❛ 𝐅𝐋𝐀𝐓𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐄 . . . ❜
010. white oleander / tequila shot
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NEW YORK . . . ❜

Keeping good company, as Beth had to keep reminding herself, was not a skill that she had.

Example: Amelia Shepherd's proclivity for finding deadbeat bars in the back of Manhattan, all because she felt that the thrill of a speakeasy made the experience more authentic.

Authentic? Beth wasn't exactly sure whether getting E-Coli or ringworm from an unwashed glass made her life authentic, but she was fairly sure that it would make it at least a little more interesting.

The proposition of following Derek Shepherd's youngest sister around back alleys of the Big Apple was a little more exciting than the usual social calendar that Beth had fallen into–– through six months of pretending she knew what she doing at med school events and Addison's Sunday brunches, Beth was beginning to feel like a Stepford Wife.

Sure, maybe tumbling across a threshold to go schmooze a shitty bottle of beer had a chance of killing her, but wasn't boredom too?

She was fairly sure that boredom was one of the worst killers the United States had ever seen, right behind Heart Disease and Gary Ridgway, but, either way, Beth needed something exciting.

For a lack of better words: She needed to live a little.

But, unfortunately, so did her friends. And oh, did they live a lot.

"You're an asshole, you know that, right?"

It was her greeting as she threw her purse down on the table in a bar on a Thursday night and jerked her chin in a particular person's direction. The person in question just raised his eyebrows, blinking at her as she appeared with such agitation as if she was just looking for a fight–– in a way, yeah, Beth was.

She'd been looking for a fight ever since she'd gotten a very distressed phone call from one of her friends at med school, telling her that Mark Sloan had fucked and dumped her, all over text message.

"Probably," was the bachelor's deadpan response. He was barely fazed and almost looked amused, "What did I do?"

"Not what," Beth corrected him sharply, "Who."

Who? Carla, this med student who was too sweet for her own good.

(HER FRIEND CARLA. HOPELESS ROMANTIC CARLA. FALLEN-INTO-MARK'S-HONEY-TRAP CARLA.)

She'd figured that it would be a matter of time before Mark found his way into one of her friend's beds, but she'd had a sick hope that it wouldn't happen. The universe had ticked down to it (Tick. Tick. Tick.) and she'd just had to watch it happen from across the room, jaw slackening and brow furrowing.

She'd been there, she'd watched it–– and Derek had pressed a hand onto her arm as the night's events played out in front of them.

But it was Carla. 

Carla was too sweet, too romantic, too good for a guy like Mark Sloan, and Beth would hate herself for not giving Carla the talk. She should've sat Carla down, as many women were, and told her the dangers of getting involved with Mark like they were reciting medication side effects to a patient.

It was lengthy and important, but it had somehow slipped Beth's mind that, much like the Herpes breakout in Columbia's post-graduate dorms in 1996, Mark Sloan was everywhere and a reasonable threat to any woman over the age of 21 in Lower Manhattan.

Just as he was everywhere, he was here too, staring at her as she arrived on a Thursday to one of Amelia's picks for the week. It'd been a week later and Beth was late.

The address had been texted to her and she'd squinted at it in the back of a taxi cab as she came directly from a lecture on the other side of the island–– she'd read out the name of the bar and the driver had winced.

(You sure about this? He'd asked as if he was all too familiar with the place, and Beth had said No. Amelia's picks were always questionable and Beth always second-guessed entering from the moment she placed her hand on the front door.)

"Oh," Mark said, and then he thought about it. He seemed to bite the tip of his tongue before shaking his head, "Yeah, you're going to need to be a little bit more specific with that."

To the left of them, Derek was trying to buy a something-on-the-rocks with a crumpled twenty, and Amelia was nowhere to be found. All the while, Beth was just standing there, glaring right into his soul as she replayed Carla's story over and over in her head.

After a pause, Beth let out a scoff, shaking her head back.

How could a man so pretty have the personality of a wet sock?

"Are you fucking kidding me––"

"I'm definitely not kidding," Mark said a little too evenly for her temper. He held up his hands, "And we're definitely not fucki––"

"Carla," She said, "You slept with Carla."

"Carla," He repeated, his face suddenly falling into a distant look of recall. A dent appeared between his eyes. He blinked. "Carla?"

Beth watched his mouth scrunch slightly as if he was really struggling to remember her.

Holy shit.

"Carla," She echoed, feeling as though she was in some sort of verbal tennis match, one in which they were both swinging and missing repetitively. "Med student. You met at the Columbia mixer a few months back. Saw her again in that bar in Hell's Kitchen last week... black hair, about yay big, Dominican..."

Beth could tell from the way he was staring at her that this was all one long hopeless conversation. 

She hadn't even sat down yet, and she had the feeling that this was going to be a very long night.

There was a distinctively blank look on his face as Beth did her best to describe a woman that had been with them at a bar just last week. His eyes were slightly glassy, that pucker in between his eyebrows pronounced, and Beth scoffed to herself, taken aback.

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

"I'm not a––"

"You are," Beth said, a gasp caught at the back of her throat, "You're a manwhore."

"Hey," Mark said lightly, "Look, I can't remember everyone––"

"Manwhore," Beth insisted.

He didn't exactly have a surprised expression at the name and Beth figured he'd heard it a lot.

He must've, right?

His lip twitched very slightly and he looked down at the tabletop, allowing her her peace to take a seat right opposite him. The one to the left of them was always reserved for Amy, and the other side was always for Derek.

