Better than me, and I know
You are calm and symmetry and I'm an empty hole
--
Mark's façade lasts exactly one week longer.
It crumbles in the worst possible place: the OR.
You're in the gallery, because you were almost magnetically drawn here. So you sit in the back corner, trying to make yourself as small as possible. April Kepner is next to you and she won't shut up. You're about an inch and a half away from punching her in the face. Mark hasn't looked up here, though. That's good. Because, really, this is bordering on complete psycho-stalker. What excuse do you have for being here? Since when does a burn case constitute a must-see surgery? Watching Mark and Reed place skin grafts and intensive healing dressings on this patient's body shouldn't make anyone want to sit and stare for a few hours.
Well, it is a pretty serious case, you guess. The patient has second and third degree burns over sixty percent of her body, from her legs to her torso. Just think of all the nerve damage! Yeah. That's why you're watching. Nerve damage. Maybe he'll have to call Shepherd, even though this isn't technically a neuro case (stranger things have happened). But then maybe you'll have to go too, and that wouldn't be the best thing ever.
Just in case that would happen, though, you mentally review everything you know about this patient. She was brought in hours ago in bad condition. She was at a big blowout party at a friend's cabin, and she must have had one beer too many because she fell prone into the raging campfire, breaking her wrist when she tried to brace herself.
Nineteen years old. Pretty girl. You saw blonde hair when she was coming out of the ambulance.
Wait. There's something about this. A prickly sensation overcomes the back of your neck. A red flag pops up in your mind.
Blonde. Teen. Badly hurt.
Oh.
It's probably that thought, your thought, which trips the alarm, sending the heart monitor into spasms. Great. Something else you've done to mess up his life. You shrink into your chair, attempting to completely pass through the plastic, squeeze through one of the holes in the back. April leans forward in hers, finally quiet, watching with nervous eyes as the action unfolds below.
Or, doesn't unfold?
You see the occupants of the OR scurrying around, or looking around, or doing something. That's normal. The objects in motion almost hide the one that's not. But they can't hide it from you, because the only person not going through with emergency procedure is the only person you're watching.
Mark stands there, frozen, staring at the patient's face. His eyes aren't bright, they're stony, and it might be the scariest thing you've ever seen. Your breathing is becoming erratic, and it looks like he's not breathing at all, and it's like all of the breaths he should be taking are coming to you instead. She's been under too much stress. They're losing her. He has to do something. He has to move!
You want to stand up. You want to wave your arms. You want to pound your fists against the windows. You want to scream his name into the intercom until your throat bleeds. You want to set yourself on fire, right there in the gallery. Anything to penetrate the fog, to permeate all of his fears about his own pretty blonde teenage daughter. Anything to avert the agony that will come if this girl dies on his operating table.
But when you try, you find that you can't move either. Your muscles are all bunched up, and no matter how hard you strain, you can't make them obey. You're dizzy. He's still not doing anything.
And in the OR, it looks like Reed has no idea what to do. Her big, frightened eyes search the gallery, frantic above her mask. They lock with yours, and her eyebrows immediately shoot upward, a plea for help, and you try to psychically tell her that you have no idea what to do either. You can only bite your lip and cringe because there's the flatline. This won't be good.
"Doctor Sloan!" a tinny version of Reed's voice explodes through the intercom, bold and gripping despite her fear. She repeats herself twice, in rapid succession. Finally, he snaps back into life, and you almost black out. His expression – eyes wide, like he's just realized what he's done – is one you wish you could burn from your mind. His hands shake slightly as he takes the paddles being pushed into him.
The patient survives. Barely. But she survives.
Against all that logic and whatever part of you wants to preserve the mental health you have left dictate you should do (leave it alone is on the top of both lists), you creep by the OR hallway after they wheel the girl to the ICU. Mark is in there alone; he's leaning against the wall, the heels of his palms pressed to his forehead, taking deep breaths, eyes shut tight.
You tear away before he can open them and catch you.
--
Earlier that morning, you made plans to go to Joe's with Alex after work. You're in the locker room when you receive his message. Surgery with Arizona. Go ahead without him. He'll meet you there a little later. Alone is not exactly how you want to be want right now, but the promise of alcohol manages to override that. Off you go, wishing you could pre-order a few shots. It's not like you do it often, and besides, your nerves are just a little shot.
