this little war
this little war
lexie/alex; lexie/mark
spoilers for all aired episodes.
I have about 5,000 other work-in-progress fics dealing with the aftermath, but this one seemed to write itself today. I'm just still sifting through how I feel about the finale, because until I can wrap my head around what happened, I can't really speak for the other characters. Let me just finish by saying the writers are cruel, evil people who have now made it impossible to solely ship Lexie/Alex or Lexie/Mark. No matter what happens, I feel terrible for the other. (And yes, they're cruel for much bigger reasons...I'm just partial to Little Grey.)
There's a dreamlike quality to your world in the wake of the aftermath. Time seems to move irregularly and spontaneously and nothing's really registering with you as real.
Mark brings you lunch from the small café you love downtown. You both pretend this is still second nature. At any rate, you're able to eat.
Still, you hold Alex's hand like a bible, close to your chest and anxiously awaiting some grand moment of realization, where you're flooded with the truth of the past day. They say moments like this define you and alter your life forever. You don't feel so different. Your shaken and bruised and a little rough around the edges, but staring at Alex as machines keep him in a drug induced sleep, you just feel tired.
The nurse offers you a cot but you decline, getting up slowly. Letting go of his hand is like releasing a burden that's been weighing on you all day. You shouldn't feel like this. It isn't right. Maybe you're more changed than you realized.
Mark's sitting in the lobby and you don't ask why because part of you knows you're not ready to hear the answer. Instead you sit down next to him and face him cautiously.
"Meredith?" Your question's small and quiet, but he understands the hidden significance. You don't move when his hand falls to your knee.
"She's fine," he insists. "Derek too."
Relief floods your face, wiping away the guilt of not asking sooner. You feel like you've been here for weeks, but really, it's only been an afternoon.
"I should see them." you say decidedly, looking up at him to confirm. You're not certain why you're still looking to him for approval.
Mark's smile eases you. "It's midnight," he remarks, and he does his best to hide his amusement. "You can see them tomorrow."
You nod, pulling your legs up to your chest as you stare outside at the dark nothingness. Somewhere, in the distance, a patient glares at his cell phone and a woman lights up a cigarette. Seeing these commonplace gestures somehow makes you feel safer. Life seems almost normal again.
It's reassuring.
You let your head fall onto Mark's chest and you don't protest when he strokes your hair gently. You think about that time you broke him and how you slept in that uncomfortable hospital bed all night.
A few rooms away, Alex shifts his weight and sighs lightly, squinting in the darkness, confused.
You're not there to see this.
Your father shows up at Seattle Presbyterian. Your not sure who called him. Meredith maybe, or Mark even, but either way, he's here and he looks good and sober and clean. But he's still your father and you know how well Greys are at keeping secrets hidden away.
Alex is resting peacefully two doors behind you.
You stand near the front desk with a coffee in your hand and your hair pulled up in a messy bun. You need a shower and food, but neither of these seem significant in lieu of what's happened.
"Dad," you manage softly, relief sweeping over you.
He stares at you like a stranger for a minute before recognition hits him. You don't really care, because he's here, and you miss these moments when your family actually acts like family.
You hug him tightly, almost knocking the lid off your coffee as your hands press into his back.
He pulls away first. "Lexie," he says softly. "I just heard...I..."
You shake your head as you look up at him. "It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. It's just been crazy and I..."
"Where's your sister?" he asks quickly, scanning the lobby up and down.
Your lips part as you blink back in surprise.
"Meredith," he adds, as if you need further clarification. "Where's Meredith?"
Your coffee cups seems unbearably heavy and drags your arms down past your hips.
"With Derek," you say quickly. "Room 215, I think."
He nods and turns toward the elevator. "Glad you're okay sweetheart."
You stare after him as he goes, eyes wide and glassy. You watch as the light changes from L to 2.
A part of you always guessed he loved her best.
"You're awake," you remark, surprised, as you walk into Alex's room. His expression is pained as he looks up with you.
The tears just come.
"I'm sorry...I should have...I should have been here," you remark sobbing as you walk closer to him. "I was and then I just left for a few minutes and..."
"You're here now," he manages slowly, and you swallow the lump in your throat as you lean over him. Your lips press down against his forehead.
"I'm here now," you agree. Your entire relationship seems to boil down to those three words.
"Bad day?" Alex offers, a slight smirk spreading across his face.
You laugh at his terrible joke with eventually causes you to cry harder. Alex's fingers reach for your hand. You squeeze too tightly.
"You could say that," you answer finally. You fall down into the chair next to him, hand still attached to his. "How do you feel?"
He coughs quietly. "Like I've been hit by a bus."
You wince. He doesn't catch this.
"Well, you got shot," you conclude. "It's only natural."
He nods and shuts his eyes slowly.
"Do you remember anything?" you ask quickly, heart pounding as you wait.
It takes a few minutes, but finally he shakes his head and you feel his fingers start to slide out of yours. "I don't know," he admits groggily and you let his hand fall back to his side.
You stare at him for a few more moments, hand still hanging over the armrest, grasping air.
"You should sleep," you say at last, as if he isn't already a hundred miles away from you.
"Did you see your dad?" Mark asks curiously as he walks outside, joining you on the cement windowsill you're perched on.
You shrug your shoulders lightly. "I guess you could say that," you mutter antagonistically as you look up at him. "I'm sorry," you apologize quickly, regretting your words instantly. "I'm bad company today. I'm just in a weird mood."
He nods and offers a light smile. "Better than Callie and Arizona," he begins. "Running around buying fruit baskets and practically radiating sunshine."
You laugh in spite of your better judgment, smirking back at him. "I got cookies," you tease. "Homemade no less."
