His eyes are blue gray.
Sometimes he gets a familiar crinkle around the edges when he smiles and you stop what you're doing to watch him. He always catches you and the smile becomes a full out laugh because he's happy. He's always happy. He also has an amazing ability to charm the nurses into doing whatever he wants, but he doesn't really abuse that power. Doesn't have to. They seem to flock forward as one the second he steps off the elevator and you can only stand back and let it happen because you'll never be able to stop it.
It's just the kind of guy he is.
And you're content with your place in his life.
He always assures you that you're number one for him, but it gets a little tedious at times.
The nurses, the last time you checked, didn't worry about potty training him every second of the day or cut the crusts off peanut butter sandwiches just so. Still, the cinnamon skinned little boy with the shocking black hair and blue gray eyes doles out hugs to every nurse in Oregon and you watch, wondering if you moved far enough away.
"Callie!"
"I'm leaving, Mark."
"Just because things didn't work out with Hahn!?"
You stop walking and purse your lips together. You always purse your lips together when you hear that name. No one, you think, has ever rejected you harder. "Don't talk to me about her."
"You don't have to leave!" His voice is impassioned, full of something that could be longing, but you refuse to believe for an instant that he could actually want you to stay for any of the right reasons. He wants his friend. Especially if she is willing to give him the benefits from before. You think about sex with him briefly and your eyes pick out the fourth floor on call room in the hospital that looms behind him. He's carrying your box -- a sad, sad diaper box from the basement that has been emptied and filled with everything you had amassed in your locker.
There's a photo of the two of you inside.
You want to tell him that he will always be your best friend.
You want to beg him not to forget your phone number because hearing his voice has a tendency to make you smile.
All you actually do is open your trunk, push aside the luggage, and motion for him to drop the box inside.
He lifts you off your feet when he hugs you and you can feel his strong, rippling biceps as his holds you close. You will never forget three things, you think. You will never forget the way he smells like rain and leather. You will never forget the way he whispers your name against your ear like a plea, but not quite like a promise. And you will never, ever forget that you had more orgasms with him in two hours than you had in your entire life. You didn't even mind that the condom broke.
You took it in stride because he had relaxed your body enough to make you NOT CARE that you could have caught a disease.
It only takes you a few weeks to realize that you've caught something else and seven and a half months to look down into the face of a baby who wears your best friend's face ... and your hair.
You never called to tell him.
And he never called to ask how you were doing.
Sometimes, while the baby fed at your breast and you stared around your mostly empty apartment, you wondered if maybe you had loved him as something more than your friend and occasional lover. Sometimes you worry that you made the wrong decision and as you watch your son celebrate his first birthday with only the nurses as guests, you're sad to think he'll be missing out on a father. When you thread your fingers through his long hair at eighteen months, you wonder if he will go gray prematurely ... just like his daddy. You wonder if the arms that wind around your neck when he doesn't want to go to bed at night ... will be as strong and rippling as his father's and most of all ... you wonder if you should call Mark.
But what would you tell him?
You've carefully avoided talking to anyone from Seattle Grace. You've even managed to avoid Addison for the most part. When you were eight months pregnant, though, your hormones took over and you just needed to hear someone, anyone, so you called her. She yelled. You cried.
You didn't tell her where you were.
And she didn't ask.
You only talk now while you're at work because your son, now two, doesn't approve of the telephone and will tell you to put it down and hug him. Addison doesn't need to hear someone calling you 'mommy' in the background or your cover will be blown. And that cover is finally starting to fit comfortably.
You're finally settling in.
His eyes are blue gray.
And he still has that familiar crinkle around his eyes when he smiles and you stop what you're doing to watch him. He catches you, just like old times, and his smile becomes a familiar laugh when he sees you. He's happy. He also has an amazing ability to charm the nurses into doing whatever he wants, but he doesn't abuse that power. He doesn't have to. Actually, he doesn't notice them at all, even though the prettiest are front and center hoping to catch his eye. All he sees ... is you.
And you're frozen with your back against the wall as he stalks toward you.
"Hey, Callie."
