Chapter Summary: Marcus finally gets his happy ending—with you.
Warnings: nondescript female reader, architect!reader, could be interpreted as original female character, reader is able-bodied, no use of Y/N, language, fluff, sharing a bed, descriptions of food and eating, Marcus Pike wants kids and you can’t convince me otherwise, epilogue where they’re married with kids
Author’s Note: None, except enjoy!
Previous | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Six Years Later
Marcus sighed in relief as he closed the front door, the familiar feeling of home washing over him after a few weeks away on a case. It was his last international case, a development that he was more than ready for.
When he returned to the Bureau on Monday, he would no longer be the head of the art theft international task force. He’d be the head of the whole Art Crimes department. Every office, all across the country. All under his direction.
He was grateful for the appreciation of all that he’d done, and a recommendation from the now-retired former director of art crimes. He worked hard to get to this point.
But he also worked hard to get here.
Here, stepping over toys scattered across the living room floor, navigating his way to your bedroom in the dark of night with only the light of the streetlights outside to guide him.
He picked up a few things along the way, stuffed animals and dolls your daughter brought out every day to the point that they rarely got really cleaned up. He smiled fondly when he folded and put away her blanket, a well-loved scrap of fabric that she’d had since she was born.
It’s only been three years, and she’s already worn it out.
Marcus slowly made his way up the stairs. He stopped short halfway down the hall, a small cry emanating from the room beyond.
He opened the door as quietly as he could and stepped into the nursery. The distressed coos continued as he set down his bag and walked over to the crib.
“Hey, buddy, it’s okay,” he whispered gently as he picked up his son. “I’m here, Leo, it’s alright.”
The six-month-old was quick to settle into his father’s arms. Marcus started rocking him, silently taking stock of whether he needed food or a diaper change. When it became clear the boy had just woken up and needed more sleep, he held him just a little tighter.
“You just need sleep, huh? Me too, bud.”
He sat down in the plush chair in the corner of the room, rocking his son until he fell back asleep. Occasionally, Marcus himself nodded off, too. And as he did, sunlight started to seep into the nursery, making the green dinosaurs on the walls more and more visible as the morning dawned.
Eventually, the sun crossed Marcus’s face, waking him up fully. He sighed contently and kissed Leo’s small head before setting him gently back into his crib.
As much as he loved his son, he couldn’t wait another minute to see you again.
He silently gathered up his things and made his way down the rest of the hall to the room he shared with you, finding the door cracked a bit with soft snoring coming from inside.
His daughter never did like sleeping alone in her room when he was gone.
Sure enough, he found you sleeping soundly in the bed, your three-year old curled comfortably into your side. He took a moment to admire you, his whole world, before he knelt down beside the edge of the bed and ran his hand gently along your face.
You stirred slightly, unconsciously leaning into Marcus’s touch. He smiled at this, leaning down to kiss your forehead right as your eyes fluttered open.
“Marcus,” you exclaimed quietly, your voice rough from sleep. “You’re home.”
“I am, sweetheart,” Marcus whispered, giving you a full kiss. “And I never have to go on an international case for that long ever again.”
“Yesssss,” you hissed in excitement as you pulled him down in a hug, well aware of the promotion your husband had received and just as ready as him for the long travels to be over.
You suddenly yawned, your whole face overtaken by it. “Come rest with us, baby,” you requested, motioning toward his side of the bed. “We missed you.”
Marcus chuckled as he slipped off his shoes and slowly settled under the covers. He laid down on the other side of your daughter, sandwiching her between you. “I missed you, too.”
The three of you laid like that for a while, with you and Marcus gazing at each other with soft smiles across your daughter’s head.
You were both aware of just how much time and effort it had taken to get to this point. Early on in your relationship, Marcus had told you how much he dreamed of having mornings just like this.
Quiet. Together. Perfect.
Eventually, your daughter groaned as she stretched between you. As she awakened, she felt the solid presence of her father behind her, and when it finally registered, her eyes shot open.
“Daddy!” she exclaimed, bolting upright to face him and promptly assault him with a hug.
“Hey, Maya,” he chuckled, wrapping his arms around her small frame. He let her hug him as long as she needed, waiting until she pulled back from him to release her.
You just watched the pair with a grin, an indescribable love overflowing from you.
“Daddy, I did more drawings!” she proclaimed, rushing to get up and out of the bed. “Come see, come see!”
Marcus looked to you with the biggest grin on his face, his eyebrows raised in curiosity.
“It’s true,” you confirmed. “She’s very proud of them.”
“Daddy, come on!” Maya urged him, now pulling on his arm to get him out of bed.
“Okay, okay, I’m coming,” he relented happily, letting her lead him out of the bedroom and down the hall to where her own room was.
You watched him follow her, oohing and ahhing at the scribbles she’d done over the past few weeks. As you settled in her doorway, Marcus told her that she would be a great artist one day, just like her mother. He looked up at you from his perch on the floor and winked.
Your breath caught in your chest at that, and tears of joy and appreciation welled up in your eyes.
Oh, this wonderful man. This wonderful, perfect man.
Suddenly, you heard a small cry coming from your son’s room, and you left the pair so you could take care of him. The six-month-old reached for you, crying as you lifted him from his crib.
You quickly took him over to the chair and started feeding him.
He calmed down instantly.
As you fed him, your daughter came bounding into the room with Marcus ambling behind her. His eyes softened when they settled on you and Leo, a playful smirk spreading across his face as Maya came up beside you.
“G’morning, Leo!” she said, waving her little hand at her brother. “Daddy said he’s gonna make us pancakes!”
You chuckled. Of course he did. “Maya, honey, Leo can’t eat pancakes yet.”
Her face fell in shock. “What?”
You nodded your head solemnly, playing along. “He doesn’t have teeth yet, so he can’t eat them with us.”
“NOOOOO!!!” she cried, distraught for her baby brother. “But pancakes are the best! Especially Daddy’s pancakes.”
“I know, honey,” you soothed her, running your hand through her short, dark curls. You leaned over, whispering conspiratorially. “But that means more for us, right?”
Maya drew in a sharp breath in realization, her dark brown eyes that looked so much like her father’s widening. “More for us?” she repeated.
“More for us,” Marcus interrupted, scooping her up as he pretended to gobble her up.
“Daddy, no, stop eating me!” she cried out, kicking her little legs and laughing uncontrollably when Marcus started tickling her. “Mommy, heeeeeelp!”
You just laughed along, patting your son’s back rhythmically as you finished feeding him.
“Come on, you two,” you said as you stood up. You settled Leo on your hip as you reached out and gently touched Marcus’s shoulder to end his tickle attack on your daughter. “Let’s go have breakfast.”
A few hours later, you were left alone in the kitchen as you cleaned up from Saturday morning pancakes. Both of the kids had gone down for a nap, and when Marcus himself yawned as you finally got Maya in bed, you giggled and insisted he enjoy naptime, too.
He had just gotten back from a work trip and a long overnight flight, after all.
These days, there was a permanent smile on your face, an eternal love in your eyes and in your heart. Loving Marcus had given you everything you’d ever dreamed of, and sometimes you felt like you needed to pinch yourself to check that this was really your life.
You knew without a doubt that he felt the same.
Even as you washed away sticky handprints and cleaned dirty dishes, there’s nowhere else you would rather be.
There’s no one else you would rather be here with.
Eventually, you silently entered your children’s rooms to gather some essentials—a change of clothes, some fresh diapers, a couple toys. One by one, they all went into your go bag, a trusty thing you’d been carrying around since you’d given birth to Maya.
It was perfect for afternoon family trips out, just as you had planned for today.
Slowly, all three of the sleeping Pikes awoke from their naps—although some made more of a commotion than others. You quickly calmed Leo as both Marcus and Maya yawned, rubbing their eyes as they re-acclimated to the day.
God, she was a mirror image of him.
It made your heart burst every time you saw it. You didn’t think you’d ever get over the feeling.
In fact, when she gazed up at you and grinned as she gave you a little wave from across the room, you knew you wouldn’t.
You and Marcus had returned to the Smithsonian American Art Museum many times since your first date. It was a bit of a home base for you, honestly—you’d spent many afternoons here together while you were dating, and then later, with your kids.
Hell, you’d even rented out the museum for an evening for your wedding four years ago. You’d gotten married in the same courtyard where you first met, surrounded by everybody in your lives who loved you.
The Pikes were definitely well-known by the staff here, that was for sure.
So when you walked in that afternoon, Maya and Leo strapped into a double stroller pushed by Marcus, the ladies at the front desk gave you a warm welcome, even more so than usual since they knew Marcus had been out of the country for the last few weeks.
Though they knew you weren’t here for the museum itself today—more so for the wonderful indoor public space that the courtyard provided—the older woman handed you a list of upcoming exhibitions and events.
She knew that soon enough, date night would bring you and Marcus back without your children in tow.
You were some of the best patrons of the museum, after all.
You took the pamphlet, thanking her as your little family moved to the courtyard. Maya bounced in her seat, her energy overflowing as you settled at your table.
As soon as her buckle was released, she was off like a shot, running towards the water skims in the floor.
“Maya, slow down!” you called. “Wait for Daddy to come with you.”
Pouting, she sauntered back over to you, ducking behind Marcus’s legs.
Marcus patted her head softly. “There’s just a lot of people here right now, honey. We wanna make sure we can see you.”
She muttered a quiet, “okay,” peering around at the space. As Leo settled on your lap, his own eyes taking in your surroundings, you watched as Maya gazed up at the undulating glass ceiling, her eyes reflecting exactly what Marcus’s had all those years ago when you first saw him.
Amazement.
With a nostalgic grin, you gazed up at him from your seat, finding his eyes already on you with that same expression as your daughter.
“I love you,” he mouthed with a smile.
“I love you, too,” you returned soundlessly, bouncing your son on your legs. Marcus leaned in, giving you a slow, gentle kiss that left you just as giddy and weak as it always did. He rested his forehead against yours, putting his hand on Leo’s back as he whispered, “You good here?”
You nodded. “Go play with her. She’s been dying to update you on the lives of her dolls.”
Marcus chuckled, giving you one last kiss before he took Maya’s hand and let her lead him over to one of the marble planter boxes, quickly taking out her dolls and setting them on the edge while Marcus sat down on the floor.
She easily settled in his lap, letting him encompass her as she handed him a doll and started acting out whatever dramatic plots filled her head today.
You smiled as you watched them from your table, seeing once again how well Marcus had taken to fatherhood. He was a natural, always embracing the silly, the ridiculous, the outrageous, and everything in between.
You swore you loved him more and more with every moment.
Not long after, Maya ran up to you with Marcus following close behind. Leo giggled at seeing his sister, reaching out for her with one hand as he held a teething ring to his mouth in the other.
“Can I have a snack?” Maya asked, setting her dolls down on the table before she climbed into a chair. You gave her a look, your eyebrows raised in expectation. “Please?” she quickly added, seeing your face.
“Of course, you can,” you agreed, reaching down to grab some fruit snacks from your bag. You handed them to Marcus, who opened them for her and sat down to join you.
“This is nice,” he said, his voice low as he settled his arm around the back of your chair.
You hummed in agreement, resting your head on his shoulder. “Is it everything you ever dreamed of?” you asked quietly, knowing he would understand you were referencing more than just this singular moment.
“No,” he replied, causing you to meet his gaze. When you did, you found him looking at you with a reverence that made your stomach flutter the same way it had on that very first day. “It’s more.”
Author's Note: Details on the locations featured in this part:
Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery - First constructed from 1836-1868 and designed by several prominent architects, this museum has lived many lives as one of the oldest public buildings in early Washington. Now the permanent home of both the Smithsonian American Art Museum and the National Portrait Gallery, this building was once a Patent Office for inventions as well as a barracks/military hospital during the Civil War.
Kogod Courtyard – Opened in 2007 as a renovation to the Smithsonian American Art Museum and National Portrait Gallery, this courtyard adds a contemporary accent to the surrounding Greek Revival building. Designed by Foster + Partners (architecture) and Gustafson Guthrie Nicol Ltd. (interiors), it is one of D.C.’s largest indoor public spaces.
Chapter Summary: Marcus tells you his relationship history and you calm his worries and insecurities about loving you.
Warnings: nondescript female reader, architect!reader, could be interpreted as original female character, reader is able-bodied, no use of Y/N, language, fluff, light angst, self-doubt, sharing a bed, descriptions of food and eating, Marcus Pike wants kids and you can’t convince me otherwise
Author’s Note: I can’t believe we finally made it to the last chapter! A HUGE thank you to every single one of you who read, liked, commented on, and/or shared this fic. Your love means more to me than I can ever express. I never imagined that people would care about this wonderful, sweet little story for a niche Pedro boy that also blended with my real-life career path as much as you all have. So thank you.
Previous | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
You weren’t there when Marcus woke up.
He reached groggily across the sheets, his brain still foggy with what he’s sure was the best sleep of his life, and you weren’t there.
The sheets were wrinkled, the impression of your body still on the mattress. But it wasn’t warm, indicating that it’d been some time since you woke up.
Where were you?
Marcus’s mind started running wild, a lingering nagging voice at the back of his mind telling him you’d left him.
You’d decided he wasn’t worth it after all, grabbed your few things, and left. Not a word. Just gone while he slept.
He imagined you shooting him a look—pitying, maybe?—as he slept soundly, realizing he was too much to deal with.
Too much work. Needs too much attention. Gives too much of himself.
Just too much.
It made his heart race with worry.
He loved you.
He didn’t want you to leave.
Suddenly, Marcus’s mind was filled with a much different fog—adrenaline. He had to figure out where you were and why you left.
He couldn’t have another heartbreak and not know why.
In a haze, he shot up and made a beeline for the door. He had to go, he had to find you, he had to tell you, he had to—
What was that?
As soon as he emerged from the bedroom, he heard faint music and the clanging of pots and pans in the kitchen. His heart rate settled, but only slightly. Slowly, he crept down the short hall and peeked around the corner.
And there you were, standing at the stove and nodding your head in tune with the voices of John Lennon and Paul McCartney coming from his record player. You were flipping pancakes, with a small stack already done on the countertop next to you.
His breath nearly left him at the sight.
And all he could do was walk over to you, coming up behind you. Without a word, he wrapped his arms around your torso and buried his face in your neck.
You instantly relaxed into him, leaning into his chest. The two of you spent a moment like that before he kissed your shoulder and finally spoke, his voice low.
“G’morning, sweetheart.”
“Good morning, baby. I made pancakes.”
“I can see that. They look amazing.” He paused for a second, contemplating. “You called me baby. You did it last night, too.”
“Oh. Yeah,” you realized. “I guess it kind of just started coming out.” You turned a little in his arms so you could see his face. “Is that okay?”
“More than,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your temple with a smile.
You turned back to the stove and flipped the pancakes one more time before deciding they were done and added them to the stack. As you turned off the burner, you moved to bring the plate to the table, but Marcus wasn’t budging.
He only wrapped his arms tighter around you, letting out a small whine when you tried again to move.
“Marcus, the pancakes are done. Let’s go sit down.”
He just grumbled and murmured into your shoulder, “No, I wanna stay here. Stay like this with you.”
