Title: Cyclical Reality
Author: GrandDelusions
Rating: T
Disclaimer: If they were mine, current plotlines would be significantly different
Spoiler: 3x14
Keywords: Mark-centric angst, Mark/Addison
Word Count: 1,251
A/N: Because sometimes you're just feeling the need for some good old-fashioned angst

-o-

Cyclical Reality

-o-

Once upon a time she ignored your glances and avoided your gaze, insisting on distance and formality instead of what came before.

Once upon a time she laced her fingers through yours as she led you to the bedroom with a smile, and you thought your life was finally beginning.

Once upon a time she deposited your clothes in your hand and pushed you towards the door, swearing that it would never happen again…

-o-

"You should go," she whispers, clambering down from the bed as she begins gathering articles of clothing strewn about the room.

You begin to protest, her name escaping from your lips as an incredulous sigh, because somehow you always end up here with her. The finality of her tone as she pulls away from you makes your stomach clench and you brace yourself for another dance of denial with Addison.

She tosses your shirt towards you as she struggles into her panties. Your eyes narrow to dark slits as you push yourself up the headboard. Your feet tangle in the wrinkled sheets, and you glare at her for how cold and detached she behaves when she's preparing to throw you out.

You'd use the term 'surgical' if it wasn't such a bad pun.

"How long this time?" you wonder aloud, and you wish she had the decency not to wear her mask of confused innocence.

She asks what you mean, and you actually hear yourself groan because she's dragged you back down into that painfully exhausting stage that lasted for three months before.

When you were a couple only when she felt so inclined. When she lived with you several nights a week before the fear of rumors circulating around the hospital would be strong enough to drive her back into an abandoned Brownstone and you were subsequently regulated back to the insufficient title of 'co-worker' until a lonely Friday night rolled around or an unforgiving thunderstorm broke. When you were actually naïve enough and stupid enough to believe the two of you could break the pattern and back when the attempts to escape the routine hadn't exhausted you to the point where it was easier to simply accept the reality.

You clarify the question, surprised at how bitter you sound. You've always been cynical and jaded, but she maneuvered you into becoming the antagonist of the world, and once again you're trapped in a rut you can't escape.

It would be cliché and melodramatic if it happened to anyone else. But it's you, and you'll be damned if you allow her to drag you back into this pattern without a fight.

"How long is it going to last this time? How long do you plan on ignoring me and assuming that when I agreed to sex I agreed to you treating me like shit."

"Mark—" she stops buttoning her blouse and shoots you a warning glare. You find yourself wondering if she really thinks that simply because she kicks you out with less compassion than you afford to your interns, that it's somehow wrong for you to hope that the next time (or the next time after that), she finally won't.

But somehow being "just Mark" means that you're incapable of feeling emotion.

Somehow being "just Mark" means you're enslaved to this never-ending sentence.

Your eyes fire daggers across the room. "It's a fair question, Ad."

And she sighs, because at some point during this act, you become annoyed and frustrated, and when you lash out, she releases a sigh that is resignation, fatigue, and superiority all in one.

But surprise colors the sound because you've deviated from the scrip, and neither of you have ever implied that this is a constant. That you're trapped by the other.

Once upon a time you asked her if it was just about sex, and a large part of you wishes it were. At least then all the confusing emotions wouldn't cloud your judgment and ensnare you in this messy seasonal drama. At least then you could make a clean break.

Her lips purse together and blue eyes flick to the ceiling as if divine providence will write inspiration against the plaster ceiling.

"You should go," she repeats with just a hint of desperation.

You should go because she never needs to dignify her actions. You should go because she never explains or answers or accepts. You should go because she always tells you to go, and you always obey and always wait and always hope that the next time will be different.

It never is.

The shirt slips over your head easily, but the smooth cotton chafes and scratches.

Maybe you're hypersensitive, or maybe you're just overly aware. But either explanation is so ironic it hurts because from all her various mantras that cite your flaws and faults, she's never accused you of either.

Once upon a time you allowed yourself to hope she would finally see you for more than the two-dimensional caricature in her mind. But to realize you weren't only flaws would mean she wasn't only perfection. And for all her insecurities, in her universe, she was the sun and you were the moon. It didn't help that you seemed to revolve around her.

You let the question drop with all the others left unanswered in your mind. Clothing is donned in silence, the rustle of fabric occasionally slicing the quiet, and when you turn to look at her, you notice she has trouble meeting your eyes.

"What if I don't want to go?" you challenge.

Her fingers massage her temples, and the way your name tumbles from her lips is both painful and beautiful all at once. And then she resumes that familiar stance and crosses her arms across her chest as she picks up the script the two of you have acted out countless times before.

This is your cue to exit. You've performed this so many times you could walk through it in your sleep. And you wonder if you're stuck somewhere between sleep and awake, because this endless cycle cannot possibly be living.

Exhaustion seems to hang in the air, and it weighs down on you so heavily that the battle isn't worth the costs. Your feet feel like lead as the trudge to the door. You pretend you're not hoping that just this once she'll stop you.

But the tragic thing about history is how it keeps repeating itself, in a constant pattern that only varies with location and year. In undergrad you considered a history minor, and studied the neat timelines in your textbooks, but the whole thing seemed horribly optimistic, because the assumption that time moved in a straight line meant you could move from one point to the next. And as bleak as a notion of inching towards the horizon is, even more damning idea is of being caught in an unbroken circle. A reality that repeats and repeats and never leaves any hope for ending.

The door slams shut behind you, and to some this would be act five, but you know this is only the prologue.

You know how it's all going to play out, because it's all been done before.

And you know there will be another Derek. There may be dozens of Dereks to adore and love and ignore, but you'll always be her Mark who's trapped in this never ending pattern of a cyclical reality that never ends.

-o-

Once upon a time… and it all begins again.

-el fin-