#countdown prime

[felixblindluck]

I present Jensen Ackles comment on Misha’s recent post

[castielsfoot]

Oh my god.

[bruisedfig]

oh my god i’m going to combust

[luci-in-trenchcoats]

Dead And Gone And Buried - A Phantom Pains Story

Summary: Til death do us part was never supposed to be so soon...

Phantom Pains Masterlist

Pairing: Mark Meachum x FBI Agent!reader

Word Count: 3,000ish

Warnings: Countdown S1 spoilers, language, big angst, terminal illness, death

A/N: Yeahhhhh...so here comes the pain. Enjoy the heart wrenching! 😈

Mark POV

Ten PM

My fingers tapped impatiently against the side table beside me. Y/N had texted she was leaving work an hour ago. Her drive was thirty minutes and sure, she could be stuck in traffic. This was fucking LA and sometimes I seriously regretted our decision to have Y/N move out here instead of me going to the east coast.

God damn that woman’s willingness to transfer so I wouldn’t have to take an assload of training all over again just to be a cop in another state. It just made her folks hate me even more when she moved away but that good relationship sailed away the second we got hitched.

I pulled up my app again, annoyed when it was still glitching, not even showing Y/N’s location anywhere. At least forty minutes ago it showed she was in the parking lot. Maybe she got stuck talking to somebody on the way out…

I was about to try calling again when I heard a car outside, a long breath leaving me. I hopped up from the couch, ready to greet her at the front door like a damn puppy because…well my wife was awesome and this whole having to work for a living thing really got in the way of our “us” time. Hm, I’d have to bring up going on a vacation soon.

“Well it’s about time, baby…” I stopped talking when I stepped out the front door, spotting a dark blue car in the driveway. An SUV parked across the street and then another one right behind it. Blue and red lights flashed in the dark night, my eyes wandering over to the man approaching from the blue car.

Dylan Schrader, her boss. There was another one by the side of the car, Mack O’Neil. Director of the LA office. My heart stopped, the two of them sharing a quick look before Dylan walked over.

“Mark…” I shook my head, Dylan closing his eyes, slowly opening them. “Mark.”

“No,” I whispered, shaking my head, Dylan stopping in front of me, his hands grabbing my shoulders. “Don’t say it. D-don’t say it.”

“Mark, Y/N was killed by a car bomb an hour ago. She-”

I shrugged away from him, staring at him, the director, the line of cops and FBI agents that were littering our driveway and yard. All of them had these god awful looks of pity on their faces.

“You’re wrong,” I snapped, Dylan trying to step forward again. I looked all around, like her face would somehow be in the crowd. “W-where’s my wife?”

“Mark-”

“She’s not dead! Don’t tell me that bullshit!” 

“You have to come identify…” he said quietly. My eyebrows shot up. 

“Body? That what you’re going to say? My wife isn’t-”

“We won’t ask you to…Mark, you need to come-”

“Fuck you! Fuck all of you! My wife-”

“Is dead, Meachum. She’s fucking dead. I saw the explosion from my own damn office window,” Dylan shot back, his eyes red rimmed. I wrapped my arms around myself, shaking my head again.

“No,” I whispered, my head pounding. “She’s not dead!”

“Mr. Meachum.” The director, O’Neil, approached, hands in his pockets before stopping a few feet away. I paced back and forth, mind racing. This wasn’t real, this wasn’t real. They were mistaken. S-She was stuck in traffic. It wasn’t her car. It wasn’t- “Mr. Meachum.”

He held out a hand, gently placing it on my back. I shook my head again, his face withdrawn as I let the tears in my eyes finally fall. 

“Mr. Meachum, I’m so sorry for your loss. You need to come with us.”

Four Days Later

“Mark. Mark.” My gaze flickered up when Y/N’s mom placed a hand on my shoulder, a smile on her face somehow. “Walt asked if you wanted us to stay longer.”

“Why? Funeral’s over.” I breathed out, glancing across the room and finding my father-in-law standing by the back door, drinking one of Y/N’s beers. He glanced at me, his stoic face showing an unnatural confusion on it. “Y/N’s gone. Nothing left to even fuckin’ bury. You two don’t have to tolerate my existence anymore.”

I took a bottle of wine leftover from the wake yesterday and went into the garage, sitting on the cement floor, taking a long sip from it.

Something hit the back of my head hard, my body jerking as the bottle was ripped out of my hands and tossed against the closed door. I stared up to find Walt glaring down at me, his hard edges softening when my bottom lip inadvertently trembled.

“Where the fuck are your parents, Mark?” I blinked, furrowing my brow. “Aunts, Uncles, cousins. I didn’t meet one damn family member of yours at the wake, the funeral.”

“Fuck off,” I growled, Walt pushing me down when I went to stand. He towered over me, my hands in fists by my sides. “Take whatever of Y/N’s things you want and then you never have to see me again.”

“Where are your parents Mark. They dead?” I held his stare, not having it in me to lie today.

“Murder-suicide when I was nineteen on deployment.” Walt blinked, trying to process that information like every other person I’d ever shared that with, not that it was many. “I guess my dad got fed up once I got big enough to stop getting hit and took it out on my equally shitty mother. So I’m fucking sorry I don’t have a family to be at my wife’s funeral. She was all I fucking had.”

Walt held out a hand, pulling me to my feet, leading me back inside. I sat down at the kitchen table, hearing hushed murmurs behind me. Two pairs of footsteps joined me at either side, chairs scrapping. 

“Just go away,” I whispered, squeezing my eyes shut. “You hate me for marrying Y/N, remember? Nothing’s changed.”

“We’ll leave when we’re good and ready. Until then, we take it day by day.”

Three Years Later

“Oh, sweetie,” said Sarah, giving me a big squeezing hug when she opened my front door to let me in. After months in that prison, I let myself get wrapped up in it, breathing in her perfume. “Are you okay? We haven’t seen you in nearly a year.”

“He was undercover again, hun,” said Walt, stepping out from the family room, giving me a quick handshake and my own embrace. “That was a long stretch wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, giving them both a smile, feeling the worry coming off of them. “Thanks for watching the house again guys.”

“Oh and miss the northeast winter? You did us a favor, sweetie,” she said, a flash of an older Y/N crossing my mind. I swallowed thickly, Sarah stroking my thumb with her cheek. “You look tan.”

