Here is Chapter 7. Thank you to all who reviewed! I have to say that I really am connected to this chapter and I find it to be close to my heart. So I would really appreciate your thoughts and opinions on it! Things are really changing between Izzie and Mark, a whole new dynamic is being created. I hope you enjoy it!
--SC
Only Shonda and ABC owns Grey's!
Chapter 7: Betty Crocker and Old Wounds
The twenty minute ride was made in silence, save for the 'swoosh' of the windshield wipers chasing the falling drops of rain. Occasionally, she would turn to look at him but he would pointedly ignore her. She realized, rather glumly, that this was the longest the two had ever gone without speaking a word to each other. She didn't bother pressing him to talk. She knew he would when he was ready, but, only when he was ready.
She parked the car on the quiet street and got out, leaving him to follow her actions. She walked straight passed him, ignoring his opened palm, and headed straight for the front door.
"What do you think you're doing?" He demanded, annoyance in his voice.
"I'm unlocking the door to my house. What does it look like I'm doing?" She said to him over her shoulder. She heard his footsteps fall against the concrete as he walked up the front path and stopped at the first step.
"It looks like you're stealing my keys. Give them to me."
"I'm not stealing them. I'm just not returning them to you." She turned when she finally opened the door and turned on the inside light, and stood there waiting, hand perched on her hip. "Well, are you going to come in or are you going to stand outside of my house, in the rain, all night?"
He stood there silently, glaring at her. She imagined that if he'd been a cartoon character, he would have steam coming out of his ears and a face as red as a tomato.
"What are you looking at?" He bit out as he made his way up the steps and stopped to stand in front of her.
"I was just imagining you with steam coming out of your ears, that's all."
"Glad to know I entertain you." He stepped inside and looked around, as if he was appraising the home and found it lacking. "So this is where you live?"
"It is. It's Meredith's house, George used to live here, too, but he's married now, so . . ."
She shrugged her shoulders as she made her way past him, and headed for the kitchen. He followed her. "Do you want a drink? We've got pretty much everything."
"Whiskey?"
"Yes, we have plenty of whiskey." She made a stop by the liquor cabinet and grabbed the Jim Beam. "Hope Beam will do, we're poor interns after all."
"That's not what I've heard."
Her hand stilled as it reached for a glass tumbler from the cabinet. She swallowed and cleared her throat, deciding whether to respond to him and take his bait for what she knew would lead to a heated argument, also something that she knew he was craving. She chose to keep silent and ignored him. Grabbing the glass, she turned around, and sat it in front of him, not making eye contact. "Do you like chocolate, Mark?"
"Yeah, it's ok. Why?"
"We're going to bake a chocolate cake."
"A chocolate cake?" He opened to bottle of liquor and began to pour. "Why the sudden urge to bake?"
"I always bake when something's bothering me." Izzie gathered her ingredients, bowls, and mixer and set them on the island. "It's a form of therapy."
"And what's bothering you tonight, Isobel?" He asked with a hint of sarcasm as he took a gulp of the cheap whiskey.
"Oh, nothing's bothering me. I'm fine."
"Then why are you baking a cake?"
"Not me, 'we' are baking a cake." She said reaching in the refrigerator, grabbing the eggs.
"I don't bake."
"Well, you're going to tonight."
"No, I'm not, Betty Crocker."
"Yes, you are." "She turned and placed the eggs on the island. She propped her hands on the counter and leaned towards him, "You need the emotional outlet."
He crossed his arms and cocked his eyebrow defiantly. "What are you talking about? I have no need of an 'emotional outlet'!"
She looked at him, in disbelief. "Is that so? Well, explain to me then why you punched the hood of your $100,000 dollar car, repeatedly, as well as kick the very expensive tires with the 24 inch rims?"
He avoided her gaze as he took another sip of his drink. She saw him mull over her words and she waited patiently for him to respond. He finally turned to look at her.
"If I help you bake this damn cake, will you not pester me with your annoying tendencies to play Oprah and go all deep and . . . crap?"
