New Life, Old Herbs & Same Bullet
Main Masterlist ❀ Mark Meachum Masterlist ❀ Taglist
⋆ ˚｡⋆ PAIRING Mark Meachum x fem!Reader
⋆ ˚｡⋆ SERIES SUMMARY After years of undercover work as an LAPD Detective, you're ready to leave your past behind, make a fresh start in the countryside and move on from the demons that still haunt you at night. However, your old life soon catches up with you, and the annoyingly charming LAPD Detective assigned to protect you isn't making things any easier.
WARNING / TAGS Kinda tainted Fluff? with heavy underlying Angst Rural farmhouse vibe | Cozy, Angsty, Cozy, ANGSTY | Reader is in the WitSec program* | Reader is scarred by her last undercover case (no graphic descriptions) | Reader is dealing with PTSD / trauma | Detailed descriptions of panic attack and blacking out | mention of a dead fish? | Language | Mark likes to call Reader "Sunshine" | Kind of a dash of enemies to lovers vibe? | Mark and reader have a rough start lol | Mark might be a bit OOC (consider this my personal take on him from what I’ve seen so far!) | No use of Y/N. English isn't my native language. *It is by no means meant to be fully realistic, so please be lenient! 😉
⋆ ˚｡⋆ WORDS ~7k
⋆ ˚｡⋆ J / NOTES This first chapter is for @zepskies Summer Writing Challenge and her wonderful color prompt! Thank you so much for the beautiful colors! 🧡 I feel like after my first Enemies with Benefits Mark smut, Gunpoint, I had to repent lol, so here’s some bittersweet fluff with lots of angst mixed into it! 😘
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You've always been one to smile even when it's wet and broken. Or when it was busted, and the rest of your face looked like Pollock's hand had slipped across it.
Other than that, you won't take much with you from your time undercover.
Knowing the ingredients of different drugs down to the ounce or being able to spot a mule in a crowd or learning the routines of human traffickers like you're one of them is not going to help you in the countryside.
There is one unspoken rule you've learned the hard way, though, and that one you definitely won't forget:
Always make sure you play well with the mob.
So that's what you do.
Different place, different mob, different murder. Same job.
This time, though, the sweet sound of windchimes sings across your weathered porch and a gentle breeze brushes the hair from your face. The jingling dances with the tall grass and flowers that pool around your bare ankles as you step through them.
You crouch beside the old maple tree, reach into the basket at your side and swat away a couple of flies. Unroll the newspaper across your lap. The stench of something putrid and rancid curls into your nose. Luckily, there's not much you haven't learned to stomach.
It's just one of the many things that going undercover teaches you – how to bury your gag reflex and smile like it's all just another Tuesday.
Dead, hollow eyes stare back at you once you continue to place the body down on a small slab of rock, its surface covered by a tablecloth of moss – today's offering.
Let's see how they like this...
You wipe your fingers on the crumpled paper, adjust your flowy dress, and pick up your basket before you step back some feet. Then wait.
Sure enough, the mob comes.
Crows announce their feast with excited caws before they come swooping down beside the lonely tree at the edge of the wheat field, where you've laid out the leftovers of a fish. You watch how the family merrily chatters away, the adults keeping lookout, while a pair of younglings peck at your offering.
"You like that, huh?" you call over to them, chuckling to yourself as one of them tilts its head and ruffles its feathers in response.
Mob happy. Mission complete.
Over the course of the last summer month, you've grown quite close with your new mob. They've learned your routine and you've learned to read their calls. They make great alarms, actually. They will caw loudly and cuss out any intruder with a foreign face from a mile away. Especially useful when you're living all alone Pippi Longstocking-style at the end of a dusty road somewhere off the brim of Oregon.
There are no neighbours.
Except for Miss Jenkins, whose husband either died long before you moved here or is being held hostage in her basement. And who should live far enough away that she shouldn't be able to appear on your porch spontaneously, like she's just been spawned there, yet she manages to do so at least once a week.
To "check in on you" as she likes to put it. Nosy old woman...
Otherwise, you're positive that there are no neighbours for miles who'd hear you scream.
Not the happy screams either – God, you haven't had those in a while. Heard enough of the others.
Some still ring in your ears whenever you lay in your bed at night and count the cracks in the timber that's supporting your ceiling or when you hear a fox screech somewhere in the woods behind your house, its cry blood-curdlingly similar to the agonising cries of a woman who's being brutally tortured for hours on end.
But all in all, you love it here.