There's nothing funny about any of this, but somehow easy banter is keeping you from losing your mind.
Mark's voice turns solemn. "I may have mentioned peanut butter was your favorite," he admits shamelessly.
Lexie nods, smile fading. "Well, thanks. The nurse wouldn't let Alex have any though. I tried to use my surgeon status to veto her, but apparently I don't have any real power here."
Mark chuckles. You dig your fingers into your jeans.
"Your dad's still here you know," Mark begins quickly. "He's was visiting with Derek and Meredith a few minutes ago. You should go up there and be with your family."
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying. It's an old trick your mother wants taught you. Sometimes it works flawlessly and other times you end up with blood in your mouth and tear-stained cheeks.
This time, you manage to win dominion over your emotions.
"I think I'll wait until he leaves," you admit truthfully. "I know it sounds horrible at a time like this, but he didn't seem all that interested in seeing me."
Mark's hand finds yours and you let your fingers intertwine. You sigh softly and dig your nails into his knuckles.
"My mom died," you manage finally, knowing you probably look crazy for stating the obvious. But Mark's patient and he waits while you struggle to find the right words. "My mom died," you repeat, "and I wasn't ready for it. I didn't get to say goodbye. And then George, he-"
You don't finish, because Mark's arms wrap around you and the only think you can think to do is dig deeply into the cloth of his shit as your cheek collides against his chest. He lets you cry without questioning you, the same way he's always done. You're reminded, not for the first time that week, that he knows you, really knows you, in a way you're not sure anyone else ever will. It's comforting.
And terrifying.
You pull away too soon, choking on air as you inhale deeply, trying desperately to compose yourself. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, but you stare down dumbly at your shoes, allowing the rhythm of your legs swinging back and forth to calm you down.
You try again.
"I didn't get to say goodbye and..."
"Lex, you don't have to explain," he insists quietly. He looks like he might wrap his arm around you, but he hesitates and then the moment's lost.
You sigh. "I want to," you insist. "If anyone needs to hear this, it's you."
His eyes meet yours and you continue.
"I told Alex I loved him," you recall out loud for the first time. "He doesn't remember, and that's probably for the best, because I don't. I mean, I do, part of me does, or at least I think part of me does, but..." You sigh again, frustrated as you trip over your words. "I thought he was going to die and I was terrified. He was going to die and Izzie wasn't there and I was all he had. I've been the only person in his life for the past few months, and I don't know, I just said it and it felt right at the time."
Mark's quiet as you finish, his eyes falling downward.
"I needed to tell you, because if I heard you say that to someone else, I...I would have been crushed."
The rain starts lightly, bouncing off the canopy over your head as water begins to fill the parking lot. This is the part where one of you is supposed to say, "I really should be going now."
But neither of you does.
The night Alex comes home is too quiet. He's fed up with being confined to bed rest and you're too exhausted to argue with him. You watch a movie and share a glass of wine, though for some reason, your dubious of his drinking alcohol so soon after his injury.
There's a series of funerals in the morning and a black dress that you're beginning to fear is jinxed. You make a mental note to wear slacks and a blouse instead.
The house is eerie without Meredith and Derek, just the two of you, and you've never really had time to learn how to be alone together. The movie ends and the silence is more uncomfortable than before, though Alex doesn't seem to notice much.
He mentions how he's itching to get back to work, back to surgery. You bite your tongue and don't tell him how terrified you are of walking back inside.
He tells you a funny story about Reed and insists that she "wasn't that bad" and that no one deserves to die that way. You agree as you sip your wine quietly.
"You didn't run into him, did you?" Alex asks curiously, his hand on your thigh. You shift your weight and look up at him quixotically. "The shooter?"
Mr. Clark, you mentally correct. You shake your head. "No."
He nods and squeezes your leg before turning the tv back on.
You pour yourself another glass.
"Alex," you begin slowly, eyeing him as he flips through various channels.
"Hmm?" he asks, half paying attention.
You take your time, forcing him to turn back to face you. He looks nervous.
"She called," you say, and your voice is a foreign sound that you don't recognize. "Izzy. In case you were wondering or...wanted to call her back."
He stares from you to the phone on the wall, then back at you again.
"Why would I care?" he asks lazily, turning back to the flat screen.
You clench the glass in your hands tightly. You're not sure why either one of you keeps lying to each other. You just know it's become habit.
"I don't know," you say softly, but your voice doesn't carry and he doesn't look back at you.
You're probably a terrible person for showing up at Joe's instead of the funeral.
It's early, eleven a.m. and you didn't even know bars were open at this time of day. Alex opted not to go and you forgot about your jinxed dress, and now you're stuck in the middle of the day at a local bar, donning the dress your wore to your mother's funeral.
You feel like a low class hooker. You wait for it, but Meredith's joke never comes. You remind yourself she's with her boyfriend...no, husband, where she belongs. You can't seem to figure out where the hell you should be, because you just keep making up excuses to leave wherever you are at the time.
Joe doesn't judge you, just hands you a beer and walks away. Your head falls to the counter as you stroke the mouth of the bottle, wanting to wake up from this nightmare.
"You hate that dress."
Your eyes squeeze tight, holding back tears as Mark walks over to you. After a few seconds, you blink, then lift your head up to look at him.
"I wasn't supposed to be wearing it," you explain quickly. "I was supposed to wear pants and a jacket, but I forgot and I was halfway there before I realized..."
He cuts you off with a brief smile.
"I'm a shitty person," you say lightly.
Mark chuckles. "No you're not."
"I'm at a bar instead of a funeral," you clarify.
Mark pauses. "So am I."
