Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Nolan’s been gone for months now. He left a wake in his absence. A gaping chasm that Mark can’t seem to fill no matter how much time passes. It’s constant; the knowledge of what his dad did and why. It’s a bitter pill that he has to swallow every time he goes outside. No matter where he goes. He sees it on the news– coming home from school, he catches his mother watching it in rapt attention, eyes big and swelled with redness like she hasn’t slept in weeks– and on the streets– graffiti in the city has moved from just tributes to those who were lost in Chicago, but fury for the man who swore he was there to protect. ‘Fuck Omni-man’ and ‘Murderer’ above a mural of his father with blood stained hands’-- and even worse; in his home.

He walks through the halls of the house he’s lived in since he was born and feels nothing but discomfort. The room he grew up in feels tainted every time he sits at his desk or curls up in his bed. The glow-in-the-dark stars his dad helped him put up when he was eight feel like eyes, watching. They’ve been dimming for a while now though. They no longer shine down on him at night. 

The coffee table in the living room doesn’t have happy memories anymore. He spent years doing his homework on it; knees tucked under his thighs, his dad muttering from the couch as he tried to help on an assignment. 

“Mark, this is stupid,” Nolan had scowled once, getting down on the floor next to him, hands curled up in frustration, “Why would you need to learn how to multiply fractions? This is a waste of time,” he’d complained. Sharing the misery of math and textbooks, they’d set the books to the side, switching the conversation to superhero mutterings (“Dad! Dad, I saw you on the tv and it was so cool- you were so strong and-” “One day you’ll be just as strong as me, Mark”) until Debbie came home from work, took one look at Mark’s unfinished homework and sent him to the kitchen table to finish it. 

The table that they shared so many meals on. Mark can remember eating bibimbap there when he was six with his dad. Both picking the bean sprouts out whenever Debbie looked the other way. The taste of egg on his tongue and the giggle he’d tried to keep quiet under his fingers when Nolan put a finger to his lips and winked. The sigh his mother had let out when finding the vegetables rolled into their napkins and tossed in the garbage. 

“Come on, little bean sprout, you need a bath,” she’d chuckled, wiping his cheeks with a poorly constrained smile, yellow egg-yolk staining her nice white linen towels, “You and your father,” she’d lamented, going on to pick a chunk of kimchi off Nolan’s shirt that he’d missed, “Oh, what am I going to do with you both?” she’d sighed.

Mark used to smile at the memory of the preceding yelp she’d let out, Nolan picking her up, and then Mark, spinning them in a circle. They’d laughed. They smiled. 

Now, he can’t help but bite his lip, wondering if his father was thinking about how easy it would be to snap them both in half while he held them. 

“Mark?”

He swallows the mouthful of pb&J he’s been letting congeal in his mouth for the last five minutes and looks up. The lunch table is hard and cold under his backside as he sits there. In front of him, the brown paper bag his mother filled that morning, sits half-open and full. There’s a juice box, some chips, a tangerine, a cookie, a few rice candies (his favorite), but he’s only managed to touch the sandwich. And even that sits with only a few bites taken from it. He glances towards William, and hopes he hasn’t noticed. 

Unfortunately, he has, “Are you gonna eat anything, man?”

There’s a crease in his brow as he asks the question, like he’s trying not to seem overly concerned. But he’s drumming his fingers on his knee below the table and his heart rate is slightly elevated. Mark can hear it– another present from his father– and it makes him wince. 

“Oh, yeah. Sorry,” he shoves more sandwich into his mouth, chewing quickly like it’ll make William less worried, “Wash I juss sharing-”

“What?” William frowns, brow raising, lower lip twitching into a grimace. His eyes are trailing over where a bit of jelly spurts down his chin and peanut butter coats his lips. 

The sight Mark must make, mouth filled and eating like an animal (he wonders if there’s any kimchi on his shirt). He swallows and tries again, “Was I just staring off into nothing?” he asks more clearly. 

“Uh yeah. Kinda. I tried to get your attention a few times, but,” William waves a hand through the air hurriedly, “It’s fine! You’ve got a lot on your mind. I get it.”

He doesn’t though. 

“Right. Sorry,” Mark licks at some of the peanut butter that’s still attached to the back of his teeth, “What- uh- what were you saying?” 

He can do this; act normal. Someone who doesn’t space out when their friend speaks or goes blank when topics not pertaining to himself are raised. William’s been his best friend for what feels like forever, but Mark can’t remember a time in the last few months where he’s actually sat down and listened to him. Or talked about normal, run-of-the-mill high school crap, without worrying in the back of his head about some new bad guy. 

“Prom.” William says. 

Mark squares his shoulders, and leans in, ready to listen, “What about prom?” he asks a little more intensely. 

William matches the energy, “It’s in like two weeks, Mark. We need to start planning. Do you remember in junior high when they had that winter formal or whatever and we both showed up without dates and went home three hours early?”

He does remember that. They’d both been crushing on different people at the time; William having his eyes on a guy on the basketball team (who was unfortunately so deep in the closet that he reached Narnia). While Mark had been tongue-tied just looking at a girl in his science class named Avery. She had long blonde hair and wore a pair of thick-framed glasses. Not to mention she was a huge comic book nerd and while that may have played to Mark’s strengths if he decided to actually approach her- he’d chickened out at the last second. So, William and him had gone together, date-less, and awkward, and after only half-an-hour, left to go play video games in William’s basement. 

“How could I forget?” He hums, finally moving like a normal person as he takes out his juice and peels off the straw, “Todd made fun of us for months afterwards.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” William sneers, glaring daggers towards where the boy in question sits across the lunchroom, picking at a school-provided lunch of what is labeled as meatloaf (but surely is not), “It was humiliating, Mark. We looked like losers. Virgins!"

Mark looks around nervously, heat suddenly blossoming on his cheeks, “Can you not say that so loud?”

A girl nearby gives them both a cursory glance and he ducks his head low, feeling like he’s on fire.

William pays it no mind, gesturing with his hands as he says louder, “Exactly! Its embarrassing, right? Don’t you feel embarrassed?”

“Dude.”

“Sit in that feeling, Mark. We can’t have a repeat of junior high in our senior year,” he picks at his nails, “Obviously you’re with Amber. And Rick and I are going steady again but-” he flicks something away and leans in, stops, breathes out, and then sits back in his seat, “This could be the most important moment of our young adult lives.”

“Most important?"  Mark hums, amused. 

“Yeah!” William exclaims, “So, we need to start planning stuff. Have you asked Amber yet?”

Mark scratches the back of his neck, wincing, “No,” he curls his lip. The peanut butter in his throat feels like it’s hardened as thoughts begin to spring up. He hasn’t talked to Amber in a week. Her texts sit heavily on his phone, read but not replied to. The last thing she texted him was, ‘I’m here if you want to talk’. That was two days ago. 

He goes still, pinching the skin between his fingers as he adjusts his ass on the bench. He’s a terrible boyfriend. Even when he isn’t actively doing superhero work, he can’t help but ignore the people who care about him. He hasn’t even had lunch with William in a long while, and yet he’s ruining the one they’re having now, because he’s a mess of a human (he’s not even human).

“Hey, you okay?”

Mark furrows his brow and forces himself to breathe, “Fine.” he says tightly. 

