I apologise for not posting a fic in forever. Comments and constructive feedback are always appreciated!🫶
Drive me crazy | Heist!Mark x Y/N (reader) | 759 words | Read on AO3
'Honestly, I don't know why I let you decide these things sometimes.'
The thief taps his finger on the steering wheel as he waits for the light to change, in a subconscious effort to physically vent some of his current frustration with his heist partner and a job gone south. From the corner of his eye, he catches you simply folding your arms and turning your head away from him in response.
A tense quiet settles over the pair of you for a moment that stretches uncomfortably, enough that Mark finds himself surprised when he glances at the clock on the dashboard to see that only a couple of minutes have passed. It takes all his concentration and strength not to glance over at you. He wills himself to instead continue stubbornly frowning at the road as he drives.
The silence claws at Mark's brain like a growing itch, but he can't bring himself to give you the satisfaction of being the first to break it. Most of his energy to fight has already fizzled out from when you argued earlier, while you were both still speeding away from the museum and your abandoned loot. He's not even all that mad anymore, and part of him wishes he could get over himself and stop being annoyed just so he could hear your voice again. Maybe even pull a laugh out of you.
'We should get takeout tomorrow.'
He thinks he might strangle you for having the audacity to change the subject just like that. And you call me infuriating.
'Yeah, well, in case you forgot, pal, rent is due tomorrow and we're a little pressed for cash right now. We can't afford to be wasting it on takeout if we like having a roof over our heads,' Mark retorts. 'Not after you messing up our heist,' he adds under his breath.
'I did not "mess up our heist" .'
'Here we go again.'
'So maybe going through the emergency exit wasn't the best choice, but how was I supposed to know the painting wouldn't fit through the door?! I mean, having a fire escape so small has to be some kind of health and safety violation.' Mark agrees internally. Outwardly, he rolls his eyes with purposeful exaggeration.
'And not to mention I'm the only reason we both managed to get out safely at all.'
He can't really deny that. It's only fair, he reminds himself, to acknowledge that for every slip in judgement on your part, you usually have at least a few more instances of good calls to make up for it. It's part of why he puts his faith in your instincts and decision-making. Most of the time.
'Yeah, well. That's the only reason I'm not making you do the cooking for once.'
Mark slows the car as you arrive at another red traffic light.
He can feel your eyes on him. Hopeful, reaching. 'So... are we good?'
'...We're good.'
Unable to resist anymore, he turns to find you beaming at him, your face cast in the shadow of night, eyes reflecting the harsh street lights into something warm and inviting that swims in your pretty irises, your hair tusseled by you hastily removing your beanie after hurriedly making it to the car. It's a sight he'll never get tired of. A sight he has to reluctantly drag his gaze away from when the light changes to green.
He's never been the best at metaphors, but the quiet that passes over you now is more of a fuzzy blanket or a warm wave of air. He allows himself to glance over and briefly meet your eyes once again, because he can't help himself. (Because looking at you is one of his favourite things to do.)
'Can we have—'
'A-b-bup— shut up. Don't push your luck, buddy. You'll eat whatever I give you and you'll like it,' he firmly chastises, punctuating the statement with an overly dramatic fake scowl and odd turning motion of his head for emphasis.
You stick your tongue out at him before leaning back in your seat with a small pout. He ignores how stupidly bad he wants to pull over and kiss it off your face.
Mark sighs loudly. 'Fine. What do you want? Just do me a favour and pick something easy.'
His partner giggles and he feels the familiar swoop and flutter in his gut, the corner of his own lips tugging his mouth into a lopsided grin.
'But I thought you said—'
'Just tell me before I change my mind, sweetheart.'
Captaineer drabble (Captain is reader) | Words: 381 | (fluff/sorta hurt-comfort?) | Read on AO3
From where he lies beside you, you feel a hand rest atop yours, calloused fingertips brushing your knuckles.
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Mhm,’ you hum in assent, ‘ ‘course.’
‘Were there ever any of the other “me”s that you… liked more than, well, me…?’
‘What? No, Mark, of course not. Why would you–? No. You're my Mark. Hey,’ You take his face in both your hands, gently making him meet your eyes. ‘I didn't go halfway across the multiverse just to find any old Mark.’
He gives a small laugh and you press your lips to his forehead before returning your gaze to look directly into his.
‘I'm sure the other "me"s out there have their own "you"s that they cherish in their own ways, and some of them could be enemies, in a sense, or even strangers. But that's their business. I love you. This you. More than anything or anyone — and I mean anyone. I don't know how many times I have to tell you that for you to fully believe you deserve it, or truly understand how much I mean it, but I'll remind you forever if I have to.’
It's dark in the room and you can just about make out his eyes and other features, but you can feel the slight tingle of warmth on his cheeks, imagine the blush tinting his face.