It feels odd walking into the Emerald City Bar without anyone beside you. Meredith and Derek are at a dinner party, where he's performing important chiefly diplomat duties, and you have no idea where Cristina is. You would have sat with Jackson or Reed, but it doesn't look like they're here either. It's just you, a loner in the dim lights and soft rumble of a thousand different conversations. Which is both disconcerting and disheartening, you guess. You don't want to be the unfortunate-looking one drinking by yourself until Alex gets here.
But realizing you're alone is nowhere near as disconcerting and disheartening as taking a few steps toward the bar, looking up, and realizing that you're not.
Your airway constricts spastically and your head swims, because you recognize the back of that jacket, those broad shoulders, and that wiry hair. You remember being right there and reciting the first sixteen elements of the periodic table to him. You could have kept going. Maybe if you had, you would have still been sitting there with him.
Your brain says run away but your legs say walk to, and as much as your brain whines like a little kid, your body tunes it out. See, this is the problem. Something's wrong with your neurotransmitters or synapses. You really should get this checked out pretty soon.
At least your legs have the good sense not to go directly to him, where your mouth would have opened of its own accord, and if you didn't end up saying something idiotic, you would have started drooling or bawling or something and oh, how wonderful that would be. Instead, they carry you to a vacant barstool at a safe proximity from him – three empty spaces separate you and Mark. It feels like you're chasing danger, testing the delicate balance of nature.
Joe is standing in front of you almost as soon as you sit down. "Hey Lexie," he says, smiling.
"Hi," you reply, successfully not squeaking, smiling in return even though it feels strained.
"What can I get you?"
Easy one. You're glad he's asking questions you can answer automatically. "A shot and a beer, please."
"Coming right up." He nods and turns, grabbing the correct glasses and bottles to fill your order. While he's getting your drinks ready, you steal a quick glance to the left, at Mark. He's alone, too, silent, brooding, hunched over. He's staring into a glass of what you're sure is scotch, and he's slowly rotating it in the curve between his thumb and index finger. His eyes give you a chill of a different kind than earlier, in the OR; they're not stony, they're just dark, and a bit cloudy. His jaw is firmly set, eyebrows angled downward and together. He hasn't paid you any mind – positive, negative, or indifferent.
Joe finishes pouring your drinks and almost catches you looking at Mark. You thank him, again with the forced smile, and, after he heads to another customer, take the shot.
And next comes the part you didn't bargain for.
You're there for about thirty-five seconds before you start to squirm. Your idle hands are a threat, so you pull out your phone and end up checking your text messages six times in two minutes. The world clock application shows you the time in various major international cities. Then you check your inbox again.
Those barstools between you and him remain empty despite the growing headcount in the place.
Three times you feel his eyes on you. Three times you glance back at him and his eyes are on his drink.
He doesn't need to make eye contact to drive you crazy anyway. You're too acutely aware of the man three barstools away from you, a distance that at one point would have seemed absurd. You can feel him blinking, and every time he does, it skirts the line of overstimulation: a wave of warmth punctuated with the vicious bite of a needle. You can feel him breathing, slowly in and out, the rhythm of accepting defeat, every expansion and contraction of his lungs, and his cells respond and keep him alive until all of your cells are freaking out, screaming in an agonizing desire to move closer, just a bit closer. This feeling is not unfamiliar, but once upon a time, you knew the cure: touching him, burying yourself in his arms until the contact subdued the overdrive. You're tense and an uncomfortable sort of giddy; you hold yourself in check until the tendons in your forearms pop out.
And dammit, those seats are still open. Nobody will sit there and maybe block some of what's taking its precious time incapacitating you. Maybe everyone can sense the tension flowing between the two of you. Well, maybe not between, it's mainly on your end. He just sits and drinks, blinks and breathes, and he obviously doesn't know what it's doing to you. Your heart hammers. Every time you move your eyes, you're rewarded with a nasty headrush. It's an overload. You're dizzy and you feel pale.
