grey's anatomy fanmix, mark/addison - even though you're gone
mark/addison :: even though you're gone [a season 4 fanmix]
december :: basia bulat
i want to hang on even though you're gone and it wont be long 'til winter's gone again
liar :: 8mm
i'm a liar, it's my secret, no one knows
ease of the midnight visit :: the whitlams
show me a way to stop loving you and I'll stop coming 'round
every you every me :: placebo
like the naked leads the blind i know i'm selfish, i'm unkind.
the con :: tegan and sara
spelled out your name and list the reasons faint of heart, don't call me back
portions for foxes :: rilo kiley
it's just bad news 'cause you're just damage control for a walking corpse like me
all i need :: radiohead
i'm the next act, waiting in the wings. i am an animal trapped in your hot car.
bubblegum :: placebo
i wanna turn you on, feels like a loaded gun. i wanna, wanna.
patterns of fairytales :: the national
i fell in love with you no matter what you say but you were right about the reasons
destroy everything you touch :: ladytron
destroy everything you touch today, destroy me this way
running up that hill :: placebo
so much hate for the ones we love, tell me, we both matter, don't we?
calendar girl :: stars
if i am lost for a day; try to find me but if i don't come back, then i won't look behind me
(&.zip)
Your eyes were December when you had June in your heart.
He took her leaving the only way he knew how: with a lot of scotch and a lot of nameless, faceless women. Torres helped, although Addison was an off limits topic of conversation as far as he was concerned. When and if he was willing to discuss that particular misadventure, it would be with someone he was paying for doctor-patient privilege. He did consider calling the therapist in New York, briefly, because therapy may be passé but it’s what you do when you’re self-destructive to a pathological degree, then at least you can claim you’re trying to be a better man. In the end he decided against it, because it wasn’t that he didn’t want to talk about it, it was just that every time he tried to imagine explaining how he felt he came up blank. He didn’t have words. So he settled for women and alcohol and with time, things got easier. He even almost moved on.
But she came back, with darker hair and a lighter, designer-clad step. And she tossed her hair and she smiled at him, in her way, and It was still there, no matter how much either of them might want to wish it away.
So she met him at Joe’s, nursing his nightly drink and surveying his nightly prospects and she was definitely the most appealing so he ordered them another round and she smiled over the rim of her glass and told him she had asked for a room on the twenty-second floor. Then she left her hotel key card flat on the bar under a wad of bills and left, making an exit after bending to whisper the room number in his ear.
He went of course, determined to tell her he wouldn’t come at her beck and call anymore. He got halfway through a sentence about things being different now before she kissed him and halfway through another one protesting the situation before she said, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry how things ended with us. I care about you Mark, I do.”
And that was the end of that.
No, I don’t miss you anymore. No, I don’t think of you.
She went back to LA the next day and they promised each other they’d call as she dressed for the early flight. It was a half-empty promise though, a sort of I-will-if-you-will-but-not-until-you-do. They were good at playing relationship chicken; neither one was good at taking the leap, being the first to admit feelings. The net result was that she wasn’t expecting a call. She also wasn’t expecting the sharp pang of longing, the nights when, after finishing her second glass of red, she would eye her cell expectantly or tap out his number and hover over the Call button. It wasn’t that she loved him. She thought she did once, but that was over a year ago, and it was in the midst of a whirlwind of other feelings so in retrospect, she couldn’t be sure of the truth of it. But Mark had been in her life for a long time, mostly uninvited and unwanted, but there nonetheless. And when life changes and the things that have been your cornerstones are no longer there, you feel the absence of them. That was how it was with Mark and Derek: she missed them. She had adjusted to the idea of them not being in her bed, but it was a much bigger adjustment to get her head around them not being in her life.
So she watched the phone and thought it would be nice to have one of these all-to-quiet evenings interrupted with one of his off colour jokes or some detailed description of a surgery or anecdote concerning this or that intern.
Sometimes we do things in life that we can’t erase, can’t take back, can’t make amends for. Addison knew (and hoped) that Derek would find it in him to forgive Mark,, just like she knew that Derek would never forgive her enough to allow them to be friends; maybe polite acquaintances some day in the distant future, but never friends. Maybe thirteen years of sharing a bed precluded friendship in any case. But with Mark, she thought that maybe they hadn’t made such a mess of everything. Sure, there were a few irrevocable and painful actions, on his part and hers, but with Mark it was never about who was more to blame. It was acknowledged that neither party was a saint. It seemed to her that it was easier to find forgiveness among sinners.
When’s a fool like me going to drive straight home?
