He never had insomnia. Never experienced that itchy, desperate feeling of no sleep and sandy eyes. Never felt his legs ache from being in one position too long, or stared at the green numbers of the digital clock until his eyes filled with tired tears. No, Mark Sloan never experienced it, no matter how many all-nighters he pulled. He never had a reason to murder sleep.
Until now, that is.
His fortieth birthday came and went a week ago, and for the first time, there was no one around to make a big deal out of it. It's not that he expected anything huge. But when your parents are dead and you're an only child; your best friend is so busy with his experimental brain tumour study and ex-girlfriend; and the person that last year made sure you had a devil's food cake, smeared in chocolate icing and rainbow sprinkles – made sure that you smiled on the day of your birth even though thirty-nine is too close to forty (the end of the world, you know) – well, she's gone –
It's tough. And Mark realizes now, it's ridiculous – it's ridiculous to act like a horny man-slut in order to feel anything. Ridiculous to stare into a beer bottle, night after night in an expensive hotel room, and not be able to look up and feel that he's accomplished anything. What good is being one of the top plastic surgeons in the country if it's all surface? Erica Hahn was right when she told him that he had no understanding of human emotion. The truth is, he's pushed it away to the point that he has no idea if he ever understood what it was like to hurt.
The truth is, when she left, he realized that the fuck ups of his life culminated in that fact. She was the one constant and he couldn't even hold onto that. Gone to that paradise of Hollywood and blue ocean – she left him in the rain like a naughty puppy, but this time, there was no retribution. No one was coming back to open the door.
So, Xanax turned out to be the answer. But it didn't help, either – he expected numbness and got blackout. The pain was still there when he woke up. He still went about his day. But his face grew paler; his lips grew drier, and his voice didn't ring out so stridently in the OR.
And no one noticed. It was then he realized – if he didn't come into work the next day; if he never came into work again, no one would care enough to try and find him. As stupid as it was – as selfish as it was, it was the truth. It doesn't matter how strong you think you are. The truth hurts, every time.
So in that hotel room, with the lights burning into his eyes, he slipped a little – he dropped the ball. He knew exactly how much it takes to find oblivion. If any accomplishment rings true in his useless life, he has a photographic memory for facts like that.
It wasn't a blackout this time. It was a fuzzy-mouthed, chest-heaving sort of experience as his body reacted to the medicine. His ears rang; he vomited on the rug and it mixed with tears that he would never allow to fall otherwise. His last thought was of her, and how when she heard, the only thing she'd feel was derision.
/
Addison gets the call at her desk on a sunny day in April. The best thing about Oceanside is the ability to be totally comfortable in your own skin. No one has to pretend to be sunny because it never stops raining. And despite the fact that sometimes she has choking panic attacks in the middle of the night, thinking about what she left and lost, she's happy in Santa Monica.
It's Richard on the other end of the line. "Addie. Richard Webber."
"Hi, Richard, how are you?" Addison's voice is light, airy, and incredibly happy to hear from him, which just makes it harder for him to tell her what he has to.
"I don't want to be the bearer of bad news, Addie, but you need to come back."
"What's wrong, Richard?" Now her voice holds a note of concern, and she grips the edge of the desk. "What's going on?"
It's not even that she wouldn't mind going back. It's the fact that she doesn't know if she's ready to face the ghosts of her past. Especially since they're still living, breathing, and judging her every move.
He sighs down the phone. "Addison. Mark's in the hospital. He tried to commit suicide."
Her first instinct is to laugh. Mark? Of all the people in that hospital, he'd be the least likely to do something that stupid.
"Richard, honestly, I know you want me back in Seattle, but this is a pretty stupid way of going about it."
Now his voice sounds strained. "Addison. Please take this seriously. He's in a coma in the ICU."
Time stops. It whirls around her head until she realizes that she can't feel her feet, and she's simultaneously reaching out and pulling in, the shock so great that she can no longer feel anything from her eyes down. The air starts to spot with white, but she manages to get it out, anyway, before she has to slam the phone down and cradle her sweaty face on her desk.
"Tell him I'm coming."
