A/N: This was written during the hiatus for the Christmas challenge on Grey's Haven, in which I was assigned the song: Santa Can You Hear Me? by Britney Spears and had to include the following words: whisper, rum, candle, tree, spell. It's a more or less light-hearted treatment of several themes that could be written about with a lot more depth and seriousness and angst! But despite this, and the fact that Christmas is now over, I hope you like it anyway!

"Oh, and just in case there's any doubt, Dr. Sloan," Lexie emphasizes the formal title. "Now that we're half way through the second go-around of your repertoire of sexual techniques - you're not even that good! Maybe you're getting old!"

Her eyes glint in satisfaction at the moment of self-doubt that passes across his face, before she slams out of the hotel room with a satisfying crash of the door and strides along the richly carpeted hallway. She taps her foot furiously as she waits for the expensive, muted ping of the elevator and glares at the elderly, wealthy-looking couple who pass her as she gets in and they get out and almost wish her "Happy Holidays" before they recoil at the sight of her angry face.

But once she's inside, alone, the anger that carried her here evaporates and she feels herself wilt and, as the elevator begins its twenty-two-floor descent, tears well in her eyes just a little. Because he is that good, and the sex is only part of it.

They're at the nurses station, standing side by side, bent over charts and Callie finally has enough of Mark's furtive, sidelong glances at her.

"What?" she demands.

"Nothing," he says in an evasive way that screams something.

"Aw, c'mon Mark. Either tell me what you want or stop eyeing me. You're acting weird."

Mark turns towards her and leans on the counter. "Okay." He drums his pen against the chart a few times. "Say we were doing something that people might consider wrong . . . hypothetically. Would you get pissed at me if I asked you not to tell anyone?"

Callie inspects him, her expression changing as she tries to work out what he's saying, finally settling on a slightly amused, slightly disgusted frown. "Is it something a normal person would be okay with; or is it something," she wrinkles her nose, "icky?"

"'Icky?!'" He's hurt and incredulous and kind of outraged. "Why would you say that? There's nothing 'icky' about me, or what we're . . . what we'd be hypothetically doing together! Jesus Christ, Torres! Icky! And for the record," he almost yells, "I am that good! I hadn't even gotten to the good part and I was still that good."

"Okay, slugger!" Callie raises her hands, mocking self-defense. "Is this a fight you're having with me? 'Cause right about there, you totally lost me."

"I told you," he says. "It's hypothetical. It's not you. Just answer the question."

She pulls a face at him that gradually turns into raised eyebrows and a smirk. "So, from your display of wounded ego just now, I'm assuming this has to do with sex."

"Who said it was about sex?" he snaps.

"You did! When you announced your mad skills to the entire floor." She grins. "And, uh, I'll live to regret saying this . . . but you kind of are that good."

Her flattery soothes him a little. But she still hasn't answered his question.

"So would you? Be pissed?"

"Like I said, is it wrong wrong – like boning the Chief's wife wrong; or just matter-of-opinion wrong?"

"A little of both, I guess." His shoulders slump and he sighs. "But it's good, Cal. It's different with her. I like her. I like hanging out with her. I like being with her. And God, the sex . . . it's so fucking good!" He almost exhales the last part.

"Uh-huh." Callie draws out the syllables. "And she — whoever she is — feels the same way?"

"I thought she did, before she yelled at me and walked out."

Callie considers. "Is either of you cheating on anyone?"

"I'm not," he says and shoots Callie a sardonic look when she can't resist just one, small laugh. "I'm not! And I don't think . . . she's not either."

"And you really like her? And she really likes you? Or at least, she did."

Mark nods.

"Well, then, yeah. I can see why she'd be pissed. If it was me, I'd feel like you liked me when we're together, but out in public, you're ashamed of me or something."

"It's not that." He's almost plaintive. "But there are people, people I promised, people I kind of owe, who wouldn't like us being together. So I told her that no one can know." He cringes a little. "Actually, I may have said that pretty much every time we had sex. Or coffee. Or watched the game . . . " He trails off, smiling at the memory. "You know, she likes football. She even understands it."

"Like I said, I can see why she'd be pissed," Callie shrugs.

"Dr. Sloan," Lexie Grey says acidly as she walks past them.

"Grey," Mark responds in a quiet, disconsolate voice and stares after her.