You hummed, leaning your head back onto him and indulging him for a moment until his stomach audibly roared with hunger.
“Okay, come on,” you insisted, patting his wrist gently. “We can’t eat pancakes like this.”
“We can try,” Marcus argued.
“I am not getting syrup all over us,” you giggled.
“That’s fair,” he seceded, finally pulling back enough for you to move. You turned around fully to face him and pressed your lips to his in a soft kiss. But when you pulled back, you saw anxiety and worry written all over his face.
“Marcus, what’s wrong? Are you okay?”
He sighed deeply. “You weren’t there when I woke up.” He turned his gaze down to the floor. “I thought…I thought you’d left.”
“Baby, no,” you reassured him immediately, lifting your hand to cup his cheek and bring his eyes back up to meet yours. “I just wanted to surprise you with a nice breakfast, and I knew you needed the sleep. I’d never leave you. Especially not like that.” You moved to kiss him again, a quick peck on his lips. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up. I know how excited you were for that.”
He turned his head slightly to kiss the palm of your hand that was still cradling his cheek. “‘S okay,” he whispered. “I guess I’m just usually the one to wake up early and do stuff like this. I’m used to being the one to make a fuss, not the one being fussed over.”
You smiled softly. “Yeah, well, get used to it. Cuz I wanna make a fuss over you.” You moved your hand into his hair, working your fingers through his sleep-mussed curls. “You’re worth making a fuss over.”
Marcus leaned into your touch, humming contently. “If you say so, sweetheart.”
You frowned slightly at that, your hand stilling before falling away. “I do say so,” you reaffirmed, thinking for a moment before you spoke again, treading carefully. “Marcus, why do you seem so hesitant to accept that I could care for you the way you care for me? What happened?”
“I’m not—” he started, ready to rebuke you.
But as he thought about it, the more he realized that what you’d said was true. He sighed and turned his gaze back to the floor. “It’s a long story,” he finally relented, “and it’s probably about time you heard it.”
He gently took your hand and led you over to the couch, abandoning the pancakes on the table. Those could wait, they could be reheated. He had to face his fears with you now.
You sat there for a minute, letting him collect his thoughts. You didn’t push him, didn’t pry, just waited until he was ready.
Luckily, you didn’t have to wait long.
“I told you before that I was married once, right?” he started. When you nodded encouragingly, he continued. “I also had a fiancee that it didn’t work out with. And neither of them really helped my self-esteem when it comes to this.”
Marcus took a deep breath, closing his eyes briefly to prepare himself for the dive back into a history he’d rather forget.
“I met my ex wife in college,” he explained finally. “It was a pretty textbook college sweethearts story.” He smiled briefly before it dropped in a frown. “But then when I got to Quantico, started working with the FBI, we grew distant from each other. I was working a lot, and she didn’t have any friends in Austin, my hometown, when we moved there. I could see all the problems between us, but I convinced myself it was fine because we loved each other and we’d get through it.”
He laughed bitterly. “Turns out she’d been seeing a man she met a few months after we moved. She brought him into our bed, paraded him around as if I wasn’t even there, as if we weren’t still—”
He cut himself short, shaking his head in frustration.
You longed to reach over, to comfort him, to do something, but he continued before you had the chance.
“Luckily, the divorce was quick and relatively painless, considering. I haven’t talked to her since, but I heard they are now happily married with kids. So things worked out for them, I guess.”
You immediately gave in and reached over to take his hand in yours, tracing circles with your thumb along his knuckles. He took your silent comfort, taking a deep breath to steady himself before he continued.
“I tried dating a little after that. Nothing really stuck. I tried being charming, kind, loving—all the things you’d think people would want in a partner. It didn’t really work.”
Your brows drew together in confusion. The things he tried being—the things he was—were all things you admired in him. It was both what drew you to him and what made you want to stay. How could it not work?
Your thoughts were interrupted when Marcus spoke up again, his voice harsh and foreboding.
“And then I met Teresa.”
Your breath caught in your chest. Though you’d never heard this name before, the pain in his voice and written all over his face told you this relationship didn’t end any better than the last. And while he’d seemingly made his peace with his divorce, this wound from Teresa seemed fresher, as if there were parts of it that still needed healing.
You didn’t even know what happened yet, and you wished you could take it all away from him.
“She worked at the FBI office in Austin, just like me,” he continued, his voice dejected. “I was in Art Crimes, and she was in Homicide. Our teams didn’t usually interact, but then we had a case where the victim’s husband was killed, and their art was stolen, and we couldn’t figure it out on our own. And as soon as I saw her, talked with her, I was captivated.”
His face brightened at the happy memories, a small smile coming onto his face, even as his eyes still held an indisputable grief.
“I waited until the case closed to ask her out. She came home with me on the first date. Everything was going great, then I realized her partner—an FBI consultant, by the way, not even a real agent—was popping up a lot more than would be considered strictly professional.” Marcus laughed sharply in frustration, his patience running thin for a situation that had long concluded. “And I get that you get really close to your partner, a lot of times they do become friends outside of work, but goddamn was this man everywhere.”
He took a moment to steady himself, taking a deep breath as he gave your hand a small squeeze. “I started pushing. I tried to get her more interested in the things I liked, tried to do nice things for her, help her out on her cases, take her to nice restaurants, the whole deal.” He huffed. “For someone who’d been cheated on, you’d think I’d have pulled away from her at any indication it could happen again, but instead I started pulling her in with an iron grip.”
Your hand instinctively tightened around his at that. It was in comfort, yes, but it was also a way to show him that you were here for him. Here with him. And he didn’t have to pull you in to keep you around.
Marcus smiled cautiously at that, the corners of his mouth quirking up only slightly.
“And then I got an offer for a promotion,” he continued, his voice low. “Head of the FBI’s art theft international task force. The only thing that kept me from taking it immediately was the fact that it meant transferring to D.C. from Austin.”
At this point, you became hopeful—you knew this would be what brought him to D.C., what brought him to you, and it’s possible the split had been amicable before he left.
But as much as you wanted to believe that, something deep within you knew that wasn’t the case before he told you as such himself.
“We’d been dating for a month at that point, and me, desperate to have the relationship work out, invited her to move here with me. I thought, Perfect, this will take her away from him and I won’t have to worry about anything happening between them. It’ll all be fine.” He laughed at himself, a degrading scoff that made you squeeze your hand around his.
“But then she couldn’t make up her mind. And I kept asking, and asking, and asking, and I talked with the D.C. office to secure a transfer for her too, and I looked for homes for us, and I told her about fun things we could do or places we could try, and I asked again and again and again…”
He paused, a look of shame and guilt falling over his face.
“And then when she finally agreed, I asked her to marry me with no ring in hand, without getting down on one knee, right in the middle of an empty hallway at the office.”
“Shit, Marcus,” you muttered, unable to stop yourself as you watched his face contort in anguish.
“I know,” he replied somberly. “She couldn’t make up her mind on that, either. By the time she agreed, I’d already moved here, gotten this apartment before we settled on a home, started to get settled myself. She was on a case in Miami, and she immediately went to the airport to come to me. Then when I was getting ready to go pick her up after her flight, I got a call from her saying she’s still in Miami and she’s actually not going to marry me or even come to D.C. because she loves her partner.”
You winced, feeling an ache for him growing deep in your belly. How could anyone treat this wonderful man like that? How could anyone love him with anything less than their whole heart? How could they see someone else and think that they were better than him?
What’s more, how could this be a visible pattern, happening to him over and over again?
It was all you could do to squeeze his hand and whisper, “I’m so sorry, Marcus. That sounds horrible.”
He just nodded, his gaze fixed on some random point on the floor while his mind was elsewhere. He didn’t try to placate you, to say it was okay, because it clearly wasn’t.
God, your heart broke for him.
You didn’t know what to say, how to comfort him in a way besides sitting there with him in silence. You could tell he had more to say, and you didn’t want to rush him or scare him off from saying whatever he felt he needed to.
From the way he clutched your hand, holding tightly as if you’d disappear if he let go, you knew he just wanted you there. He needed you to listen.
Eventually, he spoke up again, his voice low.
“I want to have a wonderful relationship, to start a family. I know I’m meant to love with my whole heart. I try so, so hard. But… I don’t know why this keeps happening. And I don’t think I can go through it again.” He looks up, letting his eyes find yours for the first time since he started talking. “I can’t… I can’t be your second choice.”
At this, the spell over you finally broke. You leaned across the couch to take him in your arms, holding him tightly as he rested his head against your shoulder.
When you pulled back, he was looking at you warily. It was as if he was sitting there, ready for you to break his heart.
But you just returned his gaze with the most intense love and care you could muster.
“Marcus, ever since I met you, you have never been a second choice to me. You are my only choice.”
His breath caught in his throat, hope starting to creep onto his face.
“You are everything that you say you’ve been trying to be and more. You constantly surprise me with just how amazing you are. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for you, but at the same time, ever since we met, I’ve had the feeling that I’ve already known you my whole life.” You take a deep breath, making sure he was paying attention when you continued. “I love you, Marcus. So, so much.”
His face opened in surprise, his mouth forming the most adorable o-shape as his eyebrows raised. Slowly, a smile grew as happiness transformed him.
He suddenly said your name with such reverence. “I love you, too.” He laughed, though it came out more as a quick huff. “I love you so much that I’ve been ready to burst with it.”
You laughed along with him and closed the distance between you in a kiss. It was different than all the others you’d shared, filled with passion as he reached up to cup your head in his hands. You placed your hands on his chest, deepening it gradually.
Eventually, you broke apart, resting your forehead against his as his thumb stroked your cheek. You were both grinning like a pair of idiots in love, which, you reminded yourself with glee, you definitely were.
“It feels so good to have finally said that out loud,” Marcus confessed lowly.
“I know. And I don’t plan on stopping now that we have.”
“Oh, me either,” he chuckled. “I love you, sweetheart.”
“I love you, too,” you returned with a grin.
He kissed you again, this one just a quick peck, before he pulled back and moved his arm to rest around your shoulders as he drew you into his side.
“I don’t—” he started, slowly collecting his thoughts. “I don’t want to rush things with you. I tend to love hard and love fast, and it’s led to more heartbreaks than I can count.” He turned to look you in the eyes. “I’m not doing that with you, too.”
You melted in his arms, placing your hand on his thigh to reassure him. “We can go as slow or as fast as you want. We have all the time in the world, as far as I’m concerned.” You paused for a second, thinking. “How long were you with Teresa?”
He winced. “Less than two months.”
Your breath caught slightly in surprise. Just two months? He’d asked her to move halfway across the country with him and proposed in just two months?
Hell, it had already been over two months now since you’d met him.
“Well, not to compare us to that, but it seems like you’re already slowing things down with me. And personally, it doesn’t feel as if you’re holding anything back. It feels natural. It feels right.”
He hummed, running his knuckles along your skin. When he didn’t say anything further, you continued.
“I know I don’t have all the details, and I don’t know the women from your past, but it sounds like you always felt like you were in a competition for their love, whether you knew that or not. You tried everything you could to get them to love you, to choose you.” You looked at him earnestly. “Marcus, I chose you the moment I first saw you, and I keep choosing you every single day. You don’t need to try to win me over. You already have me.”
A tear rolled down his cheek, and you quickly reached up to wipe it away. “I love you,” he whispered, his voice so quiet that it was almost as if he was just mouthing the words.
“I love you, too, you silly man.” You moved to kiss another tear that had fallen from his eyes off of his face. “And as mad as I am at these girls for hurting you, I’m grateful for them, too. Because they led you to me. And I’m not planning on hurting you the way they did.”
Marcus laughed, his throat thick with unshed tears. “Thank you. For all of this. For everything.”
You just smiled at him. “Anytime, baby.”
You thought back to your earliest dates, when you’d been worried that he wouldn’t like you for who you were. He’d calmed your fears immediately, showing you he was all in—just without quite saying as such yet out loud.
And you realized with a grin that you’d just given him the exact same thing.
As the morning went on, you and Marcus were never far from each other. You laughed together as you reheated the pancakes you made, playfully adding more and more toppings onto each others’ plates. You watched movies together and took a nap tangled up in each other’s arms.
It was the best day you’d ever had.
Eventually, during a quiet moment alone, you noticed something tucked away in plain sight that you hadn’t prior. It was a small frame, black and unsuspecting, over in the corner by his laptop.
Inside was the drawing you’d done when you’d first met him.
You remembered that day fondly, how amazed he’d been by the museum’s architecture and how captivated you’d been by his amazement. Looking back, you knew that as soon as you decided to include him in that drawing, Marcus was going to be a constant in your life.
He found you standing by the frame, looking at the sketch with your phone number scrawled in the corner, given to him so sneakily. He smiled softly before he came up behind you and wrapped his arms around you.
“You framed it,” you said, your voice thick with emotion.
“Of course I did,” he replied. “I was drawn to you from that very first day, just as much as you were drawn to me.” He chuckled a little. “And you literally drew me.”
You laughed heartily, the sound coming from deep within your belly. “God, that was so cheesy, Marcus.”
“It’s true!” he laughed along. He gazed at the framed drawing over your shoulder, his expression content. “You showed me from the start that you wanted me, too. I’m sorry I was too in my head to accept that until now.”
You turned around in his arms to face him. “It’s okay,” you said wholeheartedly. “It’s not your fault that the voices in your head have learned to prepare you for the worst.”
“I’m working on it,” he quickly interceded. “I’ve been talking to my therapist about it. About being better for you.”
“You have?” you asked, pleasantly surprised. When he nods in confirmation, you smile. “You keep surprising me, Marcus Pike.”
“In good ways, I hope.”
“Oh, in the best ways.” You kissed him softly. “You are the best surprise of my life.”
Marcus’s face turned red as he ducked his head down. He slowly raised his gaze again, meeting your eyes as he whispered your name.
“I never expected love to look like this, to feel like this,” you told him softly. “If you’d have asked me to draw up plans for my life even a few months ago, I wouldn’t have imagined someone as wonderful as you.” You shook your head reassuringly. “But now that you’re here in my life, I can’t imagine it going any other way.”
Marcus leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and gentle against your own. It was tender and loving, a culmination of all of the words spoken that day and all that was still in your hearts. It was a statement, a promise, and an invitation all in one.
You knew it well. For the most part, things never get built the way they were drawn. That was as true in life and love as it was in architecture and design.
And you couldn’t wait to see the wonderful life you and Marcus were going to build together.
Epilogue
Author's Note: I do have an epilogue planned for these two! So stay tuned for one more update sometime (hopefully) soon. For now, I don’t know about you, but I’m just going to take a moment to bask in their beautiful love.
Chapter Summary: You and Marcus have a quiet night in at his place after he returns from London.
Warnings: nondescript female reader, architect!reader, could be interpreted as original female character, reader is able-bodied, no use of Y/N, language, fluff, mutual pining, light angst, descriptions of food and eating, sharing a bed
Author’s Note: There was at one point a goal to have this lovely little story wrapped up by the time The Mandalorian and Grogu was released. But between my motivation plummeting after low interaction on the last chapter, my childhood dog of 13 years dying back in January, and finally moving out of my dad’s house and into my own apartment, I haven’t spent much time writing since the last chapter. I’m so sorry for the long wait for those who love this story and wait excitedly for each update, and I really hope you love this chapter as much as I do.
