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Chapter Text

The first time Mark saw Cecil- at least that he can remember- was when he was sixteen. It wasn't anything special, nothing noteworthy- not really. 

Mark wasn't even supposed to be home. He hardly even remembers why he left school that day. A headache, maybe? 

Mark sighs as he opens the front door. Everything in him yearning for a nap. Dropping his backpack with a dull thud on the wood floor. A headache- mild, but annoying- had given him an excuse to dip out of gym class early. Making everything annoying. The fibers of his clothes, the sound of his own breathing. The coach didn't ask questions when Mark left. Too late on a hot and humid day to bother making yet another student stay.  

He hadn't expected anyone to be home. Toeing off his shoes and making his way to the stairs. But when he heard voices- low and tense- he froze. One hand still on the railing. Listen to his dad's voice coming from the kitchen. Another one, too. Sharper and more clipped. Gravely. A voice Mark doesn't recognize. 

Mark leans over the railing just enough to peek into the kitchen, and that's when he sees them: His dad in his usual flannel and jeans. Arms crossed over his chest and jaw tight. 

And the other man- tall, lean, with silver-white hair and a mangled scar on the right side of his face. The side facing Mark. The man wears a sleek black suit that doesn't look like it belongs in their kitchen. Not next to the bowl of bananas and his dad's half-finished coffee. 

The man looks familiar. Not in the way Mark can place, though. A part of him swears he recognizes the stranger from somewhere. He looks kinda cool, in a strange way. Like he doesn't belong anywhere but still somehow fits. Mark doesn't remember ever seeing him. But he doesn't act out of place. Or like a guest visiting for the first time.

Mark blinks. A salesman? Government? He can't tell. But whoever he is, his dad clearly doesn't like having him in the house. 

“I told you,” Nolan snaps, voice low but firm, “It's not happening. Go give orders to your other lap dogs.” 

The white-haired man doesn't seem offended. Just raises a brow. Hands neatly inside his pockets. The stranger doesn't argue. “Just going to let them enter the atmosphere, then? Thought you're here to protect earth?” 

Then the stranger shifts. Head turning slowly, eyes scanning the living room Mark is leaning into. At some point, Mark had shuffled back down the stairs. Standing on the last step to get a better view. Those eyes land right on him, standing there awkwardly. Obviously eavesdropping on the conversation. 

Nolan follows his gaze. Head turning to face him. “Mark.” His tone shifts instantly- too fast. “What are you doing home?”

Mark scratches the back of his head, trying to pretend he didn't overhear anything. “I… wasn't feeling great,” Mark mutters. Suddenly aware of how weird this is. Who is this guy? “Didn't know we had company.”

“We don’t.” His dad's eyes narrow, turning back to look at the man across from him. “We're done here.” Nolan says stiffly. An obvious cue to the man to leave. The stranger only gives a small shrug. 

“For now.” Is all the guy says. Stepping towards Mark. His polished shoes make a clean click against the tile as he passes Mark on the way to the door. Mark catches a whiff of something strange- not cologne, exactly. More like antiseptic and something sharper. Like chlorine or bleach. Something burnt in a chemical way. He gives a small, polite smile to Mark as he brushes past.

Something in Mark's chest feels queasy. A weird twist in his lungs that keeps him staring as the stranger shuts the door behind him. 

Who the hell was that?

Mark turns to his dad. “Was that… like… the FBI or something?

Nolan doesn't answer. An exhausted huff is the only response Mark gets as his dad walks past. Locking the door with a too harsh flick of the wrist over the deadbolt. The clack of it locking into place louder than necessary. 

“Don't worry about it,” He says. “Just some bureaucrat. Not important.” Mark debates asking again. But his dad looks annoyed. Shoulders squared like he's ready for a fight. Mark gets the feeling that isn't just some government guy. Why was he in the house? Why did his dad let him in… why did he know his dad is from off of earth?

Whoever that man was- he was important. 

Mark wakes up from his nap later that day. The unusually hot spring air finally cooled into something tolerable. The humidity from the rain finally went away sometime while he was dozed off.

He drags himself out of bed, groaning as he sits down at his desk. He should turn in the work he missed today by going home early. 

Mark tries to focus on his history homework. Tried being the key word. 

He stares at the open textbook, rereading the same paragraph about the Cuban Missile crisis three times before giving up. Letting his pencil fall onto the desk with a clatter. His room is quiet, save for the occasional bird outside and the hum of his laptop fan. 

But for some reason, his mind keeps drifting back to earlier. To his dad and that guy talking. To him.

That man. The one with the scar and the sharp voice. The cool demeanor he had- like he walked out of a movie or some secret government file. The way his eyes had met Mark's- like he knew something. That small smile on his lips. More a smirk by how that scar stopped his lips from turning up on the other side. 

What was up with that? Why'd he know his dad? 

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and looking back down at the textbook. “Stupid.”

But the words just seem like a wall of text. His brain dodges the meaning behind them. Refusing to put it together.

Mark leans back in the chair with a groan. Pushing his legs forward and the chair back. Its wheels only slightly fight against the carpet. He gives up. Standing and walking out of his room. Stretching as he tries to wake up more. Maybe he just needs to get his blood flowing again?

Dad is still home, Mark notices. Usually he's out once mom gets back. Mark doesn't bother him yet. He still seems in a bad mood, at the sink rinsing the dishes like they've personally offended him. 

Mark thinks about pressing it. Pissing him off further… but he is curious. 

“So… who was that guy earlier?” Mark asks as casually as he can. Picking through the fruit plate on the dining room table. Grabbing one of the waxy fresh apples and sinking his teeth into it. 

“Doesn't matter,” his dad huffs, voice rougher than usual. “He's no one you need to worry about.”

“Just seemed kinda serious.” 

Nolan's jaw flexes. “He sticks his nose where it doesn't belong. That's all. Just forget it.” 

And that was the end of that. Mark gets the message loud and clear: don't push. 

Mark made his way back up to the room with that same unsatisfied curiosity. Half eaten apple still in hand. Setting it down on his night stand and flopping down onto his bed. Still turning the whole over in his mind, like a splinter he can't quite pull out. His dad isn't usually so cagey. Annoyed, sure. Intense sometimes. But this? This feels different. His dad looked bothered. He's only ever like this about hero stuff. 

Is that it? Is the guy some other hero? A co-worker? Dad doesn't usually work with anyone but the best. Those that can ‘keep up’ as Nolan puts it. His dad is really cagey about hero stuff. Keeps insisting Mark should stay out of it unless he gets powers. So does his mom. 

But… then there was that other thing. 

The way Mark's stomach did this weird flip when the man walked by. The way he couldn't stop thinking about that ragged, curved scar. Or how cool he looked in that black suit, or-

Mark's eyes land back on his desk. The glare of his lamp burns his eyes from this angle. The lit bulb peeking out from the lamp shade. Still open textbook on it. 

He groans. Right. Homework. 

Mark has waited his entire life for this moment. To go with his dad to work. The GDA- the Global Defense Agency. Center of Earth's Defense. A welcome into the hero world.

Somehow his dad has made it a chore instead of a fun outing. The ‘Grand Tour’ is way less fun when his hand is sore from being outstretched. At least he can finally take off the itchy bandana and goggles here, for some reason. 

“Again? This is like the twelfth person. How is your identity even a secret?” Mark groans out. Walking down the hall, following behind his father. Mark feels weirdly underdressed in regular clothes. Everyone here is in business suits or spandex… even his dad is in his hero costume. 

“Shush Mark- Not related to me remember?” Nolan chides him, smirk on his lips as they walk down the too cold hallway. The fluorescent lights sting his eyes- and Mark gets the idea he's not supposed to be here. Some of the people look at him weirdly, like he's an intruder or something. 

“This one's the big guy in charge. But he's not that special. Don't let him boss you around. Remember?” His father turns slightly, looking back at him. 

“Fine.” Mark huffs. Looking around at the weirdly spotless walls and too clean floors. It's so bland. Underground and windowless. It feels worlds away from above ground. Silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the occasional hiss of automated doors. “Why do all these government places look like dentists’ offices had a baby with a bomb shelter?” 

Nolan chuckles, clapping a hand on his back just as they slow down to a door. “Because that’s what happens when the government gets a blank check and no imagination.” 

Then the door opens automatically. Letting him walk in just after his dad does.

Sitting at the desk is the same guy. The stranger that was at the house almost two years ago. The same balding head and white-silver hair. Same scar cutting from his lips and up his right cheekbone. Suit coat loosely draped on a shelf behind him. 

The man glances up at them- just to go back to scribbling something on a piece of paper. The office is weirdly clean, the only mess is the desk. Papers, stamps and folders all over. 

“Cecil. Mark has gotten his powers!” His dad's voice is way too loud for the small office. Mark can't help but wince a little. 

“Good. And why are you here, exactly?” 

Cecil. So that's the guy's name. It… suits him. Cecil doesn't seem impressed by the announcement. Mark gets the feeling the man already knew as he watches him write something down. Mark only gets more embarrassed when his dad acts like not congratulating him is an offense. Giving a smile at the obviously annoyed man in hopes he knows it's not him pushing for this. 

“Thought you'd be more happy. I want a team on it to measure his progress better.” Nolan says it with a click of his tongue. A habit Mark knows means his dad is annoyed. Mark wants to melt into the floor. Talk about embarrassing. His dad is trying to pry out congratulations from someone who obviously doesn't give a damn right now. 

“Of course. I'll put a team right on that. Congratulations on the powers, Mark.” 

Cecil finally addresses him directly. Just when he was starting to feel like a tag along more than the topic of conversation. 

Everything about him, even his motions seem commanding, practiced and casual. Something that makes Mark stand a little taller when Cecil rises up from his seat. Mark steps closer, reaching over the desk to shake his hand. 

“Thanks! I can't wait to join the Guardians.” Mark smiles as he says it. Taking the outstretched hand. 

It's colder than he expects. Something off about it- compared to all the other hands Mark has shaken today. Kind of… Mark can't place it. Not calloused- but not smooth either. Isn't that just how regular skin feels though?

Cecil suddenly grunts, a small sound paired with a sharp tug of his wrist. Mark realizes he's been holding on a bit longer than necessary. Quickly letting go. He watches as Cecil raises the hand to his chest. Massaging it with the other. Thumb into his palm and four fingers pressing over its back. Mark didn't even realize how hard he squeezed- he only just got his powers.

“Sorry” He mumbles. Looking away from Cecil. Cecil only sighs, a barely audible breath. He doesn't look pissed. Just unimpressed in a way that feels intimidating.

“Get a handle on your power, and then we can talk about you joining.” He doesn't sound mad either. Mark smiles. Watching him sit back down. 

“Where did your father go?” Mark pauses, looking back to see his dad is gone. How did he leave so quietly? The automatic doors are kinda loud. 

He laughs a little, more out of awkwardness than humor. “He did say he loved the canteen breakfast burritos. Probably there.” He turns back to face Ceil. 

Then Cecil stretches. 

Just a normal stretch. Arms folded beside his head, the kind meant to help with stiff shoulders. Sitting up further in his chair as his back extends. The neat fabric of the pristine white dress shirt straining over his form. The sleek ironed cuffs of his dress shirt riding up his wrists before they disappear again. The movement is casual, almost lazy, but somehow even that seems professional. Distant, like he's watching someone on a TV screen instead of having a conversation.

Everything about the motion is something Mark notices- more than he wants to. 

And there it is again. That flip in his stomach. The one that made his breath catch for a second. Mark looks away like a dumbass. Already feeling the heat in his face. Suddenly way too interested in a random blinking monitor on one of the walls. Displaying numbers and codes he doesn't understand the meaning behind. 

Don't be weird. Don't be weird.

Mark takes a breath. It's just warm. That's all. “I've seen you before. At our house.” Mark tries to start a conversation, at least. Anything other than standing in awkward silence while they wait for his dad to come back. 

“Only a few times. I remember. You've grown fast.” A few times? Mark tries to think back. He doesn't remember seeing Cecil before that time a few years ago. Was Mark too young then? Did Cecil look different? Still- he feels that itch of curiosity. That bugging question about who Cecil is. Dad has already told him alot. Director of the GDA and all. But it doesn't answer the ones that scratch inside Mark's mind like ivy. 

“...Do you have any family? I've never seen them?” Mark cringes. Of course he hasn't seen Cecil's family. What kind of question is that? He doesn't even know the guy. Cecil seems to notice the weirdness of it too. Pausing and meeting his eyes for only the second time today. A beat of silence just a little too long to be comfortable.

And I've made it weird. Way to go, Mark.

“None to speak of. Married to the job, as they say.” 

Mark feels his breath catch this time. Sharp and deep. Looking down at Cecil's hands. His eyes trail them. Their steady and practiced motions as Cecil's right hand gingerly picks up his coffee cup. The ring finger of his right hand is empty of any wedding ring. None to speak of. No family either?

Mark doesn't know why, but the answer makes everything shift. That same electric squirm in his gut. Stomach flipped, sharp and sudden. Why does that feel so damn good to hear? It reminds him of being a kid and hearing the ice cream truck jingle coming down the road. 

Mark is pulled out of his thoughts by the sound of the door. The hiss and click of it opening. Just before Nolan walks in again. 

“Try these, Mark, they're amazing.” Again, his dad says it too loudly. It's weird, he isn't usually that boisterous. But the burritos do smell amazing. He takes one of them, wrapped in warm to the touch aluminum foil. Peeling it back and taking a bite. It really is good- even though he's never really liked beans that much. He's suddenly a lot more hungry than he thought. 

Mark pauses, turning to Cecil. Before he can stop himself- 

“Want some?” 

Dumbass dumbass dumbass.

Cecil's eyebrows go up. Just reinforcing the fact that Mark has made a fool of himself every other sentence. Then he snorts. A half-amused laugh that sounds more annoyed than entertained. 

“No. I'll eat later.” Cecil assures. Mark's barely maintained smile of shame is only hidden by the food he's stuffing his face with still. 

His dad takes a step back and towards the door, and Mark jumps at the chance to follow. Waving in the hopes of smoothing over everything he did to make this weird. It doesn't work. Cecil gives a stiff smile, one of those that just screams someone is happy you're leaving. 

The moment the doors shut behind him, Mark grimaces. The embarrassment of every wrong turn hits him like a truck. 

Do you have any family? I've never seen them?

Fucking want some? Way to go in making a good impression. Mark sighs. 

That guy probably thinks he's a total weirdo. 

Mark doesn't even bother turning on the lights when he gets home. He let the front door click shut behind him, kicked off his shoes somewhere near the entry rug and trudged up stairs like he had a hundred pounds strapped to his back. He never expected entry to being a hero would mean handshakes while wearing a crappy bandana mask and goggles. 

Mark pushes open his door with a shrug. His room is dim, streaked with the last scraps of daylight filtering through the blinds. 

He flops face-down onto the bed and groans into his pillow. Only one interaction really burned into his mind. 

He probably seemed like such a weirdo. It plays over and over in his head like one of those cringe memories that haunt you any time you're desperate for sleep. He guesses he can add that to the collection. 

Mark groans into the pillow. Rolling onto his side and staring at the wall like it might offer advice. His face still feels hot from earlier, even though it's been over an hour since they left the GDA facility. 

He'd asked Cecil about his family, for crying out loud. Like some nosy reporter. And then he couldn't even play it cool when the guy answered. 

None to speak of. Married to the job, as they say.

Mark squeezes his eyes shut, groaning again. But instead of fading, the words linger in his head. 

Cecil is single. 

It wasn't even a real thought at first. Just an observation. A dumb detail his brain couldn't seem to let go of. But the more he thought about it- about the way Cecil had said it, calm and detached- the more the thought changed. Tilted. 

Mark thinks back to how Cecil looked. Not just his suit or his posture- but how he really looked. His sharp, pale blue eyes. The way his white hair paired with it just to make them seem more piercing. The scar. His voice. The stillness he carried. 

There was something weirdly… exotic about him. Not foreign, exactly, just different. Distinct. Like he belongs in a black-and-white film or a noir graphic novel. Like he was plucked out of one of his comic book collections and placed in the fluorescent hum of a secret government base. 

Mark sighs. Flopping over onto his back. Staring at the ceiling. 

Why can't he stop thinking about this? He saw Cecil two years ago. Yeah, he remembers it. Something stuck with him. Made an impression. But it faded quickly after that little phase of curiosity. Now though? Seeing him again is just weird. 

It's not like there's anything special. Or noteworthy. It wasn't like Cecil said anything, really. The man had barely looked at him twice. 

So why is there this stupid, giddy flutter in his chest when he remembers Cecil saying he isn't married?

When he remembers the way Cecil looked at him. Glancing up from the seat of his desk. Expressionless, disinterested. But watching. The slight tilt of his head.

The small grunt Cecil made when Mark accidentally squeezed his hand too hard. The slow sigh breath when he stretched. 

The strain and shift of his button up shirt when Cecil's arms extended in that lazy stretch.

Mark groans. Rubbing his hand over his face. Shifts a little, then freezes. Bolting up straight. 

He's hard. 

“No. Nope. Not that. Not- no.” 

Mark bolts out of bed. Pacing up and down his room. Ignoring the sensitivity in his crotch. Stopping every once in a while to bounce his leg, trying to redirect the blood flow. 

Really? Really? Some old balding guy in a suit gets him going? He likes girls. He's had crushes. Amber is hot. That girl in Bio, the one with the nose ring- he totally noticed her. 

It's not like that- he just thought the guy looked… badass. Like a spy movie character. Totally normal. 

It's not like he's excited about it- it's just curiosity. Nervous energy. Just the excitement of the day coming out during some thoughts about that guy.

It's not like he's gay or anything. 

“Just follow my lead, don't touch anything unless you're told, and for the love of God, don't embarrass me.” Nolan said, striding down the GDA hall ahead of him. 

“Great pep talk, Dad.” Mark mutters. Trying to keep up with his dad's pace. 

He finally got a hero costume. Just in time for the initial physical assessment his dad was talking about. The corridors of the GDA look more alive today- more agents moving between rooms, more quiet murmurs filling the soundless halls. Still sterile, still cold, but buzzing with some kind of activity. Mark gets the feeling he's not allowed to know what it's about. 

Mark barely had the time to glance around the auditorium room before some tech in a white lab coat is ushering him to a bunch of machines. She explains the basics: A reflex text and durability analysis, then a strength test. Just a baseline. 

In other words, let's see if Omni-Man's son is going to be worth a damn. 

After the first two tests- one that hit him with some energy fields that hurt and felt like bricks slamming against him- Mark is ordered to the weight press machine. Which looks more like something from a sci-fi movie. 

A lay bench below it and some huge hydraulic stuff going on above. High-tech, nerve-wracking, and impossible to fake. 

Mark sat down, laid back and wrapped his hands around the two bar handles as instructed. Just trying to calm the fuzziness in his chest. 

Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw him.

Leaning against the wall by the door to the auditorium- Cecil. Hands in his pockets. Watching. 

Of course he's watching.

Mark's stomach betrays him and does that stupid little flip again. Especially when Cecil notices him looking back. Giving a small nod of acknowledgement or encouragement. 

Mark looks away quickly. Focusing on the machine above him. He hadn't noticed they already started ramping up the weight. His palms are already a little sweaty under the spandex of his suit. 

The tech lady called out, “Just push when you're ready. It's starting at two tons and scaling from there.”

Mark nods a little, exhales, and pushes. The machine resisted. Hard. But it moved. Not fast, not smooth, but enough to qualify for a pass on the weight. Numbers blinking to life on the screen above him. Mark grits his teeth and pushes again. 

Then- just for a second- he glances up. 

Is he still watching?

A ridiculous part of Mark- a small, traitorous part- wanted to see those pale blue eyes looking back at him. Wanted to know they were looking, noticing his strength. The effort he was putting in- at least. 

He is. Mark sees him again when he looks over. That same stoic, unimpressed look. But he's looking. 

Mark pushes harder. The machine creaks above him, resisting the surge before it buckles upward like he pushed too hard. 

The tech whistles. “Damn. We haven't seen a spike like that since the time Omni-Man sneezed mid-punch.” That gets laughs from the room. The sound makes Mark blush, and he looks over again. Cecil isn't laughing with them. Still just watching. 

“Guess it runs in the business.” Nolan says flatly. Arms crossed but his tone is more amused than he lets on. Dad must really not like the GDA to be holding in laughter. 

All Mark manages to think is: Was Cecil impressed? Did he notice?

Did he like what he saw?

His face flushes immediately. God, what am I even doing?

Mark tops out at some point. Around a hundred tons from the weight reader above him. Panting hard when they finally lower the weight again. His limbs feel like jelly for a split second before he starts to recover. 

Still, his eyes dart back to Cecil's place by the door. Still standing there like a statue. Unimpressed, stoic. Like he's seen this all before.