‘Forever's a long time,’ he says, voice low and soft and undeniably adoring.
‘Yeah, well, I think we both know the meaning of “a long time” better than maybe anyone. And in all that time — all those lifetimes, all those universes, I would always choose you, no matter what.'
He buries his face in the crook of your neck, using your upper arm as a pillow. His arms wind around your torso, pulling you close. You wrap your free arm over his back, stroking his dark curls and winding them gently, comfortingly, between and around your fingers.
‘I love you,’ he whispers against you. ‘You’re my whole universe, my everything. You're the only you I want, too.’
You want to wrap him up in your heart, deep within the warmth of your chest. But since you can't, you settle for holding him tighter, every night, and you never let go.
If by any chance you’re up to it, could you please write a fic about Heist Mark being super jealous of Yancy because he and Y/N clearly seem to be into each other?? I LOVE your art and writings and I couldn’t get this idea out of my head <3 (Obviously no pressure, though!)
I'm so happy to hear you enjoy my work, thank you🥺💖 and thank you for your request! it got me out of a terrible writer's block. on that note, sorry this took quite some time, I've been in a bit of a funk of on and off general creative block, and unable to finish any writing at all for even longer. this was a pretty fun challenge! I myself view Yancy platonically so I wasn't quite sure where to go with this initially, and I had to fight every urge to just make this heist mark x y/n dfsjsjsv. that said, it did end up being more heist mark-centric than maybe you intended? in which case, I'm sorry, I couldn't help myself😔 yancy is there but very briefly haha
Don't you tell me that you never even thought, 'maybe we could run'
2,603 words | Read on AO3
‘We're all gonna be rehearsing tomorrow so youse best get some sleep.’
You nod as you close the gate to yours and Mark's shared cell, stifling a yawn.
‘Goodnight, Yancy.’
You hold each other's gaze for a moment, before he turns and heads off, a tattooed hand over the back of his neck and a sweet smile still on his face. You watch as he disappears into the outer hallway and a guard appears to lock up your cell for the evening.
Your long-time accomplice and friend stands at the edge of your vision, arms folded.
‘Having fun with your new boyfriend, buddy?’ he asks, sounding unimpressed and slightly strained.
‘Oh, shush, Mark,’ you chide, but your stomach flips at the notion.
‘Yeah… Well, while you were busy playing Broadway,’ he glances to either side of the cell outside and continues in a lowered voice, ‘I've been hard at work hatching our escape. And I'm telling you, it's foolproof.’
‘Uh huh. As foolproof as your other three failed plans? I really don't wanna get thrown in solitary again.’
‘Please, that was one time! — and I don't see you bothering to come up with any ideas. Even though you pretty much got us into this mess.’
That accusation ticks you off, but you're quick to retaliate.
‘Are you seriously still hung up on that? How is this my fault? You couldn't fly a helicopter, why would you assume I can? You shouldn't have even presented it as an option!’
Your exclamation earns you a couple looks from other inmates slowly filing into their cells for the night.
‘Nevermind that now,’ Mark says, infuriatingly placatingly, ‘do you wanna hear the plan or not?’
The thread of uncertainty that you've been avoiding coils tight in your chest and you pause, wondering how to bring up what's been nagging at you for days.
‘Um, so, I've been thinking. What if… what if we don't try to escape?’
‘Ha ha. Funny joke, pal.’
‘I'm serious, Mark. We could just… stay here and wait out our sentence, if we play it safe we might even get our time reduced on good behaviour. We could be gone in like a decade. Or a few years! Maybe. Probably. Maybe.’ Wishful thinking, perhaps.
He scoffs, as if the idea isn't even worth considering.
‘There is no way you're genuinely telling me to just wait it out. Maybe you haven't noticed since you've been in la-la land lately, but we're not on vacation, we're in prison,’ Mark spouts, voice growing thick with agitation. ‘What was supposed to be the heist of a lifetime, would've set us up for decades to come, is still on the line! And we're on a bit of a time crunch here — I don't trust that warden guy one bit with the Box, or in general,’ he sneers. ‘I mean what kind of name is Murder-Slaughter? Ugh, do we even know for sure if he still has it?’
‘Yancy mentioned seeing it in his office the last time he was there, which was earlier today, so yeah, probably.’
‘Ugh, there you go again about Yancy. It's always Yancy this, Yancy that, blah blah blah, Yancy!’
‘Wh– I was just answering your question!’
‘Y'know what? I'm sick and tired of being the only one taking this seriously while you act like it's all a big party.’
He places a hand on his hip, the other poking a finger towards you as he speaks. It would be comical, if he wasn't acting like a jerk.
‘What's up with you?’
‘What's up with me? What's up with you? You seriously wanna stay in this— this shithole, ‘cause of what? Some pretty face you've known for all of like, less than two weeks??’
