Chapter title is a lyric from "Seaweed Song" by Passion Pit. The flashbacks in this chapter are Mark-centric, and essentially a continuation of two of the flashback scenes in chapter 8 (you don't have to reread those to understand the context here, but just giving you a heads-up :)). This chapter is also, um, significantly smuttier than I originally intended. Stuff happens though, especially when these two idiots are near one another.

. .
. .

Chapter 27. Just Let the Water Win

"This feels so good," Addison whispers, voice sounding floaty and dreamlike in Mark's ears. He makes a short, muffled noise of acknowledgment; his face is currently buried in her neck and his lips are grazing against her flushed skin.

It is taking them longer than normal to disconnect. Addison is mostly still beneath him, save for stroking his back and working her fingertips through the thicker hairs at the base of Mark's neck. He is listening and feeling for any signs that the pressure he is putting on her chest is too much, waiting for a nudge or some words – beyond just confessing how good this feels, and he is certainly not disagreeing – but nothing has happened yet. She seems to be just as comfortable as he is.

The gasps that transformed the air around them a few minutes ago have transitioned into calmer, quieter breaths. It lasted a long time tonight. Mark wonders if he felt like he had something to prove, given that the last time was a nonstarter. When they were making out and he was hard and straining against her hipbone, Addison didn't say anything, thank God. He is certain some women would have uttered something corny or made a joke in reference to last Sunday's performance issues, but Addison has never been one of those women; he appreciates that about her.

Mark rolls away when Addison finally pushes the heel of her hand to his shoulder to get him to move. They settle onto their backs, elbows propped up and hands folded behind their heads. She tilts her face towards him, showing off a happy, closed-mouth smile that creases her cheeks.

"I really want to rinse off, but I -"

"Can't walk just yet?" Mark interrupts with a pleased grin.

"More like I don't want to move just yet. Not everything has a direct connection to your ego, and your…anatomy." Truthfully though, Addison knows he isn't entirely wrong. The sex they have is just that freaking good – it always has been, and it has never been this good for her with anyone else, even when things were at their best with Derek, if she is honest. Mark is incredible in bed – fun, athletic, attentive – there is no getting around that. But Addison knows that it's something…something more, too, even though it took her a long time to be willing to admit that, to view their intimacy through a different lens.

"In the meantime," she adds, "tell me something about your childhood."

Mark twists onto his side to face her. "Interesting pillow talk, Red," he observes with a wry smile.

"I just...I like getting to know things about you," Addison says. "Like, everything. So tell me…" she pauses, considering. "How about your favorite field trip when you were a little kid? Mine was a museum in Bridgeport. Fourth grade. They had a science exhibit that I absolutely loved."

"Yours would be a museum. Mine was…probably the zoo, I guess. Second grade. We spent like half the day there, and we all got balloons for some reason when we left – I remember that." Mark smiles thoughtfully. "My mom was one of the field trip drivers – she came on a lot of field trips when I was around that age – and I'm sure on the drive back she and the other parents loved having a bunch of loud, hopped-up-on-sugar kids in the car with balloons just jostling around on the ceiling."

There were two less balloons in Jenny's car, but Mark leaves this part out in the retelling.

Derek's balloon slipped out of his hand when they were in the parking lot. Mark remembers it so clearly; one of their classmates accidentally bumped into Derek, and his hand lost control of the string. Derek cried out a short, simple oh as the balloon floated away, carried sideways in the afternoon breeze.

Mark looked over at him. They were both eight, and eight years of age brought quite a predicament, even though neither boy was capable of understanding the full extent of it at the time: too old to act hurt about what happened, but too young not to feel hurt. Mark saw the way Derek's jaw tightened in an attempt not to cry.

"Hey, Derek," he said, drawing his friend's attention back to him. "Oops." Mark released his string, and his balloon joined Derek's in the sky. Derek grinned and laughed.

"Where are your balloons?" Jenny asked when they reached her Aston Martin.

"Derek's slipped out of his hand," Mark told her. "And then mine slipped, too."

Later, when it was just Mark and his mother, she asked him, "Did you let go of your balloon on purpose, Mark? Because you still had one and Derek didn't?"