(Addison, as always, never even RSVP'd.)

That left Beth to sigh to herself loudly, drawing her jacket closer to her body as Mark ran a very light gaze up and down her torso. A groan fell past her lips. As much as she looked forward to Amelia's adventures, she definitely did not look forward to this.

Amelia's pick of the week was a very overcast, badly lit bar with a lot of military memorabilia. Beth couldn't remember the name, nor the reasoning that they had all appeared here for their weekly check-in, but they all knew that there was some reason, at least.

When it came to Amelia, everything always had a reason.

Mark, however, was very different.

"You really don't remember her?" Beth asked, exasperated.

He paused for a second, kissing his teeth as he stared across the bar. She watched the cogs as they whirred wildly at the back of his brain.

"What's her last name?"

"Díaz."

"Catholic?"

"Only on Sundays."

Mark's lip twitched.

"Funny," He had his tongue in between his teeth, smiling to himself as he nodded slowly.

As he thought to himself, she had to restrain everything in her, just to stop herself 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: "Did you say she was Dominican?"

"Jesus, Sloan."

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

"You hooked up with someone at a deli?" Beth said, blinking at him as she processed what he'd just said. "How does that even––" Then she paused, her nose scrunching, "You know what, No, I don't want to know..."

"It wasn't her," Mark said dismissively, "I think she was Puerto Rican––"

"Holy crap––"

Idly, Beth wondered whether Mark Sloan trying to recall a hookup was like trying to find a phone number in a yellow pages.

Was it like trying to search up a line at AT&T?

Or did he just all have it stored away in there like a room full of old medical files? 

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 organised under their hair colour or did he go for something more abstract like preferred position?

Her head raised just in time to watch Derek as he appeared, his eyes dipping warily in between the two of them. Appearing like a lifeboat in the middle of a conversation that was beginning to make drowning look very attractive to the brunette, Derek held two beer bottles, scooting the other one in Beth's direction as he swung down onto his barstool.

She smiled at him, drawing out cash to pay him back but he shook his head, just gesturing towards Mark with a nod.

"What did he do this time?" His question made Mark scoff slightly but then he seemed to realise his mistake, "Sorry, I meant... who did he do?"

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. She was all too happy to say the name that she'd been ever so slowly forcing into Mark's skull:

"Carla."

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

Mark seemed to grow disgruntled, his brow folding as he realised that this wasn't just some imaginary woman Beth had pulled out of her ass. 

Carla was real. Oh, she was very real.

She was as real as the phone conversation Beth had had with her, as the woman sobbed and half ranted in Spanish about how Mark was the worst guy she'd ever met, and she'd had to put up with all of the douchebags University Heights had thrown at her.

(According to her account, he'd dragged her in with pretty words and a pretty smile, then, by morning, had thrown her out with the trash. He'd woken up, looked across his bed and told her that she had to be gone by the time he got out of the shower.)

"He doesn't remember who Carla is," Beth explained and took great satisfaction in watching Derek's bewilderment rise. "He slept with Carla and now he doesn't remember so I can't even yell at him for it––"

"Med School Carla?" Derek looked towards her for confirmation and she nodded. (He remembered her, why not Mark?) "She's really nice, really chatty. You liked her... She came to Archer's mixer at the restaurant for the clinic opening... She was at the Alibi last week when we went out with Beth and Amelia––"

The plastic surgeon just frowned to himself, as if they were talking a foreign language that he didn't understand.

"You gave her your phone number," Beth added and then she rolled her eyes, "You told her to live a little."

"Look," Mark said, his voice strained as they all collectively realised that he probably didn't have a search bar on that directory of his at all. "My memory isn't the greatest--"

Derek shook his head, "You remember Carla."

"Who the hell is Carla?"

"She has really nice teeth––"

"That means nothing to me."

"Fine! You said you liked her ass––"

"I say that about a lot of people," Mark scoffed, and then he tossed a hand in the Montgomery's direction, "Hell, I even said that about her––"

(Jesus Christ, She thought to herself.)

Derek elected to ignore it.

"You know Carla––"

"I don't know Carla––"

"C'mon, Mark," Derek sighed, "She was in the bar last week––"

"I swear, Shep, I don't know who the hell this woman is––"

"She was wearing the green dress––"

"I told you, my memory is shit."

"Really?" Beth retorted, finally deciding to partake in conversation while not buying it one bit. She cleared her throat, "Who won the Superbowl two years ago?"

He paused at that. They all knew from the twitch in the corner of Mark's lips that Beth had him on that.

Fucker.

Admittedly, Beth 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 she 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.

Even then, Mark's face contorted.

"It's not the greatest––"

"Jesus," Beth exhaled, pinching the bridge of her 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 straight at Beth, his slightly aghast eyes causing shivers to run down her spine. 

"Carla? " Mark said, "I thought her name was Carly?"

Holy crap.

In unison, the two of them just stared at him. Both Beth and Derek. They just stared. 

Mark's eyes shifted between them as a very distant imaginary gavel slammed against wood: the jury is in, this man is not only an asshole but a very dumb asshole too.

(Out of all of the answers Beth had expected for Mark to give, that hadn't been it. She knew that people chose to forget about this sort of thing and threw people aside like one-use plastic, but not even learning their names? That made her falter.)

Derek, meanwhile, looked vaguely amused. He shook his head slowly with a slight chuckle caught at the back of his throat as if he wasn't exactly sure why he was surprised.