“Yeah I was uh, outside a lot,” I said, leaving it at that. I stepped inside the house, the place feeling lighter and cozier than the last time I was here. “Did you guys paint?”

“It was a bit of a shitshow. Still is,” said Walt, nodding towards the bathroom. He forced a smile. I knew they wished I’d kept the house. Y/N and mine’s. It was a million times nicer than this craphole. Better neighborhood. Better schools. Back when I thought about those things.

But I just couldn’t live in that damn house and see her ghost every second of every day.

My head chose that exact moment to send a piercing shot of pain across my temple, one of my daily reminders that at least within the next year, I’d get to be with Y/N again. 

God it was going to kill Sarah and Walt when I finally told them the truth, that they’d have to bury me too. But it could wait, wait until it got bad enough that I couldn’t work anymore. Until then, I’d just keep playing the role of child they didn’t want but reluctantly fell in love with.

I smiled as the headache passed. When I punched my ticket for upstairs, at least I could brag to Y/N that I knew I’d eventually win them over.

“Guys could you do me a favor?” I asked, putting my bag down. They gave me their attention, my skin prickling. “I uh, am on this new task force thing and uh I can’t give details or anything but it’d be a good idea if you both go back to Connecticut for awhile. It’s uh…”

I cleared my throat, choosing to look at the hardwoods that had seen better days. I couldn’t tell them there was fuckin’ nuclear material running around LA, even if they knew enough to keep their mouths shut.

“I can’t tell you the truth and you can’t dig or poke or anything,” I sighed, forcing my head up, Sarah worrying her bottom lip. “But you’re smart people. I need you to leave LA and go back home. Tonight. Once you get there, do not go to any major cities until I tell you it’s safe. Someday you’ll understand.”

Walt and Sarah shared a look, silently communicating and a sharp pang rippled across my chest. Would it ever stop hurting? I’d tried, lord I’d tried to move on. Tried to be my old self and it’d nearly worked. Even these two were happy when I got engaged to Melinda, was going to have the whole wedding thing again. They’d accepted her with open arms.

But I just couldn’t fucking do it. Not when I’d look at her and just pretend sometimes she was Y/N. It wasn’t fair and neither was screwing the poor woman’s sister “accidentally” to get her to hate me. I ran a hand over my face.

God, would Y/N even love me anymore? I’d never been perfect but I was a hot fucking mess these days.

“Honey?” asked Sarah. I dropped my hand.

“Headache,” I said, looking between them once more. “What did you say?”

“We’ll get the first flight out of here,” said Walt. I relaxed, Walt frowning at catching it. “Be safe, son. Alright? Try to check in with us.”

“I will,” I said. He hummed. It wasn’t a lie but not a promise either. They knew I’d been drifting away but I just…I didn’t fucking know what to do anymore. Alone was so much easier, wasn’t it?

One Week Later

“You alright?” I turned my head, Finau giving me a strange look. I blinked away the pain across my temple. “Man, if you’re not good-”

“I’m fine,” I snapped. “Been taking a lot of hits to the head lately is all.”

“Concussion?” he asked. I scoffed, waving him off. “We’re ten minutes out from a fucking raid. If you’re not solid-”

“I’m good.” I flipped my sunglasses down, gesturing to my face. “It was just the fuckin’ sun buggin’ me.”

I felt his stare on me but he let it go. I squeezed my eyes behind my shades, willing the headache to go away. At least the one good thing was when I had one, I was normally good for another few hours which meant the raid would be fine.

“Meachum, Finau. Be aware drones show a two man patrol on the rear of the building,” said Sheppard. 

“Copy,” I said, opening my eyes to catch the sun setting over downtown. “Let’s do this.”

Twelve minutes later we were in the building that I was praying to god was holding the nuclear material. Something in my gut said we wouldn’t find it here though, just another dead end. Finau took the lead down the hall, the two of us alternating clearing rooms. One room, two, fifteen. It was just an old fucking warehouse. That’s all there-

Gunshots rang out from across the building, Finau and I sharing a look before we finished the hallway and headed that direction.

“Three suspects down,” said Bel over comms, my eyebrows raising.

“Good job Oliveras and Bel,” I muttered, a subtle smacking sound catching my attention. I turned my head, a lone metal door off to the side. I nodded towards it, Finau covering my back. A large padlock covered the front of it and the new hinges on the old door had us both frowning. 

“We might have something,” Finau said quietly. I glanced around, tilting my head when I saw a key on a hook nearby. Well whatever the hell was in there probably wasn’t what we were looking for if they just left the key out. I put it in the lock, the smacking inside pausing momentarily. “Someone’s in there.”

“Breach on three. One, two, three,” I said, Finau ripping the door open as I rushed inside. The room was alarmingly well lit, a hum of electricity in the air. My eyes caught movement and turned right, gun raised. “On the ground-”

Y/N blinked up at me from where she sat on a mattress on the ground, a rubber ball in her hand. 

Great. The fucking hallucinations had started. Doc said that was a possibility once I started to get end game on the whole-

“Hands!” Finau shouted next to me. Y/N just stared at me, her eyes wet, the ball falling to the floor and rolling across it. “Put up your fucking hands now!”

Wait. Wait, he saw her? How the hell was that possible?

Y/N blinked once, time slowing down as a tear ran down her cheek. My gaze flickered downwards to her foot, something secured around it that had a loop of metal coil through it that was pooled by the end of her mattress and tied into the wall.

“Are you real?” she whispered, her hands by her head. 

“Are you real?” I returned, pushing Finau’s weapon down, knowing he was saying something to me but I couldn’t fucking hear it. All I could do was walk forward, my heart pitter pattering like I’d just sprinted a marathon. She slowly stood up, eyes never breaking away as more people entered the room with us. I stopped before her, carefully holding out a hand. I’d gone insane. That tumor had exploded in my brain or some shit.

Because either I was tripping balls and I was officially out of time or somehow my dead wife was very much not dead. My skin burned with a rush of adrenaline when I touched her cheek, a cheek full of warmth and life and covered in tear streaks. 

She flew herself forward, jumping into my arms and wrapping her legs around me, clutching me so tight it hurt. I wrapped her in a death grip, squeezing her way too hard as she howled into the crook of my neck.

