Author's Note: Okay, so I know I haven't updated in FOREVER but I just could not write for the longest time. I tried but hated everything I managed to get onto the word document. I am finally managing to get my thoughts out now and I'm trying not to beat myself up about it not being too great because I know I just need to write and it will naturally improve as I go along. Anyway I will stop ranting now. Here's another little one-shot. Nothing too fancy but I thought it was a cute idea. Inspired by my roommate's experience at a party. Hope you enjoy! Please review, even if it's criticism. I don't have a beta and I wrote this at 3 am last night in between studying for finals so there are probably typos. I apologize for that.

"It's been a long, long time since I've memorized your face. It's been four hours now since I've wandered through your place."

It's another evening spent in the company of his favorite redhead, this time in the brownstone she shares with her husband. Said husband is opting to spend the night in the on-call room, something that surprises neither one of them when she reads the email he sent her aloud. She's not nearly as upset about his absence these days, or she has become expert in hiding it. So here they are. The movie they were watching has long since ended and Addison has nearly drained all the merlot from the wine bottle and Mark was working on his third beer.

"Do you remember that impromptu costume party Derek's blockhead roommate Peter hosted?" Addison asks, out of left field.

He glances down at her, sprawled on the beige rug that stretches across her living room, the chaos of her long crimson hair fanned out around her head, like an orb.

"I sure do," he smirks at the amusing memory and takes a swig from his beer bottle. It was that night that his best friend introduced Addison to him, and while they were mere acquaintances in the years following, Mark didn't miss an opportunity to use the experience to tease her mercilessly.

"It was my first college party," Addison admits bashfully, rolling her eyes back to look at him.

Mark scoots closer to the edge of the couch and his eyebrows shoot up subtly.

"Addison," he snickers, "that was the end of med school." Was he getting his timeline screwed up? Her blank stare answered his question and he shakes his head, incredulous. "You didn't go to a single party when you were actually in college?"

"I was busy," her arms fold across her chest in her typical defensive manner. His snort echoes off the walls of the room and she pushes up on her elbows, spinning around to face him. "I was!" she maintains, "I was very focused on my schoolwork, and my internships, and-, and-, I had that research assistant position with my pathogenesis professor-"

"Right, of course," Mark chuckles, head hung, "the research position."

"Are you making fun of me for being a dedicated student?" she pouts from her spot on the floor.

He watches her reach over for her wine glass, and smiles fondly.

"No, I am making fun of you for being a nerd."

"Just because I had no interest in chasing cheap shots of tequila with Sunny-D and wasting hours participating in drunken arguments about the rules of Beirut doesn't make me a nerd."

"Uh-uh," Mark shakes his head as he swallows the last of his beer and places his empty bottle onto the end table, making sure to utilize the coaster Addison had intentionally laid out for him earlier. "That does not make you a nerd," he acknowledged, but before she could revel in the effortless victory quickly added, "but that ridiculous costume you wore, does."

"Wha-" Addison's mouth falls open in a feeble attempt to defend her dignity. She stumbles over a few words before settling on slapping his shin playfully, "shut up! It's not my fault everyone else failed to dress up."

This elicits another heartfelt chortle. "I am pretty sure the only person that did any type failing that night was," his pointer finger winds in circle as it inches towards her, and his body follows, "you."

Now it's her turn to smirk and she tips her head to the side, her hair spilling onto her shoulder and shrugs, innocently. "Pretty sure your success rate declined a bit that night too."

His response is a firm grin and he stands up to refill her wine glass and get another beer from her fridge, but not before she sees his steel blue eyes darken.

He arrived fashionably late to find Derek's living room packed with what he could have guessed to be a hundred strangers. Well, male strangers. He recognized quite a few skimpily dressed girls as he pushed his way towards the terrace in search of his best friend. The apartment was dim, illuminated by a few black lights haphazardly mounted on the bare white walls, and Peter's tower speakers (his only contribution to the space he shared with Derek) exploded with a Clash song he vaguely recognized. Derek got to pick the music, then.