‘Oh my God, Mark, it's not that terrible, and Yancy is actually my friend, he's been nothing but welcoming and kind since we got here, and—’
‘Oh, did you forget that he tried to beat you up when you first met? Real interesting, how you let that little detail slip.’
‘We just got off on the wrong foot, he's really—’
It's then that you see it — something in the slight hunch in his gait, the furrow of his brow, his pursed lips and tense jaw — and you wonder why you hadn't noticed before. It's not just anger and frustration, it's something bitter and personal.
‘Mark… are you jealous?’
Bingo. His eyes only widen a sliver, for a fraction of a second, but you're so used to reading him that even the most imperceptible of reactions on his usually very expressive face have become familiar to you.
‘Psh. I'm not jealous.’
‘You so are jealous! Oh my god, you're super duper jealous,’ you say with a grin, revelling in this new information.
‘Shut up, why would I be jealous?’ he protests, trying to sound nonchalant. But it's too late. You've already seen through it.
‘Is that what this is about?’ you say with a laugh. ‘You just want my attention back or something?’
He stares blankly for a moment.
‘Are you serious right now? You actually think the only reason I'm mad is because some random dude just waltzes in and starts acting all buddy buddy with you and you fall head-over-heels,’ he jeers with his hands either side of his face, fluttering his eyelashes mockingly. ‘Hook, line and sinker.’
‘Mark—’
‘I mean, never mind your partner, right? You know, your best friend who you've known and worked with for years? Who cares what he thinks?!’
‘Mark, I—’
‘In fact, he can get punched through a wall for all you care! You won't even bat an eye, as long as there's a random spontaneous musical number immediately afterwards, it's all in good fun!’
‘Ok, that's not fair,’ you push back. ‘Of course I was worried! But I was also surrounded by violent criminals at the time, we've been over this!’
‘Oh, so they're “violent criminals” now? But they're simply “hurt, misunderstood souls” when it suits you?!’ he shoots back, making air quotes to emphasise his point.
‘They're people, Mark! They're allowed to be… multi-faceted!’
‘Lights out, everybody,’ comes a guard's voice, ringing through the hallway as it suddenly becomes dark, save for the glow of dim lamplight emanating from one or two of the other cells.
‘Whatever, let's just get some sleep,’ Mark grumbles under his breath.
‘You always do this!’ you whisper harshly, but inadvertently let the volume slip back into your voice as you feel your blood boil. ‘You try to cut things off and act like the “bigger person” just to get out of an argument that, newsflash, YOU'RE LOSING.’
‘Oh, whatever, what-f*cking-ever!’
‘You're being so damn overdramatic, Mark! It's not like I'm trying to break up our team.’
‘Yeah, well– well maybe we should!’
You don't know why it jolts you like a gunshot when he says it, but it does. His words, the force and resentment behind them, pierce you to your core. It stops any quick-fire response you had at the ready in its tracks.
Regret immediately flashes across his face, but he quickly attempts to cover it with a steely, hardened gaze. ‘Clearly, we want different things. So maybe it's for the best.’
‘Hey!’ one of the guards calls out from across the hall. ‘Lights out means quiet, you two. Don't make us separate you into different cells.’
With a frustrated huff, you reluctantly traipse off to bed, yours being the lower half of the bunk while Mark settles above you.
It really is a rather decent bed. The mattress is nothing special, but comfortable, and the soft blanket is accompanied by an oddly luxurious, fluffy pillow. Definitely above what you'd expect is probably average prison standards. Frankly, you don't know what Mark's problem is with this place. It's honestly not half bad. As far as you expect jails go, it surely could be a lot worse.
You lay back and let your breathing even out, trying your best to allow some of the bubbling anger to die down. Eventually, you hear the guards leave.
Time passes, it could be minutes or hours; it's not like the passage of time has felt right at all to you since that last heist.
It's silent, save for the sound of your breaths and Mark's above you. You're still upset with him, but the sound of him breathing nearby has always been oddly comforting. The two of you have had plenty of close calls as a pair — even times when you had to patch each other up after jobs that went particularly badly. If you got injured on a heist, you couldn't simply call an ambulance or show up at a hospital in an emergency and risk having your whole operation blown. That was simply the nature of your line of work.
At the worst of times, as long as you could hear those steady, even breaths, you could tell yourself he would pull through, and things would be fine.
You idly watch the mattress above you, letting the rhythm of your friend's breathing become a gentle white noise, and think.
You think about that heist and the Box. Ancient, coveted, mysterious. Sitting atop its perch in the museum vault, in all its glory and allure, practically asking to be stolen. The gleam of the gem encrusted in its surface. You wonder if the prize held within would be worth all of this, if you managed to get it back.