“I got you. I got you,” I croaked out, the whole world disappearing around us. For the first time in three years, life was perfect. There was no tumor. There was no waiting for a visit from the Grim Reaper. She came back to me. My love was back.

“Mark,” she cried, forcing herself to raise her head, choking back a sob. “Mark, something bad’s going to happen. I-I don’t know what but they’re p-planning something.”

Suddenly the world came rushing back and I felt the heated stares of the team on us, on her. I turned around, Y/N sensing it too.

How the hell was a cop’s dead wife alive after years? How did she know something bad was about to happen? I read it on all their faces, Oliveras doing the least to try and hide it.

They thought she was a traitor and that this was a ploy. Y/N hid behind me, my stomach dropping. Fuck, she thought they’d hurt her. Who the hell knew what she’d been through the past three years in order to survive?

“W-who’s in charge?” she asked. 

“Blythe is task force commander,” said Bel. Y/N nodded, fingers dug in hard to my jacket. 

“I’m thirsty and hungry and I’d like a shower but I don’t need a hospital. Give me those things and have your commander question me.” She turned to me with blurry eyes, swallowing thickly. “Your team is going to interrogate me and you have to let them, Mark. A lot of people are going to want to know how I’m alive and you can’t be a hot head, okay?”

“Okay,” I whispered, cupping her cheeks in my hands. I pulled her in, crashing my mouth to hers, devouring her like it was the first time I’d ever tasted her. No messy lip gloss like the first time. No hint of whiskey on her tongue. No whiff of floral sultry perfume that had her manhandling me in my hotel room all those years ago.

I’d kissed her a million times and none of them had felt like this. A balm to a wound that’d been festering for three damn years. 

“Don’t leave me again,” I whispered against her lips, her tears salty on my tongue. 

“Never. I’d have haunted the shit out of you until you kick the bucket as some hot old dude,” she breathed out, a dry laugh in her voice. I clutched her hard, that stupid fucking tumor come back in focus, my own eyes spilling over. 

She was going to bury me. She was going to scream and wail and curse the sky like I had. She was going to forget to eat, to shower, to believe she had a reason to keep going. She was going to wake up from the nightmares of this place and find an empty bed beside her, no one to hold her. 

I’d just pulled her out of of one hell hole only to drop her into another.

“Mark,” she cooed as I cried harder. “I’m here, I’m right here.”

I was going to die and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

“Baby,” she said, gripping me harder. “I’m back. Sh, I’m back and I’m not going anywhere ever again.”

But I was. In six to nine months, I was gone.

And she’d be alone all over again.

A/N: Read the next part Three Years In The Grave here!

[waxingwinchester]

need to be mark meachum’s prison bitch

[mechaniicalbriide]

I’m obsessed.

I LOVE THE LONG HAIRRR

[scandalscontained]

˚౨ৎ ⋆ mark meachum headcannons

m.meachum ┆ veteran ┆ sarcastic ┆ save yourself, I'll hold 'em back ┆detective whimsy ┆ cynical ┆ caring ┆ impulsive ┆ determined ┆ fights tooth 'n nail ┆ gentle

🐾: due to his military background, mark has developed a strict routine, but that routine is in constant battle with his learned traits from his UC work.

🐾: sometimes he catches himself falling into lock step

🐾: he's tried to get you to work out with him before. watching you look on at him, usually with you starting to get a little antsy, seems to always be the highlight of his day.

🐾: mark is a sweetheart. jogging ahead of you to hold open doors, landing a gentle love tap to your butt whenever he's behind you, forehead kisses, sweet nothings spilling from his lips in soft morning light.

🐾: his headaches had scared him at first when he started getting them. for a day or two, he thought of migraines. then they got worse. he fell down an internet rabbit whole and started to think of late symptoms of ptsd.

🐾: when he thought his headaches were migraines, he'd often get mcdonald's french fries and soda

🐾: he's a dr pepper and coke kind of guy

🐾: when he got the diagnosis, it broke something in him. he changed. he was living on borrowed time and he was gonna make damn sure to use it to the fullest.

🐾: he left his fiance on the alter because of this!! mark couldn't bear the idea of promising to 'spend the rest of your life with someone' when he knew he couldn't be certain how long he had.

🐾: work became an outlet. he'd scrounge around and look for any UC work he could find. practically beg his superiors to let him take up a case. because of the diagnosis, he was more impulsive and less careful, which helped him more times than not.

🐾: he gets impostor syndrome. he doesn't feel like mark for the first few weeks he gets home from a job, there's still too much of a tether to the person he was pretending to be.

🐾: he'll never admit it out loud but undercover work is lonely. so when he gets home from a long job, the first thing he usually does is crawl into bed with his partner. like crawling on top of them like a big dog that still thinks they're lap sized. arms tight around the waist, face buried in their neck, whispering sweet nothings about how they smell good.

🐾: he's a freak !!

🐾: that man loves getting his hands dirty. he's been in countless messy situations so he knows how to deal with one and clean it up. he's dominant in bed but still very gentle. most times. there are definitely times when he's not gentle at all.

🐾: he's a yapper. so talking his partner through it is a must. "doin' so well f'me, sweetheart." "look at you." "oh, sweetheart, yeah, I know." "eyes on me. there we go." "breathe f'me."

🐾: mark likes all shapes and sizes of people. his philosophy is simple: if they're funny and intelligent, I'm going for it.

🐾: seriously, he doesn't stop talking. in and out of the bedroom. if his mouth is moving, he's happy.

🐾: he loves spending time with people. out for a drink after long hours of paperwork, staying late to bug a coworker while they work, or even if he's hooking up with someone. he's a spirited man that loves community.

🐾: he binges crime dramas. it's a hobby he loves and hates at the same time. they get facts or procedures incorrect and he ends up tossing fries at the TV in anguish.

🐾: on his way to the precinct, he listens to true crime podcasts. he likes staying updated on cases happening around the world. sometimes, he learns what not to do in similar cases based on what the detectives were doing in the episode being discussed.

🐾: there are a few times when he's known the officers or detectives working on cases in his podcasts. if it's a new case, and he has nothing to do (and is feeling nosy), mark reaches out and offers his help.