You cling tightly to your beer. "I go back tomorrow," you says listlessly, because you miss this, having a best friend to tell everything to. You're only recently beginning to realize how much.
His lips break free of his scotch glass as he turns back to you. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
You want to tell him that you have to go back, that less adjusted people have already returned and Alex, Alex who was shot is dying to get back to work, and all you can think of is all of that blood.
"I have to go back some time," you finally settle on. "Seems as good a time as any."
Mark lets you win this round. He doesn't pry.
"It's not as bad as you might think," he begins slowly. "I thought it would be but...it's very normal."
"That's weird," you comment, lowering your beer bottle. "To be honest, I'm not sure I can ever use the elevator again."
He doesn't laugh because you aren't joking.
His empty glass echoes on the bar counter as he slides off the stool.
"Mark?"
He hesitates. You can feel the wool of his blazer against your shoulder. You spin around to face him.
"I can't stop thinking about what you said. That night...before..." Your eyes dodge his as you play with the label on the bottle, picking and peeling it anxiously. "I can't stop thinking about it, but the thing is, I can't think about it right now. Does that make any sense?"
He says yes but you hear no.
Meredith clings to you on her first day back. It's strange, you think, to see her so small and fragile. She's your big sister. You've never thought of her as vulnerable before.
There are rounds and charts and interns and patients with predictably boring diagnoses. Mark's right, you think, that it's too normal. It's as if nothing horrific ever happened here.
You find your sister sobbing in an on-call room later that day, fists clenched as she tries stubbornly to repress what she's going through. You don't think, you just sit, and soon, you're lying down next to her, petting her hair as she cries.
You know better than to ask her what's wrong.
Later, hours later, in the dark of the room, she squeezes your hand.
"Lexie?"
She sounds younger than you remember. You shift your weight onto your elbow and turn to face her.
"Hey," you begin softly. Her hands still entwined in yours. You don't mention this.
"You were going to be an aunt," she says, voice monotone. There are no more tears left for crying. You understand the feeling.
"An aunt..." you begin slowly, trying to piece together the meaning behind the sentence. Your lips part automatically as the truth settles in and you feel your fingers press harder against hers.
"I had just found out," she says sadly, eyes focused straight ahead on the ceiling.
Your face softens, but you look away, allowing her the pseudo privacy she's always craved. You let the lull of sleep beckon the both of you before the thought occurs.
"Mer," you say, half-awake. "You would have made a great mother."
You watch her squeeze her eyes shut tight.
You shoot up in bed, heart racing as you force your eyes to quickly adjust to the darkness around you. The banging noise continues, growing louder and louder, reminding you of when you used to live at home and your father would tear the house apart, searching for the alcohol he swore you were hiding.
Memories fall away as you hop to your feet, pulling one of Alex's tee shirts over your naked body. You slip on a pair of shorts and open the door slowly.
Alex is in the kitchen, broken bottles strewn across the floor. Your jaw tightens as you watch him try to figure out what's going on and your lower lip trembles when he spots you.
"I couldn't find the whiskey," he says simply, eyes wide as he stares at the mess he's made without recognition.
You do your best not to cry. You remember reading about post-traumatic stress disorder. You will not associate him with your father. You will not allow yourself to connect the dots.
Alex looks angry and confused all at once. You wince as you hear footsteps padding down the steps. Derek turns to you quickly and you silence him with one look.
"He couldn't find something," you say quickly, warning him to keep quiet.
Derek pauses, taking in the scene as you begin collecting broken bottles and glasses. You place any surviving plastic plates and cups in the sink while Alex stands there, still gaping at the floor beneath him.
You feel Derek's hand on your shoulder. "Lex," he warns, concerned.
"I got this," you insist firmly, and there's something about the tone of your voice that even convinces you that you can handle this.
You hear Derek go back upstairs and you thank god that Meredith's still at work.
"There was so much blood," he says at last, looking up at you as if you have all the answers.
Your strong facade crumbles as you sit down next to him, pressing his face into your chest as you massage the back of his head.
"I know," you say over and over again. "I'm so sorry."
He never does ask you why.
Derek's cleaning out his office. His decision to step down as chief hadn't been as much as a surprise as he expected.
"Hey," he remarks, smiling warmly as you slip inside. "Can you help me with these?" he asks, pointing to a box of books.
"Oh, uh, sure," you remark, leaning forward to scoop them up. They're heavier than you expect and you almost topple forward under the unexpected weight.
"You got it?" he laughs, reaching out to steady you.
"I'm fine," you insist, rolling your eyes at your own lack of grace. "Can I...can I ask you something?"
He matches your stride as the two of you start down the hallway.
"Of course," he replies easily. "You don't have to get my permission to ask a question." He's teasing and it would be fine if it didn't feel so forced.
You don't mention this of course.
"Well, the thing is, if I ask you, I need you to keep it to yourself," you begin slowly. "No Meredith. And definitely no Mark."
He stops in the stairwell and sets down his box. You follow suit, grateful that he understands you well enough to know you'd rather carry boxes up flights of steps than go back into that elevator. Derek's always been good with reading people.
"I don't like secrets," he admits blatantly.
You nod. "It's not so much a secret...it's just...they wouldn't understand. They weren't there when Mrs. Clark...when she...when I..."
Derek's hand cups your elbow gently. "Okay," he agrees, reassuring you that he won't tell.
You inhale deeply. "Do you think...does part of you think that we deserved this? That...that it should have been us who...who..."
"Lexie," he interjects sharply.
"No, let me finish." You're determined to get this conversation out while you still have the courage to do so. "I'm not wishing I was dead or anything. That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying, that I...I feel responsible. And I think I should feel responsible, because when you take a life, even if it's better for the patient, you should bear that weight."