She smiled at him as she grabbed her a glass and a can of coke. "Only if you make me a whiskey and coke, while I get things ready."
"Deal." He took the glass and soft drink from her and went to the freezer and grabbed some ice and began making her the drink. He watched her riffle through a drawer, taking out towel after towel and placing them on the counter. "You plan on making a huge mess, Stevens?"
"No, I'm looking for something . . ." She kept on digging, springing up when she had finally found her treasure. She turned to him, holding something red in her hands. "Here take this."
He eyed the material suspiciously as he unfolded it. It was a red apron with huge bold, chunky letters that said "Hell's Kitchen." He couldn't help but wonder if he had stepped into it. "What do you want me to do with this thing?"
She turned to him, tying her own pink aprons decorated with white polka dots around her neck. "Put it on, genius."
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
He did as he was told, not bothering to hide the grimace on his face. "Ok, so . . . what next?"
"You're going to have to come over here and stand by me." She smiled as he grudgingly obliged. She looked up at him and handed him a mixing bowl and some measuring cups. "Ok, let's start off easy. Measure off two cups of flower." She watched him as he dipped the cup into the flour, but stopped him before he dumped it in the bowl. "Wait! Here, take this knife, and using the flat side, wipe the excess off over the flour canister. Be careful so that you don't make a mess."
He rolled his eyes and did as he was told. "Acceptable, Dr. Stevens?"
She smiled. "You're doing just fine, Dr. Sloane. Set that bowl aside. Now, let's mix our sugar, butter, eggs, and sour cream."
He turned to her in disgust. "Sour cream?"
"You'll have to trust me on this one. It's what makes this cake awesome." She grabbed the butter and chopped it into little pieces and handed the plate to him. "Here, put this in the mixing bowl and then measure one and a half cups of sugar." She watched him while she began cracking the eggs. She smiled to herself as he measured the sugar using the method she'd showed him. The tables had been turned. Inside of the O.R., he had years of surgical knowledge and expertise to share with her, to teach her. But inside her kitchen, when it came to baking a cake, he was a novice. She was the one teaching her teacher something he held no knowledge in. Irony had one hell of a sense of humor.
"Ok, now take the hand mixer and cream the two on a low speed." She bit her lip as he studied the hand mixer in an effort to hide her smile. "Have you ever used a hand mixer before?"
He looked at her sheepishly. "Um, no, I'm afraid not."
"It's rather simple. Just two words of advice, make sure that you turn the mixer on and off while it's still in the—
"Holy shit!"
". . . bowl!" Her words were too late as butter and sugar went flying in the air, leaving a stunned Mark, wiping the mixture off of his face with his hand. Izzie looked at him in surprise, with the butter and sugar in his hair and tried hard to contain her laughter as she handed him a towel.
She watched as he struggled to keep his laughter in. "Did . . . did I get it all?"
She shook her head, trying to catch her breath. She had never seen Mark Sloane look so ridiculous.
He shook his head, chagrined. "Is there a bathroom I could use?"
She pointed down the hall. "Third door…on the…on the left!" She watched him as he walked down the hall and enter the bathroom, finally letting her laughter out after she heard the door close behind him.
"I can hear you laughing, you know!" His muffled shout only made her laugh harder.
Izzie had finished adding the last ingredient to the batter when Mark entered the kitchen again, hair slick with moisture, and the towel hanging over his shoulder.
"Did you get it all?"
"I think so. I will for sure when I take a shower." He eased himself onto the stool and watched Izzie mix the remaining ingredients with the hand mixer. "So I take it you're not gonna let me use that thing again?"
Izzie's eyes met his in a smile. "Actually, I was going to let you finish, but you took too long primping and the batter couldn't wait on you, Mr. Vidal Sassoon."
He snorted. "I use Paul Mitchell, get it right."
"Oh, excuse me. I should have known you were a hair products type of guy."
"It happens when you have a guy like Shepard as your best friend for nearly all of your life . . ." He coughed and shifted uncomfortably on the stool. "Well, ex-best friend."
