𝙑𝙄𝙄𝙄.
GUILTLESS

──────

NEW YORK

I DIDN'T EXACTLY remember when Mark Sloan and I had decided to become enemies , but I was pretty sure that it happened around the time that he decided to sleep with one of my friends from college.

I hadn't been able to give her the pep talk, the exact same speech that Addie had given to me when I'd even made the slightest moment of eye contact with the Upper East Side's most notorious bachelor. It was a lengthy one and, somewhere in between the extensive studying, it'd completely slipped my mind. Sadly, I'd forgotten that, much like the Herpes breakout in Columbia's undergrad dorms in 1993, Mark Sloan happened to be everywhere and a reasonably potent threat to any woman over the age of 18 in Lower Manhattan.

There's something so tart about the disappointment of realizing that one of your friends fell into bed with your sister's designated 'throwaway friend'. It was a bitter pill to swallow and I'd mostly blamed myself for not warning her. 

My friend was sweet. She was a hopeless romantic and she'd managed to fall into whatever golden, gilded trap that Mark set out in dive bars. She'd fallen for his wit and his smile and she'd given him a night just for him to do exactly what Addie had said he always did-- it seemed as though Mark invented the term ghosting years before it's social media debut. 

She'd woken up in his bachelor's pad on the other side of the city, met his blank stare and his disinterested smile and been told, could muster, to get going while he had a shower.

Asshole.

She'd been distracted. There was something even more devastating about the disappointment of being treated like dirt, like a cheap lay that was expected to evaporate when the sun rose. I'd sympathized with her. I hadn't lied when I'd said the exact thing to Mark himself: I knew men like him. He might've looked pretty but I had the very strong feeling that he was, more than likely, a completely terrible person.

That, naturally, had resulted in this:

" You're an asshole ."

Mark's eyebrows raised as I sat down, tossing that sentence at him as a way of greeting. We were at a bar downtown and Derek had invited me for drinks. The neurosurgeon in question was a few tables away, attempting to order a something-on-the-rocks with a crumpled twenty, but Mark, oh Mark was blinking at me as I slung my jacket over the back of the chair beside me.

It was safe to say that I hadn't taken a shine to him. There was something about his conceited attitude and his stupid smirk that made me want to rip something. It seemed as though I'd fallen in line with my siblings, sharing their same distaste like an inherited membership for the 'Anti-Mark-Sloan-Club'. 

He regarded me with the lifted brow, the slightly caught off-guard smile and the glimmer in his eye that reminded me so vividly of a live, dangerous wire.

"Probably," was his dry, deadpan response. "What did I do?"

It was, for all intents and purposes, not what I'd expected from him. I just shook my head at him, exhaling loudly as I pressed a palm into the tabletop. He was sat there in some dumb blue shirt with his dumb collar popped open, a dumb smirk on his dumb handsome face-- I blew a stray hair out of my line of sight and made a dramatic scene of displeasure. 

The arrogant son of a bitch just tilted his head to the side.

"The problem is more who you did," I corrected, exasperated and already considering heading out of the door. As much as I liked this biweekly drinks at the same dive bar at the same table, there was something so jarring about having to look at Mark's face on a regular basis. It wasn't that I hated it (he, much to my frustration, was practically symmetrical in the most pleasing-to-the-eye way) but I just found him so frustrating. I exhaled deeply and shook my head. "It's always who with you-- never what--"

"You're going to have to be a little more specific," Mark said brightly, realising what I was referring to (his partialness to stick his dick in everyone he came across.) He even flashed a wide smirk, looking proud of himself and very accomplished. It left a very sour taste in my mouth.

I glowered over at him, my jaw clenched as I wondered whether the fact he had the personality of a wet towel canceled out the fact he was so pretty. As I did so, his eyes very discreetly slid down my figure, over my ripped jeans and my red tank; I'd come straight from a lecture, so my cheeks were flushed and my shoulders still shaking slightly from the curt run to the subway station. I flattened down my hair, unsettled by his heavy gauze.

" Carly ," I said tightly, trying to put the conversation back on track. 

Saying my friend's name through clenched teeth almost felt like I was trying to remind him of some sort of malicious crime he'd committed in the distant past. I felt like a weathered detective in an old 50's crime crime drama, repositioning the lamp so I could glare into the criminals face and watch his eye twitch. 

"Carly. You slept with Carly."

"Carly," He repeated, his face suddenly falling into a distant look of recall. 

A dent appeared between his eyes. I watched his mouth scrunch slightly, as if he was really struggling to remember her: 

"Carly? "

Holy shit.