You peer up at him from the corner of your eye. He sighs heavily as you blink to keep from crying.
"Of course I feel responsible," he admits slowly. "I want to tell you that you shouldn't, that you were just doing your job, that..." He breaks off quickly, running his hand over his face before continuing. "You're right," he says at last. "If you play a part in killing a patient, you should carry that around with you."
You let go of the breath you've been holding in and nod. "Thank you," you say softly,
"Hey," Meredith interrupts, slipping into the stairwell. She eyes Derek warily. "You shouldn't be lifting this," she insists, holding up a warning finger.
He chuckles lightly.
She ignores him and turns to you. "You guys okay?" she asks.
Derek's eyes fall over yours. His smile's too easy. "Of course we are."
You know she doesn't believe him.
Alex's sense of humor seems to have grown since the incident. You know it's a defense mechanism and you try not to let it get under your skin, but it does.
A car backfires in the parking lot as the two of you are walking into work. You feel your adrenaline skyrocket as you fly down to the ground, heart racing at the sound.
It takes him a second to understand what you're doing and when he does he laughs.
You stare up as he smirks broadly at you, snickering loudly. "It was a car," he emphasizes, overly amused by your terror.
He laughs all the way into the hospital, and you know he doesn't mean it in a vicious way. You know he's coping the only way he knows how, but at that moment, as you're wiping gravel off of your arms and climbing clumsily to your feet, at that moment, you don't care.
"Go to hell," you yell after him and he spins around as if he's been stuck, eyes searching yours quickly for any sign of recognition. There's a second when you think he might apologize and you might listen, but his eyes turn cold and your arm starts searing from the burn of the scraped skin.
"Look, whatever," he mutters rolling his eyes. "It was a joke. Grow up."
You watch him as he walks away, staring fiercely until his silhouette becomes indecipherable.
He doesn't apologize when you get home.
You don't look him in the eye.
Meredith doesn't ask when you storm into Izzie's old room.
"Lexie?"
You jump automatically, papers flying everywhere as you spin around.
Mark resists the urge to laugh. "I'm sorry," he admits genuinely, though he can't contain the smile that creeps across his face.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath before looking back at him.
"It's okay," you insist. "I've just been a bit jumpy since..." You hesitate, bending down to pick up the charts you've scattered. Mark leans forward to help you. "There was this car," you continue. "And it's stupid, so stupid, but it backfired and I just...I thought..."
"Hey," he interrupts, his hand cupping the side of your face. You concentrate on steadying your breathing. "That's not stupid." His thumb slides across your cheek reassuringly.
You roll your eyes to break the moment. "It's kind of stupid," you admit.
He hands you the rest of your charts and you flip through them listlessly. You feel him over your shoulder as you try to reorganize the mess you've made.
"Lex?" he begins softly.
You stare down at the paperwork blindly. "Yeah?" you ask quickly.
"Did something happen? That day...when you went to get the crash cart for Karev?"
It's the first time anybody has asked you this question.
You spin sharply on your heel, charts pressed tightly against your chest. "No. Well, I mean, not really. I just...I ran into Mr. Clark who was ready to shoot me because I'm the one who took his wife off of life support. I mean, his gun was...it was...I was staring right at it and he was going to...he was...but the SWAT team showed up and I was able to...I..." You pause, looking away from him quickly. "Meredith watched Derek get shot. Cristina watched Owen...Reed and Charles they...and Alex..."
"Lex." He reaches out for you, but you back up quickly.
You take this moment to catch your breath. "They were the ones who...who suffered, the ones who.... So, no. Compared to what they went through, nothing happened to me."
Alex tosses you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as you finish your charting in the locker room.
"You gotta eat," he explains as you clutch the sandwich tightly.
"Thanks," you say quickly, the seran wrap crinkling loudly in your hands.
He shrugs and heads for the door.
You stare at the bread vacantly.
It means nothing and everything to you.
You need time; time to process everything, time to figure out what you want, time to decide if you want to spend the rest of your life in the bedroom of Alex's ex-wife.
He gets this, or at least he pretends to, because he doesn't pressure you to figure out what you want. Part of you knows it's because he isn't sure either.
Some nights you join him in the kitchen for a beer and others he ignores you and keeps the tv on much too loudly.
You always sleep in separate bedrooms though.
"You know I love you right?" you ask Mark casually as you follow him to the operating room. You say it lightly and refuse to look him in the eye.
It takes a second. "I don't...I don't understand what..."
He holds open the door for you and you turn on the sink to scrub in. You watch his hands as the water runs over yours, cold and unforgiving.
"It's just that, I was thinking that you're the one person I should have said that to a long time ago." You look up at him quickly now. You can't help it. "I just thought...I mean, if you love someone, you should tell them right?"
He nods after a moment. "R...right."
"Doctor Sloan?" the nurse calls, eyeing him through the glass.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asks slowly, water dripping off of his extended hands.
You raise your hands over the sink and follow him towards the door. "I don't...I don't know. I just, I wanted to tell you and I did. That's as far as I've gotten."
He stares at you for too long.
"Doctor Sloan?" the nurse questions again.
He blinks and your eyes fall away.
"Okay," he says softly.
You nod back. "Okay," you echo.
There's a picture, framed and sitting on the desk of the small office he shares with Derek. Callie tells you he's replaced the picture of his daughter with you.
You find his hand as he pours over paperwork much too late that night.
His fingers grasp yours tightly as you sit down on his lap.
You tell him he doesn't have to choose.
lexie/alex; lexie/mark
spoilers for all aired episodes.
