Mohawk Mark: Don't know about you. No place would accept me. That's why I prefer not dying.
Y/n: What if they don't accept me either?
Mohawk Mark: Then come hang out with me. There's probably a bench at the entrance of hell. We'll smoke together.
Y/n: What if there's no bench at the entrance of hell?
Mohawk Mark: Then I'll be your bench. You can sit on me or something...besides, you know the ground in hell is probably hot. I can handle the contact better for you.
Y/n: ..what if your Viltrumite powers don't work there?
Mohawk Mark: Wha—damn it Y/n shut that mouth of yours or I'll bend you over right here.
Y/n: ...
Mohawk Mark: ...
Mohawk Mark: *Points somewhere in the sky* Damn it look over there! What the hell is that?!
In which Actor falls through.
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5
TW: swearing, strangulation
Pages: 30 - Words: 11000
[Requests: OPEN]
At two o’clock on a Thursday, there was very little to do. No late-night benders to produce manslaughter that wouldn’t be remembered in the morning, nor any last-minute break-ins to pay for said late-night benders. In this area of Los Angeles, prohibition was certainly having the adverse effect of what it had intended, so it was anyone’s guess as to why they still toted that stupid ideology. Hell, the station was a ghost town because everyone else was out drinking their pay cheques away.
And that was why Detective Rider was leaned back in his desk, absentmindedly throwing a baseball up and down while he stared out the window. There were a few open files on his desk, paperwork that needed to be filled out before he could get out of that damned office, but nothing he really wanted to do. So, there he was, with no interesting cases to work on and no interesting people to talk to. Technically, he wasn’t completely alone; there were the few janitors and receptionists who were forced to stay behind, but they were no fun, and you—
You were around, as always, probably yelling at a suspect, which always made people shy away from the interrogation rooms.
And even though talking to you was a last resort, you were too busy, and yet not busy enough.
Something had happened recently. He didn’t know exactly what, but he knew it was important enough that you seemed different. Joyful wasn’t exactly the word for it, but there was a certain weight lifted off your shoulders that made you happier, if he had to give it a name. Of course, being around one another overlayed any interaction with a fog of annoyance so that he never saw you at your best, but he gleaned what he could from years of sitting across from you.
However, those years had also made him accustomed to a certain way of doing things – perks of having a work-addicted partner, like being able to shove boring paperwork their way instead of doing it yourself. That one was both Rider’s favorite and the very reason he was cursing the ‘something’ that had made you resist it. He wasn’t immoral enough to actively prevent your happiness, but it was certainly easier when you weren’t so focused on yourself.
The baseball collided with his nose as the sharp screech of the phone arrested his attention.
“Fucking dammit,” Rider muttered, rubbing the bridge that would surely be covered in a bruise by nightfall. It took him a few seconds to debate answering the call. On one hand, whoever was behind it had already gotten on his bad side by causing him physical pain, but, on the other hand, he would be in worse condition if the chief found out he’d ignored it.
In the end, it was incredibly begrudgingly that he kicked the desk chair away and went to grab the receiver. Metal clanked against metal as he brought the mouthpiece close.
Silencing a groan, he said, “Hello?”
“Yes, hello, it has happened again.”
A relatively young man’s voice spoke, with a suspicious amount of familiarity for someone contacting the police. Rider stared straight forward with a blank look that threatened to mutate into a scowl. Three questions popped up instantly; who was this, why were they teetering between composed and nerve-wracked, and what was ‘it’?
He asked the latter first, “What’s happened again?”
On the other end of the line, the breathing stopped, as though the call had been completely cut off. That was fine by Rider. He trusted a person’s judgement of their own situation, especially when it meant less work.
A silent groan broke out when he heard the voice start up again. No such luck.
“Oh, I’m terribly sorry, I thought this was—”
He interrupted before the man could finish, already fully aware of who he was talking about. “Yeah, I’m their partner, Detective Rider.” Only the two of you used this phone, and he was starting to put together some clues towards the ‘something’. Just because he didn’t like doing the work, it didn’t mean he was bad at it.
Very timidly, the voice replied, “Yes, of course.”
A moment of silence followed, and so too did Rider’s growing suspicions. This was a police call, wasn’t it? What crime could warrant this combination of action and hesitation? A murderer having a fleeting lurch of morality – a scenario much more interesting than the sheets of legalese wasting away on his desk.
He was dead wrong, not that he knew it; formality and manners were simply creating a battle against the fear of introducing someone new to this maddening situation. In the end, after a few seconds of back and forth, etiquette won over the voice on the other end.
Rider prompted him, saying, “Sir, are you going to tell me what happened?”
“Ah, yes, my apologies.”
In this part, the detective was deemed correct. The story of a strangled famous actor was indeed more enticing than paperwork, though the bar was low, and it didn’t take long for him to gather a team of officers for the journey.
It was only halfway through sending out the order that a memory knocked at the back of his mind, distant and hazy and right on the tip of his tongue. You had mentioned something like this. An actor murdered but also alive and well. He’d mocked you for it, obviously, because he understood how reality worked, but perhaps he was going to find out for himself. It would be a surefire way of pissing you off by getting the last word in a case that you had been working on for nearly a month.
Gleefully, Rider grabbed his car keys and waved the assembled team over to the bay.
Benjamin fretted to-and-fro in the foyer, rubbing a path through the rug and into the floorboards. This was the third time Mark had pulled something like this, and it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten sick from all this worrying. Being a butler was supposed to be easy. This was anything but! When he applied, he thought he would be delivering letters on silver trays, and dusting the mantle of the fireplace, and answering the front door. Oh, he did the last one often enough, but did it have to be for non-stop detectives?
And he adored Mark. He considered him the closest friend he had, and a life without him was without everything that made it life.
But was a break, one day where he wasn’t fearing for the master’s life, so much to ask for?
Apparently, for now, it was. Benjamin was pulling the front door open at the cue of a knock.
“Detective Rider, please, come in.”
He did so, proceeded by a stream of police officers who made his stomach churn. There were far too many people in the face of Mark’s order. So far, the first encounter was the only time he felt comfortable letting in a large group, and he had only just gotten used to having you in the house.
Though he tried hard to keep his face neutral, a frown pulled at his mouth, curiosity and concern for you stirring.
Rider turned to look at Benjamin, looking no more pleased. “Where’s the body?” he asked bluntly.
“Upstairs, in his room.”
A second passed before he realized the detective was waiting. Of course, he didn’t know where the room was – this would have been much simpler if it were you – so he had to return to the role of escort. Even retracing the steps up the staircase reopened the wounds of that first night, and Benjamin was quick to get to the main bedroom so that he didn’t have to dwell on the thought any longer.