"Yeah. He was sad about his balloon."

"That was really kind of you," Jenny said. "You're a good friend. I thought maybe you might just give him your balloon, or find a way to share it, but what you did was nice, too."

Yeah. As soon as Mark let go of the string, he wondered the same thing: why didn't he just hand his balloon over to Derek? He didn't really care about it…it was just a flimsy-looking green balloon with the zoo's logo on it.

Back then though, it wasn't always about winning, about trumping each other. It was mostly about having and not having the same things. About being equals. That is what it felt like when they were kids, at least. The tracks that cover adulthood have been vastly more complicated to navigate, even though the two men are not outwardly, visibly competitive with one another. Those measure-taking feelings have always been there though, lurking in cold, silent corners, because the reality is that you cannot truly have the exact same things as someone else. And not everything can or should be shared. Including people.

"I liked the wolves the most," Mark adds. He can see that Addison is still watching him, cutely enraptured with his simple zoo experience.

Mark has never had a friend as good as Derek. He considers Addison one of his closest friends, but Addison is just…Addison. It's not the same as a quality male friendship, and Mark's options outside of Derek are fairly bleak. He knows this is a natural consequence of his actions and inactions though, because he is shitty about keeping in touch with people and is a weird blend of sociable and loner-prone. Addison and Derek are the exceptions, because in general Mark does not let people get that close to him. The real him, he thinks, but he would have a hell of a time trying to explain it if someone were to ask him who the real him is.

He has a handful of friends from college who will make tentative plans to go out for a beer, but then someone will cancel, and another year will pass and no one really cares. There is Sam, but he and Mark don't have much in common, and Mark doesn't really talk to him other than to let him know the day and time of the draft in whatever fantasy league they are participating in (with Derek, too). There are a few surgeons at NYP he is friendly with, but it's more like colleague-friends status, which isn't the same thing as being friends, and definitely isn't the same thing as having a friend like Derek. Mark has his tennis partner, but the guy has a shaky net game (yes, he knows that's not a valid reason to discount someone's friendship) and his wife will occasionally flirt with Mark and give him coy looks…and Mark is just stupid enough that unless some miraculous, self-stabilizing thing happens in his current life, sleeping with her is kind of inevitable.

"Wolves are cool," Addison says. "And you love The Call of the Wild, so that makes sense."

Mark wonders if she knows that wolves mate for life; he thinks he remembers reading that once. And he also wonders if Addison is the only true friend he has left.

. .
. .

Twenty-Five Years Earlier

Mark does not stay long at the Shepherd house. Just long enough for two Inspector Gadget episodes, neither of which he actually saw, even though he swears his eyes were on the screen the whole time. He sat down next to Derek and briefly put a hand on his shoulder, but that was it. Neither boy said anything. Derek is lost in his grief. Mark just feels lost. He saw Mr. Shepherd last week. How can he really be gone?

He walks back home, feeling sick to his stomach. A few tears drop down his cheeks; he was able to fight them off while in the Shepherds' home. He thinks about how at one point five-year-old Amy, who sat next to him on the couch and leaned her head against his shoulder (one of Mark's first lessons in the fact that many people rightfully seek physical comfort when they're in pain), was sucking her thumb. It has been years since he has seen the littlest Shepherd do that. He wonders if it is normal to start doing something like that again after not doing it for such a long time. And honestly, Mark sort of gets it; he feels a strange urge himself to pop his thumb in his mouth.

"Hi, honey!" Jenny calls out when she hears Mark open the front door. Oh, so now you're awake, Mark thinks irritably. "I got your note. How was…" and then Jenny trails off when she comes into the entryway and sees Mark's reddened, tear-stained cheeks. "Mark, what is it? Are you hurt? What happened? Did someone -"

"It's Mr. Shepherd," Mark interrupts, muscling through the tightness lodged in his throat. Speaking hurts, but he somehow finds the strength to tell his mother what happened yesterday, or at least what Mrs. Garcia relayed to him. He did not actually ask Derek what happened.

