He leans on the counter of the nurse's station, as casually as he can manage and steals a look at her. He wants to beat up Karev so badly, wants to wipe off that smug grin with a well-placed punch. But he knows, deep down, somewhere, that he isn't the root of the problem. He isn't the one to blame. Not really. She was a Succubus or a Siren or something. Some kind of bait meant to lure men to their respective deaths. And somehow, it always spins--it's never her fault. Never.
Not that he harbored bitterness about her remarkable skill at deflecting blame. He'd come to accept it. Somehow. The affair? It was his fault. He'd been the seducer. She'd been unknowingly seduced. She was never the active participant. Always the direct object. He seduced her. It wasn't that she kissed him back or that it takes two to tango. The abortion? It was his fault. If he hadn't been to blame for his faulty genetics and his uncanny ability to fail fatherhood without having a shot at all, then she would've kept the baby. Maybe. It had nothing to do with her own insecurities. Insecurities? Addie? Never. The divorce? That was Derek's fault. He had been the neglectful one. He never showed up, he was too career-oriented, he left it to rot. She made an effort, and then she was the innocent lamb led to the slaughter. He had to chuckle softly at that. The woman was talented, he'd grant her that.
Derek had been his best friend. From his point-of-view, they could still be best friends. But Derek felt that he had committed a grave error, that their friendship would be forever sabotaged. The divisions were finally beginning to heal. Little by little. Derek was at least being nicer to him lately. And to think that their entire friendship came to a ruin because of her.
She catches him staring, and gives him a pointed look that reads that he must be thinking devious thoughts.
He wonders about that. How did he go from Mark, the best friend to be trusted with her every secret, to Mark, the untrustworthy man whore? How could one mistake undo years and years of friendship? He had yet to understand that.
"What are you looking at?" He's surprised at the slight teasing tone in her voice.
He clears his throat. "Hey, when, uh, when are you leaving for LA?"
She beams at him. "Tomorrow morning. Bright and early."
So that was the cause of her happiness and joy. That explained a lot. She certainly was a transient person.
She watches as something flickers over his eyes. She never saw it before. A trace of hurt or...something. He looks up at her, and flashes her the trademark grin.
"Now who's staring?" But the grin seems a little off to her somehow. It's got more fragility, more delicacy than she's used to. It feels like a shaky souffle, struggling to stand on its own, determined to push forward all appearances of strength. Like a Leaning Tower of Pisa in denial.
"I just--uh, well," she stutters. He laughs, but even that sounds different to her. It's mirthless, almost, dark, stringent. She doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about the changes he's undergone.
"You want to go out tonight?"
"Hmm, what?" She looks up at him for a minute, her distraction obvious.
"Would you like to go out tonight?" She makes a face. "I promise, nothing unseemly. I'll be a perfect gentleman and everything." She's still giving off a bit of uneasiness. "No sex unless you want it." He finishes off the sentence with a wink.
He watches the joke take effect as her posture relaxes, and she laughs, a twinkle in her eye.
"Okay, okay," she relents. "Where? Joe's?"
He crinkles his nose. She watches him in amusement, but she spots it again. A look of brooding or depression or something--something so un-Mark, something dark flits across his eyes. "No," he says, after a period of deep thought. "Someplace new."
"New?"
"Yeah. C'mon, Addie. It's your last night here. It has to be special."
"Fine. As long as I don't have to dress up."
He smirks at her. "That's fine." She turns as she sees Izzie barreling down the hallway to get a word with her. She sighs and closes her eyes. "I'll meet you at your hotel room at eight." She smiles as the blonde starts frothing at the mouth with potential questions, spewing them off faster and quicker than she could possibly answer them.
"Chill out," she advises softly, as she rounds the corner.
He leans back against the nurse's station counter with a faint smile. This would be his last meeting with Addison. He might as well make it...memorable.
He knocks on her hotel room door at exactly eight, and smiles a little at the sound of absolute chaos that occurs when he does. He hears as she swears loudly, and fights the urge to laugh. She opens the door, looking a little frazzled. "Ready?"
