As he surfaces from a sleep filled with dreams that dance just out of reach when he tries to recall them, Mark reaches out blindly for the warm body he knows instinctively should be next to him, only to grasp at cold air and empty sheets. As he digs his way out of the tangle of bedspread and pillows and tendrils of sleep, he knows before he even opens his eyes that he is alone in the hotel room.
Meredith is gone.
And long gone from what the coolness of the space at his side tells him.
Mark is shocked by how much her vanishing act stings, a sharp and bloodless slice across his heart.
He didn't figure she'd be so ruthless.
This is something Addison would do... Addison had done.
Clever green eyes flash through his mind, dragging with them a train wreck of a headache, the lingering taste of old alcohol, and another quick swirl of hurt.
For a brief moment, Mark had allowed himself to think Meredith was different.
Yet, here was, once again, abandoned in a hotel room with nothing but memories and searing hangover. He feels like kicking himself; hates how he let the feisty intern creep her way past his defenses.
And with a heavy hangover unlike one he's experienced in a long while, that'll teach him to drink tequila; he knows better. Or thought he did.
With a self-depreciating grunt, Mark rolls over, fully prepared to stuff his head back under the pillow and sleep away the hangover and the hurt that has come at him all too frequently the past twenty-four hours. That'll teach him to continue to have hope.
Instead, he freezes at the sight that meets him. Confusion springs to life and quickly goes to war with curiosity and after a moment, he sits up, wincing at the heavy throb of pain deep in his skull. It takes a moment to find his balance when he finally stands, and Mark curses tequila and those clever green eyes under his breath, but he moves slowly to the room service cart that sits innocuously just inside the door. Moving away from the bed has the last tangle of sheets falling away and the cool air against bare flesh raises gooseflesh.
As he gets closer and weaves his way through his abandoned articles of clothing that are still strewn across the floor, the scent of coffee and bacon invades his nose and hunger sparks to life instantly, chasing away the lurking bits of nausea. On the cart is a tray covered with a silver dome, a pot of coffee still emanating steam, a tall glass of water, and a folded piece of paper.
An unfamiliar feeling unfurls in his chest, low and warm, and Mark reaches tentatively for the paper. Unfolding it gently, Mark skims the printed words quickly, unaware of the small smile that blooms to life on his lips.
Mark,
Sorry I had to bolt, but I had an early shift and you sleep like the dead. Seriously, I tried to wake you, but you either ignored me or were too passed out. Lightweight.
I ordered you food, because you'll probably need it and I was hungry, and the front desk let me charge it to your credit card, so eat it or don't, it's up to you.
There's a lot of things I could say, but they don't belong written on a piece of paper for you to find in the morning so I'll just say bye. For now I suppose, that is up to you.
- Meredith, the much more attractive Dirty Mistress
And scrawled under her signature is a phone number. That unfamiliar feeling grows as he reads it and the last bit draws a laugh from him.
Setting the note to the side, Mark lifts the silver dome and grins happily at the sight of the bacon, eggs, and toast that fill the plate. There's an empty space where some of the food had been nabbed by Meredith, but more than enough left. Grabbing one of the slices of toast, he munches on it as he drags the cart further into the room so he can sit on the bed and dig in.
As he eats, Mark finds himself lost in his thoughts and conflicted.
There's a plane ticket with his name on it booked for New York in three days. His plan had been to spend everyone one of those days to convince Addison to come back with him, show her he was serious, but after what had happened the day before, he finds himself standing on shaky grounds.
"Your marriage is over Addison, all you have to do is admit it then you can come back home with me," his words to her in the elevator just last evening come back to him in a flash and along with it, comes the wave of defeat. She hadn't shown. And now, Mark wasn't sure what to do.
He hadn't expected to run into the other half of the Dirty Mistresses, and he sure as hell didn't expect to like her. Not only like her, but Mark was able to talk to her, freely and without calculation. Just talk about anything, which they certainly had from what he can remember between the haze of scotch and tequila and laughter.
He doesn't like where his mind is going. And hates even more that he does.
Well shit.
...
Meredith scrambles into the intern locker room in a breathless rush, studiously ignoring the curious glances aimed her way. As she opens her locker, she sees the moment Christina realizes that she's wearing the same clothes as the day before and can all but feel Alex's smirk at her back.
"Don't start," she warns, spinning to jab a finger in Karev's direction, before whirling back to change and hop into her scrubs as quickly as possible, ignoring Alex's snickers and shutting her eyes for a split second to fight off the spins that come with the sudden twist. While she may not be nursing the worst hangover of her life, that position is still held solidly by that one night in Prague with Saddie all those years ago, she's definitely a little off balance, and for more reasons than just drinking.
Reasons she doesn't have time to examine at the moment.
Izzie rounds the corner and stops to study her roommate, George skulking at her heels.
"You didn't come home last night," George states softly, the accusing barb in his tone catches Meredith by surprise.
But she's in a rush and doesn't have time to analyze it. "I thought you guys were tired of me bringing guys home, so I didn't bring a guy home," she fires back as she pulls her scrub shirt over her head.
Christina laughs and chimes in, "ooh you dirty whore," she snipes good-naturedly.
As Meredith snorts and looks down to clip her pager to the waist band of her scrub pants, she misses the look that passes between George and Izzie and the crestfallen expression that paints George's features.
"I thought you were done picking up guys in bars," Izzie tries, still glancing at George with sympathy as her friend busies himself by attempting to look something up in his notebook, shoulders hunched up around his ears in an unconscious attempt to protect himself from any more hurt.
"And I thought rounds started thirty seconds ago," Bailey's voice comes like an angry shot from the doorway and they all jump. Framed in the doorway, arms crossed and irritation painted plain as day in every aspect of her stance, the interns hop to attention and scramble out of the room, conversation halted until another time.
A/N: I guess this is going somewhere.
Hearts always, A.