“Are you sure?” William presses, looking at him with wide shiny eyes, “I didn’t mean to talk so much. I can talk about something else-”

“William, it’s fine-”

“I can change the topic! Do you wanna talk about something? I um- how’s your mom holding up?”

Mark twitches.

A second later he squeezes too tight and his juice box explodes in his grip. 

“Shit!” William yelps, jumping back as the liquid spreads across the table. It's fruit punch, the red dye staining everything in sight; Mark’s shirt, their food, his own bookbag. It’s like a tidal wave, ruining everything in its path. One of William’s textbooks is on the table and Mark’s ashamed to realize it’s ruined in only a few seconds.

‘Are you done with your temper tantrum?’ a voice like his dad’s rings out in his ear. 

“Mark-” William follows second, and he sounds so earnest that it sends a jolt through Mark’s chest. He’s frantically trying to stop the juice from spreading, using a thick stack of napkins to soak it all up, but the damage has already been done. Mark eyes his book and feels heat begin to rise behind his eyes.

“I’m sorry.” he says before he can help it, hands shaking but doing nothing to help. The book is so red. He swears he smells iron for the slightest second. And then, he’s back in the underground, train-car wheels screeching, his father’s grip on his neck, blood splattering across his cheeks. Entrails on his suit. Kimchi on his dad’s shirt. 

“M’sorry.” he says, coming back to himself when William grabs him by the shoulder, looking down anxiously. 

“I- it’s okay. Are- are you sure you’re alright?”

He shrugs and lies, “Yeah.” 

He goes through a fog for the rest of the day. The spill is cleaned up quickly; he takes a few napkins from William and dutifully wipes it all up, feeling the burn of the cafeteria’s eyes on him as he does so. His shirt is ruined. It’s a white tee with his school’s logo on the chest so it stands out, but he covers it with William’s donated sweatshirt. Which he accepts because he can’t verbalize the words, ‘I don’t want to keep taking things from people’ and ‘Please just call me a dick and leave me to stew in my own bullshit’. But William’s jacket is soothing. Warm. He’s had it since they were young, finding it at a goodwill. It makes Mark feel like a little kid as he goes through the motions, curling into its fabric, pulling it taut around his shoulders. He forgets to give it back at the end of the school day, but William must know. He just gives Mark a smile and a wave as he drops him off at home (Mark can’t fly. Can’t talk) and tells him he’ll see him on Monday. 

Vaguely, Mark is aware that he walks into his house, but the realization that he’s gone through the rest of the school day in a haze only sets in when he hears the door click shut behind him. 

Entering his home, it hits him like a brick. The weight of the day’s events forcing him back into his head as he kicks off his shoes and puts them beside the rug. His mother’s sneakers, his soccer cleats, and a pair of slippers sit near them. His dad’s old workboots (‘work’ is laughable- they were for the days he pretended to be human) are gone from their usual spot. The dirty soles and loose laces are missing, always undone to quickly remove them and get into his suit. Nolan had owned and ruined countless articles of clothing in his time on Earth; destroying them bit by bit each fight. Except his crappy work boots. His favorites. Mark used to put them on when he was little and waddle around, his parents chuckling as he stumbled around the living room, babbling about being like daddy. 

Debbie threw them away before Mark came back from the hospital. She threw away a lot of things. Cecil helped a bit; hired a mover, rented a dumpster, offered them money to redecorate. The first thing to go was his dad’s clothes. Every sock, shirt, and tie vanished from the household, followed by his shoes. He’s sure other things have been removed: the pictures are all changed. The hallway bathroom is missing its old beach theme (Nolan loved the beach) and is now a plain shade of light green. Green towels. Green handsoap. Green bathmat. Nolan hated green.  

“Mark? Is that you?” 

Debbie’s voice flutters from out of the kitchen as he swings his backpack off his shoulder and dumps it on the couch. It makes a heavy thunk as it lands, filled with textbooks and unfinished homework that’s weeks behind on. Amber promised to help him sort through it, but he’s not so sure she’ll be willing after the weeks of no-contact he’s put her through. 

“Yeah, mom,” he yells back as he sits down beside his bag and immediately reaches for the television remote. He doesn’t want to read right now. Or think about dad. Or do his homework. Or act like a responsible young man. He just wants to be lazy and watch tv until his corneas burn away and he melts into the couch like wax on a hot summer day.

“Mark. Good to see ya, kid.”

He freezes, remote still in his hand, tv screen lighting up with a frame from an old Seance Dog cartoon he used to watch when he was little and turns to the right. His mom and Cecil are in the kitchen. 

Debbie’s leaning against the counter, hip at an angle as she leans all of her weight into it. She’s gotten dressed today (Mark is relieved to say that she’s been taking care of herself for over a month now. Combing her hair. Putting on her shoes. Leaving the house. Going to work. Smiling) but she’s all frown lines and furrowed brow right now, just like she usually is when Cecil is present. 

The older man looks strange in their home. Which is just as well, since he always has. His navy blue suit sticks out amongst the pale sage green cabinets that serve as a backdrop to his figure. Both hands are tucked into his pockets, the picture of casualness, despite standing in the same place Mark last saw him interact with his dad– the day he’d dropped in to ask Mark to go to Mars. Nolan had looked like he wanted to throttle Cecil at the time– and yet, Cecil doesn’t so much as twitch as he stands in front of the fridge, unmoving. Like a bull in a china shop,w except Cecil’s the china shop and Nolan the bull, who just stepped for a smoke. 

“Oh- uh- hey.” Mark sets the remote down by this thigh and twists to meet both of their stares. His belly gurgles like it’s trying to verbalize the discomfort he feels over catching Cecil and his mother in the kitchen. He prays even harder that they aren’t about to say something about an extraterrestrial threat entering Earth’s orbit, “Is everything-" he glances back at his show as a cartoon cat begins to sing and flushes red. 

Cecil raises a brow, "Whatcha watching? Looney Tunes?” He hums and the slightest twitch of his jaw tells Mark that he’s being sardonic. Maybe trying to be relatable. It doesn’t work. 

“Nothing.” Mark says quickly, turning the show off and this time throws the remote to the other end of the couch, standing quickly. Cecil tracks the moment with unhidden bemusement sparking in his eyes.  

“What’s wrong?” Mark presses, dying to change the subject as he pads across the carpet, pale blue socks picking up lint as he gets closer to the kitchen, “Did something happen?”

“Nothing’s wrong, honey,” Debbie cuts in and her eyes glint as she glances at Cecil, “We’re just talking about the house.”

“What about it?” It’s a graveyard, his brain supplies. “It’s fine, isn’t it?” It’s not, his heart adds. 

 “Of course it is,” Debbie soothes, throwing Cecil a sideways sneer, “And we’re not moving.”

The man takes the glare in stride, used to the ire, if not immune (although there’s a vein in his temple that throbs and gives away his frustration), “Debbie, if he were to ever come back, he’d target you both immediately-“

“It’s my home, Cecil. Drop it.” 

They’ve been arguing about it for a while. Mark can tell with the way Cecil doesn’t even flinch when Debbie slams a palm on the counter. Or when his mother runs a hand through her hair, the bun already loose from prior touches.