"Hey, Mark. What are you -"
You're in his arms and off your feet again and you swear you hear the sound of twelve nurses swooning as one. You feel like you're in one of those damnable Disney movies that your son asks for every night and this is where the chorus starts to swell and you kiss the handsome prince who has scaled the castle walls to save you. Okay, maybe you actually like that one, but the kid still sits next to you, hand on your leg, mesmerized by the entire thing as much as you are.
"I was in the neighborhood," he whispers against your ear.
His breath, his voice, his broad chest against yours ... it's still the same. Since giving birth nearly killed you, you've told yourself that you do not have a sexual side at all. You don't think about getting laid or pay attention when the nice new lab tech asks you for dinner. You simply tell anyone who asks that you have a man in your life and it doesn't matter that he still wears Pull Ups to bed. Your son is all you need ...
... but when Mark Sloan's thigh is touching yours and you can smell leather and rain and lust ... your body starts to dance a dirty Salsa even before you take his hand and pull him down the hall. You silently thank God for on call rooms and you don't ask him if there's anyone new and he doesn't volunteer the information. He simply takes off his leather jacket and moves to the buttons of his shirt while he watches you take off your black scrubs. Black, not blue. But you don't need the familiar colors of home to make this moment feel like coming home.
Chasing a toddler has been kind to your body. You're smaller now than before you had the kid, but you swear your breasts stayed a full cup size bigger. When you slide your bra off, Sloan whistles in appreciation and accuses you of having work done. If only he knew. If only he knew that his own son is a fine carpenter who put you back together with his own hands. If only he knew that his two year old boy is the surgeon who stitched your lost soul back in place. If only Mark Sloan knew that his namesake's favorite article of clothing is a leather jacket that he tries to wear every day ... that sexy smile on his face would probably be replaced by one of wonder.
Possibly awe.
It's just as good as it always was. You don't care if your coworkers hear your release any of the four times it comes. You couldn't care less that Mark says your name again and again, leaving bruises on your hips as he lifts you up against him. And really, why does it matter that you scream out from something other than pleasure ... who cares that the pain of lying to him, of not being with him, of depriving your child his father breaks over you hard enough to make you bleed inside.
Mark cares.
That's who.
And when he pulls you against him and rubs your back you realize that you're crying. No ... you're sobbing. You're doing that pitiful girl thing that you'll never be able to live down and he's at a loss for words because it's really not you.
But if it's not you ... then who is it?
"What's wrong?" he asks you gently. "Callie, did I hurt you?"
"Yes."
"What did I -"
"You never called me."
"Yes, I did. You had your number changed."
Oh, right. You did do that. You did that because Erica Fucking Hahn called you one time and one time was all it took. You actually threw your phone out the window of your car and reported it lost. That had been before you even knew about the kid. You look into his eyes - the same eyes that gaze up at you every time your son speaks - and let him wipe the tears off your cheeks. "What are you doing here?" you finally ask. "How did you find me?"
"Well, it's simple really. I came to get you and take you -"
A loud rapping at the door causes you both to jump. You smile at one another because you're both remembering the time that Bailey interrupted you the same way. Mark was actually behind you that time and you were bent over the bed, hanging on for dear life. Sliding from his lap, you tug your shirt on, then step into your pants. He's shameless as he watches you, his eyes roaming all over your body. For the first time in a million years ... you feel wanted again.
"Dr. Torres!"
You yank the door open and glare at the nurse who would dare ruin what was shaping up to be a fine moment. "What, Jane?"
"Mark took a bad spill in the nursery! He's down in the emergency room. It looks pretty bad."
You forget that Mark Sloan is behind you. You forget that you don't have your shoes on and that you've left your lab coat and your pager on the table. You run with all that you have in you so that your son will at least know that you're there.
What was it the nurse said?
Pretty bad.
Pretty bad could be a million things and you rattle off at least a thousand as you take the steps two at a time and burst into the emergency room. His cry is one that you can pick out in an ocean of crying children. You haven't heard it often because usually his eyes fill with tears, but he announces that he's a big boy and will not cry before the actual wailing comes. Right now, he's not so fortunate. He's sobbing and your gut twists into knots as you stare at the many closed curtains and rooms, trying to figure out where he is. The sound of his pain seems to be coming at you from all sides and you just ... can't ... breathe.
