Cigarettes Will Kill You
Title: Cigarettes Will Kill You
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Two of Swords for milk_and_glass. The one where Mark meets her in the parking lot.
“Forgive me,” she whispers, slipping her hand under her shirt and gently resting it on her abdomen. “Please forgive me.” She lets two tears slip, one from each eye, and adjusts her shirt and wipes away the tears and stands up, her face a paragon of professionalism and calm as she shrugs her coat onto her shoulders and grabs her keys and purse and walks with a smile toward the parking lot, directions on a bright yellow Post-It discreetly stuck to her cell phone. Once she’s certain no one’s watching, she turns away from her car and toward a nearby subway station, choosing total anonymity and a clinic as far across town as possible.
Staring at the paperwork in front of her and all of its fine print and legal jargon, she realizes why patients complain so much. HIPPA forms, privacy policies, explanations of side effects, lists of all possible combinations of things that could happen, four different ways of claiming that it’s solely her fault if she falls into undeniable depression. Clicking her pen in a nervous habit, she sarcastically thinks that it’s great that all fingers would point to her if she woke up one day mentally unable to get out of bed; she’d point her fingers elsewhere and blame two men for pushing her where she is and probably be immature about it and use her middle fingers. She toys with the rings on her finger and tries not to think about how much she wouldn’t be here and just how happy she would be if the circumstances were different - she tries not to think about how happy she would be if the circumstances were different, baby or not - and signs here and initials there and neatly fills out her medical history. She tries not to stare at anything for too long and fakes an outward look of confidence as she stands up when someone calls her name.
She knows the process and the procedure but decides to just let them explain it and focuses on actively staring at the wall during the ultrasound. Suddenly realizing that they’re waiting for her to nod and give her official consent, she closes her eyes and takes one last deep breath and silently begs one last time for forgiveness and nods, the wince at the needle in her upper arm and the tear that follows more of a wish that this didn’t need to happen than reflection of pain. She pretends to listen to the instructions and another round of listing the side effects: she doesn’t have the heart to tell them that she already knows all of this. Instead she focuses on dinner, settling on Chinese because she knows she’ll be too upset to do anything but make a phone call and it keeps for days if she decides that she isn’t hungry.
She stares at the floor in the waiting room while they fill a prescription for the other pill and has no idea how she’ll explain her sudden tears to him (because, while she doubts she’ll fall into that undeniable depression that would be her fault, this is something that she needs to do, not something that she wants to do) and why she’s curled up and won’t let him touch her. Her plan isn’t thought out past the time she walks out of the clinic and rushes home to his apartment. She considered getting a hotel or spending a day or two of complete self-loathing and staying at the brownstone - and as she thinks of what she didn’t do, she focuses on the prescription bottle with her name and two pills set in front of her and reminds herself that the fallout of this is healthier than trying to raise a child with him - but she knows he cares a lot more about her than he lets on and he’d worry.
He spends his lunch doing detective work, worried about her despite knowing that she’s an adult and that it’s okay if she doesn’t want to talk to him or if she wants to take a phone call in the hallway outside his apartment door. Her locker combination predictable, he hastily scribbled the address written on the Post-It onto a coffee receipt found in his pocket and snuck out before her morning surgery ended. Club sandwich and large Coke sitting next to him, he types in the address and hits search. Appetite gone, he clicks on the first link and shock hits him and anger joins his concern. Worry soon joins anger and concern and he hates himself for wanting to be there for her after she just killed their baby, the baby he was strangely excited for. Scanning outside his window and seeing her car still parked neatly next to his, he considers meeting her there, picking her up so she doesn’t have to take the lonely crowded subway home or take a taxi, but part of him wants to make her suffer. He wants her to sit with strangers and try her best not to injure her pride by crying in public; he wants her to watch small children giggling and holding onto their parents’ hands as they ride the subway home or to the park or to the game.
They let her take all the time she needs just to sit in the quiet and, out of respect, only offer a free ear to listen once. As it begins to get dark outside, she decides that she can’t wallow forever and should at least go someplace with a comfortable chair to curl up in. Unsteady on her feet and very unsteady in her mind, she stops just outside the doors when she sees him leaning unthreateningly against his car. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and swallows and walks toward him, blinking back burning tears and the lump in her throat. He wraps her in a comforting hug and she can tell he’s upset with her but she’s glad he’s there and glad for his strong arms because even though she knows the real pain will come in a few days, she already feels like her feet are going to collapse under her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his chest, the first of many tears beginning to fall.
He kisses her forehead and strokes her hair. “Let’s get you home.” He holds onto her for a little while longer before pulling away and opening the door for her.