He reached his destination only to step into a more crowded area. He could see his best friend in the middle of said crowd, shouting some vulgar words of discouragement across a long wooden table, as he lined up four red cups in a vertical diamond.

"Winning?" he inquired, reaching the table.

"Mark," Derek stumbled towards him drunkenly, and Mark had to wonder how it is his best friend always managed to be under the table after just a couple of beers. Derek's fist collided with Mark's open hand in an unsuccessful attempt at a greeting and Mark felt himself being pulled in for a brotherly hug.

"You want next game?" Derek suggested as he repositioned himself at the table's end next to Peter and fished a ping pong ball out of one of the plastic cups.

Mark answered with a shake of his head. "Where's the beer?" he asked after looking around and not spotting a cooler.

"Kitchen," Peter answered for Derek who was currently concentrating on aiming the plastic ball in his hand at the other team's arrangement of cups.

Despite the many downsides of Derek's ancient New Haven building, (old pipes, run down paint, grimy bathroom tiles) the old fashioned floor plans had their advantages. The rooms were decently sized, his terrace stretched for a good ten yards, and his kitchen was separate from the living area. He managed to open the door and get inside the small space after a little trouble navigating through the hordes of people occupying every inch of the living room.

Once safely inside, Mark absorbed his surroundings, eyebrows perking up at the recognition that he was not alone. He smiled by way of greeting at the kitchen's other occupant, a redhead sitting quietly on the counter beside the sink.

His smile was not returned. Instead her eyes burnt into him like cigarettes, and he stood frozen for a moment, unable to divert his gaze. She looked away first, and his eyes followed her hand as it reached into the sink and retrieved a half-empty bottle of Absolut Vodka. Mark allowed the side of his mouth to pinch into an amused smirk. Habitually, his well-trained eyes began their trek down her body. They didn't get far before his face contorted in puzzlement. She wore a black cloak, tied gingerly around her neck, and a gold and red striped tie hung around the white collar peaking out from beneath the garment. Her long legs were clad in a pair of charcoal slacks, the outfit culminating with a pair of black oxfords on her feet.

She must have noticed his perplexed expression because she sighed heavily, drawing his attention back to her face. He watched two annoyed pupils stare at him from behind a pair of round, thick-rimmed glasses and he wondered how he hadn't noticed them before. What was with this girl?

"It's a costume party," she declared resentfully, raising her hands shoulder-level as if at gunpoint (and he still laughs fondly at the memory of that vodka bottle in her right hand and what she later informed him was a wand in her left).

"Is it? I guess I wasn't informed," the chuckle left his throat before he had a chance to contain it, "me and everyone else out there," he added, just for good measure.

The redhead rolled her eyes and busied herself with pouring a shot of the alcohol in her hand. Mark studied her over the door of the refrigerator as he blindly felt for a bottle of beer inside. For the life of him he could not figure out what it was she meant to dress up as. Shoving the door shut, he crossed the kitchen towards the counter, all the while keeping his eyes on her.

"What?" the object of his focus spoke, annoyance evident in her voice.

He recoiled slightly, aligning the cap of his bottle with the edge of the counter and pulling until it snapped off. "Just trying to," he gestured towards her attire with the opened bottle, "figure out what it is you're supposed to be."

One perfectly manicured eyebrow crawled up her forehead and he resisted smoothing out the wrinkled skin with his thumb. A thin, lightening-bolt shaped mark on her forehead caught his eye. Creasing his own eyebrows, he leaned back a little.

"Stop looking at me like I have fibrous dysplasia," she demanded before tipping her head back as she emptied the shot glass into her mouth.

He leaned against the counter, his interest peaked even more. "And what do you know about fibrous dysplasia?"

