignores his worried expression, choosing instead to push past him and wipe all the emotion from her face. When she reaches the middle of the apartment, she pauses, turning around. Mark is facing her by the time she pivots, the door already closed behind him. He's about to explain himself when she speaks.
"I don't forgive you," she tells him. He waits for her to continue, but when she doesn't, he simply nods. Lexie exhales; she'd been waiting for his response. "I don't forgive you and I don't forgive her."
"Okay," Mark nods again. That's fair.
"But I…" Lexie pauses, looking around. She notices the candles are still lit, the pots still on the stove. The smell from the half-cooked dinner has dissipated; he probably turned the burner off after she left. She also notices a half-empty bottle of scotch on the floor by the armchair. It looks like I wasn't the only one to try and escape reality through alcohol tonight, she thinks sadly.
"I don't want this to be Sloane all over again," she tells him, her eyes still on the bottle. "I don't want to have been given a chance to do things over again and then not act differently." When her eyes meet his again, he nods. "I'm not saying I'm on board with this, and I'm not saying I forgive you. Because I'm not. And I don't."
"Okay," Mark whispers.
"But I don't want this to ruin us either. I don't want it to win."
"I don't…" Mark clears his throat, not quite believing what he's hearing. "I don't want it to either."
Lexie nods, looking around the room. I need something to do, she thinks. I can't just stand here. "So," she begins a few seconds later. "If you'll…let me…I'd like to finish making dinner." She pauses, thinking that there probably needs to be an explanation for her sudden interest in their ruined dinner. "Alcohol doesn't sit well on an empty stomach."
Mark nods, smiling slightly. "Okay," he says again, moving to take his seat at the island again. He doesn't bother mentioning that he's almost certain her appearance has completely sobered him.
…
The kiss starts predictably. They're sitting side-by-side at the counter, having had abandoned the romantic spread on the kitchen table. It had seemed too intimate, too soon. It didn't seem right yet, at least not to Lexie. And as long as she was here, Mark wasn't one to complain. As they at the last few bites of their dinner, the most of which has passed in near-silence, Lexie had leaned forward, resting her elbow on the counter and her head in her palm. Mark had glanced over to her, not sure what to say. He never knew what to say. That's why he resorted to actions above words with her. That's why this night had been ruined earlier—he'd let his mouth do the work. Not anymore.
As his eyes roam over the side of her face, Lexie turns her head ever so slightly to meet his searching gaze, removing her hand from her forehead. Slowly, carefully—with his eyes glued to hers the entire time—Mark leans forward. His lips part gradually as he brings his mouth in contact with hers. Lexie debates pushing him away or pulling back, but the thought is banished as quickly as it appeared. Even though it's only been only one night, she's missed this. Even though it's been less than two hours, she's been craving this, craving him, somehow without even knowing.
Attaching her mouth to a tequila bottle was nothing compared to attaching her mouth to his. His mouth was perfect in all the ways a mouth can be perfect. It wasn't too big or too small—Lexie's was small enough for the both of them. His lips moved sensually together, along with hers, in a wonderful and long-practiced harmony. The stubble above, below, and to the sides of his lips touched and tickled her porcelain skin in all the right ways.
As if there was a wrong way for Mark Sloan to touch her.
Everything about his contact with her—from his quiet kisses to the hand currently snaking its way up to cup the back of her neck—felt right. She'd never really realized how much she had needed his touch until it was gone.
But now he was here. And she needed him. Her desire hit her with unexpected force—she hadn't come back looking for sex. She had actually been hoping there wouldn't be sex. That was one of the reasons she hadn't touched him all night, until now. She didn't want to encourage him; she didn't want to start anything.
But now…Now that he'd started it, there was no stopping it. What had began as a little twinge in her lower belly has now become a full-fledged fire in her abdomen. She reaches up, without thinking, relying on instinct and cherished memories, to bury her hands in his hair. He leans farther forward, capturing her mouth with more passion and enthusiasm as he feels her respond to his advances. A minute later, she's standing up, towering over him for once, and his arms are around her waist. They're skimming lightly over and under the surface of her shirt, but they're uncertain. She can tell he's wary to push her too far. So she does the pushing.