He gestured to the door in a silent invitation. Rider nodded, wasting no time in pushing over the threshold and into the room.
As he disappeared from sight, Benjamin had another thought. When you were on the case, there was the general agreement that everything would end up alright. The scene of Mark stabbed through the heart on his bed wasn’t going to ever leave him, but it had been okay when everything was said and done. Miraculously, Mark was still alive afterwards, and although Benjamin didn’t believe in magic, there was something about you that gave him hope for a positive outcome.
Rider did not inspire that optimism, and he found himself setting up outside the bedroom on a decorative chair to wait for him.
Back inside the room, the detective himself wasn’t optimistic either. There was no reason to be. The butler had said the man was strangled, and, clear as day, he was. A corpse laid out on the sheets, face an ashen blue from the cravat tightened around the throat, and…
He knew that face. The last time he had seen it, it had been more of an olive color, less-dead, obviously, but it had also only been two days ago.
In spite of the cadaver lying in front of him, Rider smiled minutely. This was your friend. Given his little performance at the crime scene, it made sense he’d be an actor. Why he was there in the first place was another question, but, if he had to guess, it was likely to do with you. Both cases were open and shut. This man was the impetus for your professional carelessness, and he was dead. And if this friend was indeed the same actor that you had visited before, his luck had run out. He supposed it went to show that you couldn’t cheat death.
And then, seconds later, he supposed it was all wishful thinking.
Coughing and spluttering, the body lurched from the mattress. Rider watched the man tug the fabric away from his skin, trails of red and white left behind in the wake of nails scratching for purchase. The blue tone was beginning to fade, faster with each breath that he greedily gulped down. He was still out of it, so focused on scrambling back to life that he had yet to register the other figure leaning against the wall. Understandable but inconvenient, as most things with the public were.
Commendably, Rider didn’t have to get his attention. Mark, as the file had named him, took a glance around his room as he rubbed the fabric-burn away from his jugular. Initially, the sight of someone else had filled him with relief – a return to routine. You moved fast enough that the beige trench coat of yours stayed above the ground, but it always fell against the floorboards when you stopped. Just an inch cut off it, and you wouldn’t have that problem, as you appeared to have figured out given it was cinched to your waist.
His attention landed on the detective, and his eyes narrowed, his shoulders heightened, his mouth pulled down into a decisive grimace. One glance at your face, and everything came crashing down. It wasn’t you, but that man from the crime scene.
A sour taste appeared in Mark’s mouth. Maybe it was a new after-effect of dying, or maybe it was the sight of your detective partner in his bedroom instead of you that put him on high alert before he could open his mouth.
“Detective Rider,” Mark said bluntly.
“So, what happened?”
He opened his mouth to reply with some sarcastic joke as he threw the fabric to the bed. What had happened was that he spent two hours trying to figure out self-strangulation without the use of a noose, only to throw all of his extensive but convoluted methods away and simply jam the knot of his cravat into his throat. No clean up, but only because getting there was a nightmare.
But then his conscience caught up with him. This wasn’t you – and he didn’t need another detective on his back. One was enough.
With a second’s hesitation, he answered, “I was attacked.”
“Attacked?”
“Two men, early 20s.” The story came flooding from his mouth, information steady, as though he had done this a hundred times already. “They came in through the window and pulled my cravat tight against my neck. I’m fairly certain they tried to make off with some of my jewelry.”
Rider prowled over to the bed, his eyes fixed on the supposed weapon. Tampering with a crime scene was frowned upon, so to speak, but this wasn’t a murder. Mark had already changed things by throwing it off, so he was free to poke and prod at the thing while Mark settled in near his vanity. He didn’t think he would be there too long, but it allowed him to grab a fistful of rings and cufflinks from the dish and chuck them out the window. At least fate had been kind enough for him to have left it open before he acted.
“Right,” Rider muttered, standing straight once more, “I’ll take you down to the station to get an official statement while my men look around.”
The mere suggestion of it made Mark internally groan. Officers crawling around downstairs, getting into things they weren’t supposed to while he was stuck listing factoids for hours on end – it was all awful to imagine.
“That won’t be necessary, Detective Rider.”
“I’m afraid this isn’t optional. Standard procedure, and all that.” The tone he used suggested it was more out of his own entertainment than business practice. “You understand, don’t you?”
Mark had no idea how to get out of this, every method he thought of a dead end. Waiting him out wasn’t an option, and he would sooner die again than admit the truth. It hadn’t worked with you, and it wouldn’t work now. Rider’s hand placed not-so-subtly on the handcuffs at his side didn’t give him any hopes of forcing him out, either, so he found himself gritting his teeth and taking a step forward.
He spat out a quiet, “Fine,” and tried to ignore the smug smirk on Rider’s face as he walked past.
He did count himself lucky that he didn’t die in his robe this time, though. It was the little things like that which kept him going between the more substantial ones, like the sight of Benjamin springing to his feet in the hallway. One of his gloves was caught between his hands, worried into creases and folds he would never abide in a sounder mind.
“Sir, you’re alive!” he gasped, searching Mark’s face for that telltale brightness of blood.
How Benjamin hadn’t gotten suspicious about this habit was beyond him, but he appreciated the concern, nonetheless. If he weren’t in such a rush to keep up with Rider, he would have stopped to assure him of his health, but the man was already striding towards the staircase.
After sparing a tut to his rudeness, Mark said, “Yes, Benjamin, I am.” He then swiveled on his heel and moved to follow to the lower floor.
“Sir?” There was less worry in his voice and more curiosity but still the underlying confusion that made Mark turn back around.
“Detective Rider is taking me to make a statement regarding the attempted murder.”
The latter part could not have been less satirical, but Benjamin was too busy seizing up with fear to notice. Undoubtedly, hearing about an attempted murder right above his head took a toll on him, but there was little to be done about it now apart from conceding to Rider’s orders. The man was waiting at the top of the stairs, tapping his fingers along the banister in his impatience.
“Do you need me to send for your driver?” Benjamin asked.
“No, no, it’s quite alright—” Mark glanced towards Rider, “—I trust I’ll be back before the evening?”
“We’ll see.”
That was as good as it was going to get, apparently; he disappeared before either could raise an objection, shouting out demands to the rest of the officers who were inspecting every nook and cranny. Mark didn’t remember where your team had been that first night, but he hoped that Benjamin would be able to deal with them like last time. There wasn’t anything to hide in the manor, but privacy was a sacred thing.
Faith was the best thing he had to comfort him as the two men stepped onto gravel. Against the backdrop of labelled cars, the closest one stood out, being completely black with no identifying features. This was the one that Rider pulled himself into, barely waiting for Mark to settle down next to him before he started up the engine. The open sides only made him feel more uneasy, and it worsened when they peeled onto the main road.