"Oh no." Jenny raises her fingers to her mouth in shock. "Oh no. That's awful. I…I can't even imagine. I saw on the news this morning that there was some sort of shooting and robbery yesterday, but they didn't say what store or name any victims. That poor family. It was nice of you to go over there. I should…I should…" Jenny shakes her head, and then refocuses on Mark. "How is -"

"I brought Mrs. Shepherd flowers," Mark says, cutting her off again. "I couldn't buy any. I had to pick them out of peoples' yards on the way over and make a bouquet. You were asleep and you didn't have any money in your wallet."

"I was…I was just taking a nap. Did you try to wake me?"

"Yeah. And it didn't work. It's like…it's like you don't ever even want to be awake."

"Mark -"

"You don't have a job, so you're not tired from work. You don't have to sleep in the middle of the day, you know. Just like how you don't have to drink alcohol or take pills. You're not even trying." Mark understands it a little better now – or better than he did almost three years ago when he found Jenny unconscious and about to choke on her own vomit. He sits through yearly school assemblies where he learns about the dangers of drugs and alcohol. Most students screw around during the assemblies, fidgeting and whispering to each other – Mark included, most of the time, but he cannot deny the number of times when the speaker is presenting that he has felt heat spreading beneath his shirt. Addiction. That is what is wrong with his mother. "You're weak," he tells her, words cutting and angry. "You're weak."

It feels like it is getting worse with Jenny. Mark is positive she's had problems for as long as he's been alive, but she could at least keep it together during his younger years. He's never had a babysitter, so when he was a baby and a toddler, someone was giving him bottles and changing his diapers and just overall ensuring he didn't die. Jenny and Everett also weren't leaving him alone in his crib overnight. And when Mark was younger, Jenny would drive on school field trips and sit through baseball practices and attend class plays…but now those days of situational sobriety seem fewer and farther between. Mark wonders if it's happening because he doesn't need her for as many things now; that doesn't seem fair though. He may be able to walk to school on his own and doesn't have to be supervised in the kitchen and he can get all his equipment together for football camp without assistance, but that doesn't mean he doesn't still need his mother.

"Honey." Jenny moves towards him, and Mark can see it all over her face, how sorry she is. "I'm -"

"Don't!" Mark snaps when she reaches out to give him a hug. He doesn't want one. Not right now, at least. "Don't touch me."

Jenny steps back immediately, as though she's been sliced in half by the words. "I'm sorry," she quickly says, holding her palms up. "I won't. I won't touch you. But Mark -"

"I hate you! You're a shitty mom. The shittiest mom ever." He is yelling now, and yelling only further highlights the silence that follows. It takes Jenny a moment to find her voice.

"I'm…I'm really sorry that that's how you feel," she replies, and Mark hates for her that, absolutely hates her. Jenny doesn't defend herself. She doesn't tell him to knock it off or take away his TV privileges for talking to her like that or just…anything. She doesn't do anything. She takes his words and simply digests them. Mark stomps past her in disgust, taking great care to slam him bedroom door as hard as he can.

It is after seven when Jenny finally knocks on his door. "Mark?" She says. "Hey…Mark? I just wanted to let you know I ordered Chinese food. It just got here; I set everything up on the counter. Your dad is still at work, but I'm…I'm in the living room. If you want to join me you can, but if you'd rather just get some food and eat in your room…that's okay, too."

Coward, Mark thinks. Mrs. Shepherd wouldn't give him a choice; she wouldn't acquiesce to her children, bend to their wills and demands. Mrs. Shepherd, who just lost her husband, but is still stronger and less screwed up than Jenny.

Mark can make out the shadow of Jenny's feet underneath the bottom of his bedroom door later that night. She is hovering, clearly debating whether to come in. Mark feels conflicted; he hopes she doesn't, but there's also a part of him that hopes she does. And when Jenny ultimately goes to bed without saying goodnight, Mark isn't sure whether he is more relieved or more disappointed.

. .
. .

"You're going to smell like me, until you bring your own stuff here," Mark says in between kisses they are exchanging. Of course they aren't just rinsing off – it never works that way with them. Steam rises from the tiles as he steps out of the path of the warm water (and away from a very naked, wet Addison) and gestures to the body wash on his shelf. He presses down on the pump, filling his hands with creamy foam. He suspects the grooming products he has are a bit more expensive and high maintenance than what is on the average guy's bathroom counter, but he can only imagine what sort of overpriced cleansers and shower gels Addison possesses.