Mark hates how much he likes that. 

He notices the recovery bench nearby, a few feet beside Cecil. Just like that- Mark pulls himself off of the bench. Stumbling over to the bench, still sore and heart pounding in his chest. Still acutely aware of those blue eyes following him. 

Despite knowing how much it was, he finds himself asking, just to hear that voice again. “How much was that?” His voice is hoarse as he grabs a water bottle. Twisting it open and guzzling it down. It's easier to do ever since breathing became less of a constant necessity. Mark grabs another one. 

“Around a hundred tons.” Cecil answers. And Mark can't help but notice those eyes trailing down to his chest. Making him sit up a little taller. 

“What do you think of my hero outfit?” He's standing before he can catch himself. Cecil doesn't look too off put by Mark closing the distance, at least. 

“Could be more eye-catching. Or more subtle.” Cecil remarks. But his eyes stay down. On Mark's chest. Is it… annoying him? Does he not like the look of it? Mark feels his own frown before he can catch it. Leaning against the wall with Cecil.

“For rescue,” Cecil clarifies. “Keeps the enemy's eyes on you. Or off, if you want a quick and quiet approach.” Oh, that's Cecil's job- right. Maybe that can get him talking? Does Cecil like talking about those small details?

Mark leans in, “Is that why they all wear bright colors?” Mark always found it a little ridiculous looking. But it is obvious why- but still-

He steps forward. Too sharp, too close. It wasn't intentional. At least, not entirely. He just got caught up in the moment. 

And suddenly Cecil is within arms reach. Close enough that Mark can notice the faint lines around Cecil's eyes. That same clean, antiseptic and burnt smell. The small crease of Cecil's brow as he looks at him. When did he get this close to Cecil? He sees Cecil flinch, shoulder sliding against the wall as he takes a sharp step back. The older man's posture shifts. Subtle. A pause in his breath. Just enough to make Mark realize what he's done. 

Crap, I've made it weird again.

Mark looks down, eyes catching on Cecil's scar before he looks away. “I've never really seen a dark suited hero in action- only heard of them- is that why?” Mark takes a step back as he rambles. Trying to fix it and failing. Hoping he hasn't ruined the conversation by getting so close. But he sees his dad coming before he can think of anything better to say. 

Nolan chuckles. “You have a lot to learn, Invincible. I think the outfit is the least of our concerns.” His dad looks at Cecil why he says. Something silent happening between them. A sharp look that just screams tension. Mark huffs. Why does he need to interrupt now?

“Of course. With your potential, the costume isn't so important.” Mark smiles, feeling the cold air on his teeth before he can catch himself. Trying not to look so obvious. Potential? 

Nolan grabs his arm. “Well,” his dad's voice is cold. Sharp and very obviously annoyed. “we're done here.” Then he's being tugged out of the room. Mark hesitates, twists. Half-wanting to stay- but Nolan is already guiding him out of the room with a firm hand around his arm. 

The moment they are out, Nolan sighs. Not angry, just sheer annoyance. Like his kid just called a big lady fat or mentioned a bad smell in someone else's home. Hand rubbing down face as they walk.

“I thought I told you not to embarrass me.” 

Mark blinks. Wanting to squirm. “What?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

Mark's heart is suddenly hammering again. A distinct thrum that makes him feel queasy. Does dad know? Oh god. How does he explain this? He's not- 

“You're broadcasting everything you think and feel to anyone watching.” Mark stumbles. Trying to keep up with his dad's pace. What does that mean?

“...So?” Mark hesitantly asks.  

His dad turns around suddenly. Quick enough that Mark almost bumps into him. 

“You want to wear that suit?” Nolan pokes a finger into his chest. “Then start acting like you understand what the job demands. Control. Composure. You don't get to be just a kid.” 

Mark's stomach twists. Relief and frustration all at once. His mouth opens, then shuts. It doesn't seem like his dad noticed exactly what he was thinking. 

Nolan continues. “You're showing your age. I get it. You're new. Impressed by the big people in charge. But when you're in uniform- you don't get to act new. Got it?” 

Mark huffs. “...Yeah.” He says, quieter this time. Nolan finally turns again. Walking for Mark to follow.

Mark obeys silently. But his head is all messed up. He knew his dad didn't pick up on it- thankfully. Hadn't seen what was really going on. But the warning still stung. 

Mark wants to be taken seriously. Wants to be a hero. Not just Omni-Man's kid riding on his coattails. 

Just.. he can't seem to get a grip lately. Something about Cecil just throws him off. 

Why, though? It's not like Mark knows him. 

He doesn't. 

But he wants to.

Maybe a little too much.

Chapter Text

The car ride to the GDA is quiet. Mark sits stiff in the back seat of the unmarked vehicle. Besides his mom, who is rushing to make phone calls to her business partners. Letting them know she'll be gone for a while. After, she sits silent beside him, hands clutched in her lap, knuckles white. The agents haven't said much- just that his dad had been found seriously injured and was being treated at the GDA. No more details than that. 

Mark keeps staring out of the window, heart hammering in his chest. His dad is Omni-Man. He doesn't get hurt. He doesn't lose. 

It doesn't make sense. 

When they arrive, the GDA remote entrance yawns like a bunker swallowing them whole. The sleek corridor and asphalt of the tunnel is ice cold, seeping into the car as they drive through. The sharp beeps of whatever sensors they drive through on the way get annoying after the third time it rattles the car, let alone the fifth. 

When they step out, an agent meets them. Broad shouldered, buzz cut brown hair, dressed in a grey-tan suit. With tinted aviator glasses on his face. Something about him seems familiar. 

“I'm Donald Ferguson,” The man introduces himself. But not to both of them. Just Mark. It seems like his mom knows him already. “I'll take you to the medical wing.” Donald motions for them to follow. 

The man reassures them that dad will pull through. That he's receiving the best care possible. But Mark can't help but watch him. Even as his mom snaps at the guy for trailing off about the tech in the GDA. 

Doesn't he recognize this guy? From where, though?

Before he can dwell on it, they arrive at the medical wing. The doors open automatically, and there is dad. Laying on one of the hospital beds. Unmoving, unconscious. Hooked up to machines and breathing just a little too hard for comfort. 

Donald doesn't help much. Informing them that they can only do so much for a viltrumite. That they can only hope that his dad will be okay. 

It doesn't make sense. In over twenty years on earth- mom says he's never been injured this badly. How is that possible? Dad has been buried under mountains, been to space, to different planets, dived under the tectonic plates like it's a hobby. People are honored to be deemed strong enough to work with his dad- it's treated like a right of passage by a lot of heros. 

So how could this have happened? It doesn't make sense.

Mark sighs, turning to Donald, fists clenched at his sides in irritation. “Who did this?”

A voice answers from behind. 

“We have no idea,” Mark's head snaps to his left, and Cecil is there. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed and leaning against the wall. “Not yet anyway.” He says it easily- calm, confident and collected, just like every time Mark has seen him before. Like none of this shakes him. 

Cecil leans off of the wall as he says it. Stepping further into the room. 

“But we'll find out.” Cecil reassures, hands behind his back as he approaches them. “And when we do they're gonna look a hell of alot worse than your dad over there.”

Cecil pauses, then extends his hand. “It's good to see you again, Mark. Just wish it were under better circumstances.”

Mark hesitates only a moment. Hand fidgeting at his side before he steps forward. Shaking Cecil's hand again. Still that odd, out of place feeling.

His grip is firm. Steady, once again a bit colder than Mark expected. Mark ignores the way his stomach squirms, it's traitorous little response doesn't care about his dad almost dying. But an old man is the perfect pick me up, apparently. 

Get it together, Mark.

“Yeah,” Mark responds. “You too.”

The handshake holds for just a second too long- at least that's how it feels- before Cecil lets go. Cecil looks away from him, down at his mother behind him. Kneeling beside dad's bedside.

Mom seems to know Cecil. She doesn't like him, either. But Cecil announcing that the guardians were killed changes everything. It's not long before Cecil rushes out. Some call about an attack in the city- and Mark looks back down at his dad. Laying on bed, unconscious and unable to help. The words from a few days ago fresh in his mind. 

“You want to wear that suit?”

“Then start acting like you understand what the job demands.”

Mark looks back at the door Cecil left through. Squeezing his dad's hand.

He's a hero now, isn't he?

Everything happened fast. Too fast.

One minute, Mark was flying, intent on going to help. Adrenaline outweighing his focus. By the time he arrived, the city was already a mess. Smoke curled from crushed buildings. Screams echoing off the pavement. Weird alien looking guys are everywhere- armored invaders with intimidating coordination. 

He tried to help. Really tried. 

Mark dove in quickly, fists swinging. 

At first, it was almost like practice. He knocked one back, then another. But then he saw an old woman. Laying hurt in the middle of the road.

Mark tried to help- but he just fucked it up. He tried to get her out of there- but flew around like an idiot instead. Took a few shots and was sent crash landing into a pit. With the lady still in his arms. 

He did that to her. The crunch of bones was the only thing he could hear when they hit the ground. 

It wasn't his own. 

The lady broke her left leg and arm on impact. Blood gushing out of the wounds where the bones had punctured out. A cut on her stomach from hip to ribs. Smearing the both of them from face to stomach in her blood. 

Mark hadn't moved at first- wheezing and panicking. Too shocked to be useful. Frozen, useless. Wasting precious time. It's no wonder Atom Eve sent him away. Probably worried he'd hurt whatever poor civilian he tried to ‘help’ next. 

The people in the city needed help, and all he'd managed to do was break an old lady's bones and fly her to the hospital like some glorified ambulance. 

That's not being a hero, he thought bitterly. That's just a kid with flight.

Maybe dad was right. He doesn't get to act new. Not when people's lives are on the line. Acting new is just a better way to say acting like a dumbass. 

Mark was just on his way out to go back home. By himself. He still has school tomorrow, and he has to leave mom. Alone. In some cold, dead medical center. Mark trudges down the corridor, still dripping with the woman's blood. Suit streaked in it, stomach twisted in knots. His gloves are tacky with drying red. He just wants to go home, maybe shower for a few hours. Pretend today hadn't happened. 

Then he sees them. 

Cecil and Donald, walking together down the branching hall ahead of him, voices low but urgent. They walk together close. Easy with each other. Their steps in sync like this kind of crisis talk is routine. 

Mark slows, unable to stop watching. 

They do seem close. Not just work close.

Just when they are about to pass the one Mark is walking down, Cecil stops mid-sentence. Taking a quick step back, head turning to look at Mark. Mark flinches when those apathetic eyes land on him. Suddenly much more aware of how he must look right now.

“-initial casualty reports are still being updated, but it's bad. Civilian losses are in the triple digits. Infrastructure damage will take weeks to…” Donald stops, voice trailing off when he realizes Cecil isn't looking at him. Glancing down the hall to see what the guy is looking at.

“Well,” Cecil says dryly. “Looks like someone got their hands dirty.” 

Mark blinks. Watching as Cecil's eyes don't quite meet his. Realizing how much blood he is still wearing. “Y-Yeah I… tried to help.”

Cecil's expression doesn't change. But Mark doesn't miss that slow sigh he gives. Like he's tired, or repeating a routine. 

“Communal showers are two levels down. Go clean yourself up before you go up looking like that.” Cecil informs him, just as his eyes glance at the hallway behind Mark. A trail of blood on the floor. Cecil doesn't seem impressed. 

“Okay. Thanks.” Mark nods, grateful for the chance to escape. He really just wants to be alone right now. 

But as he turns to go, Cecil's voice follows him. 

“Wait-” Mark looks back, and Cecil is pinching his nose bridge. Head tilted and eyes closed. One hand on his hip. He's annoyed, that much is obvious. His hand drops from his face and eyes open just to look at the droplets of blood Mark has left behind him. 

Cecil glances over at Donald, who is already pulling out his comm. “Call for a janitor. Somebody in biohazard.” Cecil mutters. “Before someone slips and there's another mess to deal with.” 

“Yes, sir.” Danold replies. 

Mark winces, and hurries to the elevator, face burning with embarrassment. 

The trail of blood. His own failure. Even his hands smear the buttons. Mark grimaces. The way he must've looked in front of Cecil. In front of both of them. 

Still, as the elevator doors close, a part of him replays the look Cecil gave him- that mix of mild concern and professional detachment. It wasn't scornful. Just… practiced. Like Cecil has seen hundreds of new heros walk these halls. 

And now Mark was just another one of them.

Another mess to clean up. 

The locker room is silent when Mark enters. Devoid of any people. Most of the emergency responders have come and gone, still out in the rush after those alien things attacked. Leaving him alone in the silent locker room. The only sounds are the dull hum of the fluorescent lights and the hum of the vent system. 

Mark strips off his blood-caked suit. Each movement feels slow and heavy. His muscles ache, and the dried streaks of red on his arms and chest make his stomach churn. He never imagined the smell of blood would be so potent. His hands still tremble slightly- not from exertion, but from everything else. 

The woman. The blood. His own stupid helplessness that led to it. 

Mark steps into the shower area, hitting one of the nozzles and flinching when it comes out cold. Freezing water hitting his skin like icicles. He's too desperate to finally get the blood off to really care. Only relaxing when the hiss of the water steaming finally warms it. The sound of water splashing against the wet tile echoing in the empty shower room. 

At first, he just stands there, letting it wash over him. Letting the blood wash away. Looking down just to watch the red ribbon spirals that disappear down the drain. 

Mark leans against the wall, water running down his back, and closes his eyes. Just happy to be alone for a second after the nightmare that today has been. 

But that's when his mind drifts- again- to Cecil. His deliberate attempts to keep his head empty go to complete waste. Wandering instead to the pair he just ran into. 

More specifically, Cecil and Donald. 

The way they walked together. The way they fit together, like gears turning in sync. Cecil's voice, low and focused. Donald's quick responses, already one step ahead. Talking about casualties and infrastructure damage it's just another Monday. 

Donald had looked so at ease beside Cecil. Like he belonged there. Like it came naturally to him. 

Mark runs a hand through his wet hair and lets out a breath. 

Why does he even care? Why does it bug him so much?

It's just curiosity. Really. Cecil is just cool and…

Then it clicks. 

That face- Donald's face. It bugged him because he'd seen it before. 

A framed photo in Cecil's office. Tucked on the shelf behind his desk. Barely noticeable unless you were looking closely. Beside the books and file holders. The too clean patriotic knick knacks that look like they're just there to fill the space. The only person- or personal touch in that sterile space. 

Mark remembers it now- It was just a simple picture. The same as the man looks in person. Buzzcut, suit, and tinted glasses. No special occasion for the photo taken, at least not by how it looked. Just a photo of the guy. With a small smile, if the fuzzy memory serves him right. 

It didn't mean anything. Not when Mark first saw it. Now though, it feels like something he wasn't supposed to notice. 

Cecil's words echo in his mind again, low and offhanded from their conversation before. 

"None to speak of. Married to the job, as they say."

Cecil has said it simply enough. But the realization feels bitter. 

But that doesn't necessarily mean single. Does it?

Mark opens his eyes, frowning at his feet. Just because the guy isn't married doesn't mean he isn't seeing someone. Mark groans, running a frustrated hand through his hair. Grabbing one of the bottles of soap, not really caring who it belongs to. The GDA seems so neat and tidy that he wouldn't be surprised if they have communal soap bottles too. 

It's just curiosity. Trust, about figuring out the people around him. That's what matters, right? Both mom and dad seem to not like Cecil- but even those thoughts ring false in his own head. 

Donald seems loyal. Trusted. Close.

The thought made something twist in Mark's chest again. Frustration? Disappointment? He doesn't know. 

And then comes the thought that makes it clear. 

I don't even know if Cecil likes men.

Mark turns the water temp up. As hot as he can get it. Already knowing it won't hurt him. Trying to scold that thought away. But it sticks. Like steam clinging to glass. He groans, dragging his hand down his face. His skin is red and raw from the heat, but he doesn't turn the heat down. 

Why is he thinking like this? Why can't he stop? His dad is in the fucking hospital. He hurt a woman today by being an out of control idiot. He failed to even pick up the slack while his dad was out cold.

And for fucks sake- he's thinking of an elderly ass guy in the showers. Cecil's old. Hell- he doesn't even know how old the guy is. Seventy? Eighty? They've barely had a handful of conversations. The guy is probably old enough to be his grandad. Probably not even remotely interested in people his age. 

And even if he was…

Mark groans. Pressing his forehead to the tile and clicking off the shower. 

“This is so dumb.” He whispers. Like the probably gross tile he's leaning his head on will talk back. 

Why is he even thinking about this? It's stupid. He's straight. He likes girls. He's always liked girls. Not once has he looked at a guy and liked what he saw. Not like that. Not like this.

But even as he lists it, the endless mental bullet points on the ‘straight’ checklist, something in him feels… flimsy. 

The flip in his stomach. The twist in his chest. The way just hearing Cecil's voice- low and gravely- makes his skin prick. 

He leans back from the damp tile. Still soaking as he walks into the locker area. Grabbing one of the many towels neatly folded on the shelves. Pausing when he sees rows of sweatpants and white T-shirts. Are these the employees' stuff? He didn't bring in a change of clothes… 

Mark huffs. Grabbing some that look like his size. He can apologize later. The last thing he wants is to put on his crusty, bloody uniform. 

He sits down on one of the benches to dry off. Pressing his face into the towel with a shaky exhale. 

What the hell is wrong with me?

He doesn't want this. Doesn't want to think this way. Especially not about him. It's just asking for trouble. For issues. For problems. A million reasons not to. 

Cecil is old. Knows his parents more than he knows Mark. He's aiming to work for the guy sometime soon. Cecil is intimidating. Sharp as a knife and twice as cold. Can't even smile at a funny joke. He shouldn't make Mark feel… like this.

“This is so messed up.” Mark mutters. Letting the towel sit on his lap out of pure avoidance to the idea of moving. Staring at the metal lockers, damp droplets from condensation all over them. 

But those words don't stop the thoughts. 

Doesn't stop the memory of Cecil's voice. Or his hands. Or the way his blue eyes look under the harsh GDA lights. 

Mark hates that he notices. Hates that he keeps noticing. 

He forces himself to move. To put on the clothes. It's getting late- he needs to get home. 

He doesn't feel better. Not even a little. Just clean. On the outside. 

Everything else is still a mess.

The second flaxan attack comes on suddenly. One minute they're at lunch, the next Eve is urging him out the door. A look on her face that made it clear something was going down. 

Their portals opened in the city center, just like before. A small army pouring out in tighter formations. More numbers. Equipped with heavier weapons and better technology.

But this time, Mark didn't hesitate. He knew better. Knew what he was in for. Maybe it was spite- maybe adrenaline at the idea of repeating the experience. But he handles himself. Actually handles the situation without fucking it up again.

The Teen Team was already in the thick of it by the time he and Eve got there. Standing on the roof, determining a plan of attack. Rex goes into it blasting explosives, focusing on crowd control and breaking their formations into smaller, easier to handle groups. Dupli-Kate picks off those that slip by the blasts, some of her clones pulling civilians into more secure areas. While Eve focuses on protecting the major crowds until they can fully retreat.

Mark dove into the chaos with more caution. More control. The blood doesn't stop him this time- his focus doesn't break at the sight of it, at least. Enough that he manages to help Eve.

When they find out the trick to the bracelets, the tide really turns. The flaxans must know it too. Retreating on mass when Robot sends the signal that disables them. Back into their portals, back where they came from. 

Mark is winded, but still upright. Covered in sweat and grime. Taking in the sight of the wrecked, bloodied city square around them. Siren wails starting up faintly in the distance the second the flaxans are gone. First responders ready to deal with the aftermath. 

“Just- don't ever point that at me, okay?” Rex jokes. Robot and Dupli-Kate looking on behind him as they talk. 

Eve snaps. Jokingly holding a fist up as she gets close to her boyfriend. “Don't listen to Rex. You did great.” Eve reassures him. 

But then his attention drifts. Up. A faint feeling of being watched. 

High above them, standing on the edge of a battered rooftop, is that familiar figure. A distinct red tie and black suit with that blue undertone. Watching them. 

Cecil. 

“That's… what I said, Eve.” Rex rambles. Something about his back. But Mark's attention is already caught. What's he doing here? Does Cecil need to talk to him? 

Mark raises his hand high, and waves to him. 

The talk between Rex and Eve ceases. Their heads turning to find what he's looking at. 

After a moment, Cecil waves back. And Mark takes that as enough of a sign. 

Before he fully knows what he's doing, he's lifting off the ground and flying up. Towards the building rooftop. Wind whistling in his ears as he cuts through the air. Landing softly on the edge, boots crunching on the gravel rooftop. Just a few feet from Cecil, who barely turns his head. Though his eyes stay on him the entire time. 