(In retrospect, Beth figured that this was what Mark did; it was probably a conversation Derek had had a thousand times and each time took him by surprise. It was Mark's MO: find a woman, make her feel as though she deserved the whole world, and then dump her and move on. Always take and never give.)

(And that had been Beth's own destiny as Mark's foot accidentally brushed hers underneath the bar table.)

In a flash, her eyes collided with him, but he wasn't looking at her. His brow was still furrowed as he looked across the bar.

"Please," Beth said, and he still didn't look over at her as she began to almost beg, "Please don't sleep with another one of my friends again. I can't deal with the crappy fall out of having someone in my apartment scream crying––"

"Oh, she's a screamer?" He echoed, and his head cocked to the side. His eyes sparkled mischievously, "Now that rings some bells––"

"Mark."

His lip twitched again, but this time in his own amusement.

"I'm being serious," She started again, wishing that he'd have the decency to actually look at her as she spoke. "Before you ruin their life at least ask if they know me. Please. It will make my life so much easier. Please, Sloan."

To emphasise how important it all was, Beth pressed a palm down onto the sticky top, a part of dying inside as it seemed to hold onto her, reluctant to let her rip it away.

He stared at her, his brow furrowed slightly as if he was still lagging behind. His eyes flickered between the two of them, 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 the demand.

"Has anyone ever told you that you're hot when you beg?"

His flirtatious question made her groan and a dull thud sounded through the room as Derek kicked Mark sharply under the table. However, Mark barely flinched.

"Look," was what Mark said next, his grin still unwavering even as Beth's eyes narrowed, "I'm not going to apologise for whoever it was that I pissed off this morning–"

"Manwhore," She said under her breath. 

Derek overheard and resigned to chewing on the inside of his cheek to stop himself from laughing.

"––but I'm sure she's a great girl," The plastic surgeon's words almost sounded rehearsed. Beth wondered whether he'd recited them in the mirror every day, just to prepare this bullshit answer whenever it was needed, "I'm sorry it didn't work out... but that's just life."

As if inspired, Beth tilted her head to the side.

"What an amazing speech," Her sarcasm was not lost on anyone, "You ever think about running for office? Those words were almost presidential––"

"Isn't that what you said to that creep from Bellevue––?"

Beth shrugged, "You said it, not me."

Mark barely even bristled, just rolling his eyes as the medical student sighed under her breath.

How nice it must be to lead a life with so little regard for the people you hurt.

(While Mark plundered his way through all young women on the Upper East Side, Beth was constantly apologising for her existence.)

"Maybe I should," He quipped, and it annoyed her how, like always, he was able to breeze through her comments with a smile. "I'd look good in a suit, don't you think Montgomery?"

"Oh, I'm really not drunk enough for that," was her response.

Mark held her eye for a little too long, a smile locked in the corner of his mouth and chuckled.

It was as if, no matter how hard she tried to make him irritated, make him something cruel or get angry... she just couldn't.

He could weather anything. No matter how many times she made fun of him for his smooth words or his arrogance, Mark was practically impenetrable. Everything he took, he took with a smile.

It wasn't that she was going out of her way to make his life hell, but she definitely didn't have any intention of making it easier. She'd given Mark the benefit of the doubt for exactly five minutes–– and within those five minutes, he'd slept with more women she could count and made Carla cry.

"So," Beth cleared her throat, moving on as if nothing had transpired.

Even so, her face burned under the slight smoulder in Mark's gaze, her heartbeat at the back of her throat. Her attention bounced over to Derek.

"Addie didn't want to come tonight, huh?" Derek's silence made her smile knowingly: "Surprise to no one."

They'd been doing this for weeks like a ritual, a weekly pilgrimage to places they didn't know, and not once had Addison made the effort to turn up.

Out of everyone, the person who found it the most amusing was Amelia; she'd rolled her eyes and chuckled about it and said 'She probably doesn't know her way out of the Upper East Side' and Beth had agreed with her.

"She used to like this sort of thing in college," Derek shrugged, and Beth just stared at him, bewildered over the fact that maybe they knew two whole different people. "We used to go out on dates to this dive bar down in Harlem––"

"Addison?"

"Yeah," He said and then chuckled lightly, "I know it's hard to believe but she was into it... but she's actually really good at darts..."

"My sister?" Beth needed the confirmation, "My sister, Addison?"

(She hadn't been able to envision Addison in anything but suburbia and classy high-end restaurants that were so dark Beth was convinced you never even knew what you were eating. Her sister, if anything, had a very strict aesthetic: silver spoons, Harry Winston diamonds and being as far as physically possible from a dive bar like this.)

"The very one," Derek smiled, jerking his head over towards the pool table at the back of the room, "She wrecked me at that once too, I never got to live it down."

"Huh," Beth stated, her face contorted as she tried to envision it. She stared over Mark's shoulder towards the bar, completely ignoring the fact that he, too, was in deep thought as if something confounded him. "You learn something new every day––"

"She used to do shots too," Derek added, "It was fun."

"Shots?"

"Yeah."

"Holy shit––"

"Yeah."

"Maybe the whole engaged life is making her boring now––"

"Hey, I can't take all the credit––"

"Sure, First Avenue's doing a real number on her––"

"Are you sure her name isn't Carly?"

Jesus.

Once again, both of their heads swung around to stare at Mark again, at the slightly tortured way he frowned.

