AN: Wow. I am so sorry it's been so long. Life got in the way. But I'm back and here with every intention of finishing this story! So hopefully you all remember where we left off with these two. =) Enjoy and let me know what you think.

Also, thanks to you guys who wrote me during my unwitting hiatus. The fact that you guys care and like this story enough to wonder about it means the world to me!

Standard disclaimers apply and, despite due diligence, the inevitable mistakes are my fault.

Remembrance

Chapter Seventeen: Impasse

She woke alone, in a bed she'd grown accustomed to sharing. Turning onto her side, she first saw the nightstand she'd yanked open the day before. Unable to stomach the sight of it, she rolled onto her back, flinging an arm over her eyes. Persistent sunlight filtered through the delicate skin of her eyelids and she knew hiding was more than futile, it was cowardly.

So she lifted her arm off her face and let it fall above her head, resting on the pillow beneath her. Every damn thing in the bedroom triggered a memory.

The bathroom door where Mark had decided a no towel policy was a brilliant idea.

Effective immediately, he'd said, yanking the terrycloth from her form. Skin damp and hair soaked, she had yelped her surprise. Even as she'd tried to scamper back into the bathroom to get another one, he'd caught her wrists with a laugh and a kiss.

Their twin dressers, where she'd been trying to pick out a top the night he'd once again tried to discuss her father. They'd been running late to meet Callie and Arizona for drinks.

"I don't see why we couldn't just meet for dinner," he grumbled behind her, rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows.

"Because," she explained patiently, zipping up her jeans, "they want time alone."

"But Joe's? Why is it always Joe's?" Mark sighed. "I swear, we're all turning into a bunch of alcoholics."

Her arm froze as it reached up to dislodge a sweater from its hanger. He was behind her in an instant, his body heat emanating onto her bareback. "That was a stupid thing to say," he said quietly, his palms rubbing circles over the skin near her bra straps in mute apology.

"Don't be silly," she brushed off his words and his touch by reaching up to yank down the sweater. "It's fine."

"Lexie…"

"Mark, you made a joke. I can't get all sensitive every time someone makes a joke." She pulled the sweater over her head roughly, raising her hair into fuzzy disarray over her face.

He stared at her for a long moment before sighing and using both of his large hands to smooth her hair down.

"Thank you," she said thickly and he nodded. Then she turned to their full-length mirror and wrinkled her nose. "I hate this sweater." Crossing her arms she pulled if off in one fluid motion.

He sighed and looked down at his watch. "When we're late, I'm blaming you."

Staring at the ceiling didn't help either. Because she'd been staring at its tiles the day after she won the sparkle pager and an unlimited supply of awesome surgeries she could care less about.

Mark had taken her home the night before; he'd let her cry and squeeze her pillow to her body so tightly it was still a wrung-out, battered mass of cotton. Exhausted, she'd slept. But she still hadn't spoken; it worried him, she could tell, even from the distanced fog she'd recently inhabited. But there was little she could do about it; she just had nothing to share.

When hushed voices from the living room filtered through the comforter cocoon, they seemed so far away and irrelevant that Lexie had no trouble turning a deaf ear. When Mark pushed open the bedroom door and called out her name, she neither answered nor rolled over.

"Someone's here to see you, Lexie," he said, before leaving.

The mattress sank and Lexie knew her visitor was sitting next to her. Opening her eyes, she gave the intruder a sideways look.

"Hey," Meredith said, her voice cautious as it took in her Lexie's haggard appearance.

Lexie didn't answer, letting her eyes roll to the ceiling.

It was the height of discouragement, but Meredith persisted. "I'm sorry, Lexie."

Susan Grey had raised her properly. She didn't put elbows on the table while eating and she didn't come to people's homes without bringing a gift. So Lexie said, "Thank you."

Apparently the words discounted the earlier coldness because Meredith sat against the headboards, signaling her stay wouldn't be a short one. "This must be awful—"

Lexie shut her eyes, wishing she could shut her ears as well. This could go on for a while. Their relationship was too obligatory to be friendly, too awkward to be familial. Coming to a decision, she opened her eyes and interrupted. "Have you ever lost a baby?"

Meredith was quiet. "No."

Lexie nodded. "Right."

Meredith toyed with a loose thread on the comforter. She opened her mouth as if to say something and then shut it. Twirling the string around her finger rapidly, her mind seemed to be working even faster. She must have made a decision, because she started again. "But Cristina did."

Lexie turned to look at her half-sister. "When?"

"Our first year." She cleared her throat. "It was Burke's."

Lexie kept staring. "Was she planning on keeping it?"

Meredith looked away. "Right," Lexie said, to no one in particular. "Right."

Meredith sighed. "Lexie—"

Lexie shook her head. "Neither of us wants you here, Meredith," she interrupted once again. "So why don't you just go?" The words were hollow, not unkind, and tired. It was impossible to take offense.

Meredith swallowed. "I'm sorry," she said again, before leaving.

The front door closed with a dull thud a few minutes later and she knew they were alone in the apartment once more; two would-be parents with a useless nursery and car-seat she never wanted to lay eyes on again.

******

Lexie blinked the tiles back into focus. They had shifted into a hazy sea of cream. Pushing the covers off, she went to the bathroom.

Mark saw her twenty minutes later when she entered the living room, her hands shoved into the back pockets of her jeans. He put the newspaper he had been reading down, the black and gray print occupied the cushion next to him on the couch.

They were silent as she sat on a dining room chair. Both he and the sofa were in clear view and she cleared her throat.

"I need to apologize," she said.

He gave her a curt nod that told her to continue.