Izzie looked at him briefly before turning around to grab the Crisco and powdered sugar off of the other counter. "Hey, come over and stand by me at the sink. Oh, and will you grab those two pans next to the bowl."
Mark did as he was told and made his way over to her. "You're not banning me from baking? Even after that miserable attempt with the mixer?"
"Absolutely not. We all make messes sometimes. We just clean them up and keep going." She began rolling her sleeves . "You may want to push your sleeves up because this can get messy."
"Ok," He said as pushed the sleeves of his grey shirt up. "What are we doing now?"
"Now, we are going to grease and dust the pan."
" 'Dust the pan'? How do we do that?"
"I'll show you. First you take some Crisco." She reached into the tub with a spoon, then put the shortening on her hands and passed it to Mark, watching him do the same. "Now, rub your fingers on the bottom and sides of the pan, spreading it as evenly as you can." She looked at his pan and gave her approval. "Awesome. Now, we dust."
"We dust . . . with the powdered sugar, I'm guessing?" He took the towel she handed him and wiped his hands.
"Ding, ding, ding! You are correct. Ok, now, here's the messy part and it's best to do it over the sink," She said as she grabbed the box of powdered sugar. "Now we are going to sprinkle powdered sugar over the pan."
"Why powdered sugar and not flour?"
"Well, it basically does the same thing as flour and it gives the cake a better taste. Plus, it's something my grandmother always did when she baked." She felt his gaze on her as she dusted the Confectioner's sugar over the pan and couldn't help but pat herself on the back for the drastic change of mood Mark Sloane was in. She had a feeling that if she had left him alone, he would currently be sitting in a bar getting drunk and looking for an easy screw. Yes, her form of diversion may have just saved him form a hangover and a very nasty venereal disease.
"So, you use to bake with your grandmother a lot?"
She passed him the box of powdered sugar before turning back to the island. Grabbing the bowl of batter, she began filling the cake pan. "Yeah, I did. My grandmother would keep me while my mom worked her two jobs. She was the best baker in the county. Every Fourth of July, she would enter this baking contest. All week long we would bake tirelessly and stay up late. We made cobblers, pies, cakes, and jams, tons of jams, I mean gallons of different jams. I used to live for that week." She smiled at him as she slid the bowl of batter towards him and handed him the spatula.
"Did you guys ever win?"
"Oh, yeah. We were the bitches to beat. My grandmother had some intense enemies when it came to the baking contest. Even though the old biddies were all friends when it came to Thursday nights . . . bridge night."
"Your grandmother played bridge too?"
Izzie laughed. "She did, but she sucked at it. Your grandmother played?"
"She did, every Wednesday at noon, with the ladies of the Junior League while sipping mint juleps."
"Oh…" Understanding dawned on Izzie.
"Yes."
"So, I take it you came from a very prominent family?"
"I guess you could define my family as that." He turned to her with his full pan. "What do you want me to do with this?"
"I'll take it." She grabbed one of the cake pans and made her way to the oven, and placed it on the rack, the other soon following. "So . . . is Shepard's family a 'prominent' family as well?"
"In my grandmother's eyes, no. She called his family 'nouveau riche.' But in my eyes, I would say so."
"Nouveau riche is better than no riche," She muttered quietly. She looked at him curiously as she began wiping down the counter. "You said that in your eyes Derek's family was 'prominent.' What do you mean by that?"
Mark sighed as he reached across the island counter for his drink. "Well, Derek's parents worked for everything they had. They were professionals, but they had to work for every penny, whereas my family . . . well, we work, but it's not because we have to . . . " He paused and took a sip of his whiskey. "His family . . . they actually get along and love each other. They were like the Brady Bunch except his parents have been together the whole time. "
Izzie continued cleaning, waiting for him, no, hoping that he would continue. She looked at him quickly, and took note of his features. He was sharing a part of himself she'd never thought she would discover. "How did you and Shepard become close friends if your were so. . ."