"Carly," I echoed, feeling as though we were in some sort of verbal tennis match, one in which we were both swinging and missing repetitively. "About yay big, blonde, has a Jersey accent, really chatty--"

It felt like a hopeless conversation. Despite how vividly I could describe her, there was a blank expression on his face, his eyes slightly glassy as he just let my words wash over him. ( Holy shit.) Really? He either had a really bad memory or really was as much of an asshole as everyone made him out to be. He couldn't remember his latest one night stand at all? Had he even asked her name? I wasn't sure why I was so surprised-- oh no, wait I did. 

He'd slept with Carly only last night, giving him, what? Maybe a 10 hour window to get distracted by another bottle blonde.

"Holy shit," I repeated, this time out loud. I stared at him, my eyebrows raised and mouth hanging open slightly in disbelief. "You're a manwhore."

Again, Mark didn't seem to have a perturbed reaction to that. He just watched as I shook my head and chuckled to myself (it was less of an amused one and more fueled by the incredulousness that seemed suddenly so familiar.) 

His eyes fell to his drink and he allowed me my one window of dubiousness, framed by the way that I slapped a hand against the tabletop: He really, really was a manwhore--

"Manwhore?" Mark echoed eventually, once I'd finally digested how rightly founded Carly's distress had been (I hated to say that I'd actually considered defending Mark, but it seemed as though it was fruitless. He really, really was that much of an asshole .) His lips twitched and he leant back in his chair, bringing his drink to his lips. "You're always so sweet to me, Elizabeth."

He said it so fondly, as if he found my disgruntled attitude so amusing. There was that same sparkle in his eye, that one which had struck me one our first meeting-- now it just made my stomach clench and my chest waver in a long deep breath that I felt in my toes.

"Asshole," I murmured to myself, "You seriously don't remember her?"

He paused for a second, kissing his teeth as he stared across the bar. I couldn't tell whether he was scouting for his next victim or just dramatically looking into the distance like the protagonist of an action movie (I'd heard he had a thing for them, so I somehow figured it was the second option.)

"What's her last name?"

" Schroeder."

"Jewish?"

"Not on the weekdays."

"Funny," He had his tongue in between his teeth, smiling to himself as he nodded slowly. As he thought to himself, I had to restrain myself from calling him an asshole for the fiftieth time. It was so tempting. So tempting . His knee jogged up and down as he mused to himself. (Seriously? How hard was it?) "Did you say blonde?"

"Fucking hell."

"What?" Mark's eye caught mine and he frowned as if he didn't appreciate my exasperation. "There was that Carly at Katz's and then there was the Carly at Rhode Island--"

"You hooked up with someone you met at a deli?" I stated, sounding a lot more exasperated than intended. He didn't reply, his eyes burning into me as my eyes widened. "What? Did you want a quickie with your pastrami during the lunch rush--?"

"She blonde?"

" Yes, she's blonde," I felt exhausted. I wondered whether trying to recollect this hookup was like trying to find a number in the yellow pages. Was there a whole rolodex up in this man's head? Was it some sort of directory that warranted it's own search bar? Was each woman organized under their hair color or did he go for something more abstract like preferred position? "She's blonde, chatty and wears really big heels--"

I looked up just in time to see my sister's boyfriend swanning over towards the table, his eyes dipping between the two of us almost warily. Appearing like a lifeboat in the middle of a conversation that was beginning to make drowning look very attractive , Derek held two beer bottles, scooting the other one in my direction as he swung down onto his barstool. 

I paused completely, shooting him a thankful smile as my fingers found the neck of the bottle. I drew my purse out to pay him back but he shook his head, instead just gesturing towards Mark with his head.

"Where's my one?" The asshole of the hour asked indignantly, his eyebrows bunched as he watched me raise my bottle to my lips. Derek just looked over at him; he looked as though he'd just come from work, his shirt crinkled and sleeves rolled back to his elbows. He exchanged a glance with me, one that told me that he'd totally been able to hear our argument all the way on the other side of the dive bar. "That's favouritism if I've ever seen it, Shep--"

"What did he do this time?" Derek spoke to me instead, ignoring the angry wasp at his ear that happened to be one of the best up-and-coming Plastic Surgeon's on the East Coast. His question was posed tiredly, as if he knew exactly what was coming and, just as I had, he seemed to pause. His correction was almost second nature. "Or who? Who did he do--"

"Carly."

"Carly?" Derek repeated, his eyebrows raising as he recognized the name. His head turned towards his best friend and he let out an incredulous scoff. "You slept with Carly?"