You tiptoe back through the field that leads up to the gates of your garden. The gate creaks shut behind you, just like the four steps up to your back porch groan when you climb them – everything in this house seems to have its own voice, and isn't afraid to use it.
You're sure you'll get used to it, eventually. You say, and remember the many times the howling wind has startled you awake when the shutters clatter and the old wood creaks in the middle of the damn night.
Your gaze sweeps across your porch. The small wooden table, worn down by generations but spruced up by an olive green tablecloth with floral print, is readied nicely for your guests. The floor on the other hand is – once again – littered with leaves of the nearby maple tree.
Not that you'd mind, but you had a different use for them, than leaving them to rot on the porch.
You grab the broom from the corner and get to work.
Unlike others, you don't swipe the dead leaves off your porch, but into a nice heap for you to collect them once you are done. Their beautiful auburn-harvest colours will make a great addition to the décor and the candles in your living room. With every rhythmic swipe across the floorboards, your mind begins to wander to the months ahead and how you're going to spend them in your new home.
Soon, autumn will beckon you to huddle up inside with fresh pumpkin spice tea warming your palms, its hot steam cupping your cheeks like a pair of hands and a fuzzy blanket hugging you from behind while you watch the flames twirl and flicker inside your fireplace from the corner of your favourite couch.
Some may think of autumn as a dark and depressing time of the year. And sure, things die and sink back into the mud while thick fog gobbles up any leftovers. But to you, there's something oddly tranquillising about the way life is slowly forced to move inside.
It reminds you of your childhood, the family gatherings you'd groaned at back then, the warm laughter and the gossiping of aunts and grannies while your mother was cooking in the kitchen and decorated the house with the smell of roasted turkey and mashed sweet potatoes. Just like the sound of crackling fire and the scents of pumpkin and cinnamon spices which you hope will soon fill your own home with life.
There's just something about the warmth and safety of this season's forced proximity that harbours a certain coziness and sense of belonging, reminding you of the good old days, before you'd willingly rolled yourself in the mud and done whatever it took to make an undercover mission a success.
Autumn may call many things to an end, but it in your mind, also allows you to finally focus on the things which are important, the ones which stay. Which make a house, a home.
My home. You smile proudly.
Then give the neatly cleaned floor a once over, hands on your hips, satisfied with your work.
Once in your kitchen, you set the basket with the pile of leaves down in the corner next to the stove.
I'll take care of those later…
For now, you'll be occupied with the chopping of dried herbs you've got hanging from the ceiling. You carefully pick them down one by one and begin to spread the bunches out on your counter. The smell of thyme, rosemary and peppermint fill the warm kitchen once you begin to chop them into small pieces – for your own tea mixes.
Some of their mossy green colours remind you of that guy who'd busted you free from your last undercover gone wrong.
His charming smirk and confident attitude had left an impression on you which you still can't quite make sense of. It's been almost a whole year, and you can still feel his intense eyes searching you for any major injuries, how they'd flickered between bourbon whiskey and emerald green when the artificial light of the warehouse bounced off his sun freckled cheeks and his lips twitched into a befuddled chuckle once he'd noticed that despite looking like you'd been thrown into a blender, you'd smiled.
He probably thought you'd either been coked up or you were just generally off your rocker.
"You still with me, sunshine?" Something tingles in your chest at the memory of the deep timbre of his voice and the warm feeling of his hand patting your cheek. Head tilted up. Eyes searching yours. Deep and intense.
I didn't even get to ask him for his name.
You push the thought aside. He's part of a life that's in your past. It's probably for the best this way. And yet…
Gratefully, you're snapped out of your thoughts when you hear the familiar sputter of a car draw up to your house and kill its engines once it's parked in front of your entrance.
You've been expecting them, the guys of WitSec, but they're a little early as always. You can't help but groan to yourself with a roll of your eyes.
Not for much longer… two more days and I'm done. Just gotta make my statement and that's it. You remind yourself.
You open your kitchen window to gesture to the backside of your house. "Go to the back! I'll be with you in a minute!" One of them responds with a grunt and the other with a lazy wave of his hand.
Charming as always.
You go back to finish chop up the last bit for the tea you'd prepared, while you feel your fingers curl tighter around the knife's handle.
Whenever you have to face them, it takes all of your energy to keep smiling.
Their presence is like a constant reminder of all those months you spent in fear, of the countless times you were relocated across half of the US, and of them watching you the entire time.
The clack-clack-clack on the carving board comes to a halt. Hands slightly shaking. You take a couple of deep breaths, steady yourself and wait for the tremors in your hands to fade.
But your mind keeps going.
