Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

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"OH CRAP!"

The exclamation came from the other side of the bedroom as he was ripped out of the clutches of a rocky night's sleep. 

He would've been happy to stay there forever, but there was a phone alarm screaming at high volume in his ear. 

At first, he didn't quite understand why there was someone yelling across his bed in the early hours of the morning-- the curtains were still closed, sleep was still heavy in his mind and he could still very faintly taste the liquor he'd consumed the night before. 

It took a while for his brain to catch up that morning; he ran a hand across his face, groaning to the tune of the sound of the electronic device by his head.

This was not Mark's usual wakeup call.

It took a lot more effort than he'd expected to open his eyelids. It took a lot of concentration and determination. His muscles were aching, head sore and face twitchy. 

He very, very carefully raised his head to peer across the gloomy bedroom, just in time to watch a woman teeter her way through linen and lurch across to a dress that had been discarded on the floor. She did it with very little grace, slipping and sliding all over the place as she tried her best to find the device who was the culprit of the rude awakening.

He had no idea who this woman was. It wasn't that Mark didn't particularly remember what had happened the night before... well, okay, maybe it was. 

Whenever he attempted to think about the night before all he could remember was going to Joe's bar after the dinner party and then... nothing. 

It was as if his brain had decided to take a vacation, as if it'd donned a lei, packed a suitcase and boarded the next flight out to Hawaii. In a way, Mark wished that he'd gone with his brain; he was beginning to think that he could solve a lot of problems in his life with a single flight.

"Oh crap," The woman mumbled to herself, quieter this time. 

Her back was turned to him so he just tiredly stared lines into her naked form; his chin was propped on the pillow, head throbbing as he tried to recount exactly how many drinks he'd had the night before. 

There'd been the wine at Beth's apartment... some scotch... oh, there'd definitely been tequila... maybe some vodka too-- 

"Crap, crap, crap, crap--"

The unnamed woman was tapping at her phone, attempting to shut off the alarm while swearing quietly to herself. 

He found himself straining to remember who she was; there was something familiar about her dark hair, about the stretch of skin that he could see in the gloom from the obstructed window. 

He couldn't remember how exactly the evening had gone (Had he charmed her? Had she approached him? Had he bought her a drink? Had she bought him many of his?) and he could even remember her name (Something was telling him the name Emma but he wasn't 100% sure). Hell, had she even told him her name? He hoped that he'd at least been charming, even if he had been drunk off of his ass--

Mark didn't quite know whether he had the energy to care.

What he did have the energy for, however, was the long groan past his lips. It was a signature sound: The Mark Sloan: I've Woken Up With Naked A Woman In My Bed That I Don't Recognise (Come Back This Evening For The Encore).