Fic - They Don't Write Handbooks for These Sorts of Things (Lexie, Mark/Lexie) pg, 1/1
Title: They Don't Write Handbooks for These Sorts of Things
Summary: The 'your angry' drops between them somewhere between the third and fourth floors and she watches him closely out of habit. They just don't do this. They don't shut each other out. Set during 5x22.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 2,518 words. Written for littleone87 over at the the Mark and Lexie drabble-a-thon. Based on the sneak peek for the season five finale. General Series spoilers. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Forty-five minutes after their shift is over she’s sitting next to him in the car, watching as he pulls up to the hotel, engine cutting off as he shifts into park. She watches him through the silence, takes in the way his hands tighten and release on the wheel before letting go all together, fingers clutching the keys after. It’s different, this moment, unlike any other they’ve ever had before and she sits there for a second, thinking back over the day and trying to figure out what went wrong.
It’s been a long day. Her eyes burn from exhaustion, circles, deep and blue ever-present under her eyes, and she chalks this up to that too, an easy out of sorts (and she swallows around that particular knowledge because when did their relationship grow accustomed to those sorts of allowances?) and watches for a beat as he slides out of the car all uniform grace, not bothering to poke his head back in, soft smile twisting on his lips to see if she is following. She watches as he crosses in front of the car and moves towards the doors, only pausing as if it were an afterthought, feet stalling on the curb a few feet away from the car.
He waits, fist clenching at his right side before flexing completely, hands finding themselves buried into the pockets of his leather jacket. Hand on the door handle she pulls herself out, nods a soft hello to the valet, and finds her place next to him on the curb easily.
There is a mumble, a soft ready? falling out of his mouth and she just nods, feet moving on their own accord as they follow him through the door, to the elevator, to his room.
The your angry drops between them somewhere between the third and fourth floors and she watches him closely out of habit - the way he swallows thickly, the hand raising to the back of his neck, applying pressure. He turns to her and half-smiles, but he winces in the process too. I’m not, he breathes, his attempt at reassurance, maybe, but she knows better, but doesn’t say anything further. There are people shuffling in and out of the elevator, couples glancing at them shiftily, some of which she’s grown to know over the months, some she’s never seen before. It’s not the place for this conversation; she lets it go.
On the way to his room she trails a few steps behind, feels the noticeable lack of his fingers on the small of her back and sighs at the adjustment. She waits awkwardly next to him as he opens the door, follows him inside. It’s routine, almost, but there’s a significant lack of them in it and she misses him so much it hurts because he’s not talking to her, he’s not touching her, and this is so far from who they are as a couple it’s ridiculous.
The door shuts softly behind them and she takes a step back to rest against it, takes in the subtle curve of his back, the slump of his shoulders, the way he yanks off his jacket and tosses it to the side carelessly.
“Are we in a fight?”
Mark looks at her, startled. There’s a moment or two of him opening and closing his mouth, on the bridge of saying something, lips parting. It is over too soon and he turns away, back towards her as he empties his pockets onto the table to the left of her.
“No,” he mutters and it would go a long way to make it sound convincing if he was actually looking in her direction when he said it.
“You aren’t talking to me.”
That hand to the back of her neck again and lets out a long winded sigh. “I’m tired, Lexie.”
He is and she gets it because she is too, this thing with Izzie, this whole day, it’s been tiring for all of them, but he is using it as an excuse not to talk to her and it angers her a little, the displacement. They just don’t do this. They don’t not talk to each other. Even when she gave him the ultimatum and told him she wasn’t going to talk to him if he didn’t tell Derek, they still talked, were still together in some way. He had still been imbedded into every single aspect of her life.
Sighing again she pushes herself away from the door and follows his earlier actions - places her purse next to his wallet, her keys next to his, throws her jacket on top of his own on the nearby chair. His back is still towards her and Lexie pulls off her sweater too, tossing it somewhere to the side. Toeing off her shoes she grabs his Columbia shirt and pulls it over her head. Her jeans are next, replaced by a pair of ratty pajama shorts and when she looks up Mark is digging through the mini-bar, glass tumbler in hand and she’s decided she’s had just about enough.