The minute or so it took to get down the hill was spent in complete silence. There was no need for conversation, nor an inclination from either man. While Rider wasn’t known for his politeness, Mark was more focused on the thoughts stirring in his own skull. His second ride in a police car was shaping up to be much worse than the last, even though they weren’t completely different; both had him being escorted away from a crime scene, which was better than the alternative. Still, it was obvious what the deciding factor was.
He glanced at Rider in the corner of his eye. How and why you put up with him was beyond all human knowledge. He would readily admit that you could be brash and blunt and overwhelmingly stubborn down to the smallest detail – but at least you had some charm about you. Whether you were aware of it or not, you were good about dedicating your effort to where it mattered. You didn’t need to understand how the void worked to deal with the aftereffects. Curiosity was human, of course, but Mark appreciated that you didn’t ask. It gave him an escape from that voice and all its incessant suggestions. Or, normally, it did. It was only really effective when you were the one he woke up to. Which begged the question—
“They’re busy.”
Mark’s head snapped to look at Rider.
“What?”
Focus still on the road, he said, “You’re wondering why I’m here and not my partner.”
“So what if I am?” He dragged his eyes back to his side of the car, but his attention stayed on his words. He tried to curb his thoughts, but, unsuccessful, he was forced to ask, “Busy with what?”
“Another case. Usually, that wouldn’t be an issue, but they’ve been falling behind recently. Taking a full day to finish a simple report, spending their breaks out of the office, showing up to work with an empty bag.”
A rhythmic tap-tap-tap, fingers on the wheel, overshadowed the sounds of the street.
“You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”
“It sounds to me like they’re taking care of themself, finally.”
Mark was genuinely happy to hear of your self-care – if it could be called that. Being a step closer to a normal work-life balance didn’t get you to the pinnacle of health, but anything was better than nothing, especially when your state had been scratching through rock-bottom. Unfortunately, he couldn’t take the time to commend you for it.
A hint of disapproval in Rider saying a quiet, “Maybe,” was more pressing. “But then again,” he continued, “a hell of a lot more people got caught when they were dedicated to the job, and they haven’t exactly given an excuse yet.”
The car jostled as they pulled into the station’s parking lot. Good. There was a half chance that Mark was going to push Rider out of the car if he kept talking, which would have been bad for both of them. He still had time, though, and he proved unwilling to go without pushing a few more buttons.
“Actually, you know what?” Rider said, making eye contact for the first time in the last half hour. “You two seem awfully close.”
“We are.”
“I think they’d react to it better coming from you, so, if you really don’t want to give a statement, you could always tell your dear detective to get back to work.”
Bribery. Mark almost laughed. Corruption was alive and well in the police department, it seemed, and he was getting a front row seat. Getting out of here quickly was a nice thought but one that he pushed from his mind before it had time to even register properly. Betray your trust, and for what?
No, Mark was a selfish man sometimes, but he saw the line in the sand and wouldn’t dare to cross it that flippantly.
He spun his legs towards the side of the car, one foot already touching the ground as he asked, “Do you want my statement here or in your office?”
He didn’t have to look at Rider to notice the red-hot glare. He felt it on his back, like those children who burned ants with a magnifying glass. He did little more than send him a glance. The entrance to the station was clear, so he ignored the growing resentment behind him and strode towards the doors.
The other man was at his side by the time he got to the reception area. While it wasn’t exceptionally full – barely a quarter of the seats were occupied against the wall – there was still an overlying awkwardness that was out of place in such a building. People who came to visit relatives, to pay for bails, to laugh at friends’ misfortunes were all deadly silent in a very specific way. Everyone was both unwillingly listening to and desperately ignoring some distant sound that echoed down the hallway, indeterminable shouts from deeper in the station.
Rider marched past the receptionist, only stopping long enough to tell a security officer that the out-of-place actor was with him, and then he continued towards the source of the noise. That guard was one of many to shoot a questioning glance at Mark, and, although being somewhat famous came with a certain amount of notoriety, he deigned to chase after his escort over relishing in that attention.
The yelling was growing louder as the two got closer, to the point that some of the words were discernible, but it was when they rounded a corner into the belly of the place that Mark’s brow furrowed. The voice was not only understandable but recognizable.
And then he saw you. Through a cross-hatched window, the corners of which sported worrying spiderwebs of cracks, he identified your figure hunched over a metal table. Your hair was slightly tussled, no doubt owing to you running a hand through it with reckless abandon in your stress, and the sleeves of your shirt were rolled up to reveal fists clenched against the surface in front of you. Vague shapes of bones pressed into your skin, visible even at your shoulders.
Someone was sitting opposite you, handcuffed to the table and glaring anywhere but you. Not much of them registered before they had passed by the room, and all of his thoughts were soon engulfed by that scene.
You were angry, obviously, that part wasn’t up for debate – but if Mark had learned one thing since meeting you, it was that you were never angry for the sake of being angry. It was always preceded by stress, and, especially now, fatigue. You were tired. Briefly, guilt smeared itself across his heart. All of his stunts in the void added to your piles of work, and despite Rider’s opinion that you were taking it easy, you clearly weren’t.
But the guilt faded as another thought knocked on his mind. A solution. No use regretting the past when there were ways to make it better for the future. It would take some time, and some convincing, and maybe a small bit of better-used-bribery, but, as he dropped into a chair in Rider’s – your – office, the plan turned concrete.
It would be an hour or two later, after the exhaustive, glorified interrogation that went on just for the sake of pettiness, that Mark stepped through the doors of his house once again. A few strides forward and he was standing in front of his telephone, number dialed in seconds and the pieces brought closer.
When the line picked up, he was the first to speak. “Hello, is this Abe?”
A gruff grunt was his only confirmation, but it was all he needed.
“It’s Mark. I have a favor to ask of you.”
Your physical and emotional state were at odds with one another. For the former, you were bone-tired, half-dead on your feet at six o’clock and with bags under your eyes deep enough to fit a refrigerator. Your body was actively betraying you as you tried to shamble through the halls of the station, but you had to admit that you were happy. Relatively, at least. For years, you’d been scraping the bottom of the barrel in terms of mindset, and, while it wasn’t a recent epiphany, you recognized it wasn’t a great way to live.
Maybe it was that acknowledgment that made you so aware of your fatigue. You had pulled all-nighters throughout your career, from your training to your practice, so why the recent days were so different was a mystery to you. You didn’t like it, but you were far too exhausted to figure it out.
