Seasonal Drabble
Title: Of Shopping Bags and Mistletoe
Author: grand_delusions
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: If they were mine, it'd be called "Sloan's Anatomy"
Spoiler: up to about 3x04
Keywords: Mark/Addison, Christmas, Drabble
Wordcount: 1,113
A/N: I miss holiday Grey's eps and I miss Maddison. Yes I realize I broke my own rule about drabble lengths, but cut me some slack, I haven't written in awhile.
-o-
Of Shopping Bags and Mistletoe
-o-
He asks you what you want for Christmas with a wink and a grin. With his tone, the question sounds anything but innocent and again you remind him that you are simply co-workers.
"What?" he scoffs, feigning offense, "Co-workers can't ask simple questions about Christmas lists?" But his body weight leans forward and one eyebrow flicks up. He's entirely too flirtatious, even after the weeks and months of avoiding and insisting he return to New York. He's still there, and you don't even want to begin to guess what it means.
If only it were a simple question. If only anything with Mark could be considered simple.
He stands close-- so close you feel the heat radiating from his body. A chill runs down your spine, and you force yourself to ignore the familiar fluttering of butterfly wings in your stomach.
Again he asks what's on your Christmas wish list, and again silence answers him. Settling for a glare and a no-nonsense roll of the eyes, you frantically scribble your name on the bottom of the page and stride away.
The rhythmic clicking of Dior heels upon linoleum is joined by the hurried thundering of his feet rushing to catch up with you.
"Common Addison," he whines, "it's Christmas. It's tradition."
"No, Mark. It's not," you counter, sparing a fraction of a second to shoot an aggravated glare at him before continuing back down the hall.
You can't decide if you hope he'll simply walk away like he has so many times before, or if this time he'll keep after you. You're still struggling to determine your preference when you feel his fingers curling around your arm and you spin around to confront him.
"What do you want?" you shrug out of his grasp, crossing your arms defensively across your chest.
"You," he fires back and your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your eyes grow wide
"We always go Christmas shopping," he reminds you, and a flurry of memories swirls in your mind like a winter blizzard: walking along Fifth Avenue weighted down with bags and packages, clutching his arm while staring at brightly lit window displays, grinning over a steaming cup of chocolate while you snuck glances at him while watching the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center.
You gulp down the bitter memories. "We don't anymore," you say. "We didn't last year."
"That was your fault," he blames, mirroring your actions and folding his arms over his chest. "You left."
"You gave me a reason to leave," you frown sadly, already feeling exhausted "and you never gave me a reason to stay."
After all these months, you're finally moving on. You're used to seeing a bare left hand and no longer slip and add an additional name to your signature. You no longer feel nauseous when you see your ex-husband beaming at Meredith and have even reached a tepid understanding with the two. You're moving on and you wish Mark would let you.
His face falls and you will yourself to remember the countless knowing looks he’s shared with a steady stream of women since he’s arrived to block out your own guilt. He reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and you pull away from his touch as though his hand burns.
He’s far too persistent, and you’re terrified you’ll eventually give in.
“We’re not Christmas shopping,” you insist. “You don’t have to entertain me for Derek anymore.”
Mark’s eyes narrow to dark slivers and his eyebrows furrow together. “Is that all you thought it was?”
Words fail, and you wish you knew what it was, if all the frozen walks and cups of cocoa were something more than Mark trying to be Derek. You thought you knew. But then again, there’s a corner of your heart with shattered hopes and dreams of things you thought you knew.
Leaving’s easier, but his persistence is draining and he follows you like a hopeful puppy.
“Common, Addison. We’ll do the Christmas thing.” He darts in front of you and you gracefully sidestep around him. “We don’t even have to go out to the stores,” he matches your pace and the scent of his cologne floats to your nose. The intoxicating smell you can only define as Mark. You clench your jaw before your resolve begins to crumble around you.
“No.”
He continues as though you said nothing at all. “I’ll bring French food. You bring your expensive catalogues. That’s all, promise,” his voice bubbles with excitement and he’s grinning his cocky, arrogant smirk that makes you weak in the knees. You positively hate it.
You blush despite yourself and when you turn to him, you brace your hand on your hip. “It’s never that simple with you.”
He takes a step towards you. It’s the closest you’ve allowed him in months, and your stomach clenches as your personal space is so effectively compromised. His head cocks to the side and you swallow the lump forming in your throat.
“It could be.”
Despite the voice of reason screaming in your mind that nothing could ever seamlessly fall into place, you feel your teeth chewing thoughtfully on your lower lip. You remind yourself that no man defines you, but regardless of how much a part of you wishes for the strength to refuse, you reluctantly agree.
He beams, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Was that so hard?”
“I’m still not getting you anything for Christmas,” you inform him, arms crossed, and eyebrows sitting high upon your forehead.
His arm is suddenly hovering over your head. And before you can twist your neck to inspect the small green flash in the corner of your eye, his lips are on yours and one hand is tangled in your hair.
He pulls back and your face burns. Gulping in air, you’re certain he hears you heart hammering in your chest.
You raise your hand to slap him, but he’s known you long enough to anticipate this, and catches your wrist in his hand. His mouth curls into a sly grin as you glare at him.
“I’m sure I’ll be getting something from you for Christmas,” he presses the cheap, plastic mistletoe into your palm, closing your fingers around the item before releasing your wrist and sauntering away confidently.
“You’re not getting anything,” you shout down the hall at his retreating form, even if it’s just a lie. Soft laughter spills from your lips when he turns back to give you a pointed look.
He doesn’t believe you either.
You smile to yourself, suddenly feeling far more festive than you felt an hour ago in spite of yourself.
It’s Christmas, after all.