"That's okay. You always smell nice," Addison replies, grinning when he joins her under the water again. He runs his soapy hands over the smooth slopes between her neck and shoulders, and along her arms, but when Addison straightens her posture, arching her chest towards him, Mark understands her meaning. He lowers his hands to gently massage her breasts. She sighs at the new contact.

"Mmm. This is better than the you cooking me dinner fantasy," she jokes, keeping the volume of her voice up so they can hear each other over the pounding water. She laughed earlier when Mark asked what he was wearing in this fantasy of hers. It's specifically about how good it tasted in my mouth, she told him. And yes, I know how I worded that, so no need to respond with a sleazy line. I don't think women have sexual fantasies to the same extent that men do. Especially not men like you, Mark Sloan.

"You're telling me." Mark settles his lips back on hers, enjoying the hums of fulfillment against his mouth from Addison as his hands continue their pursuit along her body, getting soap all over her. Is it really a fantasy though when you have the real thing? Mark wonders. He turns Addison around in his arms after a few minutes, adjusting her so the water rinses away the remaining bubbles clinging to her slippery skin.

"You're not really giving me a chance to get you clean," Addison says. She can feel how hard Mark is against the small of her back, but he lightly bats one of her hands away when she negotiates it between their bodies, wanting to offer him some relief.

"We'll get to that later." Mark lifts her wet hair off her neck and hangs it over one of her shoulders, exposing more of her skin. He drops slow, lazy kisses along the back of her neck and shoulder blades, still palming her breasts, and occasionally rolling her nipples between his fingers and making her moan. When Mark finally makes his way to a spot about two inches below her earlobe and closer to her spine though, he lowers one of his arms, anchoring it around Addison's midsection for support. He is right to get ahead of her reaction; her legs quiver dramatically the moment his lips press wetly to that sensitive spot.

"Such good reflexes," Addison says; she noticed. "You figured it out so quickly, how much I like to be kissed there. And all those places on my spine and back…"

How long did it take your useless shit of a husband to know what gets you going? Mark thinks. He's meaner at this hour, apparently. Or maybe he just doesn't care about Derek's victimhood status as much anymore. None of this would have happened if Derek had loved Addison as well as he should have, as well as she deserves to be loved – sexually and otherwise.

"You do like to be kissed there. It gets you hot." Mark smirks when he hears Addison whimper in anticipation. She'll act embarrassed and demure about some of his word choices and come-ons in the cold light of day, but he knows that she loves when he talks to her like this. "So hot," he adds for emphasis, feeling her wiggle impatiently against him, desiring more kisses. "And it also gets you hot when I kiss you here…" Mark skims his lips over one of her earlobes, grinning when she inhales sharply. "And here," he adds, now against her left rear deltoid. "And…here." Not a kiss this time, but Mark releases her breast (he hears her sigh in disappointment) to let his fingers climb up the knobs of her spine, rotating his thumb into a particular spot. There was one night in February they were cuddling and Mark found so, so many hot spots on Addison's back. They laughed about it later, because Mark wasn't even trying to arouse her – they were done for the night, and he was just innocently stroking her back, halfway to falling asleep himself. But his hand kept moving, and he started to concentrate a little more on areas he realized were making Addison breathe heavier. He was getting hard again just from the sounds she was making, and when his index finger traced small circles on a spot near L1 and she groaned, it became very, very clear that they were not in fact done for the night.

"Mark…" she says now, sighing out his name as encouragement. He continues to enjoy exploring Addison's slick, water-coated curves, caressing her hips, stomach, and backside before returning to her perfect breasts. Water slips through his fingers as he considers that there is still a fantasy element to the realism of this moment; Addison cannot be completely his when there is still another presence lurking in the mist.

Her rings pinch into Mark's skin when she lifts an arm over her head, fingers groping one of his shoulders to express her appreciation for all the attention he is giving her. Mark thinks maybe she felt his shudder as the metals unexpectedly pressed against him, because she removed her hand, but a few seconds later, he registers that she has instead found a more pleasurable task to focus on.

