(no subject)
Title: Through The Alter Ego Justifications
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For hopelessly_lazy , Carolyn Shepherd's funeral serves as grounds for a reunion.
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Through The Alter Ego Justifications
- The Seven Mile Journey
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It's not like you expected to see one another there. But then, you suppose, Mark has always been more of a son to Mrs. Shepherd than to his own mother. And you, well you don't have an excuse.
You were in New York anyway, for a special patient, when Nancy called out of the blue. She thought you were thousands of miles away, but for her (and for Derek, though he likely won't even get around to saying hello) you made an appearance anyway.
And while you'd never rejoice at the death of woman who screwed with your head (and your marriage) a hell of a lot more than you'd admit, this all feels rather surreal and painless. Everyone around you seems to be stifling tears or sniffling, and you're thinking about the surgery you need to perform tomorrow morning. That is, until the familiar scent of Mark Sloan creeps under your nose and you turn to see his red-rimmed eyes fixed on the pew in front of him.
Derek is several rows up, flocked by Meredith and sisters and more nieces and nephews than one can ever properly keep track of. Reasonably, you had thought Mark would be somewhere in the mix. But now he's here, next to you. Now there's a bit of a tingle in your chest, a quick flash of heat through your cheeks.
He grabs your hand somewhere mid-eulogy #73,649 without asking, and you squeeze back without much input from your brain as to whether or not that's appropriate, given that you're not exactly on or off the market, and Mark is, well, he's Mark. It's never led to anything substantial or good.
You've forgotten to keep track of whose fault it is this week, that nothing was ever made of the two of you.
“Mark,” you whisper, keeping a weary glare on the older couple wedged in next to you. And you're ten seconds from elbowing him, dying to escape for a cup of coffee, preferably with company, when you catch him gulping and then digging the heel of his palm into his aforementioned bothered eyes.
This, obviously, isn't as painless as you were judging it to be.
Three more speakers pass by, one of them Kathleen, and then you find yourself crumbling. You're holding Mark's hand tighter than he is reciprocating and the woman next to you is willingly sharing her tissues. You don't do this, this isn't remotely close to how you conduct yourself in a public setting, but sitting in the warm church air among all of the broken souls has burdened your impenetrable exterior.
The last several years of questionable happiness are battling with your shoulders for survival. And, though it absolutely should be, it isn't about the late Carolyn Shepherd. It's somewhere between watching a man who you never wished ill suffer, and the combination of struggles in your own life that has you whimpering like a small child.
He pulls you to his shoulder almost immediately, and then something inside of you snaps, shuts down. Your eyes dry within a matter of seconds, your throat relaxes, the pressure in your chest dissipates without full relief.
...
“Coffee?” Mark asks softly, watching people filter out of the damp, steamy aisles.
“I...shouldn't,” you decide on the spot. “I have an early surgery, a long day.”
“Addison-”
“I need to go,” you lie, prying your hand from his, praying that everyone is too swept up in their own business to see you swaying awkwardly from side to side. Your surgery is at noon, you aren't flying home until Thursday. But you can't do this dance with him, you don't think you'll survive another round of Mark Sloan, especially when he's genuine and open. You don't need the hassle, you hate that you think of what was once such a wonderful friend as a pain you need to bolt away from.
This week it's your fault. Maybe it always was.
…
When he doesn't stop by your hotel that night, when he doesn't call, you almost worry. It was always one of your favorite things about him, pushing back when you said no, showing up when you most definitely wanted to be alone.
He was everywhere, all of the time. It was both infuriating and infatuating.
But there's no tug-o-war here tonight, only a solo glass of red wine, two fresh socks, and one recently sanitized television remote. And maybe growth, you'd like to think.
Toasting the air, wine wobbling back and forth within its confines, you smile. “To growth.”
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: For hopelessly_lazy , Carolyn Shepherd's funeral serves as grounds for a reunion.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Through The Alter Ego Justifications
- The Seven Mile Journey
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
It's not like you expected to see one another there. But then, you suppose, Mark has always been more of a son to Mrs. Shepherd than to his own mother. And you, well you don't have an excuse.
You were in New York anyway, for a special patient, when Nancy called out of the blue. She thought you were thousands of miles away, but for her (and for Derek, though he likely won't even get around to saying hello) you made an appearance anyway.
And while you'd never rejoice at the death of woman who screwed with your head (and your marriage) a hell of a lot more than you'd admit, this all feels rather surreal and painless. Everyone around you seems to be stifling tears or sniffling, and you're thinking about the surgery you need to perform tomorrow morning. That is, until the familiar scent of Mark Sloan creeps under your nose and you turn to see his red-rimmed eyes fixed on the pew in front of him.
Derek is several rows up, flocked by Meredith and sisters and more nieces and nephews than one can ever properly keep track of. Reasonably, you had thought Mark would be somewhere in the mix. But now he's here, next to you. Now there's a bit of a tingle in your chest, a quick flash of heat through your cheeks.
He grabs your hand somewhere mid-eulogy #73,649 without asking, and you squeeze back without much input from your brain as to whether or not that's appropriate, given that you're not exactly on or off the market, and Mark is, well, he's Mark. It's never led to anything substantial or good.
You've forgotten to keep track of whose fault it is this week, that nothing was ever made of the two of you.
“Mark,” you whisper, keeping a weary glare on the older couple wedged in next to you. And you're ten seconds from elbowing him, dying to escape for a cup of coffee, preferably with company, when you catch him gulping and then digging the heel of his palm into his aforementioned bothered eyes.
This, obviously, isn't as painless as you were judging it to be.
Three more speakers pass by, one of them Kathleen, and then you find yourself crumbling. You're holding Mark's hand tighter than he is reciprocating and the woman next to you is willingly sharing her tissues. You don't do this, this isn't remotely close to how you conduct yourself in a public setting, but sitting in the warm church air among all of the broken souls has burdened your impenetrable exterior.
The last several years of questionable happiness are battling with your shoulders for survival. And, though it absolutely should be, it isn't about the late Carolyn Shepherd. It's somewhere between watching a man who you never wished ill suffer, and the combination of struggles in your own life that has you whimpering like a small child.
He pulls you to his shoulder almost immediately, and then something inside of you snaps, shuts down. Your eyes dry within a matter of seconds, your throat relaxes, the pressure in your chest dissipates without full relief.
...
“Coffee?” Mark asks softly, watching people filter out of the damp, steamy aisles.
“I...shouldn't,” you decide on the spot. “I have an early surgery, a long day.”
“Addison-”
“I need to go,” you lie, prying your hand from his, praying that everyone is too swept up in their own business to see you swaying awkwardly from side to side. Your surgery is at noon, you aren't flying home until Thursday. But you can't do this dance with him, you don't think you'll survive another round of Mark Sloan, especially when he's genuine and open. You don't need the hassle, you hate that you think of what was once such a wonderful friend as a pain you need to bolt away from.
This week it's your fault. Maybe it always was.
…
When he doesn't stop by your hotel that night, when he doesn't call, you almost worry. It was always one of your favorite things about him, pushing back when you said no, showing up when you most definitely wanted to be alone.
He was everywhere, all of the time. It was both infuriating and infatuating.
But there's no tug-o-war here tonight, only a solo glass of red wine, two fresh socks, and one recently sanitized television remote. And maybe growth, you'd like to think.
Toasting the air, wine wobbling back and forth within its confines, you smile. “To growth.”
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