Crossing the distance towards him, she shuts the mini-bar with her bare foot and situations herself between him and it. He glares. She raises an eyebrow. “Not until we talk,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.
Mark’s eyes narrow. “About what?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she deadpans. “Maybe the fact that you haven’t said more than ten words to me since this morning -”
“I’m -”
“Tired. Yes. I got that. Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy, I am too. I’m exhausted. My friend is dying. I’ve lost more patients in the past week than I can count on my fingers. I know exhausted, but I’m not using that as an excuse not to talk to my boyfriend. I’m not using it as an excuse to hide.”
The anger rises - she can see it in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense - and the glare he sends her way is deafening. She swallows thickly, but still stands her guard. She won’t let him have this. “I’m not hiding. I don’t hide.”
“Well you could have fooled me.”
He turns away from her then, back towards her as he moves further into the room, but she doesn’t follow. She watches him - the way he changes out of his shirt and jeans and into his sweats and this, too, is different, the lack of contact. Even if they weren’t going to have sex, he’d find some way to touch her - fingers to her back, to her elbow. Lexie closes her eyes and tries to remember the last time they kissed, the last time they touched - innocent or not. It’s been over twenty-four hours.
“I’m not going to let you push me away, Mark,” she says softly and he pauses in his motions, back straightening.
There is a moment, a minute even that lasts an eternity before he turns to face her and they stay like that for a long time, just staring at each other. His hands at his sides, fingers curling into his palms, hers crossed in front of her chest. This time six months ago she would have walked away. Six weeks ago she would have just let him to go bed angry, but now it just seems wrong.
“Are we on the same page?” Finally, he asks, and already she’s confused. He is still not looking at her.
“What?”
“Less than three weeks ago I was meeting your father. Your father, Lexie, and I thought you knew what that meant. I thought you understood what it meant for me to do that. I told Derek about us because you wanted me to. I’ve done nearly everything you’ve asked of me with barely no complaint, and I thought that we were ready, I thought you were ready because you stood in that hallway and told me you were crazy about me, but you obviously aren’t ready. So, yes, I guess I am angry,” he pinches the bridge of his nose and Lexie is starting to wish she had let him have that drink because he is making absolutely no sense whatsoever. “I’m angry and it would have been nice for you to tell me that the point you are at in this relationship isn’t exactly the point I’m at in this relationship.”
There is that moment again, where he looks at her too intently, and she laughs. She can’t help it. She laughs at inappropriate times. But it’s breathless and short and she sobers at the glare she receives. “I don’t,” her eyes widen and she pauses. “Mark,” she sighs, “I have absolutely no idea what the hell you are talking about.”
“Don’t play cute,” he all but growls and she laughs again and crosses the room towards him, pulling him towards her when he tries to walk away.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes, smiling cracking the corners of her mouth and then all of a sudden it clicks - this morning falling into place in a random burst of Technicolor. The Condo. The offer. Her eyes narrow and she pulls back to get a better look at him. He’s looking at her expectantly, waiting. “Wait,” she says, eyes narrowed. “This morning? Was that,” she pauses, glancing pointedly in his direction. “Was that you’re way of asking me to move in with you? Were you asking me to move in with you?”
There is a sigh, tired, and she laughs some more. “Yes. And I don’t find it very funny.”
“Oh, Mark.”
He removes himself out of her grasp. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” she insists, trying to pull him back to her. He doesn’t allow it. “I’m not. I just, you know, really? Really? You’re a double board certified surgeon and that’s what you came up with? I was thinking you could come with me? What the hell is that?”
“That was me asking you to move in with me.” Mark starts moving towards the mini-bar and she starts to object, but stops herself.