"Yeah," she murmurs, as she slips her shoe on. "Let's go."
She's surprised when he leads her to Violetta. When they enter, she looks around. It's upscale dining, she surmises, but with a smoky, noir feel. He informs the maitre'd that he has reservations and the hostess leads them to a table. She sits, and he calls for her favorite wine and some scotch. She just shoots him a look.
As she looks around, he fishes out a cigarette and a lighter. He lights the cigarette with a flick of his thumb, the soft hiss of the flame alerting her to his actions. She starts, looking shocked. She tries to suppress her reaction a little, to his amusement. He inhales, tasting the smoke on his tongue, before exhaling.
"I never knew you smoked," she whispers, as she swirls the wine in her glass.
He smiles grimly at her before drinking his scotch. He wants to say that it's the scotch that plied his tongue, his conscience, but he knows it's not. It's some strange sense of bitterness, cynicism. "Maybe you never really knew me at all."
She offers him a weak smile in response. He watches the cigarette paper smolder away--almost a metaphor in itself. This is what his love for her has reduced to--this is what their relationship has reduced to--fragile smiles and the permanence of gray wisps of smoke. "We were best friends, Mark."
He quirks an eyebrow in response, and refills his tumbler. "We were a lot more than that." He drinks it, savoring the feel of the amber liquid as it ignited its way down. "If you recall."
She feels a little uneasy now. The liquor has helped bring that darkness she noticed earlier to the forefront, and she's not quite sure what she's going to do. He sets his hand on top of hers, and brushes his thumb across the top of her hand soothingly. "You don't have to worry about me, Addie," he murmurs. Something flickers in his eyes. "And I'm a little surprised that you'd think you would have to."
"Mark, well, I, uh--" The waiter chooses that moment to appear, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She chooses the seafood linguine and he orders a steak. When the waiter leaves, she pours a little more wine in her glass and drinks it, the tanginess hitting her instantly. "I didn't--I don't worry about you. Not...like that."
He licks his lips, before engaging in a thin-lipped smile. She wonders where the old Mark went. Maybe he's on vacation. She wants the old Mark back.
"Addie, I, uh, I just wanted to let you know that I'll miss you when you go," he whispers. "I'm going to move back to New York soon."
Her breath catches in her throat. "You're--moving back?" He simply nods and there is only the sound of silverware against plates in the background, the clink of glasses. "Wha--well, I, uh, I wasn't expecting that."
His eyes dance in a show of amusement and mild anger. "Why weren't you expecting that? When I came here a year ago, I told you that I came to get you to go back to New York with me. When you didn't, I just--I still fought for you, Addie. But now you're going to LA, and there's no point in tilting at windmills, is there?"
She opens and closes her mouth several times, trying to find the words, but all she can say is, "Huh. Don Quixote." It's a strange reference, she thinks. She would've figured Derek to be the quixotic one out of all of them, the idealistic one, the one with the morality of doom. Then again, she never expected Mark to put on his own interpretation of the classic noir tortured hero either.
They eat in relative silence, and for that, part of her is grateful. She doesn't want to talk to him. The revelation scares her. When had her best friend suddenly become someone she never knew? Maybe he was right. Maybe she never knew him to begin with. After a while, after her fifth bite of food, she decides that the silence has gone from comforting to suffocating. It makes her skin itch. She needs conversation. She needs something to work off of. She almost wants to laugh at the thought. Addison Forbes Montgomery, reared to be the perfect hostess.
He looks up at her expectantly. "How was LA?"
She chews her bite slowly, thinking of the dinosaurs with the long necks and the similarities between human teeth and their teeth. She thinks of parsley ground in a mortar and pestle. She tries not to think of him, or of LA, or of their changing dynamic. Funny how something she had been looking forward to this morning could be something she wanted to avoid simply because of his behavior. "Warm."
"Relaxed?"
"Yeah." She offers him a small smile. Practiced. "Less caffeinated."