You must look just like you feel, because when Joe gets back to you, his eyebrows raise in confused concern. "You alright?" he asks, lowering his voice, like he's trying to make this a private matter. Ha, what a joke.
"Yeah," you answer after a second of preparation, even though you can feel Mark listening to your conversation, just curious enough to pull him out of the place he's in. "I'm just really tired. Long day." Lamest excuse ever, but it works. "I think I'm going to leave." You pull out a few dollar bills with trembling hands and place them on the slightly sticky bar top. "When Alex comes in, could you please tell him that I went home?"
Joe nods and you carefully stand, considering it a victory when you don't immediately topple over.
As you leave, you feel no eyes following you, no gaze burning its way into your back. You can't decide if that's great or awful.
--
The next two times you're at Joe's, and Mark is sitting at the bar, Alex is with you. And you hold his hand on your thigh, hidden under the bar – not for Mark to see, just to keep yourself anchored to something tangible, something other than what Mark makes you feel. Then, the third time, Mark isn't there at all, and you're there with Meredith, Cristina, and Alex, and you find yourself smiling a lot more that night than you have in a while.
The fourth time, it changes.
Mark is there. Sitting, drinking, breathing, brooding. Alex is as sick as a dog with some kind of flu, so he's at home. Meredith is on call; Cristina is fighting with Owen somewhere other than here. You were sitting with Jackson, but he was paged not too long ago. Once again, it's just Mark and you, too much space between, existing side-by-side rather than together.
But it's slightly less bad tonight. You've managed to cushion the blow with a few drinks – not enough to be drunk, but the buzz is a welcome helper. You planned on staying until last call (it's not all the time you're off the next day), and he's not going to change that. Still, you move a little more cautiously than usual, nursing your beer and reminding yourself every so often not to look at him, lest you nearly hyperventilate again.
And you do a pretty good job, because before you know it, the lights are flickering on and off. Last call. You made it. Hey, maybe this is a good sign. Maybe this means you're finally cured.
That thought lasts about five seconds, max, because that's how long it takes before you zero in on a conversation between Joe and Mark. It's hushed, but you're more than inclined to hear it. So much for cured.
"Let me call you a cab," Joe says, looking solemnly into Mark's eyes, leaning with his elbows on the bar. Mark shakes his head.
"No, I'm fine to drive," he tells him with a wave of his hand. Something grabs your heart and squeezes.
He's drunk. You can tell; you've seen it before. He doesn't get obnoxious. It's only small changes. The way his irises seem to darken a shade, not quite focused but not overtly unfocused; how his voice lowers and gets just a little gravelly; he blinks and touches his face more often; he's…he's drunk. And he wants to get into a car and drive. And that's terrifying.
"Really." Joe's voice is more assertive, and he straightens, drawing himself to his full height. "I can't let you drive."
And that serves to do nothing but aggravate Mark. His mouth twitches. "I already told you, I'm fine."
Again, you picture him in the car, and the fear tugs at you. It makes something happen. A rumble in your chest, deep in your lungs. It grows and expands, wind rushing past your vocal cords, making them vibrate. Your mouth moves with them, tongue and lips and teeth forming words you never told them to. "I'll take him," you hear yourself say, immediately followed in your head by what and then oh, shit. It's the closest thing to an out-of-body experience you've ever had – your voice is a mile away. You gently touch your lips, aware of how huge your eyes are.
And they both look at you, the comic slow-turn to reveal bewildered faces, like what happens in cartoons. It would have been funny if…if you hadn't just offered to take Mark Sloan home. That just makes it unfortunate.
"You will?" Joe asks, trying as hard as possible to keep his voice in a range of controlled neutrality. Well, shit. No matter what you say, you're fucked. Might as well stick to it, even though you might officially have to get "Biggest Idiot Ever" tattooed on your forehead for it.
"Yeah," you stammer, ignoring fight-or-flight, trying not to squeak. "I'm good to drive and I'm off tomorrow. So I'll…I'll take him."
And then Mark sneers, one of the bitterest, most malicious expressions you've ever seen him wear, and it's actually physically painful. "Don't you need to be heading home to Karev?" he asks you, and it's almost surreal that words coming from his mouth are directed towards you. You're struck temporarily dumb, mouth hanging open, trying to let it process.
