grey's anatomy fanfiction, mark/addison - the vineyard.
The Vineyard
Author's Notes: Vaguely part of a quintet that I started and then failed to complete (this might be the story of my life, watch this space) for openended for ga_fanfic's secret santa this past Christmas. In which Mark visits Addison over summer break. (Also vaguely adapted from an idea that I'd noted in a word doco after Doctorcest 2.0, so the original idea is the intellectual property of hookedupforfun - who actually suggested sex, but alas, 'tis completely PG.)
They'd been friends since organic chemistry, second semester sophomore year. Well, on and off. When they had classes together he made excuses to come round to her room, all hours of the night, to borrow notes. She felt comfortable with him, free, like he didn't want more, but he'd happily oblige her if she gave it. So they spent hours lying in her bed talking about nothing and everything or studying opposite each other in the library - he'd tap his pen against his open textbook just to annoy her. But they never really mixed socially outside one or two mutual acquaintances' birthdays and one or two times he'd played her date at a sorority mixer. Sometimes he'd call her on a Friday night, bored with his social calendar, and take her out for far too much beer (her mother would perish at the thought). And once, after too much tequila at a frat party, they'd kissed, or made out. Her memory was hazy. She thought she remembered his hand on her left breast, outside her shirt. They stumbled home together and passed out fully clothed, laughed it off the next morning when they had to take turns alleviating the hangover in her trash can.
Then, just after finals, he came round to ask about her plans for the summer, casually slipping in the notion of 'just being friends'. That was fine by her. She was determined that he wouldn't be her type; men who were charming to the point of being irritating always drove her mad. (Lust, love, loathing, the lines were all so fine.) She shrugged, told him she was going to be alone at her parents' house in Connecticut for most of the summer - Busy was in France, the Captain was working on some big project down in DC and her brother was interning in the city. And just like that he invited himself to visit - as a friend.
(Her girlfriends positively crowed at that development. They were convinced she was in love with him.)
In lieu of love there was surprise. She couldn't believe that he was willing to tear himself away from the childhood best friend in New York who he gushed about like a schoolgirl with a crush, although she doubted he knew he was doing it. The acceptance was begrudging, but secretly, she'd anticipated his visit. Summers were long in an empty house, and the few friends she maintained from her schooldays were scattered across the globe - internships and summers in Europe or South America.
There had been four weeks for her to overanalyse and chip the polish on her fingers, trying to ignore her mother's voice crowing disappointment in her ears, so by the time she picked him up from the station, wrecked manicure drumming against the steering wheel, she'd convinced herself that it might mean something, that maybe he did like her or she did like him. Her stomach was nervous which made the rest of her nervous too, and she missed the turn which made her five minutes late. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, duffel bag at his feet, looking unaffected. The humidity of the afternoon sucked the air-conditioning from the car and he slumped beside her after depositing his bag in the backseat in a similarly careless fashion.
"Hey Red." He adjusted the fan until it blew across his face and disturbed the front of his hair. And then he changed the radio station until he found a song she positively hated and insulted her driving the entire way home.
And she wasn't nervous, any more than she was truly irritated, even if she played at it for sport
They lazed through salad days, in the pool and out of it, watching movies, talking about nothing, making a sizeable headway into her parents' extensive liquor cabinet. The reminiscing started with his hand on a bottle of gin, midway through mixing a martini. He made a remark about learning to mix a gin and tonic before he could read and she laughed and swiped the bottle and emptied two rough and generous measures into the cocktail shaker and said she had too. After that bit of common history was uncovered, the rest came out in turn. Mark told her stories from his childhood, all involving the mysterious Derek, a player yet unseen. Addison pointed out relics from hers. They were both still in the habit of romanticising then. Disillusioned sons and daughters came later.
The awkwardness she had feared never came, but neither did the romantic intentions or feelings, her other fear. They were just comfortable.
The day before he left the air was humming and thick and nature was rushing towards the inevitable storm and bringing life along with it. The heat was too much even for the air-conditioning, so in the morning they braved the outdoors to swim in the creek at the edge of the property at his suggestion. (The thought that Busy would die if she knew only made it more appealing.) She hesitated on the verge of the water, toes curled around the wet moss of a dark log but he grabbed her hand and pulled her in.
The crickets knew what the afternoon would bring. The insects buzzed and the undergrowth rustled as though everything in it was making arrangements and when the wind picked up and the dark clouds rushed closer from the horizon, they started back towards the house.
He kissed her in the vineyard, her toes wet from the creek clinging to the grass between the vines. It had been a hot, dry summer and the ground was want for water, rough beneath her feet like his chin against hers. He thumbed along on her jaw and his tongue was insistent and she was still young enough to feel clumsy whenever she was kissed but it relaxed something in her, allowed want to escape and wreak havoc as it ran to her extremities.
When she stepped backward, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes blinking in surprise, she felt like the air around her, all electricity and changing temperature.
Afterwards, he looked away, turned and picked a grape off one of the vines. It burst in his mouth and as the juice soured his tongue he stared at her profile and thought that there might be a danger of falling in love with her.
The rain started then, and the thunder became audible. They ran the rest of the way back to the house and never spoke of it again.
It was the summer between junior and senior year of college. Later they'd chalk it up to being just shy of twenty one and stupid, but there was something else there too, maybe. Sometimes, privately, she thinks they were twenty one and hopeful.