Derek's involvement, somehow, seemed to actually stir something within him-- suddenly, Carly wasn't just some fictitious girl that I was trying to force him to remember. She was real. She'd been one of the only friends I'd actually been able to drag along to family events, well, that was until I got into my current relationship (now I had a disgruntled, socially awkward Canadian lawyer to drag around.)

 Derek knew her, as did Addison and I had the awful feeling that I was the one who had introduced her to Mark too.

"He doesn't remember who Carly is," I explained with a roll of my eyes. Mark just sighed, exasperated.

"Nursing school Carly?" Derek looked over towards me for confirmation and I nodded sheepishly, relieved that at least one man here had enough brain cells to remember one of my only friends. Oh, what was I kidding, she was my only friend. The neurosurgeon looked over at Mark, watching as the frown deepened further and further on his face. "She roomed with Beth in her first year ... you remember the mixer at Archer's--?"

"Look," Mark said, his voice strained as we all collectively realised that he probably didn't have a search bar on that directory of his at all. I found myself shaking my head slowly, remembering how Carly had burst into my apartment and cursed him with an extensively explicit vocabulary. "My memory isn't the greatest--"

"You remember Carly."

"Who the hell is Carly?"

"From the Christmas party--"

"My memory is shit--"

"Really?" I questioned, tilting my head to the side, "Who won the Superbowl two years ago?"

He paused at that. I knew from the twitch in the corner of Derek's lips that I had him on that. Fucker. I didn't know much about Mark Sloan other than the fact that he couldn't keep his dick in his pants and that he was (supposedly) a fantastic surgeon-- but I did know enough about assholes to know that they usually had very selective memories. More often than not, they chose what to remember and what to forget.

"It's not the greatest--"

"Jesus," I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose. "I'm not talking about a random hook up you had two years ago, I'm talking about last night--"

"Last night?" A shadow seemed to descend over his face, his eyebrows bouncing as if he'd been struck by lightning. His jaw slackened and he looked at me, his slightly aghast eyes causing shivers to run down my spine. "Carly? I thought her name was Candy?"

You have to be kidding me.

I blinked at him, feeling my blood pressure rise. The jury was in, this man was not only an asshole but completely dumb too. His eyes shifted between the frozen expression on my face and the low chuckle that escaped Derek. My almost-brother-in-law looked extremely amused, so much so, that eventually I fell into the same state of chagrined exhaustion. It was as if Derek had had this conversation a thousand times (which, admittedly, he probably had) and nothing about Mark dared to even surprise him anymore. He laughed as if he hadn't expected anything else, because basic courtesy was so hard to expect. I let go of my annoyance with a sigh, just shaking my head.

"Just please," I was almost begging, pressing my palm into the sticky table. I hoped he was listening. " Please don't sleep with another one of my friends. At least someone before you ruin their week if they know a Beth Montgomery from Columbia University and work from there. Please. I don't want to have to deal with the fall out . "

He stared at me, his brow furrowed slightly as if he was still lagging behind. His eyes flickered between the two of us, noticing how Derek's eyebrows were raised, indicating that the neurosurgeon was very interested in Mark's response. The Plastic Surgeon, ultimately, didn't reply to my demand.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're hot when you beg?" His flirtatious question barely even made me bristle. Derek, on the other hand, kicked his leg under the table. Mark, also, barely flinched. He just chuckled with a long grin, one that indicated that he was trying to get under everyone's skin. "Look-- I'm not going to apologize for whoever it was that I pissed off this morning--"

" Manwhore ," I said lightly, almost in a sing-song voice.

This time, I managed to just about provoke a twitch out of him, his mouth downturning at the edges. I was sure what it was that got under his skin this time-- was it the way that I snickered lightly or the way that both me and Derek seemed to share the same joke at his expense. His expression was just enough to rouse my own little smile. I grinned into my bottle.

What a dumbass.

"So, Addie didn't feel like coming tonight?" I questioned instead, moving past the massively bruised ego in the corner. Humming lightly, Derek shook his head, shifting on his chair and sighing slightly. My smile stayed. "Surprise to no one ..."