In your silence, he lets out a single barking laugh with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Go home, Grey." No Little in front of it. Fond nicknames are long gone. His smirk is sharp, voice dark. "Go home to your boyfriend."
The words are like a bucket of icy water being thrown on you; they numb you and hurt you at the same time. Your face is on fire and your stomach feels like it's twisted around itself. His condescending gaze is relentless and you know you should probably just leave now.
Maybe if you give him a choice, he won't pick you, and you can leave.
"It's either me or a cab," you say softly, shrugging, avoiding his eyes, lacking the assertiveness you had hoped for (but knew would never come out).
He raises a single eyebrow. He's thinking, considering his options. Your heart threatens to climb up your throat. He won't pick you.
There's no way he will.
But then why is he standing up?
What- no. He's walking towards you. You've forgotten how to breathe. He picked you. He picked you. You might break out in hives. Your mouth feels like it's filled with gauze. You try to swallow but you're sure you'll gag and he's standing in front of you, smirking, arms crossed, and he might as well have just reached out and wrapped his hands around your throat.
His blue eyes gleam as he raises his eyebrows, impatient, begrudgingly. Your prolonged, dumbstruck pause has already begun to irritate him. "Are we leaving or what?"
A cascade of "um's" and "uh's" stream from your mouth – eloquent, lovely – before you settle for a simple "yeah." Joe watches all of this with trepid eyes, like he's watching a train wreck about to happen and has the power to stop it. But Mark has already started moving, headed for the door. He casts a glance at you over his shoulder.
When you try to walk, you trip over yourself. Twice.
In the car, it's silent. You focus on the road, keeping your eyes ahead of you, seeing streaks of headlights as cars whiz past in the opposite direction. You breathe. In and out. You don't think about the passenger seat, or about the presence in it. He's breathing too, and your body prickles every time he exhales. Everything is strange in this mad world where Mark Sloan is in your car. Your knuckles are white as you grip the steering wheel for all you're worth.
You're filled with the sensation that this isn't real. You're dreaming. Any second now, you'll wake up.
His voice breaks the silence, and your senses bind you to your body, effectively killing that notion. "Karev won't be happy," he says without looking at you, bitterly teasing, "when he finds out I was in the car with you." Then, he laughs again, because it's so funny.
You say nothing. Instead, you sigh, bite the inside of your cheek, and put on your turn signal.
Another mile of silence, even though everything about you except your voice is screaming.
You hit a red light, and he speaks again.
"Really, you should go back to him." He looks at you and raises his eyebrows, pursing his lips. Rage swells in your chest, and you clench your jaw against it. Your stomach rolls. "Dump me on the side of the road and to go your boyfriend. Wasn't too hard for you the first time." He shrugs nonchalantly before returning his eyes to the road. But his words rip and tear, clawing open some of the wounds that never healed in the first place. You lose your composure for just a second.
"He's not my boyfriend," you tell him, your voice surprisingly sure, surprisingly defiant. Then, your heart skips a beat.
This happened before, a world ago.
Luckily, you don't have much time to dwell on that, because you're pulling into a parking spot in front of his apartment building.
The night air is very chilly as you walk to the main entrance. You shiver and he shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. Once upon a time, you might have cuddled up to him, sharing heat until you got inside. Now, there's at least two and a half feet of space between you and him, at least. But your curves protest this, wanting nothing more than to be pressed to his side, where they remember fitting perfectly.
You'll just have to settle for shivering.
You keep your eyes on the floor and just focus on walking, one step after another. The hiccup of an elevator ride provides a definite challenge, but you survive. The two of you step out onto the fifth floor, and you're ready to make sure he gets to his door without passing out and then tell your legs to run so fast your upper half won't be able to catch up. Because this? This was a bad idea. Because now you're remembering everything about this hallway – the sound of footsteps echoing on its floor. Each one hits you like a punch to the gut.
