Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟳𝟰 maroon

𝙇𝙓𝙓𝙄𝙑.
MAROON

──────

NEW YORK

PEACE WAS ADDICTIVE.

It was that sort of evening that Mark reverted to whenever he needed something to balance himself out.

His hand on the steering wheel, his girl in the passenger seat beside him and half-abandoned Manhattan streets that seemed to never settle.

He was supposed to be concentrating on the stripped road in front of him, gently cruising across the city as if he wasn't too concerned about chasing the sunrise. He was supposed to be unconditionally staring at the stop signs and the traffic lights and the flickering traffic, but he found his gaze wandering.

Every time, he came back to Beth.

She was gently curled into herself, her chin resting on her shoulder as she fell into a liminal slumber indicative of the wine she'd drank during the evening.

He found himself glancing over at her all too often, caught off-guard by how quiet and peaceful she looked in her haziness; how her chest rose and fell with every breath and she seemed unbothered by the gentle rock of the car as Mark tried his best to break softly around corners.

Her makeup had smudged gradually through the evening, her lipstick blurred and her hair slightly unruly from the way she'd dozed off almost immediately-- a light smile played on his lips.

She just looked peaceful.

In his peripheral, he watched the brake lights from passing cars streak across her face, painting her in a red light that seems too violent for the moment.

Everything is too soft and tender; the city is muted, gentle Balzaretti piano suite on the radio and even Mark, in some intervals, felt the impulse to hold his breath as if to not startle the sleeping woman beside him.

It felt like the sort of moment that would feel golden in it's recollection.

That it would make things feel a little less stormy and a little more light. He didn't have many of these: peaceful, tender moments that he felt hesitant to interrupt or ruin. Their days were always so rushed and fast, filled with chaos and blood and raised voices exchanging orders. He didn't get moments like these, at least not anymore.

He didn't get to see Beth sleep, their schedules were so disordered; he wasn't used to seeing her in peace. He almost felt like favouring it, like driving the long route around the island to just experience it before the moment ended.

Mark let this thought trouble him almost, his brow creasing as he turned his eyes back to the road and considered taking a shortcut to get her home.

"What are you thinking about?"

Beth started speaking.

Her voice was quiet. Everything was so quiet.

He shot a glance over at her. Her eyes were still closed. A passing lamp post illuminated the way she shuffled slightly in her seat, drawing her body tighter into itself as she flirted with the idea of sleeping.

At first he'd thought he'd imagined it. Maybe he had? But then he allowed himself to hum lightly, a tentative, low sound that wouldn't startle her but would set out an invitation for a response if she had spoken.

"You're thinking," She said.

He glanced over at her at a stop light. The sight of her eyes gleaming through the din made him start slightly as if he hadn't expected her to actually be conscious.