He hasn’t heard the argument before though. His mom’s been pretty tight-lipped about mentioning anything stressful around him lately. She’ll avoid the heavier topics at dinner: instead of lamenting about his father or muttering about work issues, she’ll ask him about his day; how’s William? Did you see Mr. Chevlosky on the way to school today? What did you learn in Spanish class?

While everything else seems to be kept locked away. No talking about Nolan. Or superhero shit. Or the scar he’s managed to retain, months later, on the back of his neck from where his spinal cord snapped in two. He’d always thought he was immune to scars on his body- the rest healed up fine afterall. But this one stuck around. He supposes he’ll always be marked by his father. 

The house though- he didn’t think his mother would ever actually sell the place. It’s filled with his childhood. His first steps were a few feet away, back where he was watching Seance Dog only a moment ago. He slept between his mom and dad after a nightmare, in the bedroom upstairs a door down from his bedroom. His bedroom was covered in marks from his youth. A dent in his bathroom door from a bad soccer ball incident. A streak of sharpie from the time William came over for a sleepover and tried to draw a mustache on his not-quite sleeping form: missing his face and staining his carpet. A chip of paint missing from the wall over his desk where he tried to hang a poster and ruined the drywall. 

It’s Mark’s home. He’s in every wood grain, marbled counter top, and steel pipe. 

But- so is he. 

“Do you really think he’ll come back?” He hears himself ask before he can bite down on his tongue. Embarrassingly enough, it comes out shaky and breaks on the last word, like he’s a scared little kid.

“No, honey, that’s not what he meant.” Debbie says fast, eyeing him with concern. She lets out a grunt of irritation targeted at Cecil making Mark look at him.

“Do you?” 

The man winces and lets out a breath, “I…don’t know.”

He’s not saying everything he wants to and Mark blames his mom for that; her presence backing Cecil into a corner. The tips of his fingers are inching towards his wrist and Mark can feel the tension wafting off him as he tries to subtly remove himself from Debbie’s vitriol.

“Enough about the house,” He says after a long moment where the three of them just stand, watching each other, “How’s the GDA- the guardians? Eve?” Mark asks.

Cecil’s lips part, the barest movement giving away his surprise, “GDA is doing fine. No active threats at the moment that the Guardians can’t handle,” he clicks his tongue and gives an odd expression, “I woulda thought you’d talk to Eve in your own time though.”

That- 

Mark’s stomach tightens even further, a little ball of nervous nausea swelling like a balloon. In his pocket, his phone is burning a hole through the fabric, Eve’s unanswered texts piling up besides Amber and William’s. 

“I haven’t seen her.” Mark says as evenly as he can muster. 

“You go to high school together,” Cecil raises a brow, “Don’t you share a lunch period?” 

Mark swallows something thick, “Different schedules” is all he offers. 

It’s a bullshit excuse. Especially when he knows Cecil’s probably gone and looked at every piece of information there is on him in the public school system. He has access to his birth certificate, his hospital records, and more. A class schedule is nothing. And Mark may not share a lunch with Eve anymore (she switched to first lunch in order to take an architecture class in the afternoon) but they’re in the same algebra and chemistry class, just as they’ve been all year. 

Cecil knows this. 

“Well, that’s a shame. At least you’ll be done with school in a month.”

Relief floods through Mark, growing as Debbie echoes with a similar sentiment. He hasn’t told his mom about the recent avoidant behavior he’s begun to develop (he isn’t getting better like she is) and he’d like to keep it that way. 

He sends Cecil a small grateful nod.

The man doesn’t so much as blink, moving on to talk to Debbie more about the house, rounding the kitchen island. 

He’s getting ready to leave, Mark realizes. 

A flash of something anxious stabs through him at that.

“Uh- wait—“ Mark blathers, like wet putty as he rocks on his heels, grabbing their attention long enough to open his mouth, “I’ve been going out as Invincible for awhile again and- and you haven’t called me up about anything,” he rambles, thinking about the months that have passed in a gray clouded blur, “I want to help. I said I wanted to help, so if you need me to step in any time soon, I’m totally willing. And um,” he chews his lip, staring at the floor, “I feel a lot better. I am better.”

He’s not. 

The silence that echoes his words gives him long enough to raise his eyes back up to his mother and Cecil’s faces. They’re both studying him. One creased in worry. The other creased in exasperation. Or maybe it’s old age- who’s to say? 

They both break at the same time.

“No, mark-“

“That’s not-“

They stop, glance at each other, and then interestingly enough, Debbie lets Cecil go first.

“We can talk about it later.” The man decides, and she nods in agreement. It's probably the only time she’s ever sided with Cecil. Funny that it’s in a united front against Mark.

“But I can do more than what I’m doing.” 

“Not right now,.” Cecil argues, "You have a month left of school, don’t you? Just get through it, and then we’ll talk.” 

“What if I can’t last that long?” Mark pushes, only to clam up as soon as the words leave his mouth.

“What does that mean?” Cecil asks, Debbie following a second later with, “Mark?”

“Nothing.”

Just that he wants to go to sleep for a while and not wake up. Or at least until everything’s different and his dad isn’t Omni-Man and his mom stops flinching when she catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of her eyes.

“Mark?” Debbie says again, a little softer. Like she’s scared. 

Shit. 

“Forget I said anything.” He says, turning on his heel to go back to the couch. It’s safe on the couch, giving her a few feet away from him his gruff tone. 

“Kid, hold up.”

“What?” He reaches for the remote he discarded earlier, ready to go back to his show. At the silence that stretches on, he forces himself to glance backwards, “What?” he repeats and feels like a spoiled brat when he meets the man’s gaze. 

The lines on Cecil’s face are drawn up tighter this time as he speaks, dark and intense, like he’s considering him. Analyzing the little creases in his forehead and the bags under his eyes. 

“Debbie, can you give us a second?” He asks, making Mark shiver. 

“What? No! Absolutely not-” She huffs

“Mom.” Mark cuts her off, forcing himself to breathe before saying, “It’s fine.”

“Well, it isn’t fine to me.” She argues, but the tension slips from her shoulders only a second after Mark gives her one of his most pleading expressions. 

“Mom.” He says again whilst Cecil awkwardly shifts in the corner, “I said it’s fine.”

He’s being unkind. He knows he is. She just wants what’s best for him, but since the fog wafted away after entering the house, it’s replaced itself with a throbbing migraine. He puts two of his fingers against his temples and rubs at his skull harshly, listening as she makes a small sigh and then acquiesces. 

“You have ten minutes before I kick you out of my home.” She tells Cecil as she makes for the stairs. They make a creaking noise as she departs, reminding Mark of the recent construction and that Cecil’s men did a piss poor job.

“Alright,” Cecil heaves out a breath of air like he can breathe again when she’s gone, “Follow me,” He cocks his head to the side once towards the back door and slides it open before Mark can reply. 

“I don’t need your mom breathing down my neck,” Cecil explains as they step out onto the back patio. He runs a hand over the folds of his white collared shirt, and belatedly must realize it’s nearing mid-May and that it’s hot outside. Irritation bubbles along the edges of his expression, but he doesn’t remove his suit jacket. Not that Mark would ever expect him to; Cecil out of his everyday business-garb sounds wrong. 

“So, what’s going on with you?”

Mark has to focus as the question’s asked, brain slapping him for forgetting he’s in the middle of a conversation, “What do you mean?” he deflects. 

