AN: Anyone else looking forward to Thursday? Mama Shepherd?
Standard disclaimers apply and, despite due diligence, the inevitable mistakes are my fault.
Remembrance
Chapter Four: Shiny Little Lies
It was raining the day he took her home. Sutures removed and hair covering any physical scars, her excitement to leave the hospital room was almost palpable. But then, as they drove further away from the hospital and closer to the unknown, Mark felt her grow rigid in the seat next to him. By the time they were in the elevator, she was so tense her shoulders had taken residence next to her ears.
He gave her a sideways look. "If you don't relax, I'll get yelled at for raising your blood pressure."
That earned him a quick smile, her lips, some impossible pink color, stretched upward.
She trailed him out of the elevator and into the apartment, poking her head inside before allowing the rest of her body to follow suit. The kitchen, all gleaming steel and unmarred countertops, was the first thing she saw. It was a safe room, full of appliances and metal—not mattresses and pillows.
She stared into the impeccable space. "We don't cook much, do we?" Using "we" was a conscious decision, a sort of truce she hadn't known she wanted to commence. If he was overjoyed at the monumental step she'd made, one that tripped off of her tongue, he didn't show it.
"You did—you do." He flicked on the lights in the living room. She could see him above the attached breakfast nook. "Actually, you taught me a little."
Leaving the kitchen to join him, she strove to keep the conversation flowing. "Really?"
"Yeah, but I lack the patience for it." He smiled again and Lexie felt it all the way in her toes. And there it was again: that feeling of amazement. She didn't think she lacked in self-esteem; without overbearing conceit or narcissism, she liked what she saw in the mirror, but there was an almost unsettling feeling of awe when she was around Mark. Like it was some kind of miracle she'd managed to fascinate the man before her long enough for him want a home with her.
And that was the other thing. Mark Sloan was a man, there was no denying that. And she, well, even without knowing who she was, she still considered herself a girl on many levels. A girl who'd been involved with boys. Boys like…
She frowned, her eyes staring past the couch in the living room to focus on the image of a sweet face, full around the cheeks with only soft fuzz lining his jawline. She blinked and the image was gone.
"Lexie?" Mark asked carefully, angling his head out to capture her attention.
Her eyes found his and she blinked again. "Yeah, sorry." She waved a hand around her head. "I saw something, but then…it was nothing."
"Was it a memory?" His eyes narrowed and it could have been her hyper sensitive imagination, but his posture seemed to grow rigid, guarded.
"No, maybe." She shook her head as if to clear it. "It was just a face, but I have no idea whose." Forcing a bright smile, she said, "Are we continuing this tour?"
He studied her for a long moment and she avoided his gaze, focusing on the mantle above the fireplace. She walked along the line of photos in various angles on the ledge.
There was a younger version of the person she saw in the mirror, this time in a puffy dress with a crown on her head and flowers in her arms. She was beaming. Her cheek was pressed next to that of an older woman whose smile outshone her own.
"Is that…" she pointed.
Mark walked over. She could feel his solid warmth behind her and, suddenly tired, she felt the ridiculous urge to just lean back against him. Give the burden of holding herself up to him. "Susan," he said. "Your mother."
"Oh." She felt incredibly stupid. Although knowing she was being too hard on herself, she couldn't stop the thought from creeping up on her: What kind of person just up and forgot their mother?
The next picture was a self-portrait, as evidenced by Mark's arm extending from the edge. Only half her face was visible, the other half was squished against his as she bit his cheek with feral teeth, one eye on the camera the entire time. He looked faintly amused, his eyes a clear blue near her dark one.
"That was the night we moved you in."
She nodded and took a half step to stand in front of the next picture. He shadowed her. The frame held two boys, both undeniably lanky as they stood in front of a house. Lexie could practically see them shuffling their feet as they waited to be excused.
She tapped a finger over the taller boy. "This is you." It wasn't a question.
She felt him nod. "And Derek."
"How long have you known each other?"
"A lifetime."
There was assured security in the way he said that. Concrete. He had something guaranteed, unwavering in his life. Lexie knew a moment of envy but she couldn't place if she was envious of Mark or over him.
There was an awkward space in between the picture of the boys and the last one on the mantle. Lexie put her hand over the empty wood, as if willing the ensemble to be more complete. Giving up, she moved to the final photograph.
It must have also been taken the night she moved in because it was another self-portrait, but this time it was her arm holding the camera. They were attempting to kiss, but smiling too hard. She stared into the picture, willing it to restore her memory. Nothing happened, but she continued staring.
Was it even possible for people to be that happy?
Part of her resented the girl in the photograph. For giving herself something she may not have a hope of replicating. For setting her up for failure with the man behind her and all his unspoken expectations.
"How did we meet?" she asked suddenly, even though most of her didn't really want to know. Turning away from the mantle, she sat on the couch, tucking one foot under her. If she sat deep enough against the cushions, her flexed foot barely grazed the hardwood of the floor.
He followed her to the couch, keeping to the far side. Even sitting flush against the cushions, his legs extended out for what seemed like forever. "Are you sure you don't want to wait for—"
She shook her head, dark hair swinging. It looked warm in the light of the room, but he knew it was cool to the touch. He knew what the strands felt like against the spaces between his fingers.
"No, tell me now."
He cleared his throat and stared straight ahead at the opposite wall, where the black screen of the television stared back. She wondered if he was replaying it in his head because a small smile made his mouth crooked. "We met when you were an intern." Then he turned to face her, his smile now a grin that created twin grooves around his mouth. "One day you told me to shut up, the next, I was a goner."
