#plaestics

as if it is a blur, she has henry sitting at the backseat in his baby seat. somehow, she’s hitting the gas pedal and driving towards seattle. somehow, she finds herself standing before the hospital that was once so familiar and yet... everything has changed. she’s been here for days, her eyes looking over mark sloan’s hospital bed as she hopes for a medical miracle to happen. 

her fatigued body is asleep beside his. her arms folded as she rests -- henry’s with the daycare at this moment and addison is, quite frankly, tired. 

she’s wearing his shirt,   yesterday’s makeup,  and a single popcorn kernel in her hair.   she could’ve slept forever,   she figures,   face pressed against his pillows --- which smell like him and cheap beer and a little bit of derek’s cologne ---  and she likely would’ve were it not for the distinct aroma of pancakes wafting from the kitchen.   unexpected,   this gesture,  and wholly unnecessary,  for he’s already done so much for her already.

across the room from him,  she lingers,   small and tired and suddenly guilty.   she hadn’t intended to stay,  to take up his time and his space,  hadn’t intended to unload all her heaviness on him.    it overwhelms her, the vulnerability she showed him,   like the four extraneous sizes of cotton drowning her small frame.       

MOODBOARDS  7  /  ??  :   CALLIE & MARK     (   mutuals can reblog.  )

❛   i'll tell you right now:  he was lying.  ❜  

she's got crimson smeared in the corner of her lips like she considered becoming the joker but bailed out halfway there, hair collected at the top of her head in a messy bun, and crumbs sprinkled like stardust across her pj top. all of this serves as evidence of how little she was expecting to be disturbed this evening, though the way she steps aside to invite him into her shoebox apartment suggests the intrusion from @plaestics isn't wholly unwelcome.

she wore a black dress to med ball only because he’d told her to.   earrings from her sister,   gold to match the same cross she dons every day.    she kept her heels on all night because she is stubborn and because she thinks it makes her superior to other women who can’t and because she wanted them to have a shot in hell at getting both his head and hers in the same frame for a  picture.  

both a little drunk,  both a little hangry.    it’s going to take at least three minutes and fifteen seconds to reheat the chinese food she’d had the good,  sober sense to leave for them in the hotel fridge.   and three minutes and fifteen seconds isn’t enough time to get fully out of their ball clothes and into something comfy,   but it is enough time to get a little sad,  a little insecure,  a little disappointed that  —— without discredit to one another  —— they aren’t ending the night in different,  sexier beds.      (  in fairness,  she hasn’t given it an honest effort recently.    but he has.   he has,  and he’s still been striking out,   and she can see a little light leave his eyes with each rejection. )     

❝  you’re .  .  .  ❞    seated delicately at the edge of the bed,  she works to unbuckle the straps of her heels.   the left foot,  then the right,  then her earrings in the opposite order.      ❝  i think maybe if you let more people really know who you are,   more people would like you.  ❞