Cecil doesn't say anything. For a long, still moment. And Mark realizes that no, Cecil wasn't calling him up here. Why would he think he was? 

Well he can't just turn around now… 

“Heard about dad recently?” Mark asks the first question that comes to mind. Only to wince, looking around to check if anyone is close enough to hear that. Right. Omni-Man when in suit. Not dad. 

Cecil only hums. “I have. He'll recover.” He sounds so certain. So sure. Not just a platitude, like so many he's heard in the last few days. An assurance. Cecil says it like a fact, an inevitability. But the words don't soothe the knot in Mark's chest. He nods anyway, trying to push down the creeping fear of the worse case scenario. 

“How do you know?” Mark sucks in a breath at his own tone. Too soft and sudden even for him. He hadn't meant to let the question slip. 

Cecil's head finally turns completely. Something vacant in his eyes as they meet his. Just as suddenly, he looks away again. Staring back at the street below them. He almost seems uncertain. Or cautious?

“I'm sure he will. His injuries aren't as bad as they look.” 

Mark pauses. Watching Cecil for a moment. Something was off about the way the older man said that. Just a fraction. Small. Tone tighter than usual. Even so, for the first time in days, Mark believes those words. The reassurance that's passed out like candy on Halloween. Even from people who know nothing about the situation. 

Then Cecil shifts. And without warning, he reaches a hand out. Placing it on Mark's arm. Just below his shoulder.

Mark's breath catches. 

“He can take a hell of a hit. Don't worry.”

It's a simple touch- a professional arm pat- maybe even meant to be comforting. The contact is light, but its effect is immediate. It hits Mark like a live wire. His skin prickles under Cecil's touch. The contact feels warm and vivid through the layers of his suit, like it's skin-to-skin. 

Before he can even think to stop himself, he lifts his own hand. Pressing it over Cecil's- holding it there. Palm on the back of Cecil's hand.

The moment stretches. 

His fingers curl slightly, over and between Cecil's knuckles. The air seems to still between them. Charged and warm despite the nip of the breeze. Mark can already feel the blush on his face. A heat that makes him thankful for the mask his hero outfit comes with. 

Cecil's eyes flicker away from his. Down to their hands. A brief appearance of something passes over his face. Not anger, or offense. Just… surprise. If Mark had to label it. Confusion. His face doesn't move. No quirk of his lips, no raise of his brows. Just a stoic gaze, eyes a bit wider than usual. Composed as ever, just something more present now. Attention fixed on Mark alone.

Mark's heart flutters, but it feels cold. Not giddy, not electric. Like shocking your system by diving into a too cold lake. 

His chest tightens. Too much. He's crossed the line- he can feel it. 

I screwed up.

His hand twitches over Cecil's, and he loosens his grip. Not letting go even now. But if Cecil wants to pull away, there's nothing stopping him. No pressure keeping his hand there. 

But Cecil doesn't pull back. Doesn't move. His face doesn't twist in stunned discomfort like Mark feared it would. No verbal snap or demand for answers about what he's doing. No twist of his lips, curled in disgust that Mark was afraid to see.

Instead, Cecil's fingers tighten, just a bit. A firm squeeze against his arm. Not forcefully. Just enough. A small smile curves his lips. Just like before- just like back then- it's more of a smirk. The scarred side not pulling up quite like the unmarred one.

Cecil's hand shifts, thumb traveling down as it opens. His thumb rubbing a line over the seam of the spandex. Just over the muscle there. 

Mark swallows hard. Lips curling in for a brief, futile fight to stop himself from smiling. A grin splits his mouth despite his momentary fight against it. Unsure of what the gesture means- but clinging to it anyway. For how cold the air feels up here, Mark suddenly feels like a furnace. Hot and charged. 

Neither of them speak. For a heartbeat- two- three- they just stand there. 

Mark doesn't want to let go. And Cecil, for now, wasn't making him. 

It doesn't last.

Cecil's head snaps away from him. Head turning and eyes darting away, his left hand rising to his earpiece. Fingertips pressing against it. 

“What is it?” Mark doesn't miss the sigh Cecil gives as he says it. Disappointment or relief. Mark can only hope it's the latter. His hand twitches over Cecil's. And he turns to look in the direction Cecil is staring. 

Mark winces when he sees them. The Teen Team. Rex, Eve and Dupli-Kate gathered in a tight circle, staring up at them with no attempt to hide it. Mark sucks in a breath, forcing himself to let go of Cecil's hand. 

Cecil doesn’t pull back immediately. Something that makes his stomach squirm. Holding his hand there for a second longer, before giving his arm a last squeeze before he pulls away. Hiding his hand back in his pocket. Away from Mark.

“He's awake.” Mark freezes. But there's only one person Cecil could be talking about. 

Dad.

Mark nods, stepping back quickly.

“I've gotta go-” Mark says it just a little too loud. Blasting off into the air with a gust of wind. Taking off in the direction of the GDA as fast as he can manage. 

The hallway outside of the medical ward is too quiet. 

Mark sits slumped on one of the GDA benches, still reeking of smoke from the fight. But finally out of his hero outfit. His dad is awake, awake and alive. A bit worse for wear by the winces he can hear in the room. Trying to change out of the hospital gown without irritating any injuries. 

It should be the only thing on his mind. Relief. Enjoyment. Elation that his dad is alive and well, and not dying in a life ending coma. 

But it's not. Mark stares at the floor, jaw tense and foot tapping rhythmically on the tile. All he can think of is what just happened earlier. 

Cecil put his hand on his arm. That's all. It was normal. Professional. Comforting. 

Then you put your hand on his.

Mark groans. Burying his face in his hands. 

It's not that bad. It's really not that bad. He just touched the guy's hand! That's all. 

Held it there and smiled like a weirdo while his dad was in the hospital. After people just died on the street below him-

What the hell is wrong with me?

The thought is a hot coil of shame in his chest, thick and heavy with self-inflicted frustration. Mark can still feel it- Cecil's hand under his. The way he held it there. The way Cecil looked at him: like he was humoring a kid that crossed the line. An awkward, needy kid who took the inch of respectfully distant comfort and ran with it the whole damn mile. 

The way Cecil had looked at him- kinda confused, then cautious. Damnit, he wishes he knew the guy better. That face of his is like a brick. 

Yet… Cecil didn't pull away. 

He squeezed him back. Hand holding onto him. A firm grip around his arm. Thumb running over Mark's bicep. 

Mark's stomach squirms again, just like it had when he saw Cecil in the office for the first time. Just like it had when he found out Cecil isn't married. Or when he saw him looking, watching him exercise during the physical assessment. Eyes trained on Mark alone.

But this time, the feeling isn't a passing flicker that settles down. Disappearing and leaving him with some semblance of normalcy. 

It sticks. Roots itself into some giddy flutter in his chest. One that has him raising one hand to the arm Cecil touched. Rubbing his finger tip on that same spot. He can still feel it. The warmth, the pressure. The squeeze of his hand. 

Cecil touched him back-

Mark groans. Snatching his hand away and dragging them down his face. 

He doesn't even know if Cecil likes men! What are the chances? Some old guy probably born in the homophobic generation of the era liking men? He doesn't even know what the hell he's doing. This is Cecil Stedman. He's like… a dinosaur. An ancient, very important dinosaur. He's probably laughing about this. About the stupid kid from earlier and his weird ass hand holding. 

Mark squeezes his eyes shut. His heart is thudding again for all the wrong reasons. 

You made it weird. You definitely made it weird.

The memory loops again, playing in his head over and over. Like some nightmare of his own creation. Cecil's hand on his arm, Mark's hand on top of it, the heat of the contact. That hellish, unreadable look on Cecil's face. The fact that Cecil hadn't pulled away, but hadn't leaned in either. What did that mean?

Ohh fuck… Mark cringes further. Curling further over his lap. Hands over his ears. Didn't Cecil kind of tilt back? Just a little? Is his head messing with him? 

And that sigh when Cecil picked up the call- putting his hand back in his pocket the moment Mark let go. He totally didn't like it-

But Cecil let him-

His hands clench into fists on his lap.

I'm straight. I'm into girls. The thought rose defensively, automatic. Like a knee jerk reflex to getting too heated. But it doesn't have the force it used to. Not with the way his body reacted- again and again- to Cecil. Not with the flutter of nerves that always come with seeing him. Hearing his voice. 

It doesn't make sense. 

He stood there, holding the hand of the director of a secret government agency while his dad was in the hospital. What was he thinking about? The entire time?

Well it wasn't his fucking dad that's for sure. Wasn't the people who just died.

The guilt hits hard. And underneath it, the embarrassment. The sheer mortification of what he's done. The fact that in all the chaos and misery happening today, he was doing… that. Whatever the hell that was. 

He wants to crawl inside a wall. Is his dad ready to leave yet? 

For the love of everything, ever, he hopes he doesn't run into Cecil for a while. 

Chapter Text

Mark sighs as he lays in bed. Back aching by how long he's been in the same position. Staring up at the ceiling like it might do something useful. 

His room is dark, save for the narrow sliver of morning light pushing past through the blinds. He hadn't slept. Not really. Maybe for an hour here or there, but everytime he closed his eyes, he saw her. 

Maya. 

The old woman he'd carried to the hospital. Her blood soaked through his gloves. The way he panicked- how she died. Alone in some classified hospital. No family was even allowed to come in. 

He'd thought she was stable. 

But on the way out of the hospital, when he asked the front desk, he got the news. She didn't make it. And it gutted him. 

If he had been faster, if he had controlled himself, if he had more training, more composure, more strength, anything- she would have lived. 

Mark curls his fingers into the blanket below him. Vacantly staring at the ceiling. 

It isn't just Maya. It's everything. 

Dad was so… cold about it. Like someone dying was a footnote. Insignificant. Inconsequential. Sure, he probably sees it everyday- but how can he be so unbothered by it? 

It's everything else, too. Dad being in the hospital and almost dying. His weird thoughts about Cecil, the even weirder moment on the rooftop, the way he can't trust his own thoughts right now. Everything is so messed up and raw that he doesn't know how to untangle the mess. Even now, the ghost of Cecil's hand still lingers in the back of his mind. The quiet way Cecil had looked at him for those brief few seconds that the older man had stood there with him. Mark's hand on his. The groves of his knuckles, the feeling of his skin under Mark's fingers. 

Mark doesn't know what he's doing anymore- what he's feeling. The grief twisted with guilt, which twisted with something else he didn't even want to name. 

He shuts his eyes, willing himself to stop thinking. He and dad have training in an hour. He should get up, get ready. Do something instead of laying here and being sorry for himself. 

Then- he hears it. 

A voice downstairs. Low and measured. Then his Dad's, then Mom's. Drifting up from downstairs. 

Mark frowns. 

He doesn't move at first, assuming it's some other GDA agent or family friend checking on his parents. Maybe mom had let someone in while he was hiding in his room pretending to sleep. Trying to avoid his dad's overenthusiastic morning motivation. Mark doesn't have any interest in small talk right now. He's exhausted enough since his dad has been back. 

But then the voice carries again, clearer this time. Something cool and dry, followed by a small, clipped comment. It's... familiar. 

Cecil. 

Mark's eyes snap open. 

He kicks the blanket off within seconds, and he's out of bed. Grabbing the first shirt within reach off of the dresser, smelling it only to wince at the odor. Definitely not that one. He tosses it on the ground. The next one is decent enough to throw on. He almost stumbles on a pile of laundry on his way out of the bedroom. Feet thudding against the stairs on his way downstairs-

“Morning Mark. What's the rush?” His dad's voice stops him in his tracks. Alot closer than he thought it would be. 

Mark stops, gripping the stairway rail too tight, swaying as he tries to fix his balance and stop himself from tumbling down the other half.

He looks over, and everyone is in the living room beside him. He thought they would be in the kitchen or something. 

In the living room, standing across from his mom and dad- is Cecil. In front of the TV. Hands in his pockets, coat as pristine as always. Eyes calmly looking right at him. 

Cecil is in their house again- just like that visit two years ago-

His mom looks over at him. “Morning sweetheart. Cecil was just-”

But Mark barely hears her. Cecil's eyes flicker over to him and hold his gaze. 

There's a pause- nothing more than a second or two- but it stretches. Mark swallows hard, his chest aching with everything he did a few days ago. Cecil doesn't look at him any differently. No discomfort, just that same stoic face. Indifferent as ever. 

Mark's hand clenches on the banister handrail. Tight enough the wood creeks and he has to force his hand to relax before he breaks it. 

Cecil is the one who breaks the brief look between them. Glancing away just as his mom stops talking. 

“Mark?” His mom's voice says his name a little louder than normal. Mark looks away, meeting her eyes, one of her brows quirked in mild worry.

“Huh? Oh sorry- I just…” He fakes a yawn, turning away from them and stretching. 

“I just woke up. What's going on?” Mark steps fully down the stairs. Into the living room. Heart hammering in his ears with every other glance Cecil gives him. Talking about some guy that tries to approach earth every once in a while. 

Cecil talks just like he did before. Like nothing happened. Mark talks, comments in between his parents and Cecil's conversation about whether his dad should go or not. All while he searches Cecil's face- looking for some kind of sign. A glimmer of recognition, of tension, of anything.

But there's nothing. Cecil's expression doesn't change. He nods and talks to Mark like nothing ever happened. 

Mark tries to keep his face neutral. To not show the weirdness of it in front of his parents. Like this isn't bothering him.

… Some part of him had hoped for something. A glance. A word. A subtle callback to that quiet, strange moment on the rooftop.

Instead- silence. Stillness. Cecil acted exactly the same. 

It's almost… disappointing.

The hallway buzzes with half-hearted energy- the kind that comes after a city-wide emergency but before a pop quiz. Students whispering about the Flaxan attack, their words tinged with awe and fear. Plenty of complaints about why they are back in school, alot of them hoping it would have been a good excuse not to go. Given the attacks keep coming in populated areas. 

Mark keeps his head down, leaning against his locker, exhausted. Every muscle aches from training with dad lately. Then that fight with the space guy. It feels too early to be going back to school after everything. His head still too fogged from the rooftop, the hospital, and the conversation he didn't have with Cecil. 

And now he was expected to pretend he was just a normal high school kid. Like he didn't have the week he just did. 

“Rough night?”

Mark blinks, and looks up from his phone. 

Eve Wilkins stands beside him, her backpack slung over one shoulder and red hair tucked behind one ear. Arms crossed and head tilted. She looks freshly showered and way too composed for someone who just helped repel an alien invasion. Calm as always. 

“Uh. Yeah,” Mark forces a smile as he slides his phone into his pocket. “A little.”

She nods, leaning against the lockers with him. Out of the way in case anyone walks by. “You really did well. It was a big improvement.” 

Mark gives a half-smile. At least someone thinks so. “Thanks. I didn't freeze up this time, so… progress.”

There's a pause before she adds casually, “I saw you talking to Cecil up on the roof. After the whole thing.” Eve says, and Mark only nods. Hoping she doesn't push. 

She does anyway. “I didn't know you two were that close.”

Mark looks away from her. Choosing instead to look out of the windows of the hall. Trying and probably failing to play it cool. “Oh. Yeah, I guess. I mean… I know him?” Even he winces at his own tone. It comes out sounding like a question instead of an answer.

Eve raises a brow. “Like… a family friend or something?” 

Mark's palms start to sweat. He thinks of the hand-holding. Of the rooftop. Of how <that> must have looked to Eve. Saying yes feels like a lie- and he's never been good at telling one. But saying no feels worse. How is he supposed to explain he was just holding the hand of someone he hardly knows? 

So he settles on: “Yeah. Something like that. Through my dad.” 

Eve blinks. “Your dad works for Cecil?” 

Shit.

Mark's brain goes blank. Any way out of this one is blown away by his stupidity. He opens his mouth and nothing comes out for a second too long. Does he say his dad is a hero? He's not supposed to. But he does kind of work for Cecil- 

“...Yeah,” he finally drags something out. Quiet and unsure. “He, uh- he helps out sometimes.”

Eve studies him for a moment. Eyes narrow and tracing his face. Her expression doesn't change, but something behind her eyes seems sharper than usual. Mark knows that look. She isn't buying it. 

Still, she doesn't push. 

Instead, she leans back against the lockers. Her back lightly thudding against the metal. “Alright, fine! I won't push. I was just surprised you seem to know him.” Eve sighs. “You know how many people fight tooth and nail to work for them? Their pay is crazy. Demanding, but I'd kill for those perks.” 

Mark lets out a breath, shoulders slumping. Anything to get her away from why he was… doing whatever that was. 

“So, uh… what do you know about Cecil?” He asks, forcing his voice to sound curious, not nosy and needy like he feels. “Just-like, in general.”

It's not like he can ask a lot of people. Mom and Dad act like Cecil is a bad omen, some kind of evil eye you're not supposed to talk about. Asking anyone else, the few that know of Cecil, is just weird. They'd probably report right back to Cecil that Omni-Man's son is being weird. Again. 

Eve shrugs. “You probably know him better than I do.”

“I've seen him more the last week than ever before. I know that he's uh…” She looks around. Making Mark do the same. What is she worried about? 

“That he's the director. But he doesn't usually deal with us.” Eve adds. Mark huffs. It seems like she doesn't know anymore than him. 

“Us?” Mark asks. Eve just rolls her eyes. Jabbing an elbow against his. “The team.” 

Oh- right. Don't mention it in public. Mark nods quickly. Hoping the conversation will drift somewhere else.

But Eve isn't done.

“You sure you're okay?” She asks, voice softer now. “You seemed… weird. Up there.” 

Mark stiffens. Ouch. Even she thought he was being weird? He can only imagine how Cecil felt. 

“Yeah… just tired. You know, aliens. Explosions. Causal genocide.” Eve gives a dry little laugh, but doesn't look convinced. Her eyes linger on him a little too long.

She drops it, at least. For now. She waves when the bell rings, walking off to her next class.

The sky is dull and grey as they drive to the real funeral. Like the world knows it's mourning the loss of something. It feels a lot more fitting than the sunny, crowded bustling show funeral put on earlier. 

The car hums as it rolls over the road. Toward the real burial site. His mom is driving and dad is in the front seat. The mood is thick with unspoken tension. But no one really breaks it. It feels wrong to say anything right now. 

Mark sits in the back, phone in hand, staring at the open message screen. Amber's number. 

Todd had given it to him. For some unknown reason. He never expected Amber to blackmail a number delivery to him, that's for sure. 

He should text her. 

Amber is gorgeous. Confident. Cool. Mark likes her. He really does. Everything about her makes sense. Everything about her is something he's supposed to want. That he does want. 

But his thumb hovers uselessly over the screen. Something stopping him from sending the message he keeps typing just to erase again. 

Mark stares at the massage box. Just something simple already typed. Hey, it's Mark. Wanna hang out sometime? It should be easy. 

But he can't hit send. The motion doesn't come no matter how much he wills himself to tap it. 

Instead, his mind drifts- uninvited- to Cecil. It's something that's becoming a regular occurrence. As common as thinking about what he's going to eat for breakfast or how much homework he's behind on. 

Those memories keep coming. The rooftop. Cecil's hand, his eyes on him. The moment. That strange, electric and lingering moment. It's stayed with him longer than it ever should have. 

What is wrong with me?

Mark rolls his eyes. Clicking off the power button and tossing his phone on the empty seat beside him. Not even wanting to see it as he crosses his arms over his chest. The suit is too stiff over his arms. Too tight over his back. The fabric itchy and foreign to what he usually wears, it only adds to his growing irritation.

It isn't that he doesn't want to text her. He does. 

Amber is everything he should want. 

She's his age. His peer. Amber is a woman- it would be so much easier with her. Mark could have a future with her. She's self-assured and positive in what she wants. In life, in her future. In a partner. The fact that she even looked his way makes something flutter in his chest, antsy and ecstatic. 

But he can't shake the bitter taste in his mouth. The way that every time he thinks about seeing her, he finds himself biting his nails and fidgeting. Thoughts racing with the feeling that he'd lose something if he did. 

Mark just can't shake this strange… pull. The restless tension that stirs every time he thinks of Cecil. That steady confidence, his calm voice. The quiet strength behind that scar. How his eyes always look a little too hard at the world. 

Isn't he just like Amber? Just different, only a little. Amber is more open. More willing to interact. A woman. But there's similarities between them. 

Mark leans back further in his seat. Not caring about how he's wrinkling the suit his mom spent an hour ironing. Looking out the window as the rain begins to trickle down in a light shower. 

It's stupid.

Pointless.

Cecil is older. Way older. Old enough that he wouldn't even give someone Mark's age a single glance. Cecil probably doesn't even like men. And even if he did- what are the chances? Mark is just some kid with half-baked powers and no idea what he's doing. 

The stars would have to align for anything like that to ever happen. And even then, Mark isn't sure he'd be brave enough to take the chance. 