🐾: mark knows almost everyone. thanks to his military background, UC work, and candor, he has connections all over LA.

🐾: his love language is physical touch. hugs from the back, neck kisses, yanking his partner onto his lap, flopping on the couch next to his partner, laying his head on their thighs. cuddle warrior for sure.

🐾: he ragebaits. and he's alarmingly good at it.

🐾: dead horse beater. mister "wasn't a riot" himself !

🐾: mark, when he's in love, fights tooth and nail to keep them. it doesn't what it takes he's gonna try it all. unfortunately, this side of him really only shows when he realizes he's been putting work first and his relationship is circling the drain.

join the taglist here! request here!

[my-stories-vault]

Chapter 1 ~ Wanted: Trouble.

Pairing: Mark Meachum X Hitwoman!Reader

Blurb: It's simply complicated. For starters, you're supposed to be the villain, and he's supposed to be the hero. Separated as teenagers, neither of you thought you would ever see the other. But fate retwines your paths after twenty-five years as a Murderer and a Detective. You're wanted in the worst ways possible, but he still wants you because you're his Trouble. And he needs to catch you alive before someone else shoots you dead.

Tags/Trigger Warnings (18+): language, voilence, gore, flashbacks, yearning, murders, hitwoman, police/detective novel, mentions of human trafficking and selling children (not too graphic), car accidents, major character deaths (sort of, but not really), minor character deaths, mentions of glioblastoma multiform (brain tumor), headaches, dizziness, hospital visits, angst, fluff, alcohol, cigrettes, hacking, lovers-to-enemies-to-lovers, tons of miscommunication and misunderstandings, mentions of cheating (doesn't happen but it's mentioned), mentions of jail and aryan brotherhood (undercover work), etc.

A/N: So, this was just supposed to be a small one-shot based on a prompt (emboldened AND italicized in the chapter) challenge I took up with the lovely Hepza_Hart from Wattpad. But I'm gonna turn this into a series as soon as possible, lol.

In the meantime, do go and check out the wonderful story posted by my author-in-crime in her book "Multifandom Shots", under the title, "Home". And shower her with love, y'all, her awesomeness demands it 😘🫂.

Also, a special shoutout to the lovely @bettystonewell for all the encouragement she gave me when I got nervous about getting out of my comfort zone. Thank you to Beth for helping me with the book cover as well, and @jollyhunter for the same! You guys are literal angels 🥹😘❤️.

Lastly, vote, comment, share, and follow for more! Your feedback keeps me going 🥰❤️.

{ Series Masterlist ; Main Masterlist }

Chapter 1 ~ Detective, Meet Trouble.

How many masks does one have to wear before they forget their own face?

The back of your fingers traced down your painted s/c cheek, curled eyelashes sticking out from heavily shadowed eyelids that frequently blinked to hide your deadly e/c-coloured orbs that you didn't want anyone to interpret. Your lips were thickly coated in a deep red; happenstance had it that it was the colour of your hands after the number of murders you wore on your hands like some women wore bangles.

You dropped your hand, frowning at yourself in the mirror.

It was a sexy dress, if not also beautiful. The royal blue velvet wrapped around you fittingly, showing off the sharp angles; once upon a time, you had curves, when you were softer. The size of your stubborn body was forced to reduce by the people who made you believe they owned you. You became sharper, too: useful as a knife, deadlier than a machete, unwanted like a blade.

You pretended to dab your face with a tissue when the door to the restroom swung in. Pretending was reflex now.

The opening of the door broke the quiet that had sealed you in a moment of self-retrospection. The booming music outside reminded you of the inebriated bunch of people who were letting loose outside; it reminded you that a weapon didn't dance. A weapon wasn't supposed to think.

You put on the masquerade mask that was a requirement of this party, tied the delicate strings around your head, trying not to damage your designer hair - people trusted other people who came in pretty packages.

You grabbed your purse, beaming pleasantly at the lady who was washing her hands beside you, having finished her business. You walked towards the door on your short heels. It took you a moment to slip into your "predator" mode.

The door opened, and your life changed.

Mark's head was murdering him.

He'd been having headaches more frequently these days. He was avoiding going to the doctor, mostly because he didn't have the time or the patience. Besides, work had been so busy.

An anonymous tipper had wired over information about a hitman who was after the visiting business tycoon from New York. His private jet had to be parked locally after some system failure, and despite the fucking threat on his life, he didn't feel like getting "bored" at the airport.

Just to be difficult, James Rivera accepted a previously declined invitation to a wedding of a local businessman who was trying to befriend James. James didn't believe in sitting idle or hiding because he'd been through enough threats in his life. Obviously, he didn't give the mafia enough credit.

'Take this,' Finau said, entering the bathroom, suited and booted before Mark. It was that damn bowtie that had pissed him off. With his squinting eyes and more than half the concentration on his hammering head, he'd had to retie the thing four times now.

A flimsy, black object was flying at him by the time he was making finishing touches on his bow. He caught it before he thought about it, taking only a moment to inspect it to feel exaggerated indignation.

'A fucking masquerade?' Mark huffed. He hadn't been outside yet, having reached here right before the first guests started seeping in. 'Isn't it enough we gotta dance at these parties like some show monkeys?' He fully believed that the only reason James Rivera brought the police with him to the wedding was because he fucking could.

Finau's lips curled upwards, fixing his own mask. 'You okay, man? You've been moody.'

'Yeah. Feels like my brain's not working,' Mark mumbled, fidgeting with the mask's strings.

'Is that new?' Finau lightly teased.

Mark shot him an equally playful glare.

'You going to show a doctor your brain?' Finau asked.

'Later,' was all Mark said. He did realise he would have to go at some point - his headaches were getting worse, and he was starting to wonder if it was late-onset migraines or some shit that came with growing age.

For now, he was going to focus on this publicity stunt where the rich took relish in the fact that they were rich enough to be fucking hunted. Finau entered the room before him, probably to find a wall he could be a fly on and keep an eye as a lookout. The rest of the police lurked on the next block. Some of them had been absorbed by the raving crowd.

It was Mark's job to blend in, too. Mix and mingle. Find the killer from within, if he could.

He coerced his mind into believing that the headache was just a few dull throbs and pulses, letting the feeling be subsumed by adrenaline and purpose, letting the hard mask in his one hand and the walkie in the other to dig into his palms.