Finally, a curtain rustles and you see the back of his hair, curly and soft as down. Your bare feet slap against the tiles and you're cold, you're very, very cold as you push aside the curtain and look at the only human being you would happily die for. He seems to sense your presence the same way you can sense him standing beside your bed after he's had a bad dream. Your little boy, with his blue gray eyes, turns toward you and his hysteria intensifies. There's a gash on his forehead that makes you put a hand over your mouth so you won't scream out and terrify him even more. He scrambles across the bed on his hands and knees and you can remember lying on your stomach for weeks trying to show him how to crawl. He bypassed that entirely and went straight to walking and right now, as you watch him crawl, you think that you're recapturing something from his childhood that you were sorry to miss.
He scrambles into your arms and rests his head on your shoulder and all you can do is hang on for dear life. "It's okay, baby. Mommy's here."
"Hurt! Ow!" He leans back and looks at you, resting his tiny hand on the gash. "Mommy! Ow!"
"Did you give him something for pain?"
You close your eyes.
The jig is up.
Mark Sloan is standing behind you and you hear him suggest a small dose of morphine.
Your son is undoubtedly looking at his father for the first time over your shoulder and you are undoubtedly going to have hell to pay, but right now, all you can think about is scarring and stitches and your baby having a concussion.
"M.J.," you whisper softly, rubbing the little boy's back. "Mommy needs to put you down just for a second, okay? I need to look at your head."
He starts to cry a little harder as you set him down and he keeps reaching for you as you tilt his face up, studying the cut. He clings to your shirt and tries to pull himself into a standing position because really, a mother's arms are the only place you want to be when you're hurting, but you can't be his mother right now. You're the attending on duty and you have to get your head back in the game. "Hold still, kiddo."
"Mommy, get me!"
"Not yet."
"MOMMY!! Peeese!"
"Pick him up," Mark says from behind you. "Callie, he wants you to pick him up."
"I can't pick him up! I need to -"
Sloan moves around you and sits down on the bed. He lifts the crying, struggling boy into his own lap and looks up at you. They're both looking at you. Their eyes, their noses, their mouths ... they're twins and they're both in so much pain that you have to look away. You always knew that your son was the spitting image of his father, but now ... now it's just too much. The nurse delivers a small amount of morphine through the IV and M.J. screams because it burns. Mark looks down at the doppelganger in his lap and you hold your breath as the medication silences your child's pain and he stares up at the familiar stranger who's holding him.
You're stunned when M.J. smiles, exposing the little gap in his front teeth.
Even though Mark is looking down, you can see his eyes crinkle around the edges as he returns an identical grin.
"I fall off desk." M.J. tells a man that he doesn't know, but should. "I flied like Superman! Arrrrrr!"
Mark brushes an unruly curl off his head and picks up a stack of gauze. "Did you catch the bad guy?"
"I squished 'im!"
You watch the premiere plastic surgeon on the West Coast look up at you and try not to cry when he says, "The bad guy always gets squished. And caught."
Shit.
You're the bad guy.
You knew you were all along.
The kid doesn't care too much for the idea of his head being covered so that Mark can stitch it. He actually tries to climb out of the bed and when that doesn't work he attempts to display every move he has learned in kiddie karate. Even though you didn't think it was possibly, Mark actually laughs at the karate chop that sends the suture kit flying and gives you a dirty look when you reprimand the little boy. Mark finally tells you to hold him in your lap and you feel like you've been sentenced to death in the electric chair when your son happily climbs into his favorite spot in the world and leans his head back.
The precision with which Sloan stitches the littlest Sloan is amazing to watch.
And your son, who usually has to be told ten times to be still, does every single thing Mark tells him to do without complaining. He doesn't even cry when the numbing medicine is injected even though the sight of a needle will usually make him run screaming from the room. You secure the bandage to his head yourself and watch him accept the sucker that Nurse Julie, one of his favorites, gives him. He bestows his widest, most handsome smile at her as he sucks on the red lollipop, and you can't even complain a moment later when you realize that it's stuck to your cheek and he's fast asleep.