How would he even start? Could he even try? It sounds like such a chore. An endless list of things he'd need to check without being a total creep. If Cecil likes men, if Cecil is single, if Cecil would even entertain that. Some high-school guy coming onto him. 

What if Mark really isn't into guys? What if he's just confusing something with Cecil? What if he misses the chance to date one of the hottest girls in school just for this? On the slim, really fucking slim, chance Cecil would even bother entertaining him… what if he goes further just to not be into it? 

What if he loses out on being with Amber just to discover he is straight? Or doesn't call Amber and gets shot down the moment he tries anything with Cecil?

And just the thought of someone realizing- seeing what he's doing- or Cecil- it makes him want to melt into the seat beneath him. What if Cecil recognizes what he was doing? Would he be disgusted? Horrified? Would he never want to be near him again? 

“Everything okay back there?” Debbie asks gently from the front seat. Glancing at him through the rear view mirror. 

Mark straightens in his seat. Sitting up from where he was slumped. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”

She nods. Like she understands. At least his silence isn't odd today. 

Mark sighs. Sliding his phone in the pocket behind the front seats. He just doesn't want to look at it right now. 

The car rolls up onto into the parking lot. A private cemetery, apparently a well known spot for hero burials. Mark can already see a small crowd. The family of the guardians, some notable people they saved, a few government looking officials. 

Through the crowd, he sees Eve as well. Her red hair stands out amongst the black and grey. 

Mark joins her, along with his mom. The rain steadily gets a bit heavier as things progress. Soaking the caskets of the former Guardians of the Globe. His dad's speech comes and goes. While people speak in hushed whispers. Heads bowed in grief. 

After his speech, the crowd shifts subtly as people begin to move, whisper, nod to each other with solemn respect. Those awkward stilted talks you only see at a funeral. Asking about loved ones, comforting each other. Tempted to talk about the good times but too afraid to pour salt in the wound. 

Mark stands stiffly and silently with Eve and his mom. Under an umbrella, further back in the crowd. He watches as his dad leaves the spot in front of the line of caskets. But Nolan doesn't come to stand with them. 

Instead, he walks to the other side of the open graves. The small crowd parted for him easily. Moving to stand beside someone, whose umbrella is held and tilted too low for Mark to see their face. 

Mark's breath catches when the person lifts it, enough for Mark to see their face. He recognizes him immediately. 

Cecil. 

He stands stiff beside his dad. Mouth moving, speaking to him. White hair damp from the humidity, curling at the ends. Mark watches them for a long moment. Catches his dad's eyes, just for him to turn away, back to Cecil. Mark watches them speak. The conversation is brief and clipped. 

Then his dad looks over, somewhere through the crowd. Before walking off. Cecil remains where he is- alone. 

Mark's gaze drops to the empty space beside him. 

Something about it makes him perk up. Standing a little taller. 

He could go over. Take his dad's spot beside Cecil. It would be the first time in days he's been able to get close. The space beside the older man is empty. 

Don't. The sharp voice of reason cuts through that thought immediately. An enduring rational side of his mind ready to refresh his memory on why he shouldn't. 

He shouldn't. Really, really shouldn't. He shouldn't go over there. He'll say something weird. Or do something stupid. He'll regret it. If he hasn't made Cecil uncomfortable already, whatever he does next just might. 

Mark's feet don't move. Not stepping forward. Not yet, he already knows. But for a moment he fools himself into thinking he won't. That he's resisted the urge. Mind quickly coming back to it, stuck between thought and impulse. 

Mark turns slightly, looking over at his Mom and Eve. The two of them speaking with someone now- a suited man Mark doesn't recognize. Eyes off of him, too distracted with consoling the teary eyed stranger. Then, he looks for his dad. Halfway across the small cemetery- talking to some guy in a trench coat. 

His heart beats hard once, a shuddering breath escaping his mouth as he looks back at Cecil. 

And then he gives in. 

Slowly, at first. Trying not to alert his mom that he's going off from their spot by the edge of the gathering. He doesn't even realize how quickly he's moving until he's halfway there. Boots squishing in the wet grass and cold rain hitting his head. A woman takes a rushed step back before he notices, forcing his pace to slow so as to not call attention to himself. 

Mark hesitates when he gets close to Cecil. Shy now, a sudden feeling of uncertainty. What is he supposed to do now?

Even then, it doesn't stop him from slipping beside Cecil. Just close enough that one shoulder is under Cecil's umbrella. He leans in, just enough that he's sure Cecil will notice he's beside him. 

Cecil doesn't react when Mark steps beside him. Not at first. A silent moment passes before he sighs, loud enough that Mark can hear it, and turns his head. Only to flinch, tilting back. 

Heat flushes through Mark's face- even he can tell he's too close. 

He's already fucked this up.

“How have you been?” Mark asks quickly. Trying to salvage the moment. Instantly regretting it. 

Damnit. How have you been? At a funeral? What the fuck-

“It's improving, back to back meetings for the most part. It'll take a lot of work to fill their boots.” Cecil answers him. With that same, disinterested look in his eyes. But it's a reply all the same. It's more of an answer than Mark has ever gotten about Cecil's personal life. Back to back meetings. Does he attend a lot of them?

“That's work though. What about you?” Mark feels his smile before he can catch it. Sucking his lips in between his front teeth to stop himself. Cecil raises a brow, just barely. Before he lets out a slow sigh. Heavy and long, Mark can feel his breath against his face at this distance. 

“Like I said. Busy.” Cecil replies flatly. Curt and short. Turning away and fixing his eyes on the caskets in front of them. 

Mark takes the cue to shut his mouth. There's no invitation to talk more. 

Instead, he stands there in silence beside Cecil, staring at the graves with him. The chill in the rain still clinging to his sleeves. It's clear Cecil doesn't want to talk- not right now. 

But Mark doesn't leave. 

He stays in the narrow pocket of stillness beside Cecil. Half beneath the umbrella, one shoulder getting more soaked by the minute. 

Mark knows he should stop here. Just close enough to pretend that this means something. Clinging to the way their shoulders almost brush. Just far enough to pretend it doesn't. That this isn't a thing he's doing. 

Neither of them speak. And Mark is too caught up in the quiet hum of nerves to leave. 

His hands fidget at his sides. He wants to say something. Anything. But nothing comes to mind. The silence presses heavily on him. Cecil is just standing there. Not caring that he's here, that he came over. Is Cecil sad? Is he bothered by him? Mark can't tell. He wants to ask, but words aren't wanted right now, at least not by Cecil. 

But… Cecil let him touch him- maybe he'll let him again? 

Mark moves his hand- hesitating as he lifts it. Just over Cecil's back. Waiting to see if Cecil will notice, will stop him, will move away. He doesn't. 

Mark takes a breath. Then lightly rests his hand on the middle of Cecil's back. 

Cecil doesn't move. Doesn't flinch, doesn't look at him. Not even a glance his way. 

Mark's pulse feels harsh and heavy, spiking in his chest. 

The contact is barely anything- fingers against damp fabric. He can almost feel Cecil's body heat through it. To Mark, it feels just like standing on the edge of a rooftop. Wind in his ears. Feet unsteady. Ready to lurch back from anything unexpected. 

He waits. Still, no reaction. 

Mark's face burns. Heat crawling up the back of his neck. 

He swallows hard, eyes flickering down. Hand still resting there, awkward and uncertain. He should pull away. 

Instead, Mark considers something worse- bolder and more tempting. Hand lifting, dragging his fingertips lower across Cecil's back. Hand hovering over his waist. Just the thought of putting his hand there makes him want to squirm. 

No. No way. That's- too much. Way too weird. 

Instead, he steps in a little closer. Laying an arm across Cecil's back in a tentative half-hug. His palm settled gently on Cecil's opposite shoulder. Fingers hooking over it. Slowly, gently. Afraid anything too sudden will break the opportunity. 

Still, Cecil doesn't speak. 

Mark thinks- just maybe- he feels Cecil's muscles tense beneath his coat. The air feels thick, tight and harder to draw in with each breath. Because of the humidity or his heartbeat in his ears, he can't tell. 

The air is cold, but Mark hardly feels it. The heat of Cecil's arm against his side feels like a brand. More than enough to keep him warm. He keeps his hand there- the pressure featherlight and timid- like if he pushes any further, the moment would crack and fall apart. He knows he's overstepping, crossing lines Cecil hadn't invited him across. 

But Cecil isn't stopping him. 

Mark lets his thumb drift, just barely, to the collar of Cecil's coat. Finding the ends of Cecil's hair hanging across his shoulders. White and fine, a little damp from the rain. His thumb brushes the edges of it. Just once. When nothing comes, he does it again. 

Still, nothing. Mark can't tell if that's a good or a bad thing right now. 

Cecil stands perfectly still, eyes ahead, jaw set tight. People are starting to move around them. Just barely. A few are leaving, their footsteps barely audible through the clicking of rain above them. Pattering on the umbrella. 

Mark knows this isn't the time or place for what he's doing. But something about the silence- that accommodation quietly given for his weird bullshit- makes it feel like this might be his only chance. 

He's letting me.

The thought burns through him. He doesn't know if it's hope or delusion. Cecil could stop him, could do anything. Step away, shrug off his hand. Tell him to stop. But he doesn't. 

Then, movement. Something catches his eye across the caskets. Mark turns to look.

Across the open graves and wet grass, Mark's eyes meet someone that freezes him to his core. 

Dad. 

His father is standing on the far side. Alone. Watching. 

Mark feels his breath catch in his throat. Hand stilling on Cecil's shoulder. 

Nolan's face is stone, locked in a scowl with his brow low and nose scrunched. Arms crossed over his chest. Not confused. Not curious. Angry and knowing. 

His scowl deepens. A small shrug of his shoulders and nod of his head. A silent command wrapped in a warning. 

Stop it.

Mark flushes. Panic rising like heat under his skin. Shame strikes first. Then dread. He pulls his hand back from Cecil like it burned him- but he doesn't move away. Doesn't take a step back. 

Instead, driven by a sudden wave of something- defiance, maybe, or desperation- he reaches forward. Gently lifting the umbrella from Cecil's hand. Lifting it, holding it for the both of them. An excuse, any other reason for why he's over here. 

Cecil doesn't turn to face him, but his eyes glance over. Finally. Expression as unreadable as always. Then he sighs- long and slow. Not angry. Just tired. Letting go of the umbrella, letting Mark lift it from his hand. 

Mark takes it quickly. Holding the umbrella aloft between them, shielding them both from the rain. 

Mark stands stiffly beneath it. Still lifting the umbrella over Cecil as a few of the mourners come over. Trickling past with handshakes and condolences, clipped conversations about what happened to the guardians. A few pausing to exchange words with Cecil, all stiffly formal. Cecil responds just as professional, his voice low and neutral. He looks far more in his element now than he has since Mark arrived. 

Mark doesn't move. He stays beside Cecil, gripping the umbrella handle tight. He can feel the heat in his ears, the way his face still burns from his father's glare. But he can't bring himself to walk away. Not yet. 

His mind races. 

He needs a reason. Something. Anything. Just being supportive. Comforting him. Cecil's his colleague- no not colleague. He's dad's contact? Government handler? The only person who had umbrella space?

Nothing makes sense. 

What is he supposed to say to Dad? That he was just holding the umbrella? Being polite? 

But no excuse explains why he was playing with Cecil's hair. Arm around him- maybe he can explain that away. But that?

Mark's heart thuds in his chest. Staring at the ground, praying it will open up and swallow him whole. The water on the grass and muddy shoes and footprints through the cemetery. His fingers gripping the umbrella handle so tight the material warps. 

Then he hears it. The distinct footstep pattern of his dad. His father approaches them as the last person leaves Cecil alone. 

Mark glances up when Nolan stops in front of him. The space between them feels electric and taut with everything unsaid. The silence is crushing. The only thing breaking it is the trickle of rain around them. 

His dad's glare falls on Cecil first. Then to him. 

He doesn't speak to Cecil. Doesn't offer a handshake or a word of parting like all the other mourners. His tone is sharp, strained and irritated. 

“Mark. It's time to go.” 

Mark feels a fresh wave of humiliation roll over him. His stomach twisting in protest of his own stupidity. He nods. Eyes fixed on the ground. But he doesn't move. 

Cecil doesn't say anything either. 

Instead, he reaches up slowly. His fingers brushing Mark's as he slips the umbrella from his hand. The contact lasts for only a split second. 

Mark lets go. Then, without a word, Cecil turns and walks away. Pace quick in a brisk walk towards the parking lot.

He can feel his father's gaze drilling into him. But he keeps his eyes down. Shame burning its way across every inch of his skin. 

Mark doesn't dare speak. Or try to explain. He feels exposed. Like someone had just torn back a curtain and left him standing in the center of a spotlight. He can feel the weight of his father's stare- hot, stern and unrelenting. Like a damn ready to crack at the next word he utters. 

“Mark?”

The voice makes him flinch. He turns to see Eve. Brow furrowed in quiet confusion. Mom just a step behind her, brushing bits of mud from her palms. 

Mark's heart jumps to his throat. 

He turns to his dad. Hoping with everything he has that Dad is feeling merciful and not in the mood to humiliate him. Giving him a look- a silent desperate one. A plea. 

Please don't say anything. Please. Not in front of them.

Mark turns back to look at Eve, who glances in the direction Cecil has gone. Watching the older man's black, unmarked car pull out of the parking lot. She meets his eyes, and Mark already knows she saw. Brows high and arms crossed. A small frown on her face. It doesn't look like judgment- but something else. Surprise. Curiosity. Maybe even concern. 

She doesn't say anything. Doesn't ask. 

Mark looks away again. Pretending not to notice. 

Debbie lets out a soft breath. Wiping her hands on a tissue she pulled from her coat pocket. “Poor Olga. She didn't want to leave until everyone had said something. I didn't have the heart to rush her.”

Mark nods, grateful for the distraction. Mom didn't notice. Thank fuck.

“Is it time to go?” She asks gently, looking between the three of them. 

“Yeah,” Mark mutters quickly, before anyone else can say anything. His voice is small in his own ears. “Let's go.” 

Mark doesn't breathe until everyone is moving. Even his dad. Who seems content to not say anything about it. He can still feel Eve's and Dad's eyes on him as they walk towards the car. He doesn't meet their faces. Doesn't want to see the looks in their eyes. 

He especially doesn't want to know if Eve guessed the truth. 

Mark keeps his head down as they walk. The wet grass squelching beneath their shoes. His mind racing through excuses, defenses, denials he might need soon. But for now, he said nothing. 

Just grateful that Mom is oblivious. Grateful that no one has spoken the words he dreads. 

Chapter Text

The car ride home is dead quiet. 

No radio. No idle chatter. Just the soft hiss of tires against wet pavement and the low, steady pattern of rain on the windshield. Mom driving and Dad in the passenger seat. Mark watches the trees outside the window pass in a blur. Avoiding the sight of his dad, whose arms are crossed. Hands gripping them. Jaw tight and eyes locked on the road. 

Mark sits still in the backseat, shoulders drawn in. Body pressed against the door like he could disappear into it. Dad hasn't looked at him since they left the funeral. And Mark can only be happy about that. 

His thoughts are loud, chaotic and cruel. Mocking him with all the blessings of hindsight. 

What the hell was I thinking?

The memory keeps replaying in his head- his arm around Cecil. The heat of Cecil's shoulder under his palm. On his side. Across his arm. His steady weight when Mark leaned against him. His fingers toying with the ends of Cecil's hair, damp and fine between his fingertips. 

And then the moment his eyes met his father's across the caskets. The shock of it. His heart beating so loudly in his ears he was surprised he could hear anything over it. Dad stared at him like he was witnessing a crime scene. A criminal he ought to punch through a building. Like he knew exactly what Mark was thinking as he stood beside Cecil. Touching a guy who would win a freeze challenge against a mannequin. 

Mark almost curses under his breath. But stops himself at the risk of his dad hearing. He rubs his hands over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. Mark can still feel the way his stomach squirmed when Cecil didn't react. Like nothing happened. Like it meant absolutely nothing. 

Because it didn't. He reminds himself bitterly. 

He looked like an idiot. He is an idiot. A desperate, impulsive idiot who couldn't manage a sliver of self-control. He'd let his impulses win. And he'd humiliated himself- again. 

Mark didn't even think how it would look- how it must have looked. To Dad. To Eve. To anyone paying attention. God- to people Cecil knows. Cecil must have been mortified. He'd just… let himself get pulled in again. Drawn towards Cecil like a pesky mosquito to a bug zapper. All logic slapped out of his head by his own bullshit. 

He totally blew it. 

Mark leans back in his seat. Staring up at the car ceiling. Feeling like it might cave in on him. His chest aches with raw embarrassment, with the sting of what it meant. For Cecil to not react. In the moment, it felt like permission. Allowance. Encouragement in the lack of outright rejection. 

Now though? It feels more like rejection. Real or imagined. There's this awful confusion twisting inside of him. 

Why did he think that stiffness was good? Why did he think it was a positive sign?

It just felt like every inch Cecil let him get was ground gained. In something. Even with no look, no acknowledgement, no reaction to urge him on. 

Mark rubs his hands over his face, dragging them down until his hands drop to grip his arms. His fingertips still tingle faintly with the feeling of Cecil's hair. The moment had felt right for just a second- and now it just feels impossibly stupid. 

What did he think was going to happen? That Cecil would suddenly smile? Would put a hand on his shoulder too?

Mark lets out a breath that's almost a laugh, feeling bitter and ashamed of himself. 

Cecil probably didn't know what to do. Some too-young guy just… coming onto him in the middle of a funeral. 

Mark winces at the thought. That's what he was doing. Coming onto Cecil. There's no other way to put it. Still- putting that thought and a guy in the same sentence weirds him out. 

Mark feels like dirt. Like some overeager, naive idiot who couldn't read a room, let alone read someone like Cecil. He isn't just older- Cecil is seasoned, powerful, composed. And there he came, still in high school, barely eighteen and still figuring himself out. Acting like he had the right to be close to someone like that. Let alone to be touching him. 

No wonder Cecil didn't react. Mark leans against the window, bumping his head against it. Relishing in the cold material against his warm face. He wishes he could just fly home. Peel off this damp, itchy suit. Then then crawl inside his bed and wake up pretending to have amnesia or something. Fight something that will give him enough head trauma to knock the memory out. Or some sense into him. 

Of course Cecil didn't react. What was he supposed to do? Push Mark away and cause a scene?

The more he thinks about it, the worse it feels. Embarrassment over every damn thing he did. Guilt over putting Cecil into that situation. He acted without thinking- he'd made Cecil uncomfortable. Maybe even creeped him out. 

Shame eats away at his brain like an infection. Over his lack of control, especially over his lack of sense at a funeral. The dead bodies of some of the most beloved people on earth were feet from him- and he was getting hot and bothered. Too busy getting a feel of their boss instead of showing respect. 

He wishes he could take it back. Do it better. He should have known better. And now? He'll be lucky if he even sees Cecil again. Mark is sure of it. If everyone else thought he was being weird… Cecil is probably leagues more put off. 

It's late by the time they get home. The rain slows and stops. Leaving everything cloudy, wet and miserable. 

The front door clicks shut behind them. The silence in the house is defeating. Heavy. The kind that seems to weigh down on Mark's shoulders more with every step. Mom hangs her jacket by the door with a soft sigh. Mark doesn't say a word. He doesn't even wait. He just turns to the stairs, eyes low and heart pounding. All he wants is to disappear into his room. Lock the door and pretend his blankets can bury the memory after a long nap. 

But Dad is already there. 

Standing just beside the stairs. Arms crossed and feet planted. Staring Mark down with an expression that screams ‘no’. Not in a confrontational way- at least not obviously- but the message is clear: You're not going anywhere. 

Mark ducks his head down, eyes on the floor as he heads for the couch instead. Sitting there while they talk, just to fuck up and snap at Mom when she suggests calling Will. 

“This is new. I get it but you need to keep that separate. What happens out there? You can't bring it home.” 

The entire length of his body is tense when his dad says it. Ready to launch himself through the ceiling at a moment's notice if the words go from vague to obvious. But his dad moves away from the stairwell just enough for him to take the opening. 

Mark isn't sure what Dad means. That he shouldn't be upset about what happened- he'd be right. Mark shouldn't. He brought that shit on himself. Or if he shouldn't be trying stuff like that with people at work. Mixing personal stuff and the GDA. It doesn't matter. He can't bring himself to care. Not right now.

He moves towards the stairs. Keeping his head low and trying to slip past. Pretending everything is fine. Just fine. While his pulse a loud thud in his ears.

Dad's hand closes around his arm. Not hard. Not angry. Just solid. Keeping him there. 

Mark's breath catches. His mouth is dry. Every nerve screaming that this is the moment- that Dad says something about the funeral, about Cecil, about what Mark had done. What he'd dared to do.

