Disclaimer: Not mine, unfortunately. Merely borrowing.
A/N: Thanks to everyone who read, reviewed and enjoyed the first part. This is it, for now at least. I might write more if needed (: Anyway, let me know what you think! (:
It's the conversation you never have.
You have never been brave enough to approach the subject of what you are doing with Mark because although you both know how much it is affecting you, you just don't talk about it. You haven't got the guts and he doesn't seem to care.
Perhaps if he was a better man he would approach the subject first, he would notice that you're hurt by the situation, that you can't take this, that this isn't who you wanted to be, but he doesn't ask. He doesn't say anything. All he does is kiss you and has sex with you and holds you when it's over.
And then you have to leave.
Sometimes you stay for a while afterwards, and you talk about your day and he tells you about his hate for interns (besides you, of course) and his love for New York.
He talks to you, and you appreciate that because something tells you that he doesn't talk to the others like this, but there is still that conversation hanging over you, whispering at the back of your mind.
You need to tell him that you want to be the only one.
You have to tell him you won't take this shit for any longer.
You want to tell him but…It's easier this way (or at least, that's what has been burned into your mind).
When he smirks at you from the other side of the nurses' station, your heart flutters and you know what that means. He wants you. Tonight.
Maybe you'll have the conversation tonight.
Yeah.
You doubt it.
I.
You're close to self destruction.
It has been nearly two months since this started and it is beginning to take its toll on your mind and body and heart.
But you can't break it off.
For some reason you're completely addicted to him.
So instead, you get dressed up and go out and pick up another guy from a bar that isn't Joe's. You don't want someone to recognize you. For once, you were going to play the game like Mark, and hopefully this way you will understand why he enjoys this so much.
Your target is close to Mark's age and has stunning green eyes and a smile that should be a warning sign but that doesn't stop you.
He buys you a few drinks and you listen to him and laugh at the appropriate times and touch his arm, hand, thigh.
You don't tell him your name.
He never asks.
It's better this way.
II.
He takes you back to the hotel he is staying at while in town for business, and you try to forget about Mark but when he's moving above you, your mind plays tricks on you and suddenly, you imagine that you are here with Mark, that Mark is grunting and heaving and touching you. You know you should feel bad but it makes this easier for you, it makes this feel a lot better, and for the moment, that is all that you care about.
You climax with Mark's name on your lips.
(It makes you feel slightly better that the guy called out someone else's name too).
Nausea and disgust washes over you soon after and like a blanket, it warms and suffocates you. Moving away from him slowly, the realization sinks into you.
Mark Sloan has ruined sex for you.
Mark Sloan has ruined you.
Now, all you can think about is him, his eyes, his voice, his body, touch, presence, everything revolves back to him, even when there is an equally attractive man in front–above–you.
Once you are dressed, you slip away from the room, grateful that he seems to understand your urge to run away.
As your heels click along the wooden floor of the five star hotel you wonder what–who–Mark is doing.
Fuck. This is messed up.
Keeping your head down, you end up in front of the elevator and when the bell dings, you look up, only to have your heart sink.
The world really was against you.
III.
His eyes are filled with suspicion as he steps out of the elevator and stands in front of you. "Fancy meeting you here," he says dryly as he takes in your crumpled black dress, tied up hair and smudged make up.
You try to smile but you can't summon the energy. "What a lovely surprise," you answer back, your voice laced with sarcasm.
He notices, of course he does, and he doesn't seem to be pleased with the reception he is receiving. "Lexie," he says quietly. You take the chance and look up into his eyes. Curiosity. Intrigue. Worry. "Why are you here?"
Which answer do you want? You think miserably as you sigh.
I'm here because I just had sex.
Because, Sloan, I wanted to do what you did and feel good about myself – that didn't work.
Because, Mark, I want you, and only you, but you don't want me so I'm resorting to meaningless sex. Yeah, you think dryly, that's really what he wants to hear.
"Because…" Your voice trails off as he looks at you expectantly. You shrug, knowing what you were about to say was going to hurt but for some reason, you can't bring yourself to care anymore. "Because I just had sex and now I'm on my way home."
And with that, you try to make you escape but his hand comes crashing down on yours when you reach to press the button for the elevator.
"You what?"
He's angry. Seething, in fact. You know this but when you turn to look at him, you're angry too. You're not sorry you had sex with someone else because after all, it's his fault. It was his decision to remain in an open relationship and in your mind; he pushed you into doing this.
You snatch your wrist out of his grasp and take a step back before repeating, "I'm here because I just had sex with a man in this hotel and now, if you don't mind, I'm going home."
You stare at him defiantly, awaiting his response, and as you stare at him you notice the emotions flare across his face. Anger, disgust, outrage, but underneath that, you know he is surprised, worried.
Because, this isn't like you.
Lexie Grey doesn't have one night stands.
She plans and saves and daydreams about her future house and husband.
Well, that has changed, hasn't it?
He opens his mouth, and then closes it again, unsure of what to say. A beat goes by before he gruffly says your name in a way that a day ago would have caused your knees to go weak. "Lexie–"
"No, Mark," you say quickly cutting him off. Although this is your opportunity to tell him everything, to tell him how much this relationship is hurting you, you still haven't got the nerve to have that conversation.
You're still weak.
Your eyes are tired as you say, "I'm not having this conversation with you."
He ignores you, of course, and moves closer, his body intimidating and welcome at the same time. "What the hell were you thinking?"
With a clenched jaw, you spit, "I wanted to have fun." You see his jaw twitch in anger and you know you're getting at him, you know you're hurting him but then, what else did he expect? Did he really think he was the only one that could do this? Did he really think you were above this?
