Title: Interlude

Author: k4writer02

Fandom: Grey's Anatomy

Pairing: Mark/Lexie

Rating: R

Disclaimer: I don't own Grey's Anatomy or the characters.

Summary: Speculative filler fic for 5.10 Grey's Anatomy. Set between the scenes we saw and the morning after. Mark's POV.

Author's Note: Spoilers for Grey's 5.10. And I'm saying a great big thank you to leobrat, who beta read this for me and improved it quite a bit. It's my first attempt at writing GA fic and she was very encouraging and kind. Feedback is very welcome.

Mark Sloan didn't think he slept the night Lexie Grey came to him, saying "Teach me," pleading with melted chocolate eyes and quick, jerky movements that revealed her winter-pale skin. But he must've slept, because he's waking up, and she's spooned against him, hair fanned across the pillow and mouth slack in sleep.

The sun hasn't even thought about peeking over the horizon, and he can hear rain on the window. In New York, a rainy night meant staying and fun in bed; in Seattle, it's so common it's almost meaningless. He's wiped the sleep out of his eyes and taken inventory (they're both naked; she's wearing the marks of his kisses and he can feel nail marks in his shoulder). She hasn't stirred—she's sleeping the deep sleep of either the innocent or the exhausted. Maybe both. He remembers suddenly, with the nostalgia of a veteran, how tired he was during his intern year.

God.

He slept with an intern. Not just any intern. Little Grey.

Mark wishes he hadn't woken up enough to think about this.

But he did wake up, because he needs to piss. So he slides out of bed, trying not to wake her up. He has a lot of practice at getting out of bed without disturbing the woman sleeping in it.

While he's in the bathroom, he avoids the mirror. He's not quite ready to make this real by looking himself in the eye and saying, yes, I fucked up.

Little Grey. God, she was, just a little thing too. So tiny, especially compared to Callie's curves and Addison's long legs. But a good fit. A great fit.

He's washing his hands while he remembers last night, in little flashes. Her hands on his back. Her eyes on his, while she mouthed little kisses across his stomach. His hands in her hair. The sounds she made with his mouth on her… His dick goes hard again, without his conscious consent.

He remembers opening the door to her, and thinking it had to be half dream. Because he was wearing sweats and an old T-shirt instead of his leather jacket and "I'm lookin' at you" dirty smirk.

She came in, without even asking, and he kept the door open, because he didn't want to trap her. He wonders now, what if he'd left the door open? Would she have stripped off her sweater so recklessly? Her tank? Would she have quivered "Come on. Am I really so bad?" in that way that broke through his promise to Derek and his own resolve to be a better man?

Would he have kissed her like he could find his salvation in her, if he hadn't shut the door?

But he did shut the door.

He said "Don't do that. Stop." He meant to put the pause in, that time. Later in the night, he said those words again, in a different order. "Do that. Don't stop." When she was proving her mouth was as talented as her surgeon's hands. And again, when she moaned his name, head thrown back, hair wild. And a last time, when she kissed him sleepily, after, and curled against him in the big bed.

Mark has many talents. He's a damn good surgeon. He makes incredible amounts of money. He improves lives, and you don't see his patients dying at the same rate that say, Derek's patients die. He's a creative, enthusiastic, talented lover. He's not modest about his own good points.

But his powers of self denial, well, those certainly aren't a bragging point.

He did resist though. Maybe a record length of time, because once upon a very recent past, Mark approached sex and women like a kid in a candy store. No reason not to have as many flavors as he wanted. But he had turned over a new leaf—he's trying not to be a manwhore.

Even after the door was shut, after the decision was half made, he kept trying to do the right thing. To keep his promise to Derek. He's almost sure he babbled some sort of protest like "We can't do this. You're Little Grey. And I promised. And I'm your teacher."

All valid reasons, until her sweater came off.

He bought himself a few more seconds by gasping "oh Lexie," and averting his eyes.

He watched her take off the tank though. Made eye contact. Held it. The choice was made the moment he closed the door, and made again when he watched her bare herself for him, when he heard her say "Teach me."

Made again, with her vulnerable little question. "Am I really so bad?"