He blew one last breath out, smiling at an old man who was making his second trip since Mark had joined the washroom to change a few minutes ago. The old man had a toothless smile that reminded him of an old restaurant owner in Victorville.

He dismissed those memories as fast as they came. He'd stopped thinking about what that restaurant meant to him years ago. 

The music had punctually begun, and the lights had been set to strobe.  

Between the pub-esque lights and his blinding headache, he wasn't paying attention when he crashed into a smaller body. An elbow to his abdomen winded him, his hands released what he was holding so his arms could grab the woman, who had become far more unbalanced than him.

'Oh!' your hands clutched his broad shoulders to keep yourself upright, reflexes nearly as lithe as his. 'What the fuck, man-?'

Your eyes met.

Your mind blew.

'Sorry,' Mark sincerely apologised, letting your waist go like he hadn't had the same explosion devastate his mind.

He sidestepped you so he could crouch down and pick up his fallen mask.

You stood frozen in your spot, although your life seemed to have been uprooted.

'Are you okay?' Mark wondered, voice only just audible over the music.

You blinked at him; wondering if you blinked enough, he would start flickering, and then he would be the ghost you knew him to be.

Your lips trembled without your consent.

'Miss?' he asked, somewhat alarmed at your reaction.

You tore your eyes away from his stupidly handsome face. 'I, um, yeah. Sorry.' It was way too breathy. Since when did you apologise for things you didn't do? 'Um, sorry,' you shook your head, apologising to yourself now. 'I just . . . saw someone I wasn't supposed to. I, um, distracted.'

'Ah.' But his nod was polite. He smiled small, 'I hope your evening picks up.'

And he walked away from you.

Again.

Your eyes bore into his back as he melted into the crowd.

He hadn't fucking recognised you.

'Two Budweisers,' you shot two fingers up in the air, leaning on the bar counter while your eyes swept the room like two tiny scanners.

'We don't serve beer here, madam,' the British bartender said in his accent.

You turned your head, fixing a condescending smile on your face. You let your gaze trail down his bodice as he wiped a wine glass, making him shift on his feet with discomfort, the longer you "judged" him for his profession.

Successfully, the fresh-faced, barely more than twenty-one-looking adult squirmed in his shoes. He was stationed alone on the bar - and why not, after the bottles you smashed in the back room, drawing the guy responsible for liquor away from the bar, leaving this new meat in charge. You'd also knocked out the other hire outside the lavish hotel, booking him a cab and passing him off as a drunk. 

No one even questioned you. How would they? You were a woman. 

It was why your boss had asked you to do this job; told his right-hand guy, Milano, who you got this job instead of, to be on stand-by. That was two months ago, when Prince thought that this was too high a profile for a man to get away with murder. You had been rigorously planning ever since. 

'Did I say serving me was optional?' you raised a ruthless brow. 

'N-No, but—'

'Bup, bup, bup!' you imitated a mouth shutting closed with your puresless hand. 'Listen up, kid.' You leaned in further. 'I woke up in a pool of my blood today,' you pointed a finger down to indicate your uterus for the sake of a lie, 'unless you want me to end it in a pool of yours, you're gonna find me two fucking beers!'

'Y-Yes, ma'am,' he swallowed, eyes wide, face flushed. Yeah . . . the shark week was an amazing excuse to be rude; it was just a bonus that it flustered most men. 

When he kept twisting the cloth in his hand, you scoffed. 'Waiting for me to wave my knife around?'

He scampered off like a rat.

The bar was deserted, so you could easily slip behind the counter when no one was looking. People were mostly clumped on the dance floor and at the tables where the guest-to-waiter ratio was two-to-one - why the hell would those lazy bums then bother to lift a finger, or walk all the way over to the bar for a fiesta?

You plugged in your Bluetooth. You would only have five minutes before a waiter found you, in desperation, to make a Sex On The Beach you wouldn't promise not to sip from.

'Finally online, bitch?'

'Narcs are here,' you huffed indignantly, moving past her affectionate greeting.

'What?! Impossible! Do they know we bribed the pilot?'

'I don't think so,' you frowned, collecting bottles of alcohol on the platform so you could appear to be working.

'And you're sure they're cops?'

Your eyes lifted to Mark on the singles table (you knew every inch of this party while he'd just sat on the first seat he'd gotten), scanning the room for suspicious activity. You didn't tell Justine about Mark, though, your hands landing on a champagne bottle that was marked with a note. It was exactly what you'd need for Plan C, if it came to that. 

'Is this my first day on the job, bitch?' you retorted instead, putting the bottle at the back of a drawer and locking it in with a key.

When you rose, your gaze veered to Mark again, without your permission. His eyes were frequently fixing upon a point on the opposite end of the room; you followed it. There was a tall man of colour serving as a lookout; even Mark would be dwarfed in front of this muscular man whose persona screamed "police".

'The place is crawling with them, chica. Someone tipped them off.'

'Shiiiit,' your hacker friend said. 'Now what?'

You puckered your lips.

You'd stalked this place way in advance, working the joint as an employee for two months before you got "fired"; right before this wedding, in fact. You'd cased all the exits and the cameras; that's also when you'd taped your gun to the back of one of the toilets.

All that planning and someone fucking tipped the police off.

Your jaw worked up a muscle. 'Who snitched?'

'Uhhhh, I can find out. Just gotta hack into the CAD system-'

'Gibberish to me,' you cut her off. 'Just tell me who it was when you find them.'

'You got it.'

She went static just in time for a waiter to meet you at the bar, sweating and winded. You didn't recognise him because there were several additional waiters present tonight, volunteering their time for a few extra bucks.

'Who the hell are you?' he demanded, sceptical of your dress.

'Filling in for Brad,' you answered, smiling. You rotated a drink-shaker on your palm to show off your skills. 'Don't worry, man. I work this joint,' you lied. 'Just took the night off for the wedding - should've fucking known it wouldn't last!'

He nodded like he couldn't care less. 'Well, can you make me a Sangria or not?'

'Coming right up,' you smirked.

No one wants to be hunted when they're the hunter. But you may have jinxed yourself by staring at Mark relentlessly.