He guides one of his hands down Addison's body, situating it between her legs and brushing her fingers out of the way to make room for his.

"Let me," he murmurs into the swirl of her ear. She moans huskily in response to the statement – eyes closing and eyelashes fluttering – and the way Mark cups her warm flesh. Her head falls back against his shoulder as he works his fingers over her in dizzying circles.

Mark feels bad for Derek, of course. And he feels bad because this is his fault. Addison's too, yes, but there is a part of Mark that will always feel like this was more his fault. It didn't matter that Derek had been a shitty, checked-out husband for a long time; Mark didn't have to sleep with the guy's wife. He chose to. It also didn't matter that Addison started it; he never stopped her. Mark imperceptibly shakes his head now, determined to focus on this incredibly erotic moment with – and God, he hates so, so many things about himself, but he certainly hates the sappy stuff the most – his dream girl.

. .
. .

Twenty-Five Years Earlier

Mark remembers asking Jenny once when he was little, "Why do I call you Jenny and Everett?" He was starting to become more observant about the world around him, and it was clear none of his friends called their parents by their first names.

"I was still kind of young when I had you, and I didn't have a mother myself," Jenny explained, "so I think there were a lot of things about moms taking care of babies that I didn't know…and I guess I didn't ever tell you I was 'Mama' and Ev was 'Dada,' so you would just hear us talking to each other and using our first names. So, you picked up on that. But, you know, your dad called his parents by their first names growing up, too. Maybe it's just a 'thing' in our family."

Mark gave her a small nod and then went back to whatever it was he was playing with. Even if he wanted to refer to his parents as mom and dad, it felt too late to change anything.

Mark is up early the next morning, contemplating the day ahead while he runs his spoon through his Count Chocula (that is one nice thing about his mother; she always buys sugary cereals). He briefly thought about asking Jenny if she can call his school and say that he's sick. She would do it. Maybe Jenny wouldn't even have to lie; Mrs. Garcia would probably understand that Mark needs some time off because of what happened to Mr. Shepherd. But if Mark can't be at school, then he would be have to be here, and since he yelled at Jenny last night, he feels a little weird about staying home right now. He does not think that what he said to his mother was incorrect, but he does feel bad for saying it.

"I – I promise I'll be awake when you get home today," Jenny stammers out when Mark brings his bowl to the sink. "And your dad has to work late again, so we aren't going out tonight or anything. What kind of cookies should I make for after school? Chocolate chip?"

Mark gets what Jenny is doing. He gets that she feels bad, and he suspects she will probably even manage to white-knuckle it for a few days and go without drinking or doing the pop-clink-swallow routine of whatever pills she takes. The cookie part feels a little too June Cleaver-like though, and childish – Mark is not a baby, he can get his own snack after school – but at the same time, he's not going to say no to cookies.

"I want lemon crinkle cookies." Mark wonders if Jenny picks up on the challenging look that shifted over his face. He had lemon crinkle cookies at Mrs. Shepherd's house once, and while they were good, he definitely likes chocolate chip cookies more. He figures that the lemon ones are probably more complicated to make though, which will mean that his mother will have to work just a bit harder to earn whatever affection he is willing to offer her currently. Good.

"Lemon crinkle," Jenny repeats. "Those sound yummy. I can do that."

Mark doesn't apologize for what he said yesterday, but he thinks maybe Jenny knows he's sorry, that he regrets his words. Just because the apology isn't said doesn't really mean it isn't heard. Even then, Mark knew there are things in life that are not easy to say, or to share.

. .
. .

Addison frames Mark's face between her hands afterwards, kissing him deeply and slinking her tongue over his. The sensations always feel amplified in the shower. There is the water that sluices down Mark's back and her front as he moves inside her, the wet slap of hips, the moans that echo in the confined space, the marble wall tiles that press into Addison's back, and the clipped, near-breathless noises as they gasp into each other's mouths. Mark lifted her leg a little higher near the end, steadying the back of her knee in the crook of his elbow, and she tensed at the adjustment, shrieking and coming hard when he thrust more forcefully. The tightening of her muscles was enough to bring him over the edge with her.