He was hunched slightly, eyebrows bunched together as he shook his head from side to side with the monotony of a pendulum. Beth just watched him, her lips pressed into a thin line and a bottle clutched tightly in between her fingers.

"Jesus, Mark," Derek sighed.

"I could've sworn it was Carly––"

"Maybe you're right?" Beth chipped out between her teeth sarcastically, watching as Mark just shook his head from side to side. She tossed a very half-hearted shrug into the conversation, "Maybe I don't even know the name of my best friend?"

The plastic surgeon just frowned at her even further, "I thought Amelia was your best friend? "

"I've only known her for like 2 months––"

"I thought girls were quicker with that sort of stuff?"

"Where is Amy anyway?"

Derek's interjection into their slightly redundant argument made Beth's brow furrow–– he had a point. Where was she?

She cast an eye around the bar, searching for the familiar brunette in between the very scarce bar regulars. The only person who didn't look was Mark, who just shrugged and stared at the bottom of the glass in front of him.

"She left ten minutes ago with the bartender," He said, neither disgruntled nor concerned. It was so nonchalant that Beth almost kicked him under the table. It didn't fit the dawning look of panic on his best friend's face. Derek just blinked at him ("Amy what?") but Mark just breezed onwards. "I still think that your friend must go by Carly or something––"

"It's not our fault," Beth began dryly as Derek drew out his cell phone from his pocket, presumably to call his younger sister. She looked between the two men, fixing Mark with a very stern look as he sighed, "It's not our fault that you can't remember the names of your flavour of the week––"

"Night," Derek mumbled under his breath, before he pressed his cell phone to his ear, "Definitely flavour of the night."

Beth chuckled, nodding her head in agreement.

"Great," Mark said, looking between the two of them with a furrowed brow. He appeared slightly exasperated at the comradeship that was forming in front of his very eyes "Great. You're gonna make fun of me for forgetting one girl's name?"

Beth raised an eyebrow, "Is it just one?"

"It is just one––"

"Really?" She asked and then tilted her head to the side, "Rumour is, your memory isn't the most reliable..." Between them, Derek swore lightly to himself, looking down at the screen with a disgruntled expression, "She's not answering?"

"Answerphone," The neurologist said, looking far more troubled than either of them expected. He shook his head, a sigh falling past his lips as he tried again, "I don't like it when she just disappears."

"She's fine," the plastic surgeon insisted, scoffing lightly and not quite reading the room, "She does it all the time––"

Amelia did.

This was her idea, every week, that was no lie, and yet Beth couldn't remember the last time the youngest Shepherd had spent the whole evening with them. There was always something, whether it was an old friend or a distraction that left Amelia trailing off to the other side of the room.

And there was always this: watching Derek Shepherd progress through the seven stages of grief as he grappled with his inability to trust.

"Yeah," Derek said and shot Mark a look as if this wasn't a conversation they had once a week. In the background, Beth just sighed to herself, sinking down in her chair, "But there's fine and then there's Amy fine."

"She's a resilient girl," Mark continued, and Beth blinked at that word.

Girl. It was infantilising in a way she couldn't quite swallow.

"She's a sneaky adult," Derek corrected, "And she's twenty-nine."

Her mouth dried at the two-and-fro, mind wandering off at the mention of Amelia's proclivity to disappear when their backs were turned, like a toddler in a grocery story being distracted by a stray penny.

She wasn't stupid, and neither was Amy. They both knew why Derek came along to these things, why he sat in these bars and made polite conversation–– they all had their reasons and Dereks was that he wanted to keep an eye on her.

Amelia had a past and Derek took personal action when it came to preventing history from repeating itself again. Two years older than Beth and almost on child reigns, restraining her from the moment she turned to bolt for a door––

(But, she wasn't a girl, she was a recovered drug addict.)

"I'm sure she's okay," Beth contributed quietly, her finger running around the lip of her bottle. "She's smart."

"Yeah, yeah," was Derek's response and he sighed, eventually stuffing his phone away and out of sight. He seemed to shake it out of his mind, clearing his throat, "Let's get back to Carla—"

A low groan fell past Mark's lips.

"I take it back," He said, looking as though he deeply regretted ever meeting the woman as his nose wrinkled, "Hey, maybe Amelia's in trouble—"

"I'm kinda scared to ask," Derek ignored him, but Beth watched his face twist a little bit as Mark attempted to deflect. "But I've always wondered, Mark. How do you even get through so many women?"

Oh, that was a question.

They watched the light spark up in those charismatic little eyes as Mark shot them both a very long smile. It was almost mischievous in nature, a little chuckle that made Beth sigh so deeply and fight the urge to drain her beer bottle all in one.

"I have a code," He said, and again, Beth almost rolled her eyes. "It's all about a method—"

"It's Rohypnol," She interjected without hesitation, "It's totally Rohypnol, isn't it?"

"I'm a manwhore, remember? Not a serial killer," Mark responded with equal quick wit. (It made her smile, just ever so faintly, and shake her head to herself. Maybe Derek and Mark's ability to keep up with her humour was one of the reasons why she kept coming out on these nights.) "See, usually, I just go for the more complicated method of being charming and completely—"

"Emotionally unavailable?"

That was Derek's suggestion. He looked over at his best friend and raised an eyebrow, waiting for Mark to challenge him. Manhattan's most popular bachelor seemed to consider it for a few moments, but then shrugged. It wasn't challenged at all.

"Easy?" Beth added just for fun.

A long breath fell through Mark's lips.

