Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟮𝟵 a store-bought pie

𝙓𝙓𝙄𝙓.
A STORE-BOUGHT PIE

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CHARLIE LIKED TO cook.

It was a habit he'd picked up from his mother, a literal domestic goddess of the Food Network.

Donna's Delights had been a hit since the late 90's, making Charlie very much ingrained into culinary history. Our apartment back in Boston had been littered with recipe books, some his mothers, some niche little hardbacks in languages I couldn't even read. Sometimes he'd just chuck whatever the hell he could and throw it in.

Charlie was stupidly amazing at cooking.

I, however, burnt my toast every time.

I woke up to him tenderising meat in the kitchen at 6am. At first, I'd thought someone was being murdered in my apartment, between all the thuds and bangs, but then I'd woken up a bit more and remembered where I was.

Seattle. I'm in Seattle and Charlie Perkins is going to burn my apartment building down and serve it on a platter.

I padded out of the bedroom, yawning as I stretched; the smell of coffee enveloped me. It was almost as if he'd envisioned me waking up— a mug sat on the counter opposite him, steaming and hot.

"What did that steak ever do to you?" He chuckled lightly as I pressed a kiss to his cheek, staring down at the mess he'd made on the board. His apology for waking me up was chased away with a hurried shake of my head. "Oh no, don't apologise to me, apologise to that poor bit of meat- he looks as though he's seen better days."

I managed to put my coffee cup down just before Charlie kissed me long and hard, as if he'd been waiting all morning for me to wake up just to do so. Last night, he'd slept beside me, just as he had the night before, and had made me promise to help peel potatoes in the morning. But this wasn't potato peeling.

If this was, I'd been doing it wrong my whole life.

Somehow, Charlie's method of cooking meant that I was on the counter-top beside his sodden hamburger patty, topless and out of breath.

With his hair messy and my old Gerald Way t-shirt scrunched in his hands, he pulled back and traced his finger across my tattoo just under my left breast.

"I hope Derek likes me."

I let out a groan. "You sure know how to kill the mood, Perkins." He smiled against my shoulder, breathing softly against my collar bone as his lips pressed against my skin. I played with the hair at the back of his head, managing to sneak a mouthful of coffee. "You'll be fine, I mean, look- your family loved me and I'm a train wreck. Besides, Addison's not here and Derek isn't that important to win over."

Charlie raised his head to narrow his eyes. "Really?"

"Yeah, I mean, he didn't come looking for my blessing when he got married to Meredith." I patted him on the cheek, thinking back to the night Derek and Meredith got married. It'd been the night George had died and the night that Izzie had almost died too. "In fact, he didn't really give me the heads up at all- he just kinda did it."

He cocked his head to the side and I ran my fingers through his hair.

He reminded me of a little dog, like the cocker spaniel my mother had adopted once on a whim (it'd been a fad for five seconds and then she'd palmed it off on her brother in North Carolina). I quirked a brow at him, not quite understanding why he was suddenly very quiet. He rested his chin on my thigh, thinking for a few moments.