The girl in the black coat squared her shoulders, raising her jaw as if accepting a challenge. "Fibrous dysplasia is a congenital, metabolic, nonfamilial disturbance that occurs in one or more bones, at times in association with skin pigmentations or endocrine abnormalities," she recited, hoping off her place on the counter. Her hand quickly wrapped around the counter's edge to steady herself, and Mark could tell that the last shot she took was likely preceded by at least a few. She continued. "Approximately one-third of patients with fibrous dysplasia have involvement of the cranial or facial bones." A hiccup interrupted her tirade, but only for a split second. "Deformity, diplopia, proptosis, sinus infection, deafness, and loss of vision, are some of the clinical features that may require early surgical management. Evidence is given to support more complete resection of bony lesions with immediate reconstruction by several techniques…"

Mark stared at her wide-eyed, finally interrupting when he saw no intent of stopping in her eyes. "What did you memorize the entire chapter?" he asked, his tone balancing amazement and mockery.

"You asked," she shrugged, and the low pitch of her voice made it difficult to let her turn away from him. So he didn't. His hand was on her forearm before he realized he had even moved, turning her back to face him as she turned to walk away. He didn't miss the small flames in her eyes as she stared at him indignantly. It was his cue to release his hold of her arm.

"What is this," his finger reached up to her forehead to trace the black mark he had observed minute prior. The ink smeared beneath his fingertips. Oops.

"It's a scar."

"A scar." He repeated, dumbfounded.

"I'm Harry Potter." She declared as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Oh," He nodded in mock comprehension, "okay."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You don't know who that is."

He raised up his hands in surrender. "You got me."

"Whatever," she sighed, peeling the comical spectacles off of the bridge of her nose, "want a shot?"

Why not. He didn't plan on driving home across town, and he certainly wasn't planning on stepping back out into the swarm of drunks in the living room while sober himself. Plus, something about the feisty auburn haired girl beside him made staying in the kitchen highly more appealing. Without the plastic frames obscuring half her face, he was able to study her more closely. She reached up to retrieve another clear shot glass from the cabinet above the sink and in retrospect he should have wondered how she knew where everything was located. Should have noticed how she navigated around the kitchen like it was her own home. But he was preoccupied, observing every movement of her fingers as she poured two identical servings into each glass. She had thin, long fingers, and her practical, short nails shone in the light. He surmised her to be a medical student, like him, and made a mental note to ask her later. She slid his glass towards him, clinking hers against it before once again tipping her head back and swallowing it's contents.

"You hold your liquor well," he commented, admiring her take another graceful mouthful of discounted vodka. Her lips would purse after each shot, curling out in a manner that reminded him of a duckling. He smiled as he watched her.

"It was the only way to survive the galas and functions my parents dragged me to throughout my life," she explain, dejected.

Several shots later, (more for him, since she informed him she had already had a few before he joined her and he had some catching up to do) she stood laughing beside him, what about neither could remember, now.

"So tell me something," she straightened up, "what are you doing in here, with me?"

The question took him by surprise.

He employed his classic smile, figuring he had beat around the bush enough. Their genuine conversation was already quite a digression from the typical Mark Sloan persuasion.

He pushed off his side of the counter and tipped his body toward her, bracing a hand on the cool tile beside her side, as she remained resting against the sink.

"You seem like an intelligent girl," he observed, his eyes flashing, "but if you really need me to narrate, well, I aim to please."

"Do you?" she cocked an eyebrow, holding his gaze.

He smiled his affirmation. "Do you need proof?"

"Whatever do you mean?" She blinked up at him, playfully.

"Right now, I am playing with the drawstrings of your…cloak." He began, eliciting a loud laugh from her, and he could smell the alcohol on her breath.

Undeterred, Mark continued. "And now I am pulling it free of the knot," his action paralleled his dictation and the article of clothing loosened around her neck. He stepped vigilantly into the space between them, his fingers tracing the outline of her collar before reaching behind her neck to trail into her hair. The red locks were silk as they slipped through his fingers, and she allowed him to rake them all the along the length of her hair before she inhaled sharply. Mark took it as a sign of encouragement, both palms cupping her elbows before invading the expanse of her lower back, all the while watching her with intent.