The toe of Mark's shoe drags on the ground and he stumbles. "Shit," he slurs, losing his composure, reaching out blindly for anything to catch himself on. And, of course, it's your shoulder. His hand burns your skin through your clothes as he grabs on, and it's so good that you want to grab it and hold it there forever. He pushes against you, steadying his own momentum, sending you off-balance. You stagger for a few steps and he must somehow feel bad enough to help you, sliding his arm around to your other shoulder, steadying you as well.
You gasp and try not to let yourself shudder against him. The familiar warmth of his arm around your shoulders tugs at your gut. His scent assaults your nose: leather, masculinity, and laundry detergent, with this new underscore of cigarette smoke. Your system is about to overload with everything, and you just pray that Callie, Arizona, Cristina, or any combination thereof won't be outside of their apartment and see Mark basically hanging on you.
His body is a literal representation of what you've been dragging around for months. It's way too appropriate for your taste.
That door with 501 on it has never looked better. He lets go of you, you resist the urge to cling to him, and pulls out his keys. Unlocking his door and opening it, he steps inside. Then, he does and about-face and stares at you. You're frozen.
"Coming in?" he asks, and you can't tell for the life of you whether or not he's serious. You forget how to say "yes" or "no." Well, really, you forget how to articulate anything at all. You just open and close your mouth and point back in the direction you came.
He grins, narrowing his eyes. Leaning against the doorframe and crossing his arms, he teases, "Scared?"
Yes. Absolutely terrified. Of what? You're not entirely sure.
To step across that threshold might be the worse decision ever. But you've made a few in the past. Two parts of you stretch in opposite directions. One begs you to get the hell out of there, scurry back home, and pretend this never happened. The other wants nothing more than to go into Mark's apartment. They struggle and snarl, scratch and bite at one another until the thread connecting snaps. The one with more weight is the winner.
You take a deep breath and step through the door of apartment 501.
Mark's eyes are on you as you look around the darkened space, hands shaking, overcome by all of the acute familiarity. The memories are too vivid, too sharp, and they make your head ache. He kissed you on that couch. You made him dinner in that kitchen. In that bedroom…
Everything is the way you imagined it a while ago.
Everything besides that beautiful crib in the middle of the living room. It doesn't match, doesn't blend in with anything else. It sticks out, a stark, foreign imperfection. A scar on a beautiful face. Eyesore, you think, and then immediately feel awful for it. Still, you stare at it, and it reminds you once again of how things can never go back.
He's beside you, then; his shoulder brushes yours, and your skin blazes. He follows your gaze, tracing the invisible line all the way to the crib. Biting your lip, you glance up at him, watching as his eyes gloss over, opaque, like he just remembered that he didn't want to see it. But he sees it there every day, constantly reminded, but not willing to remove it. And now you've seen it, and it kills him just a little bit. You see it run across his face, a twitch in his eye, clenched jaw, fuck it all restraint.
But he blinks, and all of that is gone, back to wherever it came from.
There's no sound for a minute, just your heartbeat in your ears. You can feel his through your skin, over and over, a rhythm you've heard before.
"Hey." You almost jump at the noise, even though it's neither sudden nor loud. His eyes scorch yours, intense, concentrated, looking at you (because that's still a big deal). "If Karev's not your boyfriend…"
And he's close to you, too close, your bodies are touching chest-to-chest and you're trembling. His hand grazes your hip and you swallow hard. This shouldn't be happening. You shouldn't have done any of this. You should have listened to him and gone home, because this will do nothing but hurt ferociously. That shadow across half his face is beautiful.
He gently pushes you against the wall and you're too stunned to do anything about it. Your brain tells your arms to shove him off and your hands do press against his chest. But your biceps fail to cooperate – instead of tightening for that final burst of strength that will get him off of you, they go completely limp. You're helpless. Instinct betrays your conscience, overriding the should do and instead jumping to will do.
He kisses you, holding you by the waist, trapping your body against the wall, and words like conscience and no lose all meaning. His lips burn you from the inside out and he tastes like scotch, tastes like Mark, and everything comes rushing back, that year comes rushing back, and you grip his shoulders, digging in with your nails and kissing back like your life depends on it. This is you. This is what you remember doing, who you remember being. His mouth, open against yours, is the connection to the person you've lost along the way. The rapid flutter in your chest fills you and this is what you've been missing. His hands sliding over your body. Your arms looping around his neck, drawing him closer. The curve of his smirk over your lips. You're vaguely aware of how awful this is for the both of you when his hips press against yours, but it's not in your power to make it stop. Not when his fingers are tangling in your hair like that.