Resetting a table you had bumped into, you tried to drag your thoughts back to the present. There were fresh crimes on your desk just waiting to be cracked open, and you still had to fill out the last murder report to finish up your latest case. While a break sounded like heaven, you knew letting the stack pile up was going to be the death of you, so you’d keep trudging through the mud until your next day off.
And you very much looked forward to it. It was a new feeling, but, damn, did you feel it. Your memory was apparently starting to fail you, too, which was a layer of exhaustion you didn’t need. You had mistaken someone else’s office for your own, if the person shouldering themself out the door with an armful of files was anything to go by. You couldn’t even distinguish the room you had worked in for seven years from the ones you’d never stepped foot into.
You weren’t that big on coffee, but maybe this was a sign to start a new habit. The rest of the detectives spent half their days parked near the pot, so you didn’t see the issue—
That was your office. Wedged between two men in their sixties and the pair of newbies, that was your office. Your quick acceptance of doubt pushed aside, your mind went haywire at the sight of the random stranger who had just pilfered official documents from your room. They were coming straight for you, but you were quick to close that distance regardless.
“What do you think you’re doing!?” you shouted, uncaring of the few officers around you who would undoubtedly be drawn to the drama. Gossipy little vultures.
They looked at you, unconcerned themself. In a gruff voice, like the texture of coal, they answered, “A favor, apparently—”
You cut them off by snatching the files out of their hands, sending unsecured papers fluttering to the ground.
“Those are private cases, you can’t take them out of that office, let alone look at them!” you hissed, “I mean, do you not know how this works?”
You’d barely scanned the first title when your attention was caught by the person’s face, which, amongst the annoyance and impatience, struck you as familiar. Your shoulders dropped but your eyebrows remained furrowed, more confused than concerned.
“Abe? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Like I said before, if you’d listen, I’m doing someone a favor.”
In your defense, you were too tired to properly process faces or words being spoken to you at that moment – but you neglected apologizing in favor of wondering who that ‘someone’ was. There were very few people who had the power to get Abe into the station without raising alarm bells, and even fewer who would bother.
Pressure appeared in your mouth as you ground your teeth together subconsciously. Technically, your primary subject didn’t have that kind of influence, but that didn’t stop him from acting as though he did, and your options were limited as it was.
You started to ask so you could confirm your suspicions, but Abe simply nodded at something over your shoulder, and resignation stirred in your stomach.
Who else could it have been except Mark?
“Ah, detectives…s,” he greeted with a pleased smile. “Good, you’re both here.”
Neither you nor Abe returned the smile, though it was probably for differing reasons. Mark didn’t make you feel any better about his appearance at the station when he looked you up and down before settling on your face. The most likely culprit was the set of bags under your eyes.
He grimaced. “Oh, you do look terrible.”
“Hey, you- you don’t have to say it so bluntly.” You might have tried harder to defend yourself had your brain been working at more than 12% processing power.
Still, Mark’s expression softened slightly, a small sigh escaping his semi-parted lips, and you felt a small force of something else in your heart. It wasn’t the stabbing pain you’d come to associate with anger, nor was it the smooth caress of happiness; it was as though someone had hit you gently with a sack of sand. For a moment, you felt guilty.
Replacing the smile, he said, “Luckily, I know what will get you back on your feet—” He grabbed the stack of files out of your hands and dropped them into Abe’s, “—Abe here is going to take some of your cases, while I take you out for dinner.”
Alarm bells went off the second the last word left his mouth. “I’m not falling for this twice, Mark, I need to do my own work. I can’t just pawn it off on other people, especially ones who aren’t legally detectives.” You spared a glance at Abe, who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but there. “I could lose my job.”
Mark had that kind of squint he got when he knew he was incorrect, but it was matched by the tilt of his head that showed he didn’t care.
“You’re not pawning it off,” he said, gently. “It’s a kind gesture from one coworker to another. I mean, it’s not like Rider is doing anything to help you.”
The squint became more of a glare, but you weren’t going to be distracted. His stubbornness had caught you out the last time, you couldn’t afford for it to happen again, even if it meant letting a few questionable things slide.
“He never does, and he never has, and I don’t expect him to.”
“Isn’t that what partners are supposed to do?”
You almost retorted, but the words caught in your throat. There was a certain glint in his eye – unbeknownst to you, it was regret at his own phrasing – that made you back down. The communication took less than five seconds, and yet you were going back on your word and shifting your focus to Abe.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m already here, aren’t I?” he asked, the same tone as usual.
In fact, he looked almost bored with the scene before him, as though this whole thing was an inconvenience instead of what he’d agreed to. Although, you didn’t suppose Mark told him that you weren’t expecting him. You’d known Abe for a long time, not intimately but as much as your line of work afforded you, and he had the same attitude to work as your fellow detectives did. The job was the job, nothing less and certainly nothing more. The only reason you could see as to why he took your official cases on was for a friend.
You wondered just how it was that Abe knew Mark.
But that was conversation for another day, or maybe never. Mark was staring at you, surprisingly patient but with a few hints of nervousness tainting his normally confident exterior. You didn’t have it in you to reject him, despite the re-emerging want to collapse into any half-comfortable surface.
Shaking your head, you muttered barely loud enough, “Okay, then. Mark, lead the way.”
His grin perked up, worry exchanged swiftly for pride, as he grasped your hand. It was fortunate that you were supposed to be clocking out now, but you were still being yanked away from your plans of overtime.
Abe was left behind to collect the few scattered papers on the floor, while you were practically paraded through the station. Someone even sent you a sarcastic wave as you followed behind Mark. That thought from earlier returned to you – gossipy little vultures – they were going to get a kick out of this in whatever bi-weekly bull session they held.
You received a couple of odd glances when you got to the reception, but you were out the front door before anything could be whispered by way of you or your escort. Some part of you dreaded coming in the next day, when you would be swarmed by rumors that you had tried so hard to protect yourself from, but the majority of your brain cared more about the prospect of plush, leather seats for you to fall into. And, you would admit, just a small section, not even a full percent, completely-negligible-in-practice-part, was excited about spending an evening with Mark.
But that was clearly the fatigue getting to you, wasn’t it?
You almost walked past Mark, initially too distracted by your thoughts and then too confused by where he had stopped.
“Right here, detective,” he teased as he leaned over the door.
He was standing next to a car, but it wasn’t the usual one, or at least it wasn’t the one you had been driven to the theatre in. Instead of being boxy and black, this was sleeker, thinner, and painted a red so deep that you thought it a trick of the light. The most intriguing thing about it, though, was the completely empty seats.
Tentatively, you asked, “You’re driving?”
He leaned forward slightly, tilting his head. “Don’t you trust me?”
