This Is the Last Time
Title: This Is the Last Time (1/1)
Characters: Mark, Callie
Word count: 1130
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A follow-up to episode 5.05. Mark decides he's had enough.
A/N: the title is taken from the Keane song of the same name. Thank you to escapismrocks for the read-through and the reassurance.
- - - - -
Callie finds you at the OR board, where you’re drinking coffee and staring into space, trying to convince yourself that there’s something significant and medical going on in your head, not just the aftermath of yesterday’s surreal sex tutorial.
“Good morning.” She’s smirking: a little, dirty, pleased with herself smirk. It wasn’t so long ago that you loved that smirk and the invitation it promised. Now it leaves you feeling empty. You assume it signifies that going down on Erica went down well, and today will be just a little less depressing if you can avoid hearing the details or giving any more pointers.
“No,” you say firmly and fix your gaze on the board.
“No?” It’s not necessary to see her face to know what kind of expression she’s wearing. It’s evident from the bemused quality of her voice.
“No. Whatever it is you want, I’m not doing it.” You glance at her with narrowed, but hopeful, pathetically hopeful, eyes. “Unless it’s something surgical.”
“Huh?” Now you have to look at the bemusement as well as hear it.
“I’m the Head of Plastics,” you assert defensively. “I’m an ENT. I’m a double board-certified surgeon and I’m at work. If you want a consult, or an opinion or advice about something surgical, I’m all yours. Anything else, you’re on your own.”
She just laughs.
“Did I say something funny?”
She shrugs. “Well, yeah. Kinda. I mean, when did I ever ask your advice about anything surgical?”
You look down, vaguely hoping that when you look up again she won’t be there and the whole thing will just be a symptom of the self-doubt that seems to be creeping up on you more and more each day. But when you raise your eyes, she’s still there, and still smirking, if anything more than before.
“Thank you for that,” you say, intending sarcasm, but a little emotion escapes so you give into it. “Thank you for making my day just a little bit worse.”
You turn to walk away. You’re losing it now and you don’t want to reveal that. Because you know for a fact that you’ll end up looking like an idiot and that she won’t give it a second’s thought.
But she stops you.
“What the hell is with you?” she asks.
“Nothing,” you snap.
“Aw, come on, Mark,” she cajoles. “You can tell me.”
That does it. You stop dead and round on her, the abrupt movement causing a little coffee to splash out of your cup.
“Except that’s not how it goes with us, is it?” Because the one time you asked for a little reciprocation she called you useless and flounced off in disgust.
“What’s not how what goes?” She’s baffled.
You’re so used to considering this woman your friend that her confusion tempts you to think that she’s just unaware; that she simply hasn’t noticed the imbalance of whatever it is that goes on between you - because, if you’re honest, you only noticed once the orgasms started to dwindle and the requests for advice and an ear to bend increased. So you give her the benefit of the doubt and bare a little piece of your soul.
“You say we’re friends, but you don’t give a crap about me. Everything’s always about you.”
As you wait for her response, you can feel your face assuming a slight pout. You’re not proud of this. It’s unmanly and un-attending-like. But, as ridiculous as it is, it shows exactly how you feel.
Callie’s eyes widen and she stares at you and for a moment you think she might have understood. Then she purses her lips a little, trying to keep them closed and a smile starts up in her eyes and finally she can’t keep a lid on it any longer and the laughter bursts out.
You nod dryly and retract the small part of yourself that put itself out there. This, this right here, is why it’s easier and less painful to spend your time acting like an ass.
“Once again, Dr. Torres,” you murmur bitterly, as you turn your back on her again, “thank you.”
The laughter fades as you walk away, replaced by the faint swishing of her scrubs as she trots behind you and pulls at your arm.
“What now?”
“You’re serious,” she says, searching your face to see if she can find something there to hang comprehension on.
“More than you know.”
She licks her lips, nervous and uncomfortable. “You’re my friend. You know that. I even told Erica, even though she kind of hates you, that you’re,” she shrugs, “you know, the person I talk to.”
That gets to you a little, and stupidly you find yourself briefly lulled into smiling at her. But it’s pathetic. She overlooks you. She uses you. She compounds the confused agonizing your life has dissolved into since you arrived in Seattle. She said it herself. You’re the person she talks to, but it doesn’t work the other way around.
Things have to change. Right now. You’ve talked enough about the new leaf; it’s time you put it into action.
“I’m your sex toy. You use me to get off. That’s all. You don’t talk to me, you talk at me. About things I don’t want to talk about. About things you ought not to want to tell me. And you need to work out your problems with Erica with Erica, not with me.”
“But you -” You know she’s going to bring up the euphemistically named Sloan Method. You don’t want to hear it and you cut her off.
“Yeah, I did. My dick and a misplaced sense of being there make - made - me do a lot of fucked up things. But I’m done.” You glance down. It’s awkward, unnatural being harsh towards her, but she’s not going to get it unless you spell it out. “I’m done. I’m not your girlfriend and, as of now, I’m resigning from my position as your tame whore.”
Her mouth falls open.
“I’m sure you have patients waiting for you, Dr. Torres,” you say coolly as you walk away, leaving her staring after you.
That’s how it’s done. You’re an attending; she’s a resident; the rest is history.
Well, except there’s a part of you that tells you you’re going to regret this; that you’ll probably end up apologizing and buying her a drink and talking shit about water under the bridge and other platitudes that the sentimental side of you will even mean a little. But for now, you said what you wanted to say, what needed to be said, and a smile works its way onto your face. It’s been a while since you were true to yourself and you’d forgotten how damn good it feels.