He can’t resist: moth to flame. A quick trip to LA to visit an old friend (also a plastic surgeon) he met during residency and assist on a particularly tricky procedure is what it should have been. He couldn’t book a return flight at the time of course, because you never know how long a surgery like that is going to be, but still, he told himself, he could have fairly safely booked one for the next afternoon. Instead he left his weekend open and drove down to Oceanside Wellness on Saturday morning to find her pouring over paperwork, pen tucking her hair behind of her ear, glasses sliding down her nose and coffee mug halfway to her mouth.
And then he knew it was bad, really bad - he thought it had been getting better but it hadn’t been - because that simple image stuck in his head as something he wanted, something he’d never get sick of seeing if he lived to be one hundred, and he realised he still wanted her. Well, that sucked. He lightly punched the glass wall of her office, which she mistook as a knock and then the moment was broken because her eyes darted up and her mouth fell open in surprise.
He smiled at her, reassuring and waved her off as she began to stand, pushing open the door and settling himself in the chair opposite her.
“Mark,” she offered him, warily.
“Doctor Montgomery,” he grinned back, “I seem to have this problem.”
She narrowed her eyes, “I’m a gynaecologist and you’re a man, I think you’re in the wrong place.”
“Addison, you don’t write, you don’t call,” he quipped.
“I could say the same thing about you,” she answered in kind.
“Yeah well,” he leaned back against the chair and stretched his legs out under her desk forcing her to rearrange her heels, “You know how things are.”
“You’ve been busy, of course,” she said, all politeness, when really what he meant was ‘I didn’t know if you really wanted me to.’ She knew that, but she still found it easier to stick to the polite small talk she was raised to make when things get too honest, even with him.
“And you’re still working on a Saturday,” he teased.
“Well,” she said, “It’s mostly just for show actually. I don’t have too much to do around here most of the time.”
“Well if they’re not keeping you busy I can think of a few other ways to occupy your time,” he suggested.
She bristled, “Mark.”
He continued hurriedly, “I meant lunch.”
“I’ll bet you did,” she said, feigning displeasure, “It’s before eleven.”
“Brunch then,” he insisted, “Come on, it’s not good for you to work on the Sabbath.”
“That’s Sunday Mark.”
“Not in Judaism.”
She shook her head at him, which he knew meant she was about to concede defeat, “Fine, just let me finish up here.”
He picked up her coat off the back of the chair and stood by the doorway, grinning in his victory.
You pucker up, our passion's spent. My hearts a tart, your body's rent.
The sand beneath her toes was hot, like his hand on her back. She moved her legs, feet slipping through the fine grains as tension built in her stomach. They were sitting on her back porch. She moved her head until it rested against his shoulder. Pulling back, she slipped off her shirt and said, “I’ll race you to the water.”
Later, he slipped off her shirt and moved his hands over her shoulders. He followed with his tongue. She tasted like the ocean, and he let his mouth linger in the curve of her collarbone, hands wandering between her thighs.
Afterward she rolled away from him and avoided meeting his eye.
Forget, forgotten, I am moving past this, giving notice. (Yes, I know the feeling know you're leaving.)
“This has to stop,” she said, seriously, over breakfast on Sunday morning.
He moved to touch her, rubbed at her shoulder, slid his hand down her sleeve.
“I’m serious Mark,” she lay both palms on the table and sighed, “We can be friends. But the benefits make things complicated, messy. We said we wanted a fresh start.”
“No,” he sulked, “You said you wanted a fresh start, and you’re the one who wants to be friends.”
She bit her lip, surprised at the tears pooling behind her momentarily closed eyes, “What do you want?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, honestly, “But not this. You’re making things complicated Addison, and from where I’m sitting things are very simple.”
“Things are never simple between us,” she contended, “We have too much sordid history to do simple.”
“We have too much sordid history to do friends,” he retorted, “And that’s without mentioning the obvious: I love you, and you,” he paused, “Well, in spite of yourself, I think part of you loves me.”
“Don’t,” she held up a hand to stop him, “We’ve tried Mark. We’ve tried again and again and again. Maybe it’s time to accept the fact that this never gets us anywhere.”
“We haven’t tried,” he sighed, “Not really, because you’re never in it.”
“I’m never in it?” she asked in a disbelieving tone, “You’re the one who always sleeps with someone else.”
“No,” he said evenly, “I’m not.”
“Charlene,” she cited, “And whoever it was in Seattle.”
“Derek,” he countered, “And Alex Karev.”
She stared at him, shocked. “Well,” she picked up the pieces and tried to continue but the argument suddenly seemed over, “I guess we’re even.”
“No,” he corrected her, “Because I lied. I never slept with anyone else in Seattle, not after your little ultimatum.”
She opened her mouth but couldn’t find words.
“So we’re not even,” he told her, “And I don’t want to be your friend.”
“I don’t want to get hurt again,” she responded in a whisper, “And I don’t want to hurt you again.”
“So we’ll leave it at that.”