You didn’t say anything, and neither did Mark, as you rounded to the other side of the car and pulled open the passenger seat. Despite your inspection of the interior, you were well aware of his smugness in the same way one would be aware of the presence of a cat. Quiet but undoubtedly there.
“You can’t keep doing this, you know.”
Mark settled into the driver’s seat and went through the motions before he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “Hmm? Can’t I? It seems to be working out well so far.”
In any other vehicle, you might have put your feet up on the dashboard, but you were conscious of your boots staining the upholstery. Though it was clean of visible dirt and grime, everything about the car screamed ‘expensive’, and the last thing you wanted to do was give Mark, or whoever he hired, extra work. So, you kept them down and bobbed one foot in a rhythmic pattern to sate yourself.
As the wheels rumbled against the parking lot’s concrete, you muttered, “Eventually, it’ll catch up to you.”
“Yes, my philanthropy will be a death of me.”
“The death of you.”
“Not for me it won’t.”
You shifted your attention to the passing houses. An uncomfortable feeling stirred at the bottom of your stomach. You’d never admit to Mark’s face that you had grown fond of him, but that didn’t mean you liked hearing about his bad habit of keeling over every weekend as if nobody would notice he was gone. Because people would notice. His friends would notice. Benjamin would notice. You would notice.
Getting him to realize that was another problem entirely, and one for a more morose moment, so you kept your mouth shut for the rest of the journey.
The next word you said was a quiet, “Damn,” when Mark pulled up to an unashamedly fancy restaurant. ‘La Rotonde’ was written out in cursive signage above the main door, bulbs glimmering around the edges. Just being in the vicinity of the building felt like you were offending it with your battered work uniform. You had the good sense to shrug off your trench coat, at least, abandoning it to the car before Mark started walking towards the entrance.
Potted plants lined the stone path, and you made sure to give them a wide berth. Knocking one over would probably cost a month’s rent – maybe the guy standing at the door was the guard, watching out for inane stuff like that, or maybe you were just making things up to distract yourself from how out of place you felt. Maybe you were failing terribly.
By the time you had reached the front steps, Mark caught notice of your awkward gait. His lopsided grin hinted at a suppressed laugh. “What? Did you think I’d waste this opportunity by taking you to some dive bar?”
You decided not to tell him that you probably liked what he considered a ‘dive bar’, which was to say any place that offered food that wasn’t also insanely expensive.
“Who do you take me for?”
The ‘guard’ opened the door for you at your approach, to which Mark gestured you in first. Nodding your appreciation, you scuttled inside, and Mark followed. Silently, your only exit was sealed.
Pushing away your unease, you replied, “I know you wouldn’t be caught dead somewhere like that. But I thought we’d be going somewhere, I don’t know, more casual?”
He didn’t respond other than with a gesture to his suit.
“You act like you’ve ever been out of that thing.”
“I have!” he refuted, aghast. “You’ve seen me in my robe before.”
“I mean, in public. Nobody cares what you wear in the privacy of your own home. You could wear your formal suit or your birthday suit, and it wouldn’t change anything.”
Even the time you had seen him in his dressing room, he had been in a suit. You barely tolerated your work clothes, which weren’t quite a uniform given how many alterations you had done for comfort, so you had no idea why he chose such stuffy outfits.
You opened your mouth to ask just that, but you stopped when someone, new and beet red, appeared in the corner of your eye. Etiquette prevented them from saying anything, but their desperate avoidance of eye contact told you they had heard. Still, if they were going to keep quiet, who were you to force them to talk?
They stuttered their way through a greeting, busying their hands with a pen as they guided you and Mark to a table. Deeper into the restaurant, it was darker, specks of light like stars waving about in candle holders that were dangerously close to centerpiece flowers. The place wasn’t overly busy, and the section that you arrived at only had a trio pressed to the opposite wall as where you stood. Its emptiness made your shoulders relax ever so slightly.
The host scuttled back to the stand as soon as you were both settled into the chairs, and it was at that moment that it hit you. You were at a restaurant for dinner with a friend, the first time in years, and you didn’t know what to do with yourself.
Mark, on his part, looked to be in his element. His sharp jaw was loosened and he cast his gaze languidly around the room. Even his smile, which was normally more of a smarmy smirk, was light and underlined by the swaying flame.
“What do you think of it so far?” he asked.
“Well, the sixty seconds I’ve had in here have been nice.”
Tucking his fist underneath his chin, he teased, “Come on, you can’t say this is worse than the other places you’ve been.”
“Way to flaunt your wealth, Mark.”
“You know that’s not what I mean.”
Yeah, you did. While Mark was a good actor, he had a habit of fishing for praise without putting those abilities to use. You didn’t hold it against him because, in this moment at least, he was right; it wasn’t worse than other places, but there was still something about it that prevented you from really letting go.
“I like it, it’s very… upper-class.”
Glancing around, you were seeing a common theme in the patrons. Some of them were couples, some were families, some were business-partners, all of them were pre-war aristocrats with clothes costing more than your yearly salary – and yet that wasn’t the detail that struck you with restlessness. It was that each and every one of them reminded you of one of the cases that Abe would be hunched over at that moment. The shape of a murder for inheritance burned in your mind, and you had to yank your attention away from the woman who looked just like the victim in a robbery gone wrong.
“You are comfortable here, aren’t you?”
Focus snapped back to Mark, you noticed the corners of his mouth had dipped, and he was leaning forward to take up more of your field of view. He didn’t need to be worried, but he obviously was, which itself had you frowning, too.
“Yeah, I am, it’s just—” You cut yourself off, furrowing your brow as you tried to think up an explanation. Emotions weren’t your strong suit and conveying them was a feat harder than beating death.
However, Mark filled in the space before you could. “Work,” he said, simply.
And you repeated it somberly, confirming his suspicions.
“Okay, then.” He drummed his fingers along the cloth. “That subject is banned from this table.”
You almost laughed, but you stopped yourself at the dead-serious expression he wore. “What?”
“We’re not talking about jobs, or anything remotely related to them.”
His declaration was so confident that you almost went along with it without hesitation. You took a second to think, though, in which that acceptance became confusion which became amusement. You sat back in your chair, crossed your arms, and made a mental bet as to how long this would last. A minute, maybe two if you were feeling generous about Mark’s chances.
“Alright, then. Let’s talk about something else.”
If there was one thing you knew about him, it was that he liked to talk, so you were sure that letting him go on long enough would land you in Hollywood.
“Oh, I have been meaning to talk to you. Or, rather, I wanted to let you in on a trade secret.” He settled his elbows on the table in a rare display of poor manners. “There have been rumors of talking pictures—”
“Ah-ah-ah.”