"She used to like this sort of thing in college," He shrugged, a slight dampness in the way his smile wavered. I watched as he chased a bottle cap across the table with his thumb. In the corner of my eye, Mark still had a perturbed expression plastered across his face. His chin was tilted downwards slightly as if he hadn't quite moved with the subject change. "But she's been super busy lately so I'm guessing that she had some work stacked up--"

"College?" I echoed, scrunching my nose. I looked around the bar, at the dingy interior and the sticky bartops. I tried my best to picture her amongst the, predominantly, college crowd. I blinked, wondering whether the distinctively 'unlike-Addie-ness' was just a trick of light. "I can't imagine--"

"Are you sure her name isn't Candy?" Jesus. Our heads both swung back to the Plastic Surgeon as he looked intently between us, his brow furrowed in concentration. His shoulders were hunched slightly and I just blinked at him, my smile widening. "I could've sworn it was Candy--"

It was one of those times where I wondered what exactly was going on in his head. It was a big head, one inflated so enormously by his stupid dumb fucking ego. I was pretty sure that it was all his body was useful for, carrying his arrogance from room to room. For a head so large it was impressive that it wasn't more useful. What was it filled with? Hot air? One-liners and executive orders from his groin? Whatever it was, it definitely wasn't common sense.

"Unless she's some sort of Soviet Spy that's really good at doing beer pong, I'm pretty sure her name is Carly," was my response. Balanced and calm. He caught my eye, his blue eyes heavy and weighted and his face crinkled. "Look, it's not my fault that you're getting your flavors of the week mixed up--"

"Night," Derek corrected me, his lips twitching, "Definitely flavor of the night--"

That caused me to laugh.

"Great," Mark said, looking between the two of us with a furrowed brow. He seemed not very pleased with that way that me and Derek chuckled together at him. " Great. You're gonna make fun of me for forgetting one girl's name?"

"Are you it's just one?" I questioned tightly, "From what I hear your memory isn't the greatest--"

"You know, sometimes I'm scared to ask," Derek interjected, looking over at his best friend with a fond smile. It felt oddly as if we were sat on opposing sides, Derek and I together and Mark on his own on the other side of the table. I wondered what it looked like from the outside. Did it look like a job interview? Did it look like an interrogation? Did it look tense? Did it look fun? (Who knew exactly where this night would take us?) "But how do you do it? How do you get through so many women so quickly?"

"Rohypnol," I answered without hesitation. Mark rolled his eyes. "It's totally rohypnol isn't it--?"

"I wish it was that easy," He responded with equal quick wit. It made me smile faintly. The one thing that kept bringing me back to these weekly bar nights was the fact that both Derek and Mark could keep up. (I was, historically, classed as someone who was intimidating. My humor was crass and fast-paced and I wasn't great at making friends. At least these two could put up with that for the smallest window of time a week.) "Usually, I just go for the much harder route of being charming and sexy and completely ..."

"Emotionally unavailable?" I suggested. He met my eye again and I just shrugged expectantly. Was I wrong? Probably not. Mark seemed like the sort of guy that would break up with a girl as soon as they appeared somewhat attached to him. We stared at each other for a moment and I raised an eyebrow-- was he gonna challenge that?

(He didn't.)

( Good. )

"Easy?" was Derek's addition.

"Cute," Mark eyed the two of us, reverting back to his almost defensive frown. "Real cute. I like this ganging up thing. It really sets the mood."

Derek and I exchanged a look, both of us thinking the same thing; with crooked grins, we clinked our bottles together, solidifying whatever allegiance we had in this conversation. Was this a battleground? Was this some sort of ongoing conflict? The People Vs. Mark Sloan? The War Against Mark's Libido? The Mark Sloan Putsch? Whatever it was, it had been going on for a very long time.

"You know ..." Mark rubbed at his jaw, the tips of his ears slightly red as he inclined his head. "I used to really enjoy hanging out in this bar with you Derek ..." He tilted his head in my direction. "But now I don't know how I feel--"

"Oh my god," I mumbled to myself, still smiling as Derek raised his eyebrows. Why did this feel like the beginning of an argument between a couple?

" Sure. "

"You're distant," He said with a passion that almost reminded me of a scorned lover. I looked between the two friends, idly wondering whether this was a lovers quarrel or a very private bedroom conversation. Either one, I supposed. "You're staying out late ... you take ages to return my calls ... you went out for drinks with George Rienke the other week-- I mean, you're a completely different person--"

"Oh my god," Derek murmured while shaking his head.

"What do I not matter to you anymore, Shep?"

Just kiss already.

I leant back in my chair, wondering whether Mark's drink had hit already so prematurely in the night. But then there was this slight catch in the corner of his lips, one that gave away that he wasn't upset at all. He was playing the game of the conversation. I was impressed. 

My grin persisted through a mouthful of beer, my head turning expectantly to look over at the man I'd grown to consider a brother. Derek was staring at the Plastic Surgeon, rolling his eyes as he attempted to find his sanity at the bottle of his beer bottle.

"You sound like Addie," He answered Mark's question finally, then he paused. "That's not a great look, even for you."