"God, you're perfect," Mark murmurs – unashamedly honest with all those post-sex chemicals flooding his brain – when Addison pulls back in order to lean against the wall, exhausted. He gets the sense that walking actually might be an issue this time, so he circles his fingers around her forearm and drags her closer to the shower head so they can get cleaned up for real this time. "I love when you're like this," he says into her ear.

Addison grins with amusement. "Wet and naked and saying your name an unreasonable amount of times?"

Mark starts to laugh. "Abso-fucking-lutely," he confirms. "To all of the above. But more just…I mean, relaxed. You seem relaxed. And happy." He thinks maybe he should have added right now at the end. He might be good – the high-pitched noises Addison was making a few minutes ago definitely endorse that – but it's not like he can actually use his talented hips to drive Addison's husband and all the angst out of her mind.

"I am both those things right now," she admits. "And…I'm really glad I'm going to stay with you," she adds, voice quieting so much on the last part that Mark has to strain to hear her over the sound of the water. She brings her mouth back to his again, kissing him long and slow.

. .
. .

"What is it?" Mark asks later while they are getting ready to turn in for the night. Green and white – Addison picked the galaxy nightlight colors tonight. He watches now as she hovers by one of his nightstands (well, maybe this one is hers now), studying her phone with a concerned expression. She has been like this for what feels like longer than a normal amount of time to briefly glance at one's locked screen.

"Oh, just…" Addison holds her phone out towards him, revealing a missed call from Derek about a half hour ago. Mark manages a small nod, trying to remain relaxed, to not let all the unknowns start ricocheting in his head. Addison is staying with him for now. But when Derek comes back…then what? He's going to eventually come back, and Addison will go back to her husband, right? Mark knows there is an argument to be made that that is the better, safer choice. The appropriate choice. And whether Addison will admit it or not, Mark knows she cares a lot about what other people think of her.

Rejection has always been one of his biggest fears. And the idea of Addison eventually rejecting him – moving on, past, away from him – is too big to fathom.

"If you want to call him back…" Mark says, striving to keep his tone even, "I can hang in the living room for a bit."

Addison shakes her head and climbs under the comforter. "It's okay. I'll call him tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Very sure. Let's just go to bed." She holds a hand out, gesturing for Mark to join her. "I don't want to think about any of that right now. I just want to spend the night with my new roommate. Thank you for making today so nice for me, Mark…" she murmurs, feeling sleepy nearly the second her head touches her pillow.

"You're welcome. Goodnight, birthday girl."

Addison sighs contently when Mark loops an arm over her waist and brushes a kiss to a non-sensitive part of her neck. Whatever her estranged husband wants to talk to her about can wait.

. .
. .

References/Nods to Various Episodes

Practically zero this time. And in order to save myself some time going forward (because TBH, the references section tends to take a while), if it's something I've mentioned before, I'm not going to share the quotes/context again (e.g. I have shared in another chapter Mark and Nancy's exchange from Grey's 3x06 regarding him sleeping with his tennis partner's wife), unless I feel like it really bears repeating/feels relevant to the overall story.

Lol I guess I also threw a few early eighties references in here. The trio were all born at the end of the sixties, so this fits, but…their birthdays never made sense. The Grey's fandom wiki (though honestly there are always, always errors on there – like, laughable-sized errors) has Addison as being born in 1967, Derek in 1966, and Mark in 1968 – and I feel like I remember reading these birth years somewhere else for Derek and Mark too, maybe? The Derek/Mark difference confuses the hell out of me, but idk age math never makes sense on Grey's.

Grey's, 3x12. Addison to Mark: "You wanted to trump Derek. You wanted to win." And Mark quietly sitting down and squeezing Derek's shoulder in the flashback was a nod to when this occurred during the ferryboat arc in season 3.

Also, this is very random, but I mentioned a niece of Addison and Derek's in chapters 25 and 26: Alice. I went back and changed this to a different A-name. Alice does not have a storyline here, and there are no future characters named Alice, but I had to change it because the name "Alice" comes up in a different context later. And that's all I can say about that. :)

Thanks for reading! I've gotten lazier about responding to comments lately, but just know that your words are always appreciated!