Apparently, one mere minute was generous in the first place.
Mark drew back like he’d been scratched by a cat.
“Pardon?”
“That is your job.”
It was his turn to go through the wringer of emotions; conflicting emotions flashed on his face as he switched rapidly between offence and horror. You watched with a growing smile on your face.
In the end, all he had to say was a quiet, “No, it’s not.” Even then he didn’t sound sure.
“Or anything remotely related to them, I seem to remember you saying.”
Mark continued to flounder. Simultaneously, he looked like he’d been thrown into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim and like a fish gasping for water. The thought had you subtly moving a hand to cover your mouth and the snort of laughter that threatened to break the spell. He huffed and spluttered and sent you a dirty yet half-hearted look when he realized your struggle.
Only when a server came by was Mark saved. You silently relished the moment while he tried to order water without exposing his flusterment. This involved looking the complete opposite way and confusing the poor waitstaff, but it was successful in the end. They walked away, leaving Mark to get to grips with himself again.
“I will have you know that- that, while the rumors were not completely related to my profession, I am perfectly able to—” The drumming started up again, taking up space in a brief pause, “—to talk about… another topic of conversation.”
“You’re stalling.”
“I am not…” He took a breath. “…stalling.”
One second passed, and then another, and then three were gone and you decided to take pity on the man. Or, you did after a sensible chuckle. Conversation came easier to him when he’d just come back from the dead, it seemed.
“Why’d you pick this place?” you asked.
Almost immediately, Mark melted into his chair. “I used to come here with my father and mother when I was a child.”
“It was around back then?”
He nodded. “This has been a restaurant since restaurants were invented. Ever since I could fit into a suit, my parents brought me here on a Sunday evening. It was tradition, and it stayed that way until the very second the Duke was shot – but it was more beautiful before the war.”
A brief lull in his explanation let him glance around the room. You traced his eyes, noting the reflections in them that bent around the irises.
“Or perhaps it was just simpler.”
“Are we still talking about restaurants?”
“Were those the skills that net you the detective job?” he snapped.
You both registered the snark at the same time, and as you grimaced over your own intrusiveness, Mark swallowed.
“I’m- I apologize. You’re right. Everything was simpler. Everything—” He hesitated for a moment and then amended, “—most things were simpler.”
That awkwardness from the start of the dinner was returning to you. A single misstep knocked you out of this dance altogether, and even the interlude of the server returning to pour water didn’t help. The soft crunch of ice beneath the bottle in the bucket was the only sound for the next minute.
“Can’t argue with that,” you said, eventually. You hadn’t been too impacted by the European War, around as much as the rest of the country had been on a general level. No family fought on the frontlines or lived abroad to experience the full period, so you were left to your career. Crime didn’t just stop because people were dying elsewhere, and that was before you were a detective. Just patrolling had you dealing with common bouts of theft and assault.
“You’re welcome to talk about it, you know, if you want to,” you offered as your reminiscing drew to a close.
“No, I don’t want to.” Mark’s response was abrupt but not unkind. “Not right now, at least. But I thank you for the offer.”
He took a sip of his water with the distinct air of wishing it were wine, and you were inclined to agree. Although you had never been a drinker, drastic times called for drastic measures.
Mid-swallow, he hummed in alarm. “And, again, I apologize,” he said, narrowly avoiding choking, “this was meant to be a night of escape from all the dreary death and dismay that you’re surrounded by on a daily basis. We’re talking about something else.”
You thought that was going to be a tall order, considering how red he had gone earlier, but he was surprisingly fast to say, “Oh, here’s a question for you. You’ve met Benjamin, my friend, so when am I going to meet any of yours?”
Good, that was easy. A lack of obvious things to talk about normally led to hard-hitting questions, but you were well prepared for this one.
“You aren’t.”
Mark didn’t recover quick enough to hide his expression of offence, and it seared itself into your mind’s eye in the short second that it existed. This wasn’t his usual insulted dramatics, no, his eyes widened, his breath hitched, his lips parted in painful shock. And then it was gone in the flicker of the underlighting flame, replaced by that exaggerated, comical, fake ire.
“I’m hurt. Do you not think we’d get along?”
“It’s not that, Mark, it’s—” You sighed, “—there aren’t any.”
“What?”
You shrugged. It was all you could do. At least, his expression had been wiped away in favor of confusion, which was markedly better than what had been there before.
It wasn’t as though you cared about your lack of friendships, but admitting it aloud, and to Mark of all people, was a challenge. Something of a defeat that only became true when someone else heard it.
“The job keeps me busy,” you explained, “and my last method for befriending someone isn’t in any of the handbooks.”
Mark levelled you with a blank stare at your roundabout mention of work.
“You asked.”
“I didn’t expect that answer.” The drumming started up again. Gentle pat-pat-pats, like a rabbit thumping its feet when it was annoyed. “You seemed to know Abe.”
“Who is also something like a detective, and a private one at that, so I never see him outside of encounters in the field.”
Or in the doorway to your office, which was strangely one of the weirder places you had found him. You hadn’t thought he knew which building you worked in, never mind the specific office, and you were forced to conclude that Mark had told him.
Mark, who was beginning to take on that look of offput concern again, who was leaning further over the table to get your attention, who was currently taking you out of that office for a meal you hadn’t asked for.
“You have to have some kind of connection with other people. This isn’t healthy.”
“You’re one to talk. Aside from the obvious signs, you just called your employee your friend, and Benjamin is nice and all, but you haven’t said a thing about your other one since last month.”
This was how Mark remembered it. He had brought you here for the experience of fine dining and all the things that came with that – but, apparently, fighting was a part of that just as much as appetizing food was. For once, he wanted the good without the bad. He wanted the impossible.
He didn’t want this reprieve from life to be tainted in the same way that everything else was.
Weakly, he said, “I’m just worried about you.” And then, even weaker, so weak that the words almost disappeared into the depths of the restaurant, “I can’t have you getting lost.”
You challenged his tone with conviction. “I won’t. I promise.”
Your statement was left to sink in for a moment, as both of you started to relax. Emotions had been running high, and even though it lasted barely five minutes, it was enough to mark a significant change in the atmosphere. This was no longer a nice night out, as you might have wished it to be, but that didn’t mean it was any less important for you. It was heavy, that was all.
But conversation started to flow, the release of a cask when the keystone was finally wedged out. A few jokes were shared, a few lighter topics bounced around, including a story from Mark about his private chef’s latest culinary adventure. You hadn’t seen any house staff besides Benjamin, but it wasn’t as though you were in the manor around mealtimes, anyway.