Cecil’s eyes dip, further analyzing him, but this time slower than how he had inside. He’s searching for something, and it makes Mark swallow nervously. What is he looking for? 

There’s a sharp twitch of the man’s lips when he narrows in on something finally. Like he’s been flicked in the nose. Or poked in the gut. “Are you bleeding?” he asks, tone level like he’s trying not to sound too distressed.

“Huh?” Mark blanches, cheeks feeling warm when meets Cecil’s expectant eyes again, “No.” he reaches around his torso, unzipping William’s jacket, only to find the red stain from lunch, “Oh, no, that’s juice.” he explains. 

“Juice.” Cecil muses, brow arching, “You get into a fight with a strawberry?”

He says it with enough snark, that Mark can’t help but snort.

“No, I just- uh, squeezed too hard. Got it all over myself.” 

That. Sounds worse than it should. If Mark were a little less preoccupied with his migraine, he’d be mortified to hear the phrases out loud, but Cecil doesn’t seem to pick up on the less than stellar word choice. He just clicks his teeth like he’s thinking and turns towards the open space of the backyard. Ignoring the undertones. The euphemism. The pink that can’t help itself from painting for Mark’s neck.

“Well, maybe some training could do you some good,” he offers after a long moment, “Learn how to better control your strength.”

“I…trained with my dad-“ Mark starts to say but Cecil shakes his head.

“My guys can do better. We’ve got top of the line equipment, people who know what they’re doing. All the shiny knots and bolts you need to be a proper superhero.”

“Does that-“ biting his lip to prevent the deep imploring of his tone, Mark frowns,“Does that mean you want me back out-“

“I want you to train and get better.” Cecil shakes his head, putting a full stop to that line of thinking before it can spiral, “That doesn’t mean I want you on the field yet.” 

Mark lurches, scowl building on his lips “I’m fine. I can go back out- I’ve been out there.” He emphasizes, “I’ve stopped bad shit from happening all month. Hell, I’ve saved people, Cecil. I can do this. It’s what I was made to-“

“No.” 

“But-“

“Not yet.” Cecil amends, closing his eyes for the slightest second like he’s physically pained to speak, “Not until I’m sure you’re fit to be back out there.” 

“I am.”

“Mark,” Cecil snaps, peanut-brittle-like patience finally breaking in two as he forces his hips into a slant, and narrows his eyes, “I’m not going to risk countless civilian lives because you want to feel useful.”

Piss or get off the pot, he’s trying to say. Man up. Stop floating around the place, thinking about daddy dearest, and put the mask back on. Stow all that baggage in the overhead compartment and get back to work. It’s what Mark’s supposed to do. It’s his purpose. They’ve been back and forth about this for the last few months, but there’s a limit to how much he can take without giving back. Either he wears the suit and acts like a hero, or he doesn’t at all. Otherwise, it’s gonna lead to someone getting hurt. Worse, it’s gonna make those stress lines on Cecil’s face grow ever deeper. 

“I’m fucking trying.” Mark manages to ground out behind gritted teeth, clenching his fists. His nails dig into the fat of his palms and tries to imagine them sinking past the layer to reach bone. 

“...Take a breath.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” He barks. The sound echoes in the space between them. On a tree in the neighbors yard, a squirrel flinches and scampers away. Cecil, in all his stone-faced no nonsense, no time for bullshit manner, remains unmoved. 

“I’m not telling you to do anything,” He says, voice like gravel and whiskey, and maturity, “I’m just asking you to keep in mind what’s best for others,” he points at Mark’s chest, gesturing to the stain, “Keep that crap inside when you’re on the field or people are gonna get hurt. Capiche?” 

He’s right. Of course he is. Mark may be an emotional trainwreck at the moment, but he isn’t dumb. A week ago, while attempting to stop a bank robbery, he put a man in the hospital with a broken neck. The robber had been sporting a thick handlebar mustache and had a stocky build with broad shoulders. Mark can admit that he’s let his emotions get the better of him lately. 

“Mark, do you understand?” Cecil implores after a rigid moment of tense silence. 

But it’s like pulling teeth in admitting it out loud. 

“Yeah. Sure. fine I get it.” he picks at the scabs already healing over his hands.

“Good,” Cecil nods, adjusting the button of his suit jacket like the fabric is digging too deep into his waist, “Then take the time to get better. When you’re done with school, we'll talk. Sound good?”

No. 

“Okay.”

“Great. Tell Debbie I’m sorry I dropped in unannounced.” Cecil says in replacement of a goodbye. It’s not unusual for him to end a conversation abruptly. Last year, nearly all of his conversations with the man ended in short clipped words. Like he’d remembered he’d left his stove on mid-discussion and had to leave. But, it’s jarring to hear whilst Mark stands with his figurative heart in his hands. 

The sharp sound of Cecil’s teleport cuts through the backyard a second after, the air around him growing cold and vaguely damp, like a humid day turning into evening. 

The lingering smell of iron cuts through his senses; almost metallic, as if Cecil’s left a bit of himself behind in the Grayson household’s backyard. 

The grass where he stood only a few seconds before sizzles slightly, a few blades of grass standing half-cut, from where their ends must have transferred alongside Cecil. 

Sparing himself a moment to humor the idea of Cecil having to clean up bits of grass in his office, Mark turns back towards the house. 

It’s going to be alright, he tells himself. 

Seance Dog is still playing on the tv when he flicks it on, and the couch is just as comfortable when he stretches out along it. His back makes a popping noise as he lifts his arms over his head and pulls, relishing in the sensation of his joints cracking. Underneath him is a blanket his mother bought from a farmer’s market a few years ago; hand-knitted, purple and beige. It smells faintly like one of her candles, the seasonal ones she adores (this month is vanilla and coconut) and he holds it closer to his chest once he lowers his arms. 

He can remember the day she brought it home. His father had thought it looked tacky. Kimchi on his shirt.

Mark drops the blanket onto the ground with a sigh.

He needs to get better.

Chapter Text

The next two weeks are a blur. 

School has never been something Mark looked forward to– summer breaks always went by too fast and he’d never been an enthusiastic student even before he got his powers- but somehow he loathes the sight of the brick building more than ever before. He’s outgrown the place. Not out of self-rightiousness, but as he moves through his last few weeks, he can’t help but observe the strikingly different concerns he and the rest of his peers have.

‘My parents promised to get me a car for graduation but it’s just my grandpa’s shitty old truck’ his partner in bio had complained to which he’d simply nodded, picking at the dead skin of his pinkie’s cuticle.

‘This year’s prom theme is…Under the sea!’ the student body president had announced over the speakers, her voice laced with excitement that made his head rattle.

‘Aren’t you excited for Summer break? No homework, no waking up early, no questionable meatloaf for lunch,’ William has lamented more than a few times, poking him in the side with a chuckle. It’s more difficult when it’s him. The divide between them has grown too wide, held together by sheer desperation to hold onto normalcy. Not to mention he notices things; William is an empathetic person, and much more observational than he lets on. Every time Mark cuts a class or spends their lunch period with his head in his hands, he gets a queasy, strained expression on his face like he’s just been told he has three days left to live.