Previous | Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Excitement beat through your chest a few short days after you and Marcus made it official as you walked up to his apartment, overnight bag in hand.
It had been thrumming within you since he left your office that day, his kiss and that oh-so-gorgeous smile having left you weak, yet with more energy than you knew what to do with. And that buzz had only intensified the closer you got to right here, right now.
At his door.
You took a deep breath before knocking on his door, having already buzzed in and made your way up to his floor.
You may have double—no, triple-checked that you had the right building. And the right floor. And the right apartment.
But you knew as soon as the door opened that you had absolutely nothing to worry about.
Because suddenly, Marcus was there in front of you, beaming as he welcomed you in with a lingering kiss and a gentle hand on your hip.
“Hi, sweetheart,” he said lowly, his voice rich as he rested his forehead against yours.
“Hey, handsome,” you replied just as low, closing your eyes for a moment to just enjoy being near him. “Happy Friday.”
“Happy Friday, indeed,” he chuckled, pulling away to close the door behind you. “I officially don’t have to think about the London case anymore until I go in on Monday. Which is good, because all I could think about since I left your office was you.”
“Hm, that’s funny,” you countered, “because all I could think about since you left my office was you.”
Marcus threw his head back as he laughed, exposing his throat to you as his Adam’s apple bobbed. You took the opportunity to draw your gaze down, failing to suppress a small smirk as you took in his navy flannel thrown on over a soft black t-shirt with a sinfully comfortable pair of gray sweatpants hanging from his hips.
By the time your eyes returned to Marcus’s face, he looked thoroughly smug and more than a little amused.
“See anything you like?”
“Always, with you,” you replied, your face heated both from checking him out and from getting caught.
“Good,” he murmured with a small kiss before he then looked down to take in your form, your casual yet comfy ensemble complementing your body perfectly. “I feel the same,” he whispered as he brought his gaze back up to meet yours.
The two of you stood there for a minute, eyes glinting as you each tried to convey unsaid words with a smile. Eventually, Marcus broke away from you to take your bag and lead you into the kitchen.
“Considering I was out of the country for a few weeks and am still partially jet-lagged, I figured we could just order in. Maybe watch a movie or something,” he suggested.
“Sounds perfect,” you agreed, grinning at him. “Nice and homey, but low effort.”
Marcus looked up at you with delight from the drawer he’d started pulling take-out menus out of. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
He laid out a few options in front of you on the counter before moving to your side. “What are you in the mood for?” he asked. “I’m partial to this Mexican place, but I kind of feel like Thai food tonight,” he said, skimming two menus he’d picked up.
You leaned over, pressing your side against him so you could see the menus. “Thai sounds good,” you agreed. “And I like that restaurant. They have excellent pad thai.”
“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed, nodding. He leaned into you, deepening the contact between you as you both stood over the counter. “I can call in an order for delivery if you wanna get comfy?”
“Are you just offering to call so you can pay for me again?” you smirked.
“Hey, you’re at my apartment. And I don’t know if you’ve been told, but you are dating a gentleman.” He paused his playful argument to kiss you. “I’m paying.”
“I figured you would,” you sighed with a smile. “And no one had to tell me you were a gentleman. You showed me you were instead, and that’s way more meaningful. At least to me.”
Marcus looked over at you, his gaze soft as he searched your face. “Well then, I’m doing my job right,” he muttered smugly before he grabbed the Thai menu and opened his phone. “Get settled, I’ll be right back.”
You watched him walk to the hallway before moving over to his couch. It was a large couch for such a small apartment, the kind of L-shaped sectional you would expect to see in a family home rather than an apartment where one man lived alone.
The space was comfortable, and very Marcus. Abstract paintings hung from the walls and plenty of lamps filled the room, letting him choose how bright or how dim he wanted it to be. A small record player sat alone on a bookshelf—the records and books, you noticed, were mostly in boxes and piles scattered at the base of the shelves.
You cozied up with some pillows and a fluffy yellow blanket on the couch as your eyes swept the room, the designer in you coming out to analyze how he chose to keep the space he lived in.
Marcus returned, joining you on the couch with a muted thud. “Should be here in 20 minutes.”
You hummed your assent, still eying his decor. He turned his head to watch you, finding you wide-eyed as you took in his living room.
“So what does my apartment say about me?” he asked, amused. You looked over at him, slightly startled but touched that he’d known where your mind was.
“You like to indulge in the small things,” you speculated. “Things that make you feel more comfortable and more like yourself. Or maybe more like a better version of yourself.” You eyed the boxes of his things by the shelves again, wondering. “Did you move here recently?”
He huffed. “I don’t know how recently you would say about nine months ago was, but yeah.”
“And you still haven’t gotten settled?”
Marcus looked over at the boxes, too, shrugging. “I don’t know. This place was meant to be temporary. I transferred here to D.C. from the Bureau back home in Austin, expecting for this to be a go-between before I found a place to really start my life here.” He looked back at you, a sad smile on his face. “I guess it didn’t feel like my life here started until I met you.”
You melted a bit at that, taking one of his hands into both of yours as you brought it up to your lips. You placed a gentle kiss on his knuckles, keeping your eyes locked with his all the while.
Marcus’s breath audibly hitched. You lowered his hand, holding it gently in your lap. “I’m glad we found each other, Marcus,” you murmured.
“Me too,” he agreed, his voice small.
You and Marcus smiled softly at each other for a moment as you ran your thumbs along his knuckles. Just as you opened your mouth to break the silence, the buzzer went off at Marcus’s door.
He reluctantly pulled his hand out of yours as he got up from the couch. “I’ll be right back,” he promised as he walked the 10 steps to the door.
In the brief moment it took him to grab the food, you filed away this new information about his semi-recent move. It was another piece in the puzzle of Marcus, one that you were increasingly eager to get to the bottom of. Though he didn’t let his insecurities show very often, what you saw when he did—a man worried about someone he loves actually staying—made your heart ache for him.
It made you want to show him that you were here to stay—no matter the challenges or conflicts, and in spite of everything he sees as something wrong within himself.
You didn’t have time to simmer on this long, though, as Marcus plopped down next to you and started unloading the food onto plates he’d grabbed from his kitchen.
As you both settled in with your meals, he grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, browsing what was on. He murmured the titles of various movies and shows as he scrolled the channels, gauging your interest out of the corner of his eye.
“Star Wars, Avengers, Game of Thrones…” he rattled off a few bigger series, things you’d be sure to know before listing some more niche titles. After a minute, he grew quiet, a silent question of whether anything sounded interesting.
“Let’s keep looking,” you gently encouraged him. “What channels do you usually go for on nights like this?”
He chuckled lightly before typing a channel number in. “Classics,” he responded resolutely. “The oldies and the goodies.”
“What do they have on?” you asked through a bite of food.
He paused for a moment, causing you to focus your attention on him. He almost looked scared, as if the answer wasn’t one he wanted to give.
“Casablanca,” he eventually provided in a low voice. “One of my favorites.”
You beamed at him. “Oh, that’s perfect! Let’s watch it.”
He turned to you, doubt written clearly all over his face. “You wanna watch Casablanca tonight? Really?”
Your smile fell a fraction at how quiet and unsure he sounded. “Well, yeah,” you reasoned. “If it’s one of your favorites, of course I wanna watch it. It’s like you said when we went to the classic movie theater. Movies are a part of what makes you you. And I can’t see any better way to spend the night than watching it with you.”
Marcus stopped for a second, his breath caught in his throat.
“Have you ever seen it before?” he asked suddenly.
“No.”
“Do you know what it’s about?”
“Not really.”
“Are you—”
“Marcus, why are you fighting me on this?” you cut him off. “Do you not want me to watch it?”
He sighed deeply, taking you in with eyes that seemed to be pleading you to stop. But as you let the silence drag on, waiting for an answer, he crumbled.
“The last time I watched this was with my ex,” he explained softly. “We didn’t get very far before it became clear she wasn’t interested in it at all and we switched to baseball.” Marcus took a steadying breath. “I love Casablanca, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to watch it since then.”
You took his hand, cradling it between your own. “We can pick something else, if you don’t wanna watch it,” you said gently. “But I would really like to watch one of your favorite movies with you, and I don’t think you should let your ex ruin something you love just because she was stupid and didn’t like it.”
He laughed at that, a watery smile growing on his face. Slowly, he brought his hand up, yours still clasping it, and kissed your knuckles. “What did I do to deserve you?”
A smile broke out on your face. “You were just you, Marcus. That’s the beginning and the end of it all.”
Marcus returned your grin and leaned in to kiss you, his lips soft and sure on yours.
Before you knew it, he grabbed the remote to turn the movie on, and he was settling into the couch, leaning his weight on you.
You maneuvered yourself so that he could lay between your legs, his head resting on your chest. He let out a deep sigh of relief.
And when you wrapped your arms around him and started carding your fingers through his short curls, he absolutely melted into you.
As the movie went on, you truthfully couldn’t tell if Marcus was awake or not. He’d go from deep, steady breathing to muttering a fun fact about the movie or its actors so fast that it was hard to discern.
He needed the rest, so you didn’t push him if he really was asleep. Besides, his body still thought it was much later in the night than it really was.
But you stayed up through the whole movie to the end, watching the main character as he found a love he thought was lost, only to let her go when he discovered she loved someone else.
It made your heart ache in all the best ways, seeing the plot play out the classic trope of if you love something, let it go.
You wondered if maybe that’s why Marcus had been so hesitant to watch this. If he’d let too many of his own loves go, and he didn’t want the reminder.
Maybe it’s because he didn’t want to have to do it again.
He interrupted your thoughts with a light snore, confirming that he had fallen asleep. You chuckled lightly, admiring his relaxed form still tucked into yours.
Reluctantly, you nudged Marcus’s side until he awoke.
“Baby, the movie’s over,” you whispered. “Let’s go to bed.”
He nodded slowly against your chest, letting a yawn overtake his face. “Thanks for watching Casablanca with me. Even if I slept through half of it.”
You smiled as you helped him up. “Of course. Now we can spend the next time we watch it discussing it since I’ll have seen it.”
He murmured a quiet, “Yessssss,” an exhausted grin lighting up his face as he led you to his bedroom. You quickly cleared away the plates from dinner and grabbed your overnight bag before joining him. Marcus sat on the edge of the bed, eyes droopy with sleep.
“‘M tired,” he stated, making you laugh.
“I can see that, baby. Let’s take that flannel off and we can go to bed.”
He complied easily, if groggily, as he shucked the flannel lazily into his hamper and raced to get under the covers. You just smiled, shaking your head at how silly Marcus was when he was exhausted, and loving every moment of how easy and domestic this was.
Soon enough, you were joining him in bed, and almost instantly, he snuggled up against you like you were his center of gravity. His arms wrapped around you, their weight comfortable and safe as they held you against him.
With a soft hum, you reached up to brush some hair out of his face and kissed him lightly. “Goodnight, Marcus. Sleep well.”
“G’night sweetheart. Can’t wait to wake up with you.”
You melted in his arms as he quickly drifted off to sleep. And watching him—his breath slowing, his muscles relaxing as all of the stress in his waking mind faded away—made one thing, one very important thing, incredibly clear in your mind.
You loved Marcus Pike.
But more than that, you knew that it was about time that he knew it, too.
Next
Author’s Note: Have you been wondering when the “sharing a bed” tag would come into play? Surprise, babes! It’s now! (I probably didn’t need to add it until now, haha. I wasn’t planning on taking this long to get here.) (Almost three and a half years. Yikes 😬) This fic was always planned to be smut-free, but that doesn’t mean they can’t literally sleep together.
A/N: SURPRISE! Happy almost-end of RTY. It's taken far too long, I know, but for those that have stuck around and still hold interest in these two and their trainwreck of a story - thank you.
Summary: Following on from ‘Traitor’ and ‘You’re Somebody Else’. An unexpected visitor throws you right back into the life you thought you left behind. Working beside the man that put you behind bars is one thing, pretending like you never loved him is another.
Word count: 6.3k
Warnings: swearing, graphic violence, graphic thoughts of death and torture, reader is Stressed my guy, marcus "i dont have time for bullshit" pike, a kidnapped hostage stand off situation, use of guns and graphic descriptions of bullet wounds and blood, A N G S T (god i love it), i love grace van pelt, jacob wilson is golden retreiever, patrick fucking jane and his antics, some more angst, critically injured marcus, hospitals and talk of surgeries and more death
main masterlist | series masterlist
This story is 18+ only.
The vicious turning of your stomach increases with every second you spend in the car, wedged between two men, complete strangers. They say nothing. The male driver, also a stranger, says nothing. You say nothing. The silence that fills the small space creates a thick tension, curling around your shoulders and tightening around your chest, and you worry any sound or movement you make could shatter it all completely.
You dare not shift in your seat, remaining so still an ache starts to grow along your limbs and deep in your lower back. You don’t breathe too harshly, but the panic that stirs within your chest threatens to ruin that. You focus on each lungful, the inhales and the exhales.
In, and out.
Repeat.
In, out.
You count them.
One, two, three…
Eyes falling to your lap where your fingers anxiously pick at the other, you find you’d picked completely through the skin by the side of your thumbnail. Blood builds and smears along your nail fold where the skin had given in to the small assault, but you can’t stop. Your other thumb still picks at it, its blunt nail scratching through the sticky warmth and spreading the blood further.
Breathe.
In, out.
It’ll be okay.
It’ll—
You grind your teeth as tears begin to sting behind your eyes. You don’t think you’ve ever felt this shaken, this terrified, in your entire life. Not when you’d been a part of this world all that time ago—you were on a different side back then. Not when you’d been arrested—you’d been scared, sure, but at least they were the so-called ‘good guys’.
They wouldn’t kill you just because you were an inconvenience to business.
You’re going to die.
It sinks into you, heavy and relentless. You wonder if what they say about a warm bright light is true, if you do get a few moments of reliving memories before falling into the inevitable abyss. Would it hurt? Be quick? The fear of death is nothing compared to the fear of not knowing all that could happen before the end. Maybe they’ll drag it out, make it a punishment for getting in their way before showing some mercy with a bullet.
No. No crying, you tell yourself.
This is it, and whatever happens… well, there’s no changing it.
A voice echoes in your ears—warm, familiar, stubborn.
I won’t let anything happen to you.
You can’t be mad at him for breaking his promise. It was your own stupid self that got you into this position. If you had just waited at his apartment, endured the safe walls of his home and the waft of his cologne after he left… if you had just listened, you wouldn’t be here.
It was heartache that had you all but running out of that door. You needed air, needed something to clear the sudden onslaught of memories and the way his voice swirled in your mind. It was always real to me.
It had been real.
The soft spoken words, the gentle touches, the way he had looked at you, the way he had made you feel, the way he said those three little words that had been your ultimate undoing…
It wasn’t all a lie.
At least if you die, when you die, you’ll know that. You’ll have that to reflect on. You’ll go knowing the love you had felt had been accepted, and returned. It still hurts, the scarring left from how everything had changed permanent and lasting deep in the very core of you, but at least, while it was happening back then, it had been real.