Every step of yours had been meticulously planned, monitored and executed. No friends. No family. No freedom. You wanted to talk to your mum? The Marshal would overview any form of communication. Invite your old best friend for a coffee? Ask the Marshal (he said no). Flirt with the cute guy who was visiting his mother next door every Wednesday? The Marshal had his résumé at hand before you could even ask him for his name. Step outside? Ask the Marshal.
You couldn't even get a damn muffin in the local bakery without his permission.
Undercover work destroyed your sense of self. But witness protection had successfully finished the job.
It was the price for your safety, as you'd been told countless times. One you'd agreed on. And effectively made you to their pawn.
Even now it manages to make your jaw clench.
I didn't choose this. Not really. They called it a choice. But it wasn't.
Because worst was, that you had let them rule your life – or what was left of it – and still the fear of someone sneaking up to you and throw a bag over your head, would follow you around like a constant shadow. Each and every night was spent all alone in bed, in complete isolation, drenched in sweat, eyes glued to the shadows moving under the door, expecting one of Chavez' men to kick it down any moment and drag you out by your hair.
For over eight goddamn months.
It was hell.
The nightmares and panic attacks ruled your life until last month, when they finally caught Rick Chavez and his right-hand man, Jackson Walker, and you were finally given back your own life.
Now they're just waiting for your statement to finish the case. Once and for all.
Two more days.
When you step out onto the porch, U.S. Marshal William Bailey and agent Thomas Rhodes are already waiting at your table like two vultures. You set down the pot of tea between the two, but don't take a seat.
Play nice now. You force that perfect lovely smile like you'd learned to.
"I made pie," you say, thumbing towards your kitchen, "I'll go get some."
From the corner of your kitchen window, you keep an eye on them while you cut three slices of your freshly baked apple pie. Not too big. Just enough to keep their mouths occupied.
You watch from behind the curtain how Rhodes' knee bobs up and down. He looks like he's a good 10 years younger than Bailey. Perhaps in his early 30s, as fidgety as a Border Collie surrounded by sheep (and you have no doubt that he's just as agile as one). His left hand rakes back his ash-blond slicked hair, making his British suit crease around his chest and expose the shoulder holster slung over his pinstriped vest, matching his suit and clad trousers.
He glances your way, checking what takes you this long – you quickly look back down and continue to prepare everything... in slow motion.
Rhodes then shifts his focus back to his partner.
His hand drops down with a frustrated huff, just to continue with his fingers tapping the tablecloth while he fishes a cigarette package from his chest pocket with his other hand.
"Did ya know, that a hawk can pick a dove right outta the sky?" he asks out of nowhere, words drawled across his tongue with an undeniable thick British accent he must've adopted from his mother. His blue eyes flicker to Bailey just to check on his attention before they return to the cigarette he's twirling in his hands.
Bailey tilts his head to the sky. Pauses.
The marine blue suit hugging his broader frame, rides up on his forearms as he folds his hands behind his short inky locks that curl around his palms. His dark brown skin shimmers with a cool, silver undertone in the patches of mid-day light. The sun has made it past the leaves of the trees by this time of the day, its shadows playfully dancing on the white porch.
Bailey smacks his lips. Then replies slowly.
"Sounds like a load of bullshit to me."
"Yeah, you bet your bollocks, I'm tellin' ya-" Rhodes runs a hand down his neatly trimmed brown chevron moustache before he tucks the blunt between his lips and continues halfway muffled "- just swoops down and grabs it mid-air. The poor dove don't stand a bloody chance. Smashes its bones to bits, like a bloody shotgun blast." He flicks his lighter on, smoulders the end of the stick and takes a drag. "Nature's right brutal."
Bailey rolls his eyes lazily and mumbles with a huff through his nose. "You watch too many movies, man. Makes you all antsy."
"Oi, if you spent less time watching them kiddie shows and more time feedin' that brain of yours some good ol' David Attenborough, you wouldn't be nappin' every bleedin' evenin' in a food coma now, would ya?"
"You leave Rick 'n Morty out of this. You're just miffed 'cause I usually get the bigger slice of pie."
"Now that is bollocks," Rhodes snaps at Bailey in defence.
An amused snort escapes you, luckily out of ear shut.
They continue their bickering, when all of a sudden the ringing of a phone cuts through their conversation. Moments later, Bailey's and Rhodes' voices take on a serious note when the younger of the two calls out for you.
You can feel how the air has shifted the moment you step back outside and onto the porch. Rhodes' heel is nervously tapping against a loose floorboard, even faster than before, cigarette stubbed out on the plate. Even the Marshal, who's usually got the air of a Buddha, seems tense, his expression gone uncharacteristically stern.
