Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟳𝟰 maroon

Her dark eyes followed the way he tilted his head inquisitive.

"I can hear them," Beth said, "All those thoughts buzzing around that big head of yours."

He looked away, shaking his head carefully, "I wasn't."

"Hm," Beth mused, her voice sleepy and light, "The man lies."

They were coming home from one of Addison's weekly dinners. Mark hadn't drunk anything because he'd driven in from across the city. Beth had come straight from a shift, bleary-eyed and complaining how she'd torn a ladder in her tights while changing in the locker room.

He hadn't seen her all week, not since they'd had a brief kiss on New Year's Eve, neither of them taking the holiday off to attend Addison's annual party. He was beginning to feel as though he was lucky to get the time that he got.

And, just as Beth had sensed, he had lied.

    "I was thinking that you must be tired," Mark corrected his previous statement, causing her to chuckle to herself. He smiled to himself. It was nice to hear it. "I feel like I never see you sleep."

    "I'm busy," Beth mumbled into the sleeve of Mark's jacket.

It looked so large on her that she looked so tiny. He almost didn't catch the words, but she moved, the crinkle of fabric filling the cracks where white noise fizzled at their ears.

"I'm always so busy," She said.

It was said in a tired way, as if she was, in that moment, realising how many hours in the day that weren't hers.

Mark's jaw clenched slightly, his throat tightening as he listened to the exhausted, tired sigh that followed her words. She was busy. She was busy to the point where they were both all too aware of the fact that she was going to burn herself out. He didn't understand how Beth could do it, how she could sprint without needing to stop to catch her breath.

He bit down on the tip of his tongue.

Beth had turned her chin to stare out at the passing streets, eyes glazing over street lamps and lit windows.

When he glanced over at her, this time, he was met with the back of her head. He couldn't see the expression on her face but he could hear the breath that left her; it was another exhale of pure air, of exhaustion and stress.

It caused goosebumps to rise on the back of his neck--

    "I'm sorry I'm never there."

An apology? A dent appeared between his eyebrows. For the second time, he thought that he'd misheard her-- an apology? Why was she sorry for--?

They came to another stop sign and he found himself meeting her eye, watching as Beth swallowed her yawn and gave him a strained smile.

It was such a gentle expression that he almost forgot that they were sat in a car in the middle of Manhattan. She saw the look of confusion that flickered across his face so hesitantly and searched his eyes, her pupils bouncing from one eye to the other.

He knew what she meant.

He knew exactly what she was referring to.

She was talking about how they never had moments like these, how they never were able to spend the night, how they only had moments that felt stuck in between places or in transitions. How they only had minutes or seconds and never hours or days.

    "It's okay," Mark said in response.

He didn't really know what else to say.

His eyes returned to the road in front of them. (He wasn't sure whether it was okay. He wasn't sure about many things when it came to her.) He could tell that his reply didn't satisfy her.