A/N: written for Labil for the prompt "I wanted to be all you need," a line from Here Is Gone by The Goo Goo Dolls. The title is taken from the same song.
Susan Carolyn Grey-Sloan (named for Lexie's mom and the mother you always wished was yours instead of the one you were dealt) is perfect.
She's a small wrinkly preemie in an incubator. The kind you used to ignore when Addison shoved them under your nose. But this one is different. She smiles (you know it's just a reflex, but she smiles and you smile back and, hell . . . it's almost like a conversation); and when you touch her through the small opening in her enclosed space, your whole world stops for a moment. She's confirmation that you did something good in your life, she's your family, and you love her for that. But most of all, you love her just for being herself.
What you failed to notice, though, caught up in this father-daughter bond, is that the mother-daughter bond is more or less non-existent.
When Lexie first told you she was pregnant, you pretty much held your breath for three days. You didn't freak out (except inside); you didn't cheat (you didn't even consider it); and you kept your fears about being a terrible father to yourself. But you still held your breath, because you were waiting for her to change her mind and realize that, even if she wanted a baby, she didn't want yours.
Except she did. In fact (after you woke up in a cold sweat from a bad dream where she said she wished the baby were George O'Malley's or, better yet, Derek's) she said you were the only man she wanted a baby with. And she meant it. She was ecstatically happy in the infectious way that only Lexie could be and, after three days, you managed to wrap your mind around that enough to stop holding your breath. Just.
You went through the rest of the pregnancy in a kind of happy fog of disbelief until the day Susan was born.
Life never prepared you for getting everything you wanted. Maybe if it had, you might have noticed when Lexie stopped being ecstatically happy and started falling apart.
"Fuck me," she breathes in your ear. She's straddling you in the barely-lit dark; waking you up from the four hours sleep that's all you're going to get tonight after a long emergency surgery and a last late visit to the NICU to say goodnight to Susan.
You squint your eyes open. "No," you mumble. "Sleep." You try to pull her down next to you. But she stiffens her body against you, where normally she'd relax into your touch.
"Fuck me, Mark," she insists (she almost hisses it). Then she changes her approach. Soft, playful, like the Lexie you're used to. "Come on," she says. "Remember the second trimester? Remember what we did in that chair?"
Oh yeah, you remember, and you harden a little with the memory and the feel of her flesh skimming yours. But that's not happening now. You stroke her face, run your thumb gently along her jaw. She can't quite suppress the impatient jerk of her head (it's not affection she wants), but you let it go. "Lexie. It's only been two weeks. You're not supposed to have sex for at least a month."
"You're not an OBGYN," she spits out, jarring her body away from yours and into a sitting position, knees clasped to her chest. "You're not a woman. And, most importantly, you're not me! So why don't you just stop being a jerk and do what you do best?"
"I know how long it takes for traumatized tissue to heal," you say quietly. You can count on one hand the times she's thrown your past in your face; it hurts but, like before, you let it go. "And I know what your doctor said." You inhale, prop yourself up on one elbow. "How about we sleep? Then in the morning I'll push back my first surgery and we'll grab some breakfast and go see Susan together?"
"I saw her yesterday," she says flatly. Then she turns towards you, big-eyed and smiling, but without the sparkle that's uniquely her, as though she's doing a bad impression of herself. "You can go down on me, though, right? Dr. Watts said oral sex was okay?" She waits, poised for your answer.
"Yeah, but -"
"So do it!" She slides down in the bed, pulling down the pair of your boxers she's wearing, and watches you expectantly. It's one of the least erotic propositions you've ever received; it's also the single most heartbreaking. So you do what she asks.
You're gentle - you're thinking maybe even a little too gentle. Except then she gasps (it's only just barely from pleasure - mostly it's because she's sore), and she asks you stop, rolls over on her side and starts to cry.
You fondle her shoulder, hoping she'll let you comfort her, knowing even before she shrugs you off that she won't.
As you lie with your back to hers, her quiet isolation killing you, you wonder how the hell you ever let it get this far.
The next morning, she wakes you with coffee.
"Hey," you say, confused that you got back to sleep. You sit up and rub your face. "You, uh . . . you okay?"
She smiles, almost like herself. "You said something about breakfast and going to see. . ." she falters, stumbling over the 'S' that begins Susan's name, "the baby?" It's phrased like a question, but she's a little breathless and she doesn't wait for any kind of answer. "Well, I think that's a great idea. Strawberry pancakes with whipped cream and then . . . " She looks down. This time she doesn't even get as far as a generic reference to the daughter you're supposed to share. "And," she glances up again, "I'm sorry about all the raging hormones last night. I was out of control and, of course, you're right. It's too soon." Then she blushes, briefly touches your arm, as if she's trying to be playful. "You're just too hot," she says. "You shouldn't be allowed in the same bed with a girl who's just had . . ." she swallows, "a baby."