"We just got a call from WitSec," The Marshal starts and your own muscles begin to coil up more with every second that passes as he goes to explain how Molly – the one handling your case at WitSec – had just been talking to them about the latest developments in the Chavez-case.
You nod but you don't listen.
The voices of your tormentors are getting louder, more intrusive. They still sit in the back of your mind, like a relentless ugly weed which just keeps pestering you whenever you think you've finally gotten rid of it.
"Oh you think you're so clever you little bitch, hm?" "Once I get my hands on y-"
Okay – stop. Breathe. I am save. I am doing fine. I am in the here and now.
You shake off the uninvited memory of their threats. Instead shift your focus to the presence. Feel the cotton under your fingers as you wrap them in the fabric of your dress. Breath the fresh late summer air.
Now, life is goo-
"Jackson Walker's free."
Your thoughts come to a screeching halt.
The world stops. Your heart stumbles, then slams hard against your ribs.
Not him. Not again.
You feel the scars flare up, even though you shouldn't be able to feel them anymore – the bruises he and his men left, the sound of boots on concrete, the smell of gasoline in the dark.
You taste blood.
"W-what?" is all you manage.
You feel the twist of a knife between your ribs when Rhodes goes on with an explanation that has your guts curl inwards.
"That bloody bastard's greased the right palms, and now we've got two of our key witnesses pulling out their testimony, and the court's on hold for another three weeks," he grumbles, "We're back to square fuckin' one, for Christ's sake."
Someone must've pulled the ground open underneath your feet, because you feel like you're in a free-fall, hurtling down into the open jaws of a wolf.
Your world, peaceful and perfect one moment, comes crashing down like a deer shot through the flank.
"But- but… what about-?"
"Chavez's still in custody. But with his guard dog off the leash it's only a matter of time 'till he rounds up the rest of the witnesses and soon that bastard's back on the street."
Your breath gets stuck in your throat. Mind still struggling to process the information that Jackson Walker is free. Unrestrained. Out there. As they speak.
You startle when both of the men are suddenly on their feet and Bailey pulls out his phone, apparently readying it to make some calls.
"We'll have to relocate you, stat."
His annoucement slams down like a guillotine.
Your chest tightens. Lungs cave in. You remember what it felt like to be shoved in the trunk, bleeding out and praying they'd just shoot you already. And now they're telling you to vanish again? To start over? To lose this home too?
No. Not again.
You’d rather die here, in a place that feels like an actual life.
"No."
Their heads both snap up to stare at you.
"What did she just say?" Rhodes asks in disbelief. Bailey shakes his head like you'd told them a stupid joke, "We're just trying to protect you. Or would you rather have Chavez' men have another go at you?"
You swallow. Hard. Eyes narrowed. Determination flaring up inside you.
Not your pawn anymore.
"You're not protecting me," you hiss, "You're burying me alive." Bailey and Rhodes share a look, clearly taken aback at your sudden sharp tone. "If he finds me, he finds me. But I’m not running anymore."
Rhodes' upper lip twitches his moustache. Dangerously.
The next moment he backs you up against the railing with two quick steps that send tremors through the floorboards under your feet and rattle the mismatched floral dishware on the table next to you. You stumble a step backwards until you knock into the railing with your hips.
Air thick. Breath caught in your throat. Lips tight.
"Now you listen to me, –" he says your last name with a clear edge to it, "I won't let ya fuck this up. As long as you're in witness protection, you play by our rules."
The way he stares you down with piercing cold eyes has you flinch and instinctively lean further back, the railing digging into your back.
The Marshal seems to take note of your discomfort, because he reaches out to give Rhodes a pat to the shoulder which has him take a few steps back. One hand subtly curled into a fist.
It allows you to let out the breath you'd been holding.
"Three weeks. That's all I need. I'll give you your statement. Just let me have this," you try to reason with them. Or maybe you're more like pleading now.
Rhodes is not done with putting you in place, though. Each and every word he spits your way makes your throat tighten up more.
"You signed a bloody agreement. We keep you alive and "- he waves a finger your way -" you make that statement. A bit hard when you're dead, innit? If you decide to jeopardise our plans, I'll personally have you relocated to one of WitSec's secret bunkers. If I have to, by force. So, it's either that, or you're on your own, dove." The Marshal cocks an eyebrow at that last threat but doesn't contradict him.
Instead he steps up next to Rhodes and drawls in a calm but final tone.
"So, what's it gonna be, dear?"