It's a silent agreement that Mark will be following you back to your apartment. He stands so close to you as you pick up M.J.'s things from the nursery that you bump into him when you turn to leave. You don't utter a sound when he takes the bag from your shoulder and when he opens your car door to watch you put your son ... his son ... in his car seat ... you fumble like you've never done it before. Sloan doesn't take pity on you and look away or offer to help. No, you don't deserve it and he doesn't seem willing to offer it.
The headlights of his car feel too bright as you navigate the Portland highway in the rain, heading for your apartment. It's just after lunchtime. Rain is still a constant. You find yourself wondering if you remembered to sweep the floor, if you have anything to offer him to drink ... if your bra is still hanging over the shower rod in the bathroom. Not that Mark Sloan will see the bathroom, but still ...
When you park in the space in front of number one oh nine, he pulls in beside you. There's a group of rowdy teenagers nearby who like to call you 'mamacita' and trill their tongues at you. It's no different now. As you pick up your son and he sleepily clings to you, the cat calling begins and you cringe. The real estate agent had promised you it was a nice neighborhood, but now you're looking at it fresh and the graffiti on the side of the building, while fresh, is still a slap in the face because Mark will doubt your ability to care for his son or provide a nice environment for him. You only chose this place because of the playground and the close proximity to the hospital.
Everything that can go wrong ... does. You stumble over the sidewalk, you accidentally kick over a flowerpot, and you drop your keys twice. Sloan actually unlocks your place and you step inside, eyes darting left and right to see if it's clean. It is, although it does smell a little like the cat that M.J. had to have when they were being given away for free in front of the grocery store. That cat, a tragic looking feline with a chewed off ear, rushes out to greet you and you hear Mark sneeze behind you.
He's allergic.
Didn't he tell you that a long time ago?
It's nap time for M.J. and he sleeps straight through you putting him in his captain's bed and pulling off his shoes. You cover him with his blanket and tuck Mater, his favorite character from 'Cars', under his arm. M.J. doesn't move a muscle as you kiss him and then press another kiss on his head, where the bandage has been secured. When you turn around, Mark is holding the baby book you have painstakingly kept up to date. He senses your eyes on him and looks up from the page that contains the locks of hair from the first hair cut. You sobbed that day and you start to cry now when his blue gray eyes flash with something close to loathing.
To avoid the pain of doing this ... whatever this is ... in front of your kid ... you head back into the living room and sit down, silently bracing yourself for what's to come. Mark doesn't disappoint and he doesn't sit down. You can see the tension in his shoulders and the tightness in his jaw as he stalks the length of the room, still flipping through the book. When he reaches the end, he shoots you a look that makes you hold your breath and then he moves to the mantle, picking up photo after photo. M.J.'s first tooth is captured in a smiling, gummy grin. His first steps, his first 'car', his first birthday when he face planted into his Mickey Mouse cake ... all of it is there. You look at the pictures yourself from time to time, remembering the baby giggles and garbled words that still bring a smile to your face. What you can't do is imagining knowing that you missed out on every bit of that, because you didn't, but you made Mark miss it.
"How in the FUCK... could you not tell me!?" he demands.
There it is.
This is really nothing like what you always dreamed it could be. You silently admit to yourself in this moment that you are a horrible, wretched fragment of a human being. And you're ashamed. You're so ashamed that you want to hide and never come out again. "I - I wanted to tell you, but -"
"Did you know this? When you left Seattle? Is this why you did it?"
"No." You don't even recognize your own voice now. "No, I didn't know until weeks later."
"How could you do it? He's - well, obviously he's mine!"
You nod and your head feels like a bowling ball that you can't control. "I'm sorry."
"SORRY!? You're SORRY!!"
"I didn't know what to do!"
"You pick up the phone and you dial my god damned number and you tell me!"
"I'm SORRY!"
"Great! He's what ... two? Is your apology going to give me those two years back?"
"No."
"I cannot believe that YOU of all people ... would do this to ME. YOU KNOW WHAT I WENT THROUGH WHEN ADDISON - GOD! You - you had my KID and you can't even - you know what? Fuck you!!"
"Don't. Please don't."
"Are you kidding me!? You don't get to cry!"
