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He doesn't quite know what to label this feeling that's been wriggling around in his gut lately. Partly because he thinks he already knows what it is, and he just can't go there. Avoidance has never really been his thing, but it's working out well so far and, hell, now he sees why his fellow ex-mistress clings to it like a blanket. He thinks that maybe he should be a man and grow a pair, but then Derek is at the end of the hall (talking to said ex-mistress) and the nerve he'd been working up to tell him to go to hell suddenly vanishes. This is Derek. And since he slept with his wife, Mark isn't really entitled to an opinion anymore.

He promptly turns around. The on-call room on the third floor has fluffier pillows anyways.

The next time he sees her (the third time that day but really, who's counting?), it's at Joe's. The interns are whining over their beers (they're still banned from the OR) and it's too late to turn back because he's stupid enough to risk looking over at the same time her head swivels towards the door. Their eyes lock.

One second.

Two.

It's ridiculous he's in this situation, and feels like an idiot because this locking eyes thing only happens in movies and seriously, who ever heard of Mark Sloan gazing at someone? They're something like friends though, since he teased her about O'Malley and she told him to shut up. So he smirks in response to the unsure smile he's pretty sure is for him. She laughs at something said by one of the interns and just like that, he's no longer the centre of her attention.

Don't think about. Don't think about it. Don't think. Don't think. Don't think.

Don't.

I didn't.

It's not only doctors and nurses that come to Joe's. The bar sees its fair share of newcomers every night. He's had one too many scotch, his fingers have a slight tingling through them.

The damn interns are still here (don't they ever study?). It also means she's still here and he isn't quite comfortable admitting why he doesn't want to leave the stool where his ass is probably making an indentation. He motions to Joe for another glass and because he's so busy being pathetic, he misses the relatively handsome young man now making small talk with Lexie. What he doesn't miss, is the mischievous look she's giving the stranger along with a flirtatious smile that has Mark shooting daggers at the young punk.

He's not a man of violence. He needs to remember that. But something primal awakens in him, and all he can dwell on is the satisfying crunch the boy's nose is going to make (courtesy of his fist) if his hand goes any lower on Little Grey's back.

He's not jealous. He's not.

Screw this. This feeling that's Not Jealousy is eating away at him; he's pretty sure he's developed an ulcer in the 20 minutes that it takes for the boy to go from being a complete stranger to Lexie's new BFF. They're sitting flush against each other in the booth, an arm resting above the space on her shoulder.

He glances around. Nobody is left that could possibly rat him out to Derek. Maybe he could…What? What could he possibly do that he wouldn't get shit for later?

"Dr. Sloan."

Fuck. Shoot him now.

His eyes shift to one side. She's standing next to his barstool, empty pitcher in hand, hair up in a neat ponytail. Her lips are curved into something that looks suspiciously like an amused grin. She's laughing at him. He can feel it.

"Little Grey," he grunts. She's standing so close, her arm brushes against his as she hands Joe the empty pitcher. "Isn't it time for you to be heading home?" It comes out rough and semi-accusatory and he instantly bites his tongue.

She picks up on it. Of course. "Isn't it time for you to be seeing a nurse in an on call room?" An eyebrow shoots up as she quickly retorts.

He guesses his face mustn't be all that friendly at the moment because she's got that deer-in-the-headlights look going on. "I-I'm so sorry. Really, reallysorry. I don't know where that came from," she's vigorously shaking her head. "It just came out – I didn't mean – that was completely out of line and I just –"

His fingertips reach out and hang loosely on her elbow, the one set on the countertop. Cool skin touches the pads of his fingers. "Settle down, Grey." He can't help but smile at her pinked cheeks. "Now," he drawls, his thumb roaming circles on her arm. Slow. He should stop. He knows this. Derek. His best friend. He needs to stop.

But.

He already has his hands on her. Sort of. It's still skin on skin contact, and that's something. "Shouldn't you be getting back to your boyfriend?" He tries to sound teasing, but the word leaves an ugly taste in his mouth and it's a wonder they come out in anything more than a half growl.