He braces for it. Cringing as he prepares for the words. Hands so sweaty he's surprised don't stink up the room. But the words don't come. Dad doesn't speak for a moment. Instead, Mark looks up at his father's face. His eyes flicker over to Mom, who is setting down her purse. Ruffling through it for something. 

Before Mark can stop himself, his mouth opens. 

“Dad...” Mark whispers, barely audible. It isn't a question. It's a plea. A simple, raw please don't.

Nolan looks back at him. His expression is hard to read. Mark follows it up with an ask “Can I go to my room?”

Mark feels queasy by the time he sees his dad's face soften. Tension uncoiling. Mark can only hope that means he's made the decision to choose mercy inside of humiliation. His dad huffs, and the grip on his arm falls away. 

“We'll do some training tomorrow.” Mark pauses midstep. That is it, then. The talk isn't off the table. Just… delayed. 

Mark doesn't respond. He can't. He just turns away and rushes up the stairs as subtly as he can manage without looking like he's fleeing a hungry kaiju. Rushing into his room and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. 

Mark tugs off his tie. Tossing the suit coat somewhere on the floor and sinking onto his bed. Sitting on the edge of the mattress and resting his elbows on his knees. Sighing, head hanging low between his shoulders. Fingers laced together, gripping tight like he could wring the tension out of himself if he just squeezes tight enough. 

Again, in the silence, the memory of Cecil in that moment replays. The way Cecil didn't move, didn't speak, didn't even look at him. Just stood there like a statue, like he was waiting for it to be over. 

Mark squeezes his hands tighter.

What had he been expecting- some dramatic moment like in a movie? Where the guy just knows what he's feeling? Mark buries his face in his hands, groaning into them. Shit, he is so stupid. 

Why did he do that? What the hell made him think it was a good idea? He never had a shot- there was never one to begin with. 

Cecil probably thinks he's a weirdo now. Or worse- some creep. Some inexperienced kid with no sense of boundaries. Some barely-legal new hero having a fantasy about his prospective boss. 

Mark leans back, just slightly, and glances sideways. 

The piece of paper is still there. Right where he'd left it earlier. Just below his pillow. Amber's phone number. Neatly written, hopeful. Waiting. 

Mark's stomach twists, and he groans. Looking away from it again. 

Amber is beautiful. Smart. Cool. Normal. 

He wants this. He does. 

Mark stares at the number again. For a long, silent moment. 

Then he reaches for his phone and picks up the number. Breath uneven as he taps her number in again. 

The line rings once. Twice. 

And then- “Hello?”

Mark jolts up from the bed. Standing up straight. She answered. Some part of him thought it was some prank.

“Hey.. uh it's Mark.”

The next day, Mark and his dad leave the house together. The tension is horrific. Grating on Mark's brain the moment they take off into the open sky. The sun blazing overhead just makes the heat under his skin all the more unbearable. 

Mark can feel the weight of the coming conversation. The unspoken 'What the hell, Mark?' crackling them like static. He keeps avoiding eye contact. Focusing on the wind against his face as they fly to someplace isolated. Away from potential casualties or property collateral to their training. He knows the talk is coming. It's just a matter of when. 

But the moment they slow to a stop, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Mark speaks first. 

“I, uh… I got Amber's number.” Mark blurts out the words quickly. Saying it like a confession. He isn't sure why he does it at first- just that he had to say something before his dad could. “We're going to hang out sometime. Study date.”

It feels desperate- because it is. He needs to steer the conversation anywhere but there. Anywhere but ‘Men? Since when? Old men??’

Nolan turns to face him. Eyes trailing his face. It's like Mark tried throwing a flashbang- hoping the explosion would distract from what really matters. 

His dad blinks. One brow raised. “Amber?”

Mark nods. Maybe a little too quickly. “Yeah. From school. We've been talking.” Mark adds. Trying to sound casual. Like this is totally normal. Like it has nothing to do with the day before. With Cecil. With what he did at the funeral. 

Nolan's expression shifts. Arms crossed and head tilting. Everything about him screams suspicion. That he's not buying it. He stares for a long moment. Watching. And Mark resists the urge to squirm. It feels like he's a bug under a magnifying glass. The hot sun overhead blasting him hard enough to bake. But that scrutinizing gaze melts, slowly, into something else. 

Dad's expression softens, and his shoulders drop. Hands on his hips like he just got told a hurricane diverted its path away from his house. The tension in the corners of his eyes soften. 

“Good.” Dad says at last, with slight nod. Approving of the news, at least. “That's good, Mark. She sounds like a smart girl.”

Mark nods again. Quicker this time. Releasing a breath that feels like he's been holding since yesterday. “Yeah. She is.”

There's another pause. A long one. His dad squints at him- like he wants to say something else. Like he still remembers. Still knows well enough what he saw. 

But he doesn't bring it up. 

He gives Mark a small smile. “Don't let it mess with your training schedule.”

Mark gives on right back. Closing his eyes to take in the relief of hearing those words. “Wouldn't dream of it.”

“Alright then. Warm-ups.”

Mark grins, and follows. Like everything is fine and he hadn't spent the night wishing he could fly off and scream at the top of his lungs.

The GDA buzzes with a quiet tension- a different kind of energy than the battlefield. Today is about selection. Judgment. The Guardians of the Globe tryouts. 

Mark isn't competing. He'd thought about it- a part of him really, really wants to for… reasons. But his Dad said he wants to train him, and Mark isn't willing to push back. Not right now. 

Mark walks in beside his father. Head turning to look at the crowd as he weaves through the people. Eyes moving across the people gathered for any familiar faces. The teen team is all here- he spots them one by one. Eve, Rex, Robot. 

And then Mark spots him.

Cecil is standing by the door. The one Mark came in from. So close against the wall that Mark missed him. 

He looks the same as always- neutral, composed, his white hair catching the cold light of the tryout gymnasium room. Hands in his pockets as he talks to his dad.  

Mark takes a step forward before he can catch himself, then another. His feet shifting- halfway to moving. Just to look closer. 

Then-

“Hey, Mark.” Mark flinches. “Glad to see you made it.” Eve's voice breaks in beside him. And Mark turns to face her, startled. A friendly smile on her face. In her pink hero suit and arms crossed low on her stomach. 

Mark's heart jumps to his throat. Eve- she doesn't seem curious. About what he almost did a few days ago. Maybe too busy to pry.

Damnit- Mark huffs. Leave him alone, dumbass. He glances towards Cecil again… then stops himself. Cecil hasn't noticed. Or at least, doesn't look over to meet his gaze. Mark rips his eyes away. 

“Oh. Hey, Eve.” Mark smiles, trying to sound casual. Running a hand over his shoulder. Trying to get the constant tension out. “Yeah. I wanted to see it. You trying out?” 

Eve smiles. “Of course. I told you it's been a dream to join. Figured I'd give it a shot.” 

Mark blinks, then nods. “Right. That's… awesome. Good luck.”

He glances over again- but stops himself. Forcing his brain to work for once, willing blood through it and not everywhere else. 

Eve raises an eyebrow. “Everything okay?” Her green eyes glance where he did, and Mark takes a sharp breath. 

“Yeah!” He blurts out. Loud enough to make himself wince. But it stops her from looking over. At Cecil, at the elephant in the room. “Just- long morning. When are they starting the rounds?”

The tryouts are underway soon after- simple combat matches against other contestants. Mark watches from the sideline observation room with the others. Those who haven't been called or lost and are waiting to go home. He gives Eve a supportive wave when she steps out- and watches in strained concern as she rips into her opponent with ease. Poor fucking guy. Mark didn't even notice she was so pissed. 

Yet still, his eyes flicker across the room more than once. At the observation window just below where his dad hovers in the air. Cecil standing on the other side of the glass. Hands in his pockets and head tilted. Looking down at the fights below. 

Cecil never looks his way. Never meets his eyes across their windows. 

And Mark hates how much that bothers him. Would it kill the guy to react for once? To give Mark a look, let him know if it bothered him? Tell him to fuck off or something?

When the tryouts are over, the people that made it are announced. But in the middle of it, Rex and Monster girl get into a fight. Shouts turning into insults, and Monster girl tackles him through the observation window. 

Mark hits her a little too hard when he separates them. Awkwardly watching the tense conversation that follows before Monster girl walks out. Rex just behind her, limping out of the room. Muttering insults and curses all the while. 

As Mark watches them leave, he exhales. Tension bleeding away from his shoulders. He's just glad she wasn't pissed that he sent her into a wall. 

Then again, for the countless time today, he turns to look up toward the observation room above the training floor. Not the one with the guardians inside, looking out through the busted glass. But to the one Cecil stands behind. 

Mark freezes. To his surprise, Cecil is already watching him. Eyes fixed solely on him.

Their eyes meet through the glass. A brief flicker of something. Cecil's expression is unreadable. For once, Mark is happy for it. He was afraid the next time Cecil looked at him- it would be with twisted lips or uncomfortable avoidance. Or worse, disgust. 

Mark's heart stutters when Cecil looks away, his blue eyes looking up at his dad above them- and then back to Mark. 

Then, with subtle precision, Cecil raises his right hand. Fingers curling up and palm tilted down. Motioning them toward himself. A small, unmistakable signal. 

Come here.

Mark's breath catches in his throat. Cecil wants to see him. More than that- will they be alone? No one was standing with Cecil earlier. He didn't see anyone in the room behind the man. 

He feels giddy. Mark feels the corners of his lips tug into a smile. He raises his own hand. Giving a small thumbs-up, barely suppressing the urge to laugh. 

Before he moves, Mark turns his head up, just slightly- checking. His dad isn't looking in their direction. Too busy staring down the other recruits. Still- Cecil didn't seem to want Nolan to notice. He'll wait for a chance to slip away. 

Mark lingers by the recruits again. Near the back of the room as everyone gathers again. By the door to the hallway. He just needs a minute. A moment where everyone is distracted so he can slip away. Mark laughs politely at a joke from Dupli-Kate. Nods politely at an assessment of the future teams combat positions from Robot. Says all the right things and smiles at the right moments. 

But his eyes keep drifting across the room. Waiting for everyone elses to be off of him. Foot tapping impatiently. He hopes Cecil will wait for him to come. 

Mark glances through the broken window behind Robot. Cecil is gone from that room now. Out of sight. 

He's probably waiting. Where though? 

But still- Mark doesn't go. Not yet. 

He tells himself it's because it would look suspicious to slip away while his dad is watching. Or because now wasn't the right time. Or because there is a good chance someone might notice and ask where he is going. 

But really, he just… panics. 

What if Cecil only called him up to tell him to stop? To shoot him down?

To say, Don't do that again. Don't touch me again. You're crossing the line. Or worse. Make Mark explain himself out loud. 

Mark's stomach twists in his gut. His face feels hot all over again. Just from the memory of touching Cecil that such a simple look drags to the surface. 

He exhales hard through his nose. Trying to focus on the room. 

But he can't. His mind loops back again and again. Cecil is waiting for him. Cecil invited him to talk- in person. In private, maybe. 

What if it's not bad? What if Cecil just… wants to talk?

Mark swallows hard. Fidgeting with his fingers. That's what keeps him by the door. Waiting for a chance to slip away. That thin thread of hope that Cecil might not be angry. 

Eventually, when Mark pulls his nerves together, he uses the obvious excuse. The restroom. Slipping out with a barely maintained facade of being casual. 

The moment the door shuts behind him, he breaks into a jog. Heart hammering in his chest as he rushes down the hall connecting the rooms. Only slowing when his feet hit the ground too hard. Too loud. Wincing and looking back check if it caught anyone's attention. He hopes- really hopes- Cecil is still waiting.

Mark grabs the corner as he turns, and Cecil is there. Alone. Arms crossed and leaning against the wall. That unreadable expression on his face. Calm, like always. 

Mark's breath catches in his chest. 

“Yeah? You wanted to talk?” Mark says quickly, stepping closer only to stop himself. That's close enough- don't make this weird again. 

“I did.” Cecil nods once. “While you're not officially part of the Guardians, your friends are, right?”

Mark blinks. That's… not what he was expecting. He thought this was about the funeral- or the rooftop. “Yeah… Eve is.” Mark answers all the same. 

Cecil hums. “So you're likely to come help them. As heros.” Mark only nods. 

Cecil's eyes don't waver. “Then I want to do an evaluation on you. To get your baseline vitals and current physical abilities.” Mark tilts his head, frowning slightly. His pulse is beginning to settle now. More out of disappointment than relief. This… isn't what he expected. Is he not going to mention what happened? At all?

“Why do you need it?” Mark asks, If only to give himself time to recover from the whiplash this has turned into. 

“In case you're ever injured or your friends are in over their heads,” Cecil says, voice steady. “We need to know what you can handle and when you're in a serious state.”

Mark hesitates. It makes sense. Logically. But… he remembers the way his dad has been lately. All throughout his life, really. The way Dad's tone tightens every time the GDA comes up. Especially how cagey he is about anything Cecil related. He's been very, very clear about his opinions on this. Dad doesn't trust them. Mom doesn't either.

Besides, the last time Mark went through the evaluation, it was hours of exercise until he was worn out. Then more exercise to top it off. Still… Cecil is asking this time. That alone changes the way it lands. 

Mark's hand rubs the back of his neck. “I don't think I can. Me and d-” He catches himself this time. “Omni-Man are leaving soon.”

Cecil doesn't blink. “I see.” He pauses, shifting his weight, and then hums. Adding “Would you come later? It's nothing invasive… just the tests you did last time and a medical evaluation. I'll handle everything so it's quick.” Cecil's voice lowers, just a bit. Enough that the words roll off his tongue easy. But it's the words themselves that make Mark pause. 

Mark cocks his head, gripping the back of his neck too hard. 

He would handle it?

That means… Cecil would be there. Not just overseeing it, but actually present. In the room. With him. During exams. 

That small clarification shouldn't mean anything. But suddenly Mark's thoughts were on how close that would put them. How it would feel if Cecil touched him. Not the other way around like at the funeral. Checking his pulse. His breathing. His-

Mark opens his mouth to reply. Snapping it shut quickly. Face flushed hot. 

“Yes- Yeah, tomorrow?” Mark stammers. “I'm free tomorrow.” He adds, just for his voice to croak over the words. 

Cecil gives a small smile. That little smirk that makes Mark grin even wider. “Of course. Come by anytime.”

Mark laughs. It comes out too loud, awkward and completely out of place. He winces. Turning on his heel. He should get back before he makes it worse. Before he can say something stupid like always. Or anyone notices he's gone- he'll see Cecil again. 

“See you!” Mark shouts the goodbye as he takes off back down the hall. 

Tomorrow. He can't wait.

Mark slips back into the Guardian's observation room, trying to look casual. Like he hadn't just sprinted down the hall and back. His face red and heart still beating fast- not from exertion, but from the conversation he just had. From the promise of what tomorrow will have for him. 

The room is noticeably empty. It looks like those that didn't make the cut have left. He doesn't get two steps in before his dad sees him. 

Nolan's expression hardens instantly. His jaw is tight and eyes narrow. Mark feels it immediately. A silent interrogation already in progress before the question comes.

“Where were you?” Dad's voice asks, sharp. Too low for anyone else to hear. 

Mark opens his mouth. Brain empty and scrambling to catch up. What was his excuse again? 

“Finally!” Monster Girl's voice cuts through the tension like a clap of lightning. She walks up to them, arms on her hips, barely glancing at either of them. “You done taking a dump yet? Eve said to tell you bye. She left a few minutes ago.” 

She snorts softly and keeps walking. Past Mark and out of the door he came through. Clearly not realizing she just saved his life.

Mark blinks. “Oh.” He responds a little too loudly. “Yeah. Bathroom. Sorry.” He tries to look apologetic. Embarrassed. Normal.

His dad's expression doesn't shift for a moment. Staring at Mark like he can smell a lie. But finally- finally- he grunts. Sighing heavy before he says something. 

“Let's go home.” 

Mark smiles and nods. Following his dad as he turns around and starts walking. 

He doesn't even want to think about what his dad would say if he knew the truth. That he's been off, alone, with Cecil. That he'd agreed to be medically evaluated by Cecil personally.

Mark presses his hands together. Trying to wring the tension out of them. One finger at a time.

Tomorrow… is going to be something else.

Chapter Text

Mark manages to catch up with Eve before going home. It sucks to hear Rex treated her like that. But she seems to be taking it well, all things considered. Better than most would. 

Afterwards, Mark makes a beeline for home. It's getting late, and he really wants to catch dinner while it's fresh this time. The sun just started to set and hung low, casting long golden streaks over the black shingles of his neighborhood's rooftops. Mark hovers above the houses for just a minute. His head feels heavy with everything. His shoulders slumped uselessly as he looks down at his house. He's absolutely exhausted. 

The tryouts, seeing Cecil again, talking with him- that was probably the longest conversation they've ever had. Now everything in store for tomorrow. Eve's quiet hurt when she talked about Rex cheating on her. 

It's been a really long, really strange day. 

Mark glides high in the air, the wind whispering against his ears and nipping the exposed part of his face. The breeze in the evening is cooler now than it was earlier. Mark descends slowly. Looking down at the rooftops that are starting to be familiar. Scanning the yards and road for any possible neighbors that may be outside. No one. The sprinklers on the neighbors lawn have come on. A dog barking in the distance. But no one that would notice Invincible flying down and entering their neighbors home. 

Perfect. 

His feet touch down on the rooftop shingles with a crunch. On the ledge outside his window. He grabs the edge of the window frame and pushes it up. Sliding it open just enough that he can step in one foot at a time and close it behind him with a gentle rattle. 

Mark feels off his hero suit quickly. The fabric sticking to his skin. Chest damp with the sweat of pure adrenaline and anticipation. He should shower tonight- shave too. Should he use that hair stuff dad brought him? No. Mark huffs. It would be weird if he dressed up for a physical exam. He shakes his head. Pulling on some sweat pants and a T-shirt. Already catching the smell of dinner downstairs. The savory scent of some kind of meat wafting up into his room just to make his stomach rumble. 

Mark slips into the bathroom across the hallway before he goes down. Running his fingers through his hair, fixing it pointlessly. Trying to look less like the mess he feels. To calm the flush in his face that refuses to go away. His heart thumping with excitement- and nerves. 

He can still hear Cecil's words. Making his ears tingle like they were spoken into them. 

“Come by anytime."

God. 

Mark shakes his head. Not helping. He twists the nozzle for the sink and splashes cold water on his face. Hoping to scold the blood from pooling there. Sloppily drying it with the handrag before forcing himself to go downstairs. 

Dinner is already set when Mark walks in. His Mom and Dad sat at the table. Digging in without him. The scent of garlic and stir-fried vegetables filling the air. His stomach growls the moment he smells it up close. Even more when he sees the fresh meal.

Debbie glances up as Mark enters. Offering a smile. “There you are. Sit, why are you late this time?” Mark smiles. He tries to act normal- walking slowly and sitting calmly- but he's starving. He didn't realize just how hungry he was until he's shoveling food into his mouth. Speaking with a mouth full to answer.

“Sorry. I caught up with Eve after the tryouts. Talked for a bit.” He murmurs through the food in his mouth.

Debbie's expression softens as she slides a second portion of stir fry over. The steak in it is amazing. Mark takes it quickly with a nod. “How is she doing?” Debbie asks. 

“A bit rough, stuff with the team. She turned down the guardian's role.” Debbie hums as she continues eating. And Mark ignores the “Good.” His dad throws in. 

Mark starts eating in earnest once the conversation tapers off. The food is good and hot, the kind of comforting, delicious normalcy he's needed all day. Everything feels so much more eventful and busy now that he's gotten his powers. Between the weight of seeing Cecil and the weirdness he keeps inflicting on himself, something about dinner feels so grounding. 

His mom smiles at him, a brow arched as Mark lowers his face closer to the bowl just so he can eat faster. “What is with you today? You've been smiling all through dinner. Now you've lost your table manners.”

Mark chokes. Swallowing the last bite and sitting up. Trying to give a smile only to realize one is already plastered on his face. “Guess I'm just in a good mood.” Nolan turns to look at him, and Mark quickly adds. “I have a study date with Amber coming up.”

“Oh?” Mom perks up. Leaning closer. “You never told me you asked her out.”

Mark shakes his head as he takes another bite. Slower this time. “I didn't. She gave me her number.” He tries to sound casual as he says it. Even though it's not really the reason. The smile isn't just about Amber. Though he's excited to see her in person. One on one. But tomorrow…

Mark pauses for a moment. The motion of his hand bringing food up and his jaw working to chew halts. The thought occurs to him suddenly. Tomorrow. He needs an excuse. Dad won't be around- something about a bunch of monsters in northern africa. His dad was rumbling up a storm earlier about how much he hates those things. Monsters made of rock that travel so fast underground that the best instructions passed on are ‘this area of the continent’. Still, he needs an excuse to be gone tomorrow. So no one comes looking. 

