Chapter Text
Present.
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 shirt 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—”
Six months ago.
It’s not home.
It’s been three months since your release, and you still haven’t managed to quite get the feel there. The apartment is fine, albeit much smaller than what you had before, but at least it’s in a nice building.
Well, anything was better than the cold and cramped cell you had lost a year to.
Now you were left to try and make sense of the pieces left behind after your world was shattered. Mostly everything had been stripped from you. Your apartment – your home – seized and sold off, along with ninety nine percent of your belongings.
It was a startling reality, coming out to nothing but a letter from your attorney saying to collect what had been put aside in a storage locker downtown.
An application had been put through for an apartment in your name, and accepted a few days before your release, so it was ready and waiting by the time you blissfully walked free of the gates.
Some clothes, five boxes, a couch and your bed. That’s it. That’s all you had of your old life. You didn’t even get to say goodbye to any of it.
The art that used to line the walls – gone. The borderline ridiculous amount of houseplants you had grown from seedlings or bought on lazy Sunday mornings at the market – trashed, probably. Your trinkets, and furniture, and memories…
You ache for it, for the life you had before it all went to shit.
It had taken a couple of weeks, but you eventually managed to get a job – a part time thing at the diner close to your building. It wasn’t a lot by any means and the pay was awful, but at least it was something.
You worried about rent, until your kind elderly landlady said the first couple of months had been taken care of, showing a letter from your attorney organising to pay said rent.
Six whole months were taken care of and already paid for in advance and a weight lifted from your shoulders. You didn’t need to panic just yet and slowly, week by week, you somewhat found your feet again, but the ache of what had been lost didn’t fade. You were learning to live with it, though.
It was all behind you, and now you simply wanted to look ahead.
You should’ve known… it’s never that simple.
A firm, brisk knock on your door jolts you from your thoughts as you leisurely flick through a book huddled on your couch, and your brows furrow in confusion as to who it could be.
A neighbour maybe?
You eye the front door, softly setting your book aside and throwing the blanket off your legs before standing and striding over to answer it.
It’s crazy how fast everything fucking crumbles.
It all hits you immediately the instant you pry the door open.
Anger—rage. Heartache. Sorrow.
It floods you in heavy, overwhelming waves and you struggle to keep your head above it all. What the hell is he doing here?
He’s got a lot of fucking nerve. You hate that the sight of him could still make your heart jump in your chest, even after fifteen months. No. It was never him, you remind yourself. He didn’t make your heart jump like that.
Seconds pass as you critically eye his appearance, scanning the freshly shaved skin of his jaw to the crisp dark grey suit and light blue tie. You’re loath to admit it to yourself, but he looks fucking good.
God. What a dick.
“Hi,” Marcus finally says, seemingly unfazed by your scowl and merely tucking his hands into the pockets of his slacks.
You inhale deeply, straightening your shoulders and curling your fingers tightly around the door knob.
“Will I get arrested if I slam this door in your face?”
A twitch of a frown creases his brows, “No –”
“Good.”
It’s loud.
Your windows rattle from the force of it. You don’t care that you probably just disturbed most, if not all, of your neighbours. The once steady beat of your heart has turned thunderous, beating against your chest and making you dizzy from the rush of blood pounding through your system.
Had you not been clear enough? You never wanted to see him again, and now he’s at your front door? How does he even know where you live? The bitter reminder of who, and what, he is hits you, and you start to wonder if you’re under surveillance or something.
Are they watching you?
Suddenly, you start to question everything.
Had they been following you on your morning walks to the coffee shop? The book store? Getting groceries? Do they watch you now, coming and going from your apartment? Do they look through your window?
Your chosen safe space to explore your ideas doesn’t feel as safe, as comfortable anymore.
You eye the large window looking out onto the busy streets now, and the thrifted armchair you had dragged in front of it to enjoy the long stretches of sun that would shine through the glass. Various art materials are scattered around it and lining the window sill, your sketchbook and art journals stacked on the small side table beside the well loved seat… it was your spot.
Your favourite spot.
Had they been watching you while you sat there for hours? Had he been watching?
It’s violating. You feel sick, repulsed by the idea of sitting there or going anywhere near your windows. Goddamnit, when will he stop taking from you?!
