4. sinking
It was desperate, sometimes.
She knew she was being pathetic and needy and definitely unhealthy. Her hands shook slightly as she dialed the now familiar number.
"Hey, it's me. I – can I come over?"
A sigh. "Sure, Meredith."
And then, within fifteen minutes (sometimes it was ten, if Derek had given her a particularly meaningful look that day), she was in Mark's apartment, in Mark's arms, hearing Mark's whispers.
She was doing fine – she really was. It was just a bad habit.
She never had been good at breaking bad habits.
She arched her body into Mark's as his lips traced over her ear, her neck, her collarbone. She sighed softly as his perfect surgeon's hands touched her where she needed it.
His hands were like Derek's – smooth and effortlessly sure of where they were going. She couldn't help marveling once again how similar they were.
Of course, Mark wasn't Derek. He made her laugh and he made her forget about how broken she was. But what they had – what they were – was something else entirely. They were dirty. They were wrong.
This she was sure of, even though technically neither of them were married, or involved with anyone else for that matter. But that didn't stop her from considering her Very Bad Habit a dirty thing. It left a bitter taste in her mouth and made her stomach feel tight when she thought about it for too long.
So she usually chose not to think about it.
There was so much more to focus on – like, for example, how fucking hot he looked without a shirt on as he got out of bed to answer his pager.
"I have to go in," he said with a groan as he glanced at it. "Car accident. Emergency facial reconstruction." He cursed under his breath as he got dressed. "You can stay here for awhile if you want," he offered her. "It's only… two am. Jesus."
She slipped out of bed, wrapping a sheet around her as she headed over to his dresser. "Can I borrow a shirt?"
"Sure, why?"
She held up the black tank top she'd been wearing that night. One of the straps hung down, ripped. "Because somebody was a little impatient."
"Sorry." He smiled wickedly. "No, actually, I'm not."
She snorted. "Doesn't surprise me."
"So I'll see you later." Mark stood in front of her, and suddenly she felt awkward as she looked up at him. He obviously didn't know if he should kiss her goodbye. His dark eyes slid hesitantly from hers to the door.
Because what they had, she reminded herself, did not involved kissing goodbye. It was sex. Sex and alcohol and… yeah, sex.
"Yeah, okay," she said, ducking her head and fumbling with the sheet.
He nodded crisply and turned to leave the room.
Meredith sighed slightly as she turned back to the dresser, opening the top drawer. She found an old Harvard tee shirt and slipped it over her head. It smelled like Mark – leather and cologne and smoke.
Something else in the drawer caught her eye. She tugged on the corner of a piece of paper that was sticking out from between tee-shirts.
The frayed photograph felt like it was burning her hands, and she sucked in her breath quickly as she stared at it.
It was Addison. Addison in her wedding dress, bright auburn curls against the pearl-white silk. She was laughing and turning towards the camera, green eyes bright with hope and happiness. The background was some sort of country club or vineyard – vibrant flowered trees and white canopies. Brightly dressed guests were everywhere. And there, among the crowd, was Derek, twelve years younger and in a tuxedo. He was slightly to the side, smiling as he talked to an older couple. His parents? Addison's parents? She had no idea.
But this picture – this proof – that Derek had loved Addison so long ago… it felt like a stab to her gut. When it was taken, she had probably been in the beginning of college. She'd never known McDreamy existed. And McDreamy had a life. Had a wedding.
And Mark had been a part of it. She hadn't ever thought about Mark being at the wedding. Never thought that he had really known the two of them for that long.
She dropped the photo and it fluttered to the ground.
Derek's wedding? Derek's WEDDING? How sick was Mark that he had a picture of his best friend's marriage that he himself had ruined?
"Meredith? What's wrong?"
She spun to face him, unable to speak.
"I forgot my cell phone so I came back to…" he trailed off as he spotted the photograph at her feet. "Oh."
"I get that you have a picture of her," she finally spat out. "And it's a good one, I guess… but in her wedding dress? Seriously? Don't you think that's a little morbid… considering?"
Mark shrugged and looked away. "I took that picture. I was the best man."
