A/N: Unbetaed. Angsty. In the second-person. References S3, as well as Derek/Addison/Mark backstory.
Plastics. There's a word to define your life.
You remember when you saw her walk down the aisle. You, standing next to Derek, watched her float down the aisle, a picture in white. You, thinking of all the things you shouldn't have been. And the one thing that you always remember is that you thought that he didn't deserve her. Derek, the future brain surgeon with the perfect hair and the perfect smile, didn't deserve her. And, as the alcohol slides down your throat easier than your thoughts, you didn't either. Plastics are transparent and artificial. Just like you.
You remember being the friend. You remember helping Derek with all the relationship stuff that seemed to clog his filters. Rule number one. Memorizing is important. Her birthday. Gift-giving holidays. Her favorite color. Things. Where she likes to shop. Foods. You never know when they'll come up again. Derek never listened to him. And he still wouldn't listen to him if they were on friendly terms. Which they aren't. Civility and friendship are divided by a gap wider than you imagined.
Fast forward a couple years and, even though she doesn't know it, you're practically her husband. You wish you were. Derek forgets everything. Everything but his surgeries and his patients and his medical terminology. You pick up where he slacks. You've bought everything Addison's received for every passed birthday since they've gotten married. Well…almost. And you can't believe that Derek doesn't think there's anything wrong with that. You wonder if she's noticed. She is a fucking doctor, after all. It's not as if everyone can be a brain surgeon.
She cooks a special dinner one night and you stop by because Derek's stuck at the hospital. Like he always is. She cries as she eats, and you can't think of anything to say or do. She asks what you think of the fish, and you just pick at your food and take little bites and say it's the best thing you've ever eaten. She knows you're lying, but she absorbs it anyway because it makes her feel better. When she goes to do the dishes, you stand behind her and you think she smells nice. That's the start of all your troubles.
She looks uncomfortable and you look uncomfortable and the dishes are drying and you sit on the couch with her and try not to look or act as uncomfortable as you both feel. You watch a movie, some saccharine romantic comedy that makes both of you cringe. She falls asleep halfway, her head landing on your shoulder. You stay awake. You stay awake because you think she's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and she smells nice. When the credits roll, you scoop her into your arms and try to carry her to the bedroom. She wakes up in your arms. That's the first time you think this feels like marriage.
She kisses you. It comes out of nowhere, and it's not like you haven't been praying for it for years because you have. You kiss her back, and you have no idea what kind of hole you're digging yourself. The one that lies two inches ahead of you. Your clothes fly somewhere and all you can think is that this is Addison. Red hair and red nails and clawing at you. Gasping and breathing and kissing. The door opens and you think that this is the end. You're right. You hear that Derek transfers to Seattle some time later. Plastics separate things. Just like you.
She runs to you because you're the best friend. You're the answer to all of her problems. You wonder if she's lost sight of the fact that you're the cause of all of her problems in the first place. Maybe it was never you. Blue eyes fill with tears. You hate Derek sometimes. Like now. You hate Derek so much you can't breathe. He did this to her. You know all about it. She asked you once. Love isn't supposed to do things like this, she said. But he did, she said. He did this to her. He and Love. It's a conspiracy. You tell her she sounds like a sound bite from the X-Files. She looks at you. Love is supposed to do things like this, you tell her. Love is like heroin, you tell her. She looks confused. It's gratifying in the beginning, but when it slowly dies in you, there's nothing you'd like more than getting it back. It's impossible. Sometimes miracles happen, she said. Miracles never happen anywhere except in Disney movies, you tell her. You both sit there and be sad.
You try and make her happy. She lives with you and New York is the same it's always been. Uncaring, but not cruel. You smile and you laugh and she smiles and she laughs and both of you kiss and both of you smile and you have sex. It's like a real life episode of Leave it to Beaver or something. You think you love her. It floods your veins faster than you thought it would. Maybe you've been hiding this since they've been married. Or dating. Was it so long ago? A decade's gone by and all you feel is older. Where's the wisdom? Love is a sadist, you think.
She explains to you what happened. Derek killed her slowly, you think. Derek with his fake smiles and his perfect hair and his perfect smile and his perfect brain. You hold her, and you kiss her. You try and tell her that you'll be different. She smiles at you and calls you her Mark. You do all the things that Derek never did. You cook for her. You sometimes walk with her to a restaurant. Derek always drove. You tell her that New York isn't a city. It's a person. It needs to be seen. Breathed. Heard. Felt. She laughs. You miss the sound of her laughter. Plastic is an illusory thing. You're just an illusion.