Callie's eyes grow very wide and she points at Lexie's departing back in lieu of the speech that won't come quite yet, eventually managing to squeak, "You? . . . Her? She's? . . . How the hell did that happen? Ooh, Meredith'll freak!"

"In a nutshell." he says dryly. "Meredith and Derek. I promised Derek I wouldn't sleep with her. You see my problem now?"

"Did you tell her that?"

"No," he says awkwardly. "It's embarrassing." Then his eyes become pleading. "No one can know about this, okay? You can't tell anyone!"

"Oh, for the love of God!" Callie snaps. "Stop with all the secrecy and grow a pair!"

"Excuse me?" The outraged, hurt look comes back.

"If you like her, you like her. It's not like you banged her in the bathroom at Joe's and left her to cry over her tequila. You're holding her hand while you watch football, for God's sake!"

"I never said I held her hand," he objects defensively.

"Yeah, but you did," she teases. "And had popcorn, right? Room service makes great popcorn, if it's anything like when I was at The Archfield. The extra buttery one? Great for licking off each other's fingers!"

"Shut up!" he growls and then reluctantly admits, "There may have been popcorn."

"Seriously, Mark. Derek will get over it. It's not like you're screwing Meredith." She chuckles at her own joke. But there's a little wisdom concealed in it that she hopes he gets. He's already done something much worse to Derek than fall in love (because that's what it looks like from where she's standing) with his girlfriend's half-sister and Derek got over that, more or less.

"If that's you how see it, how come you never told anyone about Hahn?"

"I told you. And Bailey. Except . . . " A little regret colors her voice. "You know, maybe if I'd told a few more people, shown her off, been less screwed-up about the whole thing, it wouldn't have ended how it did."

"Dr. Grey."

She feels his breath near her neck and the gravelly cadence of his voice close to her ear. He's just close enough to tantalize her, but far enough away that they could still pass for two people incidentally standing together. He's perfected this when they're at work. Yesterday, she would have leaned just half an inch in his direction, discreetly enough not to draw attention, but intimately enough to bask for a second in his scent and warmth. But today she can't allow it: she refuses to be his dirty little secret.

"We're on line in the cafeteria, Dr. Sloan," she points out in an angry, stifled whisper that only he can hear. She may not like it, but the pretence has become almost second nature. She grabs an unwanted tub of red Jell-O with a would-be festive blob of whipped cream on it and dumps it on her tray. "Aren't you concerned that someone might see us? Not that there's anything to see, or know, since this morning. Or did you forget that?"

"We can talk, Lexie. I only said . . . never mind." He sighs and pretends to examine the selection of chips. "Thought you might feel like a little sub-standard sex later," he coaxes, teasing her with that voice again. "Before they take me away to a nursing home."

She doesn't respond. It's hard, but she manages, staring obstinately at the items on her tray, and he gets the message and drops back a few inches. Her pride is satisfied, but her body is instantly perceptibly colder.

She turns to face him. He's smirking, sort of, but his eyes are kind of lost and hopeful and she wishes she wasn't responsible for that. But he hurt her too: each of the twenty-three times (because her world-class memory won't let her forget the exact number) he told her "no one can know."

Even so, Lexie gnaws at her lip, considering giving-in. (Maybe she's cutting off her nose to spite her face, and her girl parts, and her heart.) But she can't. She doesn't want to be some sordid, clandestine fling. She's not expecting undying love or anything like that; they don't even necessarily have to tell anyone, if only he'd just be a little less insistent. She just doesn't like the feeling that she's an embarrassment; and she'd like him to be a little bit proud of her, proud of them.

"No," she says firmly. "No more sex, of any quality, until you're not afraid to be with me. George didn't notice me, and you don't want anyone else to, and I've had enough." She stares intently at him. "I lied this morning. The sex is that good. It really is. But it's more than just the sex. We're good together, aren't we? At least, it feels good to me! And I don't want to sneak around as though it's nasty. Because it isn't nasty. It's," she closes her eyes and sighs and the quality of her whisper changes from stifled to soft as she allows her thoughts to escape for a moment, "it's awesome. What we have is awesome." Then she comes back to reality. "But as long as I'm the only one who gets that, we're done."