Amber is the same, although Mark does a better job of avoiding her. She turns heads when she enters a room. Makes people stop in their tracks and stare. They all sort of act as warning bells, the gongs that get louder the closer she gets. Mark manages to go days without interacting with her– although he does bite the bullet and reply to her messages after she texts him, ‘Mark, pls text me back or i’m gonna ask your mom if ur ok’ and he forces himself to type out a reply. He tells her he’s fine. She doesn’t believe him. The next day he spots her in the halls at school and has to duck around a corner. 

“Mark, you’ve got to talk to her,” William tells him eventually, correct as always. They’re sat on the bleachers after school, two days out from Prom (of which William has spent the last hour ranting about). The sun is starting to set somewhere off in the distance, but the heat has been cooking Mark’s back since he sat down. 

“I have talked to her.” he argues, pulling his knees tightly into his chest and setting his chin on them. He gazes down at the football team practicing before their last game of the school year (belatedly, he feels a pan of envy, wishing he could’ve joined a sport in his last year of high school. Or maybe a club. A team. William’s on the Yearbook committee, maybe he could’ve joined with him if he’d-)

“No, you haven't." William sighs, and it sounds eerily similar to a year ago, sitting in his car while eating burgers, after Amber dumped him for being a shitty boyfriend. He has a similar glint to the irises of his eyes, sharp like he’s waiting for Mark to drop the hammer.

“Not in person at least.” He goes on when Mark makes no move to reply, “Either face her or be a man and break up.”

“I don’t want to break up-” Mark begins to say, defensive before he can even think. But, the words fizzle away as he realizes he does want to. He’s wanted to for weeks. Amber is amazing and beautiful but he can’t keep doing this to her. Not when she has so many plans and dreams that have nothing to do with superhero work. He’s holding her back. 

William seems to think the same thing, not saying a word as Mark picks up his things and leaves that evening in a silent funk. 

The next two days go by so fast that Mark worries his Viltrumite genetics are making time fly by faster than normal. He wastes away hours trying to work up the courage to tell Amber he wants to break up, dodges Eve and William like the plague, and sits in his bedroom doing nothing. The clock on his bedside table ticks like a jackhammer in his skull. Louder than it's ever been. Until Mark snaps and chucks it into the trash, eyes twitching from annoyance. 

There’s a mountain of homework on his deck. Piled up and overdue. He’s gotten extensions and understanding notes from his professors; all of which are considerate of the ‘dead dad’ excuse (although a sourness fills his mouth every time he has to look someone in the eye and tell them Nolan is six feet under, rather than 6 million lightyears away). But, he can’t make himself do any of it. It just grows and grows. Papers and half-assed essays with only his name and the date written at the top. 

He gives it a glare as he passes it every morning, feeling the urge to swipe it into the waste basket alongside his crappy alarm clock. The only thing that’s stopping him from doing so is the fact that so many people have gone out of their way to help him. His principle has worked with him on creating a new timestable; one that has him focusing primarily on the classes he needs in order to graduate. It’s smaller, simpler, and it makes him feel dumb. But, there’s a point to it, he guesses. He can barely attend his classes without staring out the window, yearning for something to happen so he can go and hit someone. Being told he has to pass his history final in order to get a high school diploma is the last thing he feels as if he should be caring about. 

His mom tells him he has to though. And she’s been drinking her dinners lately, so the least he can do is not be a bum, and work on his shitty book report for English. He’s barely read the first few chapters of I, Claudius, which is somewhere in the bottom of his school bag collecting dust. A story about someone working their way into an inner circle, gaining the trust of someone they intend to kill, hits too close to home at the moment. 

“Mark? Are you home, honey?” 

He glances towards his bedroom door at the sound of his mother’s voice coming from downstairs. 

Reclining on his bed, he glares at the worksheet he’s been trying to get through (how do you multiply fractions again?) and sets it to the side before hopping up. The pile is still as thick as when he started, and when he passes it, he glances quickly away, heading out into the hallway. 

His parent’s mom’s room is across from his own, a little to the left. It’s firmly shut, just as it’s been for the last few months (it’s because it’s a mess, despite simultaneously being barren, all of Nolan’s things gone and vanished. Debbie is so incredibly embarrassed about this, especially after Mark snapped at her once, after she told him to clean up his things, and he called her a hypocrite. He’d pretended not to see the tears in her eyes at this). 

A little further up the hall is the once-ocean-themed-bathroom. A linen closet. And a small office that Debbie claims is for work but never uses, preferring to sit at the kitchen counter. It’s closer to the wine cupboard. 

“Mark?” 

“Yeah, I’m here, mom!” he yells as he passes the rooms to reach the top of the stairs. He forces himself to not float, and instead put both feet on the ground, trudging down them quickly. They creak as he goes, a familiar sound. When he was young, he’d try to avoid the squeaky seventh step like it was a siren that would tell his parents he snuck out of bed. It was always a little test of stealth. He’d wanted to be a ninja for a little bit when he was seven. A dangerous one that had throwing stars and numbchucks. 

Debbie had laughed when he made his own out of tinfoil and sticks from the backyard. Nolan had given a grin like he was proud of his resourcefulness, but bemused by the antics. Like when a dog distracts itself by chasing it’s a tail, or when a cat brings its owner a mouse. A pet-

“Hey. Do you wanna go out for dinner?”

He stops at the end of the stairs and gives his mom a wide-eyed stare. She’s wearing her work clothes: a blazer, a nice navy blue skirt, a watch that she used to complain about being too tight on her wrist. The only thing that screams of casualty are the sneakers she’s sporting; heels kicked off by the door. Mark wonders if she has blisters from them. They’re tall. How does she wear them without toppling over? 

He’d tried them on once. Made it about two steps before he went crashing down the staircase he’s perched on right now. He’d been trying to play house with William. 

“I don’t wanna be the mom though,” he’d scowled, about two seconds before disaster struck. 

He’d needed two stitches for a cut along his brow and had bruise over his right eye for about a month. 

“Sure- um, where were you thinking?” he rubs a hand over the faded mark, thinking about how it’s barely even there anymore. The scar on his belly, from when he had appendicitis as a freshman in high school is the only mark on his skin he still has left. His healing factor has made everything else disappear. He likes the little scar. It’s tiny. Normal. Amber has acne scars on her cheeks. And some on her legs from playing rugby in middle school. William has a lot of scars on his hands from the time he broke a window pretending to punch it, and accidentally smashing it to smithereens. 

Cecil has a scar. A big one- is that rude? Mark wonders if it’s rude to think about someone’s scar, but it is his brain and Cecil will never know how much Mark pictures it in his head. Not that he thinks about it incessantly. Just every so often- it’s hard not to when they’re talking. Or in the middle of the night, when Mark can’t sleep and thinking about Nolan hurts too much, and he’s replaying the day through his head. It’s interesting. Like a spiral of skin, split open and woven back together again. Like a mandala. 

“How about thai food?”

He blinks, staring owlishly at his mother as she grabs her keys, ignorant to the way his hand has migrated to his own cheek, scratching at smooth unblemished skin.

“Yeah. Okay. Sure.” he nods after a moment, “I like thai.”

“I know you do,” Debbie chuckles, looking cheery, “Get your shoes on. Let’s roll.”

By roll, she means pile into the car that has a front seat filled with paperwork and move it into the back. 