The car rolls to a stop, and your heart briefly along with it. You don’t know where you are, where you’re being taken to next. You don’t move until they gesture you to. The hand that curls around your arm when you awkwardly make your way out of the backseat is tight, an unspoken promise that there was no easy way out of this.
There was no running.
In, out.
Maybe he’d find you in time. Maybe he was already close.
You comfort yourself with that as you’re moved into a new vehicle, the sound of liquid being thrown about and splashing behind you. You look back out the open door in time to watch one of the men throw a small lit match into the now vacant backseat, eyeing the flames that engulf the interior of the car you had been in, thankful they didn’t decide to just leave you in it.
For now, there was still a bit of time.
—
His heart still beats thickly in his throat. Sweat had gathered on his palms as soon as he saw you exit the elevator, and had slowly built along the back of his neck with every moment in your presence. He's surprised he's been able to keep control over his voice so far, a barely there tremble threatening to break free in his words and cause him to stutter under your attention.
You were hard, and completely closed off. You listened throughout his little debriefing, and understandably been pissed when he told you just exactly what they were asking of you. It was hypocritical, even he had to admit.
Even with your evident and spoken anger and borderline disgust, a part of him still warms at the sight of you. He doubts that will ever fade.
“Are we done here?”
He sees how you struggle to look at him, feels the hollow echo of what once was before getting hit with harsh reality.
“Yeah. Yeah, we are.”
He feels weak as you move to leave the room, you couldn’t move quick enough.
It all hits him like a punch to the stomach and he folds from it, bracing his hands on the cool top of the conference room table and letting his head hang low. He drags in a breath, catching the smell of your perfume as you pass. It’s new, so different from your old one.
A reminder of how everything had changed, of what he did to you.
He exhales quietly, eyes slipping shut and seeing the hatred that had swam in your eyes behind his lids. The door slams shut behind him.
—
He gets it over a call.
The car was found, torched and completely destroyed, but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care that any potential evidence has been destroyed, doesn’t care they weren’t quick enough to intercept before whoever took you fled again. He doesn’t care because he’s relieved at the following information provided to him.
No body was found within the vehicle.
The immediate thoughts that had assaulted him of seeing your body, twisted, unmoving and burnt beyond recognition, vacate to the depths of his mind, and he finds he can breathe a little easier. His tie sits a little more comfortably around his throat, and he’s able to focus a little better on the road as he drives to the office.
You’re okay. For now, you’re okay.
They still want you alive, and that’s good. That means he has time.
“There’s a security camera around the corner from the lot,” Wilson’s voice continues to fill the car.
Marcus didn’t comment on it at the time, too busy swimming in his own thoughts and the sheer relief flooding his system, but he had heard the edge in the young agent's tone when he had answered the call. He’s thankful Wilson wouldn’t be forever haunted by the sick images his mind had conjured.
“It's old, but we’ve been able to get a rough image of the vehicle. Black SUV, tinted windows so we weren’t able to get a look at the occupants. Also got a slight partial plate, but it’s barely readable. I’ve sent it through to forensics to see if they can do anything with it.”
“Good. I’m sending a team your way, make your way back to the office once they arrive. I want you with me.”
If anyone on his team would understand the depth to this, it’s Wilson.
“Yes, sir.”
Marcus knows the agent has some experience at this kind of shit, having previously read over his history within his file before confirming his success at getting the position he was so eager for, but this time it was a little more personal.
You two had spent quite a bit of time together during the start of this case, would go as far as to call you two somewhat friends, and so the softer, less Special Agent Pike, more Marcus side of him feels the need to ask, to focus on something other than his own emotions.
“How’re you doing?”
The line falls silent, before the younger agent clears his throat quietly. “Can I speak freely, sir?”
“Always.”
It comes out in a quiet rush. “I’m so fucking relieved she’s not in that car.”
Marcus makes a low noise of agreement. “You and me both.”
—
“0800, on the dot. Not a second after, understood?”
The young agent before him nods, his enthusiasm evident. Marcus remembers that enthusiasm, the excitement at finally being where he wanted to be, where he worked so hard to get to.
This new guy… Marcus liked him. He knew watching over his interview that he’d be a good fit within his team. The kid was eager for an opportunity, had gall, and Marcus knew you’d be safe in his agent’s hands.
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“I don’t expect trouble along the way, but I’ll note it now that her safety is paramount. She’s—” he stops, looking down at an older photograph of you sitting amongst the various bits of paper pulled from the file and feeling the familiar ache creep around his heart.
She’s important to me.
The words had almost slipped free, danced so easily, so naturally, on the tip of his tongue it had taken his mind a moment to catch up and stop them from leaving his mouth. He clears his throat softly, tucking the image back into the manilla folder so he doesn’t have you smiling up at him.
He didn’t want to use your mugshot for the file made for Wilson. He didn’t want the agent to go into this with a preconceived idea of who and what he would assume you are. After everything, the least he could do was give you a chance to be known as you are, not what they made you to be.
“She’s integral to the case. Should anything arise, her safety is your highest priority.”
Agent Wilson straightens in his seat, a cool wash of determination settling into his features. Yeah, Marcus thinks to himself, he’s a good fit.
“Understood, sir. She’ll be in good hands.”
Marcus nods.
He thinks you’ll like him the most out of his team. His other agents are great, but you’ll be on your guard. The others will be quiet, and will keep to themselves more often than not. That wouldn’t help you. Wilson’s a talker, though. Sometimes, relentlessly so. It might help you find some comfort in this shitshow, might make things a little easier for you, a little less lonely.
—
He studies your photo where it’s pinned on the board, only a little ways away from one of the murder victims' post mortem images. The images are a stark contrast from each other, one warm in hues, brightness swimming throughout the image and bursting from the wide spread of your smile. The other is cold, clinical. Void of life.
The more he looks, the more his mind twists and runs, swapping the features of the two women until it’s painted a version of your own post-mortem photograph. Skin sunken beneath your open eyes, pupils fixed, unseeing. A cold measuring tape held next to the gaping hole in your skull.
He blinks, and the images are as they were.
Jane is damn near adamant they want you alive, but without definitive proof that you’ll be okay, it does little to settle his mind.
Marcus turns away from the board with a new wash of nausea he swallows down, flicking through the notes provided to him by Lisbon’s team from the interrogation and marking the noted locations of addresses on the map spread out before him.
He can hear the work beyond the conference room, a part of him comforted by the sheer amount of effort put in by both his own and Teresa's agents.
They’re close.
That familiar feeling swirls in the pit of his stomach, knowing that with every new bit of information that comes through by the hour, they’re closing that gap between them and you. It overrides the worry, pushes his anxiety to the side until all he feels is brute determination, the urge to get the job done and retrieve you swiftly and safely.
You’ll be okay.
He’ll make sure of it.
Marcus feels the presence of someone hovering just inside the door of the conference room, and fights the sigh of annoyance threatening to break free from his lungs. He doesn’t want to entertain niceties, doesn’t have time for idle chit chat and useless empty conversation, so he cuts straight to the chase with a sharp edge in his tone that says just that.
He’d feel ashamed by the bluntness of it if his mind wasn’t working so damn hard to absorb every possible bit of information given to him in an effort to get any closer to you.
“Can I help you with something, Agent Van Pelt?”
He sees her move in his peripheral as he shuffles through more notes, more paper, more satellite images of warehouses and shop fronts and galleries. She shifts slightly, almost unsure as her eyes glance back to the open door to the conference room before they roll back to settle on him.
“I just wanted to say that it’ll be okay,” she says finally. “We’ll find her.”
It’s spoken so surely, so warmly sincere, it completely cuts through the icyness that had settled in his chest and worked its way through his nervous system. He feels his shoulders slacken slightly when he eventually meets her eyes, the tightness of his features softening when she gives a small reassuring smile.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, giving his head a little shake to settle the mess of emotions swirling through him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be—”
“It’s okay,” Grace’s smile widens . Her eyes fix on the board behind him in open interest, but it doesn’t hit him like it did with Jane and Lisbon. It doesn’t get his hackles up in defence with a need to shield you from potential judgement.
“Seems like she’s really something.”
He looks over his shoulder, gaze swiping one more time over your image. “She is.”
—
It’s a warehouse, empty save for the leftover pallets, a few odd pieces of old machinery from previous companies and the van you had been driven in.
You’d lost track of the route they had taken you, not wanting to risk anything by making it obvious you were trying to decipher your location by looking out of the windows. There was no point. You doubt you’d make it very far if you chose to run.
Playing along, doing what these people ask when they ask it, it’d hopefully buy you some time. Hopefully the time Marcus and his team needs if they were looking. No, you know he is. You can feel it.
Before all the recent developments, you probably would’ve resigned yourself to your uncertain fate, and accepted that you were just another pawn for the FBI. A nobody, just mere collateral damage in the wider grand scheme of things.
You lost track of how long you’d been standing in the one spot, almost scared to move. The small group of men had shown you out of the van and onto the main floor of the warehouse, and then moved to the sides. They stayed quiet, sometimes talking quietly amongst themselves, but otherwise leaving you alone.
A welcome relief.
“You’ve certainly been working away, haven’t you? Piece after piece. Surely you’re tired.”
The men take their cue and start their exit, leaving you alone with the newcomer. The one pulling the strings and keeping them in line, if their quick and quiet departure was anything to go by. They clearly deem you no threat whatsoever.
You turn to the voice, eyes sweeping over the familiar face of Edward Thomas. You recoil a little in surprise, almost expecting someone else to be with him because of how out of character something like this was for the older man, but he remains alone, and you are left standing corrected.
“Didn’t really have much of a choice,” you murmur.
You don’t think openly admitting you had readily agreed to helping the FBI wouldn’t work well in your favour.
“How’d you know it was my work?”
“I didn’t,” he admits quietly, “in the beginning. We actually thought you were still in prison.”
“We?”
Edward smiles, though it lacks any warmth or sincerity. He looks tired, older. “Asking for yourself, or your FBI boyfriend?”
You ignore the goad, glancing carefully around the vacant space with a barely concealed shiver down your spine. Now what?
“What am I doing here?”
He sighs, rubbing a tired hand across his weathered features.
“This whole thing, it’s—it’s turned ugly, and quite frankly I’m tired of it. I had no intention of being this involved. I needed something to offer in return for my… retirement, let’s call it. After all, after a few of your pieces had been discovered by myself, interest has grown in your particular… area of expertise. You have a few curious in what you can offer.”
A sick feeling turns your stomach, but you keep a hold of your expression. “So you’re not auctioning off my pieces anymore, you’re just auctioning off me.”
“In a manner of speaking.”
“Throwing me to the highest bidder so you can, what, run away to a sunny beach somewhere? That’s not like you, Edward.”
“Yes well, as I said, it’s turned ugly.”
“By ugly, you mean the people that have been killed.”
“You’re quite naive if you didn’t think that was happening before your arrest. People died then, and people will die now. It’s simply a part of the world you so readily jumped into.”
“Can’t really blame the girl.”
A calm and collected voice takes you off guard, and you quickly school your stunned expression into something a little less obvious as the one and only Patrick fucking Jane all but waltzes into the room, looking completely at ease as he slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
“She wasn’t exactly given a brochure on the workings of an underground art ring upon her application.”
If he’s here, then his team isn’t too far behind.
And if his team isn’t too far behind, surely that means Marcus would be with them, too? A slight twinge of hopes grows to life in your chest, your heart picking up with the possibility you’d be walking free from this.
Edward frowns at him in confusion, eyes darting to the direction of the van and where the three men that had bought you in had disappeared to.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
“The door,” Jane comments as if it were obvious, and you can’t help the eye roll, pinning him with such a look of disdain it makes his lips twitch.
“And what are you doing here?”
He has the nerve to look bored, eyes observing the empty warehouse in false interest. The sheer ease he remains in has Edward’s frown deepening with every step he takes further into the room.
“Checking out industrial real estate. What’s the going rate for one of these?” His hand leaves his pockets to gesture vaguely about the open room.
“Mr Jane, I must admit I do tire of your little games.”
You startle, eyes widening as you glance between them.
“You two know each other?”
“We met at the museum,” Jane shrugs. “When I said I was following my own leads, I was. It just wasn’t you. I did have to get you out of the way, though. Sorry about that.”
He doesn’t sound sorry in the slightest. You stare at him, at a complete and utter loss, your mind struggling to piece together all of the events that had led you here. Did he intentionally upset you at the museum? To get you to leave?
It’s all a big fucking game to this man.
“You knew,” you realise slowly, your brows coming together, “you knew I’d leave the investigation.”
“I expected. Just like I expected Mr Thomas here to make a move as soon as he knew you weren’t being monitored anymore,” Jane explains easily, unbothered by the way your face twists with his little reveal.
You had been a pawn.
Just not the FBI’s pawn.
You were Patrick fucking Jane’s pawn.
“What I didn’t expect, was you running off, and.. you know, all that happened after,” he trails off with a slight wince. “That was inconvenient, I’ll admit.”
He, at the very least, has the grace to look apologetic at that. So he didn’t mean for it to work out like this. He knew Marcus would flip and put you into protective custody. He counted on Marcus getting you out of town and finding you somewhere safe to lay low while they worked out the rest of the case.
What he didn’t count on, however, was the mountain of emotional baggage he was undoing and letting loose during his little playtime pretending to be an FBI agent.
“Inconventient?” You grind out, anger simmering beneath your skin. “I got fucking kidnapped, Jane!”
“Like I said—inconvenient.”
“Enough.”
“Oh my God, I can’t believe you. Marcus was right, you really are a fucking dick.”
“Things could’ve gone smoother, yes—”
You jump at the sudden firing of a gun, wide eyes immediately flying to Edward where he stands unimpressed, holding the weapon towards the ceiling. He then levels it between you, your undeniable anger at the consultant melting steadily into fear.
Jane takes a step towards you automatically, his arm outstretched as if he could reach you despite the distance between you, but he stills when the gun is aimed for him.
“I said enough.”
—
“North entrance is covered,” Rigsby reports as Marcus arrives on scene mere moments after them. “South’s free—they’re not expecting company.”
“Good,” Marcus nods, eyes scouting the area around the warehouse and the flashy expensive car Thomas had left parked along the side. Might as well be a flashing neon sign in an area like this. “How many on the north?”
“Three,” Cho replies plainly, checking over his weapon.
“You certainly work quick. We’ll send a small team to cover both exits for now, when—”
“We need to wait for back up, we don’t know how many are inside yet.”
He fights the frown threatening to dig between his brows as he looks at Lisbon, her expectant gaze already fixed tightly on him. He knows that. He doesn’t need to be told that like he’s some freshly graduated baby agent, let alone by someone who’s not even on his team. He bites back the sarcastic words building on his tongue.
“When SWAT arrives,” Marcus continues as if she didn’t interrupt him, “we make the call to move in. How far out are they?”
“Four minutes,” Cho provides again, looking between the two superior agents with a look he couldn’t quite decipher, but otherwise keeping quiet.
Anything could happen in four minutes.
Marcus presses his lips together, eyes raking over the structure they suspect you’ve been taken to and its wider surroundings. His hands find his hips as he studies the high windows, wondering if Wilson would be able to find anything to climb up on to find a point to look in to until backup arrives.
“Uh, where’s Jane?”
