Title: Falling in Love at a Coffee Shop (Four Times Mark Says 'I Love You' and One Time He Doesn't)
Rating/Warning: PG
Spoilers: Minor spoilers for 524 (Now or Never) and 601 (Good Mourning).
Word Count: 1 938
Character/Pairing: Mark, Mark/Lexie
Disclaimer: All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

A/N: Yes, I realize that I said I'm going LJ-only, so this is me eating my words. I broke a bunch of personal fic and Mark rules here. Enjoy!

I think that possibly, maybe I'm falling for you
Yes, there's a chance that I've fallen quite hard over you

1.

She's hormonal. But you don't say that to her face – self preservation skills have served you well so far in life. You watch as she paces back and forth in front of the kitchen island, threateningly waving a spatula in one hand and ranting about the incompetence of men and their inability to be domestic. It's definitely PMS, you think. Toilet seats cannot incite that much rage on their own.

You try to look repentant but, really, are just amused more than anything else. She's half out of breath, she's been ranting for so long; her face is red, her lips pouty, and a little crazy in women is right up your alley so, naturally, not only are you amused but also turned on.

Sex used to be a good distraction for these kinds of situations. It worked pretty well, too, until she connected the dots and learned to stay out of arm's reach of you.

There's a new plan though. You used it frequently on Addison, often reducing her to a garble of consonants and awkward mumbling; it has yet to fail.

For the most part, she's been her own audience, but this needs to be timed correctly for it not to fall flat on its face otherwise you're going to be subject to another 20 minute lecture.

"– for once, Mark. Just once! Is that too much to ask? Just tell me why–"

"I love you," you smoothly interrupt.

She stops. Turns. Points the spatula at you. "I…you…what?" she sputters, and it's rather comical the way her face scrunches up in half suspicion, half shock that you would even go there.

You grin. Probably a little too widely. "I. Love. You."

She stares. "I…" One more second of incoherency before she recovers with a murderous glint in her eye. "I can see right through this, you know." And the way she narrows her eyes lets you know there's no doubt that she can. But, once again, self preservation kicks in and you school your features into the Innocent Yet Slightly Confused Look.

"See through what? I'm just saying that I lo–"

"Shut up!" More spatula pointing. She takes a step towards the bedroom before abruptly turning back around, mouth open in a very dramatic fashion. You raise your eyebrows expectantly. Her jaw snaps back. "I hate you," she gripes, stalking off into the bedroom and muttering something about manipulative bastards as she slams the door.

A beat of silence passes in the apartment. Then, a very muffled voice sounds through the door. "I love you, too." Petulant and begrudgingly said.

You smile. Oh yeah. So PMS.

2.

You come home one night to find her nestled in your bed, dead to the rest of the world. Your pillow is held hostage in her hands, her hair a tangled mess and there's a bit of drool working its way down from the corner of her mouth. It's not exactly a turn on in the typical ways, but the familiarity and comfortableness settles on you like an warm blanket and your heart beats just a little faster at the sight.

A trail of her clothes litter the floor and you pick them up, putting them in the hamper along the way, your shirt joining it. Your watch finds its home next to her pager on the nightstand, both sitting adjacent to a box of Captain Crunch and your stomach grumbles in reminder you haven't eaten since breakfast this morning. As you quietly stand munching on the cereal, an unexpected thought forms in your head.

You're happy. Actually happy.

Huh. That's something you never saw coming. You munch some more.

And, what's more, you don't feel particularly self-destructive these days.

You pull back to look at the box in your hands and eye it wearingly. Cereal that gives you epiphanies should be subject to suspicion.

Still. It doesn't make it any less true. You cram one last handful into your mouth, practically being able to smell the sugary particles on your breath, then chuck your pants and finally climb under the sheets. Short a pillow, you prop yourself up on an elbow instead and look down at the drooling mess that is your girlfriend. You can't help but smile when you notice that she's wearing that Columbia shirt of yours, the one she claims to hate and always makes a face at.

She has been an unexpected thing in your life. Unexpected, but definitely not unwanted.

A hand curls itself along the column of her neck and you pull yourself closer, giving her a chaste kiss on the nose. "I love you, Lexie," you whisper.

She shifts, moving her head in your direction. "Love you…Capn' Crunch," she mumbles.

You grin. Close enough.

3.

Fucking bitch was the last thought when you left the apartment. And, now, half drunk and taking your sorry ass back, you don't even remember what the hell you two were fighting about. Everything's been rubbing your nerves raw, and, really, it was just easier to snap than hold it in, which is how the whole thing started.

Lexie is Lexie, though; she dug her heels in and went on the defensive, and since neither of you are ones to concede to the other, you let it escalate until finally having enough of the crap she was spewing, you left. You fucking left, and that's not something you've done before. With Addison, yes, but you've never allowed yourself to get to that point with Lexie.