You think about Yancy, a little rough and a little troubled and not seeing much point in trying to kick old habits; but fun and soft and sensitive and full of remorse. You think about the feeling of your hand in his when you practise a routine with him, how his whole face lights up when he's excited or falls when he's sad or pensive. You think about how he has made this penitentiary into a home, and these inmates into a family.
You think about Mark. Silly, stupid, steadfast Mark, snarky and thoughtful and loyal. Who isn't actually as dumb as he lets on. Who is resourceful and quick-thinking when a plan needs to be formed. Who makes bad puns and trusts you whole-heartedly, and who always lets you decide which course of action to take, no matter how much he disagrees, simply due to his unwavering faith in you. Mark, your co-worker, your friend, your partner in crime. Who is maybe a little enamoured with you, despite you trying to ignore it. Who you half-heartedly agreed to go on a date with, not having it in you to turn him down, nor prepared for the guilt that would be eating away at you now.
You think about one of the first things he told you when you landed yourselves at Happy Trails: About how he doesn't belong here, but maybe you do. What if he were to leave and you were to stay? The thought breaks your heart a little.
Then, a whisper from above into the quiet, gently interrupting your thoughts.
‘Hey, you still awake?’
‘...Yeah.’
You hear his voice, soft-spoken, but clear enough that you can hear the sincerity laced into it.
‘I… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get so worked up.’
‘Yeah, I'm sorry too,’ you reply, matching his volume.
‘And I didn't mean it,’ he says, and you think you hear the slightest tremble in the statement, almost as if he's fighting tears, and for a second you wish you could see his face, ‘what I said before, about uh, splitting up. I know I joke about that kind of thing all the time, and not coming back for you… But you know I don't really mean it, right?’
You've certainly had your doubts in the past, but those moments seem so far away now; footnotes in a slowly unfolding tale, stepping stones on the journey the pair of you have taken together as you worked your way from theft to theft to get to this point. As much as you'd butt heads over the years, you could always count on each other and you always stuck together.
‘Right?’
‘Yeah, I know…’
‘...And, alright, your lack of interest in breaking out aside, maybe I am kinda jealous.’
‘Ha! I knew it.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ He sighs. ‘It's just… it took us a while to be like we are now and yet, you're suddenly so close to him when it hasn't even been that long, it just doesn't feel fair. I dunno, it's stupid.’
‘Nah, I get it. I'm sorry if I made you feel left behind.
‘And I'm sorry if I ever made you feel pressured into something you're actually just not all that into.’
You feel a bit of tension leave your chest as a small smile appears on your face. ‘I appreciate that.’
In some ways you're grateful for the small bed separating you and preventing you from being face to face. You think it makes this easier for both of you.
‘I don't want to lose you, y'know? I mean, we're supposed to be partners. Ride or die, remember?’
‘Oh, Mark… You know I still trust you with my life…’ You pause, considering your words. ‘For the first time in ages, things feel a little more complicated than just being about us.’
A beat, then you hear him inhale, and he says your name, foregoing any of his usual nicknames.
‘...Are you… happy here? Does he make you happy?’
‘There's things I miss about freedom, sure, but it's not so bad here. And let's face it, our crimes were probably gonna catch up to us eventually, one way or another, right? And Yancy…’ You let out the smallest huff of laughter, smiling to yourself once again. ‘You're right, it hasn't been very long… There's just something about him, I guess. I know he might be a little much at times but I enjoy being around him, and he honestly seems like he wants to make up for things he's done in the past by being here. Maybe nothing will come of this but even so, in a weird way, he kind of makes me want to do better?’
Mark breathes a good-natured huff of laughter as well, and the two of you take a moment to muse on the irony of that sentiment.
‘I just– I can't handle being stuck here,’ he finally says. ‘But you're right, nothing I've tried so far has worked, anyway.’
‘Y'know… Yancy knows all the ins and outs of this place. He could probably help us if we wanted it.’
‘Do you want it?’
Do you want to leave or stay? The real question beneath it all.
You're quiet again, and it feels as if every possibility is laid out before you, only obscured.
‘I don't know,’ you say eventually. ‘I need more time to think. I just don't want you to think I'm making a choice between you or him, there's so many other things I need to consider. That we need to consider.’
‘That's fair… Just don't take too long, ok? Not like we can pause or rewind time, haha.’
‘Right… In the meantime, could you at least try to get along with Yancy and the others? You might like them if you give them a chance.’
‘... Fine, I'll try,’ he acquiesces.
You raise a hand to your mouth to cover a yawn. A far more comfortable silence falls over the room, and you start to feel sleep overtake you.