You shake your head and calmly, graciously, shrug. "You weren't available tonight and I wanted to have fun."
Mark is silent for a moment, his anger simmering underneath his cold, hard façade, before his voice drops and he growls, "He could have–"
You cut him off before he says it.
He could have hurt you.
You already did.
Your eyes burn into him as a shimmer of regret slips into your perfect voice, "He didn't."
It wasn't enough. It would never be enough.
Mark shakes his head in dismay. "But he could have, Lex." He runs a hand through his hair and lets out a sigh when he says, "Fuck. This isn't you." He stares at you, his bright blue eyes clear and you see everything and nothing at the same time.
"You aren't–"
You cut him off suddenly, the rage that had been contained for so long seeping out of you. "What?" Your voice is sharp, defined, and painful through your clenched teeth. "What, Mark? I'm not dangerous enough, experienced enough to do something like this?" You shake your head and you feel yourself shake slightly as you snap, "You know, Mark, I'm not as innocent as you think."
And suddenly, something inside you breaks and you throw you arms up in the air and shout, "I'm sick of being the innocent, protected, fragile Lexie fucking Grey because you know what? I'm not innocent and I am not fragile, despite what you and everyone else thinks!"
"I don't think you're fragile," he replies, strangely calm despite your anger. "I was going to say you aren't like this because you care too much to sleep around." His bright eyes burn into you when he murmurs, "You aren't like me, Lex. You're better than this."
His words cause you to stop and it feels as if someone has punched you in the chest.
He cares.
He cares about you.
You pause, you think, and you're stuck.
You don't trust him. You wonder if you ever have.
Mark uses your silence against you.
He leans closer, his hand resting against your wrist, his fingers sliding down to intertwine with yours. His intense gaze doesn't faze you and you stare at him in wonder as he speaks calmly. "You are innocent, but it isn't a bad thing, Grey. You have this look…" He pauses, his lips fading into a thin line for a moment before he sighs and continues. "It's your eyes that betray you. The wide-eyed…innocent look of yours, that's why people look after you and think you're made of fucking glass."
It takes a moment for his words to register into your mind and at first, you think you should be angry but you can't quite figure out why. Instead you answer, "You never treated me like that." And once again, your eyes betray you as they widen and become glassy when you mutter, "You were always…everywhere and, and you always made me feel…real and alive, like I was someone…desirable."
As you talk, you see his eyes soften, you know you are chipping away at his façade, you know you are causing him to feel something, and suddenly, you don't want to stop. Maybe, finally, you can have the conversation that has been hanging between you.
Your eyes flutter to the sight of your hands intertwined and then, you stare at him, hope lifting your words. "I-I know this isn't like me and I'm sorry but I couldn't stand back and watch you…" The words hang between you, better left unsaid because you don't think your mouth can even form the words. You shake your head before whispering, "I-I'm not glass when I'm with you and I need that, Mark. I need you."
And I need you to only want me.
Of course, you can't tell him that despite the words being at the tip of your tongue, the burden burning through you, the pain cruel and unrelenting.
Surely, you think desperately as he stares down at you, he must care.
And then, he squeezes your hand and you think yes, this is it, this is him finally realizing that he cares about you more than he should, he wants you more than anyone would ever want you, and suddenly, the hope that tears through your body is unforgiving and you feel your heart beat faster and faster and–
He lets go.
Your hand feels cold and empty without him.
You catch the emotion that flutters across his cold blue eyes.
Fear.
He doesn't want to do this. He doesn't want you to get close to him. That is, after all, why he made this deal with you, why you agreed to his plan.
The distance is back and now, you can see the change in him.
He has revealed too much and he realizes that things have become too intimate, too personal, because now he was at risk of feelings and commitment.
You can see it in his eyes: he doesn't want you in that way.
You aren't surprised.
Sighing, you take a step away from him and adjust the handbag strap on your shoulder. You cling to it as you look at him, desperately trying to stop your emotions from showing through your eyes.
You stand in silence, merely staring at him, not sure what to say, but thankfully, he speaks first.
"I'm sorry I didn't need you tonight, Lexie."
His words should have been apologetic and soft but to your ears, they sound calculated and formal. Business like. Just like the deal between the two of you.
It rips you apart.
But instead of breaking, you square your shoulders and look him directly in the eyes when you say, "And I'm sorry I didn't need you tonight either, Mark." You shrug casually despite the claw that is ever so slowly tightening over your throat. You lean over to press the button for the elevator, careful to avoid contact with him. You look back at him just as the bell dings and the doors slide open. "Now if you'll excuse me, it's late and I'm tired."
As you move around him and enter the elevator, you hear him sigh and when you turn around to see the elevator doors slowly slide shut, he has already left.
IV.
After the conversation in the hotel hallway, he doesn't speak to you at work unless he has to. He doesn't give you suggestive looks and smiles that you know have secret meanings. He doesn't brush against you or touch your arm for a second longer than necessary, and that's how you know. It doesn't matter how long you try to convince yourself this isn't happening because it is happening, right before your eyes.
It's over.
You, him, the sex.
It's finished.
And you don't know whether you should be upset or pleased.
No more Mark, no more mind-blowing sex, no more late night talks and revelations.
No more secrets.
A weight lifts from your heart.
You don't need to creep around and throw yourself at other men because you don't need to prove yourself anymore, you don't need to provide competition, or make him jealous, because it's over.
You can return to your shell of innocence and fractured dreams and he will return to someone else's bed, and the world will return to normal.
And eventually, it will hurt less.