viva las vegas [elvis]; mark/addison (mark, addison); r (and maybe NC-17); 1,823 words;
au; grey's anatomy season 3; seattle/las vegas; chpt 1; fairytales of yesterday will grow but never die - (the show must go on) queen
addison and mark connect in vegas one last time before she moves to la
a/n: i am currently in vegas and it's awesome and i want to write something of this place and here we go, an au for the end of season 3
It takes everything in her to walk down that narrow hallway from her hotel room to his and the walls seem to be closing in on her with every step. Although her heels echo on the carpet and bounce off of the walls, she still doesn't really hear the noise – not in its entirety because she has tunnel vision. She keeps playing in her head over and over again the ways this could go like she can really predict his reaction; she knows that she really can't.
She knows that whatever she's thinking is inaccurate, that he won't really smirk and rub in her face any mistakes they made when she informs him that she can't have kids. He isn't Derek. Surprisingly she can't gauge their responses towards her the same no matter how alike they are.
She just wonders how relevant to him that he will find her news, or if he'll just simply tell her that he's sorry about her bad luck and move on. The problem is that she doesn't know because she can't determine where their relationship is currently standing, if they are friends or if either of them holds any kind of resentment. Addison just finds the entire situation disheartening and doesn't know how Mark will react because they aren't the same people they were a year ago. She doesn't even know if they could be if they were to try. Their problem has always been that neither of them knows what page they are on, even if they happen to be on the same page.
She wavers in front of his door, toes of her Jimmy Choo's tapping against the thinning carpet and she lets her mind momentarily get distracted by the tangent thought of the hotel needing to replace the carpets. She chews at her bottom lip because the distraction doesn't really work and there's a truth to the fact that she obsesses over things beyond her control – something that Mark pointed out years ago but her husband never bothered to say aloud. It takes everything in her to rap her knuckles against the heavy door of his hotel room, toying with the consideration that he may not even be there; she thinks that it's probably just wishful thinking.
Her breathing rattles her chest as she waits for him to answer the door and she counts to a firm three (1 2 3, no space to breathe between the numbers) before deciding that he isn't there. Just as she takes a timid step backwards, the door swings open and his lips ease into a smile of relief. She forgets how to breathe because he's looking at her with a smile and twinkle in her eye but she can't return the sentiment.
"Hey, did you just get back?" He asks, crossing his arms in front of his chest and leaning against the doorframe; he's in her space now and she really doesn't remember how to breathe.
"Yep. Bags are still packed and I came straight over to see you," she replies shakily.
He smirks, "I'm not going to be your booty call."
"Actually, I need to tell you something," she counters with a weak smile. His smile quickly fades and he tilts his head in response. She can read the look on his face, the one saying that he doesn't understand but he'd truly give her anything that she wants. "Can I come in?"
"Of course," he says, motioning for her to come in, "want a drink?"
The door clicks shut from behind her and she nearly jumps out of her skin. She ignores his teasing laugh and the way his fingertips touch the small of her back like he used to when he would comfort her with his actions rather than his words. She offers him a weak smile and a nod as her answer as she sits in a chair beside the table; the tumbler suctions the alcohol to the sides as he pours it and the silence reminds her of the comfort they used to have. Even then, she's pretty sure that she needs a lot of alcohol to steady her nerves enough to tell him that everything they almost had was her last chance.
She almost thinks that if he consoles her, she can quit feeling so much guilt.
He hands her a glass in his hand and sits on the bed across from her with his own glass. She takes a long drink, longer than she normally would when drinking scotch, and focuses on the burn in the back of her throat rather than every thought that has been haunting her for the last few days. She swallows and offers him a tight smile that she knows he doesn't fall for when his lips slightly part and his eyes widen a bit.
"Everything okay, Red?" He asks, voice gruff in the silence of the room.
She takes another drink before she lifts her eyes to his; "I can't have kids."
"Oh," he mutters. His eyebrows furrow as he swallows and the silence falls between them again. For a long time there isn't any other sound then the faint echo of their breaths meeting the air in the space between them. She drops her eyes from his frame, lets them trace the circular shape of the glass rim encasing the amber liquid. He drags his tongue over his lips to wet them and looks at her with a quiet disdain. "Does Derek know?"
