Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟭𝟳 this is what makes us girls

"You're a bad feminist," I told the despaired face in the mirror. "You're a fucking awful feminist."

In all honesty, I didn't know whether this made me a bad feminist— what did it make me? Other than a notch on Mark Sloan's bedpost? Did it make me a drunk mess?

Holy shit— Addie's going to kill me?

What a scandal this was turning out to be. Addison Montgomery's little sister had gotten blackout drunk at her vow renewals and slept with her designated douchey asshole friend—

Way to fucking go Beth.

I'd singlehandedly pushed feminism back a hundred years. I'd gone back against everything I'd said to that dumbass man (that dumbass handsome man) outside in my hotel room.

I was a hypocrite— a dumb fucking hypocrite who'd— Oh god, I was starting to remember what I'd said to him, how I'd smiled and had literally dragged him up into my hotel room—

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"You good in there, Montgomery?'

I blanched. It was as if he was stood there in the doorway. My body snapped into proper posture, I raised my chin and cleared my throat, putting my mental breakdown on standby— I nodded, even though he couldn't see me through the gilded wood and fancy panelling.

"Uh huh." My voice was a lot more hesitate than I'd intended it to be. I swore under my breath. My shoulders fell.

Wow, that sounded convincing.

"Okay," He said. He paused. "You're not trying to cause a drought in Florida, are you?"

My head swung towards the faucet. I shook my head slowly. Why the hell had I thought that having sex with Mark of all people— Fuck Florida, I was two seconds away from drowning myself in the bathtub.

I was seriously considering it. My eyes drifted in between the window and the door— or maybe I could crawl out of the window. Six floors didn't seem too bad—

I met my own gaze in the mirror.

Listen to yourself, you dumb bitch. You're going crazy. And over who, exactly?

I'd let Mark Sloan get to my head. He was far more effective than the eight (oh fuck, it was nine wasn't it?) glasses of champagne I'd knocked back.

I couldn't even count the wine. I was pretty sure I'd had some of Mark's scotch too-- oh crap. We'd stolen a bottle of Prosecco from the free bar--

Drunk Beth was a whole different sort of person. She did dumber bitch things— I glared at the door— like sleep around.

One day, I vowed to myself, I'm going to make good decisions.

***

SEATTLE

"Izzie's married."

George had been lying on the sofa in the corner of my office, staring at the ceiling as he repeated the phrase over and over to himself. I'd been sat at my desk, filling out paperwork, with his voice like a low hum in the background.

I paused as George paused; he'd been at it for a while now, just lying there like he was stuck on a default setting, repeating it over and over to himself.

His rambling been circulating about like a background song to me, just over the classical music that I always liked to play when I did boring things like forms and signatures, it'd become almost like white noise, something that barely bothered me to the point where I hadn't noticed it—it was when it stopped that I was actually startled.