As if that train of thought were a ritual, the server returned, and you realized that you had to even glance at the menu. Eating had taken a backseat up until then, so you very hurriedly pulled the card from its holder and picked the first thing that made any sense to you.
Mark watched your struggle – enjoying the karma as a dark haze spread over the bridge of your nose – before he turned to say his own choice. He had long since figured out what was objectively the best meal there, and yet the familiar words died on his tongue.
He froze, stuck staring at the person. Their hair was cropped midnight-black, their eyes were curious and sly, their lips were pulled back in an accommodating smile. There were some differences, the slightly too soft jaw and slightly too pale skin, but the sight was still a bolt of lightning through Mark’s chest.
“Have you been able to look at the menu, or would you like more time?”
It wasn’t her. She wasn’t working as a waiter. She wasn’t in LA anymore. She wasn’t haunting his life despite choosing to leave. It wasn’t her.
But his brain refused to process logic – it refused to process anything at all, and that left him completely still, save for the gradually increasing pace of his breath.
“A few more minutes, please,” you said, though you only paid attention to Mark.
“Of course.”
And just like that, she was gone as quick as she’d arrived, but the damage was done.
She was barely a foot away before you were saying, “Mark? Hey, are you with me?”
His gaze was distant, blurry, unfocused on the present. When you shifted, his attention snapped to you, prey catching sight of a predator in the brush, and you instantly paused again.
“I-I,” he stuttered, “I’m sorry. I just- I can’t. I can’t, I—”
He devolved into vague imitations of words. The poor sensitivity training kicked in and, though you knew little of what was actually happening, staying in the restaurant for any longer was not an option. On impulse, you dug out a dollar bill from your pocket, slammed it on the table, and took Mark’s hand.
Some looks were sent your way of varying kindness, but you shoved them to the back of your mind. You locked in on the exit and made a beeline, towing Mark behind you and hoping that he didn’t get stuck along the way, but looking back meant taking longer to get out, and that was a no-go, so you rushed between tables and chairs recklessly, barely remembering that opening the door was a thing when you got to it.
You burst out of the doors, no doubt scaring the man outside, and launched down the steps in the vague direction of Mark’s car. You had to course correct at one point, but it wasn’t long until you were depositing him into the passenger seat. Dimly, you thought to wrap your coat around him. You let go of his hand to move around the car but, when you’d clambered behind the wheel, you grasped it again. To ground him. To ground both of you.
“Mark, can you hear me?” you asked. You tried to make eye-contact but his were going everywhere except for yours. “I need to know what’s wrong so I can help you. Can you tell me what the problem is?”
He only squeezed your hand tighter.
“Alright, okay, calm down first and then you can tell me.”
You weren’t sure who the instruction was meant for, but, regardless, you sat and waited with him while he breathed. It was still shallow, but it wasn’t getting any shallower, so you took that as a positive. There was little else you could do, and if you thought pessimistically about it for too long – Mark was going through ‘something’, you were of no genuine help, you weren’t even able to get him home without the car keys, what good were you – you risked spiraling.
Your other hand cupped his.
It took a couple of minutes for Mark to come back to his senses enough to speak. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“You don’t need to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, I—”
As you shook your head, refusing to hear it, Mark deflated. One deep – shaky – breath in and out.
“Yes, no, I know.”
“Let’s get you back home, yeah?”
It was slow, but Mark nodded and handed you the keys. You didn’t know what he was thinking, and it worried you; normally, guessing what was going on his head wasn’t difficult because it was also what was coming out of his mouth, but now? His eyes were fixed to his lap, there were no quips about keeping his car safe, and you felt dismally helpless.
Though, Mark was fairing no better than how you estimated. Everything had been going so well. There was that bump at the start, but it was getting better, and then he just had to go and… what? See someone with the faintest resemblance to her and lose it? Just like that? He couldn’t hold out for a few minutes, no, he had to go and ruin everything. There was no way you would ever trust him like that again and tricking you wouldn’t work twice. His thoughts were running a million miles a minute, no reprieve from the conclusions he was drawing except for flashes of your concerned expression. Nothing short of blackmail would get you in the same room as him.
On your part, as the wheel curved beneath your fingers, there was only one question on your mind.
Was Mark okay?
Eventually, you found yourself making the turn onto the manor’s hill. You hadn’t been initially sure of where you were going, being unfamiliar with that part of town, but you sure as hell weren’t going to ask for directions. It turned out alright, though, and it took only another thirty seconds for the steady crunch of gravel to fill your ears.
When you punctuated it by killing the engine, you were the first to get out. Mark followed after you rounded to his side. He refused to look at you, but you forced his focus, pressing the keys back into his hand.
“Thank you,” you said.
This got him to raise his gaze back up. “What for?”
“Getting me out of the office today.”
“It didn’t go to plan.”
You shrugged, limply. Even if the actual dinner hadn’t played out the way it was supposed to, you weren’t hunched over your desk and running the lights to the point of a fire hazard.
“It worked, though, didn’t it?”
Mark started off towards the front door, muttering, “Barely.”
You took the few steps to get to his side at the porch. “It worked, Mark.”
What did it matter more than that? He didn’t dare debate you; both of you knew well enough he wasn’t in shape for that. Instead, he silently stared at the building, which made you realize that this was the end of the night, which made you realize you didn’t have a car.
“Well, it’s late,” you said. “You should go inside. I’m sure Benjamin’s worried sick about you.”
Mark didn’t move, only squinting his eyes at you. “What about you?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. Get a cab or call someone. Hell, I haven’t done much exercise recently, maybe a walk will do me some good.”
The joke fell flat. It wasn’t your kind of humor, and despite your awkward laugh, Mark didn’t react. Having exposed your lack of connections not an hour ago didn’t do you any favors, but there wastechnically somebody you would call. While getting a response would be difficult, it wasn’t impossible.
In the midst of trying to convince yourself that Rider wouldn’t laugh at you and hang up, Mark interrupted your thoughts with a simple, “Stay here.”
It surprised you, but you answered quickly, “Mark, I can’t.”
“Just for the night. I don’t want you going into the dark alone at this hour.”
He wanted to make it up to you. It wouldn’t reverse all the damage that had been done, but it would be a start – if you accepted, of course, but his powers of persuasion were returning to him. Besides, backhanded as it was, he now had certain aces up his sleeve to use at will. You weren’t going to let him down in his oh-so-fragile state, were you?
However, he was able to keep his advantage for the moment. You took one glance at him, then at the car, and then back at him.
“You have enough space?”
“More than enough.”
It was his turn to grab your hand and practically drag you up to the door. You might have resisted, but you felt it was warranted after the tug through the restaurant, and you also really didn’t want to.