Rigsby’s carefully posed question pulls Marcus's attention from the building, his teeth quickly mashing together as he attempts to reign in the hot flood of irritation that sweeps over him. Sure enough, the consultant is nowhere to be found when the team looks, and the irritation morphs into something a little stronger, something with a bit more of a kick.
He can’t help it.
Marcus smiles at Lisbon, stiff and sarcastic. “I see that tight leash is working well.”
She sighs, barely sparing him a glance. “Don’t.”
“If he does anything to—”
A single shot echoes from the warehouse and he jolts as if it had come straight for him and pierced right through his chest. Seconds of silence pass, and with each slowed tick of time in his mind, there you are. On the autopsy table, a bullet through the head. Cold. Lifeless.
Someone speaks, reporting to the incoming team that shots have been fired and he doesn’t care to look at who calls it in. His eyes dart over the building, waiting for movement, a yell, a scream, anything—
He doesn’t, he can’t, wait any longer. Logic, strategy, training—it all blends and settles at the sound of nothing. It’s instinct, it's pure adrenaline. Marcus takes off towards the building while reaching for his weapon, the thought of you bleeding out on the filthy floor, losing precious time with every moment he wastes standing around, pushing his legs harder as he comes up upon the back entrance.
“Marcus!” Teresa shouts after him, already following. “Cho, on me. Rigsby, Van Pelt, you’re on the north entrance. Wilson, wait for SWAT and direct on their arrival!”
—
Your ears ring from the gunshot. The piercing echo of it threatens to stop your heart then and there, the tremble in your hands obvious as you quickly and carefully raise your hands in an effort to show you’re of no threat. Jane mirrors you, studying the way the gun ever so slight shake in Edward’s hand as the barrel of it bounces between the both of you.
“FBI, put your weapon down.”
You almost choke on a sob at the familiar voice.
He’s here.
You feel Marcus move step up and next to you, his own weapon held steady and pointed directly at Edward . You watch the recognition, the panic, the indecision, the urge to flee play out on the older man’s face, the shake in his hand increasing under the presence of Marcus.
“You’re surrounded. Don’t go doing anything stupid. This is your one and only chance to walk out of here, so put it down, and we’ll talk. We can figure something out.”
“I just want this to be over,” Edward mutters with a distinct tone of irritation, flustered by the sudden presence of an actual FBI agent and having their weapon pointed at him, “it wasn’t meant to go this far… I didn’t want any part of this.”
“I know,” Marcus soothes carefully, his voice smooth and calm. “Put the gun down, and we’ll talk about it.”
“You know, it’s your fault,” Edward continues, completely absorbed in the stress of his thoughts, and the gun changes direction to land directly on you, “if you had just stayed aw—”
“Hey,” Marcus snaps immediately, “if you’re going to point that at anyone, you point it at me. She got dragged into this because of me. All of this? It’s on me, do you hear me?”
You jump in fright at the echo of two gunshots towards the front of the warehouse, and in a split second, you watch Edward jump in surprise too, and give way to the panic that overrides the logic of a negotiation.
It all happens so quickly. You feel a shove from the right, the direct force of a body moving and colliding with you just as more shots ring out throughout the warehouse and you stumble back and away from where you had just been standing.
Edward falls back from the shots Teresa and another agent direct at him, the pair suddenly appearing from behind you and quickly advancing towards him, while Jane jumps forward to kick the gun away from the hand that weakly reaches for it.
The body that had collided with you is sprawled on the ground and your heart drops to the pit of your stomach at the familiar hand swept dark hair of Marcus. He doesn't get up. He doesn't move.
Bile builds in your throat as you drop to your knees, uncaring as the rough floor scuffs the skin of your knees through the thin material of your dress. You tug desperately at his jacket, rolling him over and clawing at his body until he sprawls over your lap, heavy and unmoving.
“Marcus? Marcus, look at me,” you beg softly, a strangled sob falling from your throat when his eyes eventually flutter open languidly and focus tiredly on yours. “What did you do? God, what did you do?”
His lips part, words building on his tongue, but before they can fall from his mouth he jolts in your arms, heaving and coughing and sputtering. It sounds fucking horrible.
You watch the blood ooze from his lips, creating a stark trail of bright red that melts into his faded stubble and slides down along his jaw. You push at his jacket and feel your heart plummet to the floor at the deep maroon patches outwardly soaking the crisp white shift from the holes in his torso.
“It’s okay,” you soothe shakily, wiping the blood away from his lips with your thumb and feeling your stomach jolt with the wet sticky feel of it. “It’s okay. Keep looking at me, okay? I’m here. Somebody help me! Marcus, please—hold on, please—”
“Pike!”
Someone takes him from your arms, lays him on the ground and covers the bullet wounds with their hands. Teresa is yelling out orders, something about getting medics in and SWAT and soon more people swarm the warehouse. You sit on your knees, hands warm, and when you look numbly down at them, you see the glisten of his blood coating your skin.
There's so much blood.
“Marcus?” You whimper quietly, his name sticking to the inside of your throat.
“Hey, come on,” a female voice speaks from the side of you, her hands winding around your arms and pulling you from the ground. Your widened eyes find hers as you stumble to stand on two feet, her red hair previously pulled into a ponytail slightly ruffled and out of place as strands fall across her face.
“Let’s give them some space, let them help him. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
“I don’t—I don’t know,” you reply hoarsely, eyes falling back to where Marcus lay on the ground as even more people surround him.
“Look at me,” the redhead speaks, a gentle smile pulling at her lips as you do as she says. “Good. Do you feel any pain?”
“Uh, I don’t… I don’t think so.”
“Okay,” she says softly, winding an arm around your back and gently leading you from the warehouse. “We have people out here that are going to help you—”
Why are you shaking so much? So damn hard?
Your breath gets stuck in your throat, and your hand moves to cover the length of it in confusion, hoping the press of your fingers would help the oxygen move more freely into your lungs.
Instead of helping you find your breath, you feel the smear of blood along your skin and the heady metallic ring of it sinks into your senses, the urge to vomit suddenly curdling your stomach.
The shaking increases as you jerk your hand away from your neck as if it had cut you. You make a noise, something small and choked, and your knees weaken from the spin of your head.
“Hey, I need you to take a deep breath for me, can you do that? I’m here, I’ve got you.”
“I-I’m trying,” you choke out, suddenly aware of the hot tears spilling down your cheeks as the wind hits with a sharp bite as soon as you step out of the building. “Is—is he going to be okay?”
The redhead briefly glances back at the warehouse, and you think you find a small edge of uncertainty shine in her eyes, but it’s gone within a blink. She gives you another small, reassuring smile though it does little to steady the tremble sitting within your limbs.
“The medics are onsite, he’s in good hands.”
—
The plastic chair is uncomfortable beneath you, the thin scratchy blanket wrapped around your body doing very little to cushion the solid surface of it, yet you don’t move. You don’t think you could if you tried. You hate hospitals. You hate the sterile smell, the cold white walls, the rush of staff and the endless ring of alarms and codes.
This room isn’t too bad, though.
It’s a smaller waiting room, away from the hustle and bustle of the main hospital corridors, and away from the half dozen pairs of eyes that seemed focused on studying your every move. It’s nicer in here, both in style and temperature. The walls are a softer, more welcoming cream colour and a little wall mounted heater keeps the space filled with a nice warmth, but it does very little to calm you.
Your tea had long gone cold next to you, delivered by a startlingly quiet member of Lisbon’s team, Rigsby was it?, before he left you to your thoughts again. You didn’t reach for it once.
Instead, you stare blankly ahead, mind turning over with worry as Marcus is off somewhere in the hospital, somewhere bleeding and hurt and possibly dying. No one comes to talk to you. No one had come to comfort you since Grace had found this room and put you in here, and you think you prefer it that way.
You think she knows you would prefer it that way.
He’s hurt. Severely so.
He’s hurt because he pushed you out of the way, because he took the bullets that had been meant for you, whether they were accidental or not. He had moved with very little regard for himself, instinctively putting himself between you and potential death.
You should be the one in theatre. You should be the one broken and bleeding on an operating table. And yet, you’re not. Here you are, with nothing but bruised, scraped knees and a shot to shit nervous system on the brink of collapsing in on itself.
“Hey Picasso,” Jacob murmurs softly, his face appearing in your view as he crouches down before you, “I think we should get you home—”
Your head is already shaking before he can even finish. Leave? No. No, you can’t do that. What if something happens during surgery? What if he deteriorates and he has no one here to beg them to keep trying? What if—what if he dies on the table and you’re not here for it?
His face creases in sympathy, his hand warm as it comes to rest over your knee.
“Listen to me, alright? You with me?”
His head tilts, waiting until he’s sure you’re fully locked in and focused on him.
“He’s lost a lot of blood. He’s got a collapsed lung, and quite extensive internal bleeding. They said he’s gonna be in there for a while—hey, look at me.”
He ducks his head to help your eyes meet his, and you do your best to swallow down the lump quickly building thickly in the base of your throat.
“While he’s in there, getting the help he needs, I’d like to get you home so you can shower, and get into something more comfortable. Lisbon’s under strict instructions to call me if anything changes, and we’ll come right back once you’re done, alright? How does that sound?”
“Sounds like he could die,” you mutter, voice rough and hollow. “Is he going to die?”
His thumb softly swipes at the stray tear on your cheek.
“I have been assured they are doing everything in their power to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
“It should’ve been me. It should be me.”
He gives a small, sad smile. “I may not have been a part of this team for very long and know him very well, but I think we both know that was never an option for him.”
“Is it my fault?”
“Absolutely not,” he says firmly, shaking his head, “and you know damn well he wouldn’t want you thinking like that. Now come on, the quicker we go and do this, the quicker we can get back.”
“You promise we’ll come straight back if… if he—”
“If I happen to get a call to say he…” he trails off, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your knee before he gathers the strength to meet your eyes again. “If I get that call, we’ll come straight back, alright? Even if you’re all shampooed up and half naked. I swear.”
Your eyes dart between his, searching the soft forest green depths for any trace of a lie. You find nothing but sincerity. Your fingers wrap around his hand, briefly comforted by the steady warmth of it as he turns it in your hold and interlocks your fingers carefully.
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
He helps you stand, releasing your hand in an effort to keep the blanket wrapped around your frame. He tucks it back under your chin, giving you a little grin.
“Hell, you being here half naked would probably bring him back before any crash cart could—”
“Jacob,” you half sob in surprise, unsure whether to be horrified or angry. Your face must display it all openly.
He flinches, face creasing from shame. “I know, I know. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said that. I get weird with this kind of shit, let’s just go.”
Summary: Marcus is a workaholic, and you're not sure your marriage is strong enough to handle the strain.
Pairing: Husband!Marcus Pike x Wife!Reader
Warnings: angst, drama, Husband!Marcus, F!Reader, reader is afab and goe sby she/her, brief smut, unprotected pinv, kissing, happy ending, no use of y/n, marriage drama,
WC: 3.9k
A/N: This is my entry for @pedroscurls dialogue challenge! I guess i woke up in a mood one day and wanted to be angsty, but i struggled because Marcus is Perfect™ and he would never do this but i figured if he did he would absolutely bust his ass to make everything okay. Come yell at me if you disagree
Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes as you sit in the waiting room, the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall delivering another blow with each beat, with each grating click. You fidget, watching the clock, the nail in the coffin hammering deeper and deeper.
You know the receptionist isn’t judging you. Her eyes are kind, but underneath, you know it’s pity she feels for you.
Because he’s late again. Always delayed. Always prioritizing his career. Always sacrificing your marriage for another opportunity. Always keeping you firmly planted to the side where his job remains front and center.
He always attends your sessions. He at least makes an effort for that. But after last night’s fight, you’re not even sure your marriage is worth the trouble anymore. The thought makes you ache, your chest growing tight and the tears burning hot now. One slips out and you swipe it away before it has the chance to fall. To become real. If the receptionist notices, she doesn’t say anything, which you’ve learned is a small mercy.
A door opens and your head snaps up. It’s the wrong door. Not the entrance to the comfortable, sparsely decorated waiting room, but the door to the office housing your therapist. Your heart sinks, another fresh tear springing up and threatening to spill over.
A couple steps out. The woman grins at her husband over her shoulder, muttering something. He laughs, snaking an arm around her waist and pulling her back to kiss her cheek. They whisk by you without a glance, touching, holding, cherishing each other. They’re absorbed in one another in a way that’s become a faint, distant familiarity to you.
That used to be you and Marcus. But it hasn’t been for some time.
“You didn’t even call to tell me you couldn’t make it, Marcus,” you sigh, arms tight around yourself, leaning against the counter just out of his reach. He knew better than to touch you right now.
“I know. I know, baby. I’m so sorry —“ he answers softly, eyes pleading and warm. Almost irresistible.
“Then why does it keep happening? If you’re sorry, why do you do this to me every time?” You demand, eyes stinging. You don’t want to cry right now. You never want to cry in front of him. Because a sick part of you knows he hates it and it hurts him to see you upset. And you don’t want that. You never want to hurt him. “Why can’t you just —“
“Just what?”
“Just — keep your promises! I looked like such an idiot waiting there for you. Alone at a table set for two,” you sucked in a breath when you couldn’t hold your tears back anymore. “The server just looked at me like I was pathetic. Like I’d been stood up by some blind date. She even asked me if it was a first date. And I just lied to her and told her it was. Because I couldn’t bring myself to tell her that no, it’s my husband who stood me up. Not just some random guy I met. My husband!”
Your chest heaves after your outburst, tears flowing freely. Marcus looks like he’s in physical pain, like every word had sliced through him, down to the bone.
“I am so sorry, baby,” he says again and takes a step forward but you inch away. He stops, “Please, let me hold you. I’m sorry. I have no excuse. I’m an asshole. Don’t push me away.”
“I’m not the one pushing you away, Marcus. Your job is doing that for you,” you sniff, turning your back to him.
“No, no, no, honey,” he reaches for you again, a hand grazing your bare shoulder before you whip around to glare at him.
“Don’t touch me right now.”
He clenches his hands into fists, keeping them pinned at his sides instead. You swipe at your tears before looking down at yourself. You were stupid to get so dressed up for a date night you knew would be ruined by his job. But you did it anyway. You wanted to feel beautiful. You wanted to feel like your marriage wasn’t hanging on by a frail, easily snapped thread. Like it was a normal date night and you knew without a doubt that he would show up and you’d have dinner and laugh and be in love and strip each other down when you got home.
The dress was a waste, clearly. Simple. Black. Thin straps, enticing neckline, slit in the thigh. You wanted to look good for him. And you did. You look stunning.
And he hadn’t even shown up. Hadn’t even bothered to tell her he couldn’t make it.
“Why is your job more important than me?” You ask the question you’ve been careful to avoid in your therapy sessions, always skirting around the true issue, always minimizing your pain. Your voice was so small, so feeble, one small blow would incapacitate you. Shatter you beyond recognition.
His eyebrows draw together, jaw clenching. Big brown eyes brewing with heartbreak. You can see it. The realization.
“It’s not. It’s not more important. Nothing is more important than you,” he tells you, voice low, fists still clenched so tight his knuckles are white.
“You love your job. I know you do. I would never ask you to stop doing what you love. I just wish you’d love me too. I don’t want to feel like I come second to some case or some promotion or whatever else.”