I've been unable to work on my longer WIPs for some reason but take this. for lack of a better title:
idiots locked in the world's most romantically charged staring contest
Heist Mark x Y/N (reader) | 628 words
You wait just around the corner, quiet and out of sight, and lightly smack Mark's arm with the back of your hand when he tries to peer around you, lest someone see and you have both your covers blown.
Your partner rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and you level him with a stare.
You understand the anticipation, but patience is crucial for jobs like this. You wait for the signal. One wrong move could cost you a lot more than just your loot.
The little nook of the building you're waiting in is, rather conveniently for means of slinking around unnoticed, out of the way, and quite narrow. Even with Mark leaning back against the opposite wall, you are mere inches apart.
He checks his watch. 'Should be any minute now,' he utters in a hushed voice.
You nod. Several seconds pass. Distant chatter echoes down the halls, muffled into a steady background ambience of rich party attendees blissfully unaware of the thieves in their midst.
You look at your partner, simply because you have nothing else to do. He's craning his neck again in a futile attempt to peek around the corner more subtly.
His suit for the night is crisp, and gives his silhouette a sharper outline than the more typical cosy sweaters and soft flannel shirts. His hair looks especially dark cast in shadow, but there's enough light from outside the enclosed space that you see it reflected in his eyes. Softly glowing white and orange and magenta specs, floating on deep brown. Pretty.
It's as he turns his head back to face you, that he notices you staring, and meets your gaze without missing a beat.
Mark smiles, faintly roguish, but gentle and just for you.
He holds your stare, and something to the way he does so makes you wonder if he sees the same lights sparkling in your own eyes, and if he finds the sight as oddly captivating as you do.
A minute passes.
Mark loosens his tie.
It's a simple, small thing, but it stirs something inside of you, and you don't know why, but your breath hitches a little and your eyes widen slightly and he definitely notices. But he doesn't say anything and neither do you. All he does is keep looking intensely into your eyes until he doesn't because his gaze is flickering elsewhere — trailing across your features, settling on your mouth for longer than can be dismissed and when you bite your lip subconsciously it's as if he's mesmerised. You can hardly recall where you are or what you're doing here, none of it matters as much as his head tilting ever so slightly and then—
A voice through your earpiece jolts you out of your stupor. You suddenly take stock of the warmth from Mark's breath on your face. Your noses almost bumping. When did he get so close?
You press a button on your earpiece to answer the call, and by the look on your partner's face, he hears it too. It's Wubba and Bubba, giving the signal as agreed, and the moment is gone and your friend clears his throat and straightens up, as a confusing mixture of disappointment and frustration and lingering excitement flutter and twist in your gut.
When he moves out of your immediate space, the inches feel like miles.
You push the feelings down. You have work to do.
Mark mumbles something over the voice channel before turning back to you once again.
'You ready, buddy?'
The corner of your mouth quirks up, matching his own eager grin.
'You know I am.'
His grin widens.
'Good,' he says, adjusting his sleeve and finally getting a better look around the corner, now that the coast is decidedly clear. 'Alright, partner. Showtime.'
Between the lines | Heist Mark and Y/N | 328 words | AO3
Mark stepped into the apartment, locking the door behind him with a click. He'd had to head out to run a quick errand, leaving his partner in crime to finish up making the plans for the next heist on their own.
He made his way inside and called out to let them know he was back, but was met only by the soft patter of paws as Chica came bounding up to him, tail wagging. Setting down his keys, he bent to give her a few pats and, figuring that his roommate was probably in the shower, headed over to the small living room to look over the completed plans.
He found the papers lying in a neat pile on the coffee table, maps, blueprints, and crayons set off to one side. For as long as he'd worked with them, they'd always complained about the crayons. They still used them, though.
It was as he skimmed over the newly drawn up plan that he noticed something he hadn't expected.
He glanced over the little doodle he'd left on the page: an overly simplified rendition of himself, dressed in the usual stealth garb for infiltrating museums, holding up the artefact they were currently after with a grin. And there, right beside it, in matching crayon, was a similar portrayal of his heist partner, and the words 'Yay! We did it! :D' above the pair of them.
The drawings were a little silly, really — childish even — but a smile tugged at his lips nonetheless.
He found himself gently brushing his fingertips over the markings on the paper, running over the newly added half of the doodle featuring his partner and lightly tracing the outlines.
Something coiled deep in his chest in that moment, but not unpleasantly. It was something almost eager. Something softly fond. It nestled between his ribs and lodged itself behind his heart, quiet again. He couldn't articulate it if he tried, but... he liked this feeling.
A chill racks your body as you and Mark make your way through the cool night. You mentally curse, wishing you were wearing more layers, though you know anything more wouldn't have fit under the tactical vest that sits snugly around your torso.
Your heist partner doesn't seem to notice you shiver, busy making sure the coast is clear before proceeding and gesturing for you to follow.
