TRIAGE | grey's anatomy (ON HOLD INDEFINITELY)

014: "this is the last time"

CLEM WAS PLEASANTLY SURPRISED BY THE WAY THE HOSPITAL ATRIUM HAD BEEN TRANSFORMED FOR THE PROM. Mark, on the other hand, had a sour look on his face as he steered the two of them down the hall-- Clem, unsurprisingly, was having a difficult time walking. It'd been an hour or so since she'd downed her last shot, but its effects still lingered, making it nearly impossible for her to stand in her stilettos. At this point it felt a bit ridiculous for her metabolism to be holding out for this long.

"Forget the LVAD wire," Mark sniffed, a true Upper East Sider, turning to Clem. "The real crime is you looking so lovely for a place that looks like... this."

Clementine rolled her eyes. They'd done a good job on such short notice, she'd thought. There were purple and silver balloons and streamers strewn about the hall, a table of punch and grocery store cookies, and a group of world-famous surgeons milling the corners like dateless rejects in last-minute Dillard's dresses. It was cute and quaint and sweet, and as she noticed Webber softly swaying with a teenage girl, probably worth the hospital's time.

"I'm so sorry this wasn't the soiree you imagined," Clem smiled sweetly, patting Mark's shoulder. "But, honestly, who hears the words 'prom' and 'punishment' and 'hospital' and expects something classy?"

Mark opened his mouth, then paused, nodding his agreement. Before the two walked through the entrance, braving the crowds and the surprise that would follow their entrance, she spun around, facing the surgeon, and began messing with his tie. It was crooked, and slightly lopsided. It had been bothering her the whole car ride.

"What was your prom like?" Mark murmured, staring down at Clem with stormy eyes and a slight smirk. They were so close, closer than they needed, and he still gripped her upper arm gently.

Clem concentrated solely on looping the tie through. She'd known how to do so since she was twelve. It was like muscle memory-- the act of being tipsy and tying a Windsor knot like she was in middle school again, pulled away from homework or her books to assist. "I never went. Had too much going on, and I graduated early, you know. But let me guess-- you were prom royalty, kept a golden flash in your pocket, had the prettiest date."

"I went stag," Mark corrected, teasingly. "Too many options. It was joint with the all-girls school down the street, and we were Catholic."

"Oh, so you kept the flask in your car, then?"

Mark's eyebrows raised. Was he really that easy to read, or was it just Clementine? "In the glovebox. Next to--"

"The box of condoms," Clem finished, and they both began to laugh. His breath spread across her face, minty and vaguely diabetic-cherry. "How predictable of you."

It felt like the floor was slowly dripping away from her peripheral like an acid trip gone wrong. It was a deadly chemical combination that any scientist should avoid; what with how sloshed she still was and the smell of him and the feel of his hands pressed against her bare skin and his crooked smile a few inches away and--

"What the ever-loving fuck are you doing here?"

Mark's smile sank as quickly as a window slamming shut, looking over the top of her head to the entrance of the hospital atrium. Clem's heart skipped a beat, and she stumbled as Mark removed his hand quickly, like the flushed heat of her skin had scorched him. She knew what she would find when she turned around, the voice familiar to her, although the venomous tone was not.

"Derek..." Mark's tone was unreadable. Was it apologetic, like he had just accidentally wondered cross-country and found himself with one of his interns? Was it nervous, like a plead to not get punched again and actually break something this time?