I couldn't tell whether the table was strife with sexual tension or just the haziness of alcohol, but either way, it was interesting to watch. The two men exchanged a look, one that made Derek scoff loudly and shake his head again. Admittedly, I had a lot of respect for this friendship-- specifically, for Derek's half of it. I couldn't imagine what a friendship with Mark Sloan would entail. But, whatever it was, I had a feeling it wasn't as pleasant as it seemed.

"Everything's a great look for me," Mark replied indignantly, his brow crumpling as if he didn't understand what felt like an accusation. I snorted, shaking my head. He zeroed in on me, a dent appearing between his eyebrows. "What? You disagree Montgomery?"

"If I ever agree, it's the rohypnol talking."

( Yes, let's not address how good he looked in a suit. )

My comment seemed to take him off-guard. He blinked at me, his eyes once again doing that thing. That thing . That thing that I couldn't describe but I sure as hell knew that half of the ladies in Manhattan would recognized if faced with it. His eyes dipped briefly to my cleavage and I mentally cussed him out with all of the grace and decorum of a well versed lady.

"I used to think you were cute," Mark said to me, his lip twitching. I raised an eyebrow, my head tilting to the side slightly as I waited for him to finish. It was said in a slightly teasing way, but I was inclined to believe the cute part. "... But then you started being mean to me just like your sister."

"And I used to think you were hot," I echoed back to him; the compliment made him smirk, smirk in a delicious way that I was sure had tempted all of these poor women into his bed. I shrugged a shoulder, pouting at him. "... But then you opened your mouth."

The full weight of his gaze was something that couldn't be taken lightly. He was staring at me in that way again, the sort that threatened to set my whole body ablaze and rob the air from my lungs. I wasn't the first to look away; I stared until he felt the need to speak again. In the corner of my eye, I saw Derek checking his pager on the table, his attention warned. Slowly, Mark cleared his throat.

"I like you."

Wow, the famous Mark Sloan seal of approval. What a coveted prize. I was sure it was heralded worldwide, as highly as a Nobel Peace Prize or a Harper Avery. He said it with a glimmer in his eye, a smirk on his lips that made my mouth burn slightly. This time, I was the first one to look away-- I picked up my beer and tried to wash the taste of ash out of my system.

My response was a snort and the short declarative: "I'm not having sex with you."

At the corner of the table, Derek's head lazily rose, his attention piquing with my words. The glance he shot in Mark's direction was coded with a message that, again, reinforced my little war allegory-- it was an abstract calculation on the back of a pen passed between secret intelligence. Luckily, I was well trained in Derek Shepherd so my translation was fast and efficient. Raised brow, pointed stare, slight twitch in his lower lip? Something that felt a lot like drawing boundaries and territories on a war table

"You sure?"

"Absolutely," I responded. Hadn't we had this conversation before? With Derek sat beside me, it was a very bold move, yet I could tell from the way that Mark glanced over at his friend that he was trying to push some of Derek's buttons. I rolled my eyes at the lack of maturity at the table. "I'm not into pretty boys."

"Oh, so you do think I look good in ev--"

The evening dragged on a lot like that. It was a repetitive almost ritual of wise cracking and Mark leading conversation. The asshole liked to talk a lot, mostly about himself; I found myself spending the evening listening to a lot of little anecdotes, stories about whatever swum across his consciousness. 

Ever so often, they'd talk about work and volley little cases into my medical student hands, asking me what I thought and how I would've approached certain things. I appreciated the factor into the conversation and went off into a very passionate tangent about cardiovascular structures which left Derek mildly impressed-- whenever I looked at Mark, he had that same stupid dumb smirk on his face.

I wanted to slap it off.

"I'm just saying if they're going to move Reinke to Lincoln that means that they've got a long uphill battle from there," I tuned into a tense discussion about surgical programs across the State, my head bowed as I sent a text message to my boyfriend under the table. (Calum was at his apartment, wondering what time I'd get home. I smiled faintly at the concept of being thought of.) "It's not smart to lose Navarro too--"

"Calvin Navarro is a jackass--"

"He's also a good surgeon," Derek reasoned lightly. Then, his eyes drifted over to me as I stuffed my cell phone back into my jacket pocket. "What about you, kid? Where are you thinking about going once you're out of Med School?"

I paused.

"I'm not sure yet," It was an honest answer that made Mark's attention return to me. It reminded me of our conversation at that surgical mixer all of those months ago-- the way he'd asked me what I wanted from my career and I hadn't known what to reply with. "I was thinking of maybe joining Addison over at Bellevue or maybe looking for a program that will help me work with Archer--"

" Fuck that ."

