After yet another season commences without our beloved Slexie, I just couldn't stand it any longer; I had to do something about it, (or rather, write something about it). In this version, Mark and Lexie have both survived the tragic plane crash, albeit with serious injuries. Expect some drama, fluff, humor, intrigue...and some smut here and there. Enjoy :)
The first thing she saw was white. White, bright light. This is it, Lexie Grey thought, with a strange sense of calm, This is the end for me.
As she focused in on the blinding beacon, however, she couldn't help but notice it dimming ever so slightly. Shit, am I going to hell? Seriously? I've had my moments, but come ON!
Then came a beep. Strange, she observed, confused in her already groggy state, they never told me about beeping in church. White lights, that's a given. A sudden feeling of calm, sure. Maybe even some pearly gates. But a beeping sound? Not once. Another beep. Am I in purgatory?!
The little sound struck a strange chord in Lexie, one of a deep-rooted and comfortable familiarity. It sounds like a heart monitor, she thought bemusedly. Which is so funny, because that would mean I'd be in a hospital. And we all know they don't have hospitals in heaven, or wherever the hell - heck, God might be listening - I am.
But there it was again, louder and clearer, the white light fading by the second. Definitely hell, she resolved glumly.
The uncanny noise began increasing in frequency, till it became incessant, overwhelming, oppressive. I want out. If this is the afterlife, it's a terrible deal. How am I supposed to sleep?!
Then a long, continual toll, followed by an frantic and unknown voice, "Oh my god! She's flatlining!"
Who CARES? It's heaven, not Seattle Grace.
Something round and firm was being pressed to her mouth, air rushing into her lungs. She gasped, pupils suddenly adjusting to take in a tiled ceiling strangely reminiscent of a hospital. Lexie's idea of the Great Beyond certainly didn't involve repeating her residency.
A face, then, came shakily into focus. A dark face, a warm face... Miranda Bailey's face?!
"Lexie, Lexie Grey! Lexie, look at me! You suffered severe trauma in a plane crash three weeks ago. You've been in a medically induced coma and you just flatlined; you're breathing on your own! This is amazing, Grey, you pulled through! Can you speak? Lexie, honey, look at me! What's the last thing you remember?"
She parted her lips, suddenly realizing they were dry, parched even, her throat even more so. And she had only one word on her mind. The one word that, even in her half-alive state, she knew to be what mattered, what kept her rooted to the beeping and the tiles and away from the white light. "Mark," she whispered, barely audible.
Everything went black.
Mark Sloan shifted in his bed for what seemed like the millionth time that day; hell, the millionth time that month. He had been in a pretty abysmal state that first week, most of it a blur. All he could remember were his fervent thoughts of Lexie, then quickly blacking out. Lexie, blackout. Lexie, blackout.
The second week, slowly relinquishing his former strength, he was finally capable of conversing, though still on strict bed rest. When he heard Lexie was in a medically induced coma as a last resort attempt to reduce the swelling in her brain, he felt utterly confused, not knowing whether to be elated she'd survived or devastated she was facing such danger.
Naturally, he settled on being both in unpredictable but equal measure, alternating between snapping at the staff followed by protracted silences, and quipping dryly about the hospital food while asking anyone who would listen about Lexie's health status. It was always the same, every morning, every night; they 'would know more when she woke up.'
After his inquiry that particular morning, his usual AM nurse, Mariah, a large, authoritative woman whom Mark had come to both like and respect, told him, "Look, Mark-"
"That's Dr. Sloan to you," he grumbled, narrowing his piercing eyes in mock-seriousness.
She rolled her eyes, continuing, "Look, Mark, we've been through this. Everyone's trying their very best, and we'll know more when she wakes up. What you need to focus on is staying in bed. No more impromptu trips to the ICU, okay? You're lucky you're alive, buddy, don't push it."
"If," Mark said, his light tone eviscerated.
Mariah was flipping through his chart and looked up quickly at the sound of his voice cutting through the heart monitor. "Excuse me?"
"If she wakes up."
"Hey," she put the the chart down, resting her hand on his shoulder. "You can't be thinking like that, Dr. Sloan."
"What, no more 'Mark' because the love of my life might die tomorrow?" He got a sick sense of pleasure out of saying those words; not because he wanted them to be true, but because he wanted someone else, anyone else, to experience the same tumultuous grief he endured every minute of every day. He wanted his love back. What was the gift of life without Little Grey?
Mariah, immune to his dramatics, looked at him sternly. "No," she said, hand on her hip, "because she needs you. And you're a better man, a stronger man, than you are being right now. You ought to be ashamed. Take your medicine, get your rest, think good thoughts. I didn't say it was gonna be easy, but she needs you."
With that, she turned on her heel and sashayed out of the room.
Properly chastened, Mark looked down at his hands, the color having only recently returned to his capillaries. In a few days, the doctors told him, he'd be "good to go." Good to go where? he thought, almost humorously. Home? Not without Lexie. Leaving the hospital meant leaving his love, something he wouldn't, couldn't, do.
Lexie. He thought of her warm, soft skin. Her silky hair. The way her small body fit against his own. Her smile, blinding in its kindness, its honesty. She was all the best parts of him, she couldn't be gone. Not when they had years and years together; he had meant everything he said to her after the crash. The house, the babies, all of it. She couldn't leave him, she was his heart. Yet, the doctor in him knew that every day she spent in a coma, her odds decreased.
Lexie, he thought again, perhaps whispering it out loud. Exhausted, more from stress and heartache than from his injuries, he slipped into a shallow, fitful rest.
"Dr. Sloan! Dr. Mark Sloan! Wake up!"
"Mariah," Mark muttered groggily, dragging his hands over his eyes. Those damn sedatives. "Did you finally decide to confess your deep and abiding love to me?"
She didn't even pause to roll her eyes. "I told you what would happen if you got some shut eye boy! There's someone here who really, really wants to see you."
Then, it was all a blur. Someone was wheeled into his room. He craned his neck, seeing Lexie Grey's beautiful face. Well, I finally went off the deep end, he thought amusedly to himself, chancing another glance. He wanted to perpetuate the illusion, to look at the woman he loved a little while longer, even if she was just a figment of his imagination.
He closed his eyes tightly and opened them slowly. Still, Lexie, looking at him with huge eyes. This time, he laughed out loud.
"Don't you have something to say?" Mariah's hand returned to her hip, pushing the wheelchair farther toward his bed.
"Yeah," said Mark, smiling, "I think I need more of whatever it is you were giving me, Mariah. Or are delusions of grandeur a side effect?"
Then, there it was. A broken, tiny voice, but undeniably, irrefutably, hers. "Mark," she whispered extending her hand.
He shot up, swinging his legs out of bed for the first time in two days. Mariah was smiling, "Hey now, steady, don't want your BP..."
He saw pinpricks behind his eyes. The ceiling was the floor. His knees buckled, and then it was black.
"Mark," her voice echoed.
Let me know what you guys think! More to come very soon! :)