Lexie's hands leave his hair and travel down his chest, tracing the lines of his pectoral muscles through the front of his shirt. When she meets the hem of the garment, Lexie lets her fingers slip beneath it, running them along the skin of his stomach and back. She removes her lips from his, choosing instead to trail them along the length of his jaw and stopping to explore the crook of his neck. Mark smiles as this, his hands holding her closer without even meaning to. Her hands continue to explore the semi-nude and extremely well muscled contours of his abdomen and torso until he has to pull away.
"We don't have to do this," he tells breathlessly, his eyes meeting hers. "I'm not expecting anything." Lexie nods, smiling at him for the first time that night.
"Well, I am," she replies, voicing the words honestly. He holds her gaze, grinning, before leaning forward for a kiss, but she stops him. She puts her hand over his mouth, and leans away from his face to look him in the eye. "Despite everything that happened, I want you to know…I'm…" She pauses, looking down before back up—and hitting him with the intensity of her gaze—before continuing. "I'm still in love with you."
"Lex," Mark murmurs against her hand, his icy eyes softening to lukewarm puddles. He knows she didn't have to go there. This was for his benefit, all his benefit.
"I don't want this to mean nothing—"
"It couldn't," he interrupts, his voice decisive, as her hands leaves his mouth.
"—So I want you to know how I feel. How I still feel. I just…" She sighs, looking away before meeting his eyes again. "It doesn't matter how many other kids you have or how many people you sleep with…I thought it did, but it doesn't. Not to me. It should matter," she tells him, her tone angry—but it's directed inward, at herself, as if this is her shortcoming. "It should matter…but somehow it doesn't." She pauses, looking him dead in the eye. "I'll keep coming back. I…I wish I wouldn't. I wish I could stop myself, I wish I could have some semblance self-respect. …But I can't give you up. I don't…I don't know how."
Mark's hand reaches up slowly to remove hers from his face. "I don't know how to give you up either," he tells her. He pauses, looking her deep into her eyes for a few seconds before speaking. "And I don't even want to bother to try."
…
Mark wakes with a jolt, a foul smell clogging his nostrils. He blinks, slowly raising his head. He scrunches his nose against the smell, trying to ward it off, but soon realizes that won't make it go away. His eyes travel across the room, from the coffee table and bottle of scotch in front of him, to the chairs in the kitchen. Just a few feet beyond, his gaze settles on a cloud of black smog rising from the back of the room.
What the…Before he can even finish the thought, Mark's by the stove, pulling the pan off the counter and throwing the contents into the sink before the apartment burns down. Nothing comes out. He shakes the pot, but the food inside has burned and charred to a crisp, attaching itself to the metal of the pot. Great. Something else to clean up.
It's many hours later when Mark finally remembers the dream he'd had. It had been so real, effectively distracting him from the catastrophe still smoking in his kitchen, but the minute he'd woken, he'd still forgotten it. All night, little bits and pieces had been coming back to him. He hadn't thought much about them, because, well, why would he want to focus on what wasn't his anymore? On what was gone? He didn't even take the time to realize that the conversations and images that were filling his head had never even happened, no matter how much he wished and believed they had. The only details he held onto were the ones concerning alcohol—and he followed them to the letter, even surpassing his imaginary five drinks in two hours record.
Long past midnight, once he's drunk enough to drift in and out of remembering the events of the night, he reaches over, flicking off the light as he settles haphazardly into bed. Though he never was as a kid, Mark is grateful tonight for the darkness. Especially the all-encompassing darkness of this night. Must be a new moon, he thinks, not seeing the familiar slice of pale white light through the window. He tries not to think too deeply about the symbolism of that fact. Even though, he turns his head, out of habit, looking for her… And he's glad when the darkness is too deep for him to discern whether she's there, beside him, or not. He could reach out…But Mark stops himself before his shaky hand moves even a few inches out into what he's only half-sure is empty space.
He doesn't want to believe he's the only person in this bed. Not now. Not tonight. Tonight, he wants to live with his delusions. He wants to cherish them, to believe them…
They might be the only things he'll have left once the dust settles.
…
"Morning," she mutters, rolling over towards him, still half-asleep. Mark's eyes remain closed, but he smiles when he feels her scoot closer to him, her head resting on his shoulder.
"Good morning," he replies after a moment, sticking his head out blindly in hopes of seeking out her lips. She laughs, leaning back out of his range. Mark moves forward, but her sight has given her an advantage, and she moves out of the way before he can touch her. Her routine annoys him, but really, this is the only way to wake him up. It's the only way he wants to be woken up.
