“I’d come back to haunt you.” for marcuck n jules
scotland was far too cold. everywhere was cold, though. new york would likely be worse so she shouldn’t be complaining. in fact, she wasn’t. but marcus was. he was freely complaining with his hands shoved into his pockets and his scarf around his neck blabbing about the snow and the wind and the cold air and how none of this was ideal for their romantic getaway trip.
“stop being a pussy.” she says quietly.
“i’ll stop being a pussy when this weather stops being so shit!” he exclaims, getting a few glances around them.
juliet rolls her eyes, taking his arm and pulling him into an alleyway, ducking behind a corner before pressing him against a brick wall. “you’re not going to ruin our romantic adventure, are you?” her eyes narrow.
her gloved hands are pressed to his chest, and her dark eyes could get so icy so easily, but leave it to marcus to deescalate with ease. “you wanted to pull me out of the street like i’m some child who needs a time out to ask me if i’m going to behave?” he raises his eyebrows.
“no,” she rolls her eyes, “i pulled you out of the street because i’m going to warm you up.”
“you said you were all out of hand warmers.” he squints in confusion but before he gets his answer her hand presses to his crotch and she hears a gasp. “jesus christ—!” he hisses, bringing a hand from his pocket to tug her hips closer. “good idea, jules. you’re so smart.”
“shut up, no flattery in the alley.” she shakes her head, leaning in close so their lips just barely touch. “maybe you can pretend you paid money for me to get you off because your girlfriend was out of town.”
“oh my god,” he groans. “please just let that go, that’s really not getting me off right now.”
“you sure? you’re getting really hard.” she smirks, looking at him through her lashes.
“that’s because your tits are pressing against me and i can’t stop thinking about them.”
“i think it’s a little column a, a little column b.” she leans in to take his lip between her teeth for a light nibble before kissing him gently, leaning back with her grin still wide.
“how about a little column make me cum.” he hisses.
there’s a pause, her hand still working over his pants as her other hand stretches out to look at her watch. “nope.” and her hand draws back. “we have our tour in ten minutes.” her body steps back, looking over him and the text in his jeans. “you should be able to make it the rest of the way there without freezing to death.” she grins, giving his cheek a light pat, “just think about the time you saw my mother getting out of the shower.”
she turns, starting back for the street with marcus staying behind, “you know, you’re going to be the one to ruin this romantic adventure.”
she holds up her hands in a shrug, her silhouette behind shown by the starch white light of the midday snowfall. it took about a block for marcus to catch up after calming himself down.
“here you’ll find a painting from the eighteen century, during the period of romanticism, depicts the brutal death of a scottish king of many year prior. no one had really seen it until teh artist had died decades later and his art was past down until eventually in landed in the hands of some curators.”
juliet and marcus stood beside each other, hands in pockets, heads tilted to the side in the same direction. the tour guide continued to talk, but was moving on to other paintings. it was a truly brutal painting. dark colors and lots of blood. however, while there was something macabre about it, it looked a bit serene. after the group had passed to the next room, juliet spoke. “do you fear death, marcus?”
she kept her eyes focused on the painting, her eyes narrowing as she looked over every fine detail. “most days.” he says simply. “why?”
“the concept seems so foreign to me.” she says carefully. “not because no one close to me has ever died, though i’m sure that’s part of it. i just… could never see something so finite applying to me.”
“i don’t think you’ll ever died, jules.” marcus says. “frankly, i think you’ll turn yourself to a robot before you let yourself die.” there’s a short pause, one where his joke hangs in the air and she chooses not to laugh. “does that mean you fear death?”
“i suppose. i just try not to think about it.”
“the scariest part is, you could die at any moment. you could be on your way to your next performance when a car hits you and shatters your spine. or you could be spending time with chris when suddenly someone robs you and kills you. you could get cancer. death isn’t just when your eighty and old, it’s in all of us.” his tone is quiet, and while it’s not shaky, she can feel something in his words that aren’t so serene.
“do you think about me dying, marcus?” she turns her head finally, looking at him.
“sometimes.” he nods. “sometimes more than i think about myself dying.” he turns his head. “a world without you in it is a world too drab to be in.”
“don’t say that.” she turns her head. “if i’m dead before you i’d hate for you to use me as your scapegoat.”
he snorts. “scapegoat?”
“yeah suck it up.”
there’s silence again. their eyes back to the painting ahead of them. she looks at all the red, seeping from the body and pooling around him. she imagines the times she’s seen marcus like that. the times she’s told herself he was fine. how little his hurt meant. but what if that was marcus there? and truth be told, she’s thought about marcus dying, too.
“burying you before me is the scariest thing i can think of.” she swallows, her breath then coming out hard. something in her turns thick and she has to squint at the painting again.
he doesn’t say anything, but she feels his finger tug on her wrist. slowly she removes her hand, so his fingers can slide through, grasping her delicate fingers tightly. “if you buried me, i’d just come back to haunt you.”
she snorts, feeling his eyes on her, and the small smile on his face, but while she knows the expression, and the words he gives, the finger stroking her hand says something different. something which soothes her insides, he says things to her like not to be scared. things like, i’m here. things like, i love you. things like, you’ll never be without me. things like, as long as you breath i’ll be in your lungs.
“i’m serious. every night would be like the scene in ghost busters. you’re dan aykroyd and i’m the hot ghost who fucks you. you’ll never be lonely.”
“unbelievable.” she shakes her head, only to have a small smile peel across her face. her head hangs, squeezing his hand back as if to say, i hear you.
“sure, not it is, but when you’re getting the best ghost sex ever?” he whistles, “not so unbelievable.”
finally she looks at him. “this is a very inappropriate time to talk about ghost sex, marcus.” but she sees his face, the way his eyes crinkle at the edges, the way his smile radiates the room. her whole body melts and she wants to take his face in her hands and kiss the end of his nose and tell him how divine he is. but he’s also talking about putting his ghost penis inside her when she’s dead so she can’t be too taken by him.
“i disagree.” his body turns. “now come on, they’re going to the modern wing and i was to see some basquiat.”
“basquiat isn’t modern, dear.” she says in a flat tone, letting him drag her hand to catch up tot he tour group.
“well what the fuck is modern then?”
“not that.” she takes two long strides forward, enough to lean and kiss the back of his neck quickly before turning her head to a passing painting as if she’d done nothing.