Three days later.
You're sat in the cold dirt between the bushes in your garden. Collecting herbs. Or you would be, if it wasn't for the fact that you keep replaying the same discussion over and over in your head as if it would change anything. The same twig of rosemary hanging loosely between your fingers for the past ten minutes.
"In that case, I'm leaving," you'd snapped at them. "I told you. I'm done. Now get the hell off my land." You'd even grabbed for the broom to send them fleeing off your porch.
Rhodes was swearing like an English sailor, hands going everywhere except your way. "You really willin' to throw yourself to the bloody wolves?" he'd barked, outraged as he ducked under a swing of your broom, and Bailey'd continued, "Don't be so stupid, are you going to throw all of this away now?" he was afraid you'd chicken out, now that the deal was off.
But, "I'm making that damn statement. But this time, I'm doing it on my terms." had effectively shut them both up.
You're free now to do as you please. At least on paper.
Which feels great.
But your nightmares are back ten-fold. So are the panic attacks.
You finally snap the twig of rosemary off and rub it between your fingers, then bring it up to your nose. The smell usually has a calming effect on you. But even rosemary had a hard time now to calm your mind.
For the past three days it has been a complete mess.
Thoughts spiralling more often than not. Questions, doubts and what-if scenarios tearing at your sanity without a break.
Maybe they were right – maybe I am being stubborn, maybe I am throwing myself to the wolves –
You should hazard the consequences of your deeds when you were undercover, shouldn't you? Your doubt puts all your energy into the efforts to grind down your determination and make you question your decision.
Over and over and over.
You drop the twig into the basket to the other herbs before your fingers instinctively go to curl into the fabrics of your soft coloured dress. Your boots digging further into the dirt.
"This is my home now. I don't need them. I'm safe here."
You keep repeating those words out loud like a mantra.
And it works, as your attention begins to shift to your surrounding and your senses finally seem to return to the here and now; Bathing in the late summer sun, watching how the clouds slowly swim across the roof of your house, just like the day you'd walked up to it for the first time.
They had told you it wasn't much.
Little did they know that this new life is the closest you've ever come to a home. Sure, the circumstances couldn't be more wicked, but the little Victorian house that's got the clutter-stuffed flair of the Weasley's Burrow wrapped up in a cottagecore look, couldn't care less, and neither could you.
The house you've been given, stands tall, unwilling to yield to the force of time. Like a grandmother; ancient, slightly hunched-over and wrinkled with a lifetime of stories and defeated battles but still refusing to let go of life and become one with the dirt. You're convinced she has witnessed countless families come and go, you've seen how their weight dented the stairs and their children's youth is still carved into the door frames of your kitchen.
She has watched the seasons take over and get driven back again, like the relentless ebb and flow of the ocean, as the roots of nature keep wafting up against her walls, weathering the painted wood down and cracking its walls of white and honey dipped colours open.
But to you, every blemish only adds to her charming beauty.
You gladly exchanged the skyline of Los Angeles for the crowns of the forest, snaking along the border of vast fields of wildflowers, their colours spangling the golden wheat fields like the floral patterns on the wallpapers in your bedroom, and the lush green grass pulled up to your front porch like a fluffy blanket.
Instead of constantly watching your back for the shadows that follow you home, you can watch how daisies, large balls of lavender and bushes of those cute little pink flowerets jostle for the best sun spot.
It's a tad bit chilly by now – but the sun warms your exposed skin enough to keep the goosebumps at bay and to tingle the back of your neck like the gentle kiss of a bearded lover. When a twig from behind you, grazes the nape of your ne –
"Get to your fuckin' knees."
You freeze.
A shiver runs down your back at the intrusive voice scratching at the inside of your head and the feeling of a cool muzzle grazing the nape of your neck.
The taste of copper fills your mouth.
No.
No I will not. Fuck you, Jack. You wrangle him back into the hole he once again slipped free from.
Take a deep breath. Then let out a long exhale.
Slow. In... Out. That's it.
You shift your focus to your hands. Ignore the slight tremble…
No more cold unforgiving steel under your finger pads or crusty crimson clinging to your fingernails no matter how much you'd rub them with acetone. Your fingers now curl around the handle of a cute little basket like they always use in those Easter commercials to collect their eggs.
Now focus on your ears… your nose…
You can hear the distant clucking of your chickens, roaming freely around what's yours and what nature offers you with generous hands. The wind, rustling of leaves. Chirping of birds. Crows singing. The untamed flora and fauna fills your senses with the smell of the woods. The scent of spices like thyme, rosemary, basil and citrus hang over your garden, and whenever the wind is just right, a swift waft of floral rose hits your nose.