"How did we become friends if our families were so different?" His eyes met hers, as she bit her lip and nodded softly. He leaned his hips against the counter. "We were twelve years old, and we were on the same hockey team. We had both been put on the same D-line and we had gotten to know each other, through practices, but we hadn't become friends until this one day, after practice. We were both waiting for our rides when this kid . . . this punk, named Carl Franklin, came up to me and said to me, 'Your mom is fucking my dad. You know what that makes her? A whore.' "
His eyes met hers when he heard her sharp intake of breath and she watched as he simply nodded. "I can't believe that . . . what did you do?"
"I didn't do anything. I just stood there in shock, trying to figure out what "fuck" and "whore" meant." He looked at her with a smirk on his face. "I was actually an innocent back then. But, Derek? Derek punched the kid and broke his nose in two places." She watched as his hand went to his neck and rubbed the tired muscles. "And after that day, he was my best friend. And Franklin's nose is still crooked."
"I'm guessing that your parents didn't have a happy marriage?" She asked stating what seemed to be the obvious.
"Nope. They divorced when I was five. My mother has been married three times, and before my father died, he'd just married wife number five, who was fifteen years younger than him, named Honey."
Izzie went to the fridge to grab another can of Coke and turned to him in disgust. "Honey? Like the stuff bees produce?" She shivered in horror as she made her way back to him, and started pouring the soft drink in her glass." Well, I know what it's like not growing up in a happy home, so I can identify. Except my background is much different than yours."
"Oh, yeah?" He reached for the whiskey bottle and poured some more in their glasses, raising his eyebrow as Izzie poured some Coke into his. "Since I shared some of my harrowing childhood past, you have to share some of yours."
"I grew up in a trailer park, my dad left us when I was two, taking all of the money, and basically, leaving us broke. My mom took care of us the best way she could, but having dropped out of high school, there was only so much she could do to support the two of us. So, she worked two jobs, one as a waitress and the other as a clerk for a local motel."
She took a sip of her whiskey and coke trying to decide just how much she wanted to share with him about her past. "And on top of that, she had a string of never ending boyfriends, all creeps . . ."
"None of them touched you did they?"
Her eyes met his, seeing worry clearly displayed in them. Her hand covered his in reassurance. "No, none of them touched me, although if their looks could have, I would have been naked all the time."
"God, Iz . . . I'm sorry."
"Hey, I'm not telling you this for pity. It's a part of me . . . it's made me who I am and I'm not ashamed of my past." She sighed, when he withdrew his hand from her. Her hands went to her hair, and took the clip out, letting the bun fall into loose waves around her shoulders, hoping that tension would be released as well as her hair.
"If it wasn't for my grandmother . . ." She paused in thought as she peered down in her glass. ". . . while my mother made sure that I was clothed and fed, my Nana was the one that made sure I was loved and read to, that I did my homework . . . basically, she made me into the success that I am now. And when she died after a series of strokes when I was fourteen, I was crushed." She looked at him and offered a small smile. "But she also made me promise her something the day before she died."
He looked up at her, curious. "What was the promise?"
"That I would graduate high school and go to college, and make something of my life."
"I'd say you've done that." Their eyes connected in a deep understanding of the hurts of their childhoods and the scars that were left behind. Izzie was the first to break the eye contact her cheeks flushed from the warm heat radiating from the oven.
A small smile graced her lips as her eyes returned to his. "I'd say it's an ongoing process," she said quietly. Taking her eyes from his, Izzie looked at the timer. "We have thirty more minutes until the cakes are done. Why don't we go into the living room?"
Picking up her drink, she made her way into the living room, and plopped on the couch, kicking her shoes off. "I'm warning you, the feet may smell . . ."
"Lucky for you, this damned rainy weather has given me a head cold, and I can't breath
. . . or smell," he said as he joined her, doing the same, but propping his feet on the coffee table.
"Ugh . . . I wish I could say the same." She said as she made a gagging noise.
"Oh, shut up." He said chuckling as he reached for the remote and turned on the TV.
"Make yourself at home, Mark." She said wryly as she watched him channel surf.
"I will." He relaxed, making himself comfortable on the couch. "So where is the happy couple?"