You force an expression onto your face that you hope looks like a smirk, then deflect your attention to the coffee and the welcome scalding sensation in your throat, before you get up the courage to say, "I think you should see someone."
Lexie raises an eyebrow and gives a quick, suspicious smile. "Someone? Someone who'll have sex with me?" she teases. Then she winces and adds a whispered, "Sorry."
You make yourself laugh (just once and not especially convincingly). "I'm not an OBGYN," you concede her words of last night. "And I'm an idiot for not noticing before, which is dumb, because I'm a plastic surgeon for God's sake. I should be able to make a primary diagnosis of a basic psychiatric problem -"
"Psychiatric problem?" she breaks in.
You groan inwardly at your lack of tact; but you said it and you might as well capitalize on it. "I think you could have Postpartum Depression. I think you should see someone."
"Because I'm horny?" she demands. She's not as wound up as she was last night, but she's well on the way. "It's just hormones. They tell you to expect that. I'm a new mother." She swallows again. "And while we're discussing our medical accomplishments, my neonatal rotation was only two years ago, unlike yours. And I don't think doing a neonatal surgeon counts as a refresher course!"
"Lexie." You hold out your hand, trying to coax her onto the bed beside you. She shakes her head and stays where she is. "It's because you're . . ." you don't know how to discuss this in everyday terms, it's too damn hard, so you carry on in doctor mode, "you're distressed and erratic. You're easily angered. And you show almost no interest in our baby."
At these words, she hunches into herself. "She doesn't need me," she says. "There's nothing I can do for her in that thing she lives in. And even if I could . . . " She looks up and her eyes are filling up with tears. "Even if I could . . . I don't know the first thing about babies and there's no one . . . there's no one to -" She shakes her head, then stands, stranded in her own isolation.
You can't bear to see her this way. She's Lexie - of the two of you, she's always the optimistic one.
"Lex," you say quietly, putting down the coffee cup. The only indication she heard you is a little movement of her head. "Lex, c'mere, okay?" You don't have words for this; but you can hold her - if she'll let you.
For a few seconds, she doesn't move. You're holding your breath again: you feel like your whole world is on the line. Then, slowly, she pads towards the bed, not touching you at first, ignoring your open arms. She slides into the bed next to you, curls on her side facing you and gradually inches towards you until her body is pressed against yours, her head resting on your shoulder and you wrap her in your arms.
"Postpartum depression?" she asks softly.
"Maybe," you reply cautiously.
She gives a deep sigh. "Or maybe I'm just tired." She sighs. "I guess I can talk to Dr. Watts. But you . . . can't you just be my boyfriend?"
There's an explosion of anger inside you (anger or pain - you can't differentiate). Can't you just be my girlfriend and the mother of my kid? And trust me - I didn't plan on being your goddamn shrink. But you've challenged her enough for one morning and that's not what she needs, so you keep your mouth shut.
She sighs again. "I'm sorry," she says. "But, seriously, maybe I'm just tired. What if we try the breakfast?" She nudges you. "Strawberry pancakes . . . whipped cream?" She lifts her head a little; you kiss her hair because you don't want to look in her eyes. "Then see . . . see Susan. Like you said?" When you don't answer right away, she adds, "Please?"
You think she's probably kidding herself, but you don't have the heart to break this little hiatus of hope. So you say, "Sure," kiss the top of her head again and hold her a little tighter.
"I love you," she murmurs into your neck.
You have to take a breath before you reply, because somehow this undoes you and you don't want her to know that. "I love you too," you say. There's a slight tremor in your voice, even though you try to suppress it because she doesn't need to deal with your emotions right now. But you don't want to reach the place where I love you is just something you say and you have a feeling Lexie's half way there.
You smile at her. Breakfast is going okay. Good even. It's a nice, sunny day; blue sky; little fluffy clouds. The smile becomes grin. Somehow she got icing sugar on her nose.
"You have . . . " You point to your own nose.
"What?" she asks and the sparkle is back – well, half back, but you'll take anything.
"Hold still." You lean across the table and lick her nose. "Icing sugar," you say. "Right here." Your tongue strays to her lip, "and here . . . " and inside her mouth, probing, teasing and she's kissing you back.
Maybe she was just tired; at least, that's what you keep telling yourself. Then you feel moisture against your cheek, feel her pull away a little, her shoulders shaking even though she's still trying to kiss you. Again you hold her, whispering into her hair.
"It's okay, Lex. Everything's going to be okay." The words have become like a mantra and each time you say them again, they become a little less meaningful. This time you don't have the energy to suggest she sees someone; you barely have the energy to run your fingers through her hair.
"There she is," you say. The words have an odd inflection - your daughter always delights you unconditionally; but, at the same time, you're making a show for Lexie.
You're half way to the incubator, unable (despite Lexie's mood) to suppress the smile that your daughter always brings to your face, when Lexie finally speaks.
"I can't." She's standing in the doorway of the NICU refusing to go past the threshold. "I can't see her. I can't do this."