You think that maybe this is your father's fault. Your father with his aspirations for you to be a doctor. No. This isn't just your father's fault. It's your mother's fault too. You remember them. You remember how he would sometimes take you with him to bars and let you watch him kiss other women. He would always bring you home before the date ended. And all you remember is your mother's face. Smiling while she wept. It was sad. As a six-year-old, you think, maybe one day, you'll be able to fix her. Plastics are perfect. Just like you tried to be.
You know that you're just human. Humans do stupid things a lot of the time. You sit in a bar in downtown Manhattan, and you drink. You remember how the alcohol slid down your throat easier than your feelings. She sidles up to you. Pretty. Young. Blonde. Three things that, in combination, usually spell sex for you. You crack her a grin, and she smiles back at you. You don't even know why you're flirting. You're in love. It's when Addison catches you, just when the blonde's nails dig into your back and your lips are on her neck. Your heart pulls when you take a look at her face. She's not angry and throwing things and screaming. She's just so resigned. You can tell that she thinks that this is what she gets. The blonde crawls off of you, and dresses as Addison shuts the door. Not slams. Shuts. It closes with a click. Not with a bang, but with a whimper. Derek was the first. You always follow the conjunction.
After the blonde leaves, you sit in the silence with her shoes and her smell and her kitchen and you think about what just happened. You're hardly so reflective. Derek killed her the slow way, you think. Torturously. He killed her with indifference. He didn't pay attention and he didn't act loving and you were her savior, her saving grace. You killed her the fast way, you think. In one shot. One scene. Whether you stab someone or you shoot them, they die. And you want to kill yourself for making her die two deaths. You still love her too. That's the worst part. You lay in bed. You don't cry. You just lay there and feel your heart beat painfully in your chest.
She comes in during the middle of the night, packs some of her things, and leaves. She doesn't even leave you a note. That's all right, you think. You don't deserve an explanation. You fish out a destination eventually and you decide to go after her. You can be a selfish asshole sometimes, you think. You're only trying to go and get her forgiveness. You feel like you've slighted the dirtiest angel on earth.
You work at Seattle Grace and you live in a hotel and sometimes you have sex with her. Maybe she used to love you. Maybe she still does. You can't tell though. Her eyes just put forth an empty shell. Maybe you broke her. Both of you. You and Derek. Playing with something that you weren't supposed to, that was greater than the both of you, worth more than both of you would ever know or imagine.
She tells you about the baby. She tells you she wanted a baby with Derek and suddenly you hate him all over again. He's Derek the brain surgeon, the one all the interns want to marry, the one they call McDreamy. Oh, he's fucking perfect. Brilliant, rich, with perfect hair and perfect teeth and he could play a doctor on TV, if he wanted to. And you? You're just the asshole who makes interns get your coffee and your dry cleaning. You wonder what life would've been like if she would have told you. You wonder if you'd live in Manhattan, with a nursery painted a pretty pastel color, being the Leave it to Beaver episode you once thought you both embodied. You have a short-term memory.
You catch her staring at her intern, who used to be your intern. You catch her with that expression on her face, almost drooling. That's when you feel a pang in your heart that tells you to kill Alex Karev and do it quickly, subtly, and quietly. And don't get caught. Or perform a full-body skin graft on him without anesthesia. You wonder if you've always been so malicious and vindictive. Maybe your hatred of Derek serves a reminder.
She comes by your hotel room, and you mock her. You tell her in that know-it-all way that you've mastered that you thought she said she wasn't going to think about you. And she says something, but you can't catch it, because she says it in the raspy whisper thing that she does that makes you forget everything in the world. Your hands slide up and down her bare skin that feels so smooth beneath you. This is your salvation, Mark Sloan, you think. You kiss her and it tastes like grace and beauty and opportunity. But you know that whatever happens, even if you somehow manage to ensnare the happy ending, you'll fuck it up. You'll fuck her up. You'll fuck something up because that's what's happened since you were born. Plastics are fleeting. Just like you.
You've never been able to hold salvation in your hands for more than a second, and you've never seen eternity at all. When you die, your life won't flash before your eyes. You wonder if you'll die at all. You'll just get recycled, always playing the part of the brutish asshole who hurts everyone he loves. You wonder if this all started with your parents' disappointment. You try and hold salvation in your arms for as long as you can, you try and kiss love as much as you can, but you know it won't matter anyway. You have a short-term memory.
You hold her in your hands, and she's slipping through, like butter. Addison, you whisper. Maybe if you say her name some more, she'll stay longer than she did last time. Mark, she whispers back, throwing her head back. You kiss her neck, but not in the spot you kissed the blonde's neck. You want this to last forever so much. You know it won't happen. You have a short term memory, you think, as you kiss her swollen lips, but you have 20/20 hindsight.