Mark's commentary liked to pop up in the most candid of times. Our heads turned to stare at the Plastic Surgeon as he scoffed, like a true gentleman , at my ideas for my professional career. I blinked at him, watching how he took a long mouthful of his drink and chuckled to himself as if I'd made a disastrous mistake. When he realized that neither of us were exactly following, he paused, nose scrunching, and set his scotch down in front of him.

"Are you really going to follow your siblings for your whole life?"

Yeesh. That was a question.

"What?" He said indifferently, receiving a look from Derek that didn't settle right with him. "Are you going to tell me I'm wrong to ask that? If Amy or any of your other sisters did the same thing? Wouldn't you say the same thing?"

"No," Derek responded dryly, already onto a glass of whiskey. I'd progressed onto wine, holding a glass so tightly in my hand that the circulation in my fingers was half gone. "Because I'm not a dick and I think people should be able to do whatever they want--"

"Let me guess," Mark ignored him completely, instead continuing to crush my hopes and aspirations with a nonchalant airiness about him. "You still don't know what you want?"

He'd asked me that question so indifferently back at the Columbia mixer. He'd asked me as I stood in the same city that my siblings had moved to, in the same university that my siblings had attended, wearing the same dress that Addison had worn during her college years. He held my gaze as questioned whether I'd changed my answer.

I hadn't.

(My defensiveness over my lack of decision was justified. Somehow. )

"I wasn't won over by the pictures of cleft children and your pretty smile," was my firm response. I couldn't bring myself to interalise his words, at least not yet anyway. Mark's head tilted to the side at my words. "You know ... I was thinking that you'd have better people skills seeing how popular ... imagine my disappointment ."

A beat passed.

"Seemed to work alright with Candy--"

"And half of the sexual health clinic down on the East Side--"

( Jesus Christ, Derek mumbled in the background.)

"You sound jealous."

"Do I?"

"Bitter, even."

"Can I ask what the weather is like in your ass seeing as your head is wedged so far up there?"

There was a very long, prolonged pause and Mark seemed to bite his tongue. His blue eyes blazed straight through me-- I just raised an eyebrow at him, almost daring him to respond. I could've so easily done this all day. There was so much pent up bitterness in me that was just begging to be unleashed. It just happened that an asshole with a dangerous cocktail of contrarian wit and an inflated ego was just what the doctor had ordered.

Mark pursed his lips, nodding thoughtfully. "I liked that one."

"Thank you," I replied, nodding humbly, "So did I."

Then I paused.

"I don't know what I'm doing," My chin fell a little bit as I ran a finger around the rim of my wine glass. "I don't really know what I want ... but that's okay. I don't think anyone knows what they want to do while they're in college. I don't have to know yet. I bet you guys didn 't even know-- "

"I did," Mark said, and I would've snapped at him if I hadn't practically encouraged his response. "I went straight into Plastics as soon as I could. I mentored under Doctor Lundy and fast-tracked my way into the best program in the country--" He inclined his head towards Derek. "He's wanted to be a neurosurgeon since he was seven-years-old."

I looked between the two surgeons, my mind spinning slightly at the constant revelation that I was behind. I'd been behind from the beginning, born eight years after Addison and expected to sprint to catch up. Now, I was behind with my life choices. I had a plan that ran out as soon as I got through my internship-- what then? What then was I supposed to do?

"Well," I sighed, dragging my foot along the floor, "Good for you both--"

I knew that Archer had wanted to go into Neuro since he was a kid. I knew that Addison had felt the same about Pediatrics too-- oh good lord, why did I have to have an existential crisis in a crap bar in Midtown? Why couldn't it wait until I got home?

"Ignore him," Derek said quickly, patting my arm in some sort of half-hearted comfort. "I usually do. Everyone is different. You'll figure out what you want. It'll take some time ... but you'll get there."

"Oh I am," I hummed lightly, trying to swallow back the impulse to second-guess my whole life plan. "I'll just forget all about this just like Mark forgets all of the girls he's screwed since last Monday morning--" ("It's Monday evening") "--and I rest my case ."

It seemed that Mark's inability to keep his dick to himself was a very, very good scapegoat for changing the conversation. I managed to toss the topic back towards him, Derek's head swinging to look over at him as if he was watching a tennis match.

Mark's left pink eyebrow. "Nice change of subject there."

"Thanks," I responded, as pleasantly as my last false sign of gratitude. Our eyes met over the rim of my wine glass and I inclined my head in Derek's direction. "I wanna go back to Derek's question from earlier. How exactly do you do it? Do it so much that you forget even who you've been with?"