You can’t help the sob that rips out of you. The bone deep misery crashing into you. You cradle yourself, arms wrapped so tight it squeezes the breath out of you, as if keeping the last shreds of yourself intact.
“Honey,” his voice wavers, reaching out to you, fingertips grazing your arms, “Please, baby, I’m sorry. It’s not like that. I swear, you’re — you’re everything to me. Maybe I — maybe I get preoccupied sometimes. I get a little busy. Maybe I lose track of time. But that doesn’t mean my job means more.”
“I ask for one night a week, Marcus. One night where I get you all to myself,” you sniff, “You can’t even manage that.”
“I’ll do better, I swear,” he promises, finally resting his hands on your arms and pulling you into him, but you shake your head and look up at him, eyes burning.
“You always say that.”
“I mean it. I can’t stand seeing you like this. I don’t ever wanna be the reason you’re so hurt. I’m sorry. Please, don’t –“ he chokes on whatever thought passes through him and you frown.
“Don’t what? Leave you? Divorce you?”
His eyes are so dark and pleading, you wish you hadn’t spoken the words. Wish you hadn’t just confirmed his worst fears. Because you had considered it. He knows you must have thought about it at least once or twice. But to verbalize it is the very same thing as manifesting the outcome.
You can’t look at him anymore, and even though you don’t want to hurt him, you still say it, “Well, maybe that’s what’s best.”
”It’s not,” he says immediately. Firmly. Final.
”How do you know? You’re barely involved in our marriage as it is.” It’s the ugliest thing you’ve ever said to him, and it silences him in the blink of an eye.
You regret it the moment he turns away from you. The way his shoulders shudder, his hand trembling as he drags it down his face. The anguish in his posture is evident. And before you reach out to him, you force your hands to still, reminding yourself that he hurt you long before you hurt him.
Still. It was a shitty thing to say. But you don’t apologize. He can think on your words. Stew over them, turn them over in his mind until he’s wrung dry with the pain of loving you.
“I’m going to bed,” you say softly, sniffing. The tears have run out, but you know the moment you lie down, they’ll return. They always do.
He only nods, doesn’t look at you, ashamed. Good, you think.
You go upstairs, strip out of your dress, the sexy lingerie you’d worn for him, and slip into a pair of his plaid pajama pants and an old FBI t-shirt. You wash your face. Press a cold washcloth to your eyes, and try to push him out of your mind. You can’t, though. Part of you doesn’t want to. The part that’s so hopelessly in love with him, you feel like your chest will cave in with the intensity of it.
The other part, the part that wants to forget, remembers the pain. The humiliation. The loneliness. The neglect. And you want to purge it all from your mind. Everything tainted by him.
You finish getting ready for bed, hot tears slipping down your cheeks before you’re even nestled under the covers. The exhaustion drags you under. And just as you’re slipping away, you swear you can hear the front door closing. And you think it means something. But you’re too tired to understand.
You waited with your therapist for fifteen minutes before leaving. Even though you cancelled the rest of the session, you still paid for a full sixty minutes. You didn’t care. You only wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and succumb to your misery. Drown in the despair of your failed marriage. But you keep telling yourself – it wasn’t you who failed. It was Marcus.
You’re buried under your comforter, consumed by soft down and fluffy pillows, hiding from the weight of your turmoil, when you hear the front door open and close. It’s nearly nine o’clock at night. On a typical evening, that would be considered an early arrival for Marcus, but on your therapy nights, he’s not only missed the appointment, but he’s over three hours late.
He doesn’t come upstairs right away. You can hear him shuffling around in the kitchen, and you’re dreading the moment he decides to confront you, because you know he will. He didn’t come to bed last night, and you’re almost positive he went back to work after your argument. Good. At least he’ll always have his career to keep him company.
When your bedroom door opens to reveal him, his tie is loose, jacket missing, and his sleeves are rolled to his elbows, you almost flinch with the intensity of his presence. Like he’s the physical embodiment of the culmination of your pain. Right in front of you.
He doesn’t say anything when his eyes land on you, concealing yourself among the bedding, so you speak first.
“You didn’t come to therapy.”
Shaking his head, you can see his jaw clench, his eyes drop to his shoes, and his shoulders slump. “I had some things to take care of.”
You nod, eyes burning, anger pooling in your chest, hot and bright, “Of course you did.”
He sighs your name, pinching the bridge of his nose, “It couldn’t wait.”
“I never can.”
He looks at you then, his eyes sharpening, pained.
“They offered me the promotion.”
You expected as much. It’s the reason his life has been centered around his job for the past couple of years. At first, he’d only been held up a handful of times. It was nothing you didn’t understand and he always made it up to you. You were supportive, enthusiastic even, encouraging him to work as hard as he needed to to get the position.
Then, he missed one date night, then two. Then several in a row. He’d get home later and later each night until the two of you were simply strangers living under the same roof. You'd never felt lonelier.
And now, the job that kept him away for so many nights, was within his reach. You were proud of him for working so hard for it. But the bitterness that crept in was unmistakable. An odious, noxious feeling you wanted to smother. You didn’t want to be this person. This kind of wife. But his absence was worse. It carved a hole in you you didn’t think you could ever fill. Not without him. Not if it meant his job would rip him away from you permanently.
“I said no.”
Your eyes snap to his, unsure if you actually heard him correctly or if it was wistful thinking. If your mind was playing tricks on you. Your heart hammers away at your chest, blood rushing through your ears. You’re sure he can hear it.
“Told them I wanted to transfer.”
That makes your heart sink. Transfer. Transfer where? A different city? Is he trying to tell you he wants a divorce after all?
You swallow thickly, slowly pushing yourself to sit up. His eyes are so dark, so unreadable, you don’t know the path his thoughts are taking. When he doesn’t say anything else, you only nod, willing, pleading for your voice to be steady when you said, “So you’re leaving.”
You prepare for the worst.
With his muscled arms crossed over his broad chest, he scoffs, and it stills your beating heart for just a moment.
“You drive me crazy.”
That makes you scowl, makes you want to jump out of bed and storm over to him so you can slap him. But you remain rooted in place, waiting for him to elaborate.
“I want you to listen to me very carefully,” he begins, his voice low and solid in a way you’ve never heard before. He’s never stern – not with you. He’s always been soft and gentle. Now, the grave look he gives you silences you. “No job, no promotion, no opportunity, no pay raise, or anything else will ever be as important to me as you are.”
Your eyes well with tears, hands clasping in your lap, heart racing. Your skin buzzes with awareness, with the shock of his declaration.
“Do you hear me?” He says, loud and crisp, “Tell me that you understand.”
“Yes,” you answer, voice so frail and searching. You’re not sure if this is real or not. You don’t dare to hope.
“I’m taking over Analytics. It’s still a promotion. But less field work. More delegating. More in house investigating.”
“What does that mean?” You ask, looking down at your hands, twisting your fingers together, gripping the comforter.
“It means less late nights. Less absences. Less making you feel like you come second to absolutely anything. Because you don’t.”
You’re crying now, your face twisted, hands flying up to hide yourself from him. Ashamed. You never expected him to make such a drastic decision, not when he’s worked so hard for this. You never expected him to abandon it all just to make you happy. The guilt builds in your chest, bursting like a dam. You’d been prepared to divorce him, primed and braced for divorce.
And he’d surprised you.
“Hey,” he says softly, his weight sinking the bed, warm hands on your wrists to pull them away. When he does, he lowers his head to find your gaze and what you see there is warmth and understanding and remorse and it only makes you cry harder. “I can never take back the time that I missed with you. And I’m sorry I let myself get lost in my work like that. I know I can’t repair the damage I’ve done just by saying all of this. It’s going to take time for you to trust me again. But I want —“
He closes his eyes and takes a breath, centering himself.
“I’m sorry I missed our appointment today. I couldn’t get away, but I want to keep going. I need us to keep going. I never meant to make you feel like my job was more important than you. You’re —“ he swallows thickly, eyes pleading, fingers trembling against your wrists, “You’re my entire world. I would quit my job entirely before I let you go. I need you to know that.”
He lifts your hands to his lips, kissing each of your palms, then your fingers, holding them close, eyes squeezed shut like he’s fighting his own tears. You press your hands to his cheeks, making his eyes flutter open to look at you.
“Did you really reject the promotion?”
He nods, kissing your hand again, lowering his eyes, "I did what I should’ve done the second I made you feel neglected.”
“Marcus —“ your throat feels tight when you speak, but you have to tell him, “I never wanted you to choose between me and your job. I’m sorry —“
“Don’t,” he hushes you gently, “It was never a choice, baby. You are the only thing that matters.”
“But you worked so hard,” your eyes burn with more tears, the terrible, aching sensation of dread clouding you, this moment, “You’re going to resent me.”
His eyes soften and he shakes his head, resolute and firm, “Listen to me.”
“I gave you an ultimatum —“ he shakes his head again, cutting you off, letting the words die on your tongue.
You stifle the next sob that threatens to escape, looking at him — genuinely looking at him — for perhaps the first time in months. His eyes are so dark. So warm. Gentle in a way that makes you regret ever looking away.
“I made this choice. Not you. You didn’t give me an ultimatum. You didn’t tell me to choose between work and you. You were very clear about what you needed, and I refused to see it. Do you understand?”
You nod.
“I did this to us. And I had to fix it, okay?”
You nod again.
“I can’t have you thinking I’m not completely and totally in love with you.”
You can’t help it. You let out a laugh. Partially a sob, and a huff of air. A breath you’d been holding in since the first missed date night. The tension in your body melts when he wraps you in his arms, still seated on the bed next to you, your legs buried under the comforter. He holds you so tightly, so securely. You never want him to let go.
You burrow a hand in his hair, turn your head to kiss the side of his neck. He pulls away, giving you a beseeching look.
“Can I kiss you?”
You don’t hesitate, nodding, diving into him before the sentence is even fully formed on his lips. He meets you there, and it’s the best kiss you’ve ever shared. It takes shape quickly, dripping with desperation and longing and sorrow. You taste the remorse on him as he licks past your lips, threads his fingers in your hair, tips your head back. It’s hungry and deep and searching for salvation.
You’re the first to begin undressing him, pulling his tie loose and working on the buttons of his shirt as he continues to pour his entire soul into the kiss. He shrugs out of the shirt and breaks away when you start yanking his undershirt up his body. He does the same to you, both of you shedding everything in a matter of seconds.
When you’re both bare from head to toe, and he’s settling between the valley of your welcoming thighs, hand braced next to your head, he just looks at you. Takes you in. Scrutinizing the details of your face like he hadn’t done for some time.
“I love you so much,” he whispers like it’s a secret he’s been keeping to himself. More tears spring to your eyes and you pull him down for another kiss, his stiff cock brushing your slick folds.
You whimper as he breaches you. It’s been so long since he’s touched you this delicately, this tenderly, or at all for that matter. His job has consumed every moment of his life, leaving little to no room for you. The lack of intimacy between you and Marcus an unwelcome side effect of his burgeoning career.
The sting of him pressing into you makes you gasp, your walls clenching tight. You break away with a whine, clutching at him, arching your body into him. He moans into your neck and flexes his hips.
“Never gonna let you go,” he mutters, sinking into you further. Your eyes flutter shut, and then you feel the brush of his thumb against your cheek. “Open for me, baby.”
You look at him then, and the adoration and truth behind his words strikes you, makes you shudder underneath him. It breaks you open in a visceral, raw way that has you pulling him impossibly close. He drops to his forearms, the weight of him covering you, grounding you.
When he starts to move, his lips are on you. Your neck, your breasts, your cheeks, anywhere he can reach. In turn, your hands roam his body, feeling the muscles of his back tense with each thrust, nails digging and hips meeting.
He’s slow and deliberate at first, making you feel every thick inch of him the way you were always meant to. But when your pleasure builds, his desperation eclipses anything tender and slow in favor of power and depth. You come on his cock with a cry of his name, chanting how much you love him, how you never want him to stop.
He’s right behind you, careening over the edge so fast, you’re unprepared for the intensity of it and the aftershocks it delivers. Marcus remains seated inside you as your breaths even out, pressing delicate, intentional kisses across your shoulders, up your neck, until he reaches your lips. You clutch him to you as though he could slip away at any moment, reveling in the attention he willingly gives.
Neither of you speak as he slides out of you and collects you in his arms. You can’t even remember the last time he held you like this, and it makes your chest ache at the lost moments his career stole from you both. You nestle against him, he tightens his arms around you, likely dwelling on the same misgivings.
His thoughts are loud, the tension in his body not quite eased. You look up at him and he’s already staring down at you. Forlorn, somber eyes greet you, and you kiss his jaw.
“I’m not perfect,” he says quietly, “But I want to be. I’m trying to be – for you.”
The twinge of his admission is sharp and prominent. You press a hand to his cheek, “Marcus, I never wanted you to be perfect. I just wanted you.”
He frowns, and you know exactly what he’s thinking. Exactly how his insecurities are burrowing under his skin, darkening his thoughts.
“Tell me,” you say, kissing his jaw again.
“I almost lost you. I hurt you. And I didn’t even see it. I’m a fucking idiot.”
You don’t want to lie to him. But you also don’t want to tell him how his neglect had plagued you. How it wrung your self-worth completely dry. How lonely you were. How unloved. But you also know that neither of you can heal unless he knows. Unless you’re honest with him too.
So you tell him. You watch his face fall, his eyes shimmer with unshed tears, then close because hearing how deeply he’d wounded you is unbearable. His grip on you tightens, fingers threading in your hair.
And though your marriage is far from perfect, and you two have a lot of ground to cover before it’s as strong as it once was, you’re hopeful.
Because for the first time in months, maybe even years, you fall asleep with your husband at your side.
Tags/Warnings: Older!Marcus Pike, Apocalypse AU, many ridiculous side characters, a Bad Guy appears, Bad Guy says some icky things toward reader, gun violence (against the Bad Guy), protective!Marcus, my beloved
Summary: As you settle in, you become more comfortable with Marcus and learn more about his past and about the Museum. You could almost get used to this new life, until something unexpected rips through your growing sense of peace and reminds you of your past...
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter 1
You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”
“How do you mean?”
“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”
Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly.
As if the universe was waiting for this cue, the doorknob behind you turns, and you jump backwards as the hangar door slowly swings open.
“Knock, knock!” A woman’s voice rings out from outside. In a panic, you cast your eyes around for something to use as a weapon.
That bust of Socrates will do. You’re about to lunge for it, when Marcus lets out a loud, surprised laugh.
“What are you two doing here in all of this snow?” he asks as two people enter the museum, stomping the snow off of their boots and onto the welcome mat.
“She made me come,” an elderly man grumbles. “Damn woman has spring fever.”
A matronly-looking woman with deep laugh-lines around her eyes gives the man a small shove. “Don’t listen to him, he was just as restless to get out of the house. A snowstorm at the end of March, honestly!”
“It always snows at the end of March,” the man grunts, fishing in his coat pocket. “Got a trade.”
Marcus grins. “I was hoping you’d come around soon, actually. Just finished this.” He opens the drawer of a nearby desk littered with papers and pulls out a small wooden figurine. “It’s a horse. Well, it’s supposed to be. The proportions are a little off.”