"I—I was selfish." She licked her dry lips before trying again, "I was selfish in my grief." Hands open in a gesture of helplessness, she said, "I'm sorry."

His eyes softened. "Thank you," he said, the words a low rumble.

She nodded, wiping her palms on the thighs of her jeans. Sighing, her shoulders lifted and then fell. "I should get going."

He frowned, standing. "Where?"

She shrugged, the gesture implying no place in particular. "Meredith's," she finally said. "I can get my stuff later."

"Lexie, we still need to talk."

After a sad laugh, she said, "No, no, we don't. We shouldn't. I don't want to fight with you anymore."

His brow furrowed. "I don't either."

"But that's all we do and I'm tired."

"So you're just cutting your losses then?" His voice was biting and caused her to straighten.

"No," she snapped back, "I'm trying to do the right thing before we say things we'll regret." After pausing for effect, she added, "Again."

He gave her his back and that should have been that. But instead of turning toward the front door, she walked closer to him, egged on by an ineffable desire to make him understand.

"We're no good together," she said softly, her palm pressing against his rigid back. "You see that, don't you?"

"That's not true." His voice was tight.

"Oh, Mark." With a slight press of her hand, she silently urged him to turn. When he didn't oblige, she went around him to look up into his face. "Do you know how bad things had to be if you felt you had to lie to get any semblance of happiness back?"

He remained quiet, staring at some distance point above her head. His jaw clenched, carving out the hollows of his cheekbones. His normally warm skin was pale and the black of his shirt created a stark contrast.

"I resented you," Lexie said, focusing on the third button of his shirt. She felt his eyes shift to her face. "I was unhappy about certain things and expected them to change. But how could I when I never told you?" She laughed and shook her head, her hair spilling over her shoulder. "I was so unfair." Regret lined her voice. "I'm sorry for that, too."

"I resented you," he said after a long moment. "And I never told you either."

Lexie nodded, her eyes lifting to meet his. "Well, there you go," she said, blowing out her breath. Giving him a half smile, she raised herself on her toes to kiss his cheek. "Goodbye, Mark." He smelled of lemon and soap.

"We—" His voice stopped her in the middle of the living room. "We were happy though. Sometimes." There was a lilt in his voice, as if unsure if she remembered despite all that had happened.

"Yes," she said, turning to look at him. Her eyes were now bright with emotion. She smiled over her shoulder. "Very." Then, her face somber, she walked back to him. "For whatever it's worth," she started, her hand reaching for his, "I think you would have made a terrific father."

His lips twisted. " I doubt it," he muttered.

His words caused her to squint up at him. "What was that?"

"Forget it." His hand fluttered in a dismissive wave and he moved past her to sit at the dining table with his paper.

Instead of leaving, she stayed in the middle of the living room. When she slowly turned, he was poring over the Sports section with an intent that was too casual to be genuine. He looked up. "You were on your way out," he said helpfully before turning back to the paper.

Resting her bag on the coffee table, she walked to stand next to him. His silver head was bent and he clearly had no intention of acknowledging her, but still she waited.

"Mark," she said. When there was no reply, she slid the newspaper away from him.

He blew out his breath in a gesture of supreme impatience. "Yes?"

She ignored the tone. "Tell me you know it wasn't your fault."

"I know it wasn't my fault." He recited the words with an obedience that was maddening.

"Good. Now try it like you mean it." She touched his shoulder, imploring him to look up at her. "It was an accident," she said softly. "We made a lot of mistakes, but none with our baby."

Slapping a hand on the wooden dining table, he looked up at her. "Thank you," he said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Just…thank you. I think the signs are pretty damn clear I shouldn't ever be a father, but thank you. Thank you, Lexie, because you telling me I'd be a good one? Well, that just makes it all better." He reached over to grab the paper back and snapped its pages with a violence that made her flinch.

She let him have the pretence of reading for a moment. Meanwhile, she marveled at her ignorance. Her first shot at motherhood had been cruelly dismantled. But by nature or by design, Mark had been robbed twice.

And she hadn't even bothered to piece it together. Closing her eyes, she mentally flogged herself. When she opened them again, he reading the same column.

"Mark," she croaked. Swallowing, she tried again. "Mark." She ran a hand through his short hair, his head lifting with the motion. When she held his eyes, antagonistic and blue, she pressed her palm against his cheek.

She shook her head. "I know I can't make it better. But you're going to be a father someday, Mark." She gave him a watery smile. "You deserve to be a father."

He cleared his throat, dismissing her words as he looked past her. "You should prob—"

She pushed forward. "You deserve to be a father, Mark. You deserve it." Her voice cracked and she stopped long enough to collect herself. She stepped closer, her hand sliding down his cheek to press against his chest. "This heart was meant to love children." Her fingers trailed down his shoulder. "These arms were meant to carry them." She exhaled. "And I couldn't have picked a better father for my child."

With a small inclination of his head, his cheek pressed against her abdomen, the heat of his breath reaching her skin through her shirt. Her arms lifted to cradle his head, light glinting through the silver threads of his hair.

She cried then, but not for herself. Not even for their baby. She cried for him, for what had been denied, not once, but twice. And as she held his body against her own, she knew she had to leave. Right away. Because she could have easily reconciled to spend her life there, consoling him, and in another two minutes, she would.

So she pulled back, his palms framing his face. She bent over him, her dark hair spilling on his shoulder. She kissed him then, her lips pressing against his in a gesture that gave and sought comfort in equal parts. When she pulled back, the pad of her thumb brushed the corner of his mouth and she saw that her tears had rubbed onto his cheeks.

When she closed the front door behind her, she was careful not to look back.

AN: Please review!