Characters: Mark, Callie
Word count: 1130
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A follow-up to episode 5.05. Mark decides he's had enough.
A/N: the title is taken from the Keane song of the same name. Thank you to escapismrocks for the read-through and the reassurance.
- - - - -
Callie finds you at the OR board, where you’re drinking coffee and staring into space, trying to convince yourself that there’s something significant and medical going on in your head, not just the aftermath of yesterday’s surreal sex tutorial.
“Good morning.” She’s smirking: a little, dirty, pleased with herself smirk. It wasn’t so long ago that you loved that smirk and the invitation it promised. Now it leaves you feeling empty. You assume it signifies that going down on Erica went down well, and today will be just a little less depressing if you can avoid hearing the details or giving any more pointers.
“No,” you say firmly and fix your gaze on the board.
“No?” It’s not necessary to see her face to know what kind of expression she’s wearing. It’s evident from the bemused quality of her voice.
“No. Whatever it is you want, I’m not doing it.” You glance at her with narrowed, but hopeful, pathetically hopeful, eyes. “Unless it’s something surgical.”
“Huh?” Now you have to look at the bemusement as well as hear it.
“I’m the Head of Plastics,” you assert defensively. “I’m an ENT. I’m a double board-certified surgeon and I’m at work. If you want a consult, or an opinion or advice about something surgical, I’m all yours. Anything else, you’re on your own.”
She just laughs.
“Did I say something funny?”
She shrugs. “Well, yeah. Kinda. I mean, when did I ever ask your advice about anything surgical?”
You look down, vaguely hoping that when you look up again she won’t be there and the whole thing will just be a symptom of the self-doubt that seems to be creeping up on you more and more each day. But when you raise your eyes, she’s still there, and still smirking, if anything more than before.
“Thank you for that,” you say, intending sarcasm, but a little emotion escapes so you give into it. “Thank you for making my day just a little bit worse.”
You turn to walk away. You’re losing it now and you don’t want to reveal that. Because you know for a fact that you’ll end up looking like an idiot and that she won’t give it a second’s thought.
But she stops you.
“What the hell is with you?” she asks.
“Nothing,” you snap.
“Aw, come on, Mark,” she cajoles. “You can tell me.”
That does it. You stop dead and round on her, the abrupt movement causing a little coffee to splash out of your cup.
“Except that’s not how it goes with us, is it?” Because the one time you asked for a little reciprocation she called you useless and flounced off in disgust.
“What’s not how what goes?” She’s baffled.
You’re so used to considering this woman your friend that her confusion tempts you to think that she’s just unaware; that she simply hasn’t noticed the imbalance of whatever it is that goes on between you - because, if you’re honest, you only noticed once the orgasms started to dwindle and the requests for advice and an ear to bend increased. So you give her the benefit of the doubt and bare a little piece of your soul.
“You say we’re friends, but you don’t give a crap about me. Everything’s always about you.”
As you wait for her response, you can feel your face assuming a slight pout. You’re not proud of this. It’s unmanly and un-attending-like. But, as ridiculous as it is, it shows exactly how you feel.
Callie’s eyes widen and she stares at you and for a moment you think she might have understood. Then she purses her lips a little, trying to keep them closed and a smile starts up in her eyes and finally she can’t keep a lid on it any longer and the laughter bursts out.
You nod dryly and retract the small part of yourself that put itself out there. This, this right here, is why it’s easier and less painful to spend your time acting like an ass.
“Once again, Dr. Torres,” you murmur bitterly, as you turn your back on her again, “thank you.”
The laughter fades as you walk away, replaced by the faint swishing of her scrubs as she trots behind you and pulls at your arm.
“What now?”
“You’re serious,” she says, searching your face to see if she can find something there to hang comprehension on.
“More than you know.”
She licks her lips, nervous and uncomfortable. “You’re my friend. You know that. I even told Erica, even though she kind of hates you, that you’re,” she shrugs, “you know, the person I talk to.”
That gets to you a little, and stupidly you find yourself briefly lulled into smiling at her. But it’s pathetic. She overlooks you. She uses you. She compounds the confused agonizing your life has dissolved into since you arrived in Seattle. She said it herself. You’re the person she talks to, but it doesn’t work the other way around.
Things have to change. Right now. You’ve talked enough about the new leaf; it’s time you put it into action.
“I’m your sex toy. You use me to get off. That’s all. You don’t talk to me, you talk at me. About things I don’t want to talk about. About things you ought not to want to tell me. And you need to work out your problems with Erica with Erica, not with me.”
“But you -” You know she’s going to bring up the euphemistically named Sloan Method. You don’t want to hear it and you cut her off.
“Yeah, I did. My dick and a misplaced sense of being there make - made - me do a lot of fucked up things. But I’m done.” You glance down. It’s awkward, unnatural being harsh towards her, but she’s not going to get it unless you spell it out. “I’m done. I’m not your girlfriend and, as of now, I’m resigning from my position as your tame whore.”
Her mouth falls open.
“I’m sure you have patients waiting for you, Dr. Torres,” you say coolly as you walk away, leaving her staring after you.
That’s how it’s done. You’re an attending; she’s a resident; the rest is history.
Well, except there’s a part of you that tells you you’re going to regret this; that you’ll probably end up apologizing and buying her a drink and talking shit about water under the bridge and other platitudes that the sentimental side of you will even mean a little. But for now, you said what you wanted to say, what needed to be said, and a smile works its way onto your face. It’s been a while since you were true to yourself and you’d forgotten how damn good it feels.