He yells and you flinch and even though you have no right to do it, you cry even harder. You put your face in your hands and it doesn't interrupt his tirade or impact his anger. He continues to rant, telling you that you should be ashamed and that you had no right to keep his son a secret from him. He tells you that you were supposed to be his FRIEND and that FRIENDS don't lie to each other. Your tears intensify as his furor reaches a new level and you randomly think that your sobs are right on cue, punctuating his tirade like a well rehearsed symphony. He bellows, you bawl. It's almost comical, really.
Time passes and he doesn't leave any pauses in his rant so there's no real requirement for you to speak at all.
You don't even notice that there's blessed silence until you feel the couch shift and smell strawberry and baby shampoo. M.J. has climbed up beside you and he starts to cry when he sees that you are. "Mommy? Wrong?"
You open your arms and he crawls into them, unconcerned with Mark's presence. His tiny hands move over your cheeks and then he kisses both, rubbing his nose against yours. "Thank you, baby. I'm okay," you lie.
"Got boo boo?" he asks you, studying your forehead to see if it looks like his. "I kiss it!"
"You just did." You force yourself to smile at him and he grins back, causing a dimple to dot his cheek. "Are you thirsty?"
"I haf chocite milk?"
"Sure." You pick him up and head into the kitchen, settling him on the counter. With your back to him, you dry your face with paper towels and try to not notice that his eyes ... THEIR EYES ... are the most beautiful thing you've ever seen.
When you turn, Mark has moved in front of him like he's standing guard to make sure the little boy doesn't fall. You watch your son rub a hand over Mark's leather jacket, then reach up and pluck at his beard. Mark cries out a playful 'ouch' and your baby starts to laugh and does it again. Mark catches his hand and pretends to bite it and you feel a smile play across your lips now. You're pretty sure that you've dreamed of this moment a million times. You're almost certain that you had this exact dream the previous night ... a dream where you stand just on the outside of the father/son dynamic and watched them bond.
You tighten the lid on M.J.'s sippy cup and hold it out to him. He grasps the handles with his plump fists and doesn't breathe until the cup has been drained.
"You were thirsty," Mark says when M.J. breathes hard and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "You want some more?"
M.J. shakes his head and holds the cup out to Mark, who takes it. Their hands, you notice, are identical, too. Long fingers and deep nail beds. Your little boy stares up at eyes that match his own and says, "I know who you are."
"You do?" Mark asks, stunned.
You clear your throat and start to speak but your son hops off the counter (with Mark's help) and races into the living room. When he comes back into the kitchen, you feel your heart stop. The photo of you sitting with Mark in the cafeteria was taken by Meredith and it was the first thing you packed in your box years ago because you were afraid the wind would blow it away if you put it on top. M.J. proudly holds it up and says, "You Mommy's best friend. You Mark, too."
Mark rubs his thumb over the picture and you hold his eyes when he looks at you. He doesn't look quite as angry now and you swallow even though your mouth is so dry it's a chore. "Mark -"
"What?" they both answer you and you have to smile.
Their postures are identical when they give you their full attention.
What were you thinking when you didn't make the call? Why in the world would you keep such a blessing a secret? You don't have the answers now. And you can't change the past. But God, what wouldn't you give if you could?
"Would you like to stay for dinner?" You hear yourself extend he invitation and force yourself to breathe while you wait for the answer.
"We could go out," Sloan says, then he puts the picture down and holds his hands out. Your son lets his daddy pick him up and when they're side by side you know that you're doomed. You know that Mark Sloan isn't going anywhere and M.J. is staring at him in a way that makes you see a little bit of yourself in your baby for the first time since you laid eyes on him. Your son is wearing the amused little smirk you always wore when Mark suggested drinks after work. Going anywhere with Sloan was always a treat.
You accept the offer and change your clothes and when you walk into your son's room, big Mark is helping little Mark into his leather jacket. They both look at you, matching blue gray eyes, and you have to hang onto the wall for just a second. This is what you've always wanted. This is what you dreamed about every single time your baby kicked you in the ribs or sat on your bladder. You closed your eyes and imagined that it was Sloan's hand on your belly and not your own. You dreamed of Mark Sloan zipping his son into his coat and tossing him in the air.
Mark doesn't toss the kid right now, because his head is still probably hurting. He does lift him up over his head though, smiling up at him with the same smile that he passed on to his offspring ... that charming, mischievous, boyish smile and your heart catches somewhere around your throat. Your hands ache for your camera.