“I know I’m the last person you want to see,” he speaks through your door, “and I’m sorry for showing up like this, but we need to talk.”
“I told you to leave me alone, Pike!” You hiss, rushing towards the door and pounding your fist against it to try to channel some rage out of your system. It doesn’t work.
“What the hell did you not understand, huh!? Does your stupid government brain not comprehend simple English?”
“I understand your hostility—” he replies calmly.
You snort harshly, tearing open your door and fixing him with a vicious glare. “My ‘hostility’? Are you fucking kidding me?”
He exhales softly, gazing down the corridor before his eyes fix on you once more. He doesn’t seem put off by your anger. In fact, he looks braced for it. He’s playing the cool and calm agent perfectly.
Are you shaking?
It takes you a moment but, sure enough, you feel a tremble in your hands. Rage simmers, hot and heavy, under your skin and you swear your heart’s about to beat out of your chest. The silence stretches on and you just seem to get madder.
Eventually, he sighs softly. “Can I come in?”
“No.”
“This won’t take long –”
You force a tight, sarcastic smile. “Do you have a warrant, Agent Pike?”
“No. I’m not here to –”
“Then you can contact my attorney and we’ll talk then.”
Fuck you and your stupid badge.
The door starts to swing shut, the temptation to slam it in his face again bubbling beneath the surface. You’re just so fucking angry. The last thing you expected when rolling out of bed this morning was to be greeted with him of all people.
Despite trying your hardest not to, he ever so slowly seeped through your defences to the forefront of your mind, and you found yourself thinking about him almost regularly. It was enough to drive you mad some days, filled with so much harsh resentment and bitterness it oozed into your art.
You’d spent months thinking over your relationship with him – with Alex – while in your cell, picking through every single interaction and moment spent with him, analysing every memory, every word, every touch, until you feared it was starting to get obsessive. You grumbled for days, weeks, on end.
There hadn’t been any warning signs or red flags. He’d been just right, fitting so perfectly into your life you thought the universe had finally decided to cut you a bit of slack and grant a little wish come true. His curiosity over your work had come on slowly, and simply felt so natural that you didn’t even think anything of it.
It’d been the performance of a lifetime. The government should really look at giving out fucking Oscars, or something. He had played his part immaculately if the icy cold ache left in your heart was anything to go by.
The door jolts to a sudden stop.
You blink in vague surprise, a quick scowl forming with the longer his hand stays splayed on the door to keep it from closing.
“Just a minute of your time – that’s all I ask. Please.”
For the love of –
You exhale deeply, your eyes tracing the doorframe of the apartment opposite before you silently step aside, allowing him a small enough space to accept as an invitation in. A minute only. You start to count the seconds.
He gives a quiet murmur of thanks and you ignore it, simply closing the door behind him with your stomach turning to knots. Your arms cross defensively over your chest as he wanders deeper into your apartment, a barely there flicker of curiosity pulling at his features as his eyes roll over your things.
You hate it. You don’t want him here. You don’t want him tainting the life you had, the new life you had created by yourself. You don’t want him in your new space; your new home, free from the memories of what you had shared with him.
No. You had nothing with him. You had something with Alex, but then again… did you? He didn’t exist. He was a lie, a sham. None of it was real. You’d fallen in love with a character thought up in a room full of federal agents wanting to close a case.
The rage returns.
“Out of curiosity,” you mutter, grimacing at the way he eyes your apartment and feeling your eye twitch from the fury pumping through your system, “how many years would I get for assaulting a federal officer?”
He turns at your question, mirroring your stance and crossing his arms across his chest. He oozes authority. He looks like an agent, all stiff-postured in his suit and carefully concealing any and all emotion. He doesn’t give you any reaction to your question.
Instead, he merely does a once over, studying your own posture and deciding you’re of no threat whatsoever.
“I wouldn’t press charges, so none.”
“Oh? You don’t want to lock me up? But I thought you were quite good at that,” you spit. “I’d offer you a drink, but I don’t give a fuck about you and I hope you dehydrate on my shitty rug, you lying piece of shit.”
The words sit in the air and he blinks, his brow quirking slightly at your little outburst. “Feel better?”