“It wasn’t even phrased as a question!”
“Well it’s not like I have a lot of practice in this arena, Lexie. Forgive me,” he retorts, fingers already tight around a pretty full glass of scotch. He downs it in a single gulp. She winces on his behalf.
“I didn’t know.”
He snorts. “That’s pretty damn obvious.”
“Ask me again,” she insists without really thinking about it. “Ask me.”
There is a laugh, manic almost in nature. “Not going to happen. It’s officially off the table.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m pretty sure I just did,” he counters and her heart breaks, just a little. She doesn’t even know why.
“It’s just,” she tries, and watches for a second as he refills his glass. “I just... You’re Mark Sloan,” she says. He looks at her, eyebrow raised, and she swallows before continuing. “You’re Mark Sloan, and I’m me. Just me. And I didn’t think…” she can’t find the right words. Doesn’t know how to tell him that never in her wildest dreams did she think anyone like him would ever fall for somebody like her. Alex forgot about her. George never even acknowledged she existed in anyway besides platonic. Still, every day, it is a different sort of amazement that he’s with her. “I’m just surprised you’re still there in the morning.”
Immediately she winces at her words and he does too. She crosses the room for him again, but he moves quickly away. She rubs the back of her neck - a habit picked up from him somewhere along the way - and sighs heavily.
“That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong,” She reaches for him again and finally manages to grab a hold of his arm. She doesn’t let go. “I meant,” She stresses the word, “that it’s enough just to wake up with you in the morning.”
She lets a few moments pass. A full minute, really, before reaching for the glass in his hands and setting it to the side. Stepping a foot or two closer. Her hand firm on his forearm and she breathes him in, closes her eyes. She really did miss him today. Mark’s mouth is locked, set into a deep frown, and she takes another step forward, rests her forehead against his chest. She counts his breaths and evens her own to match his out of habit. Eventually his arms move from their positions at his sides and smooth over her back, pressing between her shoulder blades, molding her to him.
“I’m trying really hard not to screw this up,” he says after a long moment and she lets out a breath of air she didn’t realize she was holding in.
“I am too.”
They’re quiet again, his fingers still pressed between her shoulders, her forehead still on his chest. A part of her wants to tell him to ask her once more because the answer is yes, no question about it. Lexie isn’t quite sure what that says about them, about her even because it is only six months in and she’s ready to take this giant leap, but she thinks about it and there are no reservations. It feels natural. This feels natural. She thinks about asking him to move in with her, get it over with, but doesn’t. He has to do this on his own terms. It’s one of those things she’s learned along the way - when not to push.
“You’re starting to sound like me, you know,” she says instead, voice muffled by his chest. “The rambling thing.”
She feels his grin press into her hair. “I know. It’s incredibly annoying.”
Mark pulls back and she does too, leaning up on her tip-toes to brush her lips against his, mouth firm against his for the briefest of seconds. His hands move from her back to her face, applying a subtle amount of fleeting pressure before tangling in her hair, angling her head just right. Their kiss is soft and sweet and she sighs something lovely into his mouth, pulls him as close as possible. When he pulls away, smile broad as he glances down at her, there’s a funny taste in her mouth and they’re okay now. They’re going to be okay. She smiles back.
He goes to move away from her, but she pulls him back, fingers grasping his wrist, thumb sliding over subtle curve of bone. He turns back to look at her expectantly.
“We’re on the same page,” she says quietly, because he needs to hear it and maybe, just maybe, she does too.
His hand stays with hers, tugging her with him towards the bed. The sound of her laughter filters through the room when he kisses her again.
__
Will you move in with me? He asks, later, lips to the crown of her head, fingers intertwined with hers. Lexie is curled around his side, head on his shoulder, filtering in-between sleep and consciousness. Still, now, he’s nervous, and she falls in love all over again.
Of course, she says.
Her lips brush the curve of his jaw. He’s smiling.