When you walk in to the apartment, the first thing you notice is the silence. She's home though, that much is evident by the light on in the bedroom. Clothes are strewn everywhere; Lexie's back is to you, her hands frantically folding shirts and whatever else is within reach and stuffing them into a large duffle bag. It takes a moment for you register what's going on and your heart instantly goes into overdrive, panic and desperation clawing at you to put a stop to this.

She hasn't turned around, hasn't acknowledged you, and that's not exactly reassuring. So you stay in the doorway, entering the room might be interpreted as a hostile act. "Don't leave me." It comes out as a hoarse whisper, and you hate how pathetic and needy you sound, but there is a place and time for pride and this is not it.

When she looks up, she is clearly Not Impressed. Her nostrils flare just a little, and when she speaks, it is as flat as the expression she's wearing. "You're drunk."

You shuffle your feet, eyes flickering away. After all, she's not entirely wrong in her assessment. Air escapes your lungs in a whoosh. You try again. "Lexie, I–"

"Don't," she effectively cuts you – it might as well be your heart – off. "Just don't, Mark."

Your jaw clenches on reflex.

"I'm staying at Meredith's," she sounds small. Defeated. And your ears burn with a mixture of shame and guilt for being the cause. "Come get me when you've stopped being such an asshole."

You don't remember moving, or her leaving, but it hardly matters. Briefly you think maybe it's better you can't recall the image of her walking out.

You don't know how this happened. How you let it get so far.

"I love you," you confess.

The silence of the room is your only answer.

4.

She has nightmares now.

O'Malley getting hit by a bus. O'Malley getting blown up. O'Malley dropping dead in the OR.

They must be horribly vivid dreams for her to thrash and scream like that, you figure. She doesn't sleep most nights – as a result, neither do you. Her skin is a permanent white, and you can't be sure, but you think she might be losing weight. As much as it concerns you – and it does, greatly – there's a part of you that's slightly annoyed at the competition from a dead guy. You're pretty sure you reach new levels of asswipe-edness for even thinking that.

You don't tell Lexie, of course. You know a good thing when you see one, and have no plans of letting go of this anytime soon.

When she wakes up for the third time that night, you have the routine down pat, hugging her as close to you as possible while rubbing her back in broad comforting circles. "Shh, it's okay. You're okay," you whisper soothingly. She convulses in your arms, and you squeeze tighter in response.

"Sometimes it's you," she blurts out to your neck. "In the really bad ones," a hiccup, "it's always you."

You swallow heavily, your heart breaking for her. "I'm right here, Lex," you croak. "Nothing's happened, I'm right here." In the tangled heap of limbs and sheets, her arm wiggles free, reaching for yours.

"The dreams…" she starts, before breaking off into a sob.

Your heart is beating wildly against your ribs in a painful rhythm. You're here now, but you can't promise her forever. You can't even promise tomorrow because life is fucked up like that. So, you tell her the one thing that you are sure of, that you can guarantee today, tomorrow, however long you live. "I love you, you know that, right?" She quiets then, still sniffling every few minutes.

Then, "Promise?" Small as a child's and your heart breaks all over again.

"Yeah," you say gruffly, an emotion you can't name caught in your throat, "I promise."

5.

You're sitting in the tiny coffee shop across from the hospital, waiting for Lexie to finish her bagel. She has these quirky little cravings that, when left unfulfilled, drives her to be single-minded to an almost pathological degree, putting everything on hold – including sex, as you quickly found out – until said craving is satisfied.

You watch her devour the last of the bagel, crumbs and cream cheese smatterings on her face. It's adorable – in a slob-ish kind of way. She's nothing like what you've experienced before. She's addictive, like a bad habit that just won't quit.

Lexie Grey has made life good for you.

Your lips stretch slowly upwards, quickly parting into a shit-eating grin, unrestrained in its intensity.

"What?" she says with a self-conscious smile when you stare openly for too long.

You don't know how to show her how much you love her; how to covey what she is to you. No gesture seems grand enough. "I…" Words are inadequate. The human language is inadequate to describe what you feel for this woman. She's patient, smiling that little smile of hers, giving you time to string together a sentence. You shake you head silently, grabbing her hand in yours. It's warm and soft, like the rest of her, and you think you might be crazy when you think you wouldn't mind holding it for the rest of your life.

"Mark?" she gently prods.

"Let's get married," you hear yourself say.

"What?" she laughs, delighted but also a little incredulous.

"Why not?" You're mostly only teasing her. Except for the part of you that's absolutely terrified of rejection.

"Hmm," she narrows her eyes playfully, "you'll have to convince me first."

"I'll buy you all the bagels you want."

"What else?"

Anything, you want to say, anything you want, I'll give it to you. But that reveals a depth of emotion you're not comfortable with showing, not yet, and this is not that kind of a conversation, so you stick to the established script. "Is that a yes?"

She makes a face, pretending to be disgruntled with the offer. "I'll think about it."

"Okay." You smile, exhaling a deep breath. "Okay."