Author's Notes: Vaguely part of a quintet that I started and then failed to complete (this might be the story of my life, watch this space) for openended for ga_fanfic's secret santa this past Christmas. In which Mark visits Addison over summer break. (Also vaguely adapted from an idea that I'd noted in a word doco after Doctorcest 2.0, so the original idea is the intellectual property of hookedupforfun - who actually suggested sex, but alas, 'tis completely PG.)
They'd been friends since organic chemistry, second semester sophomore year. Well, on and off. When they had classes together he made excuses to come round to her room, all hours of the night, to borrow notes. She felt comfortable with him, free, like he didn't want more, but he'd happily oblige her if she gave it. So they spent hours lying in her bed talking about nothing and everything or studying opposite each other in the library - he'd tap his pen against his open textbook just to annoy her. But they never really mixed socially outside one or two mutual acquaintances' birthdays and one or two times he'd played her date at a sorority mixer. Sometimes he'd call her on a Friday night, bored with his social calendar, and take her out for far too much beer (her mother would perish at the thought). And once, after too much tequila at a frat party, they'd kissed, or made out. Her memory was hazy. She thought she remembered his hand on her left breast, outside her shirt. They stumbled home together and passed out fully clothed, laughed it off the next morning when they had to take turns alleviating the hangover in her trash can.
Then, just after finals, he came round to ask about her plans for the summer, casually slipping in the notion of 'just being friends'. That was fine by her. She was determined that he wouldn't be her type; men who were charming to the point of being irritating always drove her mad. (Lust, love, loathing, the lines were all so fine.) She shrugged, told him she was going to be alone at her parents' house in Connecticut for most of the summer - Busy was in France, the Captain was working on some big project down in DC and her brother was interning in the city. And just like that he invited himself to visit - as a friend.
(Her girlfriends positively crowed at that development. They were convinced she was in love with him.)
In lieu of love there was surprise. She couldn't believe that he was willing to tear himself away from the childhood best friend in New York who he gushed about like a schoolgirl with a crush, although she doubted he knew he was doing it. The acceptance was begrudging, but secretly, she'd anticipated his visit. Summers were long in an empty house, and the few friends she maintained from her schooldays were scattered across the globe - internships and summers in Europe or South America.
There had been four weeks for her to overanalyse and chip the polish on her fingers, trying to ignore her mother's voice crowing disappointment in her ears, so by the time she picked him up from the station, wrecked manicure drumming against the steering wheel, she'd convinced herself that it might mean something, that maybe he did like her or she did like him. Her stomach was nervous which made the rest of her nervous too, and she missed the turn which made her five minutes late. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, duffel bag at his feet, looking unaffected. The humidity of the afternoon sucked the air-conditioning from the car and he slumped beside her after depositing his bag in the backseat in a similarly careless fashion.
"Hey Red." He adjusted the fan until it blew across his face and disturbed the front of his hair. And then he changed the radio station until he found a song she positively hated and insulted her driving the entire way home.
And she wasn't nervous, any more than she was truly irritated, even if she played at it for sport
They lazed through salad days, in the pool and out of it, watching movies, talking about nothing, making a sizeable headway into her parents' extensive liquor cabinet. The reminiscing started with his hand on a bottle of gin, midway through mixing a martini. He made a remark about learning to mix a gin and tonic before he could read and she laughed and swiped the bottle and emptied two rough and generous measures into the cocktail shaker and said she had too. After that bit of common history was uncovered, the rest came out in turn. Mark told her stories from his childhood, all involving the mysterious Derek, a player yet unseen. Addison pointed out relics from hers. They were both still in the habit of romanticising then. Disillusioned sons and daughters came later.
The awkwardness she had feared never came, but neither did the romantic intentions or feelings, her other fear. They were just comfortable.
The day before he left the air was humming and thick and nature was rushing towards the inevitable storm and bringing life along with it. The heat was too much even for the air-conditioning, so in the morning they braved the outdoors to swim in the creek at the edge of the property at his suggestion. (The thought that Busy would die if she knew only made it more appealing.) She hesitated on the verge of the water, toes curled around the wet moss of a dark log but he grabbed her hand and pulled her in.
The crickets knew what the afternoon would bring. The insects buzzed and the undergrowth rustled as though everything in it was making arrangements and when the wind picked up and the dark clouds rushed closer from the horizon, they started back towards the house.
He kissed her in the vineyard, her toes wet from the creek clinging to the grass between the vines. It had been a hot, dry summer and the ground was want for water, rough beneath her feet like his chin against hers. He thumbed along on her jaw and his tongue was insistent and she was still young enough to feel clumsy whenever she was kissed but it relaxed something in her, allowed want to escape and wreak havoc as it ran to her extremities.
When she stepped backward, hands pressed to her mouth, eyes blinking in surprise, she felt like the air around her, all electricity and changing temperature.
Afterwards, he looked away, turned and picked a grape off one of the vines. It burst in his mouth and as the juice soured his tongue he stared at her profile and thought that there might be a danger of falling in love with her.
The rain started then, and the thunder became audible. They ran the rest of the way back to the house and never spoke of it again.
It was the summer between junior and senior year of college. Later they'd chalk it up to being just shy of twenty one and stupid, but there was something else there too, maybe. Sometimes, privately, she thinks they were twenty one and hopeful.