“I'm hanging out with Will tomorrow, too. New show from a comic is dropping. The one he's been dying to see for months.” Mark adds quickly. “We're gonna binge the whole thing.” That should give him enough time to be gone.

Debbie gives an approving hum. “Sounds fun. You two haven't spent time together in a while.”

“Yeah.” Mark says with a shrug. Trying his best to sound natural. Eyes flickering between his parents. “Figured we'd make a day of it.”

To his relief, Dad didn't so much as raise an eyebrow. He just gives a small nod and continues eating. 

Mark hadn't expected it to be this easy. For some reason, he thought they'd be suspicious. At least his dad. But they aren't. And just like that, his window for tomorrow is clear. He tries not to look as pleased as he feels.

The next morning comes slowly. Ridiculously slowly. Mark swears it's the longest night he's had in a while. 

Mark hasn't slept much- not for lack of trying. He tossed and turned, kicking off the blankets only to pull them back up minutes later. The ceiling is a spotty dark blur above him, morphing in his vision as he stares up at it. Every time his eyes close, his mind pulls him right back. To Cecil, to everything. 

His thoughts keep looping back the day ahead. It's not that big of a deal. It's not. It's just a medical examination. Just being alone. With Cecil. In a sterile exam room. It will be his first chance to really ask about him. About what Cecil does, exactly. 

Mark has never had the chance before. Any other time there were people around. Mom, Dad, the teen team- or guardians now, he guesses. Strangers too, sometimes. He already pushed it when they talked in Cecil's office. Now Mark will finally get the chance to ask without worrying if someone else will question why he's asking… and without the awkwardness of a first meeting. They've known each other long enough for more personal questions. Right?

He has so many of them. How busy is Cecil? Does he live at the GDA? Does he do anything beyond work? Does he have any family?

…Is he dating someone? Does he like men?

Mark groans. Rubbing his eyes and rolling over. Burying his face into the pillow. “Just go to sleep.” He mutters into the cotton. As if the demand will make his own mind listen. 

He shuts his eyes. Focusing on his breathing. On calming down. On thwarting any thoughts that arise. 

It doesn't work. 

The thoughts creep back in, subtle and persistent. Wondering just how Cecil would touch him during the physical. Wondering what Cecil would think why he did. If he'd say anything.

Wondering if Cecil remembers the funeral. If the guy even registered it.

He didn't seem to. Cecil didn't look at him any differently during their talk. No weariness or awkwardness. Just that same stoic, plain look in his eyes. He is grateful… but another part of him is disappointed. Frustrated, even. 

Mark isn't sure when he falls asleep. But he wakes up to the sun starting to rise. A dull orange glow bleeding through the window blinds. His alarm hasn't even gone off yet- but he grabs his phone off the nightstand. Thumb finding the power button so he can check the time. 

7:07 am. 

Mark is awake in minutes. Rolling out of the bed with stiff movements. Wincing at the feeling of cold floor against his bare feet as he makes his way to the bathroom. The house is quiet for the weekend morning, and Mark doesn't have to check to know his dad is already gone. Dad never gets up later than five half the time. Which Mark knows uncomfortably well from their morning training sessions before school. 

He showers in silence, letting the water steam up the bathroom and loosen his muscles. Trying to convince himself that this isn't anything. Just a routine evaluation. The same routine he follows every morning. Excusing to himself how he scrubs his scalp harder than usual. Uses more soap than he typically does. Wonders if he should shave, if he should wear some better smelling deodorant. 

Afterwards, he stands in front of the mirror. Carefully rubbing a hand across his jawline. Checking for any stubble.Studying the faint hair. It's not much, barely there- but he shaves anyway. Just in case. 

He tries not to think about why he cares so much. 

It's not just for Cecil. It's not. Why would it be? He's just some old guy in a suit. Someone balding guy barely knows.

Mark slips on his hero suit. It feels right- less weird. He'll be exercising anyway. It's better to wear it. 

He glances at the clock. 

7:42 am. 

Too early. Definitely too early. 

Mark makes his way downstairs. Fixing something simple to eat. Just toast and juice. Brushing his teeth again after. By eight he's already standing by the window. Mask in hand and ready to put it on. Eight isn't too eager. It's reasonable. Not weird. 

Right?

Right. 

Before leaving, he pulls out his phone. Sitting on the edge of his bed. Dad is… suspicious. It's clear he's been skeptical lately. Mark wouldn't be surprised if his dad checked where he is. He doesn't want to risk him finding out blowing things. It wouldn't be the first time dad went behind to be sure. 

The screen's soft glow reflects back at him as he clicks on Will's contact. 

Mark: Can you cover for me if mom or dad calls you today

Mark sends it. Expecting a while before a response, only for the typing bubble to appear immediately. 

Will: Cover for what? Gimme details

Mark chews the inside of his cheek. Leg bouncing on the carpet. What does he even say? He can't tell Will the truth. Seriously. ’Yeah, I'm going to a secret government agency for a medical evaluation by some old guy I want to see.’?

Instead, he gives himself time. He'll think of something later. 

.Mark: I'll tell you later. Promise 

Will: You better 

Fine

But you owe me one

Mark lets out a breath. Standing from the bed. Setting the phone down while he pulls his mask on. 

Will: What's the story if they ask?

Mark: Thanks

It's some show marathon hangout. I told them already

Will sends a thumbs up and stupid gif of a man slipping out of a window. Mark only snorts and shakes his head. Locking his phone and slipping it into his pocket. 

Mark darts back to the bathroom and takes a final glance at himself in the mirror- his suit on right and hair passable. No obvious signs of confusion or insanity. 

He's just going to the GDA. Totally normal. Not crazy. Totally. 

Mark slips out of the window and into the sky. Heart already racing. 

Mark touches down outside of the Pentagon with a nervous flutter in his chest. The weight of anticipation pressing on his chest. But from the security protocols and all the eyes that stare him down the moment he lands- but from the thought of what waits for him below. Mark adjusts his suit, trying to make sure he doesn't look like as much of a mess as he feels. Pulling up the gloves and adjusting his mask.

The automatic doors open with a loud, obnoxious security buzz. A blast of chilly air as he steps in from the uncharacteristically warm morning outside. Just inside is Donald, waiting for him. Polite smile on his face when he sees him.

“Invincible.” Donald greets him with a nod. “Right this way.”

“Uh, hey. Thanks.” Mark rubs the back of his neck as he falls into step behind him. 

Donald leads him through a few hallways and into a fancy looking elevator. The same interior he recognizes from his last few visits. The moment the doors slide shut, enclosing them in the low hum of the descent, Mark realizes something. 

This is his chance- his first chance to poke at the questions gnawing at him. He glances at Donald beside him. 

“So, uh…” Mark fidgets with the end of the fingerless gloves on his hands. “You and Cecil must hang out a lot, right?”

Donald turns to look at him. One brow slowly rising from behind the tinted aviator glasses. 

“I mean- outside of work, too? Or is it all just… you know, mission stuff?”

Donald stares for a moment. There's a long, silent few seconds between them. One that has Mark wishing Donald didn't wear those glasses. At least so he could get a feel about what he's thinking. 

“No.” Donald says surprisingly flat. “Director Stedman is a very busy person.” 

Mark blinks. That was… blunt. 

Donald doesn't elaborate. Just turns his gaze back to the elevator doors. The light from the descending floor panel reflecting in his glasses. Before pulling his tablet up to his chest when it pings with something. Looking down at the screen, the tinted privacy filter stops Mark from seeing what's on it from this angle.

Still, he's not ready to give up just yet. “Right, yeah. Probably lots going on. Just curious. Does he, uh… live here? Like at the GDA?” 

Donald glances at him, a polite smile on his face. One that seems a bit too tense. “You should ask the Director those questions yourself. He's quite a private person aswell.” His tone is polite. But Mark can feel the subtle shift- loud and clear. A professional way of shutting him down. Saying he's gone as far as he could with this line of curiosity. 

Mark gives a short, awkward laugh and nods. “Right. Makes sense. Sorry.”

Despite the shutdown, Mark feels a flicker of relief- Donald and Cecil don't hang out or anything. Maybe. Probably, unless Donald was just brushing off that question too. But there's also disappointment. It makes Mark turn away too. He'd hoped for something. Some insight. A threat to tug on. 

Before the silence can turn into something awkward, the doors open with a soft chime. Mark steps out first, then follows Donald down the hall they come into. The walls are smooth concrete, lined with reinforced steel panels and lights that cast a sterile glow. Mark remembers this section- he came here for the assessment. 

But still no sign of Cecil yet. 

Donald opens a door near the end of the hall. The same room they used last time. 

Mark steps into the testing room. Similar to the one Mark used for the first assessment. A large room with a high ceiling- clinical and open, with reinforced walls and heavy duty equipment. The weight machine above looks more fancy this time. And a lot bigger. Stretching up all the way to the ceiling. A treadmill-like thing is set up too. Everything smells faintly of freshly cut metal. Like something was just welded. 

Mark sees Cecil by the wall. Back leaning against it. Tablet in one hand and a stylus in the other. He doesn't look up immediately. 

Mark's breath catches for a second. Watching him. Should he go over?

“The Director will oversee things from here. Good luck.” Donald says behind him. Snapping Mark out of his thoughts. Before he can respond, the door hisses shut behind him. 

Mark looks back over at Cecil. Then steps forward. Slowly walking closer.

“Hey,” he says. The words feel like he's trying something more than a greeting. “Didn't think you'd be the one running all of this.”

Cecil glances up from the tablet. His expression is as unreadable as always. “Standard protocol. We log personal oversight for potential future cases. Baseline testing is required for all active participants, even unofficial ones.”

Mark… didn't understand half of that. “Right.” Mark nods. “Makes sense.” He fidgets with his fingers. How should he do this? He can't just let the opportunity pass. “How's your morning been?”

Cecil looks up again, meeting his eyes. For a moment, Mark wonders what he's thinking. “It's been fine.” Cecil answers simply. But continues before Mark can push. “Let's start with the strength test.”

Mark smiles. “Yeah- sure.”

He walks over to the reinforced weight machine. Lowering himself onto the lay bench just like last time. Adjusting his grip on the bars before giving the all clear to start. His heart is beating fast, though it's not from the nerves about the machine above him. 

It's Cecil. Always Cecil. 

Even now, silent and watching. Standing against the wall. Tablet loosely held in his hand, eyes fixed on whatever data is on that screen and not him. Even without his attention- Mark feels hyper aware of him. The way Cecil's presence hangs in the air. The silence between them. Everything that's not said. 

“We'll start at 50 tons and go up from there.” Cecil informs him. And Mark glances over. 

Focus. Mark exhales and braces himself. Just as the loud buzzer sounds, indicating the start of weight bearing down.

The exam room is quiet. Way too quiet. Way too bright and cold. But Mark can't bring himself to care. 

Mark sits on the edge of the padded exam bed, fingers gripping the paper sheet beneath him. It crinkles loudly everything he shifts. He's already recovered from the tests. Though his spine aches from the energy blast things they put him through again. And his hair is hopelessly messy from the wind of the treadmill's high-speed setting. But Mark can't bring himself to bother fixing it. 

The lights are so sterile and bright that it stings his eyes. The faint hum of the vents are his only company why he waits for Cecil to join him. 

Mark glances at the door again. Still closed. Still no sounds behind it. 

His leg bounces. Slow at first. Then faster. Until he stands and paces to the stool tucked by the counter. He sits, turns once and shifts his weight. Only to get back up again and walk to the exam bed. His chest feels tight, but not from the tests. 

Cecil still hasn't come in. 

Mark pulls at the spandex over his chest. Pulling it away from his chest to feel the cold air fill the space. The material sticking to his skin. His mask feels suffocating now. Clinging to his face in a way that aggravates his already raw nerves. 

Mark huffs. Yanking it off and setting it on the exam bed beside him. Running a hand through his hair. 

Calm down. It's just a checkup. It's just Cecil. Just some old balding guy in a suit. It's not- 

The sound of the metal door knob rattling sounds like a gunshot. The door creaking open. 

Mark's back straightens immediately. 

Cecil walks in, some stuff in hand. Gaze focused as he shuts the door behind him. Not giving Mark so much as a glance as he walks over to the counter. 

He can't help but watch Cecil across the small room. With a smooth motion, Cecil shrugs off his coat. Letting it fall down his arms.

Mark feels the heat in his face immediately. Eyes following the motion almost guiltily, taking in how Cecil's figure is more defined without it. The way the white dress shirt clings across his back, the subtle shift on his shoulders as he folds the coat in half and lays it on the counter. 

Mark looks away too late. Mind fumbling to fill the air with something. “How's the job been?” The words come out raspy. But Mark is too distracted to care. 

Cecil doesn't pause. He rolls up his sleeves. Exposing the pale skin of his forearms as he folds the sleeves above his elbows. The motion is quiet and clinical. The gesture shouldn't have made Mark's breath hitch- but it does. His eyes fixed on Cecil as he looks over at him, continuing the motion.

“Hmm. Busy still.” Cecil replies evenly. 

Mark's eyes drift to the way the red tie on Cecil's chest shifts as he moves. “Is it ever not?” Mark replies. Keeping his tone light and teasing. Trying to get some kind of response from Cecil despite the nervous buzz that makes him want to squirm. 

Cecil only gives a quiet hum in response. No smile. No reaction. 

Before the disappointment really takes hold, Cecil moves. Pulling a pair of blue latex gloves from a box on the counter. Tugging one on with ease. It snaps lightly at his wrists- sharp and sterile. The blue stands out against his white shirt and red tie. 

Mark swallows hard. Watching as Cecil turns back to him. Then, as plain as day-

“Can I use your mouth?”

Mark stares at him. For a moment that feels way, way too long. The words ring in his head like a vibrating drum. 

Can I use your mouth?

He tries to say something. Anything. But words don't come out, just an embarrassing sound. Halfway between a groan and a choke. 

Did he mishear that? Is he officially delusional? 

Cecil raises an eyebrow. “For the blood sample. That skin of yours would just break the needle.”

Mark exhales. Too loud, too harsh. It's more like a wheeze, which he scrambles to disguise as a cough. Realizing what he meant. Jesus. What did he think that meant… Did Cecil have to say it like that, though?

“I- uhm…” Mark stumbles over the words. But he already knows he's made a decision. “Yeah- yeah go ahead.” Mark watches Cecil's hands pull on the other glove. 

Cecil doesn't acknowledge any oddness in his tone. Even as Mark stares him down. Feeling like lava was just thrown on his face. 

And then he feels it- that awful, unbearable heat coiling low in his stomach. A tension in his crotch that makes itself more known everytime that sentence loops in his head.

Can I use your mouth?

Oh God. Mark presses his legs together. Eyes darting around for anything to hide before it becomes obvious. He doesn't even understand why it's happening, why now. Nothings even happened yet- 

His eyes lower to the mask beside him- an old, clumsy backup plan- and he grabs it. Settling it across his thighs as casually as he can manage. His fingers clenching over the fabric too tight.

Mark's mouth goes dry as Cecil steps closer, vial and needle in hand. He can't take his eyes off of him. Mark swears the air feels more tight. More loaded. His legs twitch involuntarily when their knees nearly brush. 

Thankfully, thank every ounce of luck that seems to be on his side, Cecil doesn't seem to notice. 

“Tilt your head up.” Cecil instructs him. Voice steady. 

Mark obeys, slow and reluctant. Lifting his head and opening his mouth. Heartbeat thudding in his ears. Looking up at Cecil, who's body heat seems to radiate over him in gentle waves. His sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The stark white of his shirt and the blue of the gloves on his hands look clinical- precise- and distant in a way that only makes Mark painfully aware of how close they are. 

He opens his mouth. Just slightly. Just enough. Lifting his tongue. 

Cecil… pauses. 

It's brief- barely a heartbeat- but it's there. A moment of hesitation. Mark swears there's more stress lines on his face than usual. The left side of his lips, the unscarred side, tilts down. Just barely. Like he's registering something. Deciding. And it makes Mark's heart sink. 

Mark doesn't breathe. His mind racing. Does Cecil know? Did he notice the shift of his lap? Can he see past the mask covering it?

Just as quickly as that pause comes, it's gone. Cecil's face settles into something impassive again. Professional. A huff of air brushing over Mark's face. 

Cecil's hand rises. And Mark can barely respond when he feels Cecil's thumb slip past his lips. The slow drag of his thumb against Mark's bottom lip as it presses it. The taste of latex is immediate. Dry and strong. But Mark can hardly care. He opens his mouth wider as Cecil's thumb pushes his tongue back further. As fingers hook under his jaw. Hot and vivid even through the gloves. A gentle pressure that urges his head up. Guiding his head higher. 

Cecil guides the needle into his mouth next. Those blue eyes never meet his. And Mark can only be grateful. So fucking grateful. He doesn't want to imagine how he must look right now. But he can't help it. Not when Cecil is looking at him like that. 

Cecil holds the needle steady with his other hand. Leaning in just enough to send another wave of blood going down. Settling between Mark's thighs. It takes every ounce of his self control not to squirm. 

The empty chamber knocks against his bottom teeth with a click, and the needle presses forward. A steady pressure under his tongue that Mark barely registers. Until the chamber jolts forward, the sharp pain of it piercing the soft tissue is hardly much at all. Mark has felt more than that these last few weeks. The sting is minimal, but Mark can feel the pulse in his neck. In his ears. In every part of him that shouldn't be reacting right now. 

Still, Cecil doesn't meet his eyes. They stay lower instead, focused on the vial, on his mouth. Mark's pulse hammers through him, every breath heavy and uneven.

His eyes only leave Cecil's face to glance down at the blood filling the chamber. But the sight behind it is what catches his attention. Cecil's chest. His tie, his stomach. To the length of shirt that's right there.

Mark isn't sure what makes him do it. Maybe being caught up in the moment- maybe just the whim that sweeps him off his feet the second it comes to mind. 

Mark's hand twitches upward before he can stop himself- before he even thinks. He raises his right hand. The left is still clinging to the mask high on his lap. And places it on Cecil's waist. Too fast, too hard. The thump of it landing is loud even over his own harsh breathing. 

Cecil flinches. Hard and quick. The needle jolts up painfully. 

Cecil glances down at his arm. Eyes wider than Mark has ever seen them. Still- Mark adjusts his tentative grip. Not just placing it there, but holding it. He feels Cecil's first rib on his fingertips. The subtle curve where his hips meet his waist on his palm. The give of his stomach is more than Mark expects- Cecil is kind of thin. 

Stupid. Stupid. What are you doing-

Mark trails his thumb down over Cecil's side- Just to feel himself twitch in his pants. Holding his breath to stop the groan that wants to break out of his lungs at the spark of split-second friction. 

Then- Cecil meets his eyes. 

Mark feels his face blaze hot. His chest rises and falls too fast- he's breathing too hard, and he knows Cecil sees it. The embarrassment spreads like wildfire under his skin. He wants to shrink, to vanish, to rewind time and bolt out of the room before this ever happens. But it doesn't deter the tension between his legs. If anything- he feels himself get harder with the attention. 

For a moment, Cecil holds his gaze. Not cold. Not angry.

Then Mark sees it: the small parting of Cecil's lips, the near invisible way his eyes widen. 

Surprise. 

Real, unguarded, and strangely soft. 

Mark's breath catches. He likes it. Alot. Too much. That flicker of reaction, the proof that Cecil feels it too- even if just for a second. 

Cecil glances down again. Not at his mouth, but at his lap. And just like that, it vanishes. Whatever was there- the brief crack in his composure- is gone. 

Now, his face is unreadable again. 

Mark flushes, mortified. Cecil doesn't say a word. Eyes fixed on nothing in particular as he gently draws the needle from Mark's mouth with a calm precision. His thumb dragging against Mark's lips, fingertips brushing his chin as he pulls his hand away. Light and impersonal. 

Cecil steps back, and Mark's fingers twitch. Then tighten. A small, barely-there squeeze on Cecil's waist. He doesn't even think before he does it- not until he feels how completely it's ignored. Cecil doesn't react. Stepping out of his reach. Not acknowledging it. No pause, no second look. He just steps away. 

Mark lowers his hand back to the mask on his lap. Fingers curling over the lifeline for his dignity. The silence between them feels thick, like it's holding more than either of them are acknowledging. 

“That's all I need.” Cecil finally says something as he walks back to the counter. Twisting off the needle and placing it in the bright orange hazard bin. Gently setting the filled vial down on the surface with a click.

Say something. Mark glances around. He can't stand yet- he really, really needs a minute to calm down. A distraction while the tension in his crotch disperses. 