"You know this bothers me, right?" Mark asks, finally opening his eyes and moving to crouch over her body, drawing her face towards his. She sighs into his mouth as their lips meet, her hands moving to trail down his sides.
"Really?" Lexie asks between kisses. "You seem rather fond of it right now."
Mark smiles down at her, letting his hands thread easily through her hair. He's gotten so used to waking up like this, what'll he do when she isn't here; when she's out of town or on-call? Who's going to wake him up then? Luckily, Lexie seizes that moment to wrap her arm around the back of his neck, deepening their kiss, and answering his unspoken question for him.
I'll always be here to wake you up, no need to be concerned, the kiss says. And suddenly, as if she'd spoken aloud, his worries don't seem to matter anymore. What the use fretting about the future when you're already so sure of yours, when it's already set in stone?
…
Mark's eyes snap open; his senses more alert than they have ever been in the past two days.
His senses more alert than they have ever been. That realization carries along with it many details he'd rather not discover—many things that he knew in the back of his mind but he wished he didn't. He knows without even looking that there isn't anyone lying next to him. He knows without checking that there are no message on his phone, there are no notes on the counter. No explanation for her absence except his own fucking stupidity, a throbbing headache, and a ruined kitchen.
He rolls out of bed, padding softly to the bathroom. He tries not to look anywhere except at his own reflection, for fear of being reminded. If he looks down, he knows he'll only see a pair or two of her underwear, reminders that this bathroom can be used for many things besides showering and expelling waste. He focuses only on the mirror in front of him, because he knows if he lets his eyes drift even an inch, they'll notice her towel and bathrobe hanging on a hook by the shower, and he'll wonder for a blissful split-second, where is she? He sighs, remembering all the scattered clothes he'd had to step around to make it to this little room. He supposes he should return her things to her. If she's really gone, she'd want them…
But there's that little voice in the back of his head, asking, What if she comes back?
And that's enough to stall any apartment renovations for the time being.
…
They don't work together for three whole days. Seventy-two hours. He sees her in the hospital, on the surgical floor, in the cafeteria. He doesn't approach her or acknowledge her presence. She does the same.
She sees him in the OR, he sees her in the gallery. It seems that whenever one of them is in surgery, the other's always there to watch. Lexie tells herself she's there because it's a learning opportunity. He is the best, after all. No one can deny that.
Mark tells himself it's what he deserves. He doesn't even bother making up an excuse, for he knows that's all they are: excuses. And after having dealt her the cold, hard truth, he should be able to do the same, face the facts.
But even after everything's that's happened between them, it's comforting to see her on a daily basis. Even seeing her from ten or twenty feet away, with a glass wall and thirty people between them, is enough.
For now, at least.
…
Its on the third day that he really sees her—actually, really sees her. And the minute his eyes land on her, he decides to lay it all out. Enough of the running, enough of the hiding, he's going to walk up to her and say something. He's going to tell her it was a mistake, he's going to say he's sorry, he's going to say she's all he's been thinking about. He's going to tell her how much it sucks to see her clothes in his apartment, but never her. He's going to tell her how he's missed her so much he's started creating fantasies in his head about her—and for the most part, they're not even sexual. They're simple, easy—eating dinner or watching TV. Buying furniture or falling asleep, fully clothed. He's going to tell her how much he needs her, because if the pain in his chest isn't enough of a sign, the delusions certainly are…
But she's with Avery.
…
It's as if a switch flicks, and suddenly there's a rage flaring up within him. He can feel it rising, feel it burning, and feel it narrow his vision until all he can see are the two figures across the hall. He doesn't even think—doesn't even pause to ponder another course of action—before he's striding purposely across the linoleum to meet her. She's smiling at something Avery is saying to her, chuckling a bit, but she glances over when she sees him in her periphery. She always glances over. This is as close as they've been since that night it all ended.
"Excuse me," he says to Avery, cutting in between the two without even waiting for one of them to make room or answer. As far as Mark's concerned, room isn't needed. He practically shoves Avery out of the way, and as Lexie's eyebrows knit together at his odd behavior, he moves to stand directly in front of her—less than six inches between them. He's half-surprised and half-relieved that she didn't step back. That has to be a good sign, he thinks desperately.
He looks her in the eye, holding her gaze for a few seconds before speaking. He can vaguely hear Avery mumbling about something behind him, but he doesn't bother to listen. There's nothing more important than the person standing in front of him right now.