She picks up her tray and moves towards the cashier, bowing her head so he can't see the tears she has managed to hold back until now. "Merry Christmas, Dr. Sloan," she mutters as she pays for her lunch and walks away to find a table.

"I'll get that," Mark says to Joe, as the bartender puts a drink down in front of Derek, who nods his thanks. "And I'll have a scotch, please, double." Mark peers at Derek's drink. "What the hell is that, anyway?"

"Hot buttered rum," Derek says and raises the glass to Mark before taking a sip.

"That's Addison's drink," Mark says softly. He always hated the stuff, but he can remember her trying to force it on him at her famous Christmas parties.

Derek shrugs. "It's a drink," he says. "I hadn't tasted it in a while. And it's Christmas."

"You ever think about her?" Mark asks, immediately wondering what the hell has gotten into him. He takes a swig of his scotch and winces as the liquor hits his throat with its familiar burn. "Sorry. Inappropriate."

Derek shakes his head. "It's okay," he says, reluctantly amiable. "We can talk about her. Like I said, it's Christmas."

"How many of those have you had?" Mark asks, trying to cover his discomfort with humor.

"Meredith and I are happy," Derek says. "Finally. So I guess it's safe to think about the past." He takes another sip of rum. "And, yes, since you ask, I do think about her from time to time."

"Me too," Mark confesses, staring into his drink for safety. But when Derek doesn't react other than to nod slowly, the risks he's already taken make him feel bold enough to take another one. "But not as much as I used to. I kind of found someone."

Derek smiles and clinks his glass against Mark's. "I'm happy for you," he says. "You and Torres seem to have a good arrangement there. Keeps you out of trouble."

Mark swallows. "There's no arrangement with Callie. We're friends. That's all."

"With benefits," Derek smirks.

"There are no benefits," Mark insists. "Not any more. And stop . . . stereotyping me, will you? It's disrespectful and . . . not nice."

Derek's eyes narrow playfully. "See, now, that's going to be difficult when there's a picture of you in the dictionary under 'stereotype,' cross-referenced with 'manwhore.'"

"Okay, that's enough!" Mark erupts. "Enough with the assumptions and the insulting, creepy insinuations! Do me a favor, will you? Any more insights about me or my . . . my love life, just keep to yourself."

"Your love life?!" It's a bizarre phrase for Mark to use and even more bizarre that he's applying it to himself.

Mark takes a deep breath and starts counting to ten.

"I didn't know you could even spell the word love."

"What part of 'enough' did you fail to grasp?" Mark downs what's left of his drink and stands up, scraping the barstool noisily against the floor.

"Sit down," Derek relents. "Let me buy you another drink." He pats the stool and makes a cute, cajoling face and, in the end, Mark sits down, while Derek calls Joe over and orders another scotch. "You said you'd found someone. If you want to tell me about it, I'll listen. Respectfully."

Mark closes his eyes, steeling himself: it's got to be done. "I've been seeing . . .sleeping with Lexie," he says very quietly. "For a few weeks now. And I like her. It might even be more than that. I don't know. It's hard to know when I'm trying to hide it from you the whole time."

"What did we say about Little —?"

"Don't start with all the Little Sloan crap. Please." Mark cuts him off. "I'm serious. I like her."

For a few seconds, Derek says nothing, allowing Mark's words to sink in. Then he says,

"For the record, I never liked saying that to you. It was creepy. Meredith was worried and she felt guilty about Lexie and I promised her I'd . . . warn you off" He gives an awkward laugh. "But I felt like an idiot and it was inappropriate. I shouldn't have said anything and I most certainly shouldn't have put it the way I did." He pushes his cooling tumbler of rum backwards and forwards across the bar. "Does Lexie like you back?"

"She did." Mark rubs his face tiredly. "She called it off this morning when I reminded her for the thousandth time that she couldn't tell anyone about us," he sighs. "That's how I always end it, every time we're together. But it's not how I feel."

"You're serious about her?"

"I have no idea. It's only been a few weeks. I've probably screwed it up anyway." He glances down and his voice softens. "But we're good together and I wanted to give it a shot. I wanted to spend Christmas with her."

Mark takes a drink of scotch, waiting for Derek's inevitable comeback. But none comes and he looks at his friend out of the corner of his eye. "You're uncharacteristically silent," he says. "You think we could maybe get the derision over with? Not prolong the agony?"