You do your best to keep pace with your friend's manoeuvres as he darts an odd pattern through the museum, triggering a bout of slight nausea that causes you to stop in your tracks.
‘Hey, keep up!’ Mark whisper-yells, turning around just in time to miss you steadying yourself after a wave of dizziness.
Somehow you make it the rest of the way without collapsing or being seen, but you're now all too aware of the fatigue in your muscles and the soreness in your throat. Meanwhile, your partner in crime carefully but swiftly wraps the stolen artefacts and slips them into his bag.
Your prize this time? A series of ancient tablets that you plan to sell to an illegal collector. You can't imagine what practical use someone would have for these, but at the end of the day, a job's a job and money is money.
It is only on your way out, that you feel the tell-tale itch in your nose that you have been dreading all evening.
As you scrunch up your face, Mark looks at you in confusion.
‘Buddy, you've been acting off all night, what's up with you? You good?’
You nod, desperately wanting to move on and for this to be over with.
The first couple of sneezes you manage to quell without too much fuss, but you can already feel a larger one threatening your nostrils.
While crouched behind a display, hiding from some guards, comes the point at which you can no longer hide that you're suppressing sneezes.
‘Alright, we are so close to being scot-free— hey what are you —? You're not sick are you? Really? Now?!’
Mark shakes his head back and forth with a string of frantically whispered "no"s as you fight your reflexes, but it's futile.
The sneeze that finally escapes you is resounding, and there is a beat of stunned silence and lack of movement from every party involved before you and Mark react first, bolting out the exit with the guards in pursuit.
It's a mad dash with a lot of ducking and diving, adrenaline probably the only thing keeping your body going, but by some miracle the two of you manage to lose them, eventually making it to where your getaway vehicle is parked some ways away so as to not be suspicious.
Piling into the passenger seat, exhaustion hits you all at once and you're thankful that Mark is the one driving. You pull off your gloves and hat and he does the same.
With no one following you, your partner drives cautiously in order to not draw any unwanted attention, careful to abide by traffic laws and always on the lookout for cops.
‘There's tissues and water in the glove box,’ he says after a few minutes, expression hard-lined and inscrutable, eyes focused on the road.
There's a thick tension in the car, uncharacteristically quiet save for the limited traffic outside and the rumble of the engine. You blow your nose, and it feels awkward in the silence, only broken on occasion by your sniffing. You take a sip of water, grateful for the coolness against your chapped lips and dry throat.
Eventually, you decide you don't want to endure the tension any longer, and you're too tired to let your little mishap turn into an argument; it was your fault, after all.
‘I'm sorry.’
Mark sighs. He glances at you, then back to the road.
‘It's okay. It's not your fault you're sick, it's just… Why didn't you tell me?’
‘Didn't want to ruin the heist.’ You laugh, but it's strained and weak, void of any real mirth or humour. ‘But I guess I kinda messed up on that anyway, huh?’
He lets out a small huff of laughter. ‘Yeah, no shit.’
You look down at your hands, folded in your lap.
‘Hey, it's not a big deal,’ he consoles. ‘We got what we came for and we didn't get caught. That's about as much as we can say for most of our heists.’
Your gaze stays downcast; he does make a good point, but it doesn't stop you from feeling a little guilty.
Mark must notice, because he reaches across to place a hand on your shoulder reassuringly, other hand still keeping the wheel steady.
You put your own hand over his, grateful for the comfort. You close your eyes and will away the growing dizziness and brain fog, the warmth from his now ungloved palm reassuring.
‘Look buddy, I need you to know I'm not mad or anything, just a bit upset that you didn't tell me in the first place… and annoyed at myself for not catching onto the fact sooner. I just thought… I thought you felt like you could be honest with me about this stuff.’
There's an undeniable hurt in his tone that makes you look up at him. He is still intently focused on the road ahead, despite there being rather few other people and cars out at this time of night, and you know it's out of choice — he takes his eyes off the streets in favour of looking your way for much longer than necessary when he wants to. Usually you'd chide him for doing so, but right now you can't help but wish he'd properly meet your eyes, just for a moment.
‘No – I can. I can tell you nearly everything, I – I'm sorry.’ You take a steadying breath, organising your thoughts. ‘You were just – really looking forward to this one, and there was no better day for it, everything lined up perfectly for us to go tonight. This stupid cold had to turn up and it started out as just a sore throat, no big deal, and well… I thought I could stick it out a little longer despite feeling like crap, but…’ You trail off, turning to look out the window as he approaches your shared base, returning his hand to the wheel.
He pulls up, setting the car to park, and finally turns his head to fully face you, placing a hand on your knee to get your attention.
He says your name, and it sounds like a term of endearment. For someone so bold and often brash, he can be surprisingly tender, a side of him that rarely anyone but you gets to see. ‘I rely on you, and you can rely on me… but part of that means we have to tell each other these things.’