You glance awkwardly at the nurse, embarrassed by the dysfunction and increasingly pissed off, because this is not who you and Lexie were supposed to be. This is not how it was supposed to happen. You were supposed to be a great father - you were supposed to prove everyone (including yourself) wrong. And this is when you freak out. You fucking refuse to be on the other side of your childhood; refuse to be one half of a screwed-up couple putting their own needs before the needs of their child, and you walk past her, ignoring her pleading look, shrugging off the hand that tentatively reaches out, ignoring the whispered Mark as you raise your voice over it to deliver your caustically weary parting shot.
"You know what, Lexie? I can't do this either."
Five minutes later, you're ashamed. It's not an emotion you often admit to feeling; but now, sitting outside the hospital, it floods you.
You shouldn't have left her. You shouldn't have left her in there by herself. You know how that feels too well to inflict it on someone else. Especially Lexie.
It's just that . . . it was perfect. It was fucking perfect and for once in your life you wanted something to stay that way.
"Hey."
It seems Lexie had the same idea as you. It's not clear that she came to find you; but it's not clear that she didn't either.
She sits down next to you, leaving a cautious space.
"I should see someone," she says, looking down at her hands in her lap. "After you left," she swallows, "the nurse paged Dr. Watts and we talked for a while. You're right. The so-horny-I-jump-you thing one minute, weeping-mess the next? Postpartum depression - like you said." She looks up and smiles warily. "Not wanting to see Susan? Thinking I'm a bad mother? Postpartum depression. Apparently it's common in mothers with a premature baby in an incubator." She inhales. "But I knew that. And what I said about the incubator and her not needing me? Well, that's not true. And I'm sure you're right and I'm sure Dr. Watts is right. But it's not really the problem."
Here it comes. She's going to say the problem is you.
"It's her name. Well," she shakes her head. "It's not. It just reminds me that I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to do this without my mom. When Molly had Laura, my mom was there. But she's not here for me. She's not here for Susan." Tears start to run down her face. "She'll never see her or hold her and . . . I'll never see her again. She died –- she just died, of nothing . . . she had the hiccups." She inhales. "I keep dreaming about her. The last one - she was sitting on the cemetery wall and she looked fine and the cat was there and she looked fine too, all shiny and fluffy and washing herself and not dead at all - and she . . . my mom . . . she was talking about whipped cream and not to buy the kind in cans because of the chemicals. I mean you'd think dead people would have better things to think about. You'd think she'd have given me some advice or something . . . But of course she didn't, because it was a dream and -" She breaks off. "I should see someone. You're right. I'm not even sure it's Postpartum Depression. I think it's probably just plain crazy!" She pauses. "But here's the thing, Mark. Here's the real thing. The real problem. What if I die? She's so little. She's so little and she lives in an incubator and what if she loves me. . . what if I let her love me . . . and then I die?"
She stands up and takes a few frantic paces. Then she sits down again. When she looks into your eyes again something has changed.
She's Lexie. Pale, tear-stained and nervous. But she's Lexie. "Does that make sense?" she asks.
You nod because, strangely, it kind of does.
"I should've been paying attention," you say. "You seemed to be coping. Happy. When I was shitting myself. And then, when I was happy, I assumed you were too."
"You still want me, though? If I'm not happy?" she asks in a small voice.
"That depends, Lex," you say.
"On what?" she breathes. "Seeing a shrink? Because I can do that. I can go right back in there and schedule an -"
"If the real reason you're unhappy is because you're with me."
Her eyes instantly fill up with tears. "This is not about you," she whispers.
"I know," you say. You do, in the few recesses of your mind that are still rational enough to hear her. But the rest of you only knows that everything, in the end, comes down to your failures. You shrug, bordering on giving up now, and she flinches when she sees the gesture. "But I'm thinking if you were happy with me you wouldn't be so scared about doing this without your mom."
She turns away, frustrated, saddened, muscles taut as she tries not to cry.
"Lexie." You put a hand on her shoulder, apologizing for yourself. She shrugs it away.
"This is not about you," she repeats, gritting her teeth as anger and desperation fight with empathy, so conflicted you have to look away. "You can't do that. Not now. You can't make this about you. This is about me and how I'm screwing up and how you have to keep helping me, have to keep wanting me because, if you don't . . . if you don't, I'm going to lose this family too."
It takes a moment for you to realize she's saying she loves you - you and Susan. Takes a moment to realize she's saying she wants to try. Your concept of family comes in absolutes (they love you and it's perfect; they don't and self-recrimination hits); hers comes in subtleties you never got exposed to. Maybe, if you let it, reality will beat out perfection. After all, you got this far.
You slide her hand into yours. "Want to go see Susan?" you ask. You know you're pushing it, but you're taking a leap of faith here, bigger than all the leaps you've already taken for her (because of her), and your self-doubt still needs a little reassurance.
She swallows. "From the doorway," she says softly. But she squeezes your hand. "Tomorrow maybe I'll make it inside the room."