You let out a long exhale.
That's it… just keep going. Just keep going. I'm alive. I'm ali-
The distant friendly chattering of the crows suddenly turns loud and alarmed. Your head snaps up, scrambling to your feet simultaneously.
Moments later, sputtering and groaning cuts through the idyllic atmosphere as tires comb through the dirt road and pull a flag of dust behind them.
You watch a vehicle emerge from the forest.
Not the Marshal's.
It grows bigger and bigger and your hands on the basket unconsciously tighten more and more.
From one moment to the next, your spine has gone rigid. Your pulse is hammering in your ears. And your throat is closing up like an invisible rope has been draped over your head with the intention to lead you up to your porch and get you hanged by the braces of your own home.
You're snapped out of your petrified state as the sound of the car draws up to your front porch and the basket from your hands hits the ground.
If you weren't feeling the adrenaline rush right now, you'd probably be scared of how quickly your muscle memory kicked in.
You don't even remember when you'd grabbed the shotgun next to your front door, or when you'd thrown said door open, gun cocked and finger on the trigger, eyes zeroing in on the car and the person stepping out of it.
When your eyes lock, he smiles – until he notices the gun.
"Jesus – fuck – Hold on! Hold on!" the guy yells over the frame of his car's door where he dived down for cover.
You stop at the first step of your front porch and bark back. Voice tight, yet sharp.
"Who the hell are you? What do you want?"
After a beat, when no shot's being fired, he dares to perk his head out, both his hands coming up slowly in a placating gesture.
"I'm coming out – don't fuckin' shoot me, okay?" - he slowly steps out of his cover, a strand of his dark brown hair fallen into his face, his hands still raised, waving them slowly - "Not a threat, see? It's me. LAPD detective Mark Meachum, reme–"
"Stay back!" you cut him off. He pauses and when your elbow moves he instinctively ducks his head, palms facing your way again. Voice raising. "We know each other! I'm the guy who busted you out!"
The guy who…?
You freeze. Gun still trained on him. Finger hovering over the trigger.
Mark doesn't flinch. Just. Smiles. "Remember me, sunshine..?" And of course you do. That charming bastard with the green eyes.
Who'd not only saved your life, but somehow managed to get stuck in the back of your mind ever since.
"You – … Why – how do you know about my location?" you sputter.
"Mind takin' that out of my face first..?" Mark jerks his chin at you, hinting at the barrel that's still aimed at him.
Right. You lower the shotgun, then nod back at him. "You didn't answer my question. What are you doing here?"
"I'm here on chief Norman's order," your eyes widen and he quickly clarifies, "Don't worry, no one knows about it."
"It's good to see you're okay," he comments and the way the corner of his lips pull into a soft smile sparks the memory of when you'd met him for the first and last time.
He hasn't changed one bit. Except for that patch on his temple... I wonder who decked him.
His beard's still full and dark around his sharp jaws, hair swept back with a stray strand hanging into his face, toned chest hidden beneath his grey shirt and smooth black leather jacket lining his broad shoulders, his bow legs bouncing and tugging at his jeans in all the right ways with every step he takes towards you.
Mark stops at the lowest step, head tipped back to meet your eyes. He looks as charming as ever – until a crease forms between his eyebrows and he manages to crush every positive memory of his in just two seconds.
"The better question is, why the hell did you leave WitSec? Are you out of your goddamn mind?"
Maybe he's not as nice and as charming as I remember him.
"What?" you almost scoff at his offending tone.
"You heard me," and he just adds to your irritation when his tone grows more pointed, "You're aware that the guy who almost killed you and did god knows what to you, is walking free and tracking you down as we speak, right?"
You blink at him, confusion still written all over your face until your patience finally snaps and your hands begin to tighten around the handle of your shotgun.
"What's it to you?" you snap back, "I don't want your damn help," or your patronizing attitude.
Mark's expression darkens and he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "I wasn't asking." He scoffs.
"Neither am I," you retort, "I told them. I'm staying. End of story." He rolls his eyes at your words and you feel the sudden urge to add a patch to his other temple.
"Are you even listening? Chavez wants you dead – or worse for fucks sake!" he yells back, voice raised to make up for the height difference between you two right now.
You want to bite back but you find your voice stuck in the back of your throat at the mention of your old tormentor's name. It's enough to send a shiver up your spine. Stomach twisting into knots. Chest tight and aching.
With just the right words, he successfully managed to tip over the first domino of the walls you had so carefully built inside your mind to keep the anxiety and panic at bay.