"Cute," He said dryly, eyes flickering between the two of them. "Real cute. I like this whole ganging up on me thing... it really sets the mood."

The neurosurgeon and the medical student just exchanged an amused smile. Admittedly, Beth had spent months completely lost on why Derek and Mark were friends; they were two very different people with very different lives and very different ethics.

She'd looked at Addison with raised eyebrows as she'd explained it: how no one really understood it but Derek and Mark had the sort of friendship that was unshakable.

They just were. They were just friends. In the tradition that seasons just changed and the sun rose, Derek and Mark would take a bullet for each other.

"Y'know," Mark cleared his throat, seemingly not finished with his sentence. "Shep, I used to really enjoy hanging out with you on a work night––"

"Oh dear god," Beth mumbled to herself.

Why did this sound like the beginning of a couple's fight?

"––But now I don't know how to feel," He inclined his head so briefly in Beth's direction, just when she wasn't looking, as if to indicate how he wasn't exactly thrilled that the youngest Montgomery was frequenting their nights out. "I mean... what's going on with us?"

"Oh Jesus," it was Derek's turn to murmur under his breath.

"You're distant," Mark stated, all with the fire of a scorned lover. It felt almost more of a bedroom conversation than it did a lover's argument. "You're staying out late ... you take ages to return my calls ... you went out for drinks with George Reinke the other week–– I mean, you're a completely different person––"

Just kiss already.

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

Tightly, Derek grinned. It was the sort of smile that looked painful as if it had been manually carved into his cheeks. He looked down at the table, slowly shaking his head as Mark stared at him expectantly.

Beth, meanwhile, just looked between the two of them, wondering whether they had a wedding date in mind. But, then she caught the way a smile caught in the corner of Mark's mouth–– it was the giveaway.

Between the dramatics and the performance of it all, Mark was playing the game of conversation.

"You sound like Addie," was all that Derek could say in response, "That's not a good look, even for you."

"Everything's a good look for me," Mark replied indignantly.

His brow crumpled, as if out of everything, that was what had wounded him beyond repair. The snort that fell out of Beth's amused body was entirely subconscious.

He looked towards her, playfully offended, "What? You disagree, Montgomery? You don't think I'd look pretty?"

Beth's response came with a very sly smile, tipping her bottle in his direction:

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

She watched Mark's grin as it wrangled itself into something crooked.

"I used to think you were cute," He said tepidly, but he was still grinning. "This whole... indecisive about my future thing... it was real cute."

Beth just raised an eyebrow, tilting her head to the side in an invitation for him to finish.

Cute? She'd never been called cute before.

"You think?"

"Yeah, I do," Mark confirmed, "But then you started being mean to me, just like you sister––"

"And I used to think you were hot..." She drawled without missing a beat. 

The ego glimmered in his eyes, a beast that she knew was far more potent than it ever appeared; he smirked, taking the smallest admission as a win. 

    Nevertheless, Beth just sighed, shrugging, "But then you opened your mouth––"

A low whistle fell past Derek's lips.

"Yeowch."

Beth had no problem with holding Mark's gaze as he stared at her. His smirk faded very slightly but the intensity moved into his eyes–– what a burden it was to stare back at him, hold the heat of that arrogance and audacity, all while smiling so sweetly.

But, inwardly, the blood was rushing through her veins–– who was she to humble this man? This tiny girl from suburbia raised to be passive, calm and kind, yet looked at the fire in Mark's eyes and threatened to bring a match. 

If only Bizzy could see her now.

She almost couldn't help herself. She locked eyes with this bachelor and felt her whole body flush and adrenalin fill her. She felt her tongue slip between her teeth and knew that she had to make a noise. This man's ego was far too big to not be called out––

Gradually, Mark's lip twitched and he looked away.

(Not before a shiver ran down her spine.)

"I like you."

She just snorted, mumbling over the rim of her beer bottle. A short, nice and concise declarative:

"I'm not sleeping with you, Sloan."

At the corner of the table, Derek's head lazily rose, his attention piquing with her words. The glance he shot in Mark's direction was coded with a message that, again, reinforced a hidden war allegory– it was an abstract calculation on the back of a pen passed between secret intelligence.

Luckily, she was well trained in Derek Shepherd so the translation was fast and efficient.

Raised brow, pointed stare, a slight twitch in his lower lip? Something that felt a lot like drawing boundaries and territories on a war table.

"You sure?"

The audacity of this man. 

Derek scoffed at Mark's question, shaking his head as Mark shot her a flirtatious smile. The brunette just chuckled to herself, beyond sure that they'd had this conversation before. Beth nodded, very, very sure about the fact. It would be a cold day in hell before she ever let him even put his hands onto her––

"I am," Beth said. She felt the need to say it out loud, "Sorry, you're not my type."

"You have a type?"

"Mhmm."

"And what's that?"

"Not pretty boys––"

"Oh," He said, and his smile was wicked once again. A flash of something exciting across his eyes, "So you do think I look good in everything?"

She didn't respond to that.

Mark liked to talk a lot, mostly about himself, and she found herself spending the evening listening to a lot of little anecdotes, stories about whatever swum across his consciousness. Yet, whenever she looked at Mark, he had that same smirk on his face.

(It didn't move, not once.)

(He watched her so closely, eyes trailing across her hands as she spoke with them. They were nice hands, good surgeon's hands. She was expressive, always engaged, the sort of energy that made people listen. Medical terms came as easily to her as breathing, logical thinking so clear and crisp. She was bright, like a little new flame, he at least had to give that to her. His eyes wandered the length of her.)