"I am so sorry," he tells her, his voice quiet, his eyes locked with hers. He pronounces each word slowly, carefully, studying her face and making sure she takes it all in. It's a few seconds later when she opens her mouth to speak, but he denies her—moving instead to cover her lips with his own. This kiss, unlike the one at Joe's, is more of a pitiful last resort an impromptu romantic gesture, though he hopes she doesn't see it that way. He doesn't think he could bear it if she rejected him now.
Immediately, he can feel her stiffen beneath his touch, but this doesn't stop him. He raises his hand slowly, letting his fingertips graze her cheekbone lightly, hoping to entice her into a reaction. It's possible that small touch is what causes her to move, what causes her to respond—maybe because it reminds her of that night at the Emerald City Bar last December—but whatever it is, Mark doesn't really care. All he knows is that one moment she's standing like a statue in front of him and the next, she's kissing him back, her hands moving to latch onto his cheeks.
And right away, like a shot from a gun, it's as if his previous fury has exploded into happiness, into hope. It's almost embarrassing how quickly he steps closer, how quickly he draws her body to his, how quickly his spirit soars. It's almost embarrassing how much he's craved this, how much he's needed this.
But a few seconds later, Mark makes himself pull back, makes himself remove his lips from hers, makes himself take a step away from her. There's the faintest hint of a smile on her lips as her eyes meet his. He holds her glittering gaze for a few seconds before speaking. He tells himself it's too soon, but he knows he owes it to her, owes it to them. He has to be sure.
"You forgive me?" He asks. Lexie doesn't speak, but he notices her lips purse ever so slightly to show her disapproval. At his question or his word choice, he isn't sure. He's about to rectify the situation as best he can, but before he can open his mouth, she takes a hold of his face and draws him down to her level for another kiss. He grins into her lips, stepping closer once again.
It's a minute or so before they pull away, noting the empty space around them and realizing Jackson must've left. Mark simply draws her towards him again, and forgets about everything else.
…
When he blinks, nothing has changed. She's still standing beside the resident, a smile on her face and interest in her eyes. That damn smile, he thinks, knowing it was the one thing above all others that enticed him to her. That genuine, believable, and true smile.
She hasn't seen him yet, and he's grateful for this. She shouldn't get to see as she crushes the last bit of hope he was holding onto just by standing next to another guy. Just by laughing, just by talking. No, Mark promises himself. She's never seeing that. He might know how badly he hurt her, she might've let it slip, but there is no way in hell she will ever find out how much of a hold she has on him. It's one secret he's protected for so long, held so close to his heart, and there's no way he's letting go of it now. He won't give her the satisfaction.
So he does the most logical thing—the thing that comes most naturally to a guy like him. He finds the first available and slightly familiar female face and walks right up to her. He vaguely remembers this woman having propositioned him a few weeks ago, but he'd turned her down because he was still trying to make things up with Lexie. He hadn't wanted any distractions. Well, Mark thinks ruefully, not anymore. Now, he's all about distractions.
He listens long enough to hear the woman assent to his pitiful advances, and soon enough they're locking the on-call room door and shoving each other up against it. They're strangers, he's seen her maybe once or twice in the halls, but does that really matter? She's told him her name, breathless, half-clothed, but he hadn't listened long enough to hear it.
Some things never change.
Just like her (and Mark refuses to even think her name, not here, not now—not ever), he's here again, back where he started the last time they broke, the last time their lives split separate, the last time a baby was thrown into the mix. Back to the beginning.
There's a feeling, he notes with curiosity while the woman's body undulates on top of him, that is resonating from somewhere deep in his chest… He tries to identify it, but it's foreign; nothing about it is familiar to him. He continues pleasuring the woman until she's satisfied—or is she simply pleasuring herself? He's certainly getting nothing out the experience. He doesn't even bother thinking of his own needs, and there's no point. There's nothing this woman can do to help him, or any other, for that matter, besides the one he's trying to drown out in another's body. Lexie.
Mark closes his eyes, cursing himself. By focusing on that strange feeling in his chest, he's become distracted from his distraction and ended up exactly where he didn't want to be.
But still, as long as he's breaking the rules, he allows himself to think about her for one short second. He allows himself to be swallowed by memories for one tiny minute.
And then he gets up and tries in vain to forget.