You watch as the older man takes it and turns it around and around in his hands just a couple of inches from his face. “Your technique is getting better,” he says gruffly. He reaches back into his pocket and pulls out his own hand-carved piece.
This piece is expertly carved; a small, smooth sphere trapped inside a little cube frame. Marcus takes it reverently, spinning the sphere around within its cage with a smile.
“Maybe one day I’ll get as good as you,” he says.
“Doubt it.”
“Shut up, Harold.” The elderly woman pulls a small canning jar from her satchel. “I brought you some of our peaches.”
“Oh Edith,” Marcus exhales softly. “That’s very generous of you. I’m not sure I have something of the same value to give in return.”
“Do you still have some of those candles you made last summer?” the woman asks. “They made our entire house smell like honeysuckle.”
Marcus brightens. “I do! Let me–” he starts for the door, and then turns around, seeming to only just now remember that you’re still standing there, watching this exchange in dumbfoundment.
“Whozzat?” The old man grunts.
“Uh…” you say weakly.
“A traveler,” Marcus answers quickly. “Staying until… well, until she moves on, I suppose.”
“A traveler!” the woman exclaims. “Where are you from?”
You shake your head, and she gives you an understanding, sympathetic look. “And where are you heading?”
“Away.”
“S’what I figured,” she nods, as though you’d actually given an explanation. “Well, you couldn’t have found a better place to end up, if only temporarily. Marcus and his museum are practically famous for their hospitality.”
Marcus laughs. “I think ‘famous’ is a strong word, unless you’re only counting those within a few country miles from here.”
“Famous is as famous does,” Edith says, which makes absolutely no sense to you. “Go fetch me one of those honeysuckle candles.”
“Damn house is gonna smell like a flower shop,” the old man grumbles.
That night, as you and Marcus share Edith’s jar of peaches, you have to keep yourself from staring at him, wondering what this man’s story is, and how he came to be… him. Marcus. The man with an entire museum sitting in an airplane hangar in the Pennsylvania countryside.
“How long have you been here?” you can’t help but ask.
Marcus looks up and to the side with a thoughtful expression. “Must be… seventeen, eighteen years now? Eighteen,” he decides.
You do the math in your head with a small frown. “That’s five years after everything… you know.”
Marcus nods. “I kicked around for a while, went back home to Austin, where I grew up, but…” he sighs, trailing off.
“But what?”
“But familiarity doesn’t equate with happiness. Guess it took the end of the world for me to figure that one out. I had to let go of it, of… everything, and one day I just… took off. No plan, no nothing. In hindsight it was pretty stupid, but knowing how it ends up, well, I wouldn’t change it for the world.”
Marcus leans back onto the tattered couch cushions with a faraway look as he continues. “Got the idea for the museum by chance. I was passing through Kentucky, they’ve got–you know, all those big horse ranches and stuff. I was exploring one, looking for food and found something else entirely.”
“What was it?” you ask, engrossed by his story.
“A Vermeer. An original. Just sitting in an abandoned mansion in the middle of nowhere, and I just thought… that it was a shame, that it would just degrade and deteriorate with the rest of the house, and that no one would ever see it or appreciate it ever again. And so…” Marcus laughs softly, “I took it.”
Despite yourself, you can’t help but smile. “So you became an art thief.”
Marcus fixes you with a strange look that you can’t interpret.
“Yeah,” he finally says with a chuckle. “Yeah, I guess so. If you want to call it that, that is.”
“What would you call it?”
“I’m an art… liberator.”
“Mmm,” you raise one eyebrow.
Marcus grins. “It’s all in the way you look at things, isn’t it?”
You turn and stare at the crackling fireplace for a few moments. “Yeah, I suppose so.”
The silence that falls between you isn’t nearly as awkward as it was before. It’s almost… cozy. Companionable. Safe.
“I’m from New York City,” you offer, as a trade of sorts for Marcus’s story.
“Are you,” he intones softly, the words laden with meaning and sorrow. Apart from maybe the U.S. capitol, New York City was one of the hardest hit. That’s one of the main reasons you don’t offer that information to others; the discomfort, pity, and even horror on their faces is simply more than you can bear. You could never reconcile the fact that you are the one to witness other people’s horror, when you are one of the lucky few who survived. You can’t imagine what it must be like for those who, hypothetically, survived from the capitol. You don’t know–you’ve never heard of anyone who had.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Is that where you were before you came here?”
“No.” You weren’t ready to talk about that yet.
Marcus nods, always understanding, never pushing. You still wonder how someone as soft as him has survived a world like this without breaking.
It certainly broke you.
But perhaps that was the problem all along: you coated yourself in sharp spikes and armor, becoming harder to cope with the realities of the world… But hard things will eventually snap in two. You and Marcus adapted to the Now with two completely different strategies… and you’re starting to realize the power of his softness.
“I’m from D.C.,” he says quietly, breaking the silence.
“What?”
“Before Austin. I lived in Washington, D.C.”
The next morning, you awake to the sound of birdsong, a welcome change from the quiet, snow-covered world. Marcus comes down from what must be his bedroom upstairs not long after, and looks out of the window with a soft, contented sigh.
“That means it should warm up pretty significantly today,” he says by way of greeting. “With any luck, the snow will be gone by tomorrow.”
“Good.” You snuggle further down into your sleeping bag, chasing the last few minutes of warmth before you have to get up. “Sometimes I feel like I never got warm after the night that you found me.”
“The sunshine should change that,” Marcus says with a grin. “That, and a little hard labor.” He playfully shakes his finger at you. “I’ve let you skate along for free here long enough, but it’s time you earn your keep. And it will be nice to have a helping hand.”
You follow Marcus to a small stable tucked away at the edge of his property, where two horses, one black and one dappled brown, are waiting.
“Meet Rembrandt and Mr. Pickle,” Marcus announces.
The laugh comes out before you can stifle it. “Mr. Pickle?”
“Rembrandt, because she's dark, mysterious, and moody. And Mr. Pickle, because he's the dumbest, most accident-prone horse I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. Constantly knocking over the rain barrels and getting into things he shouldn't be. So he's always getting himself in–”
“Into a pickle,” you both finish in unison.
Marcus turns to look at you and flashes a wide, warm smile. At once, your entire body feels overheated for the first time in days, but it isn’t the sunshine or the physical activity. You shake your head as you turn over the straw in the stable in the way Marcus instructs you. You’re just lonely. You aren’t used to being in close proximity with another human. It’s only a surface-level fascination because he confuses and intrigues you. These and a hundred other excuses swirl around your mind as reasons for your physical reaction to this man, and you force yourself to promise that you’ll leave when the weather improves enough for things to bloom. As long as you can forage, you can survive on the journey to… wherever it is you’re going.
Where are you going?
It’s a question that has hovered in the periphery of your awareness since you fled the Colony, always being shoved away as something to worry about later, after this thing, or the other thing, or the other. You haven’t had the time to pull it out and examine it thoroughly. No, that’s a lie.
Coward.
It’s far easier to simply keep running than it is to have a destination in mind. All this time on the road, you’ve pretended that you can live like this forever… until you can’t.
This is why we don’t think about this.
“...should be coming today.”
You shake yourself to try and dispel the dark thoughts, realizing Marcus has probably been speaking this whole time.
“Sorry–what?”
To his credit (not that he needs another checkmark in the ‘amazing guy’ column in your brain), Marcus gives you a patient and understanding smile.
“I was saying that it’s Monday, and that means a young student from the Amish community north of here should be coming today to study.”
“Study?” you squint in confusion.
“I have a collection of rare bibles,” Marcus explains. He leans closer, looking from side to side before he speaks, as though he was about to tell you a great secret. “I even have a Gutenberg bible.” He says it with such gravitas, and waits expectantly for your reaction.
“...I don’t know what that is.”
“Well,” Marcus exclaims cheerfully. “It’s a good thing you’re here, then, isn’t it?”
He unlocks the door to the museum and gestures you inside the same way as before. This time you don’t wait, giving him a small nod before entering the hangar.
Yesterday, you were too overwhelmed and too skittish to properly look around, but today you can’t help but move further into the space and explore. You wander in between the artworks, passing by Classic Greek and Roman statues, Native American pottery, sculptures by Rodin and some odd-looking modern art pieces that cause you to tilt your head to the side as you consider them.
There's enough here in the middle of the hangar to keep you occupied for an entire day without even beginning to examine the crowded walls, but you force yourself to peruse the paintings as well, starting with the western wall and slowly moving around. You scan up and down the crowded jumble of artwork; there's something about the eccentric “organization” (and in some places, the lack thereof) that makes this experience far different than any museum field trip you'd taken as a child. The mixing up of styles, eras, and painters isn't disorienting, as you'd expected, but unique and strange and intentional, and it makes you look at the artwork in a new light. It's as if all of history has blended together in one colorful, eccentric heap. You wonder if the walls are a reflection of how Marcus's mind works.
Thinking of him again, you glance over to where he's standing. He's at the large bookshelf, presumably organizing the shelves, but when you turn your head in his direction, he's already looking at you. Then, he blinks and grabs a book at random off the shelf and examines it–you aren't exactly sure for what. He clears his throat awkwardly and sets it back down.
“All right?” he asks. “What do you think?” He shuffles back and forth, seemingly anxious about what your response will be.
“In all the years I've spent on this earth, I think this is the strangest, most interesting… and wonderful thing I've ever seen,” you say truthfully.
“Yesterday you thought I was crazy.”
“I still think that.”
Marcus presses his lips together and looks down.
“...and I think that makes you the sanest person in the whole world.”
Marcus looks back up again as a smile spreads across his face. “Now who's not making any sense?” he teases.
“Hallo?” An unfamiliar voice cuts into your conversation, and you jump out of your skin, still unused to random strangers popping in unannounced.
“Mr. Pike?”
Marcus turns toward the front door with a smile. “Jebediah, there you are.”
A young boy stands in the entrance to the museum wearing dark pants with suspenders, a collared shirt, and straw hat. He looks to be around sixteen or seventeen. He acts around sixteen or seventeen too, you think, when he immediately rolls his eyes.
“Only you and my parents call me that anymore,” he says with an exaggerated sigh.
“Jeb,” Marcus corrects, with a wry glance in your direction. “Glad to see you this morning. I'd like you to meet my new houseguest–she's a traveler, she's staying with me for a little while.”
“There aren't many travelers on this road,” Jeb remarks, tipping his hat in your direction. “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—er, Ma'am.” He reaches into a worn leather satchel and pulls out a small bundle wrapped in a checkered kitchen towel and hands it to Marcus. “Some bread from my Mamm. For your troubles.”
As Marcus accepts the loaf with a gracious nod, Jeb reaches back into his pack and sheepishly retrieves a book. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games. Marcus’s smile widens to a boyish grin.
“Finished already? How was it?”
Jeb smiles sheepishly and pulls a worn book out of a small leather satchel. You just barely catch the title as he hands it over to Marcus: The Hunger Games.
“I loved it!” the boy exclaims. He lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Especially the action and the scary bits.”
Marcus grins. “I thought you might.”
“Do you have anything that's scarier?”
Marcus presses a finger to his chin, thinking for a moment. “You like scary stuff, huh? Okay.” He fishes in his jacket pocket and pulls out a pair of round wire-framed glasses, putting them on before perusing his shelves. “How do you feel about… Stephen King?” He selects a book with a scary-looking clown on the cover and shows it to the boy. You raise one eyebrow–you've definitely read this one, and you aren’t sure if it's the right choice for an Amish teenager.
“Cool,” Jeb breathes, taking the book with enthusiasm.
“Don't let your mother see that one,” Marcus says, giving the boy a look.
“No shit.” Jeb rolls his eyes. Seeming to remember himself, he straightens and takes on a more polite demeanor. “Sorry. I mean, thank you, Mr. Pike.”
Marcus puts his hand on the boy's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Just remember to keep up with your studies and chores the way you're supposed to.” He lowers his voice and adds, “And let me know what you think of that one. I confess: it scared the shit out of me when I was your age.”
They both laugh, and you can’t help but chuckle along. You've spent time with various groups of survivors over the years, but you haven't ever seen people act like this: sharing resources without expectation and supporting one another.
Maybe you've been around all the wrong people.
You laugh humorlessly to yourself. Well, you knew that already, didn't you?
Marcus gently slaps his thighs. “Well, you know the drill. Cloth gloves are in my desk drawer, and you let me know if you need any help.” He turns to you. “I'm going to make a bit of lunch for the three of us. Want to lend a hand?”
You nod eagerly and follow him out of the museum and toward the farmhouse, leaving Jeb to his studies. But almost immediately, Marcus stops, causing you to almost run into him. You aren’t sure why, until you follow his gaze… and see the man standing on the road, staring at you.
Marcus holds his arm out, silently motioning for you to stay back. “Welcome, stranger,” he calls out, maintaining a friendly and open tone. “Come to visit the museum, or just passing through? Either way, we’re happy to trade for whatever you need before you head back on your way.”
You and Marcus both know the man is not here to see the museum. He looks the same as most other travelers you've had the misfortune of encountering: ratty clothes, rotten teeth, and an air of desperation that can't be put into words.
“Whad'ya got?” the man rasps.
“I have food, supplies, some clothing… name what you want and I'll see what I can provide,” Marcus answers.
The stranger looks past him, fixing his gaze on you instead. “How ‘bout the woman?”
“I'm not in the business of trading people,” Marcus says coolly. “I'm happy to trade for food, if that's what you need, but after that I'm afraid you'll need to be on your way.”
The stranger stalks closer, not taking his gaze off of you. “Wasn't askin’.” He spits on the ground. “Foolish man tellin’ all the world he has enough to his name to trade it away. What’s to stop me from taking it, eh? All the spoils to those who walk in the light.”
You physically recoil at the all-to-familiar phrase, but there's nowhere else to go. Where would you run to? Back into the museum? Into the farmhouse to hide under the covers like a child? Would you really let Marcus, the gentlest human you've ever met, face this man on his own?
“You aren’t familiar with the rules of the museum,” Marcus says, his voice firm and unyielding. “That's okay. You're a visitor here, and I am always accommodating of all who come here in search of knowledge or assistance. But I will give you this one warning: The most important rule on these premises is to be respectful of all, and the implications of trading in human beings does not fall within those boundaries. If you'd like to reconsider your statement–”
“Nah,” the other man growls. “I ain't gonna reconsider.” His hand drifts down to his hip, seeking. Reaching. You catch a glint of gunmetal under his hole-ridden jacket.
“Marcus,” you warn, eyeing the movement.
But Marcus is already tugging at the hem of his shirt, pulling it up and over to expose his own sidearm. “Let's all calm down,” he says, holding one hand out in a gesture of peace.
The other man freezes, and for a moment you think he’s going to actually listen to Marcus. He slowly begins to raise both hands over his head, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Then, faster than he has any right to be, one hand keeps going, darting back over his shoulder to reach into a backpack, grabbing the handle of a hatchet, and launching it in Marcus’s direction before you can even scream.
The gunshot is deafening compared to the quiet country morning.
The sound is still echoing through the trees as the man slumps to the ground, bleeding from the hole in the middle of his forehead.