Summary: The 'your angry' drops between them somewhere between the third and fourth floors and she watches him closely out of habit. They just don't do this. They don't shut each other out. Set during 5x22.
Rating: pg
Author's Notes: 2,518 words. Written for littleone87 over at the the Mark and Lexie drabble-a-thon. Based on the sneak peek for the season five finale. General Series spoilers. All mistakes are mine. These characters, however, are not.
Forty-five minutes after their shift is over she’s sitting next to him in the car, watching as he pulls up to the hotel, engine cutting off as he shifts into park. She watches him through the silence, takes in the way his hands tighten and release on the wheel before letting go all together, fingers clutching the keys after. It’s different, this moment, unlike any other they’ve ever had before and she sits there for a second, thinking back over the day and trying to figure out what went wrong.
It’s been a long day. Her eyes burn from exhaustion, circles, deep and blue ever-present under her eyes, and she chalks this up to that too, an easy out of sorts (and she swallows around that particular knowledge because when did their relationship grow accustomed to those sorts of allowances?) and watches for a beat as he slides out of the car all uniform grace, not bothering to poke his head back in, soft smile twisting on his lips to see if she is following. She watches as he crosses in front of the car and moves towards the doors, only pausing as if it were an afterthought, feet stalling on the curb a few feet away from the car.
He waits, fist clenching at his right side before flexing completely, hands finding themselves buried into the pockets of his leather jacket. Hand on the door handle she pulls herself out, nods a soft hello to the valet, and finds her place next to him on the curb easily.
There is a mumble, a soft ready? falling out of his mouth and she just nods, feet moving on their own accord as they follow him through the door, to the elevator, to his room.
The your angry drops between them somewhere between the third and fourth floors and she watches him closely out of habit - the way he swallows thickly, the hand raising to the back of his neck, applying pressure. He turns to her and half-smiles, but he winces in the process too. I’m not, he breathes, his attempt at reassurance, maybe, but she knows better, but doesn’t say anything further. There are people shuffling in and out of the elevator, couples glancing at them shiftily, some of which she’s grown to know over the months, some she’s never seen before. It’s not the place for this conversation; she lets it go.
On the way to his room she trails a few steps behind, feels the noticeable lack of his fingers on the small of her back and sighs at the adjustment. She waits awkwardly next to him as he opens the door, follows him inside. It’s routine, almost, but there’s a significant lack of them in it and she misses him so much it hurts because he’s not talking to her, he’s not touching her, and this is so far from who they are as a couple it’s ridiculous.
The door shuts softly behind them and she takes a step back to rest against it, takes in the subtle curve of his back, the slump of his shoulders, the way he yanks off his jacket and tosses it to the side carelessly.
“Are we in a fight?”
Mark looks at her, startled. There’s a moment or two of him opening and closing his mouth, on the bridge of saying something, lips parting. It is over too soon and he turns away, back towards her as he empties his pockets onto the table to the left of her.
“No,” he mutters and it would go a long way to make it sound convincing if he was actually looking in her direction when he said it.
“You aren’t talking to me.”
That hand to the back of her neck again and lets out a long winded sigh. “I’m tired, Lexie.”
He is and she gets it because she is too, this thing with Izzie, this whole day, it’s been tiring for all of them, but he is using it as an excuse not to talk to her and it angers her a little, the displacement. They just don’t do this. They don’t not talk to each other. Even when she gave him the ultimatum and told him she wasn’t going to talk to him if he didn’t tell Derek, they still talked, were still together in some way. He had still been imbedded into every single aspect of her life.
Sighing again she pushes herself away from the door and follows his earlier actions - places her purse next to his wallet, her keys next to his, throws her jacket on top of his own on the nearby chair. His back is still towards her and Lexie pulls off her sweater too, tossing it somewhere to the side. Toeing off her shoes she grabs his Columbia shirt and pulls it over her head. Her jeans are next, replaced by a pair of ratty pajama shorts and when she looks up Mark is digging through the mini-bar, glass tumbler in hand and she’s decided she’s had just about enough.