“So- do you live here?” Mark asks. Forcing his breathing to slow. Trying to breathe through the heaviness in his chest. Leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, at least so it's not obvious. Less obvious than a hand between his legs, at least.

“Sometimes.” 

Mark sighs in relief. Shutting his eyes for a moment. He'd thought Cecil would storm out of the room. Would be pissed or disgusted. 

There's no way he didn't see. That he doesn't know... right?

Mark watches as Cecil pulls off the blue latex gloves. One snap at a time. Exposing pale hands and long fingers. It keeps his eyes fixated. Mouth dry and caught between embarrassment and something else entirely. 

“What, you don't have a house?” He smiles while he asks. Watching Cecil sigh. Hands on his hips like he always does. Eyes closed and not looking at him. 

But to his surprise- probably the best one he's had all day- Cecil answers.

“Of course I do. I just don't get the chance to go there often.”

To go there often. So he does live here. That small bit of information feels like everything. Something he stores away in the back of his mind for later. 

The door knob rattles, and Mark flinches. The exam bed paper crinkling underneath him as he shifts. His hands fly to adjust the mask on his lap. His posture is too stiff and breathing too fast to seem natural. Heart pounding like he'd just crash landed from orbit. 

Donald glances at him, and Mark winces. 

“Sir, you're needed in the engineering lab. There's been an incident.” Cecil's eyes flicker briefly over to Mark- neutral again. Then he nods. Grabbing his coat and the blood sample. 

“Thank you, Mark. That's all for today.”

Cecil is out of the room before Mark can say anything in response. Footsteps clicking down the hall in what sounds too much like a rush.

Donald steps in, looking at Mark as he holds the door open. “I'll escort you out.”

Mark stiffens, eyes wide with panic. 

He's still hard. 

Still hiding it under his hero mask, clutching it with one hand. His legs won't move. His brain won't think, either. He can't stand up. Much less walk out- the spandex does nothing to hide a boner. 

“That's okay-” Mark blurts out, voice a little too high. “I'll just… go on my own. In a bit.” 

Donald frowns. Shaking his head. “Protocol requires all guests to be escorted within the facility.” 

Mark groans internally. Of course it does. 

He rubs his face with one hand. “Just- C-Can you give me a minute?”

Donald blinks. Hand dropping off of the doorknob. “A minute for..?” He pauses. There's a beat of silence. Then Donald's gaze shifts slightly. Head tilted down lower than Mark's face. His expression doesn't change much, but something clicks. 

Mark turns away, burying his face in his hands. He can feel the heat crawling up his neck, worse than anything the training room ever put him through. 

“...Ah.” Donald makes a sound. And Mark can only sink lower in his seat. He hears Donald clear his throat, reaching for the doorknob. The hinges creak as he pulls it shut. “I'll... be outside.” Then the door clicks shut again. 

Mark groans and slumps forward, mortified beyond words. Staring at the floor between his shoes, hands gripping his hair. 

What the hell was that? What the actual hell was that?

He can still feel the ghost of Cecil waist under his hand. Still see the faint surprise in Cecil's eyes- how his lips parted, how he glanced down at his lap. 

Can I use your mouth?

Mark wheezes. Not helping. He squeezes his eyes shut, half hoping the floor might swallow him whole. “Kill me. Just kill me now.” his voice mutters in his ears. Sounding detached by the blood rushing through them. Staring down at the floor like he's begging it to answer that plea.

He's never going to live this down. Not to Donald. Not to Cecil. Not even in his own head. He drags in a breath into his lungs. Scrubbing his hands over his face. 

“I'm so gay.”

Chapter Text

It takes longer than it should. The seconds ticking by stand in an hourglass. Leaving Mark to stew in his own shame. But eventually, the heat between his legs fades. Finally going flaccid like he should have been all along. Not because he got control of himself- but because the embarrassment eclipses everything else. 

Mark sits there for another minute, humiliated and miserable, before finally standing. His legs still feel weak as he grabs his mask and adjusts his clothes, flexing his legs a few more times to be sure it's down. Pulling on his mask with little care about how well it's on now.

Mark blushes. Looking down at himself a final time to be sure. He needs a better cup. This one is way too flimsy- God- Cecil probably saw everything.

He forces a few steady breaths. Just get out of here- he can avoid this place like hell on earth after. Just one more obstacle. 

Leaving the building. 

Mark reaches for the door, takes one last deep breath, and twists the knob. Pulling it open. 

Donald is still there. Standing just beside the door, arms folded and face unreadable. Mark doesn't meet his eyes, and Donald doesn't try to catch his either. 

Wordlessly, Donald turns and begins walking. Mark follows a few feet behind him, his cheeks still burning. Eyes fixed on the floor. Feeling the shame settle into his chest like a cinder block. The silence between them is thick, each one of Donald's footsteps echoing down the corridor like a drumbeat of judgment. Mark can't tell if Donald's just being professional or if he's silently reliving the horror of what just happened. Tormented by it just as much as Mark currently is. Either way, Mark doesn't want to find out. Much less ask. He keeps his head down. 

Thank fuck Cecil left. He's never been more thankful for him not being around. 

The idea of running into him now, after what just happened- after what he did. After Mark touched him, grabbed his waist, got very obviously hard over it- 

Mark clenches his jaw and prays Donald will walk faster. Desperate to leave. To get far, far away from here.

The elevator ride is thankfully short. Donald doesn't speak. And when the doors open at the ground level, Mark doesn't wait for him. Too afraid of an awkward goodbye on the way out of the door. 

Instead, he bolts. Out of the elevator, startling a few of the Pentagon employees as he dashes out of the building. His heart pounding with a mess of emotions that he doesn't even want to address. Shame. Regret. Embarrassment. Something else entirely around what brought it on. 

Mark doesn't stop, flying all the way home. Fast, low and careful. He doesn't remember most of the flight, it feels like seconds before he's gliding above his neighborhood. 

He lands on the window ledge in a blur, the glass pane of his window creaking as he opens it. He slips inside and closes it behind him. Zipping over to lock his bedroom door with trembling fingers. 

Mark doesn't say hi to his mom. No one sees him or hears him enter, hopefully. The last thing he wants to do is talk right now. 

Mark launches himself into bed. Throwing himself onto it face-down. Unable to care how sweaty he is or that he's still in his hero suit- only pulling the covers over himself like they might shield him from the weight of everything pressing down on his chest. Entangling himself in them like a makeshift coffin. 

What the hell was that?

His face burns. Hell. His entire body, from head to toe, burns. Mark turns his head so hard that his neck aches, burying his face into the pillow to muffle a groan. Trying to suffocate the memory, but it only repeats. Another hellish, nightmare inducing loop and he's made for himself. 

Cecil's voice, that rasp in it. So close that Mark could feel the warmth of his breath when Cecil sighed. His gloved hand in his mouth, the nasty taste of rubbery latex. The needle, the way his knuckles brushed his lips as Cecil pressed it forward, fingers under his jaw and thumb under his tongue. 

Then his own hand. How he reached out like some idiot and grabbed Cecil's waist. How he made it worse- made it weirder than getting off on that already was- how he ran his thumb down the side of Cecil's stomach and squeezed. 

Again, the heat between his legs stirs. But Mark can barely think of it. Not now. He'd probably just think of Donald and get blue balls out of embarrassment. Ugh.

Mark groans miserably. Curling further into a ball. Clinging onto his pillow. 

Why did he do that? Why does he keep doing this to himself?

His breath hitches at the memory of Cecil's reaction. Not the words, not the motion, but that look. That flicker of surprise on Cecil's face before he pulled away. The way he wouldn't meet Mark's eyes afterward. Even when they talked- then Cecil left the moment the opportunity came.

Of course he did. Mark squeezes his eyes shut. 

You made him uncomfortable. You messed up everything. You're such a goddamn creep.

He got hard during a medical exam. A clinical, impersonal medical exam. He feels sick. There was nothing sexy about it. It was professional. Cecil wasn't even flirting, he wasn't even doing anything. 

He was just doing his job. 

And Mark- 

Mark hums loudly. A frustrated thing as he squirms. He felt him up like some perv. Got hard just because Cecil said something a little off the wall. 

Cecil didn't sign up for this shit. Didn't sign up for some barely legal high schooler getting an erection over it. 

Mark rolls onto his other side. Gripping the edge of his blanket like it might save him. Arms wrapped around himself. Stomach churning. All that excitement he felt before is gone- replaced by the reality that threatens to drown him. 

Of course Cecil saw. Of course he noticed. How could he not have? Some blushing kid, breathing like he'd just run a marathon, holding something over his crotch, grabbing his side in a totally-not-normal way?

It's no wonder Cecil left in such a hurry. He probably couldn't get out of there fast enough. 

It's not like he meant to enjoy it like that- it just happened. But he'd let his thoughts run wild, let his body betray him. His stupid, hormonal, impulse driven body. 

He's not even- Mark clenches the pillow with a sigh. Head spinning is a tidal mess of noise and heat and confusion, looping back to the same question again and again, like a scratched disc. 

It wasn't supposed to be like that. It was just- just the words. The phrasing. Can I use your mouth? Anyone would have reacted, right? It was just the awkwardness, the tension. He was already keyed up. It didn't mean anything. 

Or couldn't. Mark opens his eyes. Staring at the piece of paper on his bedside table. Amber's number.

“I'm not…” he mumbles to no one. Not gay. That can't be it. He's never looked at guys like that. Never even thought about them like that. No interest. No lingering glances, no secret crushes, no fantasies. He likes girls. Amber, for starters. Eve is attractive too. Hell, he had a thing for Duplicate for like five minutes. A girl so much as looks his way, and he'll damn well consider it. 

It doesn't make sense. 

If it were anyone else in that room- any other man in a lab coat, any old guy doctor poking and prodding for vitals- he wouldn't have reacted like that. He wouldn't have felt like his whole body was about to catch fire. Wouldn't have gotten so hard just from a voice. A touch. The taste of latex and blue gloves over long fingers. 

Mark groans into his arm. 

So what does that mean? Is it just… Cecil?

The thought isn't comforting exactly. Maybe he's not gay. Maybe he's just- straight. With one stupid, very specific, very unwelcome exception. 

Cecil Stedman. 

Mark breathes out hard. His chest too tight and body too wound up. It's not like that makes things better. If anything, it makes it worse. Because that would mean it's not confusion, not just some bi awakening brought on by some guy in proximity. It would mean it's about him. A specific person. Someone who probably sees Mark now as nothing more than some desperate kid with a crush and zero impulse control. 

This shit is a mess. And he can't keep himself from adding to the damn pile. 

The warmth from earlier feels like it's curdled into cold dread. He can't stop thinking about the way Cecil didn't look at him. How Cecil stepped away. He didn't say anything. Didn't call him out. Didn't snap or demand an explanation. He just… moved. Mark didn't even get to ask much of what he wanted to. About Donald, about Cecil, about anything more.

But Cecil leaving? That alone eats Mark alive now. Because Cecil had to know. Donald figured it out in two seconds just by looking at him. Just glanced at him and knew. And Cecil had been right there. So how could Cecil not?

The way Cecil hesitated… how he flinched when Mark grabbed him. Then how he looked at him. Those few seconds that their eyes met. How Cecil's lips parted, like the world's smallest gasp. How those focused eyes widened into something more alert. 

Yeah. He knew.

But Cecil didn't want to talk about it. There were no sharp remarks or sarcasm. No question, not even a dry look. Just… silence. Avoidance. And that makes Mark's heart start pounding again. He didn't even get a warning. Not even a scolding or a cold dismissal. 

That silence- it's not indifference. Cecil looked bothered, surprised. It's worse. It means Cecil doesn't want to deal with him. Doesn't want to acknowledge what happened. Doesn't want to talk to him about it. 

But what if Cecil tells someone else?

What if Cecil tells his parents?

Mom and Dad don't like Cecil. That's obvious. They talk about Cecil like they're suspicious of him. Dad tenses when Cecil comes up. Mark isn't sure if that's always been the case- or if what he saw at the funeral is why. Why he stares Mark down like he's looking for a reason to snap whenever Cecil is brought up. 

But they do talk to him. It's not friendly. Mom is polite but her smile is always tight, and Dad is standoffish at best. Yet Cecil always manages to hold their attention. They know him. They let Cecil into the house. Dad works with him. That means they trust him enough. 

Enough to listen if he says Mark did something inappropriate. If Cecil said something… if he told them Mark made things weird, made him uncomfortable-

Mark suddenly sits up. Blanket falling off his chest. He feels clammy. His mouth is dry and his body is too damp from being under the messy pile of his blanket.

That could be why- why Cecil didn't bring it up. Didn't scold him or snap. Didn't tell Mark to leave. Cecil could go straight to them, just skip the awkward chat of ‘Stop it.’ With him and go to his parents instead. Could sit them down and tell them what happened- what he did. Could say something like ‘Your son needs guidance,’ or ‘He crossed the line,’ or worse, ‘He's confused. You should talk to him.’

His mom would be confused. Probably nice about it. But his dad… Mark doesn't even want to imagine it. 

What if they think he's messed up? What if they think he's ill or something for even being remotely interested in someone so much older. He'd never be able to look them in the eyes again-

He can't shake the image of them sitting him down, tight-lipped and disappointed. Asking him why. Telling him that it's wrong, that he needs to correct his behavior. That he needs to stay away from Cecil and get over whatever the hell this is. 

Mark squeezes the blanket on his lap. Staring at the door. Every footstep downstairs suddenly sounds louder. Every voice through the floorboards is sharper. Heart pounding like any moment now, someone's going to knock on his door and everything is going to come crashing down. 

He doesn't want to see the way they'd look at him. He doesn't want them to know.

He runs his fingers through his hair. Now damp and sweaty under his fingers. He doesn't know what Cecil is going to do. Mark doesn't know what he's going to do himself. 

The next few days crawl by like a slow-motion punch to the gut. 

Every morning, Mark wakes up wondering if today is the day someone says something. If Cecil will call. If Mom will ask him to sit down for a “talk.” If Dad will drop some casual comment that lets Mark know that he knows.

But nothing happens. 

No messages. No calls. No hint of Cecil- nowhere. Not on TV, speaking with the new guardians on any scene caught in the news. Not through the grapevine of hero chatter. 

And that silence is almost worse than being yelled at. 

Mark feels it winding tighter inside him like a hot coiled spring. A slow burn behind his ribs that refuses to cool. Every time his parents phone buzzes, his heart spikes a beat. Every time knocks at the front door, he freezes. 

Three days pass like that. 

Three days of pretending to breathe normally. Three days trying to focus on school, patrols, and training. Of forcing himself to smile and talk like everything is fine. Like he didn't grab Cecil. Like he didn't get off on being examined. Like he's not terrified that the director of the GDA might tell his parents that their son is a creep. 

On the fourth morning, Mark can't take it anymore. 

He stands in the bathroom, getting ready for school. Coming down from yet another heart attack of his mom's phone ringing. Staring at himself in the mirror- eyes tired, jaw tight, stomach in knots- and realizes something. 

He can't just wait. 

He can't live in this limbo, bracing for a blow that might never come. For the other shoe to stomp on his head. 

If Cecil is planning to say something to his parents- Mark needs to know. Now. If he's not… if he really isn't going to bring it up, then maybe Mark can finally stop walking around like a little fuse. 

Either way, he needs to see Cecil. Face to face. Even if it makes everything worse. 

That morning, he takes his hero suit in his school backpack. The moment the bell rings and he's out, he changes behind someone's house. Launching off to Virginia. To the Pentagon and to Cecil. He tells himself it's just to get a feel. Just to see how Cecil reacts. Cecil might not even want to talk to him. 

But deep down, Mark knows he's lying. Who is he kidding? Even now, flooded below all of the anxiety of the last few days, there's still that giddy squirm in his chest. Just at the thought of seeing Cecil again. At the thought of Cecil doing something- anything in response. 

He needs to talk to him. If only to know if he fucked things up irreparably. 

Soon enough, Mark touches down at the front steps of the Pentagon, folding his arms and trying to look calm. Even though he isn't, his heart thudding in his ears as he steps inside. 

He isn't sure where to go, but starts at the front desk. Catching the eyes of a receptionist. An older woman with a military neat haircut. Blonde hair and tan skin. She glances up from her monitor as he approaches. 

“Can I help you?” 

Mark nods, and clears his throat. Trying to relax the nervous squeeze on his airway. “Yeah. Uh… I just need to go down to the GDA.”

She tilts her head slightly. Looking down at his outfit. “Invincible, right?” He nods. 

The woman taps something into the keyboard as Mark leans on the tall counter. The clack of the keys rapid and loud in the quiet reception room. “Sorry. You don't have clearance for that level without an escort. No one is expecting you today, either.” 

Mark hesitates. Shuffling his weight. “Cecil… said I could come by anytime.” 

The receptionist tilts her head. “Cecil?”

Mark nods. “Yeah. The uh… Director? He said I can come down.”

There's a flicker of pause on her face. Her blonde eyebrows rising onto her forehead. “Director Stedman told you that?”

Mark manages to shrug. Trying to play it off as something casual and not an obvious misuse of words said in passing. “Yeah. I've been down a few times before.”

The receptionist doesn't respond at first, eyeing him carefully. Before turning her head and looking over to her right. Mark follows her gaze, and sees the other receptionist- some tall guy, is looking back. The guy shrugs, shaking his head. Obviously just as unsure. 

Come on…

Mark wonders if she's about to call security. But then she seems to make a decision- either to trust him or to just pass him off to the GDA to deal with. 

“...Alright,” She says. Still sounding unsure. “One moment.”

She taps something on her keyboard again, then presses a button on her console. Mark hears the elevator pulling up to the floor.

“Elevator's open. You'll be directed when you arrive below.”

Mark exhales slowly, nods his thanks. Turning to walk towards the elevator as the doors slide open.

He steps inside and the doors close, his reflection in the polished metal catches his eyes. He looks composed, focused. 

But underneath? Mark feels anything but put together. His nerves feel like they're on fire. Burning with the hope he's not making a huge mistake. Tapping his foot rapidly on the tile below him. He just wants to get this over with. 

The elevator stalls, the familiar feeling of the momentum slowing tugs on his body. The intercom lets out a soft chime behind him as the doors open to the sleek, sterile halls of the GDA. But the moment Mark steps out, three armed GDA security guards are already waiting- fully armored in that familiar black and green, rifles aimed right at him.

“Invincible?” One of them asks through their mask. Voice clipped and crackling.

Mark forces a stiff smile. Lifting his hands. “Yeah. Just here to see Cecil.” 

“Director Stedman isn't expecting any visitors. You weren't scheduled.”

“It's fine.” Mark tries to reassure them without sounding defensive. “He told me I could come by anytime.” 

A moment of silence stretches between them. The guards looking at each other, clearly uncertain now. Their postures shift- not hostile, but still wary. 

“This is still a breach of protocol. You need to leave until proper clearance is given.” The guard shoots back. 

“I didn't need clearance the last few times?” Mark replies with a shrug. But the last of his patience frays. He never expected just walking in uninvited to be so much trouble… maybe he should have, though. It is the GDA. “Call him yourself. I'm not here to cause trouble. I just need to talk with him.”

The guards hesitate again. One of them lowers his weapon slightly, hand lifting to grab the comm clipped to their shoulder.

Then- a voice calls out from further down the hall. “Hold on!”

Donald rounds the corner, walking towards them in a rush. Donald's gaze sweeps over the guards first- and Mark feels them fixate on him.

Mark tenses. Looking away quickly. 

The guards glance back at Donald for orders, and Mark uses the moment. He slips past them without waiting for permission, floating over the polished floors so they don't hear him, just a good distance away before touching down and walking.

He doesn't need to be told where Cecil's office is. Mark remembers. His heart pounds louder with each step, echoing in his ears. What is he even going to say? How does he start this conversation? 

Hi, sorry about the erection? Are you mad? Are you going to tell my parents how fucked up I am?

Mark doesn't have time or energy to debate his latest shitty decision with himself. Anything is better than the anxiety he's been through the last few days.

The moment Mark is in front of Cecil's office door, he hesitates. Only for a second, before raising his hand and knocking twice. Rapping his knuckles against the metal. The sound echoing dully down the quiet hallway. 

No answer.

Mark waits, heart beating a little faster. Hand still hovering like another knock may make a difference. It doesn't. His knock once again met with silence and a sealed door.

Footsteps clatter on the floor to his left, and Mark stiffens. Glancing over his shoulder to see Donald approaching. Arms swinging at his sides and clearly a little out of breath. 

“Invincible,” Donald's voice is strained, and Mark can't help but avoid his eyes. His gaze remaining glued to the door in front of him. “Why are you here?” 

Mark's throat is tight. Shifting his weight from one leg to another. “I need to talk to Cecil.”

“...About what?” 