"–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."

She tuned back into a conversation they were having about staffing, after getting distracted by the thud of blood in her ears. 

When she came back to earth, she was faced with logistics, surgeons bouncing around hospitals as the contract terms came to an end, and she wasn't too excited about it.

"That's what I was saying," Mark said, and he seemed passionate about it, "I mean... You get Newman at Bellevue and then what? Lose the whole program? The whole internship scheme goes under––'

"Not if they keep Bennett."

"Why would they keep Bennett? He's a dinosaur––"

"He taught me––"

"Yeah, and even then he was on the brink of retirement."

"He's helping Amelia with her research project on Huntingdon's. He's a good guy––"

"He's senile."

"He's better than Navarro."

At that, Mark seemed to pause. 

Beth watched the muscles in his neck clench as he seemed to really run that name over in his head. She watched it pass once and then again, his eyes squinting very slightly as he tried to visualise the man–– Beth, meanwhile, had never heard of him.

"Yeah," He said after a moment, nodding slowly, "Yeah, Calvin Navarro's a jackass."

Coming from him? Beth made a mental note to never cross paths with the man.

"I don't think you're really in a place to complain about Attendings," Derek said almost sweetly, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his head to the side, "Who's the one that can't get funding for his research program––?"

A sigh fell past the plastic surgeon's lips.

"Easy there, Shep––"

"You're doing a thesis?"

Her re-entrance into the conversation came with a blink of surprise, chin turning to look over at Mark as a dent appeared between his eyebrows. Meanwhile, Beth's just raised.

She watched as Mark shrugged as if it was no big deal, but she could tell from Derek's facial expression that maybe it was a lot more than he was letting on.

"Just been applying around for some grants," He said off-handedly, and Beth had to look over at her nearly-brother-in-law to gauge the real extent of this, "It's nothing too crazy––"

"He wants to completely revolutionise the way we treat burn patients," Derek interjected.

Beth wasn't sure what was more surprising: the amount of ambition that was lying in those few words or the fact that Mark Sloan, for once, was being humble? Her jaw slackened slightly as she looked back at the plastic surgeon; he just sighed.

"You should see the proposal he put together," Derek continued, and the whole time Beth just watched Mark's face. "It was incredible... this comprehensive take on reepithelialization, allograft skin and silver sulfadiazine––"

"It's not that much," Mark denied, shaking his head, "It needs a lot of work––"

"You've been writing it for two years, Mark."

That was their friendship, Beth guessed, being a cheerleader for the other no matter what. She watched Derek advocate for Mark and smiled slightly–– but then, whenever she looked at Mark and saw the way a muscle ticked over in his temple, she felt bewilderment inch into her bones.

Surely his ego was built for this, his arrogance was built to schmooze and boast about his achievements? This was what Mark Sloan lived and breathed for, right?

He just smiled uneasily and rubbed at his jaw, even as Derek started listing research topics that Mark had put into his thesis. The passion came from the neurosurgeon, engaging with this super comprehensive breakdown of burn rehabilitation that Beth didn't even realise was possible.

The whole time, Mark just stayed silent, nodding very softly, but silently. It was weird, Beth found–– she hadn't realised that it was physically possible for him to be silent.

When Derek finished his mini-lecture, Beth just continued to watch him. So much information had been thrust at her, but she was, once again, reminded of Mark's passion at the hospital mixer. Idly, she wondered where that was.

"It sounds interesting," Beth said honestly. It did. "You've gotta have hospitals lining up to fund you, right?"

She knew from the slight contortion in his face that she'd read this all wrong.

"You'd think that," was Derek's grave answer.

She just frowned.

"But that's a viable research topic," She said, and she spoke directly to Mark as she said it. Her head swirled with the possibilities of his proposal, all of the help that he could give to millions of patients that were affected by highly painful procedures, "I mean, it looks you've put so much work into this and you clearly have all of the necessary research points that you need––"

"Yeah," Mark said, and she watched him rebuild himself into something strikingly charismatic. A darkly amused chuckle fell past his lips as he took a long drag from his beer, "My thesis isn't the problem––"

Oh?

A slight snicker came from Derek and Beth looked over at him, watching as the neurosurgeon inclined his head in Mark's direction, his beer following suit.

"It's Mark," Derek said, and the realisation clicked, "It's him they have a problem with."

Oh.

Beth should've seen it coming.

It made sense why he'd fallen quiet; it fit the arrogant aesthetic.

That muscle that had twitched in his jaw? That was almost displacement, that was the reluctance to accept that whatever flaw they'd found in his thesis was him.

His method was perfect, his preparation research and notes were beyond comprehensive–– but the part that didn't fit his fantasy? His idea of himself and his sense of grandeur.

The only thing he had to change when it came to this whole situation, to get the funding was himself. 

That, to her (and to all of the psychology textbooks she'd schmoozed through in college), was the true contention of any narcissist.

She could tell from the way he snorted that it clearly didn't mean that much to him.

"It's BS," was all that Mark could say, "I'm the best they're ever gonna get. I'm a fucking fantastic surgeon––"

"Who can't keep in his pants, huh?" Beth's lip twitched and she chuckled as Mark rolled his eyes. Her joke came off-handedly, a funny one-liner that she thought would make him sigh: "What did you do... sleep with half the funding board or something?"

A beat passed.