Between drinks, your eyes had been wandering to him, so it wasn't a surprise when his eyes veered to yours like the pull of a magnet. You immediately averted your gaze, of course, but the attention had been attracted. The man was sharper than the boy you remembered, fully bloomed into the fearlessness and intelligence he always seemed to carry; he trudged his way down to the side of the room where the power of the music didn't pulse in the ground as much.

'Hey,' he said, lips spreading in a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

You caught up for a moment, staring into them; the green of his eyes wasn't visible in the dimmed surroundings, but you knew that the mask seemed to sculpt his face in a way that his piercing irises stood out. You should be scared because he's obviously clocked your suspicious behaviour, but here's the catch: you wanted him to know who his prey was.

Unlike him, your smile was soft and melancholic. 'Hi, handsome.'

'What are you doing behind the bar?' he cut right to the chase.

Your expression wavered between disappointment and stoicism. The man you had spent hours learning had seemed to have forgotten you. Dismay flopped in you like a fish on land, and you got the urge to scream in his face; throw your mask at his feet and beg for forgiveness, beg him to remember you, beg him to take you back.

And yet.

It had been just a little more than twenty-five years since you'd last seen him.

'Miss?' Mark prompted with an edge in his voice.

Time to win some Oscars.

You used the time you froze as a part of your act, pitching in a swallow and letting your eyes skitter nervously across the floor at large before you signaled him to lean in.

'Can you keep a secret?' you asked, injecting desperation into your act.

Mark tilted his head like he could be convinced for a good enough reason.

'I stole the wedding champagne,' you whispered theatrically.

His brows smushed in confoundment, and his lips turned down slightly like he was being made to hear something he wouldn't give two shakes of a rat's ass. 

'Please don't tell anyone,' you hurried to add. 'I can't afford another warning!'

'. . . A warning from the police?'

You made an exasperated expression. 'The police? Fuck, no. Much worse!' you said with urgency. 'My parents can't find out about this.'

From that point, it could spiral in two ways. Either a good-mood Mark would smirk because you were a beautiful woman he found amusing, or the bad-mood Mark would roll his eyes. Today mustn't be a good day for him because he did the latter, subtle all the same, because he wanted to be "respectful".

Well, you have a script ready for both scenarios.

Mark had an aversion to rich bitches, men or women, who sat up in their ivory towers looking down on folks. If you were pretending to be one, you would infuse some emotionality into it so you didn't push him away completely.

'I know how this sounds,' you insisted. 'Okay? But I just—I just can't fucking take this anymore!'

That brought his eyes back to your face. There was a certain tint of assessment in the way his face was screwed up with concentration.

It made your heart pound because, innumerable times now, he'd projected that expression on you, bypassing all your shells like you hadn't spent several lonely years encrusted in them.

You just hoped to fucking God he didn't see through your drama completely.

'I just need to prove to my father that the all-fucking-precious Linda,' (the bride), 'isn't fucking perfect!'

The on-call tears didn't fret when you wanted them to gloss over your eyes. It was easier to feel awful when the love of your life was standing oblivious to you, in front of you.

As expected, Mark thawed - more out of discomfort and forlorn sympathy, but it was a break, and you were going to crack it wide open.

'These deserve Hell, okay?' you sniffed, looking down like vulnerable people tended to. 'They owe me a bottle of fucking champagne!'

'Sounds rough,' Mark said in condolence.

'I swear, I'm not a murderer though,' you lied earnestly, wiping the tear that streamed down as soon as it touched the skin since you wanted to seem strong, too, and just a smidge embarrassed.

'I didn't say you were,' Mark said, half-amused and half-sceptical - that's how you knew you'd finally hooked him into conversation.

Time for a joke.

'No, I know, but like,' a well-placed sniffled, 'isn't stealing liquor, like, a step away from murder or something?'

His lips twitched upwards. 'And how would that happen?'

'I don't know,' you shrugged. 'Aren't most murderers durnkards?'

He chuckled!

'You obviously know nothing about crime, sweetheart.'

Bingpot!

Hook, line, and sinker, my love.

'Oh, and you do?' you huffed over a low chuckle like his smile was getting to you (which it was).

'I've dabbled,' he replied smugly.

'You better mean like movies and shit,' you said despite knowing otherwise.

'When in LA . . .' he winked, not correcting you either.

'I wouldn't know,' you said. 'I haven't watched many crime thrillers.'

'Shocking,' he teased with a shit-eating grin.

'Just because I like light-hearted television, I don't become a loser,' you wagged your finger at him.

Before he could respond, a waiter came with an order.

You were incredibly aware of Mark's gaze as you whipped up a Mai Tai, quick and seamless, sending the waiter on his way.

'Impressive skill,' Mark commented.

'When you have overprotective parents, you learn to make the drinks yourself,' you claimed. 'Besides, I figure the waiters would run around like headless chickens if I didn't hand them the drinks.'

'Speaking of, where is the bartender?'

'I distracted one of them, sent the other on a fool's errand,' you answered "honestly".

'For the grand larceny,' he snorted.

'Yep,' you popped your "p", beaming at him mischievously. 'I have no one to blame but myself for this job.'

'That's how the judge is gonna see it,' he joked.

You snickered, placing two shot glasses on the bar. 'Although . . . it comes with perks.'

'Drinking on the job?' he tsked. 'Not very professional of you.'

You filled the glasses to the brim with vodka. 'I plan to fire myself later,' you assured him. 'Bottoms up!'

You followed that with a quick downing of your drink. When your glass touched back down, Mark's was still untouched. You raised a brow.

'I'm working, too,' he admitted. 'And I don't wanna get fired.'

'More for me,' you shrugged, slamming the drink back, allowing the pleasing burn to calm your mind. You hummed, then sighed as you put the glass back down. 'Man. Never have a father.'

Mark's smile grew even more amused, and more importantly, it had a sweet tinge of empathy. 'I know a thing or two about those,' he said.

You knew he did.

You fiddled with a bigger glass, getting down to making a mocktail.

'Rough childhood?' you asked because that's how a stranger would.

'Got me here,' Mark vaguely said.

That only meant you needed to be better at poking him.

'Where? Tweaking your hips for some rich brats like a keyed-up toy?' you teased, filling the shot glass with vodka again for yourself while you worked on the other, more complicated drink for him.