"No derision this time," Derek says quietly. "Meredith found Lexie crying in a supply closet earlier today. They went back to Meredith's house." He raises an eyebrow and smiles. "We have a Christmas tree. Karev trimmed it for Stevens, as a surprise. It looks terrible. But, terrible though it is, we have a Christmas tree and I'm sure we have room for another stray."

"You're inviting —?"

"Yes."

"You don't —?"

"No. But don't screw it up, okay? No cheating, whatsoever; and if it doesn't work out, try to be nice when it ends."

"What about Meredith?" Mark asks.

"Leave Meredith to me," Derek says, only a little weary at the prospect of the conversation to come. "No doubt we'll fight. But we're happy. She'll get over it."

Lexie was surprised when Meredith dug her out of the supply closet. Even though Derek had taken pity on her after the cataclysmic screw-up that Sadie's appy turned out to be, it hadn't really made a difference between them: Meredith was still distant and a little off-hand. Plus, she hadn't really wanted or expected to be rescued; she had just wanted to cry herself out until she felt capable of going on with the day.

But the only plans she had for Christmas were the fallen-through ones that involved room service and curling up and lots of very far from sub-standard sex. So when Meredith suggested taking her home, she went along with it.

Now she's sitting under Meredith's Christmas tree, attempting to fix the mess that Alex made with the tinsel and ornaments and lights. The job suits her: it lets her be a part of things, but also be alone. Because, honestly, tonight, while she's happy to be included in Meredith's life, her entire mind is absorbed with thoughts of Mark and she's not sure what kind of company she would be.

The front door opens and closes again and, after a few moments, Lexie hears Derek's raised but placating voice saying, "Meredith, be reasonable!" and then some kind of muffled conversation that she can't make out. But it rouses her a little and she sits up and yawns and tries to focus on the silver and gold candle-shaped ornament that she's been holding without noticing for the last ten introspective minutes.

"Lexie." It's Derek and she shuffles around to face him and smiles. "Look what Santa brought you," he jokes gently. Her smile freezes when she sees Mark standing next to him in the doorway.

She waits until Derek leaves before saying, "I told you. If you're afraid to be with me, we're done." It takes almost all her willpower.

"I'm sorry," Mark says in a low voice. "Meredith was worried I'd hurt you. So I promised Derek I wouldn't—" He breaks off: what he promised Derek he wouldn't do is a million miles away from what he feels for this woman and he doesn't know how to explain. "There's a lot of history there and I was trying to do the right thing."

Lexie looks confused and he gives a softly awkward laugh. "I'm not making any sense, am I?"

She shakes her head.

"So here's the short version. From now on, anyone can know, okay? If you want, I'll take out an ad in the Seattle Grace newsletter."

"Seriously?" she asks. "You mean that? I mean, not about the newsletter, obviously. But . . . we don't have to sneak around?"

"Seriously." He walks over to her and takes her hand and pulls her up next to him. "Sorry it took me so long."

He takes her in his arms and kisses her – first the tip of his tongue against the inner skin of her lip, lingering a little at the sensitive corner of her mouth, and then their breath and lips and tongues collide.

Her senses are nearly exploding with his heat and his scent and the closeness that she doesn't have to resist anymore and she wants to make love right there under the tree. Except it's Meredith's tree, and Meredith was worried about her, which is kind of cool (if a little interfering, but she'll let that pass) and she doesn't want to wreck whatever might be developing there.

"Do you think Meredith would be offended if we went back to the hotel?" she whispers. "Because we wasted hours today and I want to make up for it and I don't think I'd feel comfortable . . . making up for it here."

"I'm thinking Meredith and Derek have their own making up to do." He pauses, stroking her face. "You remember what I said to you about telling someone when I like them?"

She nods. "Of course."

"Well, I like you, Lexie Grey."

"I like you too," she says.

It's more than 'like,' for both of them, but 'like' is their word and no more needs to be said.

His soft smile transforms into a decadently sexy grin, although the softness never quite leaves his eyes. "The, uh, repertoire of sexual techniques? I believe those were your words."

She blushes. "I'm sorry. I—"

He stops her words with a finger against her lips. Then his lips are against her ear and he growls, in that voice, that she's allowed to love again,

"Baby . . . that was just the warm-up."