You tear your gaze away from the sight and look over at Marcus. He’s standing, frozen, his gun still pointed forward. Then, with an expression of utter sorrow and regret, he closes his eyes and sighs as his arms slowly drop. The hatchet is half-buried in the ground several feet behin
“Damnit,” he breathes to himself.
“Mr. Pike!” Jeb bursts out of the museum and starts to run toward you, but Marcus frantically throws one hand back.
“Stop!” His voice cracks as he shouts. “We’re okay,” he assures, quieter and calmer this time. “It’s over. Jeb, don’t–don’t come closer. You shouldn’t see–”
“Oh my God,” the boy gasps, moving forward anyway. “Who… Who was that?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus says quietly. “Jeb, you should go home as quickly as you can.”
“But I–”
“Jeb. Did you walk here?”
“Yes, but–”
“Take Rembrandt and go home. Tell your father to be on the lookout for strangers on the road, just in case.”
“You think there’s more of them?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus says firmly. “But there was something unsettling about that man, and I want you to go home and let them know what happened, just to be safe.”
Jeb finally nods and turns toward the stables, breaking out into a run as he crosses the open field.
Marcus finally turns to you. “Are you okay?” he asks softly. His hand reaches toward you, fingers outstretched as though he wants to touch you, comfort you somehow.
You swallow. “Yep,” you say quickly, pressing your lips together. “I’m fine.”
Marcus raises one eyebrow slightly but doesn’t push.
“Let’s get inside the house and keep watch,” he says, face grim. “I want to make sure he doesn’t have any friends following behind.”
You let him guide you, walking past the hatchet, now harmless and half-buried in the grass several feet behind where Marcus had been standing.
Tags/Warnings: Older!Marcus Pike, Apocalypse AU, reader almost dies at the very beginning but she's fine, lots of mentions of food and being hungry because food is scarce, reader has lots of trust issues
Summary: You are lost, starving, and stuck in a snowstorm after fleeing a bad situation, when you see it: a cozy little farmhouse with smoke coming out of the chimney, and a large barn with the letters 'ART MUSEUM' painted on the front. The man who lives there and tends to the museum is unlike anyone you've ever met in this hellscape of a world...
A/N: WELL HELLO FRIENDS. It's been a little while since you've heard from me, but I promise I never left ;) I've just been low in the motivation and ideas departments when it comes to writing. But then my one true love Marcus Pike (aka clean-shaven Pedro) returned from the war and I started rotating him around and around in my mind again, and I simply MUST put this man in situations. I "told" myself this bedtime story the other night instead of sleeping and I hope you like it!
Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist
Chapter 2 >>
You find him in a farmhouse north of Philadelphia.
You aren’t sure exactly where; you’ve considered yourself “lost” for at least a day and a half now. You can’t remember how many days it’s been since you left the Colony. A week? Two weeks?
The only thing you know is that you ran out of food three days ago, and it’s not like you’ll find anything to scavenge in this weather. You wish you hadn’t had to leave so quickly, leaving your cherished hunting rifle propped against the wall of the detached garage you had called home for the past year. If you had just taken the extra few minutes to run back and grab it, you would at least be able to bag a squirrel or two now.
Stupid.
Snow whips around you as you trudge through the deepening snowdrifts. Occasionally, you grab handfuls to stuff in your mouth, but it does little to help the intense headache that’s set in from the exertion of walking through a blizzard. You thought your heaviest parka would be enough–and maybe it would be, if you weren’t so close to starvation–but the cold is beginning to overwhelm your body, and as the sky begins to darken, your footsteps have slowed considerably.
When you see the little white farmhouse, it’s almost completely dark, but not so much that you can’t see the gentle plume of smoke rising out of the brick chimney. It’s not safe to approach a random settlement, you remind yourself. That’s like, Apocalypse 101. It’s the stupidest, most reckless thing you can do. You have no idea who’s inside. You have no idea what they will do to you.
You should turn around and leave. You should go knock on the door. No, leave. With your mind so foggy with hunger and cold and unable to process your conflicting urges, you just… stand there.
So… tired.
It isn’t until the cold snow begins to trickle into the neck of your parka that you realize you’ve fallen to the ground. You stare blankly at the large barn that sits a few yards away from the farmhouse. Someone has painted the words ‘ART MUSEUM’ in big, black letters on the front of it.
Weird.
When you wake up, you’re warm and dry.
Or maybe you’re dead.
No–if you were dead, you wouldn’t be able to smell woodsmoke, or hear the crackle of a nearby fireplace.
With a panicked inhale, you shoot upward, frantically trying to get your bearings and determining your best route of escape.
“Easy, easy.”
Your head whips in the direction of the voice. A man stands across from you, as far as he can physically get from you and still be in the same room. He holds both hands up, spreading his fingers in a show of peace. His eyes are cautious, but gentle, and his brow is creased as though he were anxious.
“Easy,” he repeats. “I found you out in the snow and brought you inside. I won’t hurt you.”
“Why?” you rasp.
The man seems confused by the question. “You were going to die,” he says with a shrug. “You don’t have any food in your pack. When was the last time you ate anything?”
Suspicion flares in your gut. “You looked through my stuff?”
He grimaces a little. “I can’t just bring someone into my house without knowing anything about them.”
“What were you looking for?”
He shrugs again. “Weapons. Drugs. I don’t know.”
“I don’t have any.”
“I know that, now.”
The two of you regard each other warily for a few moments, not speaking. Something about him makes you want to trust him, but trust is a hot commodity these days, for how scarce it seems to be.
“You must be hungry,” he says, breaking the silence. “At this point in the season, I’ve got venison jerky and… more venison jerky, but in your condition I’m more worried about it making you sick.”
“I don’t care,” you say quickly, the prospect of anything edible making your hands shake with anticipation.
“I’ll give you a little,” he decides, “and I think I have some cornmeal. I can make some poor man’s polenta.”
“Some… what?”
The man grins lopsidedly. “I mean, it’s just cornmeal and water. But it feels better to call it ‘polenta’ rather than ‘gruel.’”
You don’t respond, still watching him and trying to calculate whether this man is a threat. When he reaches into his coat pocket, you flinch, and he stops.
“I’ve got… I’m taking out some food for you. Okay?” He moves again, slower this time, and retrieves a small bundle of a handkerchief. “Venison, like I said.” He pauses, seemingly unsure of what to do next. “I could uh… throw it at you? If you don’t want me to come over there.”
“It’s fine,” you shake your head. “I mean, you… can. Come here, or… throw it, I don’t care,” you stammer out quickly.
Keeping his eyes fixed on you, the man slowly approaches, one hand holding out the bundle, the other still held outstretched in front of his chest in a show of supplication. You swallow awkwardly as saliva pools in anticipation. He’s moving too slow. When he’s just a few feet away, you lunge forward and snatch it from his hands, making him back away slightly with wide eyes.
You don’t care, not anymore. You rifle through the handkerchief and find a few precious morsels of jerky, stuffing them in your mouth all at once and swallowing almost without tasting.
The man huffs softly through his nose. “I’ve got more in the kitchen. And I’ll heat up some water for the uh, cornmeal.”
You nod, and he holds up both his hands again. “I’ll be right back. Just… stay there and get warm. I promise, you’re safe. I promise.”
The man vanishes, and in a couple of minutes, you can hear the metal clink of a pan being set down. You sit, staring at the place he vacated, willing yourself to stay alert and vigilant just in case, but the fire is so warm and your eyes are heavy and you really do feel safe for the first time in… well, you really don’t remember.
The next time you wake, daylight is creeping in through the windows and the man is gone. Next to you, though, is a bowl of whatever it is he made with the cornmeal, and more jerky, both of which you eat with gusto. Just as you’re scooping out the last little bit of the bowl with one finger, a floorboard creaks behind you, and you whirl around to face the man again, with one cornmeal-covered finger halfway in your mouth.
“You like it?” the man asks with a small, cautious smile.
“Mmhmm.” You awkwardly lick your finger clean and wipe it on the front of your coat. “It’s… sweet.”
“I still have a little bit of wildflower honey, I had forgotten.”
Honey? That he had forgotten about? Who IS this man?
“Honey.”
He shrugs. “Otherwise it really is more like gruel than polenta.”
“How…” you shake your head in confusion. “Where did you get honey?”
“I trade for it.”
“You trade.”
“Yes.”
The silence hangs awkwardly between you, and the man shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another. “I’m glad you’re up. I usually open the museum at dawn, and I’m running a little behind.”
“The… what?”
“The museum,” he repeats, as though that clarifies anything. “I need to feed the horses first, though. Do you drink coffee?”
You nod dumbly, unable to process the rapid-fire change in topics.
He springs into motion, heading toward the doorway to what must be the kitchen. This time, you follow him. Cautiously, of course–always staying at least six feet away as you watch him pour water from a large cistern into a cast-iron kettle and place it onto a wood stove. Then, he rifles in a cabinet and withdraws a faded, stained tupperware full of dried meat.
“More jerky?”
“You shouldn’t… you shouldn’t be sharing this much of your food with a stranger,” you say, frowning, but your hand still reaches toward the food.
“Good point. I’m Marcus. What’s your name?” He extends his free hand with an expectant look.
Your frown deepens. You don’t just… give out your name like that. Doesn’t this man know anything?
After another uncomfortable silence, the man… Marcus… withdraws his hand with a nod, and suddenly, you realize you feel incredibly guilty.
“S-Sorry–” you try, but he interrupts.
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Trust me.”
You take a small piece of jerky and chew on it, mostly as an excuse not to have to continue speaking. When the kettle sings, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. Marcus pours the boiling water into a worn-looking french press, and you watch his hands as he presses the lid down, then pours the steaming liquid into two mismatched mugs.
“I’d offer you cream and sugar, but I’m trying to cut back.” He looks at you, and when you don’t laugh, he huffs softly to himself anyway. “Kidding. But it sure was a struggle switching to black coffee when… well, you know.”
You know.
That’s how most people your age talked about life now–two distinct periods of time: Before, and whatever this is. Now. You know.
Marcus is still looking at you. You drop your gaze, and sip the coffee. It’s strong. Something about how the taste of coffee has been one of the few things that has always been the same calms you, and you feel just some of the tension leave your shoulders.
“I’ve gotta feed the horses before they revolt,” he suddenly announces, setting his mug down. “The weather is shit, and you’re still recovering your strength, so you should stay here, but…” He trails off, bashfully. “When you’re feeling up to it, you can come see the museum.”
Still not understanding what he means, you shrug and nod. “Yeah. Sure.”
Marcus beams, and that’s when you realize he’s really quite beautiful.
You nap a while longer while Marcus is outside feeding the horses, and whatever else he’s doing out there. He comes back covered in snow, brushing it off his shoulders by the front door and hanging his coat.
He rubs his hands together and breathes into them as he walks into the living room, making an exaggerated ‘brrrr’ sound. “Once this clears up I can go trade for some bread and butter, but for now, I’m afraid it’s venison jerky for lunch again,” he jokes. He grabs a handful for himself and extends another little bundle out for you.
“How are you feeling?” he asks. “Up to a little walking around?”
“To see the… museum,” you deadpan.
“Yes!”
It’s only when you leave the little farmhouse again that you remember the large barn you saw just before losing consciousness. On the front, large black letters read ‘ART MUSEUM’ just as they did in your fleeting memory. In the light of day–and without the delirium of hunger–you realize it used to be an airplane hangar.
As you approach, you notice the smaller sign near the door. It reads:
ADMISSION: Trade*
RULES: Be respectful of all visitors and occupants of the property
Must ask before accessing Archives and Rare Books
*Can be physical item, trinket, information, story, etc.
Thank you for your support of the arts
“It’s great, right?” Marcus is saying as he trudges toward the front door. “I stumbled upon this place through sheer providence, and I couldn’t believe my luck.” He unlocks a heavy padlock and opens the door with a flourish, gesturing for you to come inside. You stare at his hand, still not trusting him enough to enter an unfamiliar building before him.
Marcus seems to get the hint, and steps through the door himself, leaving it open for you to inspect. You peek your head inside, and…
Well, you aren’t sure what you expected, but for some reason, you hadn’t taken ‘Museum’ literally–and yet, here you are, standing in an old airplane hangar whose walls are completely covered with artworks of every style and time period you can imagine. The large open space is filled with sculptures, vases, and other artifacts, and on the left side of the hangar is a large, overflowing bookshelf.
For the moment, you’re too stunned to speak, but as usual, Marcus does it for you.
“It’s not exactly climate-controlled, of course, but this is better than any of the situations they came from.”
“You… you did all of this?” you whisper, taking in the museum with a look of sheer bewilderment.
“It’s been my life’s work–well, this life’s work, at least,” Marcus corrects himself. “Most of the major cities, I mean… you know how they are.”
You do. You have firsthand knowledge, although you don’t feel like sharing that information with the man.
“Sure, some museums were completely destroyed by the blasts, but some are still intact, just… inaccessible.”
You snort. That’s one way to describe it. Any portion of the cities that remain unburnt are treacherous, full of desperate people who can’t leave, and large syndicates of raiders and thieves who hoard what resources are left.
Marcus gestures at the walls. “When I started, I tried to keep them all organized, I really did. A wing for the Expressionists, a wing for Postmodernism, and so on, but things have gotten a little jumbled over the years.”
“You. You go to the cities. And you. Take the art.” you sputter, still focused on the insanity of it all. “And you bring it. Here.”
“It’s not stealing,” Marcus protests, his voice rising in pitch as he shuffles nervously on his feet.
“That’s not what–” You laugh in disbelief. “How the fuck do you get safely through any of these cities?”
“...Carefully.”
“Why?!”
Marcus shrugs. “I guess… when I started, it was because I wanted to preserve our history, but it’s grown to be so much more than that, it’s–” he sighs. “I want the world to have something beautiful. To know that it’s still possible.”
You stare at him. “How… how have you survived this long?”
“How do you mean?”
“You give food away. Way too much of it. You spend your time sneaking into the most dangerous areas of the country and for what? To sit here by yourself in this… graveyard of humanity?”
Marcus looks affronted, and you try to force yourself not to feel bad for clearly hurting his feelings. “It’s not just for me,” he says indignantly.
As if the universe was waiting for this cue, the doorknob behind you turns, and you jump backwards as the hangar door slowly swings open.
Summary: You should turn around and leave. You should go knock on the door. No, leave. With your mind so foggy with hunger and cold and unable to process your conflicting urges, you just… stand there.
So… tired.
It isn’t until the cold snow begins to trickle into the neck of your parka that you realize you’ve fallen to the ground. You stare blankly at the large barn that sits a few yards away from the farmhouse. Someone has painted the words ‘ART MUSEUM’ in big, black letters on the front of it.
Weird.
Notes: Apocalypse AU. The “type” of apocalypse is never fully specified, but it’s implied to be a war as many major cities were bombed. Older Marcus Pike (YES, this is heavily inspired by his Oscars look.) Reader’s age is not specified, but she’s old enough to have remembered the “time before” the world ended. This is going to be more of a cozy story taking place in a dystopia rather than anything bleak, depressing, or gory; HOWEVER, there will be some dark stuff as environmental “place setting.” These two have seen a lot of death as part of their journey to get to where they are now.