Crossing the distance towards him, she shuts the mini-bar with her bare foot and situations herself between him and it. He glares. She raises an eyebrow. “Not until we talk,” she states, arms crossing over her chest.
Mark’s eyes narrow. “About what?”
“Oh, gee, I don’t know,” she deadpans. “Maybe the fact that you haven’t said more than ten words to me since this morning -”
“I’m -”
“Tired. Yes. I got that. Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy, I am too. I’m exhausted. My friend is dying. I’ve lost more patients in the past week than I can count on my fingers. I know exhausted, but I’m not using that as an excuse not to talk to my boyfriend. I’m not using it as an excuse to hide.”
The anger rises - she can see it in his eyes, the way his shoulders tense - and the glare he sends her way is deafening. She swallows thickly, but still stands her guard. She won’t let him have this. “I’m not hiding. I don’t hide.”
“Well you could have fooled me.”
He turns away from her then, back towards her as he moves further into the room, but she doesn’t follow. She watches him - the way he changes out of his shirt and jeans and into his sweats and this, too, is different, the lack of contact. Even if they weren’t going to have sex, he’d find some way to touch her - fingers to her back, to her elbow. Lexie closes her eyes and tries to remember the last time they kissed, the last time they touched - innocent or not. It’s been over twenty-four hours.
“I’m not going to let you push me away, Mark,” she says softly and he pauses in his motions, back straightening.
There is a moment, a minute even that lasts an eternity before he turns to face her and they stay like that for a long time, just staring at each other. His hands at his sides, fingers curling into his palms, hers crossed in front of her chest. This time six months ago she would have walked away. Six weeks ago she would have just let him to go bed angry, but now it just seems wrong.
“Are we on the same page?” Finally, he asks, and already she’s confused. He is still not looking at her.
“What?”
“Less than three weeks ago I was meeting your father. Your father, Lexie, and I thought you knew what that meant. I thought you understood what it meant for me to do that. I told Derek about us because you wanted me to. I’ve done nearly everything you’ve asked of me with barely no complaint, and I thought that we were ready, I thought you were ready because you stood in that hallway and told me you were crazy about me, but you obviously aren’t ready. So, yes, I guess I am angry,” he pinches the bridge of his nose and Lexie is starting to wish she had let him have that drink because he is making absolutely no sense whatsoever. “I’m angry and it would have been nice for you to tell me that the point you are at in this relationship isn’t exactly the point I’m at in this relationship.”
There is that moment again, where he looks at her too intently, and she laughs. She can’t help it. She laughs at inappropriate times. But it’s breathless and short and she sobers at the glare she receives. “I don’t,” her eyes widen and she pauses. “Mark,” she sighs, “I have absolutely no idea what the hell you are talking about.”
“Don’t play cute,” he all but growls and she laughs again and crosses the room towards him, pulling him towards her when he tries to walk away.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes, smiling cracking the corners of her mouth and then all of a sudden it clicks - this morning falling into place in a random burst of Technicolor. The Condo. The offer. Her eyes narrow and she pulls back to get a better look at him. He’s looking at her expectantly, waiting. “Wait,” she says, eyes narrowed. “This morning? Was that,” she pauses, glancing pointedly in his direction. “Was that you’re way of asking me to move in with you? Were you asking me to move in with you?”
There is a sigh, tired, and she laughs some more. “Yes. And I don’t find it very funny.”
“Oh, Mark.”
He removes himself out of her grasp. “Don’t patronize me.”
“I’m not,” she insists, trying to pull him back to her. He doesn’t allow it. “I’m not. I just, you know, really? Really? You’re a double board certified surgeon and that’s what you came up with? I was thinking you could come with me? What the hell is that?”
“That was me asking you to move in with me.” Mark starts moving towards the mini-bar and she starts to object, but stops herself.