…
It's a couple minutes later, when he shrugs his scrubs back on and the woman is gone, that he remembers. He recalls the odd feeling in his torso from moments ago, what he felt when he was with this stranger, and he realizes what it was. Regret. Or sorrow. Or heartbreak. Call it what you want, but they're all the same in the end.
The feeling emanates from somewhere in his upper body, maybe from that mysterious organ he knows Christina Yang would call a heart. Mark smirks slightly at the thought as he pulls on his pants. He's sure if they opened up his chest right now, there wouldn't be anything there. Not anymore. He feels a sick sort of pride swell within him as he becomes aware of this fact.
…
The doctors would study him diligently, Mark's sure of it. They'd run tests and do labs. They'd question his father, his surrogate mother, Derek, Addison, hell, even Lexie. They'd ask endless questions: 'When did it start? Did you ever notice anything? Did you ever see a change in his behavior, anything that would indicate that he's heartless?'
'No,' they'd answer, their faces and voices stoic. 'He's always been like that.'
And later, they'd come to him. When they were no closer to finding a solution than when they'd began, they would finally come to him for information.
'What do you think?' They'd ask. 'Has is always been this way? Have you ever felt different?' He'd shrug, glancing past their shoulders and out the window. He'd catch Derek's eye, or maybe Addison's, across the glass. They stayed there most of the time, quarantined away—as if they were afraid heartlessness was catching. He'd look around, searching for the one person he wanted to see, but when his eyes settled on her, her face was cold. Maybe it was.
'Yes,' he lies quietly. Her eyes meet his, and he wonders idly if the doctors can tell—if they can trace his gaze and see the source of it all. He doesn't linger too long on that thought, nor on her face. 'Yes,' he repeats firmly, trying to drive the point home, trying to inject some honesty into his pathetic excuse for a lie. 'I've always been like this.'
Then the doctors would leave to converse, to lay down his prognosis, believing him without a second thought despite the vast evidence to the contrary. Or is there evidence to the contrary? He thinks, puzzled. Maybe I have always been like this…
And in a few minutes they'd come back to him, their faces solemn, saying that 'there's nothing we can do. You're just going to have to live with it.' They'd call it a mutation, an anomaly, or maybe even a medical miracle.
'It's a miracle a man can live without a heart, isn't it?' They'd ask. 'A life with no feelings, no misery, no sadness… A life without pain in exchange for a life without love.' They'd laugh and chuckle, and then they'd ask, 'It's fair trade, isn't it?' The question is meant as a joke, Mark's sure of it…But he can't help but take the idea seriously.
…
Mark leaves the on-call room, still pondering the answer. Is there an answer? He wonders as the girl from moments ago tries to catch his eye and send him a message with her smile. He doesn't bite; she should know it wasn't anything more than a distraction. One that didn't work. Without thinking, he looks up when he hears that familiar voice, forgetting the pact he'd made with himself. She's standing across the hall, still talking with Avery. Her hand is on his arm now, and she's leaning towards him slightly, with that smile on her face. Mark swears its grown wider.
He stops where he is, staring. How is it that she's always the one to make him stop and take notice, when the opposite never occurs? Why is it always her that breaks his metaphorical heart, (since all he can feel is an emptiness in his chest, and even those without medical degrees know what that means) and never the other way around? It should be even, he thinks. We should get a fair shot at making each other's lives miserable. But, he remembers, he already took his turn. He supposes the ball is in her court now. Fair is fair.
He's about to step away when he recalls something else, something of vital importance, something that makes him feel just a little bit alive, a little bit content with this situation—he has no right to misery anymore. He doesn't have a heart. So he has no right to feel anything that isn't a feeling of mediocrity, of neutrality, of nothing. This discovery makes him smile a bit, and he realizes... He'd do it. He'd give it up, give it all up, if not feeling meant not feeling like this anymore.
It's been three days, he realizes slowly. He doesn't want to imagine what the thousands more will feel like when he has a constant reminder, ticking in his chest. The idea is reminiscent of a bomb about to explode, or a stopwatch telling him he's about to expire. Or the Grim Reaper, waiting patiently for him to finally give up.
And it's then that the question sounds in his brain again, as if someone had whispered it to him, a taunting murmur, an enticing flirtation, a promise of what's to come and what has already begun: It's a fair trade, isn't it?