I have about 5,000 other work-in-progress fics dealing with the aftermath, but this one seemed to write itself today. I'm just still sifting through how I feel about the finale, because until I can wrap my head around what happened, I can't really speak for the other characters. Let me just finish by saying the writers are cruel, evil people who have now made it impossible to solely ship Lexie/Alex or Lexie/Mark. No matter what happens, I feel terrible for the other. (And yes, they're cruel for much bigger reasons...I'm just partial to Little Grey.)
There's a dreamlike quality to your world in the wake of the aftermath. Time seems to move irregularly and spontaneously and nothing's really registering with you as real.
Mark brings you lunch from the small café you love downtown. You both pretend this is still second nature. At any rate, you're able to eat.
Still, you hold Alex's hand like a bible, close to your chest and anxiously awaiting some grand moment of realization, where you're flooded with the truth of the past day. They say moments like this define you and alter your life forever. You don't feel so different. Your shaken and bruised and a little rough around the edges, but staring at Alex as machines keep him in a drug induced sleep, you just feel tired.
The nurse offers you a cot but you decline, getting up slowly. Letting go of his hand is like releasing a burden that's been weighing on you all day. You shouldn't feel like this. It isn't right. Maybe you're more changed than you realized.
Mark's sitting in the lobby and you don't ask why because part of you knows you're not ready to hear the answer. Instead you sit down next to him and face him cautiously.
"Meredith?" Your question's small and quiet, but he understands the hidden significance. You don't move when his hand falls to your knee.
"She's fine," he insists. "Derek too."
Relief floods your face, wiping away the guilt of not asking sooner. You feel like you've been here for weeks, but really, it's only been an afternoon.
"I should see them." you say decidedly, looking up at him to confirm. You're not certain why you're still looking to him for approval.
Mark's smile eases you. "It's midnight," he remarks, and he does his best to hide his amusement. "You can see them tomorrow."
You nod, pulling your legs up to your chest as you stare outside at the dark nothingness. Somewhere, in the distance, a patient glares at his cell phone and a woman lights up a cigarette. Seeing these commonplace gestures somehow makes you feel safer. Life seems almost normal again.
It's reassuring.
You let your head fall onto Mark's chest and you don't protest when he strokes your hair gently. You think about that time you broke him and how you slept in that uncomfortable hospital bed all night.
A few rooms away, Alex shifts his weight and sighs lightly, squinting in the darkness, confused.
You're not there to see this.
Your father shows up at Seattle Presbyterian. Your not sure who called him. Meredith maybe, or Mark even, but either way, he's here and he looks good and sober and clean. But he's still your father and you know how well Greys are at keeping secrets hidden away.
Alex is resting peacefully two doors behind you.
You stand near the front desk with a coffee in your hand and your hair pulled up in a messy bun. You need a shower and food, but neither of these seem significant in lieu of what's happened.
"Dad," you manage softly, relief sweeping over you.
He stares at you like a stranger for a minute before recognition hits him. You don't really care, because he's here, and you miss these moments when your family actually acts like family.
You hug him tightly, almost knocking the lid off your coffee as your hands press into his back.
He pulls away first. "Lexie," he says softly. "I just heard...I..."
You shake your head as you look up at him. "It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't call sooner. It's just been crazy and I..."
"Where's your sister?" he asks quickly, scanning the lobby up and down.
Your lips part as you blink back in surprise.
"Meredith," he adds, as if you need further clarification. "Where's Meredith?"
Your coffee cups seems unbearably heavy and drags your arms down past your hips.
"With Derek," you say quickly. "Room 215, I think."
He nods and turns toward the elevator. "Glad you're okay sweetheart."
You stare after him as he goes, eyes wide and glassy. You watch as the light changes from L to 2.
A part of you always guessed he loved her best.
"You're awake," you remark, surprised, as you walk into Alex's room. His expression is pained as he looks up with you.
The tears just come.
"I'm sorry...I should have...I should have been here," you remark sobbing as you walk closer to him. "I was and then I just left for a few minutes and..."
"You're here now," he manages slowly, and you swallow the lump in your throat as you lean over him. Your lips press down against his forehead.
"I'm here now," you agree. Your entire relationship seems to boil down to those three words.
"Bad day?" Alex offers, a slight smirk spreading across his face.
You laugh at his terrible joke with eventually causes you to cry harder. Alex's fingers reach for your hand. You squeeze too tightly.
"You could say that," you answer finally. You fall down into the chair next to him, hand still attached to his. "How do you feel?"
He coughs quietly. "Like I've been hit by a bus."
You wince. He doesn't catch this.
"Well, you got shot," you conclude. "It's only natural."
He nods and shuts his eyes slowly.
"Do you remember anything?" you ask quickly, heart pounding as you wait.
It takes a few minutes, but finally he shakes his head and you feel his fingers start to slide out of yours. "I don't know," he admits groggily and you let his hand fall back to his side.
You stare at him for a few more moments, hand still hanging over the armrest, grasping air.
"You should sleep," you say at last, as if he isn't already a hundred miles away from you.
"Did you see your dad?" Mark asks curiously as he walks outside, joining you on the cement windowsill you're perched on.
You shrug your shoulders lightly. "I guess you could say that," you mutter antagonistically as you look up at him. "I'm sorry," you apologize quickly, regretting your words instantly. "I'm bad company today. I'm just in a weird mood."
He nods and offers a light smile. "Better than Callie and Arizona," he begins. "Running around buying fruit baskets and practically radiating sunshine."
You laugh in spite of your better judgment, smirking back at him. "I got cookies," you tease. "Homemade no less."
There's nothing funny about any of this, but somehow easy banter is keeping you from losing your mind.