When the kid is strapped into his car seat and happily playing with a matchbox car, you start to open your door, but Mark beats you to the punch. Your hands meet on the handle and he says, "I came to town to tell you that Webber died last month."
You gasp at the news and your eyes fill with tears, not because you were ever overly fond of Richard Webber, but because there's so much from back home that you don't know. "Oh my god. What -"
"Car wreck." He glances through the glass of your SUV and you imagine that you can see the gears turning in his head. "I came here because Derek is the new chief and, well, he made a few changes. Seattle needs a new ortho attending and ... well, he ... we ... both thought of you."
You mull that news slowly, attempting to read his face. "I - I have a decent life here."
Mark's jaw clenches and you can hear your little boy ... the child that BOTH of you created ... telling you it's time to go. Sloan doesn't look back at his son, though. He keeps staring at you. "Seattle Grace could really use you. You know, they opened up that new hockey training camp and -"
"Mark -"
"- and Derek didn't ask me to come talk to you. I volunteered. I could really use you, too."
Your brow furrows. "At least your honest about using me. No thanks, I -"
"That's not what I meant! Damn it!"
"BAD WORD! BAD WORD!" M.J. bellows. "MOMMY! HIM SAY BAD WORD!"
"Watch your mouth, Sloan." You try to keep your voice stern when you say it and you don't really realize that you're staring at his lips until they crash onto yours.
You hear the giggling of your child and you're pretty sure that you were giggling the night you conceived him ... when Mark told you that he could fall in love with you one day. It was right after you gave him what he swore was the more amazing blow job in history. You accused him of only saying that to get in your pants and he reminded you that your pants were still slung over the lamp beside the bed. He tickled your ribs with his stubble and when the condom broke a while later, you both looked stunned, then laughed until you had to pee.
He arrogantly told you it broke because it didn't fit it properly.
The only thing you know at this moment is that YOU fit properly into his arms.
And you really don't want to leave them, but M.J. demands pizza RIGHT NOW and Mark steps away to open the door for you.
You coax your son into singing for Mark and that's something that M.J. got from you because you've heard Mark sing in the shower. You notice that Mark stays turned in the seat, watching the kid like he's the most amazing thing to ever set foot on the earth and you definitely know the feeling. You do it all the time, too.
After dinner, where M.J. entertained the waitress with a song, Mark tries to prolong bedtime. He doesn't want to let his son out of eyesight, but you finally draw the line at eleven. When you kiss M.J. goodnight and Mark leans down and does the same ... you know you'll be going back to Seattle Grace. You don't even have to think about it.
And when Mark asks if he can spend the night ... you don't hesitate in saying yes.
You don't know if you'll ever be forgiven for what you took from him, but you're ready to talk to him about it.
And you hope that you can convey all the reasons that kept you away ... even if you don't understand them yourself.
Mark Sloan surprises you by telling you after one in the morning that he forgives you and you've cried so much that you can't thank him out loud. You have to settle for throwing your arms around him and he holds onto you in a way that makes you think he probably isn't going anywhere.
You think you're dreaming when the door to your bedroom creaks open at sunrise and you hear your son telling his cat to be quiet. For a split second you're paralyzed by the uncertainty of what you should do because your little boy has never, ever seen you within arms distance of a man, much less snuggled in the crook of one's arm. The foot of the bed shifts a little and you feel thirty two pounds of weight creeping up over your legs. The kid giggles and you open one eye just a little. He's perched on Mark's chest and is trying to fight the temptation to tug Mark's chest hair. You watch him reach for it, then pull away ... then reach again. Finally, he latches on and pulls and Mark grabs him, blowing a raspberry on his stomach.
M.J. laughs in a way that you've only ever heard at the circus, when an elephant nuzzled his cheek with her trunk.
Unless you're mistaken, your son knows that he's not just your son at all. He KNOWS that Sloan is flesh and blood. His flesh and blood.
Because he settles into the crook of Mark's other arm and grins at you over the expanse of his chest, flashing a smile that shows the gap in his tooth and the patented Sloan arrogance. "I win," he tells you and you have no clue what game he was playing.
But if mornings like this are the prize ... you hope he lets you share it again and again and again.
The End