Ben Lee :: Cigarettes Will Kill You
Pairing: Mark/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Two of Swords for milk_and_glass. The one where Mark meets her in the parking lot.
“Forgive me,” she whispers, slipping her hand under her shirt and gently resting it on her abdomen. “Please forgive me.” She lets two tears slip, one from each eye, and adjusts her shirt and wipes away the tears and stands up, her face a paragon of professionalism and calm as she shrugs her coat onto her shoulders and grabs her keys and purse and walks with a smile toward the parking lot, directions on a bright yellow Post-It discreetly stuck to her cell phone. Once she’s certain no one’s watching, she turns away from her car and toward a nearby subway station, choosing total anonymity and a clinic as far across town as possible.
Staring at the paperwork in front of her and all of its fine print and legal jargon, she realizes why patients complain so much. HIPPA forms, privacy policies, explanations of side effects, lists of all possible combinations of things that could happen, four different ways of claiming that it’s solely her fault if she falls into undeniable depression. Clicking her pen in a nervous habit, she sarcastically thinks that it’s great that all fingers would point to her if she woke up one day mentally unable to get out of bed; she’d point her fingers elsewhere and blame two men for pushing her where she is and probably be immature about it and use her middle fingers. She toys with the rings on her finger and tries not to think about how much she wouldn’t be here and just how happy she would be if the circumstances were different - she tries not to think about how happy she would be if the circumstances were different, baby or not - and signs here and initials there and neatly fills out her medical history. She tries not to stare at anything for too long and fakes an outward look of confidence as she stands up when someone calls her name.
She knows the process and the procedure but decides to just let them explain it and focuses on actively staring at the wall during the ultrasound. Suddenly realizing that they’re waiting for her to nod and give her official consent, she closes her eyes and takes one last deep breath and silently begs one last time for forgiveness and nods, the wince at the needle in her upper arm and the tear that follows more of a wish that this didn’t need to happen than reflection of pain. She pretends to listen to the instructions and another round of listing the side effects: she doesn’t have the heart to tell them that she already knows all of this. Instead she focuses on dinner, settling on Chinese because she knows she’ll be too upset to do anything but make a phone call and it keeps for days if she decides that she isn’t hungry.
She stares at the floor in the waiting room while they fill a prescription for the other pill and has no idea how she’ll explain her sudden tears to him (because, while she doubts she’ll fall into that undeniable depression that would be her fault, this is something that she needs to do, not something that she wants to do) and why she’s curled up and won’t let him touch her. Her plan isn’t thought out past the time she walks out of the clinic and rushes home to his apartment. She considered getting a hotel or spending a day or two of complete self-loathing and staying at the brownstone - and as she thinks of what she didn’t do, she focuses on the prescription bottle with her name and two pills set in front of her and reminds herself that the fallout of this is healthier than trying to raise a child with him - but she knows he cares a lot more about her than he lets on and he’d worry.
He spends his lunch doing detective work, worried about her despite knowing that she’s an adult and that it’s okay if she doesn’t want to talk to him or if she wants to take a phone call in the hallway outside his apartment door. Her locker combination predictable, he hastily scribbled the address written on the Post-It onto a coffee receipt found in his pocket and snuck out before her morning surgery ended. Club sandwich and large Coke sitting next to him, he types in the address and hits search. Appetite gone, he clicks on the first link and shock hits him and anger joins his concern. Worry soon joins anger and concern and he hates himself for wanting to be there for her after she just killed their baby, the baby he was strangely excited for. Scanning outside his window and seeing her car still parked neatly next to his, he considers meeting her there, picking her up so she doesn’t have to take the lonely crowded subway home or take a taxi, but part of him wants to make her suffer. He wants her to sit with strangers and try her best not to injure her pride by crying in public; he wants her to watch small children giggling and holding onto their parents’ hands as they ride the subway home or to the park or to the game.
They let her take all the time she needs just to sit in the quiet and, out of respect, only offer a free ear to listen once. As it begins to get dark outside, she decides that she can’t wallow forever and should at least go someplace with a comfortable chair to curl up in. Unsteady on her feet and very unsteady in her mind, she stops just outside the doors when she sees him leaning unthreateningly against his car. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath and swallows and walks toward him, blinking back burning tears and the lump in her throat. He wraps her in a comforting hug and she can tell he’s upset with her but she’s glad he’s there and glad for his strong arms because even though she knows the real pain will come in a few days, she already feels like her feet are going to collapse under her.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers into his chest, the first of many tears beginning to fall.
He kisses her forehead and strokes her hair. “Let’s get you home.” He holds onto her for a little while longer before pulling away and opening the door for her.
Ben Lee :: Cigarettes Will Kill You