“Just set it on the seat.” she tells him and he does so, trying not to stare too harshly at the files of different homes she’s selling, wondering if their’s, is somewhere tucked inside. 

She’s in a good mood, and he doesn’t want to ruin it by talking about things that will only serve to make her upset and satiate his curiosity that really does not need to be answered at the moment. 

He hums along to the radio when she turns it on. It’s some cheesy 80s song that they play too much on 42.5 FM, after five when they know people will be just getting off work. Debbie taps her fingers along with the beat, the lyrics on her tongue, as she grew up with it.

“I love this band,” she comments with a hum before launching into a story about how she went to a few of their concerts back in the day. Back enough that it’s before Nolan’s time, when she was a rebellious teen to her own parents. A dyed hair, nose-pierced girl from California who was born to immigrant parents that wanted her to be a lawyer. Or a doctor. Something respectable. 

Like a realtor. 

Sometimes, Mark thinks he mom wishes she’d done something more outlandish like gone into puppeteering. Or ballroom dancing. Crime-solving. Maybe animal wrangling. Something to get the fire out; she needs something to burn away at that itch in the back of her throat (Mark knows this, because she passed it onto him). Marrying a superhero from outer space was enough to subdue it for a while. But it’s still roaring, rearing to go, brighter and hotter, and angrier now that he’s gone. 

Mark thinks his mother should take up kickboxing. Maybe it’ll help to hit something; that’s what he does. That’s why he goes out in spandex and puts a target on his chest. To feel something. 

And to save people of course. 

“So, how’s school going?” Debbie asks once they get to the restaurant and settle into a booth, face to face. She has a lot more visible stress lines under the lighting here. Deep. like they’re engrained in her bones. 

He picks up a menu to avoid looking at them, feeling a little guilty, “fine.”

“Really?” she presses, an unconvinced frown on her lips, “Just ‘fine’? Not amazing? Not- ‘oh my god, I’m so happy to be close to graduation’?” she pitches her voice up higher like she’s pretending to be a small child and he can’t help but chuckle at the terrible impression of himself. 

“I don’t sound like that.” He tells her to stifle it..

“-Because I remember being ecstatic,” she reaches for her own menu and flips through the pages distractedly, ignoring his words, “Me and me friends had a seniors beach day to celebrate the last week of school. Oh! Hey, there’s an idea,” she pats herself on the back, “Why don’t you do that? With your friends.” she adds the last part like he needs to be reminded he has some of those. 

“I can’t right now.” He dismisses, a bit of heat rising up. He feels around in his pockets for his cellphone, just to fiddle with something, and begins to tap away at the buttons. Click click click. 

“Why not?”

He glances towards a couple sharing a plate of pad thai, “I have too much schoolwork.” 

Click click click 

“If you need help, I can-”

“No, mom. It’s fine. I’ll get it done, I just, “ he lowers his head, trying to ignore the way the couple’s tongue wrap around their noodles, sharing germs via the same pair of chopsticks. 

Amber doesn’t like couple-stuff like that. She’s far too independent. And luckily for him, avoids PDA. They stick to hand-holding (or did) and kisses on the cheek every now and again. The sort of stuff that’s simple and not too obsessive. Just affectionate pecks and clumsily making out behind closed doors. That’s as far as Mark’s willing to go. Or maybe, he’s too afraid to do anything more. 

The last time things got hot and heavy between them both had been after Chicago. They’d wrapped themselves in each other’s limbs, rolling around in his bed, bedsheets tangled around their ankles. They never got anywhere past over-the-clothes touching. Their mouths had slotted together, much too wet and over eager; his own quivering as she trailed a set of kisses down his jaw. She’d gripped him through his sweats. And then he’d started crying. 

Not the sort of overstimulated tears that dripped down one’s cheeks prettily. 

But, full-body, belly-shaking sobs that had torn from his mouth until she’d backed away like he’d slapped her. 

They should've ended things there, he thinks, tapping his cell.

But Amber is kind. And patient. And had held him for over an hour, telling him it was okay, even as he got snot on her favorite tank top. 

His cheeks turn pink as the memory pops up and he satiates the urge to flee by downing half his glass of water. 

“Are you alright?” he hears his mom ask, but redirects that worrisome tone in her voice to their menus by asking her what she’s going to get. 

“How about pad thai?” She suggests. 

He nearly spits his water back out. 

The rest of dinner is uneventful besides an old man snapping at his waitress for making his food too spicy. And Debbie spills a bit of sauce on her skirt, but she drags a tide pen out of her purse (it’s a mom thing, he snorts, to have one on her, ready to go). 

They collect the rest of their food in to-go boxes, of which Mark has lots leftover.

Debbie pretends not to notice how little he’s eaten. She hasn’t made a comment about his small appetite in over two months, instead resorting to packing him full lunches and putting too much food on his plate when she cooks. Almost as if she thinks she can trick him into eating more by just doubling the portion size. 

He does her the courtesy of not mentioning that he’s noticed, but isn’t so kind as to force himself to eat anymore than he can stomach without hurling (last week she made him an omelet that was half the size of his head and half of which ended up in the toilet). 

They walk back to the car in silence, with the food swinging in between them from Mark’s grip, shoes clicking against cement. 

The sky has turned dark since they went inside. The streetlights are lit, casting them in a yellowed hue that makes his shirt look a pale green rather than blue. He can hear the bulbs buzzing, mosquitoes in the summer heat getting zapped when they fly into them. Poor things. So small. Such short lives. 

“Are you and Amber okay?”

He watches a bug plummet to the ground at the same time he stops short, glancing at his mother with wide eyes. 

“What?”

“You and Amber.” She repeats, like the words aren’t jabbing a pinkie into his ear canal, “I- I ran into William on the way home from work today and,” she swallows and Mark can hear her heartbeat increase, “He told me that you’ve been really low lately. Which, of course, I know. It- it’s been difficult since-”

“Mom.”

“No, honey, just listen,” Debbie says, “I know that your father leaving made things hard. I know you’ve been feeling, well,” she considers her words, “Strange.”

Strange is not an all-encompassing word. Not to Mark. It’s more of a stand-in for a description that she does not want to say out loud. Awful. Awful and earth-shattering, his brain yells. Something more extreme like the sort of adjectives one would use to describe a disaster. A volcano erupting. A tornado raging. A tsunami brewing.

“Strange,” he echoes, holding in the urge to yell at his mother for the word even though it’s obvious she hates it too. 

“Yeah,” she hums, voice thick, “I know, because I’ve been feeling strange too. Because when he disappeared, he left a hole behind. I get it. I know it. Everything you’re feeling, it’s-”

“I want to break up with Amber.”

Her words fizzle out. Mark can see in real time the way she realizes she’s hitting a dead end. 

“Oh. Okay.” She nods, “But, about your father-”

“How do I break it off with her?” he interrupts, feeling queasy. His pad thai is rolling in his guts and he settles it by digging into her purse, which he offered to carry, and picking out the keys. They jingle. A little keychain of a bear clinking against the metal loop. He remembers buying it for Debbie last Christmas. 

“I- um,” Debbie looks uncertain as she makes her way to the car. He opens the door for her and she clambers inside.

