A/N: Nothing to do with the spoilers for 6.11 - just spinning out an idea. The title is taken from The Usual Chords by Slow Runner.
One drink (a little time alone to go over tomorrow's surgeries), that's all you're here for. It's a nice ritual, new and comforting: Joe's finest single malt scotch, conscientiousness, then back to your apartment and your girlfriend.
You could do without the unexpected. (Especially when it comes in the form of Addison Montgomery.)
"Mark." She's sitting at a table by herself, blue eyes smiling over a glass of red wine, red hair shorter but perfect as always.
You raise an eyebrow, asking an unspoken question, deflecting your way past the panic that breaks out inside you.
"The Chief," she half answers, then gestures with her glass. "Want to join me?"
You sigh, so deep it comes from your guts, not caring if the weariness of the sound hurts her (in fact, you think you might want it to).
Now her eyebrow arches (elegant as always – you wish you hadn't noticed) and you lift your bag, relying on the papers and films inside for an excuse. No. Busy. See you round, Addie. But your imaginary willpower can't quite stand up to habit and what comes out is a reluctant, "Sure."
"Well, thank you for the enthusiasm," she says, pretending to tease. But she is hurt now, you can see it in her eyes and (damn it) you do care.
"One drink," you say, setting limits for the both of you, deliberately not offering to buy her another.
She looks down and plays with the stem of her glass as you go to the bar.
The sigh? The one in your guts? It's settled there like a gnawing ache. There's so much fucking history; so many screwed up hopes; and she's so (you don't want to acknowledge it), but she's so goddamn beautiful. You know every inch of her: the delicate rustle of silk underwear as you work your hand inside her clothes; her skin; her breath; the way she teases her way into a kiss before she commits.
"Dr. Sloan?"
You disengage from the memories. "Usual," you mutter, glad it's Joe and you don't have to say double scotch, single malt and dig up another layer of the past.
When the drink comes you have to stop yourself from gulping it down and ordering another for Dutch courage. But the plan was just one drink, and you have a feeling that could be all that stands between you and the Chanel-scented path to Hell.
"What'd the Chief want?" you ask her bluntly as you swing the chair around so the back faces the table (an extra barrier won't hurt) and straddle it, glass of scotch in hand.
"He . . ." Her eyes flutter over your face as though she's trying to work out your state of mind, while you try not to give anything away. "He wants me back." She shrugs. "Not for the first time. Something to do with bringing in a 'big hitter' for Neonatal after the merger with Mercy West."
"I thought they weren't hiring," you say, hoping it's just wishful thinking on Webber's part.
"Well." She smiles. "Apparently they made an exception for me."
"Makes sense." (And you guess it does in a world that only ever cuts you a break to make it more fun when it screws with you later.) "You going to accept?"
She swallows and her eyelids sweep closed for a second longer than it would take to blink. She's miserable. You can tell. Your hand almost reaches across to touch her hair (because that's what you always did and kinesthetic memory is a bitch that way), but the back of the chair puts you just out of arm's reach of following through. (You knew turning it around was a good idea.)
"No," she says, then takes a sip of wine. Her eyes are very blue now, the way they get when she's trying not to cry, but she sort of smiles. "I screwed too much up here to think about coming back."
You figure you should say something, but you have enough problems reeling between the present and the past.
She was your first love. Too precociously cynical for the chaste kiss and junior prom thing, first love came later for you with too much to drink and the tang of shared cigarette smoke; a rain-soaked prima donna wearing your sweatshirt as she wept; frantic, painful passion snatched between crises.
She was your first love. But that's all over now.
It's over.
"So why are you here?" It's abrupt and banal and you kind of hate yourself for it. But you want (you need) to walk out of here the same way you walked in: with stability, a girlfriend you care about and a life.
"I wasn't sure," she says. "L.A. is . . . not what I hoped. But," she swallows again, shrugging by way of partial explanation, until she manages a soft, "you're happy."
"I'm . . ." You don't know how to answer her. Her opinion feels like an invasion of what you have with Lexie; but, right now, looking in her eyes, being happy with Lexie feels like a breach of what you had with her.
"Happy," she insists. "That's good. You deserve it." The about-to-cry blue deepens azure.
Back then, she'd have been in your arms (in your bed) quicker than you could question whether it was right or wrong. Back then. But this is now. And the life you've made is too good to fuck up.
"I'm not sure about the deserving part," you say, filtering out her sadness. "But, yeah. I'm happy." With a little luck, insensitivity will save you (and maybe her too). You drain your drink and stand up, turning the chair back the right way and pushing it under the table. "I should get going."
She nods, determined, accepting, and with the movement a lock of hair falls out of place.
You're close enough to touch now, but you don't. You just say your goodbyes and leave.
(In the cab home, though, your imagination closes the distance, leans across the table and captures the soft, red strands.)