“It wasn’t even phrased as a question!”
“Well it’s not like I have a lot of practice in this arena, Lexie. Forgive me,” he retorts, fingers already tight around a pretty full glass of scotch. He downs it in a single gulp. She winces on his behalf.
“I didn’t know.”
He snorts. “That’s pretty damn obvious.”
“Ask me again,” she insists without really thinking about it. “Ask me.”
There is a laugh, manic almost in nature. “Not going to happen. It’s officially off the table.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I’m pretty sure I just did,” he counters and her heart breaks, just a little. She doesn’t even know why.
“It’s just,” she tries, and watches for a second as he refills his glass. “I just... You’re Mark Sloan,” she says. He looks at her, eyebrow raised, and she swallows before continuing. “You’re Mark Sloan, and I’m me. Just me. And I didn’t think…” she can’t find the right words. Doesn’t know how to tell him that never in her wildest dreams did she think anyone like him would ever fall for somebody like her. Alex forgot about her. George never even acknowledged she existed in anyway besides platonic. Still, every day, it is a different sort of amazement that he’s with her. “I’m just surprised you’re still there in the morning.”
Immediately she winces at her words and he does too. She crosses the room for him again, but he moves quickly away. She rubs the back of her neck - a habit picked up from him somewhere along the way - and sighs heavily.
“That’s not what I meant. It came out wrong,” She reaches for him again and finally manages to grab a hold of his arm. She doesn’t let go. “I meant,” She stresses the word, “that it’s enough just to wake up with you in the morning.”
She lets a few moments pass. A full minute, really, before reaching for the glass in his hands and setting it to the side. Stepping a foot or two closer. Her hand firm on his forearm and she breathes him in, closes her eyes. She really did miss him today. Mark’s mouth is locked, set into a deep frown, and she takes another step forward, rests her forehead against his chest. She counts his breaths and evens her own to match his out of habit. Eventually his arms move from their positions at his sides and smooth over her back, pressing between her shoulder blades, molding her to him.
“I’m trying really hard not to screw this up,” he says after a long moment and she lets out a breath of air she didn’t realize she was holding in.
“I am too.”
They’re quiet again, his fingers still pressed between her shoulders, her forehead still on his chest. A part of her wants to tell him to ask her once more because the answer is yes, no question about it. Lexie isn’t quite sure what that says about them, about her even because it is only six months in and she’s ready to take this giant leap, but she thinks about it and there are no reservations. It feels natural. This feels natural. She thinks about asking him to move in with her, get it over with, but doesn’t. He has to do this on his own terms. It’s one of those things she’s learned along the way - when not to push.
“You’re starting to sound like me, you know,” she says instead, voice muffled by his chest. “The rambling thing.”
She feels his grin press into her hair. “I know. It’s incredibly annoying.”
Mark pulls back and she does too, leaning up on her tip-toes to brush her lips against his, mouth firm against his for the briefest of seconds. His hands move from her back to her face, applying a subtle amount of fleeting pressure before tangling in her hair, angling her head just right. Their kiss is soft and sweet and she sighs something lovely into his mouth, pulls him as close as possible. When he pulls away, smile broad as he glances down at her, there’s a funny taste in her mouth and they’re okay now. They’re going to be okay. She smiles back.
He goes to move away from her, but she pulls him back, fingers grasping his wrist, thumb sliding over subtle curve of bone. He turns back to look at her expectantly.
“We’re on the same page,” she says quietly, because he needs to hear it and maybe, just maybe, she does too.
His hand stays with hers, tugging her with him towards the bed. The sound of her laughter filters through the room when he kisses her again.
__
Will you move in with me? He asks, later, lips to the crown of her head, fingers intertwined with hers. Lexie is curled around his side, head on his shoulder, filtering in-between sleep and consciousness. Still, now, he’s nervous, and she falls in love all over again.
Of course, she says.
Her lips brush the curve of his jaw. He’s smiling.