Yes, he realizes suddenly, still frozen in shock as his eyes never leave her. Mark's vision zeroes in on her hand on Avery's arm of it's own accord, and when he does so, it's as if her hand had slapped him, slammed him right in the gut, reached in and tore out his nonexistent heart…rather than simply rest on another man's arm. Yes. It's a fair trade.
And he turns to go.
…
Maybe…Maybe if he'd waited a moment, maybe if he had looked up sooner… Maybe if he hadn't rushed away for a cheap fuck, for a distraction…Maybe if he'd glanced back afterwards…
…
Maybe he would have seen how her eyes followed his every move. Maybe he would have seen how her expression tightened when they saw him enter and then leave the small room with the nameless woman. Maybe he would have seen her remove her hand from Avery's arm as soon as he looked away and turned his back. Maybe he would have heard the resident ask her what was wrong, why there were tears in her eyes.
Was it something I did? Mark might have heard the confused resident ask. He might've seen her shake her head, seen her blink as she felt the moisture in her eyes pool and then fall. It was something I did, he could've heard her reply, though her voice was barely above a whisper as her eyes followed the plastic surgeon's disappearing form. Her obviously distracted behavior makes the resident wonder if her response was meant for him after all. It was something I did, she repeats, and closes the matter for both of them.
…
Sure, she'd done what she could to get back at Mark, Lexie had, in her own little way, for ruining things for a second time. She'd tried to show him that if he could move on, so could she. She could find something else. She could find someone better. She could fall in love again, and with someone besides him this time. …But it had backfired, just like everything else. She couldn't find someone else, she couldn't find someone better, and she knew she'd never love another person like she loved him.
But she wishes she could. How was it fair that he got to walk away and move on while she was stuck in the dust, in the wreckage? How come he was able to walk away from what they used to be like it didn't cause him pain at all?
Yet, she couldn't help but think… What if her little ruse with the other resident had worked? What if he'd glanced back? What if he'd done something—anything—to let her know that he still cared?
What if?
…
If he'd glanced back, maybe he would have seen her excuse herself, and, in her haste, not even bother to wipe her eyes. Maybe he would have seen her follow after him, hear her about to call out, witness her about to put a hand on his arm, a plea for him to stop, to wait, to listen. If he had only glanced back…
But he didn't. He didn't glance back. He kept his eyes trained on what was in front of him, but they were unseeing. Her eyes followed him, as did her feet, but only for so long.
She could only follow behind him for so long before she had to stop, before she had to give up. He'd hurt her too much—too deeply and too suddenly—that she couldn't force herself to move forward even if she'd really wanted to.
So she gave up, just like she was sure he'd given up on her.
She stops, letting him go, and knowing that he'll never come back. She stops knowing that nothing will fix them. The irreparable damage has already been done. Lexie blinks as she feels the moisture accumulate on her face tenfold at this discovery.
…
After all, he thinks as he walks away, letting his misery funnel into that black hole that's no doubt eaten, swallowed up, and destroyed his heart, if she's moving on already, I shouldn't have to stand around and watch, should I?
…
It's only once he's through the double doors and disappeared from sight that Lexie lifts a hand to wipe her face. She draws it back a second later, quietly surprised to see as many tears as she does. She had never quite realized she was crying in earnest, tortured sobs wracking her body in the middle of the hallway, until her ears had stopped ringing.
"It's a fair trade, isn't it?"
...
Author's Note: Please review and tell me what you think. I'm really hoping Grey's turns out better tomorrow.
PS: These lyrics are perfect and I also love this song.
…
I see you standing there, but you're already gone.
I'm holding your hand, but you're barely holding on.
I'm kissing your lips, but it just don't feel the same.
Am I dead mean now, left living with the blame?
Oh, I hear the angels talking, talking, talking
Now I'm a dead man walking, walking, walking
Already broken, already gone.
Already know you're moving on.
I'm a-breathing, talking
Dead man, walking
Already see it, in your face.
Already someone, in my place.
I'm a-breathing, talking
Dead man, walking
I hear the angels talking, talking, talking
Now I'm a dead man walking, walking, walking
I hear the angels talking, talking, talking
Now I'm a dead man
We're in the same room, just one million miles away.
With all these books around, but we ain't go two words to say.
Am I a dead man now, left living with the shame?
I'm...
Already broken, already gone.
Already know you're moving on.
I'm a-breathing, talking
Dead man, walking
Already see it, in your face.
Already someone, in my place.
I'm a-breathing, talking.
Dead man, walking.
—The Script