‘Yeah, OK…’
‘Pinky promise?’
‘What are you, five?’
‘I'm serious,’ he says firmly, holding out his finger to emphasise the point.
Smiling, you hook your pinky around his own and shake on it, but not without rolling your eyes first.
‘Good,’ he says, pleased. ‘Now that that's settled, let's get inside, hm?’
While Mark retrieves the loot and stows it for the time being, you let yourself in, settling on the small couch in the living room. You take off your shoes and unzip your vest, easing it off your aching limbs.
The nausea and dizziness seems to have passed but you feel hot, yet a little shivery, and you're on the verge of nodding off when Mark appears in front of you, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. If it's even possible, you feel incrementally hotter with his touch as you return his concerned gaze through sleepy, half-lidded eyes.
‘I think you've got a fever, bud. C'mon, time for bed.’
You groan in protest, too drained to move, instead letting your head fall forward to plop against his chest, the soft texture of his plain black sweater a comforting feel against your fevered skin.
‘Oh boy, what am I gonna do with you…?’ he murmurs, bringing a hand up to pat your hair. He speaks softly, and with such affection that your heart would probably be doing somersaults if you weren't so tired and ill.
‘Alright, upsy-daisy.’ In one quick motion, he picks you up, carrying you bridal style to your room, and for once you don't object.
‘Hey, you better not make me sick too,’ he warns without an ounce of actual distaste, as you practically nuzzle your face into him.
He gently lays you in bed, tucking covers around you.
‘I'll be right back.’
You instantly miss his presence, tugging the blanket up a little around yourself.
He returns before long with a box of tissues, the bottle of water you'd been drinking and some painkillers, leaving them by your bedside. He places a wet face cloth beside you as well.
‘I know you're probably feeling cold but I don't want your temperature to get too high, so use this, and keep drinking water.’
You nod, about ready to drift to sleep.
‘Call me if you need anything, OK? I won't be far.’
‘Don't you want to sleep?’
‘I will in a little while, but you can still call me.’
‘Ok,’ you reply appreciatively. ‘Thanks for… looking after me.’
‘Someone's got to.’ He smiles at you gently, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face.
After a pause, he gets up to leave, pulling the door closed but leaving a gap the width of his face.
‘Rest up, buddy.’
He makes a quick kissing sound in your direction before shutting the door fully, his footsteps receding down the hallway.
Your face feels very warm.
Must be the fever, you think, placing the towel on your forehead with a yawn, before swiftly falling asleep.
Contained in creases | Heist!Y/N | 526 words | AO3
The dryer rumbles and slows to a stop, beeping to announce the end of its cycle.
You finish setting out food for Chica, who comes eagerly bounding into the kitchen when you call her, and run your hand a few times through her thick fur.
It's quiet, and times like these make the small room feel bigger, emptier somehow.
Late afternoon sunlight pours in through the windows, lighting up the room. As you stand fully, you take a moment to bask in it.
The previous night had been a long one; an arduous but successful heist had you near collapsing into bed once the loot was carefully stowed, ready to be sold. You'd slept, heavy and dreamless, late into the next morning, only tearing yourself from the comfort of your bed some time after noon.
You inhale, exhale, cherishing the sun's brief caress before it inevitably disappears behind the clouds, then make your way to the small laundry room that leads out of one end of the kitchen.
A wave of heat escapes the dryer when you open it, and you let it wash over you. It's the kind of warmth that makes you wish you were small enough to crawl inside the machine, curl up and hide from the daily stresses and responsibilities of life.
Responsibilities like emptying your laundry. You sigh and begin to pull items of clothing out one by one, folding them before placing them neatly in a basket.
You're about halfway through the load when your fingers close around something that jolts you out of the absent-minded daze you've fallen into.
You raise the garment in front of you, something familiar, but that you'd almost forgotten you'd been wearing — lodged somewhere deep in the backlog of clothes that, between heists and extra planning and hours spent idly staring at the ceiling with an inconsolable ache in your chest, you hadn't gotten around to washing. Until now.
Your throat tightens. Your eyes burn and your skin prickles.
Oh.
It's his.
You used to slip into his room sometimes to steal his things, just like you'd stolen this sweater (and he'd raid you right back).
You see your hands tremble at the edge of your vision, gaze fixed on the hoodie and it's simple design. It's black, just like most of his wardrobe, in a closet that has remained untouched since the last time he left it, not knowing it would be just that.
You haven't had the heart to go back in. Not since… It just feels wrong to be there now.
Your grip tightens. You don't realise you're crying until the tears begin to drip down, soaking into the fabric. A sob suddenly racks your body and you let your face sink into the soft texture as you tremble.