You shift in your spot, your tongue swiping along your lower lip. You do actually. Ugh. Bastard.
“What do you want, Marcus?”
“I know this must be very unexpected for you and I can’t imagine what you’re feeling right now, but I – we – need your help—”
What?
“Get out,” you snap before he can even continue, infuriated by the mere idea that he’d come to you for help after everything.
“No, I’m fucking serious, Pike. Get out. You think I’d help you? After everything you did to me? You fucking broke me, Marcus! You ruined my fucking life!”
A small, logical part of you reminds you that, ultimately, it was your doing in the end. You chose the life you had, choosing to do what you did. There was always going to be a chance it would come crashing down, but that doesn’t alleviate the pain of having the one person you thought truly had your back assisting in bringing it all down around you.
You’re surprised when the slightest flicker of sadness shines through his eyes.
“I know,” he murmurs, head falling into a small nod, “and I am sorry for that. It was never…”
He doesn’t continue, his sentence merely leading into silence as he struggles for words.
It was never what? It was never meant to happen? It was never meant to get as far as it did? It was never meant to end like it did? What?
You look away, not entirely sure you even want to hear him continue. It had happened, and no amount of apologies or excuses would ever make it better.
“I’d like you to leave,” you mutter weakly, hating that tears start to sting the back of your eyes.
It shouldn’t hurt anymore. It’s been so long – why does it still hurt?
Why does it feel like you’re still in the holding cell, desperately clutching your chest in an effort to hold your heart together? It shouldn’t hurt, not like this.
You hurriedly wipe away the single tear that falls, now fully unable to look at him knowing he would’ve seen it.
“Okay,” he murmurs soothingly, taking a small step towards the door. “I know we have no right to ask you this, but there are people getting hurt, and I—”
You huff in pained amusement, “No one cared when I got hurt.”
“This is bigger than you and me,” his voice is quiet and thick with emotion, but when you look at him, he shows nothing on his face.
“Look, if you’re not interested, that’s fine, but please just… just think it over, okay? You could really make a difference in our investigation, and if you do happen to change your mind—”
“Not likely,” you cut in, but he carries on as if he doesn’t hear you.
“—then give me a call.”
You glare at the card he holds out to you, but figure he’ll leave quicker if you take it so you snatch it from his grasp and nod, averting your gaze before it could meet his. You see him hesitate from your peripheral, almost as if he were contemplating saying something more… but nothing comes.
No words fall from his mouth, and instead he merely clears his throat and lets himself out of your apartment quietly. The door closes softly behind him and your fingers immediately tear the small white card in half.
—
It plagues you for days.
You toss and turn at night, unable to calm your mind long enough to get a restful night’s sleep. Instead, it’s painfully interrupted, and mostly consists of you staring through your ceiling and bedroom walls until your body can no longer fight the wave of heaviness coming over your eyes.
The pieces of Marcus’ destroyed business card sit on your countertop. You play with them over your morning coffee, sliding the pieces together as if it were a jigsaw puzzle before flicking them apart and attempting to ignore their presence as you went about your usual routine.
You couldn’t bring yourself to throw them away.
The thought of people out there – nameless and faceless and nothing to you personally – getting hurt simply sat wrong in your stomach.
What kind of person would you be if you didn’t at least try to help? You could be bitter over your situation and no one coming to your aid when you needed it, but would you really let that bitterness stretch out onto others? Could you live with yourself knowing you had done nothing when, maybe, you could have made a difference?
It’s those thoughts that propel you to just do it.
You slip the pieces together and dial the numbers printed neatly under his name, ignoring the feeling of tightness wrapping around your lungs as you bring your phone to your ear. It rings three times before he answers, and you spit out the words before you can change your mind.
“I’ll help, and then that’s it, okay? I want no more of this. You leave me alone – all of you— for good. I want to live my life… understood?”
Had you spoken too quickly?
It had all come out so fast in your hurry to get the call over and done with. A part of you still wants to completely forget he ever knocked on your door… too late now.
This could be good, would be good. You’d do your part, you’d help and then you’d be able to sleep peacefully knowing you had done what you could for those getting hurt.
“Understood,” he replies, and that seals the deal.
You’re involved in his investigation now.
“Okay, so… what now?”