"No," she answers gently. She smirks a little and offers him a side glance. She lifts her glass to her mouth and takes a sip. "I didn't think he'd care."
"I'm sure he'd care. We've always been the same in that respect – that we care about you," Mark retorts, "nothing really changes that."
"It doesn't affect him. He and I didn't have kids together. We never will. I just thought you should know," she replies. She downs the rest of her glass and pushes herself to her feet, balancing on her heels despite how thin they are. She lightly shakes her head and buries her hands in her pockets to keep her hands busy. "I wanted you to know so that you can stop hating me for taking that away from the both of us. Or don't. Whatever. Just know that you can still have kids if you want them and I can't."
She releases a heavy hearted sigh and steps towards the door so that she can leave, but he catches her by the wrist before she can get passed the foot of the bad. He purses his lips together, a thin line gracing his face as he slowly lifts his eyes to hers. He lightly shakes his head, his mouth falling open but no words coming out. She watches him swallow, his Adam's Apple bouncing in his throat.
"I didn't want a baby, Addison, not without you," he explains. His eyes fall from her again, not knowing what is passing between them as his fingertips seem to tighten around her wrist. He doesn't know the hold he has on her, the way she can't really move forward because they are so deeply entwined despite the way she's attempted to separate herself from him. "I just wanted you."
"Do you think we'd be happy?" She asks.
He sighs, "I don't know. I'd like to think we would. Do you think we would?"
"I think we'd be tired," she replies. She tilts her head and brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear, more out of nervousness than because it's in her way. She bites at her lip, her teeth pulling at the dry tissue on them with ease until she can taste blood. "We'd have a baby, almost one now, and we'd be tired but I think we'd be happy. If we could fix our problems, we'd be so very happy."
"You're probably right," he absently agrees. He's never understood their problems but he accepts that they exist; he finally releases her arm so she can leave if she wants to. He can't imagine why she'd stay – it isn't like she could possibly want to hash this out now. Not after finding out she'll never be a mother. "I wasn't ready for any of it, but that doesn't mean I didn't want to be."
"Mark," she starts, but stops herself; "you wanted to piss farther than Derek, that's all. You didn't want me or a baby, you just wanted to one up him."
"It wasn't like that, believe it or not. It was never about Derek. It was just about you," he admits, "but that doesn't matter anymore. I love – d you but I couldn't get my head straight. I fucked up, I know that."
"I fucked up too, Mark. If we hadn't made the mistakes we'd made we would be a family. We'd have a little girl, red hair with your blue eyes and your nose," she replies lightly, "she'd have your smile and it would get her into trouble when she got older. She would be a handful."
"Nah," he disagrees, "she'd look like you but we would still be in trouble."
"Either way," she says with a shrug. She pushes her hand into his hair, lets her thumb wipe at his jawline as she traces his features so that she can remember how he looks. She isn't sure that memories will be enough, pictures of them as they got older and the moments they shared after Derek left. "I'm moving to Los Angeles."
"That's too bad, Red. I'm going to miss you," he says, his voice momentarily going hoarse. He clears his throat, trying to cover up the fact that after moving across the country to finally be with her that he'll never get the chance; he forces a smirk on his face to keep any tears from falling. Her fingertips are cold on his skin but it feels like his flesh is burning beneath her touch. "Maybe we should try to leave it on a good note."
"Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?" She asks teasingly.
He pushes himself to his feet and grins, leaning forward and pressing his lips to hers with ease. He's always liked it better when she doesn't push him away, even though the movement catches her by surprise. The moments between them always seems so simple and familiar, the ones that he kisses her and she doesn't push him away. Simply because their relationship, no matter what kind, has been about chaste kisses that convey very little and actually mean a lot and about the quiet connection they've always had – she knows that when she leaves it won't be the same anymore and she wants to embrace it one last time.
He tilts his head a little, "we should go to Vegas."
"Okay," she says; she can see the surprise on his face barely mixed with delight.