"Stop."

He felt her breath on his lips before the words hit him. He felt a pressure on his chest. Looking down, he found a set of palms pushing at his upper body, causing him to step back. She slipped sideways in an instant, putting a few feet of space between them.

"I'm sorry," the words felt appropriate, even though he didn't know what it was he was apologizing for. It was rare that he had to deal with rejection. Mark Sloan was not accustomed to hearing the word 'stop' when not preceded by the word 'don't.'

"I just thought we could have some fun," he winked at her, attempting to remember how it was he got all the other girls to surrender and half-wondering why he wasn't out in the party where surely he could have already left with one of the blondes in the miniskirts he noticed when he arrived.

The redhead in front of him seemed to read his mind. "There's plenty of 'fun' to be had out there."

"You're right," he nodded, glancing towards the door, "but you're better."

"Why?" she asked, sounding sincere enough.

He stared at her for what felt like minutes, watching her azure irises grow tired of watching his and begin to skip from window to door to her feet.

"I'm…" he decided to settle for honesty, "not sure yet."

Mark Sloan didn't spend time pondering the unique emotions women inspired in him. Mostly because no woman ever has. Before now. But this was a revelation detected only in retrospect.

This is when his memory fails him, but he does remember somehow ending up inches away from her once again. She didn't retreat, but she didn't encourage him either. Instead, he recalls the steady look in her eyes as she inhaled deeply and whispered a quiet but firm "No."

Seconds later the door swung open, and a slightly more sober Derek breezed into the room, carrying a collection of beer cans in his arms. He smiled at the two of them, bellowed a "Hey" and made his way to the large trash bin in the corner to deposit the cargo.

Everything happened so fast that Mark didn't have time for one of those realization montages that happens in movies. He watched as Derek waltzed over to slap him on the back and mutter something about his victory at the drinking game he dedicated the last four hours two. He watched his new friend roll her eyes and return to her place by the counter. He watched his best friend reach out and trail his knuckles up her now bare arm (the black cloak that had covered her earlier lay crumpled on the floor from when Mark untied its drawstrings).

"Still angry?" Mark heard Derek murmur into her ear, and his cheeks burned from fury (or from the dozen shots of vodka infiltrating through his blood stream).

At some point Derek returned his attention to him, one arm wrapped around the redhead's waist as he pulled her into the conversation.

"I guess you already met," he laughed, "but I'll do the proper introduction anyway. Mark this is Addison."

He doesn't remember what he said to that or what the rest of the evening's events consisted of (though he does remember crashing on Derek's couch and watching a pajama clad Addison tiptoe her way to the kitchen for a glass of water) but he does remember the way her eyes bore into his the moment Derek 'properly introduced them.' He couldn't quite place the emotion behind them, but it almost looked like a blend of guilt and caution. He later asked her if she knew who he was all along—her boyfriend's best friend—but her answer was inconclusive. She said that he should have known, and when his expression illustrated his confusion, she elaborated.

"You would have known, if you had bothered to ask my name," she said simply.

He reprimands himself to the day, thinking it might have been easier if he understood the limits of their association from the beginning. If only he had asked for her name.

But as he stands beneath the arc leading into her living room and watches her lie back down on the floor, drunkenly stretching her never-ending jean-clad legs across the carpet, he knows that it wouldn't have stopped his feelings for her in the years to come.

"You know," he muses with a devious grin, sidestepping her stretched out arms. Addison giggles and extends one hand into the air, reaching for the promised refilled glass.

"Mmm?" she hums as he crouches beside her.

"Wouldn't you be Ron Welsley?" he teases, gathering her cabernet red hair off the floor and dropping the locks onto her face playfully.

"No." She answers tensely, eyes glaring at him, voice conveying the offence she feels each time he comments on the matter. "And it's Weasley," she adds with a pout.