"I think they went up to his property for the weekend."
"Ah, yes. The trailer and his land with the panoramic view."
"Heard about it then?"
"Yes, but not in the loveliest of descriptions."
"Well, you can take my word for it. It's gorgeous. Really peaceful . . . very connected with nature."
"Addison hated it."
Her eyes flickered to him. "She never struck me as the 'outdoorsy' type. More like, Park Avenue."
"There's nothing wrong with Park Avenue. I lived on Park Avenue."
Her head turned slowly towards him, as she said softly, "Of course, there isn't."
"I know it's easy to peg Addison as the bad guy in this . . ."
She didn't want to hear him sanctify Addison once more. "Mark, she hurt you—
His pleading look silenced her. "I hurt her, too, Izzie. And I hurt Derek . . . hell, I hurt myself." He got up and started to pace. " I fucked up majorly!" He turned and looked at her sharply, stopping in front of her. "You've defended me and stood up for me when . . . I was in a low place . . . and nobody's done that for me in a long time. And to be quite honest, I haven't deserved it."
"Mark—
"No!" One of his hands went to his hair, and he started his pacing again. "If you are going to put yourself out there for me, I want you to know who you're fighting for."
Izzie nodded and sat there quietly as she waited for him to go on.
"I slept with my best friend's wife. Did I love Addison? Yeah, I did. I loved her for years but I loved my best friend . . . like a brother. He stood by me when no one else did, yet, I couldn't keep it in my pants and I slept with his wife, more than once . . . for months. And the whole time I knew that in her eyes, I was just a cheap replacement for Derek."
His pacing stopped as his hands fell on his hips, and his eyes looked at hers, piercingly, gripping Izzie with the intensity of his words, his emotions. "I loved her, even when she called out his name when I was inside her . . . I still loved her.
"And I loved her when I fucked the girl from the gym during my lunch break, knowing full well, that she'd come home and find me fucking another woman." His eyes never wavered from hers as he continued on.
"I hurt two of the people I loved most in this world . . . all because of the choices I made." He sat down and grabbed his drink and finished it in one gulp. "I guess I'm my mother's son, after all. At least I come by it honest." His elbows rested on his knees, as one of his hands ran over his face. "You still think I'm worth defending, Stevens?" Letting out a deep sigh, he turned to look at her, his eyes open and waiting for her to . . . call him names? To call him a scoundrel with no soul?
Izzie took in the haggard lines of his face and the emptiness of his eyes, knowing he fully expected her to cast stones. She scooted closer to him, and put her hand on his shoulder. "If you're trying to scare me away, it's not working."
He lifted his head and looked at her disbelievingly. "Did you not just hear a word I said? I'm damaged! I'm a damager… I destroy everyone that comes into my life." He stood up, shrugging her hand off of his shoulder, and said softly to himself, "No wonder she didn't have it."
Izzie's heart stopped, terrified of what he may have just admitted. "What are you talking about, Mark?"
Silence greeted her question. She stood up and walked over to him, not touching him. "Was . . . did she . . . did she abort your baby, Mark?"
She saw the air rush out of his body, leaving him deflated and, defeated. In a broken voice, he told her, "She said she wanted a baby . . . Just not my baby."
Her eyes closed in horror, thankful his back was turned to her. Placing her hand gently on his back, she whispered softly, "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be. I would have made a terrible father. The kid's probably better off—
"Don't!" Izzie moved her body in front of his and made him face her. "Don't you dare say that it's better off dead."
"Izzie, everything I love gets poisoned!" His eyes darkened with self-loathing.
"Having a child changes you, it changes everything!"
He looked at her defiantly and argued. "It wouldn't change me. . . I'm defective." His finger pointed to his chest hard. " It's in my genes!"
"You were never given the chance to change!" Izzie shook her head as she tried to make him understand. "Trust me, a baby gives you a new perspective . . . on everything."
She felt his gaze grow heavy as he took her in. Slowly he asked, "How do you know this, Izzie?"