Almost mechanically, Derek's head turned to stare down the plastic surgeon, as if he knew something that Beth didn't. Her brow creased, furrowing as she watched Mark clear his throat and readjust himself in his chair–– then, ever so slowly, her eyebrows raised again.

"Oh," She said, this time out loud, "Oh holy shit––"

Mark waved a dismissive hand, "It wasn't the whole funding board."

(Somehow, that wasn't very reassuring.)

"They don't think he's a very responsible representative of the Surgical Research Association," Derek explained evenly, despite the fact that Beth was still very stuck on the realisation that yeah, this man really was a whore. "These past few months they've been going for surgical Attendings that fit more of a family-man... or... or stable ideal––"

"Like I said," Mark interrupted with a bitter smile, "It's bullshit."

"It's karma," was Derek's counter.

The bachelor just rolled his eyes.

"Whatever it is, it's stopping me from saving lives," He said dryly, waving yet another hand as if he was trying to waft this whole conversation away, just like it was a bad smell, "I could be changing the face of surgical innovation right now and they want to throw up some crap about how I didn't call one trustee back after a date–?"

"I'm sure she's got a good reason," Beth mumbled.

"He... He was a shit kisser," Mark bit back, his voice pitching slightly. Beth's eyebrows raised just a tiny bit, but she didn't speak. "What was I supposed to do?"

"I don't know," Her sarcasm made him scoff, "Be a decent person?"

"And if I remember correctly," Derek seemed as though he was mentally very far away, probably on some hot beach lying in the sun. His eyes squinted over at his best friend as if he was straining to recollect, "It was a few more than just one."

"Look," Mark began, and again, Beth and Derek exchanged a glance. It was as if they could sense whenever he was on the edge of a monologue. "It's not my fault that I'm irresistible, okay––?"

"Oh fuck off."

(That was Beth.)

"I'm just really good with people," He said, and he tried to say it as logically as Derek had laid out all of his research plans. It was as if it was just another fact after fact, a list of things that couldn't be argued with. "It's not my fault if people get ideas about where the night is going... or have ideas about what we are to each other. That's on them... not me... just like your friend Carly––"

"Carla," Derek corrected distantly.

"––Carla. It's not my fault that she read into the situation––"

"You fucked her, Mark," was all that Beth could say, "You invited her into your apartment, screwed her and then told her to leave–– that's not reading into the situation, that's just being a shitty person."

It was, by all means, just plain fact. It was Mark's fault. There was no such thing as infatuation, not like that. No one human being was that powerful, Beth didn't believe it.

Sure, Mark was pretty and Sure, he was smooth and charming–– but he wasn't some sort of celestial body.

He wasn't the sun and they weren't planets just orbiting around him. Beth believed that whatever this was, it was all him.

He was the jerk and the douchebag, all in one, all in pretty boy packaging.

"She knew what she was getting into," He shrugged, and that was that. 

Beth somehow and somewhat was beginning to think that was true. 

Did they see the red flags? Didn't they notice the signs?

Was he really that pretty to make it all worth it?

Beth wasn't sure.

"I still don't know how you do it," Derek cleared his throat, seeming to perfectly read her mind. A light scoff fell through Mark's lips as he regarded them incredulously as if he wasn't sure whether to take offence. "How do you get all of these women?"

Mark let out a long sigh, adjusting his seating. The two of them just watched, dual observers in the melodrama that was Mark Sloan's life, and raised eyebrows as he looked between them:

"You guys really want to know?"

"Yeah," Derek said as if he had nothing better to do.

"Not really," was Beth's reply.

(Not to exactly brag, or anything, but Beth considered herself to be able to hold her own. Women included. She didn't need a masterclass when it came to sweet-talking women and sure as hell didn't need to sit here and listen to Mark brag about his conquests. The logic was that she was perfectly capable of flirting and holding someone's attention, even if she struggled to enter rooms full of snotty socialites. It was all about balance.)

Her eye twitched slightly as she watched Mark rub his hands together as if he was about to step on stage and give some TEDtalk.

On second thought, was what she said to herself almost in a proclamation of grief, Bring back the humble part.

"It's simple," He began, with all the finesse of an expert in his field. They both, very visibly, watched his ego swell and glanced at each other.

Beth tilted her chin at Derek (This is your fault, that look said, This is ALL on you!) and Mark smiled the sort of smirk that she recognised from a country club very deep into her youth.

Mark shrugged and raised his forearms, "I just know what I want."

What had they expected?

(Somehow, better than this.)

Jeez.

Had she looked like this much of an asshole when she'd said it.

Beth bit the tip of her tongue. Instead of speaking, she opted to swirl beer through her teeth as if it were mouthwash. She let the taste of it swamp every inch of her, just as Derek blinked at Mark and seemed to struggle to comprehend what bullshit he'd thrown at them.

"Jeez," Beth said when she realised Derek wasn't going to speak. She ended a very curt silence, the sort that had had Mark completely content with his own righteousness. "I was joking about the Rohypnol—"

"I mean it," Mark said, and she had no doubt that he did. (People, after all, could mean a host of things but that didn't mean she had to believe them.) "All you have to know is what you want and then the sky is the limit––"

"You sound like you host self-improvement seminars in some hotel in a desert resort town," was all that Beth could contribute. Derek's lips twitched into a wry smile, "You sound like crappy coffee and an STD from a post-panel hookup––"

"––Women like a guy who knows what he wants," Mark continued, completely unfazed by her commentary. 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. "They think it's hot. They like to be told what they need and how to want it," Beth's eyebrow raised and she looked down at her beer. (Yeah, she couldn't relate.) "You just have to look them in the eye and work from there... it's all about confidence and assertiveness––"

"And this code?" Derek asked, looking as though he was not taking this seriously at all. Under the table, Beth nudged him with her foot, exasperated over the fact that he was encouraging him. "What is your whole code thing?"