He got up and walked out, leaving her with the bill and a plate full of cold, suddenly unappealing breakfast and no ride home.
And you're bad news. I don't care I like you.
Addison was in Seattle again, following up on a few patients she managed to adopt on her last visit. Addison was also trying to corner a certain plastic surgeon, clear the air between them, because she didn't like the ending he wrote them.
“Mark,” she called after him, her heels hitting the floor in quick staccato until she caught up, fingers enclosing his arm, “Wait.”
He turned to face her, granting her that small courtesy. “What?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m sorry and I … want you in my life, whatever that means and however that works out.”
He toed the ground with his shoe and sunk his hands into his pockets, “Yeah. Me too.”
“So,” she looked up at him, shy all of a sudden, “Can I buy you dinner?”
(It's all wrong. It's all right. I wanna turn you on. )
Tonight there isn't any light under your door, I guess you must be somewhere breathing.
Mark went to LA to visit Addison on a whim. They'd talked. It wasn't a promise of everything, but he thought it was a promise to at least try. When he reached the beach house and found that she wasn't at home, he felt stupid for not calling, and promptly spent a few hours on her doorstep working himself into jealous anger.
Please destroy me this way.
When Addison arrived home, she found Mark waiting, pacing.
“Who have you been out with?” he growled, sullen.
It sparked ire in her, since he might have been waiting for hours but he didn’t have the decency to call so she figured it was his own fault. “None of your business.”
He grabbed her arm, grip a little too firm. The sudden adrenaline rush that accompanied the fear made her heart speed up. She heard it, pulse thundering in her ears as he took a step closer and spoke over her lips, “It is my business.”
She swallowed and stepped back, “No it’s not.”
He released her roughly and paced wildly while she opened her front door, “Damn it Addison.”
She stepped into the hall and began to remove her shoes, “Are you going to come in and be civil or should I leave you out there to cool off?”
He pushed past her and into the house, so she figured he chose the first option, minus the civility. She sighed.
“What are you doing here?” she asked as he began to rummage in her cupboards. Her hands settled on her hips and his found a bottle of scotch. He poured himself a generous drink, downed it and sighed.
“I came to see you.”
“You didn’t call,” she pointed out.
“Would it have made a difference?” he snapped.
“I would’ve been here to let you in, for one,” she replied in kind, “What’s your problem anyway?”
“You,” he answered coldly, “You are my problem. You have been for years.”
She crossed the kitchen floor and prised the bottle from his grasp, “You’re not going to show up at my house uninvited, help yourself to my alcohol unasked and then feel sorry for yourself all night.”
He scowled, “I thought you wanted honesty. I thought you wanted us to be honest with each other. Of course you’re never honest with me, but that’s beside the point.”
“So that’s what I am to you?” she raised her voice, “A problem?”
“Hell Addison,” he made a fist around the tumbler, still wet with Scotch, and squeezes until his knuckles turn white, “What else are you? What else do you want to be?”
She hugged herself and moved so the kitchen counter was in between them, hoping to God the raised voices aren't enough to draw interest from the neighbours, well, one neighbour in particular. Sam had made his opinion on Mark's occasional appearances well-known. “I don’t know.”
“Exactly,” he exclaimed, like this proved his point and abandoned the glass in favour of stalking around to stand beside her.
“Mark,” she said, warning.
He spun her to face him again, breathing scotch in her face and refusing to let go when she struggled against him.
“So there it is,” he said harshly, “I love you and you don’t know.”
She felt herself on the verge of tears but bit into her tongue, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. (Besides, she knew he wouldn't hurt her.)
“Well here‘s the truth,” he continued, pulling her closer, “I’m sick of waiting for you to find out.”
She tensed then, unsure of his next move but he kissed her roughly and pulled her body against his and that she knew how to deal with. (There's a thunder in our hearts, baby.)
December is darkest and June is the light but this empty bedroom won't make anything right.
The morning was bright and the sunlight was warm against her face. She sighed, shaking off sleep as he curled around her and began to work his hand across her hip.
“Mark,” she said in warning, “Stop.”
He pulled away and made a noise of displeasure, “If I’d known you were going to treat me like any old one night stand I would’ve booked a hotel.”
She rolled her eyes, eyelashes brushing against the pillow in a gesture he can’t see. She announced it without fanfare, simple and clear: “This won’t work and we both know it.”
“This is working,” he countered, lying back against her sheets, “It is what it is, but it’s working.”
“We live in different cities,” she argued.
“So I’ll move here,” he said, “If it comes to that, when and if you want me to.”
“And for now?” she rolled over to face him, propping up her face with her hand.
“For now,” his lips twisted upwards into a cocky smile at her suspicious expression, “We take it as it comes.”
“That’s it?” she raised an eyebrow.
“That’s life,” he told her, “That’s all we can do.”