Fic: This here place is too small for two
Title: This here place is too small for two
Summary: This is the place Alex finds his way to after running away from Seattle Grace Mercy Death. Post 9x01. Written for waltzmatildah's prompt "Mark/Alex/Lexie | This here city is for the lonely ones" at the Mark Sloan Comment Fic-a-thon.
Pairing: Mark/Alex/Lexie
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's note: Title taken from The Temper Trap, Trembling Hands
The finality of Mark Sloan's death caught up with them before they'd even finished their second drink.
Mere cradled her bff under her arm and hurried home to the best friend. Just as he should've probably gone home to the protégé. But he figured that once the scotch to Sloan's memory started flowing, with his luck, Avery would start bawling. And he could barely do this with Torres.
Moreover, taking off in time to dodge the vigil, in the first place, was the most caring action he has taken for himself in a long time. There was no place for him there. Even if he hadn't fucked up with Robbins. Not like there would have been for her.
And so his feet set up their own route across this city that feels so madly disconnected, these days.
The least he can do. For certainly noone else has told her yet. And he owes her.
If only he had gotten his ass on that fucking plane. Some save lives, some just fuck up.
It's pitch-black when he climbs over the fence, and a hostile gust of wind tears at his hair. Not too cold. So when he arrives, he just squats down and pauses for a while.
His silence would have driven her into a frenzy. All the randomness floating through her freaky brain would have come gushing out, to be sank by one-word-replies here and there. Careful to never actually try and make it work.
Some animal is busy rustling through the fallen leaves nearby. It's getting colder.
'What's wrong with you?' she would snap eventually, and he would kiss her, and she would kiss him back, for as much as she's a nice girl, she also knew how to play this game. Way too convincing for her own good. Sweet little Lexie Grey. Crazy, smartass, hot, and taken. In love with Sloan from day one, too.
He'd give anything to wake up to her watching over his sleep again. He'd give anything to stop wondering what could have been.
He crouches further into himself against the empty rumbling of the wind.
A few weeks ago, she'd thanked him for showing her the preemies that lived. Helped with delivering the bad news to a hopeless cause. And yeah, his baby lives. So what is he waiting for? Some live, some die, same story everyday.
‟Sloan's gone now, too,“ he says to the shadow of the headstone.
And he would say he's sorry if it were true. But sorry... he's not sorry that these two are gone.
Some cope well, some don't.
He fights back the foolish stuff that is fighting to get out, just in case. He wants no pity. It's bad enough that he's that close to hoping there's an afterlife. As if he'd have a chance in hell.
So once he trusts his voice again, he only adds, ‟He'll find you.“
And why wouldn't he give in to the urge to laugh at the absurdity? Look how he managed to say something nice, just to prove some people wrong.
She was a nice girl. 'There isn't only one soulmate for everyone,' she said when she found out. It wasn't her that had turned away.
And as much as he still hates him... he'd never felt safer than waking up in his arms.
The black squalls try to wrestle him to the ground, and yet he stays. He'll stay with her until she's gotten over the first shock. He'll listen to her until the ringing in his ears ceases.
And as he squeezes his eyes shut against the first drops of rain, there's their voices, faint between stormy surges and hasty dripping, banter and laughter intertwining in the distance. In his ears, his head, whatever. Two of a kind.
His hands are trembling. He shoves them into his pockets, rather than over his ears.
Whatever.
He's going to find out whether they'll let him find them, too. In the end.
Summary: This is the place Alex finds his way to after running away from Seattle Grace Mercy Death. Post 9x01. Written for waltzmatildah's prompt "Mark/Alex/Lexie | This here city is for the lonely ones" at the Mark Sloan Comment Fic-a-thon.
Pairing: Mark/Alex/Lexie
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.
Author's note: Title taken from The Temper Trap, Trembling Hands
The finality of Mark Sloan's death caught up with them before they'd even finished their second drink.
Mere cradled her bff under her arm and hurried home to the best friend. Just as he should've probably gone home to the protégé. But he figured that once the scotch to Sloan's memory started flowing, with his luck, Avery would start bawling. And he could barely do this with Torres.
Moreover, taking off in time to dodge the vigil, in the first place, was the most caring action he has taken for himself in a long time. There was no place for him there. Even if he hadn't fucked up with Robbins. Not like there would have been for her.
And so his feet set up their own route across this city that feels so madly disconnected, these days.
The least he can do. For certainly noone else has told her yet. And he owes her.
If only he had gotten his ass on that fucking plane. Some save lives, some just fuck up.
It's pitch-black when he climbs over the fence, and a hostile gust of wind tears at his hair. Not too cold. So when he arrives, he just squats down and pauses for a while.
His silence would have driven her into a frenzy. All the randomness floating through her freaky brain would have come gushing out, to be sank by one-word-replies here and there. Careful to never actually try and make it work.
Some animal is busy rustling through the fallen leaves nearby. It's getting colder.
'What's wrong with you?' she would snap eventually, and he would kiss her, and she would kiss him back, for as much as she's a nice girl, she also knew how to play this game. Way too convincing for her own good. Sweet little Lexie Grey. Crazy, smartass, hot, and taken. In love with Sloan from day one, too.
He'd give anything to wake up to her watching over his sleep again. He'd give anything to stop wondering what could have been.
He crouches further into himself against the empty rumbling of the wind.
A few weeks ago, she'd thanked him for showing her the preemies that lived. Helped with delivering the bad news to a hopeless cause. And yeah, his baby lives. So what is he waiting for? Some live, some die, same story everyday.
‟Sloan's gone now, too,“ he says to the shadow of the headstone.
And he would say he's sorry if it were true. But sorry... he's not sorry that these two are gone.
Some cope well, some don't.
He fights back the foolish stuff that is fighting to get out, just in case. He wants no pity. It's bad enough that he's that close to hoping there's an afterlife. As if he'd have a chance in hell.
So once he trusts his voice again, he only adds, ‟He'll find you.“
And why wouldn't he give in to the urge to laugh at the absurdity? Look how he managed to say something nice, just to prove some people wrong.
She was a nice girl. 'There isn't only one soulmate for everyone,' she said when she found out. It wasn't her that had turned away.
And as much as he still hates him... he'd never felt safer than waking up in his arms.
The black squalls try to wrestle him to the ground, and yet he stays. He'll stay with her until she's gotten over the first shock. He'll listen to her until the ringing in his ears ceases.
And as he squeezes his eyes shut against the first drops of rain, there's their voices, faint between stormy surges and hasty dripping, banter and laughter intertwining in the distance. In his ears, his head, whatever. Two of a kind.
His hands are trembling. He shoves them into his pockets, rather than over his ears.
Whatever.
He's going to find out whether they'll let him find them, too. In the end.