I don't know what it is about this show, but every single time I re-watch it, I end up with more story ideas than I can deal with.
Here's another post-ep for "Yesterday"
AKA, no horrible thing with George (a moment/arc I always hated, given the potential between Meredith and Mark), which I have done before in Tomorrow, but I'm struggling with the next chapter for that and this one was just fluffy enough to be fun to write.
Hearts always, A.
Addison doesn't show up.
Mark isn't really surprised, after all there's always a part of him that knows and expects to never be chosen, but he is surprised by how much it hurts. As the clock edges closer and closer to midnight, the knowledge that, once again, Addy has abandoned him in favor of Derek settles deep in his bones. It hurts, just like always, the realization he is and always will be second best, even though he should know better than to hope by now.
Hope has gotten him nowhere in life but scars on his heart and what could loosely be described as the beginnings of alcoholism.
Somewhere deep inside, the forgotten child he was is whispering I told you so; we'll never be picked.
He tells it quite empathetically to fuck off and takes another deep mouthful of scotch in an attempt to drown out his ever-present self loathing.
At his side, another empty shot glass clicks down on the bar top, and his attention is drawn back to the young intern next to him. As he watches, Meredith lines up her empty glass behind the three other empties and signals the bartender, Joe, for another.
"You getting your ducks in a row over there Grey?" he asks jokingly, forcing a lighthearted tone in his voice and trying to shake away the depressing mood that had settled around his shoulders.
Meredith snorts, amused, and tilts her head to study him. "I might have no control over anything else in my life right now, but at least I have some control over this tequila," she retorts coyly.
Mark laughs, and grins. "An argument could be made that, if you keep this up, tequila will soon have control over you."
Meredith shrugs with a laugh. "You're probably right," she admits, before picking up the new shot Joe places before her and slamming it back. With a shake of her head to fight off the burn, she adds the empty glass to her line. "But I don't really care."
"Oh Grey," Mark begins, something fond and warm lighting in his chest and beginning to chase away a few of his shadows, "I have a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
"Only if you keep up," Meredith shoots back, sliding a shot across the bar top until it settles next to the nearly empty glass of scotch in his hands.
"Ooh, are you trying to get me drunk?" Mark asks with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.
"No, you're trying to get you drunk, you're just doing it too slow and I'm helping you out," Meredith tells him matter-of-factly, breezing over his flirtations with ease.
Mark opens his mouth to retort, but finds himself at a loss for words; the surgical intern is right. He wants to get drunk, to drown out the hurt he's allowed himself to feel once again because he should've known better. He wants to lose himself in the fog, if only for the night.
As he lifts the shot to his lips, Meredith adds, "besides, we're the Dirty Mistresses; we should have each other's backs."
Hesitating, Mark looks at the spitfire next to him and sees a darkness and vulnerability shimmering in her light eyes, a darkness he understands. A vulnerability he feels but rarely shows. "That we are Meredith, that we are," he murmurs, before sucking down the alcohol and relishing the trail of fire it leaves.
For a long, humming second, they study each other, able to see some of the shadows in the other's eyes since they match their own. Then Meredith's mask comes back up and her expression turns amused.
"Then let's drink," she proclaims definitively, watching Mark's walls come up and a mischievous twinkle light in his eyes.
There's a strange ease in which the two falls into conversation, as though they had been friends for years, instead of having met just that morning, but it doesn't scare them. They embrace it, not caring if some vulnerability leaks through as the night goes on and the alcohol seeps in, because of the understanding that hovers between the two. It should be concerning at how quickly they bond, but they are both too tired, and later, too drunk to care.
When closing rolls around, they lean heavily against each other for support as they stumble out of the bar to the cab Joe had called for them, Meredith's keys held safely behind the bar for when she returns the next day. Giggling like children at a joke both of them have already forgotten, they slip into the waiting cab, Mark giving the address to his hotel after a quick and mostly wordless conversation with Meredith.
The ride passes quickly as Meredith stumbles her way through yet another story of her life before medical school, smiling against Mark's shoulder from where she leans. He answers with stories of his own, wild tales of travel and debauchery filling the space between them. In low tones, they banter back and forth, words slurred but meaning generally understood. It's easy, conversation flowing like water, and it doesn't break when the cab finally pulls up in front of the swankiest hotel on the waterfront, Mark tossing a handful of bills to the driver, before sliding out after Meredith.
Twining arms around each other's waists, they move through the lobby as quietly as they can, Meredith muffling errant snickers in the fabric of Mark's coat and Mark ducking his head to keep his comments and laughter pressed into Meredith's ears.
When they finally make it to his room, it takes a few fumbled passes with the swipe card before the door grants their entrance and they move into the dark space, separating just long enough to toe off boots and shuck their way out of their jackets, tossing them further into the gloom. Neither bother trying to find a light switch, letting themselves stumble toward the bed with the weak city lights coming through the window guide them.
Falling onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs and drunken laughter, Mark rolls them until they're in the center of the bed, Meredith perched precariously on top of them.
"Well," Mark starts, tongue poking out from between lips as his eyes rake up and down Meredith's form. "What shall we do now?"
Something hungry leaps into Meredith's eyes as she stares down at him, the animal in him surging to life at the sight of it.
"I can think of several ideas," she whispers, leaning down to murmur in his ear. Heat flashes between them, searing its way through a layer of alcohol and when Meredith sits back, Mark is breathing hard, eyes glassy.
"You'll get no complaints me," he says roughly, the clever glint in Meredith's eyes doing something strange to his insides.
"Good."