He gets in too and buckles, despite the fact that it’s a meaningless action for himself. The car could go flying into the building to their right and he’d walk away fine, a Mark-sized hole left in his wake. 

The radio is still playing cheesy 80s hits when he flicks it on. He only hums after his mother gives him a sad expression, and whilst reaching over to hold his hand, says simply, “Do it in person.”

The next day, he calls Amber for the first time in weeks. He can feel her excitement through the speaker, greeting him with a smile audible in her voice, 

“Mark! Hey, babe, how are you?”

“Amber. Yeah, hey,” he says into the microphone, nudging some of his schoolwork with his foot, “I’m okay. What about you?”

One of the things he’s always liked about the girl on the other line is how quick she is at knowing when to fill the silence. It’s almost as if she can hear the apprehension in his voice and begins to talk about her day like he’s in desperate need to know about how she’s cleaning her room. 

“I’m trying to figure out what I want to bring with me to uni, but I don’t know whether or not to bring my mini fridge. I’m already lugging a bean bag. Do you think that’s too much?”

Mark smiles softly as she starts to ramble about the fall. She’s excited about her classes and the sorority she’s been thinking about joining (“You don’t think it’ll be like some sexist bullshit if I join, do you? Like in the movies where those girls are all catty and end up backstabbing each other? I read on some forums that sororities are great for making friends”). 

He lets her talk as long as she wants until her breath starts to wear out and she’s talking softly, like she’s afraid he might hang up. 

“Did you ever get your acceptance letter?” she asks after a little while. 

He glances towards the white envelope on his desk and heaves out a sigh, “Nah.”

“Ah, damn, well, if I got mine, then yours should be here any day, right?” 

“Mhmm,” he nods, maneuvering across the room to pick up the letter and toy with it in between his fingers. He’s already read it; the top is torn open neatly and the first line of it reads, ‘Congratulations Mr. Markus Sebastion Grayson, we are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted’ and so on. He got it about a week ago, around the same time as Amber. 

Six months ago, he’d be ecstatic to have the piece of paper in hands. Going to college with his girlfriend and best friend was the sort of high-school naivety that he’s grown up wanting after watching all these dumb 2000s Disney movies. 

But now, he can’t imagine leaving behind his mother in the Grayson home. She hates every corner of the place, and he can’t help but adore it. It’s the last place his father held him. Told him he loved him. Wiped the tears from his eyes after falling down the stairs in his mother’s heels. 

To leave all of that behind? He can’t stand it. 

“Well, when we get to campus- I’ve already google mapped all the best date spots. There’s this little cat cafe near our dorms. Can you believe that? I looked through all their pictures, it’s adorable-”

“Amber,” he cuts her off, and even as his mom’s words ring out in his head, ‘do it in person’, he can’t help it, “We need to talk.”

Something in his tone must give it away, because Amber doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. 

“What?” She asks, and he hates himself for the way her voice shakes. 

“I think we should break up.”

His phone feels heavy in his hand and he puts it down on his desk just as she finally manages to find her words. 

She isn’t happy. It’s understandable. But, he does flinch when she starts to yell. 

“You’re a fucking jackass, you know that? What sort of coward does this over the phone? You can’t even- can’t even meet me in person?”

“Amber-”

“No, Mark! It’s been months and you can’t even-” there’s a sound close to sniffling but sounds more like growling through the speaker, “You string me along. You let us get back together. You ignore my texts and my calls and make me worry- god, you’re such a dick.”

“I know."

“And fuck you for being so cavalier about it! And- and right before prom too!” 

She hangs up before he can say another stilted, I know, leaving him in a painfully awkward silence.

“Fuck.” He says to nobody, although he’s sure somewhere out there, someone is laughing at his misfortune. 

Prom comes and goes with little to no surprises.

He doesn’t attend but he gets an onslaught of pictures from William as the night progresses; him looking spiffy in a dark maroon suit, while Amber and Eve look gorgeous in their gowns. They must have all color coordinated, wearing similar shades of red (Eve’s even found something that surprisingly doesn’t clash with her hair). 

‘Wish you were here’ William captions one of his photos, the one he uploads to his Insta page. They’re all piled into a booth at some Italian restaurant downtown that Mark’s only ever passed while doing hero work. It’s one of those buffet style places; the kind he used to love as a kid because it meant he could eat as much as he wanted (his stomach twists at the idea of consuming anything now). 

He turns his phone off after the fourth or fifth pic of Amber and William waving at the camera, making sure to send his mother a thumbs up to her ‘working late. There’s leftovers in the fridge’ text message. 

With a long-suffering groan, he flicks through his textbooks, trying to force himself to read— he may as well get something done for the night. He knows vaguely, he’s punishing himself. For everything that’s happened, he deserves just a bit of punishing. His teachers will certainly agree. He has no doubt that Mrs. Hong will be overjoyed if he tells her on Monday, he skipped prom to work on a math assignment.

“Now, why in the hell are you not at your school dance?”

Before he can register who the voice belongs to, Mark launches his textbook across the room, a direct hit on the intruder. Or it would be, if the man in the navy blue suit and tired looking eyes, doesn’t disappear with a flash and reappear on the opposite side of the room. The book lands patheticly on the floor of the hallway, sailing through the empty threshold. 

“Jesus, Mark. Are you trying to take my head off?” 

An unsteady thrum of laboured breathing bursts out of him. Relieved. But rattled. His chest feels tight as he lifts himself off his belly and onto his backside. He’d been laying on his front to flip through his workbook, a pen in his grip. It stains his sheets as he twists to look at Cecil.

“What the fuck are you doing in my room?” He accuses, without saying the words, ‘how did you get in?’. There’s a low strumming of fear in his chest. Nolan used to be able to go anywhere. Nothing could stop him. Nothing can stop him on Earth. 

Cecil is not the same; he isn’t bullet proof nor does he even look like he could take a bullet to a non-life-threatening organ in his current age and bounce back from it. He’s not broad shouldered, he has a bit of pudge around the middle, and sometimes when he sighs, Mark can see every exhausted twinge of his body through the lines around his mouth.

But he is tall. He has about three inches on Mark and when they aren’t on equal ground— for example, being on one’s belly, in their childhood bedroom, wearing sweats and a tee, while the other is standing firmly, without a trace of unease— it’s easy to feel threatened.

“Sorry,” Cecil puts his hands up, lifting them off his hips to show Mark his palms, like he’s saying parlay, “The front door was open. I knocked. No one answered.” 

“Oh.” 

Mark’s brow furrows, then he flushes pink. 

He was supposed to have locked the door after his mom left. He’s done it everyday since he was little and his parents weren’t at home. Now that he’s- well, Invincible- he hasn’t felt the need to do so in a little over a year. Nothing could feasibly harm him.  No home intruders with their guns. Or supervillains with their shticks. 

But there’s still things in the house. Priceless, precious, irreplaceable things that could be taken whilst he’s asleep upstairs or has his headphones in and cranked to the max. His mother’s jewelry and their fine china; all of it stolen and gone in the off-chance Mark forgets to lock the front door.

“Don’t worry about it, kid. The GDA would notice if someone snuck in.” Cecil assures him, and for the billionth time that Mark has known him, it’s like he can read his thoughts. 

His words do little to soothe him either.

“Well, why did you come in without me saying you could?” Mark demands.