She stood there for a moment frozen in place. But as she took in the broken man before her, she made a decision. She walked to her purse and pulled out her wallet, looking for the worn picture she carried around with her always. She looked up at him, and saw him waiting for her . . . She handed the photo to him and watched him studied it. "I haven't shown this to anyone. Not George. Not Meredith . . . no one. You're the first person I've ever shared this bit of my life with so . . ."
"She's beautiful." He looked at her, a sad smile on his lips as understanding of her action washed over him. "She has your eyes."
"And my curly hair unfortunately. I think she's about six years old in that picture. She'll be eleven next month" She stood next to him and peered down at the old photograph.
He turned to her. "So you were about sixteen when you had her. You were young."
"Yes, I was." Mark offered the picture back to her, and she took it, putting it back in its previous spot in her wallet. They stood there in a beat of silence both unsure of what to say that would make things right for the other, only to be disturbed by the sound of the oven's timer going off. Izzie made her way back into the kitchen, grabbing the cakes from the oven, and placing them both on wire racks to cool. He followed her in there.
He stood there against the doorframe, watching her. Softly he asked, "Why did you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Give the baby up for adoption? Why didn't you . . . " His words faltered.
"Abortion was never an option for me. I believe a woman should have the right to choose, I just know that I could never do it." She made her way to the front of the island and sat down on a stool, facing him. "It hurt like hell, giving my baby away to a family I had only met a couple of times. I mean, I knew they were good people and would love her and would give her the things I could never give her, but it still hurt." Her fingers toyed with the hem of her apron. "I cried myself to sleep every night for three months, and then it moved to every other night, and then I would just cry whenever I saw a baby close to her age. But, eventually, the tears just stopped. Every now and then I have these constant twinges in my heart whenever I see a young girl with curly blonde hair and brown eyes."
She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes, and shrugged. "I didn't really have a choice, when it came right down to it. I love my daughter, but I want more for her."
He came and sat down next to her, but didn't touch her. They sat quietly for a few moments, both thinking about the children they'd lost.
"I saw you in the nursery, holding Emma Grace." She turned her face towards his and spoke carefully. "You'll make a great father one day, Mark. I see it in you."
His eyes met hers, with a look of hope in them mixed with disbelief and she reached for his hand, grasping it in her own. They sat like that, hands connecting them, wrapped in the silence once again, both content to just be.
"Is it . . ." His voice ended the silence, thick with emotion, but he stopped as he tore his eyes away from hers and broke their grasp.
" 'Is it' what, Mark?" She prodded gently, looking at him.
Clearing his throat, he continued softly, his voice rough. "Is it crazy to have loved something so much, to love something still . . . when it never even got a chance to be yours?"
"No, it's not crazy," she said as she rested her head against his shoulder. "That's the love of a parent. When you first hear of its existence, you fall in love . . . you don't even have a choice."
"I guess not," He breathed out on a shaky sigh.
"You're not defective, Mark. You just haven't been given good examples of love. Granted, my mother wasn't always there for me, but she loved me in her own way . . . but, my Nana, she showed me the kind of love it takes." She looked at him confidently. "You've got it in you, Mark. You've just got to be ready for it."
And with that Izzie got up and went to the pantry grabbing sticks of unsweetened chocolate and other ingredients, leaving him to digest what she said to him. Mark wasn't defective, damaged maybe, but not defective due to a mutation of genes that left him unable to have a healthy relationship. He just didn't know what real love was . . . he'd never experienced it. And as Izzie reached for the vanilla flavoring, she felt her heart ache for the man sitting on her kitchen stool, and clumsily, she wiped away a tear that had escaped down her cheek.
Closing the pantry door, she turned to find a questioning gaze in his blue eyes and she offered him a smile. "It's time to make the icing!"
Ok, so . . . please, please review this chapter because this chapter meant a lot to me and I need to know if you like where I went with it, what your favorite parts were, where you would like to see me take this story, what you'd like to see, etc, etc, etc. I have an ultimate goal of where I'd like this story to go...it's just getting there that's a little tricky. SO...you know the drill! Thanks for reading!