Mark's voice turns solemn. "I may have mentioned peanut butter was your favorite," he admits shamelessly.
Lexie nods, smile fading. "Well, thanks. The nurse wouldn't let Alex have any though. I tried to use my surgeon status to veto her, but apparently I don't have any real power here."
Mark chuckles. You dig your fingers into your jeans.
"Your dad's still here you know," Mark begins quickly. "He's was visiting with Derek and Meredith a few minutes ago. You should go up there and be with your family."
You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from crying. It's an old trick your mother wants taught you. Sometimes it works flawlessly and other times you end up with blood in your mouth and tear-stained cheeks.
This time, you manage to win dominion over your emotions.
"I think I'll wait until he leaves," you admit truthfully. "I know it sounds horrible at a time like this, but he didn't seem all that interested in seeing me."
Mark's hand finds yours and you let your fingers intertwine. You sigh softly and dig your nails into his knuckles.
"My mom died," you manage finally, knowing you probably look crazy for stating the obvious. But Mark's patient and he waits while you struggle to find the right words. "My mom died," you repeat, "and I wasn't ready for it. I didn't get to say goodbye. And then George, he-"
You don't finish, because Mark's arms wrap around you and the only think you can think to do is dig deeply into the cloth of his shit as your cheek collides against his chest. He lets you cry without questioning you, the same way he's always done. You're reminded, not for the first time that week, that he knows you, really knows you, in a way you're not sure anyone else ever will. It's comforting.
And terrifying.
You pull away too soon, choking on air as you inhale deeply, trying desperately to compose yourself. You can feel the weight of his eyes on you, but you stare down dumbly at your shoes, allowing the rhythm of your legs swinging back and forth to calm you down.
You try again.
"I didn't get to say goodbye and..."
"Lex, you don't have to explain," he insists quietly. He looks like he might wrap his arm around you, but he hesitates and then the moment's lost.
You sigh. "I want to," you insist. "If anyone needs to hear this, it's you."
His eyes meet yours and you continue.
"I told Alex I loved him," you recall out loud for the first time. "He doesn't remember, and that's probably for the best, because I don't. I mean, I do, part of me does, or at least I think part of me does, but..." You sigh again, frustrated as you trip over your words. "I thought he was going to die and I was terrified. He was going to die and Izzie wasn't there and I was all he had. I've been the only person in his life for the past few months, and I don't know, I just said it and it felt right at the time."
Mark's quiet as you finish, his eyes falling downward.
"I needed to tell you, because if I heard you say that to someone else, I...I would have been crushed."
The rain starts lightly, bouncing off the canopy over your head as water begins to fill the parking lot. This is the part where one of you is supposed to say, "I really should be going now."
But neither of you does.
The night Alex comes home is too quiet. He's fed up with being confined to bed rest and you're too exhausted to argue with him. You watch a movie and share a glass of wine, though for some reason, your dubious of his drinking alcohol so soon after his injury.
There's a series of funerals in the morning and a black dress that you're beginning to fear is jinxed. You make a mental note to wear slacks and a blouse instead.
The house is eerie without Meredith and Derek, just the two of you, and you've never really had time to learn how to be alone together. The movie ends and the silence is more uncomfortable than before, though Alex doesn't seem to notice much.
He mentions how he's itching to get back to work, back to surgery. You bite your tongue and don't tell him how terrified you are of walking back inside.
He tells you a funny story about Reed and insists that she "wasn't that bad" and that no one deserves to die that way. You agree as you sip your wine quietly.
"You didn't run into him, did you?" Alex asks curiously, his hand on your thigh. You shift your weight and look up at him quixotically. "The shooter?"
Mr. Clark, you mentally correct. You shake your head. "No."
He nods and squeezes your leg before turning the tv back on.
You pour yourself another glass.
"Alex," you begin slowly, eyeing him as he flips through various channels.
"Hmm?" he asks, half paying attention.
You take your time, forcing him to turn back to face you. He looks nervous.
"She called," you say, and your voice is a foreign sound that you don't recognize. "Izzy. In case you were wondering or...wanted to call her back."
He stares from you to the phone on the wall, then back at you again.
"Why would I care?" he asks lazily, turning back to the flat screen.
You clench the glass in your hands tightly. You're not sure why either one of you keeps lying to each other. You just know it's become habit.
"I don't know," you say softly, but your voice doesn't carry and he doesn't look back at you.
You're probably a terrible person for showing up at Joe's instead of the funeral.
It's early, eleven a.m. and you didn't even know bars were open at this time of day. Alex opted not to go and you forgot about your jinxed dress, and now you're stuck in the middle of the day at a local bar, donning the dress your wore to your mother's funeral.
You feel like a low class hooker. You wait for it, but Meredith's joke never comes. You remind yourself she's with her boyfriend...no, husband, where she belongs. You can't seem to figure out where the hell you should be, because you just keep making up excuses to leave wherever you are at the time.
Joe doesn't judge you, just hands you a beer and walks away. Your head falls to the counter as you stroke the mouth of the bottle, wanting to wake up from this nightmare.
"You hate that dress."
Your eyes squeeze tight, holding back tears as Mark walks over to you. After a few seconds, you blink, then lift your head up to look at him.
"I wasn't supposed to be wearing it," you explain quickly. "I was supposed to wear pants and a jacket, but I forgot and I was halfway there before I realized..."
He cuts you off with a brief smile.
"I'm a shitty person," you say lightly.
Mark chuckles. "No you're not."
"I'm at a bar instead of a funeral," you clarify.
Mark pauses. "So am I."
You cling tightly to your beer. "I go back tomorrow," you says listlessly, because you miss this, having a best friend to tell everything to. You're only recently beginning to realize how much.