Her eyebrows knit together. "Boyfriend?"

He motions towards the interns, at the prepubescent-testosterone-lacking boy.

"Luke? You think Luke is my boyfriend?" She sounds so offended by the suggestion it's almost funny. "Are you kidding me?"

Disbelief and surprise (maybe even a little relief, something he's not going to admit to) sets in his face and he smiles. Widely. With teeth. "Is that so, Grey?"

"The dermatology intern? Really? I mean, I know you think I'm pathetic and all that but – the dermatology intern?" Her nose wrinkles up, and it only serves to excite him even more.

The tightening sitting in his chest loosens a little. "Could've fooled me," he shrugs a shoulder casually. His fingers still rest on her elbow, the pad of his thumb lazily sweeping back and forth on her inner arm.

"Ugh," she groans, "he's touchy. A lot. Like, excessively. It's not normal." She's semi glaring at the intern. He shifts to the edge of his seat. "It's easier to just play along. But no, not my boyfriend." It's an exasperated sigh, one of the sweetest things he's heard.

It's all the permission he needs (not as if it would have stopped him). He doesn't think (not of Derek or anything else), only moves on instinct. She hasn't stopped talking as his hand moves up her arm –

"– and you know about – "

– over her shoulder –

"– the whole George thing. You know, I think he really doesn't know –"

– and comes to rest on to the nape of her neck. It feels inexplicably soft against his calloused hands. Lexie stills and stares at him wide eyed, mouth open a little, like she can't believe what he's doing. And he can't blame her. He's leaning into her space, and he's gone.

So far gone.

"No?" he whispers.

"No," she breathes.

Mark leans in another inch; he likes crowding her, likes the thought that he's all she can see when he does. She's staring at him, still all wide-eyed innocence and he's got to admit, it turns him on a little. "Hmm," he murmurs. "Good." He draws in a deep breath and because he's too close, it's all her. Vanilla. It's the single best smell he's ever known. He feels her quiver underneath his hands and so help him God, he wants to feel it again.

– the whole George thing. You know, I think he really doesn't know –

His hand drops away.

"Good," he repeats, giving a small smile. He drops a crumpled fifty on the countertop and stands. He needs to distance himself from temptation.

He doesn't turn to look when he walks out; he doesn't need to have a photographic memory to memorize the expression on her face.

He's been fucking his way through the hospital again. The first time was to drive Addison out of his system.

This time–

Mark hasn't run into Lexie since the bar. He's made sure of that. Derek hasn't said anything and he isn't sure if it's because he doesn't know (although that doesn't seem likely) or he's choosing to ignore it. This chasm in his chest is growing, and there's an uneasy restlessness that comes with it. An agitating apprehension that's settled over his nerves like an invisible blanket and he is a constant ball of motion. To the hospital, to see the patient, to the nurse's station, to get a consult, to the on call room, back to the patient.

He is always moving, never slowing down. Doesn't think, doesn't breathe. His entire life now consists of ways best spent avoiding her. He doesn't seek her out.

And she doesn't come looking for him.

He thinks he hates her a little.

It's the brown bag that snags his eye.

On an unusually clear Seattle night, he's walking to the Archfield from the hospital (the interior of his Porsche is being conditioned) when her bag catches his attention in a restaurant window. She's sitting with O'Malley and laughing, a full out head-thrown-back-teeth-showing laugh. O'Malley is gesturing widely, hands going every which way exaggeratedly. Mark cracks a smile too. It's almost been two weeks since he's seen her and there's no other way to describe it but as a strange peace coursing through him as he looks at her.

He pictures himself sitting across from her, telling her about his conquests in the OR room. Talking about frivolous things like which bottle of wine to order or Meredith's hypothetical reaction to Derek's eventual proposal.

Little Grey would be happy.

He could do it, he thinks.

He forgets he hates her.

He sleeps with her. Of course he does. He's Mark Sloan, and it's under his job description.