She stared at him. "I wouldn't."
"You would," he confirmed. "You did. You have quite a mouth on you."
She digested that before asking, "Well, what else?"
He shrugged.
"Oh, come on. There has to be more. One 'shut up' didn't automatically lead to all this…" she trailed off and spread her arms out to gesture to the apartment.
He inclined his head in agreement. "We dated for a while before…'all this'," he quoted, aping her gesture.
"Dated," she echoed, her arms crossed over the back of the sofa. She propped her chin on her arms and looked over at him.
"Dated."
"Like dinners and movies and picnics."
He laughed then.
"Why do I find that hard to believe?" she asked. "Maybe because I'm pretty sure my intern year had to be spent living in the hospital with a caffeine IV?"
"Okay," he conceded, raising his hands palms out as if in surrender. "So most of our dates took place in bed."
Even though she had prompted the truth out of him, she still reddened, looking down at an invisible thread in the sofa. She plucked at it with her fingertips.
"But that was also because we were concerned about your sister," he finished and her head jerked up.
"Meaning?"
He sighed and sank deeper into the cushions. One arm lifted to cradle the back of the couch. His long arm filled the space between them and she could see his hands in close detail. "Meredith…had some concerns about us…getting involved." He blew out his breath. "So Derek asked that we not get involved period."
"Why would they have concerns?"
His eyes lifted to the ceiling before answering. "I think it was a combination of factors. You were young and just out of med school. I was—am older and—"
She nodded before cutting him off, much more interested in other things. "So were they upset when they found out?"
He let out a bark of laughter that made his chest shake. She watched the movement before forcing herself to focus on his words. "I'll say. They didn't talk to either of us for two months."
She gaped at him.
"But," he continued. "We kept on seeing each other." He shrugged. "And then, when they realized we weren't going to stop anytime soon, they figured their 'concerns' probably didn't matter so much."
It probably wasn't so neatly packaged; things rarely were. But it was so beautiful to hope. So she asked, her voice tentative. "So everything was okay?"
He squeezed her hand. "Everything is okay."
They gazed at each other for a while, hands still connected. Then because amnesia gave her a free pass to ask anything and everything with a wide-eyed blank stare, she grew bold.
"Did we love each other?"
His hand tightened around hers once and then gentled, the movement so sudden, it felt like a spasm.
"Felt like it." Then, before she could think about what that cryptic answer meant, he stood up, releasing her hand. "You should get to bed."
"Ah, more rest," she said dryly, also getting to her feet.
When he made to leave the room, she stood still, unsure once again. Not wanting to offend him, she followed him into the hallway.
And there was then the issue that neither the kitchen nor the living room had prompted: Sleeping arrangements.
There was no question this man knew her body better than she did. He'd been familiar with it for over a year. She'd inhabited it for about a week. But mental blocks weren't overcome by logic alone.
He opened the door to a large bedroom, but didn't enter. He waited for her to step inside, staying in the doorway. "Your closet is the one closest to the bathroom," he said, pointing. "I put out some extra blankets, but you generally get hot at night."
That was a strange thing to hear, but then again, nothing about their conversation tonight had been normal. So she nodded her thanks, but stopped him when he turned to leave.
"Where—I mean—where will you..." There was no question in there, but he knew.
"I moved some of my things into the spare room. I had a bed delivered while you were in the hospital."
She wasn't sure what moved her more: the consideration of his actions or the self-effacing manner in which he listed them. Either way, she felt the warm tide of something ineffable roll through her, taking her breath as it subsided.
"I can sleep in the spare room."
He shook his head. "This is your room. You should stay here."
"It's your room, too," she corrected. "I don't want to kick you out of it."
He cocked his head to the side and stared at her, blue eyes full of amusement. "Is that an invitation?"
She looked at her feet. His laugh, husky and genuine filled the room. "Good night, Lexie."
"Night," she said, lifting her head when a click told her the door had shut. She turned into the room, taking in the vanity cluttered with bottles and compacts. Making a note to come back to it, she strode to her closet to find pajamas.
A few moments later, after rummaging through the dressers, she came to the realization that Lexie Grey was not someone who wore nightclothes with any frequency. Avoiding the thought that naturally followed—and the image of her naked body next to another naked body, she went through his drawers and found a Columbia shirt that, once donned, had the rough proportions of a tent.
She sat at the vanity and stared down at all her belongings, her small hands in her lap. A tub of lotion, tubes of gloss and mascara, bottles of clear nail polish and perfume. She touched each of them lightly, her fingers trailing over the toilette, trying to picture herself using them.
In the far corner, her hands stopped near a jewelry box. She lifted the wooden lid and saw part of Mark's blue shirt in the mirror behind it. Pulling out the accordion compartments, she found a few pairs of tiny earrings. Studs and small hoops. She pulled away from the rows of neat jewelry.
It was ridiculous to feel as though she were snooping. As if to prove it, she threaded a pair of silver posts into her lobes.
She stared at her reflection in the larger mirror of the vanity. Shaking back her hair, she angled her head to see the metal glint against her skin. It was nice, she decided, having personal effects.
When she went to put the rest of the earrings back in their tiny shelves, one hoop fell to the bottom of the box. Two of her fingers felt around the dark corners until they brushed metal. She caught it around one fingertip and pulled it out.
It was a hoop all right, but not an earring. Her earring didn't greet her with a mocking wink that left her stomach unnaturally heavy. Her earring didn't have a two-carat diamond nestled in a platinum band that made her sick with the duplicity it represented.
AN: Please review! It's my sustenance.