"You really want to know?"

I watched his ego swell.

"Sure," I said, shrugging as I considered ordering a cocktail, "I haven't got anything better to do."

I, then, watched his ego deflate.

But, even in the face of my nonchalance, his lip twitched into a smirk and his eyes gleamed. "It's simple, I just know what I want."

" Asshole. "

He was well-versed in cheap shots as I was. His answer made me shake my head so vigorously that I was almost seeing stares-- how could someone be such a dick just out of the kindness of their heart? Did he get a kick out of it? I had the feeling it wasn't malicious at all; Mark didn't seem like the type of person to ridicule someone for their appearance or mindlessly bully-- but he did definitely seem like the sort of person who got a kick out of the exact expression on my face.

( Asswipe .)

"It's true," He said insistently, nodding as if to convince us. Discreetly, Derek and I exchanged a look. (The slight lift of my sister's boyfriend's brow implied that this was all my fault. I was the one who had bought it up again. This was my conversation to suffer through.) "I know what I'm looking for and I go get it. "

It took everything within me not to roll my eyes.

"And then, from there I've got some ground rules--"

"Ground rules?" Derek echoed, sounding completely bewildered by Mark's train of thought. He was talking about it as if it was some sort of well-thought out political strategy, as if he was some general discussing his army. "You have rules to a hookup? God, I'm so glad I'm not single--"

"What are they?" I deadpanned, silently agreeing with Derek's words. Was this what single life had come to? I'd never been so thankful for Calum than I was in that moment. When Mark's eyes met mine, I flashed him a smile that was all teeth. "The Ten Whore Commandments?"

"Clever," Mark said with a strained look on his face, as if he was either trying hard not to laugh or to cry. I couldn't quite tell but I assumed, in the moment, that it was the latter. "No, not ten. Just three. No staying over. No repeat offenders. No dating."

He seemed to say each one as if they had some sort of holiday in the universe, as if these were fundamentals of Mark Sloan. I listened to each one, each bullet point, my brow furrowed and body tensed in a surprisingly intricate conversation. Three rules. The surgeon sat in front of me have three codes of conduct and they all sounded fucking dumb.

(And lonely too.)

"Well," I cleared my throat and concluded that yes, the cocktail I'd been thinking about earlier was a fantastic idea. In fact, burning myself at the stake sounded excellent too. "Those sound very interesting Mark. Thank you for presenting to the class--"

"Hang on," Derek's face was contorted as he processed what Mark had just said. "Didn't you date Samantha Riley twice in High School?"

"That doesn't count," He waved a dismissive hand, shaking his head as if he'd already thought all of this out. This was all so interesting to watch, it was as if I was suddenly inside a tiny piece of his world. It was if he lived in his own definition of a society, one where he decided what mattered and what didn't, one where he could let things run rampant and others under lock and key.

"And didn't you sleep with Holly Kepper twice in College?"

"Doesn't count either," Mark interjected, his mouth downturned. "Doesn't count if I don't even remember one of those times--"

"Yeah," I threw in my two cents, making a face over at Derek. "Didn't you hear? His memory isn't great. He can't possibly be held responsible--"

"Look," was all that Mark interrupted me with. He was perfectly even, completely unbothered by the mention of Carly for the fiftieth time. "What do you want me to do? Get a little black book and write down all my extra curricular activities? Get every woman's name tattooed onto my body so I remember--?"

"How about we start with you not treating women like shit and work our way from there?"

My suggestion, admittedly, was founded in a lot more than just the stupid, conceited asshole that was across from me. It was a challenge that reflected all of the assholes I'd come across in my life, the ones I'd loved and the ones who had been incapable of loving me back. I raised an eyebrow at him as he just shook it off, bouncing back on his feet as if I'd barely even said anything. Derek, on the other hand, just looked at Mark pointedly, waiting for whatever he was going to say next.

"I'm very respectful to women--"

"Yeah, well," I responded with, flashing him another wild smile, "I'm sure Candy would disagree--"

"No staying the night?" Derek stated, seemingly caught still on the rules that Mark had set himself. His forehead crumpled as he looked over at the Plastic Surgeon. "Why does your apartment sound like a police state?"

He shrugged, "I'm not much of a hugger."

"No repeat offenders?" I recited his words back to him and Mark just shrugged as if it was self-explanatory. I guess it was, in a word Mark-Sloan-Way that I was slowly beginning to decipher. "Is that just a rule because no one ever wants to double dip once they see the state of you early in the morning?"