Your knees dig into the cold, hard floor, but in your arms it's warm. So warm. And the hoodie is clean and fresh with the scent of detergent, but somehow… it still smells faintly of him.
Chica pads soundlessly over, plopping her head on your thigh in a manner of comfort — or perhaps commiseration.
You are peeling potatoes in the kitchen while Mark runs through plans for the next heist, and you mentally make a note of everything you'll need to pack as he does so.
The date of the job is set for next week and in all honesty, was a rather abrupt decision, but sometimes you just have to take the windows of opportunity when they arise. Money has been tight as of late; this is essentially your equivalent of a quick cash-grab.
This particular heist required minimal planning and effort, but the location is some ways away, so the pair of you would be staying somewhere to lay low overnight once you get away with the goods, before making your way back home the following day.
‘— so we'll have a couple possible exits to work with, but we should be able to make a clean getaway no problem.’
‘That's good.’
‘Oh, and I managed to book a room for the night but since the whole thing was kind of last minute, they were pretty limited on what they could offer us, especially with our current budget. Bed's pretty big though. We can share.’
Your eyes widen at that, mind briefly unfocused just long enough for the blade to slip too far.
‘Ah–! Shit—’
Mark's head shoots up at your pained exclaim, rushing to the counter where you are standing as soon as he catches a glimpse of the blood trailing down your hand.
‘Oh shit, how'd you manage that?’ he asks, voice littered with concern.
He grabs and hands you some tissues to soak up the blood, and you cradle them around the cut on your thumb.
Moving to the sink, you run it under the water.
‘It's not too deep but the bleeding isn't stopping…’ you say, turning off the tap.
‘You're gonna need to wait a couple minutes for it to clot. Here, let me see.’
He holds out his hand and you instinctively give him your injured one to inspect the damage. It's minimal, really. More of an inconvenience than anything.
Mark hums with a concerned frown. ‘Better take care of it.’
He reaches out to flip open the door to one of the kitchen cabinets, rifling through various shelves.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Looking for the first-aid, duh.’
‘Mark. I don't need first aid, it's not a big deal.’
‘At least put a Band-Aid on it.’
You sigh. ‘Fine.’
He takes out an antiseptic wipe and a plaster and once again holds out a hand expectantly.
‘I can do it myself,’ you say blankly.
‘Well clearly not,’ he retorts. ‘You can't even handle a knife without hurting yourself right now, apparently.’
‘Oh, please, I was just… distracted.’
‘Oh yeah? What was so distracting?’
You sigh in frustration, not having a response (or at least no truth you care to give) and give him your hand defeatedly.
He guides you to sit down opposite him, resting your arm on the table, and you keep your hand steady as he wipes the surface of the cut.
‘You're being extra.’
‘I'm being safe, do you want it to get infected?’
It stings a little, making you wince slightly, and he mutters a small ‘sorry’.
You can't help but take note of how gentle and calm he is as he handles you. Mindful and delicate. Your eyes drift from your connected hands up to his concentrated gaze, where they stay for a moment, watching the slow movement of his dark eyes.
You know for sure he would try to play down his own, actually serious injuries; it's happened before — and in the midst of your worry you didn't hesitate to give him a mouthful for his recklessness.
This is such a simple task in comparison, and yet the care with which he patches up the small, insignificant cut makes your stomach flip.
He finishes wrapping the plaster around your thumb, smoothing down the end.
‘All done! That wasn't so hard, was it?’
You mumble your thanks, looking down at your hand still in his.
‘Y'know, for someone so good with knots, grappling guns and all that jazz, it amazes me how clumsy you can be sometimes.’
‘...I told you, I just wasn't paying attention for a second,’ you say with a huff.
‘Mhm. You can't even use my distractingly handsome face as an excuse, you were facing the other way!’
You roll your eyes indignantly and he chuckles, tracing the smallest circle into your palm.
With a small quirk of a smile, he suddenly brings your hand up in front of him so his lips just barely brush your thumb over the plaster.
‘Need me to kiss it better?’ he teases, gaze flicking upwards to meet your own.
Your breath catches. There are a solid few seconds of you staring: eyes, lips, hands, before you quickly pull your hand away to your chest, flustered.
‘I– I'm good,’ you utter, vision averted to anywhere other than his smirking face.
‘Alright then. Do you need me to take over, or…?’ he asks, gesturing to the half-peeled potato on the counter.
‘Oh! Thanks, but I've got it now, don't worry,’ you reassure, with a small, appreciative pat on his arm as you get up to make your way over to the counter.
Your skin still tingles ever so slightly with the warmth from his palms. You spare a moment to wonder whether he realises the effect he has on you, before quickly shaking those thoughts from your head.
Mark goes back to his plans, marking out paths and points on his diagram and listing off escape routes, when it occurs to you what had sidetracked your attention in the first place.