How could anyone resist her, when she was saying "teach me" and telling you she respected you? No one respects Mark Sloan, at least not on the personal level. Bailey called him nasty, when she was trying to be his advocate. Addison left him and aborted his child. Even Derek, who knows and loves him best (it doesn't get less gay every time he thinks it), reminds him at least once a season that he slept with Addison. He's got a bad, bad history of self destruction, of sleeping with exactly the wrong person at exactly the wrong time.

Witness Little Grey, in his bed, without a stitch on her body.

He comes out of the bathroom, and she's moved a little, into the place where he had been. It's probably warmer. She's pulled up a few covers over her shoulder. He can't tell if she's actually asleep or faking really well.

He hesitates for a moment, then slides back into the bed. He didn't brush his teeth while he was in the bathroom, which he might come to regret, if she's pretending.

Lexie makes a sleepy little sound of protest when he moves her back to where she was, and settles in next to her. He puts one arm under her, and uses the other to pull her closer. Oh God. He's cuddling. Mark Sloan is cuddling by choice. How completely out of character.

Semi conscious, she rolls to face him, and somehow, despite being Little Grey, he'd swear there isn't an inch of her body that isn't touching him. Well, actually, there are several very important inches of his body that are not touching her, but there'll be time for that later. And goddamn, it feels good to be skin to skin, wrapped up in these tangled sheets.

He's reliving the night before, wondering if he can wake her up for another bout before either of them can think too much about what next. And that surprises him, because it isn't all that often that he wants a round two with the same woman. Except Callie and Addison. Always excepting those two.

While he lies beside her, he replays the evening. That first kiss had set the tone. He'd crossed the room and gathered her into his arms and lowered his lips to hers. She'd caught on quickly, lifting her hands to his face, then to his back.

They'd kissed for what felt like both an eternity and an instant. Mouths and hands busy, he'd turned them, so she was leaning against his table. He played with her, her mouth, her lips, her tongue. He led, but she kept up, kissing enthusiastically, and with some talent—she'd picked up a few nice tricks somewhere. He hoped to god it wasn't a book.

She snaked her hand under his weathered T-shirt, caressing his spine first, running one hand up and down the length of it, while she used the other to balance herself. He continued to kiss her—her lips and cheeks and nose, her neck, her ears. Ear, nose and throat. Let it never be said he neglected them. He needed one hand to steady himself as he leaned over her, and he couldn't seem to get the other one out of her hair

He got her to sit on the table, and wind her legs around him, which freed the balancing hand to trace patterns on her back. He thought about easing her back and having her right there, but really, the bed was only a few feet away and he didn't want this to happen on table in a hotel room when half their clothes would have to be pushed aside instead of taken off. So he eased away, and listened to her breathe. She protested, lightly "Why did you—"

"Stop." He put his finger to her lips in a 'shh' gesture. She met his gaze, kissed the blade of his finger and then opened her lips and pulled it into her mouth. He breathed deeply. "Don't rush. We have all night." He told her. A promise. A plea.

She released his finger, and he touched her lips with it. She nodded, a little unsteadily, and he kissed her forehead, ran his fingers lightly over her jaw and chin, learning her face. He breathed in the scent of her hair, then helped her stand.

After that, it blurs. His shirt came off, and they made it to the bed, and most of the clothes came off, sooner or later. He was on top for part of the time, but he had switched and pulled her on top too. It's all a blur, the hands and mouths and rhythm of it all. Though for some reason, there are these moments caught in his mind, of whispered conversations. In between all the sex, he was remembering, he liked Lexie. He liked her humor and her ideas. And she seemed to adore him, every word he said.

He shifted, uncomfortable. At that moment, she let loose a sexy little sigh, yawned, stretched, and opened her eyes.

They looked at each other for a beat, and then she whispered, "Hi."

And maybe he can't understand what it meant to Kathleen Patterson and her husband, to say 'hi' after five years. But he knows that one word sounds pretty good to him, coming from little Lexie Grey.

"Hi." He answers. They smile, and their bodies surge together, and maybe later there will be words about promises and secrets and patients and cases. Lexie has a gift for his specialty, he can already see it in her oh so perfect sutures. Can already see it in her fascination with ENT.

But careers and promises are for later, for outside the Archfield.

For tonight, there is Mark and there is Lexie and that is enough.