Without realising it, you spin on your feet and find your legs carrying you away. Away from him. From his annoying tone. His infuriating attitude. His eyes which bore into you every time they lock with yours.
"Where the fuck do you think you're goin'?" he calls after you in annoyance and moments later you can hear his boots thump up the stairs, "Hey – hold on, don't be so goddamn stubborn – At least hear me out!"
You don't stop, neither do you turn to snap back at him. Mark stares at your back as you march across the porch and into your house where he stops in his tracks when you slam the door into his face.
Who does he think he is? Why the hell does he even care? I told them I was done. That I'll stay here. And I'm not letting anyone take this away from me and lock me up again.
Screw him. Screw WitSec. Screw all of 'em.
Mark now faces your door, stunned. He scoffs. Shakes his head and rakes his hair back with both of his hands before he barks after you once more.
"I'm not gonna leave! Just so you know!"
Your hands are shaking – your grip on the counter's vice-like, weight braced against it, forehead pressed against the cupboard next to the pans hanging from their metal hooks, as you force the air down to your lungs.
I'm okay. Everything's okay. I'm fine – I'm –
"Fuck!" you curse out loud.
But your voice cracks. Like somebody had just choked you and your cords are still strangled and the air's still thin. Getting thinner.
"Now get a grip of yourself," you scold yourself and it does nothing to smoothen the tremors in every breath you take and to the way your muscles are coiled up like a spring.
Their voices lick at the back of your mind. Again.
Their threats ring in your ears. Graze the back of your skull with cold steel and wrap their long fingers around your throat. Pressuring. Speeding up your heart and cutting off your airway.
"Should've listened to them, doll." "You know what we do with cops like you, hmm?" "We'll take our time and-"
Shut up.
Ignore it.
You try your best to block out the fear that's clawing its way up your spine. The flashes of memories that cross your inner eyes.
Just ignore it.
Your chest starts to feel constricted, left side stinging like a blade's twisting your heart whenever your lungs try and fail to expand.
You can feel your control slipping. Fast. Too fast.
The beats of your heart hammer in your ears, your breath now ragged as the world begins to spin and your vision grows blurry, unfocused. Black.
When your eyes snap open, dazed and confused, first thing you feel is the soft bedding of your cushions against your back. The shelf hoarding books sits across from you, the heavy curtain with its floral patterns brushes your shoulder and some dust particles swirl through the god rays that shine through the window you're leaned against.
Your eyes drift off, follow the rows of books about random household skills like cooking, sewing, gardening and whatever your predecessors had left you here and you liked to thumb through in the afternoons with a nice cup of black tea with milk and a plate of freshly baked cinnamon rolls while getting cozy in the corner of your very own reading nook.
You loved this spot, but.
This is definitely not where I was last.
Your focus is drawn to the adjacent hallway when you hear steps coming up the wooden stairs, each of them groaning and creaking in protest, closely followed by a gruff voice.
"Hey there. You feelin' okay?"
You. You hiss internally, jaw clenching subtly.
Mark rounds the railing of the stairs and walks up to you where he sets down two mugs onto the tiny round coffee table and slides into the single chair next to it, keeping a respectable distance to you, but still close enough to reach for your arms if he felt need.
"You okay?" Mark asks again.
"What…" you groan, mind still spinning. You rub your head, feeling a small bump there that has you stifle a hiss.
Damnit, I must've blacked out.
"I... I'm fine, yeah…" you mumble under your breath, eyes averting his and trying your best to ignore the way they've taken on a vibrant sage green, matching the paint of the inside of your nook, and the way his hair's dark in the shadow but oh so soft with a shimmer of chocolate brown in the streak of light casted across his face.
You try very hard to not notice any of that.
But the way Mark's eyes are on you this entire time isn't helping either.
"Must've been the low blood pressure, that's all," you add the blatant lie, eyes still anywhere else but meeting his.
Can't he laser-eye something else?? I'm not a paper target on a shooting range!
Mark's eyebrows raise and he leans to the side to capture your wandering gaze. Damnit.
"Blood pressure, huh?" he probes, "That happen often?"
You persistently ignore the faint tingling in your stomach when your eyes lock.
"Yeah, on occasion." You shrug it off.
There's a moment of awkward silence. The air feels like it's going to shift any moment between you two, although you're not sure what direction.
Neither whether you want to find out. So you make sure it goes out the damn window where it belongs.
"Well, now that you've seen that I'm fine, you're welcome to get lost."