Beth smiled to herself.

"Let me guess, Biggie Smalls," She deadpanned with the lip of her bottle against her bottom teeth, "The Ten Manwhore Commandments?"

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

Wow.

He said each one without hesitation as if they built the fundamental pillars of his whole life. The identity of Mark Sloan splayed out in three phrases that he'd probably once scrawled on the back of a coffee-stained serviette.

Beth listened to each one, each bullet point, her brow furrowed and body tensed in a surprisingly intricate conversation. Three rules. The surgeon sat in front of them had three codes of conduct and, in Beth's opinion, they all sounded fucking dumb.

(And intrinsically lonely too. It sounded like a very, very lonely way to live, Beth couldn't imagine it. How could anyone feel valued if they just fucked and dumped over and over and over––?)

"Wait," Derek's voice sounded in mid introspection, his face twisted in bewilderment, "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.

It was, admittedly, very interesting to watch. It was, to Beth, as if she was suddenly thrust into a tiny piece of his world, a glimpse at the logic and thinking of a man who was more notorious in Manhattan than Chlamydia.

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.

Beth found it frighteningly fascinating.

"And didn't you sleep with Holly Reznick twice in undergrad––?"

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

"Yeah," Beth threw in her two cents, making a face over at Derek. She mewled almost sympathetically, tempted to place her hand on her heart, "Didn't you hear? His memory isn't great. He can't possibly be held responsible––"

He was perfectly even, completely unbothered by the mention of Carla for the fiftieth time. His lip even quirked with a slight smirk, as if he found her comment cute.

"Look," was all that Mark could throw back. "What do you want me to do? I can't remember everyone's name! I'm sorry your friend was hurt but I can't keep up with everyone––"

(It was the first of many shitty apologies Mark would give to Beth over the years.)

"How about you don't sleep with my friends," Beth suggested, head turning to give him a scathing look, "How about you leave my friends alone so I don't have to watch them get fucked over and deal with them sobbing down my phone at 3 am?"

He just looked back at her.

It was in that moment that Beth was reminded how intense his gaze was. 

Eye contact with Mark seemed like a danger in itself. She was holding his gaze as his lip twitched and he leant, ever so softly across the table–– her breath caught very slightly as his arm crossed the nomads land between them and Beth wasn't exactly sure where this was going to go––

For a split second, goosebumps were rising on the back of her neck and his thumb almost caught her arm as it rested against the table––

He retracted, sliding a beer coaster that had been beside her back towards him.

"It takes two to tango, Montgomery," Mark said, and that was that. His smile was long, eyes glimmered and Beth had to swallow just to remind herself that she was grounded on this planet, "They know exactly what they're signing up for... wouldn't you?"

(She hated the way she couldn't look away.)

Son of a––

No, Beth wasn't going down easy.

She knew that there was purpose there, in his eyes and in his smile... and she wouldn't fall for it. Her gaze hardened and she looked away, over at Derek to find some scapegoat for the thick tension that played between them.

It helped her to catch her breath and, ever so faintly, shake her head as if to clear Mark from her mind.

Derek, however, hadn't noticed the very startling pause in the conversation. His face was contorted in thought as he very clearly ran through every encounter he'd ever had with Mark and one of his pursuits.

"I'm calling bullshit," He declared, almost dramatically, "I swear you used to let Samantha Riley stay over all the time–– in that twin bed upstate––"

Idly, Beth wondered how different that list was from the one Mark had in his mind–– did Derek remember more or did he tend to turn a blind eye out of the necessity of wishful thinking? Did he organise it too? Was it by bra size or the intensity of the fallout?

Mark just scoffed.

"That was then," The bachelor drawled, "This is now. I'm a changed man, Shep––"

"You are?"

Beth's question was tentative, slightly bewildered. (A changed man? She didn't believe that. She, in fact, was a strict believer that men like Mark never changed. They were too stuck in their choices, too deeply engrained in their arrogance and their egos.

She knew Mark's design. It was so much like her father's... charisma, the elevated grandeur... it was bound to lead to an unhappy marriage full of affairs and inevitable alcoholism.) Her eyebrows raised and he just chuckled at her; it was Mark's turn to shake his head.

"I am," He agreed, "I turned over a new leaf."

Wow, Beth thought to herself, What a fancy way to say you just got worse.

"I know what I want," Mark continued, and she felt his eyes stick to her even though she wasn't looking, "Is that really so bad?"

(Yes, Beth would think in retrospect, all those years later, It's the worst thing that'll ever happen to us.)

But, in New York, Beth didn't say that. Instead, she cracked a wide grin, sighing through clenched molars and intent to push the evening onwards. Her eyes bounced between the two men:

"Right, who wants to do shots?"

──────

　　AUTHOR'S NOTE ! . . .
the dynamic between these dumbasses makes me very happy.
you're so vain is also the ultimate mark song, argue with the wall!
next chapter: beth meets callie, she kisses someone she shouldn't, 
meredith gets drunk and derek's spiral into his reputation era continues!

WORD COUNT ! . . . 8900
REWRITTEN ON 23RD OF JANUARY 2022