Light flooded out from the foyer the second that Mark reached for the handle. Benjamin stood there, still in his uniform and making a good effort to appear casual.
“Good evening, sir,” he greeted. A blink later and he’d processed you standing next to him. “Oh, and detective.”
“They will be spending the night here.”
His shoulders dropped minutely, a more genuine smile overtaking the one he’d plastered on at seeing the master of the house in the driveway. Truth be told, he was glad you would be close by given the state he had been finding Mark in lately. It saved him a phone call should anything have gone wrong.
He stepped aside and gestured for the two of you to enter. A chill in the air barely nipped at your heels before it was blocked by the warmth of the manor swirling around you.
“Will you require any help settling in, detective?” Benjamin asked.
The title didn’t sound right, not when you weren’t here on business, and you opened your mouth to suggest just using your first name, but Mark beat you to the punch of answering first.
“Only in calling the driver for tomorrow morning to take them to the station. Thank you, Benjamin.”
With a short nod, he slinked away deeper into the manor. Mark didn’t respond to your look and guided you upstairs. You knew your way by now, but you didn’t stop him from linking your arm with his. The pressure reminded you where he was, right next to you, where he stayed until you were standing in front of another door. A bedroom, you assumed, across from the one you frequented and bordered by pots of gardenia. It was a surprisingly well-decorated entrance for a guest room, and it was the same on the inside.
A closet and a bed were all you had expected. What you found, however, was a full-body mirror plus a vanity stashed into the corner, some towering plant by the chair that was adorned with pillows and a throw blanket – and oh, damn, the blanket. It was the softest thing you had ever felt, and some part of you wanted to fall asleep then and there. But, ever the gentleman, Mark forced you to get changed into more suitable clothes. Spare ones, and yet it was the first time you had ever worn silk.
When you were good and settled and all but ready to knock out, Mark was drawing the curtain and fussing with the cushions. Hovering.
“There are clothes in the closet for the morning, you can leave today’s things here and they’ll be clean by tomorrow afternoon. Is there anything else you might need?”
“I’ll be fine. Thank you.”
He hummed and moved to the door. Your eyes trailed him, and you weren’t surprised when he stopped to ask, “You’re sure?”
“Yes, I am. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Another hum, but this time he actually managed to get into the hallway.
“Oh, actually, Mark?”
Immediately, he ducked back in, as though he’d never left. An eager, if slightly embarrassed, grin was spread across his lips.
“Yes?”
“Get some sleep.”
You got him there; he drew back slightly, that embarrassment overtaking it.
He was surprisingly shy as he said, “I will.”
“Goodnight, Mark.”
“Goodnight, detective.”
The click of the door left you alone, and you promptly collapsed backwards into the soft cotton comforter. Compared to your bed, or the desk chair that you spent more time in, it was what you imagined a cloud to be like. Enjoying it was chancing getting used to it, but you were willing to take that bet for a night of comfort.
But there was something bugging you.
You didn’t know what it was, but something was off. Weird. Wrong. Or it was going to go wrong. A shallow pit appeared in your stomach, prompting you to reluctantly leave the bed and hunt around your work-clothes. It took a moment for you to remember you’d left your cigarettes in your coat, which was probably still with Mark. Sitting at the window, you would have to settle for the smoke of the night, the kind that floated from a distance from unknown locations and both sucked out the warmth and gave you warmth anew at the same time.
Though, that feeling stayed with you the entire time.
Haha thinking about Mark being easily jealous/possessive of y/n but specifically in the context of his "characters"
Cause yeah everyone finds you handsome and/or beautiful and can't keep their eyes off of you bug that means nothing. Just part of the story. But if you were to show GENUINE romantic interest back at all, he'd absolutely not be having it!
For example, say a certain jailbird has started teaching you how to dance since you're a part of the crew now. He starts out showing everyone some moves as a whole and helping them to copy them like a teacher would their students. You spend the afternoon laughing, falling, and practicing with everyone and it's an overall lovely time for everyone.....but you're still struggling with a fre more involved moves. With a deadline to meet and everyone else moving in sync, Yancy politely asks if you'll practice some more with him. You agree, already thinking you could use some one on one help anyways.
You take the beginning steps one after another in near perfect sync with Yancy. The two if you grinning all the while. But then he goes to pull you into a spin and you feel yourself flging over his legs! You hold your hands out in front of you to brace yourself for impact with the concrete cellar grounds......
"Huh?" You look up and are treated to almond eyes staring dire ttyl down at you, Yancy's features furrowed in worry then relief.
"Are you'se okay?" He sounds sincere despite the fact that the fall wouldn't have been all that long anyways. That's when you realise that his hands are around your waist. Soft, warm, and gentle despite all the muscle behind them. You feel your cheeks tinting pink and practically jump out of his arms.
"Y-yeah. I'm alright, thank you." You see Yancy nodding quietly beside you with face a bright red.
"Good good," he runs a hand through his hair nervously, "then let's, uh, take it from the top?"
You're about to nod, suddenly aware of how hard and fast your heart is beating when a familiar voice curs you off.
"Y/n! There you are!" Mark is wearing a prisoner uniform that's covered in dirt for some reason and strolling into the room. Mark had always been good at showing up when he was unwanted.
"I've been looking for you everywhere! Come on," he grabs your wrist, tugging you a bit less than gently towards the door he just appeared out of.
"Hey wait, where do you'se think you're taking them? We ain't finished yet!" Yancy's indignant cries are cut off as Mark slams the door on him, dragging you along.
Mark lets go of your arm with a hearty sigh.
"Oh hey Mark, it's nice to see yo-" You feel your words catching in your throat as he roughly backs you up into the wall.
Y/N," his voice is low as brown eyes stare you down. "It seems that you're forgetting your place." As he speaks, the friendly voice of "Mark" starts to fade out, replaced with the one you're far more familiar with. "That place being," his eyes scan you momentarily as he moves to cup your cheek with his left hand. "With me." His soft, brown eyes melt away into scarlet ones like fire melting ice.
You feel a shudder travel down your spine as he lightly strokes your chin.
"Look, Mark, I was just-mmmph-” His cracked lips are crashing into yours before you can even explain yourself. Though his left hand is still caressing your face lightly, his right hand seems to have taken to slowly sliding down the middle of your chest. You feel him start to grin at the red flaring up in your cheeks as you melt into his touch. You’ve never been quite sure what it was but his touch was always bale to set something inside you alight. In a moments time, you are kissing him back just as fiercely as he kissed you only moments ago. There’s a long moment where there’s only you and him and fire and fluttering chests crashing against each other in passion....and then he pulls away.
“You are mine y/n,” his breathe tickles your ear as he speaks. “Only mine...”