To his credit though, he didn't breakdown and go to her. The circumstances were so mundane, it's questionable whether it actually happened or not.

Things always seem to happen to him in on call rooms.

He flung his scrub shirt off his body when he hears the click of a door opening from behind him. When he glances over his shoulder, Lexie is halfway in, a hand attached to the doorknob and a foot over the threshold. He turns fully, and watches perplexed as her eyes freely take inventory of him. Four feet separates them.

Three, as he takes a step forward. Two, as he takes another. Her eyes don't leave his and he sees no panic, no confusion as to what is about to happen.

There are no words, no hushed declarations of love, only silent moans as he kisses her. He pushes his body into hers, forcing her back until they hit the door with a hard thud. He should be gentler but, fuck. Her fingers are curled into his hair, and her teeth are nipping at his lips. He's devouring her, hands pressing her into him, his tongue burying itself farther into her mouth. And she's letting him. She's letting him touch her, and that brings a high of its own. Her nails rake down his scalp. Hard. He's given her no room and he still can't get enough.

Clothes are easy obstacles to overcome. Everything comes off (he wants to see all of her) and his hands roam, trying to memorize the curves of her body. When he finally slips inside her (still against the door because they haven't bothered to move) it's all quiet sighs and easy groans. One hand is supporting her leg around his hip; the other is splayed upon her flushed cheek (she is looking at him through half lidded eyes and it's nearly enough to make him lose control), the tip of his thumb dipping into the wet heat of her parted mouth. He thrusts slow and deep, drawing out every moment, every shudder.

Except she is impatient, and fiery and urging him to move faster, and he is still only a man so he complies. Call him an insecure bastard, but he needs to hear her say his name. He wants her to know this isn't impersonal for him. "Lexie," he gasps and she answers with low moan. "My name," he pants, "say my name."

Her tongue flicks at his thumb playfully, "no." There's mischievousness in her tone, as though she knows exactly how much he needs to hear it.

Fingernails scrape down the back of his neck (no doubt they'll leave scratches), and when combined with the tightness in his balls, he's in no mood to be teased. "Lexie," (he pulls out almost entirely) and this time it's an actual growl, "don't fuck with me."

"Funny, I thought that was exactly what I was doing," there is brazenness to her he's never seen. Before he can retort with something equally as smart aleck-y, her hands draw his head in until his nose has made a home in her neck and her mouth attaches itself to his earlobe. Sucking.

And dear God, she's just ruined him for all other women.

"Mark," like a reverent prayer, it falls from her lips into his ear. And he thrusts deeper because he never imagined it was possible for salvation to lie in such a sound.

"Mark," she repeats and he feels as though he has finally done right by a woman.

"Mark," she says a third time, and this is what makes him come.

This is so far from impersonal.

Afterwards (because there is always an after), he passes her panties to her and she gives him his shirt. There's a deafening silence and it doesn't feel quite like it should. He sits on the bottom bunk, watching her. Bra and panties go back on; then the light blue scrubs. Her movements are jerky and stiff, and she's being difficult by keeping her back to him.

He wants to say something, to ask what the hell this means and explain that for once he's not looking for an excuse to not get involved. "Lexie –"

"Thank you," she cuts him off. Short, curt and reeking of professionalism. Like he fucking asked her to scrub in on a surgery instead of plain fucking her.

His chest inflates with something sharp and angry. "Excuse me?"

She draws a deep breath and turns, leaning against the door. "Look," she begins; there's heaviness in her voice he's never heard before. "I-I'm not looking for anything long-term. So, don't worry. I just needed – It doesn't matter. You don't do relationships and I'm – Anyways, thank you." She tries a little too hard to sound casual, smiles a little forcefully as she tucks an errand strand of hair behind an ear.

This isn't the way Mark pictured it in his head.

"Right. So, uh, I need to check on Mrs. Shanuri. I think I'll go. Do that right now." She's off and out the door at an almost run.

Lexie Grey just rejected him.

This was not the way it was supposed to happen.