-el fin-
Author: grand_delusions
Rating: K+
Disclaimer: If they were mine, it'd be called "Sloan's Anatomy"
Spoiler: up to about 3x04
Keywords: Mark/Addison, Christmas, Drabble
Wordcount: 1,113
A/N: I miss holiday Grey's eps and I miss Maddison. Yes I realize I broke my own rule about drabble lengths, but cut me some slack, I haven't written in awhile.
-o-
Of Shopping Bags and Mistletoe
-o-
He asks you what you want for Christmas with a wink and a grin. With his tone, the question sounds anything but innocent and again you remind him that you are simply co-workers.
"What?" he scoffs, feigning offense, "Co-workers can't ask simple questions about Christmas lists?" But his body weight leans forward and one eyebrow flicks up. He's entirely too flirtatious, even after the weeks and months of avoiding and insisting he return to New York. He's still there, and you don't even want to begin to guess what it means.
If only it were a simple question. If only anything with Mark could be considered simple.
He stands close-- so close you feel the heat radiating from his body. A chill runs down your spine, and you force yourself to ignore the familiar fluttering of butterfly wings in your stomach.
Again he asks what's on your Christmas wish list, and again silence answers him. Settling for a glare and a no-nonsense roll of the eyes, you frantically scribble your name on the bottom of the page and stride away.
The rhythmic clicking of Dior heels upon linoleum is joined by the hurried thundering of his feet rushing to catch up with you.
"Common Addison," he whines, "it's Christmas. It's tradition."
"No, Mark. It's not," you counter, sparing a fraction of a second to shoot an aggravated glare at him before continuing back down the hall.
You can't decide if you hope he'll simply walk away like he has so many times before, or if this time he'll keep after you. You're still struggling to determine your preference when you feel his fingers curling around your arm and you spin around to confront him.
"What do you want?" you shrug out of his grasp, crossing your arms defensively across your chest.
"You," he fires back and your breath hitches in your throat. You feel your eyes grow wide
"We always go Christmas shopping," he reminds you, and a flurry of memories swirls in your mind like a winter blizzard: walking along Fifth Avenue weighted down with bags and packages, clutching his arm while staring at brightly lit window displays, grinning over a steaming cup of chocolate while you snuck glances at him while watching the ice skaters at Rockefeller Center.
You gulp down the bitter memories. "We don't anymore," you say. "We didn't last year."
"That was your fault," he blames, mirroring your actions and folding his arms over his chest. "You left."
"You gave me a reason to leave," you frown sadly, already feeling exhausted "and you never gave me a reason to stay."
After all these months, you're finally moving on. You're used to seeing a bare left hand and no longer slip and add an additional name to your signature. You no longer feel nauseous when you see your ex-husband beaming at Meredith and have even reached a tepid understanding with the two. You're moving on and you wish Mark would let you.
His face falls and you will yourself to remember the countless knowing looks he’s shared with a steady stream of women since he’s arrived to block out your own guilt. He reaches out and tucks a lock of hair behind your ear and you pull away from his touch as though his hand burns.
He’s far too persistent, and you’re terrified you’ll eventually give in.
“We’re not Christmas shopping,” you insist. “You don’t have to entertain me for Derek anymore.”
Mark’s eyes narrow to dark slivers and his eyebrows furrow together. “Is that all you thought it was?”
Words fail, and you wish you knew what it was, if all the frozen walks and cups of cocoa were something more than Mark trying to be Derek. You thought you knew. But then again, there’s a corner of your heart with shattered hopes and dreams of things you thought you knew.
Leaving’s easier, but his persistence is draining and he follows you like a hopeful puppy.
“Common, Addison. We’ll do the Christmas thing.” He darts in front of you and you gracefully sidestep around him. “We don’t even have to go out to the stores,” he matches your pace and the scent of his cologne floats to your nose. The intoxicating smell you can only define as Mark. You clench your jaw before your resolve begins to crumble around you.
“No.”
He continues as though you said nothing at all. “I’ll bring French food. You bring your expensive catalogues. That’s all, promise,” his voice bubbles with excitement and he’s grinning his cocky, arrogant smirk that makes you weak in the knees. You positively hate it.
You blush despite yourself and when you turn to him, you brace your hand on your hip. “It’s never that simple with you.”
He takes a step towards you. It’s the closest you’ve allowed him in months, and your stomach clenches as your personal space is so effectively compromised. His head cocks to the side and you swallow the lump forming in your throat.
“It could be.”
Despite the voice of reason screaming in your mind that nothing could ever seamlessly fall into place, you feel your teeth chewing thoughtfully on your lower lip. You remind yourself that no man defines you, but regardless of how much a part of you wishes for the strength to refuse, you reluctantly agree.
He beams, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Was that so hard?”
“I’m still not getting you anything for Christmas,” you inform him, arms crossed, and eyebrows sitting high upon your forehead.
His arm is suddenly hovering over your head. And before you can twist your neck to inspect the small green flash in the corner of your eye, his lips are on yours and one hand is tangled in your hair.
He pulls back and your face burns. Gulping in air, you’re certain he hears you heart hammering in your chest.
You raise your hand to slap him, but he’s known you long enough to anticipate this, and catches your wrist in his hand. His mouth curls into a sly grin as you glare at him.
“I’m sure I’ll be getting something from you for Christmas,” he presses the cheap, plastic mistletoe into your palm, closing your fingers around the item before releasing your wrist and sauntering away confidently.
“You’re not getting anything,” you shout down the hall at his retreating form, even if it’s just a lie. Soft laughter spills from your lips when he turns back to give you a pointed look.
He doesn’t believe you either.
You smile to yourself, suddenly feeling far more festive than you felt an hour ago in spite of yourself.
It’s Christmas, after all.
-el fin-