He laughed. 'Not a fan of the money?'

'It got me here,' you threw back at him. It only had him more interested. 'As the cousin of the fucking bride.'

'What's your name again?' he asked.

'Chelsea,' you lied. 'What about you, handsome?'

'Detective Mark Meachum,' he said, sidelining his jacket to display his badge. 'LAPD.'

'No way!' you laughed breathily. 'You're not a detective.'

'Why not?' he questioned with a hint of a smile, wondering if he should be going down the road of offense.

You softened as one does when you're sharing an inside joke with your loved one. 'Because you look like goddamn mischief impersonified,' you quipped.

'And how would you know that?'

'Trouble finds its kin and kith, Mark,' you stated. 'I'm Trouble.'

His smile flickered on his face like he was reminded of something . . . Or someone.

'You good?' you queried, knowing exactly what you were fucking doing to him.

'Yeah.' He cleared his throat. 'Excuse me. I should get back to work.'

Ergo, you were in.

It was just a whiff of memory, but it consumed him whole. He was transported to twenty-five years ago, and the deep yearning he had buried under layers of grief, job, and forced pep talks of "I've moved on" came barreling at him like a freight train.

He wasn't supposed to miss you anymore. But then he would see an old man in a bathroom giving him a toothless smile, and he would be reminded of the old man from his hometown who used to smile at you both whenever you went to his restaurant for your dates.

The old man was now dead. Mark's sometimes his memories would be, too . . .

Then, there was the fucking word trouble.

He hated that word. Avoided it like the plague, but it seemed to haunt him like a swarm of locusts. He had tried not to speak it for twenty-five years, went silent whenever someone else said it - he often withdrew after one mention of it, and had to rescue himself from the conversation.

One would think it would get easier over the years. Missing you, grieving you - but it came with the hefty side of guilt and self-loathing. It came with a bag of "what ifs" and a self-sustained promise of comparing every woman who comes after you in his life with you.

Because you were Trouble; even in your death, you kept troubling him . . .

His phone vibrated with a text, and he checked it to see a photo of a young adult with a man bun. Light complexion, eyes bloodshot because it was probably taken when he was high. A message was attached to it: This is our hitman. I'm going to search the building.

Mark didn't find Finau in the room, so he assumed his friend had already left. His eyes swept the room for the criminal and came up empty. He was about to shrug his sadness off for his job's sake when:

'Hey,' a voice chimed in, cutting his chain of thoughts.

Mark hastily turned his phone off.

His eyes came up to Chelsea; his chest clenched tightly because even this new woman was reminding him of you.

There was a lilt to Chelsea's laugh that was like a punch to Mark's gut, an exaggeration of her hands that made him want to hold her, a pull in her eyes that made Mark's entire being thrum with attention.

It was maddening.

He was fucking addicted to it. 

It was like taking a sip of alcohol or a breath from a cigarette after being sober for twenty-five fucking years. It was self-medicating for the permanent wounds in his chest. 

Even the way Chelsea talked was making Mark think of you. The wisecracks, and the drama, the pouting - those damn lips! 

He can't remember when he wanted to kiss a woman more in the last two-point-five decades. 

She slid a glass towards him on the table, turning a chair to sit down in front of him. 'The bartender in charge came back and kicked me away.' Before Mark could remind Chelsea that he still couldn't drink, she spoke. 'It's a mocktail,' she said. 'Try it. You'll like it.'

He wanted to take a sip and dismiss her; get back to the job. But the flavours that sat on his tongue once the contents tipped over were . . . perfect.

'. . . Huh? Yeah?' she clocked the admiration in his eyes with the growing smile of satisfaction.

'Aw, shit,' he scoff-chuckled despite himself. 'Are you sure you shouldn't be owning this place? . . . What did you put in it?'

'You're the detective,' she teased, choosing to keep it as big a mystery as her face was under the mask. He secretly wanted the lights to stop flashing just so he could note the colour of her eyes. 'Like it?'

'Love it!' Mark could begrudgingly admit, spirits lifting with the sugar in his blood.

'Hmm. Knew you would,' she said, like she had a secret journal about him stashed somewhere - it held the map to his heart.

Mark's visage fell into doubt with that perspective, and like she had been all night, she seemed to have anticipated it.

'Okay,' she raised her hands defensively, 'okay, I know this . . . whatever this is - it's weird, right?' She chuckled nervously, and Mark's gaze eased on her. 

Maybe he needed to stop psychoanalysing every person he met in his life. Not everyone's a criminal. Some people just have a natural chemistry. 

Like the one he used to have with you. 

'I mean, there's something here, right?' she gestured between him and herself. 'I'm not hallucinating it?'

Mark's eyes darted away from hers guiltily because it just didn't feel fucking right. 

'Okay,' you exhaled slowly. 'Look, at the risk of sounding like one of those rom-com chicks . . . I think we were meant to meet.'

Mark's face hardened, and he hid it behind another sip; meeting her eyes with mountains of disbelief, trying not to be harsh with her. It wasn't her fault that he was damaged beyond repair. 

'Don't look at me like that!' she groaned like she was reading his mind.

'Sorry.' It was his turn to raise a hand like a white flag. 'When you said you liked light-hearted television, I just didn't peg you to be the one sitting on your hands when two clichés kiss at the airport.'

What am I doing? his mind chimed in. His fingers tightened around his phone. There was a criminal he had to look out for.

'I'm an all-rounder,' she quipped pleasantly.

'By your choice, or is that another act you put up?' he snapped, having had enough of the polite coyness. It was clearly manufactured. If this girl could read him as well as she was, she was behaving like a barely surviving damsel on purpose. 

'What act?' she asked, tensing a bit. 

'The one you're putting on right now,' he finally called her out, having had enough of it. 'The one where you pretend you aren't clever enough to make sure your situations don't define you.'

She seemed impressed, leaning back in her chair after some thought and crossing her legs at the knees. Mark had expected her to be offended, waiting for her to snap while he took another sip.

The last thing he expected was for her to play ball.

She smiled.

'You're good,' she conceded. 'And when my own parents don't know me that well,' she smirked like she was sharing a secret. 'You have a gift of reading people, Mark.'

Except why would she lay down her defences for a stranger like Mark?

It distracted him. Again.