His lips break free of his scotch glass as he turns back to you. "Are you sure that's a good idea?"
You want to tell him that you have to go back, that less adjusted people have already returned and Alex, Alex who was shot is dying to get back to work, and all you can think of is all of that blood.
"I have to go back some time," you finally settle on. "Seems as good a time as any."
Mark lets you win this round. He doesn't pry.
"It's not as bad as you might think," he begins slowly. "I thought it would be but...it's very normal."
"That's weird," you comment, lowering your beer bottle. "To be honest, I'm not sure I can ever use the elevator again."
He doesn't laugh because you aren't joking.
His empty glass echoes on the bar counter as he slides off the stool.
"Mark?"
He hesitates. You can feel the wool of his blazer against your shoulder. You spin around to face him.
"I can't stop thinking about what you said. That night...before..." Your eyes dodge his as you play with the label on the bottle, picking and peeling it anxiously. "I can't stop thinking about it, but the thing is, I can't think about it right now. Does that make any sense?"
He says yes but you hear no.
Meredith clings to you on her first day back. It's strange, you think, to see her so small and fragile. She's your big sister. You've never thought of her as vulnerable before.
There are rounds and charts and interns and patients with predictably boring diagnoses. Mark's right, you think, that it's too normal. It's as if nothing horrific ever happened here.
You find your sister sobbing in an on-call room later that day, fists clenched as she tries stubbornly to repress what she's going through. You don't think, you just sit, and soon, you're lying down next to her, petting her hair as she cries.
You know better than to ask her what's wrong.
Later, hours later, in the dark of the room, she squeezes your hand.
"Lexie?"
She sounds younger than you remember. You shift your weight onto your elbow and turn to face her.
"Hey," you begin softly. Her hands still entwined in yours. You don't mention this.
"You were going to be an aunt," she says, voice monotone. There are no more tears left for crying. You understand the feeling.
"An aunt..." you begin slowly, trying to piece together the meaning behind the sentence. Your lips part automatically as the truth settles in and you feel your fingers press harder against hers.
"I had just found out," she says sadly, eyes focused straight ahead on the ceiling.
Your face softens, but you look away, allowing her the pseudo privacy she's always craved. You let the lull of sleep beckon the both of you before the thought occurs.
"Mer," you say, half-awake. "You would have made a great mother."
You watch her squeeze her eyes shut tight.
You shoot up in bed, heart racing as you force your eyes to quickly adjust to the darkness around you. The banging noise continues, growing louder and louder, reminding you of when you used to live at home and your father would tear the house apart, searching for the alcohol he swore you were hiding.
Memories fall away as you hop to your feet, pulling one of Alex's tee shirts over your naked body. You slip on a pair of shorts and open the door slowly.
Alex is in the kitchen, broken bottles strewn across the floor. Your jaw tightens as you watch him try to figure out what's going on and your lower lip trembles when he spots you.
"I couldn't find the whiskey," he says simply, eyes wide as he stares at the mess he's made without recognition.
You do your best not to cry. You remember reading about post-traumatic stress disorder. You will not associate him with your father. You will not allow yourself to connect the dots.
Alex looks angry and confused all at once. You wince as you hear footsteps padding down the steps. Derek turns to you quickly and you silence him with one look.
"He couldn't find something," you say quickly, warning him to keep quiet.
Derek pauses, taking in the scene as you begin collecting broken bottles and glasses. You place any surviving plastic plates and cups in the sink while Alex stands there, still gaping at the floor beneath him.
You feel Derek's hand on your shoulder. "Lex," he warns, concerned.
"I got this," you insist firmly, and there's something about the tone of your voice that even convinces you that you can handle this.
You hear Derek go back upstairs and you thank god that Meredith's still at work.
"There was so much blood," he says at last, looking up at you as if you have all the answers.
Your strong facade crumbles as you sit down next to him, pressing his face into your chest as you massage the back of his head.
"I know," you say over and over again. "I'm so sorry."
He never does ask you why.
Derek's cleaning out his office. His decision to step down as chief hadn't been as much as a surprise as he expected.
"Hey," he remarks, smiling warmly as you slip inside. "Can you help me with these?" he asks, pointing to a box of books.
"Oh, uh, sure," you remark, leaning forward to scoop them up. They're heavier than you expect and you almost topple forward under the unexpected weight.
"You got it?" he laughs, reaching out to steady you.
"I'm fine," you insist, rolling your eyes at your own lack of grace. "Can I...can I ask you something?"
He matches your stride as the two of you start down the hallway.
"Of course," he replies easily. "You don't have to get my permission to ask a question." He's teasing and it would be fine if it didn't feel so forced.
You don't mention this of course.
"Well, the thing is, if I ask you, I need you to keep it to yourself," you begin slowly. "No Meredith. And definitely no Mark."
He stops in the stairwell and sets down his box. You follow suit, grateful that he understands you well enough to know you'd rather carry boxes up flights of steps than go back into that elevator. Derek's always been good with reading people.
"I don't like secrets," he admits blatantly.
You nod. "It's not so much a secret...it's just...they wouldn't understand. They weren't there when Mrs. Clark...when she...when I..."
Derek's hand cups your elbow gently. "Okay," he agrees, reassuring you that he won't tell.
You inhale deeply. "Do you think...does part of you think that we deserved this? That...that it should have been us who...who..."
"Lexie," he interjects sharply.
"No, let me finish." You're determined to get this conversation out while you still have the courage to do so. "I'm not wishing I was dead or anything. That's not what I'm saying. I'm just saying, that I...I feel responsible. And I think I should feel responsible, because when you take a life, even if it's better for the patient, you should bear that weight."