When his lips tear away from yours, you take a breath and immediately start gasping, chest heaving, over and over, until you're dangerously close to passing out, and it's like you've been holding your breath for months. It's a fever breaking. He floods your senses; everything is him. His mouth is against your neck, and you melt against him and don't fucking care what this will mean or how this will feel tomorrow. You just don't want him to stop. You never wanted him to stop.
This is not healthy or happy or wise or anything like that. It just is. And when he pulls your shirt over your head and his hands skim your bare skin, you realize that you're the same. Not healthy. Not happy. Not wise. You just are.
Eventually, you end up in his bed, both shedding your last bits of clothing in a heated frenzy of tangled limbs and lips. You don't remember how you got here. You're not in much of a state to comprehend specific details – you can sense movement, but not direction. You arch into him as he positions himself over you, your teeth clasped to his lower lip, the friction of skin on skin reminding you of the presence of your body. The presence of you, Lexie Grey. In this moment, you're not broken. You're just a person, giving in to the same desires as other people do.
And he must remember too, with the way he touches you, two fingers buried deep inside and the pad of his thumb circling your clit until you're bucking against his hand, moaning helplessly. His mouth on your breast is a burst of flame, so good you might not survive.
You gasp as he enters you, hard, full, and your toes curl and you writhe, but he makes a face; not quite disappointment, just confused anticlimax. Maybe you're not as tight as you were before, or maybe it's psychological, but it's gone by the time he begins thrusting. Your hips move in tandem with his, working on their own accord, and you don't have to force yourself to do anything, until he's so far inside of you that maybe he'll never find his way out.
When you move together, it's like a rush of everything, and you're moaning with his every thrust and he's pressing his forehead against yours. You're holding him tight, fingernails digging into and scratching at the pliant skin of his lower back, the lithe muscles there tightening and relaxing beneath your fingertips. Everything's electric and liquid, wispy and angry, and you bury your head in his neck. His palm drags from your shoulder to your hip, leaving a trail of tiny shocks. You're so close to him that you can feel everything, you can trace all of the tiny chemical reactions happening in his body, all of the build-ups and breakdowns that keep him going, and you wonder if he can feel the same in you.
Your nerves are glowing neon and it's just so good; you don't last long at all. You kiss him as you come, your cry stifled against his mouth, and it's like you just grabbed both ends of the world and pulled hard, tearing it straight down the middle.
(or maybe he's the one who did it)
--
But as soon as it's over, when you're separated and cold, that promised pain settles in. All of the exhilaration, all of the positive, everything you wanted and needed from whatever it was that just happened, gone. In its place? This empty kind of hurt, one that actually makes you shudder and curl up in a ball.
You lie there in his bed with him next to you, fast asleep, breathing in and out, and you wonder if he would be feeling this way too if he wasn't completely wasted. Which, well, that's another knife in your chest. He's drunk. You'd almost forgotten. You never thought this would be a reunion of any sort. But to know he wouldn't have bothered if he hadn't had way too much scotch?
This was an awful idea. You feel the loathing set in, heavy in your chest, and this is another thing you don't do. This is pathetic. How did you get here? How did you hit the bottom?
You need to leave. To sneak away. Or else, you might just die right there.
Maybe he's so drunk he won't remember who he screwed tonight.
You don't want to acknowledge the pain that comes with that thought. Double-edged sword.
You slip out the door, leaving him alone, hoping he won't recognize the tearstains you left on his pillow or the imprint you left in his bed.
--
It's close to six o'clock in the morning when you creep back into your apartment. Alex is knocked out on the couch, some sports news anchor talking on mute on the television, ginger ale on the coffee table, puke bucket on the floor beside him.
It's very easy to creep past him and shut yourself in your room.
Hours later, he knocks on your door, asking tiredly if you're alright.
Imitating the grogginess in his voice, you answer. "I think you gave me your flu."