He laughs hollowly and she feels like she's pretending she's in the presence of polite company. As if Mark was a sixty-year-old Avon lady. "That's good," he murmurs. "You need someplace...less hectic."
She casts him an unsure glance. "I liked New York fine."
"But New York wasn't home for you. And neither was Seattle. Will LA be home?"
She thinks it over for a minute. "I think..." she begins, trailing off. "I think New York will always be home for me. Some small part of me, at least."
He smiles as he refills her wine glass. The waiter comes by with the check, and he pays for it. She doesn't say anything. Just offers a tight-lipped smile. "I'll walk you to your, uh, floor."
She smiles. Her heels dig into the plush velvet of the upscale hotel, and she holds the elevator doors open as he follows her. His gait is easy, relaxed. They stand on opposite sides of the elevator, trying not to think of elevators at work. Her right hand sits restlessly against the wall. He can't help but think of the Aerosmith song. He hums it to himself. She chuckles in disbelief.
The elevator doors open, slowly, uncomfortably, with a soft chime. He follows her down the hall, watching the indentations her heels leave in the plush carpeting. She has a confident stride, her hair bouncing as she walks. He wonders if she ever modeled in New York. She stops suddenly, and he's glad for the extra space. Without it, he would have crashed into her. As if the evening wasn't awkward enough.
She slides her card key into the door, watching as the small LEDs light up green. He walks toward her as she opens the door. She smiles nervously at him. Butterflies flutter in his stomach.
He can almost feel all the scotch he consumed at dinner. He smiles back at her.
The air between them feels dead. Static.
"Well, uh," she starts. He can see her nervously wringing her hands.
He smiles. "It was a nice dinner, Addison," he remarks, smoothly. She looks into his eyes and doesn't see the lingering bitterness she saw before. She wonders if it's genuine or just the masking effects of scotch. "I hope you have a nice life in LA. Well..." She can't even think of anything to say. She thinks back to her insecurities that she never knew him. "Night."
She grabs his wrist and pulls him to her in one sloppy motion. He almost falls against her, but holds out a hand to steady himself against the doorframe. She kisses him, lips against lips, and she thinks to herself that even if she doesn't know the man, she knows this.
She knows his touch, his breath--he hastily unbuttons her blouse, and she's thankful that she dressed simply. She pulls his t-shirt over his head, kissing him fervently. He kisses her roughly and shoves her back against the bed. She is all breath and want as he bites her neck. She gasps in surprise when he laves over it with his tongue.
She grinds needily against him, and he grunts in surprise. He unclasps her bra, tossing it aside. Her hands work their way up to his hair, ruffling the short strands. There are no words tonight. Only actions. He distracts her by laving her breast with his talented tongue. She arches her back, and yelps in surprise when he bites gently.
He's never bit her before.
When he enters her, she digs her nails into his back as he digs his nails into her hips. He slams into her, rough and hard, and she scratches him in response. When she looks into his eyes, she sees it again. He growls against her skin, and she pants.
She goes to kiss him, and he bites down on her lower lip, his tongue swiping over the blood that slowly oozes out. She gives him a furious look, but she can't keep it up. He smirks at her as her anger fades away to need. She digs her nails harder into his back.
When she wakes the next morning, feeling sated and sore, she finds him already dressing. Had he planned on leaving before she woke? She casts her eyes around, looking for her clothing, and he doesn't say anything. Not even good morning.
He turns and heads for the door. "Addie," he starts. She startles at the sound of her name, but turns towards him. I never really broke our whole sixty days thing, he wants to say. He wants her to take blame for something in her life. He wants her to know that he wasn't the one who ruined their relationship this time.
She looks expectant.
He sighs. I had faith in you. I loved you. "Have a nice trip." His head pounds painfully, almost as if it's punishing him. He punches the down button for the elevator almost violently, waiting for the chime.
On the way down to the lobby, he slams his fist into the wall. He celebrates the tingling feeling that starts at his knuckles and works its way up his arm. It gives his headache a run for its money. He revels in the blood on his knuckles.