He had purposely encroached on her emotional walls to get her to throw a drink in his face.

Either she knew his strategy was to get rid of her. Or she was a psychopath.

But then, her head tilted, and he was struck with how eeriely familiar that gaze was. It was like he was almost staring into the face of his entire past - someone he thought would stay with him for the rest of his life; and you did, just not in the way he wanted you to.

'Can I be real with you?' she said, bolder now after Mark had outwardly noted her defenses. 'Sometimes . . . I do wish someone would scoop me on a horse and ride into the horizon. But I think fate likes to play with me.'

'I don't believe in fate,' was his sharp retort. 'Or all that magical, "whatever happens, happens for good" crap.'

'No?' Calm and curious.

'Nah,' he said, trying to bring back his rudeness. 'You do what you do, and you gotta deal with the consequences.'

She hummed. 'I suppose that's good,' she mused.

She read the question on his face.

'I mean,' she continued, 'if we're incompatible, I won't have to worry about getting my heart broken by you.' She included a Cheshire grin with that comment so he knew she was flirting with him.

'I don't know, sweetheart,' he said, almost like he was hypnotized. 'Maybe you got some heartbreaking to do.'

'Maybe,' you said, like you hadn't thought of that. 'And do you think your heart could use a little breaking tonight?'

God, he wanted to. A resounding "yes" echoed in his mind.

His brain made his mouth blurt something else, though: 'I'm engaged,' he said. Or rather, he realised at the same time as Chelsea did.

Her face fell like he'd announced her personal tragedy. 

While Mark tried to understand why he hadn't stopped this conversation in its tracks much earlier, with this very fact. 

Melinda Bates was a lovely woman. And he thought he loved her.

That's what he had to be doing, right? If he were marrying the girl, he had to love her . . .

Still, your memories were embedded deep in him. And recently, he'd been trying to convince himself that that's all you were - history, in all senses of that meaning.

Yet, talking to Chelsea had seemed like his personal reckoning.

If nothing else, he recognised the noose tightening around his throat every time he thought about waiting down that aisle for a woman who wasn't you.

Could he really let his loneliness bully him into a marriage with a woman he only sometimes loved?

'Well,' Chelsea said softly. 'Guess I missed my window, huh?' There was a dangerous, reckless smile on her face as her eyes almost glared at Mark.

She rose. 'It was nice meeting you, Mark.'

That's good! excalimed the rational part of him. Finally leaving. 

He was about to stand up, let the horrible experience roll off his shoulders, when she doubled back to whisper something in his ear.

'Also . . . your target is leaving,' she said, gesturing in the direction of the washrooms where the hitman was casually leaning against a wall. 

'Shit!' he shot up, bringing his walkie to his lips to throw instructions in it. 

He didn't even question how she knew; part of him assumed she'd seen it on his phone before he'd locked it. The guy he was after was Tony, the snitch. And you'd set Tony up by sending the police his picture - anonymous, like Tony had been, which made it so much easier for you.

'Goodbye, M&M,' you muttered to yourself, paying the last tribute to your love by uttering your nickname for him.  

Now. 

It was Murder o'clock.

You dunked the murder weapon in a toilet's flush tank to erase your prints.

You'd simply flirted with your target, and he'd gladly followed you to the ladies' restroom. You'd shot him with a silenced gun and were climbing out of one of the windows in the bathroom. The party was thirty floors up since the wedding was on the topmost floor, so you would be climbing down into a room on the twenty-eighth floor with the help of a rope you'd hidden in the washroom.

You landed on the balcony softly, massaging your arms to work out the kinks, walking past the floor-to-ceiling windows you'd left open into the lonely room. You place a bucket at some distance from a smoke detector, removed your wig and your clothes, along with the rope that you set a spark loose on. But you didn't have the heart to throw away your mask.

You changed into something more comfortable, like your gym clothes, while the fire slowly swallowed your fake personality of Chelsea, and then you left the keycard on the table, setting your hair in a pony and cleaning the makeup that had made you look like a different person. You wore your gloves and rubbed the room clean with a napkin.

A few minutes later, you were taking the stairs down.

When you were on the seventeenth floor, the fire alarm finally went off.

You smiled, and you'd only crossed one more flight of stairs down when people joined you.

In the mayhem, you belonged.

You made it out without fanfare. On the curb, you saw the kid you'd sent on an errand, staring at the chaos with a slightly ajar mouth, holding a six-pack of beers in his hand. It seemed like you'd dismissed him ages ago, but actually, it had only been a little more than half an hour - and knowing that this hotel didn't sell the brand you wanted, he must've had to find the nearest store for it.

An idea gripped you.

You fished out a pen and a paper and wrote a message on it with your non-dominant hand, a handwriting you'd acquired after being separated from Mark:

Dear Mark. From one assassin to another, I greatly admire your work. Don't be too hard on yourself. I had a significant advantage today - better luck next time! Until then, have a beer on me - it's Budweiser, my favourite. ~ Your actual target, Not Chelsea.

You paid the college kid a hundred bucks to get the note and one can to Mark. You took the rest of them from him, cracking one of them open and sipping on it, walking away from the crime scene to meet Justine a block away with the runaway car while the fire department zipped past with their blaring alarms.

'Hey, bitch!' she grinned, happy to see you. She was already seated in the driver's seat, the car parked in a blind spot.

'Good job framing Tony,' you complimented without an expression.

'It was your idea,' she shared the victory. 'He was so desperate to maintain his cover with us that he walked right into our trap. When Prince hears of it, Tony'll be glad he's in jail. Fucking safer for him there.'

'Let's get as far away from the crap hole as we can before the police realise they have the wrong guy,' you said instead of addressing any of that.

'Done!' she said, waiting for you to climb shotgun.

'Can I have a beer?' she asked as she pulled out of the park to drive in the opposite direction.

Your lips thinned; the idea of sharing beer with anyone but Mark irked you.

'No.'

'Oh. Okay,' she said, not minding it. She knew you by now. 'Who was that guy you were chatting up, by the way?'

You inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly, staring out the window. 'Just some guy who knows how to master Trouble,' you confessed.

But Justine wouldn't understand it on the same level you had meant because no one but Mark knows the hold he had on your devoted heart.

A/N: Intrigued yet 🤭?

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