You peer up at him from the corner of your eye. He sighs heavily as you blink to keep from crying.
"Of course I feel responsible," he admits slowly. "I want to tell you that you shouldn't, that you were just doing your job, that..." He breaks off quickly, running his hand over his face before continuing. "You're right," he says at last. "If you play a part in killing a patient, you should carry that around with you."
You let go of the breath you've been holding in and nod. "Thank you," you say softly,
"Hey," Meredith interrupts, slipping into the stairwell. She eyes Derek warily. "You shouldn't be lifting this," she insists, holding up a warning finger.
He chuckles lightly.
She ignores him and turns to you. "You guys okay?" she asks.
Derek's eyes fall over yours. His smile's too easy. "Of course we are."
You know she doesn't believe him.
Alex's sense of humor seems to have grown since the incident. You know it's a defense mechanism and you try not to let it get under your skin, but it does.
A car backfires in the parking lot as the two of you are walking into work. You feel your adrenaline skyrocket as you fly down to the ground, heart racing at the sound.
It takes him a second to understand what you're doing and when he does he laughs.
You stare up as he smirks broadly at you, snickering loudly. "It was a car," he emphasizes, overly amused by your terror.
He laughs all the way into the hospital, and you know he doesn't mean it in a vicious way. You know he's coping the only way he knows how, but at that moment, as you're wiping gravel off of your arms and climbing clumsily to your feet, at that moment, you don't care.
"Go to hell," you yell after him and he spins around as if he's been stuck, eyes searching yours quickly for any sign of recognition. There's a second when you think he might apologize and you might listen, but his eyes turn cold and your arm starts searing from the burn of the scraped skin.
"Look, whatever," he mutters rolling his eyes. "It was a joke. Grow up."
You watch him as he walks away, staring fiercely until his silhouette becomes indecipherable.
He doesn't apologize when you get home.
You don't look him in the eye.
Meredith doesn't ask when you storm into Izzie's old room.
"Lexie?"
You jump automatically, papers flying everywhere as you spin around.
Mark resists the urge to laugh. "I'm sorry," he admits genuinely, though he can't contain the smile that creeps across his face.
You close your eyes and take a deep breath before looking back at him.
"It's okay," you insist. "I've just been a bit jumpy since..." You hesitate, bending down to pick up the charts you've scattered. Mark leans forward to help you. "There was this car," you continue. "And it's stupid, so stupid, but it backfired and I just...I thought..."
"Hey," he interrupts, his hand cupping the side of your face. You concentrate on steadying your breathing. "That's not stupid." His thumb slides across your cheek reassuringly.
You roll your eyes to break the moment. "It's kind of stupid," you admit.
He hands you the rest of your charts and you flip through them listlessly. You feel him over your shoulder as you try to reorganize the mess you've made.
"Lex?" he begins softly.
You stare down at the paperwork blindly. "Yeah?" you ask quickly.
"Did something happen? That day...when you went to get the crash cart for Karev?"
It's the first time anybody has asked you this question.
You spin sharply on your heel, charts pressed tightly against your chest. "No. Well, I mean, not really. I just...I ran into Mr. Clark who was ready to shoot me because I'm the one who took his wife off of life support. I mean, his gun was...it was...I was staring right at it and he was going to...he was...but the SWAT team showed up and I was able to...I..." You pause, looking away from him quickly. "Meredith watched Derek get shot. Cristina watched Owen...Reed and Charles they...and Alex..."
"Lex." He reaches out for you, but you back up quickly.
You take this moment to catch your breath. "They were the ones who...who suffered, the ones who.... So, no. Compared to what they went through, nothing happened to me."
Alex tosses you a peanut butter and jelly sandwich as you finish your charting in the locker room.
"You gotta eat," he explains as you clutch the sandwich tightly.
"Thanks," you say quickly, the seran wrap crinkling loudly in your hands.
He shrugs and heads for the door.
You stare at the bread vacantly.
It means nothing and everything to you.
You need time; time to process everything, time to figure out what you want, time to decide if you want to spend the rest of your life in the bedroom of Alex's ex-wife.
He gets this, or at least he pretends to, because he doesn't pressure you to figure out what you want. Part of you knows it's because he isn't sure either.
Some nights you join him in the kitchen for a beer and others he ignores you and keeps the tv on much too loudly.
You always sleep in separate bedrooms though.
"You know I love you right?" you ask Mark casually as you follow him to the operating room. You say it lightly and refuse to look him in the eye.
It takes a second. "I don't...I don't understand what..."
He holds open the door for you and you turn on the sink to scrub in. You watch his hands as the water runs over yours, cold and unforgiving.
"It's just that, I was thinking that you're the one person I should have said that to a long time ago." You look up at him quickly now. You can't help it. "I just thought...I mean, if you love someone, you should tell them right?"
He nods after a moment. "R...right."
"Doctor Sloan?" the nurse calls, eyeing him through the glass.
"Why are you telling me this now?" he asks slowly, water dripping off of his extended hands.
You raise your hands over the sink and follow him towards the door. "I don't...I don't know. I just, I wanted to tell you and I did. That's as far as I've gotten."
He stares at you for too long.
"Doctor Sloan?" the nurse questions again.
He blinks and your eyes fall away.
"Okay," he says softly.
You nod back. "Okay," you echo.
There's a picture, framed and sitting on the desk of the small office he shares with Derek. Callie tells you he's replaced the picture of his daughter with you.
You find his hand as he pours over paperwork much too late that night.
His fingers grasp yours tightly as you sit down on his lap.
You tell him he doesn't have to choose.