People knock. Normal people knock and when no one answers, they leave.

“I was worried.”

Cecil looks unbothered by the words as they leave his lips, but Mark feels himself go rigid. He can taste iron on his tongue. He’s accidentally bit his tongue to stop himself from saying something immediately in response. It’s weird. It’s- strange.

But nobody has said that recently without a trace of pity on their features. William and Amber and Eve all look at him with the saddest eyes when they ask if he’s alright. His mom won’t look him in the eyes. And the guardians avoid the personal comments altogether. 

It’s professional. Just like how Cecil is on a daily basis. He’s got more gray hairs from his time at the GDA than he does smile lines and serotonin, and yet the words don’t sound professional as he says them.

They’re said in that same gruff, unbothered tone that makes it seem like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world. 

But- Mark can’t even describe it. There’s something different about his inflection. About how his Rs are soft and the space in between ‘I’ and ‘was’ is longer than necessary. It circles around his belly and makes him feel less disturbed by the fact that the man is in his bedroom, after nine, without being permitted or asked to come over.

“What were you worried about?” Mark asks as calmly as he can manage whilst his heart beats fast in his chest.

“It’s a school dance, isn’t it?” Cecil replies, poking at one of the figurines on Mark’s desk (heat blooms across his cheeks as Cecil picks one up and studies its paint job), “I thought you were gonna try to finish your last couple of weeks of school on a good note. Didn’t we talk about this?”

He’s scolding him. Reprimanding. Like he’s disappointed. 

“I’m doing my homework.” He says like a good little student, hoping Cecil won’t pick up on the shame he’s sporting.

The older man just sighs, “I wanted you to take it easy so when you’re ready to-“

“I am taking it easy. This is me,” he points to his textbook, crumpled on the floor; “Trying to do my homework like you told me to, so I can graduate and get back to being a hero.”

Cecil inhales then. A tight, annoyed sound that makes the hair on the back of Mark’s neck stand up. Has he overstepped? Done something wrong? And why does he suddenly care so much about what Cecil thinks? 

“Alright. Yeah. You’re right.“ The man nods, “I just figured you’d want to go to Prom with your girl. You know, socialize before you get back into the fray.”

“Amber and I broke up.” He tells him. 

Christ. 

He hasn’t even told his mom yet. 

“Oh.” Cecil stops. There’s a moment, where he’s quiet, and Mark knows for certain that he’s reevaluating some internal quandaries, and then he’s setting the figure down on Mark’s desk and moving toward the open window to look out dramatically, “Sorry, kid. I know you liked her.”

“I…yeah.” Mark pulls his hoodie sleeves tight around his wrists, feeling guilty for some reason, “It’s okay. I ended it.” 

“Probably for the best,” Cecil continues and although Mark bristles in indignation at first— ‘How fucking dare you say that-‘ sitting on his tongue— he deflates like a water floatie soon after, curling around his knees which he draws up to his chest, “It was.” He says confidently, “We aren’t good together. She’s not safe with me.”

He doesn’t know why he’s telling Cecil all of this. 

The last person he talked to about girl problems about, who he desperately wanted the advice of, and respected, was Nolan and that-

“Good on you, Mark. Holding yourself accountable. That’s a big part of the job. And doing your work first, recreation time second? That’s commendable. I should have my guys looking at you when it comes to being responsible.”

“Y-you think?” He whispers, belly fluttering like butterflies are inside him. 

“Yeah, you did good, kid.”

Something inside his chest snaps. That doesn’t sound like Nolan. Doesn’t sound anything like a man whose hands are stained in his own son’s blood.

It doesn’t sound like in the movies when the troublemaker son and his no-nonsense daddy reach the end of the film understanding each other a little better. Or when a handler gets their peekanese through a hoop at a dog-show. Or a girlfriend comes home to find her streamer boyfriend has finally done the dishes. 

It sounds like Cecil’s just accidentally let it slip out. His fingers are older and worn, barely able to catch the sentence, even though it seems like he doesn’t want l to. 

He meant it.

He’s proud. He’s proud.

“Oh shit, did I say the wrong thing?“

Mark only had a moment to realize it’s hot behind his eyes and his vision is getting blurry, before he realizes he’s on the verge of tears.

“I- I- fuck,” he buries his face in his hands. It’s all been too much. The last few months. Amber. His mom and pad Thai and kimchi. He’s starting to really hate eating. It makes him feel sick and bloated all the time. He thinks he looks like a zombie some days, puttering about the halls, wishing he could just dump his backpack in the trash and fly off into space.

“Mark. You alright?”

No. He really isn’t. Everything is awful and his dad left him and he’s crying over take out and the fact that Cecil is watching him being a mess. 

He doesn’t like crying. As much as he tries not to let that macho man rhetoric get to him- he believes everyone and anyone can feel weak- it’s the fact that he hates crying in front of other people. He hates how red his face gets, when snot runs down nostrils, and his eyes get glossy. 

It’s embarrassing and he’s mortified to realize that Cecil is just standing there, watching, seemingly unsure what to do. There’s a lost expression on his face, showing the first sign if ‘what the fuck is happening’ on the man that Mark has ever seen on him. 

“M’sorry,” Mark manages to gasp out from behind his clasped together palms, “I don’t- you can leave, I-“

“No, no, Mark.” Cecil moves a little closer, until he’s at the end of the bed. He’s snapped himself out of whatever fog he was in, and gives Mark a firm stare, “No, don't apologize.”

There’s something else in his expression. Maybe it’s dissatisfaction with how his scolding has gone; this was clearly meant to be a check-in because he thought Mark was slacking off and/or going out to do Invincible work rather than being a student. Or maybe it’s discomfort because he’s forcing himself to kneel on the hardwood floor so he can be on Mark’s right side. Those old knees of his must be in agony. Maybe it’s just tiredness. There are bags under his eyes. 

He must be working incessantly.

Mark wonders where Donald is right now. If he knows his boss is comforting him in the middle of the night. Then he remembers he’s supposed to be crying and Cecil is patting him on the back. His hands are stronger than Mark would’ve thought. 

They’re firm, although a tad bony. And warm. 

Cecil looks like he runs cold, but the pieces slot together as the heat of his skin passes through the thin shirt Mark’s wearing. He was hot out in the backyard a few weeks ago too. There’s always a little line of sweat along his forehead when he’s stressed. A few months ago, Mark watched him fan himself with a folder in an elevator. And another time, he saw him doing it with a stack of medial forms in the medial bay at the pentagon. 

Something in Mark feels tingly as he notes down the little quirk.

Cecil runs hot. And he’s stroking Mark’s back, trying to get him to stop crying. 

His tears start to ebb, but his breathing spikes as two thoughts suddenly hit Mark.

The first is that Cecil is trying his best to get him to calm down.

"Mark, come on, breathe, kid. You're alright." The man murmurs, rubbing a circle into his shoulder. It's meant to be comforting. Fatherly.

It's not. 

Mark feels his face bloom with heat at the touch. Something deeper stirring, and he's not so sure he wants it to. Cecil’s heat flows through his back, down his spine, coiling around his belly and settling in his hips before moving down. It's all-consuming. Strange. And merciless.

"It's going to be alright." Cecil mutters as Mark squeezes his thighs together and leans into the touch.

The second is that he's wet.