"I'm sure Candy--"

"Carly."

"--would be up for Round Two."

"I wouldn't put money on that, if I were you."

"So what does .... Did Candy--" (" Carly ," Derek corrected tepidly.) "Did Carly send you here to beat me into shape?" Mark's words made me chuckle. It was as if I was we'd fallen back into the same allegory; was I some sort of missionary that was sent out to tie up loose strings on the battlefield? "Let me guess ... she asked you to come here .... Make me fall in love with you and then break my heart--"

"Jeez," Derek muttered into his whiskey glass, "You need to stop watching Hallmark movies."

"From the way you've been talking tonight, I'm not sure whether you're even capable of loving something," I interjected evenly, watching as Mark faltered very slightly. His gaze, however, didn't move from my face, "And No ," I shook my head, clearing my throat and responding to Mark's wild theories, "I just wanted to see if you even know how much of an jackass you are - "

"I think that's been well established," Derek added.

"--and honestly, I don't get it?" My eyebrows bunched together and I pursed my lips. Mark just frowned at me, confused at where exactly where I was going with this. "Is it really that much fun to just sleep around all the time? Doesn't that get exhausting--"

"If you're asking when I find time to sleep, I still manage to get eight hours of beauty sleep--"

"No, I mean all of the effort," Mark seemed slightly lost, staring at me as if he wasn't exactly sure what I was talking about. I was talking with my hands, emphasizing every letter and every word. "All of these rules ... do you really not date at all?"

His nose scrunched. "I don't have time--"

"That sounds lonely."

Mark's eyes, very gradually rose to stare at me. It was a very short, curt stare, but it seemed to burn through to my core. His eyes had the ability to do that, leave their own impression my skin and hold my lungs in his hands-- when I looked away, heavy and weighted from the presence of whatever lingered behind his gaze, I felt something inside me blister, as if he'd infected a part of me.

"Sure," He tossed out a nonchalant shrug, a little less sparkle in him as he nursed his scotch. In my peripheral, I saw Derek massage his forehead, sighing lightly as Mark's light dimmed a tiny bit. Mark raised his glass in his direction. "But I keep good company."

Derek's lips twitched.

"Romantic," I breezed, all too aware of how lonely it all really sounded. I couldn't imagine leading that sort of life, treating people as expendable sources of pleasure-- I had Calum. I had a man who I loved and I knew wouldn't leave in the morning. That sort of love was invaluable to me. "I'm sure your love is one for the ages."

It was Mark's turn to smile, he looked over at Derek and inclined his chin.

"I was thinking of a June wedding--"

" Oh fuck off ," Derek chuckled, but he didn't look too bothered at all.

"Don't you find it exhausting?" Mark questioned instead of addressing his best friend again. He was speaking me again, causing my chest to tighten and my forehead to wrinkle. He braced the table, as if he was holding himself upright. "Living your life by some sort of template that your siblings made? Isn't that exhausting?"

I didn't answer.

"I think it sounds boring," He continued, a reprise from that night at the mixer. I pressed my lips together and watched him, watching the muscle twitch beside his eyes. "Living to other people's expectations of you .... That's exhausting. It's pretty lame too, not really that sexy or attractive so ... so really this whole little denim number you have going on is canceled out by the fact you don ' t know who you are-- "

"Wow," I cut him off before my ears started bleeding. I could feel my heartbeat against the inside of my chest. Had he ever considered becoming a shrink? " Deep ."

"I'm good at pillow talk," was Mark's only response, his lip twitching into that same damn smirk. It took everything within me not to roll my eyes-- it also took everything within me not to scream. He was looking at me again as if I was completely transparent and it was deeply unsettling. His words resonated with me a little too deeply. "That among other things--"

"Spreading STDs?" I suggested.

This time, Mark laughed so loudly that it almost caught me off-guard. He raised his scotch up, a wide crooked grin splitting his face in half as he gently shook his head. The sound of laugh caused the hairs on my arms to stand on end, bringing out a slight twitch by my eye that I hadn't noticed before-- he inclined his glass to me in some sort of toast.

"God," He said breathlessly, "You're a bitch."

Twitch.

"Thank you," I replied, nodding almost humbly. "You're an asshole."

I raised my wine glass too, the two of us just extending our beverages to each other to commemorate whatever agreement we'd come too. We were both extremely intolerable beings? Was that the conclusion of this?

In the background, Derek groaned lightly, half tempted to hold his head in his hands.

"I'll drink to that!" Mark declared with a smirk still ever so present on his lips.

I touched my glass against his.

"L'chaim!"

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