Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟴𝟳 derek and mark

She was stood on the other side of the hallway, directly in front of him, watching as he screeched to a stop in his pacing. 

He almost winced at the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the floor. 

She did too, he watched the slight grimace pinch her perfect smile as he looked up at her. 

There was a brief pause, the flash of his signature (if not apologetic) smile.

"He's ready for you."

It felt oddly formal, Mark thought. 

His best friend was locked behind a stacked timetable, a classy secretary and some shiny windows. It was so professional and Mark felt so out-of-place; his usual stagnant arrogance and charm dwindled into the curt thanks he gave to the employee ("Thanks Tanya") and he had to fight against the urge to shove his hands in his pockets. 

He'd had to book an appointment, get it cleared with Derek before he even entered the room, like asking permission to even talk to him.

Crap, when had things gotten so serious?

Opening the door felt a lot more dramatic than Mark would've liked. 

He stared at the plaque holding Derek's name on the door, proclaiming him Chief like he was an overlord of some very tiny kingdom. 

Mark felt his chest ache a little bit–– if he had to describe the feeling that filled him, with all irony pushed aside, he would've said always the bridesmaid and never the bride. 

There was something about this big flashy office, Tanya and the big important desk that bought Mark back to where they began: two kids who were a little too lost for a city like Manhattan.

Derek didn't greet him as he entered. 

He could see him sat there at his desk, working away as if the whole world was against him all at once. There was a stack of papers on the table top and a frown in the corner of the surgeon's mouth. 

Mark wiped his palms, of which were slightly clammy, on the pant leg of his scrubs and gave his best friend an earnest smile. He was nervous and he had a sneaky suspicion that he knew why... He gently picked his way across the office to stand in front of the Chief of Surgery. 

Derek was in the middle of hurriedly writing something, the sound of a pen scratching against paper causing Mark to, unceremoniously, drag in a very long breath.

"What do you need, Mark?" Derek spoke with a short tone, "I haven't got much time."

He didn't look up from his work either. 

There was so much urgency in him. It reminded Mark how slammed this man's work schedule was today, and how he'd only been able to negotiate the tiniest, slimmest time slot imaginable. He supposed that he should've even felt lucky to have such a grand audience with him.

He had five minutes. Usually, Mark was perfectly five with five minutes. 

He'd handled five minutes. He'd executed five minutes extremely well in the past (to very good reviews, he would've liked to add.) 

Time, on a normal day, was far from an issue.

But today... Today Mark had a little bit more to say than he quite knew what to do with. 

The words tumbled around his mouth like balls in a bingo machine. He almost gargled them, sorely unsure of what would pop out. Would a coherent statement come out or would it just be a number five? 

Mark was sure that something like a nightmare sequence, gussying himself up to speak, opening his mouth for only a ping pong ball to bounce around the room.