He cocks his head, then chuckles lightly. "Yeah, that's not gonna happen, sunny."
Excuse me? You blink at him for a moment.
"This is trespassing," you comment pointedly.
For a split second, his lips twitch into a smug smirk.
Is he enjoying this entire situation?
"Denial of assistance," he counters with a half-hearted shrug. "Had to make sure you didn’t get sniped on my watch." He reaches over to the coffee table next to you and grabs one of the hot mugs and then pushes it into your hands. You look down at your favourite mug with its cute cat paw prints and flower petals on it, surprised and frankly a bit befuddled.
"Felt weird to carry a lady to her bedroom without offering her a drink first," he quips with a flirtatious smile and then gestures with his chin at the pillow nest you've ensconced yourself in, "Plus, this funny granny closet looked much more cozy."
"It's a reading nook!" You correct him and aim to playfully kick him in the shin but he's faster.
Mark grabs you by the ankle and holds your leg back down to the cushions with such speed and smooth precision that you have no doubt that, despite your training, he could disarm and pin you down in a flash if things ever got heated.
Your heart skips a beat at the unexpected contact.
You'd expect the reason to be panic. Muscles tense and ready for the fight-or-flight instincts to kick in. But what happens instead throws you off entirely.
Something inside you is burning up as you feel the warmth of his hand on your bare skin, calloused finger pads rubbing against the inside of your ankle as his large palm wraps around it and fits perfectly there like a grounding weight, and something more which sends a shiver right to your – whoa okay hold your damn horses, woman. It's just a hand for Pete's sake.
When your eyes meet, Mark's voice suddenly drops a notch. Eyebrows pulled low. Voice edgy.
"You want me to detain you for assault on a LAPD detective, young lady?" You swallow. Mind gone on a fritz.
A teensy-weensy voice somewhere inside you pipes up "Hell-fucking-yeah" – but it never makes it to your conscious mind which thankfully is out of order right now.
After a beat, his serious face cracks and the familiar amusement and mischief is twinkling in his green eyes again as he leans in, teasing in a charming tone.
"Just fuckin' with ya."
Mark pats your leg once before he pulls his hand back to his knee.
All casual and smug.
Like he's done this a million times before, to every woman colleague, or newbie, or pretty front desk secretary... or helplessly lonely ex detective who'd willingly exchanged bullets for stainless steel tea infusers.
Wow… Ass.
Mark doesn't miss a single cue.
His intense eyes watch you closely before he slowly leans back into his chair, arms crossing in front of his chest. The corner of his lips suddenly pulled into a frown.
"Quitting the program was a really dumb move." Your jaw clenches at his lecturing tone while he continues with a "But-" which you cut short right there.
"I don't care what you all think, I said I won't –" This time he interrupts you. His voice raised enough to make you suck in a sharp breath.
"Just– " Mark rubs his temple with a frustrated groan "– let me finish my damn point, yeah?"
Your hands tighten around your mug, eyes dropped to the steam that's still wafting up into your face to avert his stern look. Its warm smell of cinnamon spices caresses your nose and you inhale it deeply while you close your eyes for a moment, allowing the scent to ground you.
"Fine," you mumble. Not really convincing, but he takes what he gets.
"But. I'm not here to drag you away," he watches how your head perks up at his words and his voice softens in response, "Look – I'm not gonna sugar-coat it. Things aren't looking very peachy. We lost eyes on Walker and we have no idea what he's up to, but it goes without saying that he's gunning for you until you've made that statement of yours. And–" Mark taps the coffee table once to get your attention, "that's the only reason why I'm here."
Your eyes drift back down to the tea between your fingers. Blinking at it as you take in his words.
"So…" you begin in a more neutral voice, "You've been assigned to be my bodyguard, is that it?"
Mark nods, then flashes a lopsided smirk in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Minus the love story."
You don't laugh.
Is this whole thing a fucking joke to him?
"Do I have a saying in this?" you ask, tone flat. Mark huffs through his nose and rakes his hair back.
"Nope." He tips his head to the side to meet your eyes again.
"Great," you scoff softly, your fingers tighten around the mug to the degree you can feel the stinging heat bite at your skin. "So I've got a watch dog latched to my ankle for the next three weeks."
With a sardonic smile, Mark rubs his forehead, causing your molars to grind together.
"Guess you better get used to me. I can be fun, though, promise."
J / Note: Pheew, I hope this wasn't all too bad for my first chapter. The setup took more words than anticipated, but from now on we'll focus on those two. 🤭
Please let me know what you think and whether you're interested in more, I appreciate all of your support so much! 🧡
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