/
She's not quite so put-together as in the past. She doesn't attract the attention of people because of her striking beauty, this time. In fact, she doesn't attract the attention of anyone but a wan-faced Richard as he stands at the door of the ICU, squeezing the door handle and waiting for her.
He starts speaking, without preamble. He's a professional guy but the strain of the last two days have taken its toll on him. His voice is rough, raspy, and the circles under his eyes tell Addison that the shock of having one of his attendings do something so stupid has hurt him more than he can say.
"They found him on the hotel room floor – I had no idea he was still staying there after all this time, but that's beside the point. They estimated he'd taken at least seven Xanax, and then vomited, but he was unconscious when they found him and he hasn't awakened yet. We pumped his stomach . . ."
He trails off at the look on Addison's face. "Addie, don't look like that. He'll probably be fine. He's a healthy guy."
"I want to see him." Her voice is dull, choked. He puts a hand on her shoulder, then takes it back when she doesn't move. Addison, who's always at least felt if not said anything. Addison, who's never been like this in living memory.
She leaves him at the door and walks in. She hates the ICU; as a doctor, she's required to work in situations that aren't always pleasant, but the ICU just has this hopeless atmosphere. Most people grouped around the beds are crying. Most people won't come out of here, or will head to another chronic centre of the hospital to wait to die. It's not a place conducive to health, and Addison feels it every time she walks in.
He's lying in a bed closest to the wall. The overhead light is on, casting a pale glow onto his white face and closed eyes. She can't get over how old he looks, lying there with his hair more silver than she's ever seen it. And his hands are so cold as she clasps them hard in her own.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Her voice is harsh, low. She tries to keep it down so not to disturb the other patients, but the anger spills out anyway.
"This is the most selfish thing you've ever done. How DARE you try to kill yourself? How dare you?"
Her voice breaks and she raises his limp hand to her face. "How could you do this to yourself?" The tears fall over his hand, but he doesn't respond.
Richard puts a hand on her back, and she looks up, leaning into him as he strokes her hair. "I never saw it coming," he murmured. "He hid it well, if he was depressed."
"He's an idiot," she spits, but holds his hand more tightly. "He had his chance and now he's throwing his life away. He's got so much going for him. The stupid manwhore."
"Addison, shh." Richard's voice is calm, and his gentle stroking calms her. She rubs the last of the tears from her eyes.
"I guess I'll have to wait for him to wake up to scream at him for this."
His fingers move under hers, but she doesn't pay attention until the hand under hers suddenly grasps her own and she almost screams.
When she looks down, his eyes are slitted open, and she raises his hand to her cheek and sobs again.
/
When enough time passes that she can look at this objectively, she calls him.
"Were you ever going to tell me what the hell happened?"
He knows exactly what she's talking about. "Addison."
"Mark, Jesus Christ. What were you doing? Why didn't you call me?"
He hears the hurt in her voice and cringes a little. "It's not exactly something you say over the phone, Addie."
"I guess I don't get it. If you were that depressed, why didn't you get help? Why didn't you go back to therapy?"
"How much therapy is it going to take before I forget about you?" He blurts it before he can stop himself and hears the sigh down the phone.
"Did you do this because of me?"
"No."
"Then why?"
He pauses and hears her waiting. "I thought I'd be a better man than I am. I couldn't stand myself anymore."
There's a silence, and he knows that she's trying to figure out what to say.
"Oh, Mark."
"In a way, it's sort of about you, because you made me a better person. But in a way, maybe I never would have changed, even if you'd stayed."
"Once a manwhore, always a manwhore?"
"Something like that."
She's silent again and he angrily brushes at a tear when she speaks again.
"I think you use that as an excuse. I think what you really are is a scared little boy who's waiting for someone to tell him he's doing a good job with his life."
"So astute."
"It's true. Don't lie to me and say it isn't."
"Well, am I?"
"Are you what?"
"Am I doing a good job with my life?"
"Is this some way to try to get me to tell you that I miss you?"
"I don't know."
The silence passes again, that long-distance hum down the phone line strangely comforting, matching the monotonous rain streaming on the window panes in the half-light.
"Mark?"
"Addison."
"I can't tell you what you want to hear."
"I know that."
"But when it rains in L.A., I miss you."