Mark doesn't answer right away. Turning around and crossing his arms. Shuffling slightly before leaning against it. “...Stuff.” He looks down the hall on the opposite side of them. Away from Donald. Afraid to see his face. “It's important.”

Donald lets out a sigh. “Invincible… he's not likely to be back today. Call in later and maybe we can-” 

Mark risks a look back at Donald. Relieved to see no obvious disgust. “It's only four though. Doesn't he like… live here mostly?” 

“Yes- but it isn't standard to just visit the GDA. You don't have the clearance to just come down here.” Donald reasons, and Mark can't help but grimace. Looking back down at the floor. He's right, of course he's right. Mark is acting like a child too dense to understand the rigidity of rules. But he can't not see Cecil today. 

“But he said I could come by anytime. I won't bother anyone, promise.”

Now that makes Donald pause. 

He looks at Mark more closely now, something subtle changing in his posture. Mark doesn't want to think about it- what Donald must be piecing together. What he may already suspect from what he saw. 

Donald's voice is slower, quieter. “Are… Are you sure he said that?”

Mark nods quickly- but before Donald can say anything else, a voice drifts from around the corner. 

“I did say that, didn't I?”

Mark's head jerks towards the sound. His stomach sinking. Cecil rounds the corner, hands in the pockets of his dark slacks. His voice is smooth, almost amused. That stoic look in his eyes. Is he smiling?

Mark jolts. “Cecil! I just wanted to uh… talk?” He blurts it out immediately. Voice high and awkward. He didn't expect Cecil to be here- let alone to be caught saying that. 

Cecil doesn't respond immediately. Instead, the older man turns to Donald with a sharpness that isn't reflected in his voice. “Donald. No one thought to tell me about our… guest?”

Donald straightens, fixing his tie. One hand raised to his mouth as he glances down. “I'm sorry, sir. We didn't know where he stood.”

Cecil hums faintly- neither agreeing nor disagreeing. While Mark watches Cecil carefully. 

Something itches in his chest. An irrational urge that makes him want to leave.

Cecil is so… casual right now. Almost too casual. Like none of this is out of the ordinary. Like Mark didn't-

Cecil glances back at Mark. His eyes raking over him briefly- just enough to make Mark feel entirely too seen- and then he exhales. Shutting his eyes for a moment. A heavy sigh that sounds more tired than bothered. 

“Talk over lunch then. Come on.”

Really? Mark opens his mouth to say it, but Cecil turns away. Walking down the hall. Not fast, but without hesitation. Leaving Mark to stare at his back. Unable to move. 

Again, Cecil is acting like nothing happened. Like none of this is odd or weird. Like the Cecil that was in that medical room with Mark was plucked out of the dimension and placed in another. Leaving a Cecil who never touched him to begin with. No tension. No embarrassment. Just… business as usual. 

Mark doesn't let that thought finish. Swallowing hard and casting a glance at Donald. Before quickly following after Cecil, catching up with his pace. Heart pounding in his chest. A part of him wants to ask if Cecil is really okay with this, if he really isn't mad, if he even remembers what happened. He sure doesn't act like it.

Should he walk closer? Mark sucks in a breath. Getting beside Cecil just to look at his face. 

“What's so important that you need to come by?” Cecil asks as they walk. Just a foot from him- not even looking over as he asks. 

Mark flinches inwardly. There it is. 

He knows he should say it. Bring it up if Cecil won't. What happened during the exam… what he did. 

But the words stall in his throat. The embarrassment feels like an inferno at even the thought of mentioning it. Let alone speaking it aloud. And- more than that- he doesn't want to ruin this, whatever this moment is. He just spent days thinking Cecil would never be within ten feet again. 

Yet here he is, acting like nothing happened. Not even a hint of irritation, anger or disgust. Face settled in that same neutral, stoic expression. Even inviting him to lunch. Mark just wants to pretend he didn't mess things up. For as long as Cecil will pretend with him. 

Mark scrambles for something- anything- to say instead. Struggling to keep up with Cecil's pace and think at the same time. 

“Um…” His voice comes out a little too high. “Are the Guardians, like… doing good? You said it was a shitshow.”

Cecil hums softly. He doesn't answer right away. The pause stretches a little too long, and Mark's nerves spark all over again. But then, Cecil finally speaks. “Want to help out?”

Mark eyes Cecil's face. Almost disbelieving. “Yeah! I mean-” He tries to play it cool. Rubbing a hand behind his head. His palms sweaty beneath the spandex. “My friends are working there, so…” 

Cecil doesn't answer- or doesn't get the chance to. The doors open to a large room. The canteen, or cafeteria, whatever. It's more quiet than Mark expects- sterile. Those same annoying lights and metal tables and seats everywhere. 

A few suited agents are seated, scattered around the room. Eating quickly and speaking in hushed conversations. 

Cecil grabs a tray, moving down the open counters and scooping food onto it. The food doesn't look bad- surprisingly decent for a government facility. Mark follows behind him, piling on a bit more than usual. Sliced fruits and a soup. Some kind of steamed buns. His stomach has been tight for days, but suddenly he's starving. 

He watches as Cecil pours himself some coffee- no sugar. No creamer. Just black. Calm and unbothered still. 

Cecil really isn't mad?

Mark follows Cecil to a table, strategically the furthest from anyone already seated. Not secluded, but private enough. He sits down on the seat across from Cecil. Trying to stop his hands from fidgeting. He picks up his fork and pokes at his food, glancing at Cecil as he settles into his seat. 

“I'll see what we can put you on, then. No shortage of crises these days.” Cecil finally answers the question, just when Mark thought the conversation died into something awkward. 

This is his chance- to talk more- but what should he ask?

“Is Donald a friend of yours?” Mark grimaces when Cecil pauses. His cup stalling halfway to his lips. Eyes meeting his suddenly. 

Real subtle, Mark.

Mark tries to hold his gaze. To seem genuine about the question. But he doesn't last more than a few seconds before he looks back down at his plate. Taking a bite of the fruit so he can avoid filling the silence. 

“Co-worker. Why?” 

Oh for fucks sake.

The question is simple. But it grates at Mark. That calm, collected tone. That practiced neutrality that Cecil seems to have so easily. 

That spark of frustration from earlier returns sharp and sudden. Weaving through his chest as he looks at Cecil. It catches him off guard. 

Really? Why? Mark looks at him. Meeting his eyes. Trying to read Cecil, wondering what he's thinking. It should be obvious why he's asking. It should've been obvious back in the exam room, too. 

Mark just doesn't understand how Cecil can act like he didn't see it- like Mark hadn't embarrassed himself so horrifically. Hadn't been more clear than a neon billboard at midnight.

Is Cecil really pretending he doesn't know what this is about? Or worse- does he truly not know? That seems impossible. Cecil was so close- he had to have seen it. 

His foot twitches under the table. Without thinking about it too hard, Mark shifts in his seat. Lifting his right foot. Pressing it forward and nudging his shoe toe against Cecil's ankle. Just enough to do something to make it clear. A dig beneath the surface. 

“I remember seeing his picture in your office.” 

Cecil's brows press down, just a little. And for a split second- just barely- Mark swears Cecil's eyes glance down. Past the edge of the table. But then he lifts his gaze again, like nothing happened. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't move his foot. Doesn't even look annoyed. 

Just… continues eating. Grabbing the steamed bread roll and taking a bite.

“Of course you did. I needed something to make the shelves not look so dead.” Mark laughs. But it feels harder to bring out than it should. 

So that's it, then. 

Cecil does know. He's not clueless. Not blind. 

He's choosing not to acknowledge it. 

That realization makes his stomach sink- and twist with something else too. Something like helplessness. Like hunger. 

They eat in relative quiet after that. Not awkward- at least not in the obvious sense. The clinking of forks on trays and the strong smell of Cecil's coffee the only thing between them. 

Cecil doesn't speak again. Doesn't look at him. Just eats like they're two professionals sharing a routine meal. Like nothing lingers between the table legs or in the silence between them. 

He keeps his foot against Cecil's leg. Light, testing and deliberate. And Cecil doesn't move. Not away. Not toward. Just still. 

Mark swallows a bite of food he can barely taste. Mind racing as he looks at Cecil. He knows. Mark is sure of it. 

He knows and he's not stopping me.

That thought alone makes him want to squirm- because Cecil isn't doing anything else, either. Not giving a no. Not giving a yes. Just… letting it happen.

Mark shifts in his seat. His foot sliding a little higher along Cecil's calf. All Cecil does after is grab his coffee. Finishing off the cup. Still nothing. 

And that absence of reaction- that lack of any answer- that is what drives Mark crazy. 

Because it's not indifference. It's too controlled for that. Too careful. Cecil is choosing not to do anything. Either not to recoil away or lean in. And Mark doesn't know if that means wait or don't, keep going or stop-

The buzz of his phone startles him. Vibrating in the familiar phone call pattern in his pocket. 

Mark jolts in his seat. Pulling it out with a flicker of anxiety. The screen lights up with missed texts- half a dozen from his mom, a couple from his dad, and now a call lighting up the screen. 

His heart drops. 

He'd had his phone on silent. Hadn't even noticed how much time has passed here. It's been over an hour. 

“Shit” Mark mutters under his breath. 

Cecil looks up at him as he stands. One eyebrow raised in a questioning look. 

“I- uh, I gotta go.” Mark says, stumbling up from his chair. The legs scrape loudly against the floor, and he fumbles to tuck his phone away again. Gathering the half-eaten tray in a hurry. 

Cecil nods once. “See you around, kid.”

Mark smiles, only to catch himself. Stop it. He really needs to go. Mark hurries off with a wave. 

Shit shit shit. How is he going to explain this one to dad?

Chapter Text

The moment Mark steps out of the GDA, he grabs his backpack and takes off. Launching into the sky and towards his home. His phone buzzes in his pocket again. Missed calls and stacked messages from his mom still going off. 

“Shit,” he mutters, slowing the pace of his flight just enough that wind won't overtake the call. He pulls his phone from his pocket, fumbling with the screen and answers the call immediately. 

His mom answers the moment he puts it up to his ear. “Mark?”

“Hey, Mom. Sorry- everything okay?”

Mark tries to sound casual. Not like he was just doing the exact opposite of what he should have been. Going home and eating with mom- instead of bulldozing his way into the GDA. 

“Where have you been?” Her voice is tight, worried. And it immediately stabs him with guilt. “We've been trying to reach you for almost an hour. Even Will didn't know where you were.” Well there goes his go-to excuse…

“Oh-yeah, no, I'm really sorry.” Mark says quickly. Picking up the pace again. Wind nipping under his goggles as he adjusts them. “I was with Eve. I didn't realize how long we were talking. Forgot my phone was on silent.”

There's a long moment of quiet on the other end. He can almost hear her trying to decide whether to believe him. 

“We were just… y'know, talking about the Flaxans. And Dad.” He adds the detail, hoping it will be more believable. “We kinda lost track of time.”

At that, she exhales. Her breath cracking through the speaker. “Just… let me know next time, okay? After what happened to the Guardians and your dad- I worry for you two.”

Mark's stomach twists. He hates the way those words land. Not just the reminder- but the fact that he made her worry. That he's lying to her on top of it. All because he was too busy trying to lie to her another way. Not telling her the truth of where he was or what he was doing. 

“Yeah. I get it.” Mark says, softer now. “I'm sorry, Mom. I should've called. I'll let you know next time, promise.”

There's another breath on the other end. “You better. Hurry home, okay? Dinner's getting cold.”

“On my way. Be home soon.” He answers quickly. Adding a “Love you.” before hanging up the call. 

Dinner goes by quickly. He talks to his mom, casting glances at the empty spot at the dinner table.

His dad hasn't come home yet. 

Not that that's unusual lately- between the Guardians’ massacre and the new Guardians barely being functional, Dad has been busy. Picking up the slack and covering the bases while the Guardian's get up and running. His Mom is disappointed, eyes on her phone. Waiting for a call from him. But tonight, Mark is grateful for the absence. 

Because if his dad had been here- one look would have blown the lie. 

Dinner is quiet. His mom doesn't press him further, not really. She keeps glancing at her phone, though- checking for messages that never come. She really is more worried than usual. Mom never used to be so paranoid. Well adapted to Dad rushing off or missing meals. Now though? She's often worried for him. Especially if he's gone more than a day. Mark watches her, picking at his plate. Swallowing down the food more out of guilt than hunger. Too full from the meal he shared with Cecil. The baked chicken too soon of a repeat after the chicken sandwich he had at the GDA. 

After, Mark helps clean up, only excusing himself to head upstairs when his mom takes a phone call. Not from Dad, but from a coworker. 

The moment he's in his bedroom, he exhales. Deep, shaky and exhausted. Kicking off the shoes he hastily put on earlier. Trying not to come home in his hero outfit. Falling face first into his mattress. Sheets cool and welcome against his skin. 

But his mind is far from still. 

Cecil.

All day- hell, the last few days- it's been looping in his head. The way Cecil didn't stop him then. And now, how Cecil didn't stop him today. How he let Mark's foot push up his leg. Press against his ankle underneath the table. How he didn't move away. Didn't acknowledge it. Didn't even shake his head or say no. 

And how in the medical room, when Mark touched his waist… Cecil paused. Flinched, but didn't recoil away. No disgust. Just surprise. 

He knows. Mark is sure of it now. 

Cecil isn't clueless at all. He looked down at his foot beneath the table. Saw Mark was hard while he took the blood sample. He knows what Mark is doing, what he wants. He just… lets it happen. No encouragement. No reprimand. No lines drawn. No clarity at all. 

And that might be worse. It is worse. 

Because Mark doesn't know what that means. 

Is Cecil waiting for Mark to stop? Is he silently rejecting him, but not saying it out loud? It would be so easy for him to. Just shake his head. Recoil away. Cecil doesn't seem shy or easily affected by anything. If he can act so casually after Mark was hard right in front of him- enjoying himself like that- he could easily say ‘No’ and still look Mark in the eyes no problem. 

Or… is it the opposite?

Is he just seeing how far Mark will go?

Mark rolls onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. 

He hates how much he likes that idea.

How much he likes the image of Cecil waiting. Indifferent and watching. Judging every action with that same disinterested look in his eyes. Like it's some kind of test. Deciding if Mark is good at it. If Mark is bold enough. If he's good enough. 

He hates how confused he feels about all of it.

And he hates that Cecil won't just say something- anything- that makes this clear. That tells Mark whether what he's doing is wrong, or just bold. 

Mark swallows hard, heart beating louder than he wants it to. 

Whatever this is… it's not nothing. He just doesn't know what it is yet. 

Mark tossed onto his side, gripping his pillow like it might help settle his thoughts. Ignoring the pile of homework on his desk.

Nothing helps. Not when his brain is still chewing on every little moment- every non-answer, every side step. Every time Cecil looked at him and then didn't. 

The urge to move, to do something tingles in his muscles. The frustration pent up into knots between them. 

He's supposed to be direct. He's Invincible, dammit. But every time he's near Cecil, it's like his brain shorts out. He means to ask real questions- Do you have hobbies? Do you do anything outside the GDA? When are you free? maybe even Do you care that I'm feeling you up right now?- but instead, he barely manages one without looking suspicious as hell. “How's work?” “Where do you live? And “Donald's your friend?” and then let me brush your ankle with my foot like a nervous middle schooler.

Mark huffs and turns again. Punching his pillow into a more comfortable shape. 

His eyes drift to his phone, laying in front of him. The reflectiveness of the dark screen catching his sight. 

Maybe he doesn't need to ask? He could just… 

Mark sighs, shutting his eyes for a moment. He shouldn't. 

He already feels like a creep. Standing too close, brushing his foot under the table, getting hard in a damn exam room. Now he wants to cyberstalk the guy? That's a whole new level of weird. 

But… he really wants to know. He stares at his phone for a few seconds longer. Then, finally, gives in. 

He grabs his phone and taps in his pass code. The glow is too bright from when he was outside earlier. Enough to sting his eyes as he scrambles to turn it down. 

Then he opens the browser and types: Cecil Stedman.

A second passes. Then the screen loads. 

But none of it is what he's looking for. There's no real info. Just some public records of people with the same name. A few low-res images that clearly aren't his Cecil- wrong ages, wrong faces, random businessmen and retirees. 

No headlines. No pics. No bio pages. No anything.

It shouldn't surprise him, considering who Cecil is. Director of the GDA. The guy probably has firewalls around his blood type. Let alone his personal history. 

Still, it frustrates Mark. He stares at the results like they've personally insulted him. Chewing on his nails as he keeps scrolling. Skimming through the pages of useless results.

He just wants something. A lead. A scrap of context. 

What does Cecil do when he's not running the GDA? Does he even leave the Pentagon? Does he have friends? Is he single?

Mark sits up, phone in hand. Squinting at the screen, the phone held just a few inches from his face as he scrolls through another website. Then- he comes across a precinct. 

People probably don't start out at the GDA, do they? 

Just like that, he's combing through the list of Chicago's precincts. Then the neighboring cities- Joliet, Peoria, Rockford. Still nothing. 

He tells himself it's just curiosity. Just wanting to know a little more about the man who runs the GDA. It's normal to wonder how someone gets a job like that. Normal to wonder who they were before they became Director of one of the most powerful secret agencies on the planet. 

But it's not normal.

Mark knows it isn't. Not when it's after midnight and he's still refreshing search terms, still switching between precinct directories and archives of old employee listings. He even tried old forums. Facebook alumni groups. Civil directories. 

Still nothing. 

It's like Cecil just appeared one day. Like someone scrubbed his past clean and left nothing behind but a name and a suit. 

Mark falls back on the bed with a groan. His phone pressed to his chest. 

People can't just start at the GDA, right? Seems like the kind of place that doesn't want fresh people on the job. Probably wants them tested and proven first. There has to be a trail. A place he worked, someone he knew, a paper trail somewhere. But for Cecil… there's just nothing. 

Not even a graduation photo. Or an old photographed newspaper. Not a parking ticket or posts from people who look related. 

Mark sits up again. One more and he'll go to sleep. He scrolls through one more database. This time digging into university alumni records. U of Chicago. Northwestern. Even from out of state. 

No match. 

He exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Staring down at the screen. Having read more in the last few hours than he feels he's had his whole school year. 

Maybe he's being stupid. Maybe this is exactly the kind of obsessive behavior that would make Cecil never want to talk to him again. Maybe this whole thing is going to blow up in his face and-

Mark leans back against his pillow. 

Why isn't there anything?

Was he a ghost before the GDA? Has he always worked for them? 

Or did someone erase everything and make him a ghost?

Mark huffs. Breath warm against his lips. Eyes heavy and drifting shut easily.  

Maybe he'll check more tomorrow. 

Mark spent the next day distracted. Taking the back seat of every class, away from the teacher. Hunched over his phone and biting his nails.

His eyes burn from lack of sleep, and his thumb feels weirdly numb from all the scrolling. The words “Cecil Stedman” blurred against his phone screen as he toggles between tab after tab, link after link, still coming up with nothing. It really is like Cecil doesn't exist. He's always heard the internet is forever, but he's really starting to doubt that now. 

Was the internet even around when Cecil was young? Cecil is kinda old… around his sixties, if what his mom mentioned was right. 

Mark shifts in his seat as the lecture carries on as a background for his quiet frustration. Something about 19th century political theory- he wasn't paying attention. He only half-hears the droning lecture echoing through the classroom. 

His mind is still far away from school. He types out the name again. Still nothing. Even trying different search engines now, switching tactics, using quotation marks around Cecil Stedman, trying variations with “director,” “GDA,” “classified,” “Chicago.”

Still nothing useful. 

His brain is foggy, aching with the effort to think of another route to try. Running one hand through his hair as his fingers hover over another dead end. But he can't stop. Even if there's no real reason, even if all he's doing is running in circles. The itch to know is unbearable. 

Then-

“Who the hell is Cecil?”

Mark flinches hard, nearly sending his phone flying off the desk. Barely catching it. Twisting around in his seat to look back. 

Will grins behind him. Clearly amused. Leaning on his arm with a smile. 

“Jesus, Will.” Mark says, heart pounding. “Don't sneak up on me like that.”

“You're so jumpy lately.” Will asks, standing just to sit in the empty seat beside him. “You've been typing that name in your phone like, every ten minutes.”

Mark swallows hard, phone clutched a little too tight in his hand. Will noticed? Was he that obvious or too caught up to notice someone getting close? How long has it been so noticeable- He opens his mouth, but nothing useful comes out. So he scrambles for the nearest half-truth. “No one. Just- someone from my old job.” The lie comes easy. It's not entirely a lie… Cecil is technically his dad's manager?

Will tilts his head. “From Burger Mart?”

Right. Yeah, not a superhero to Will. “Yeah. The Manager.”

Will leans back in his seat. Raising one eyebrow. “What, did he piss you off or something? Acting weird?”

Mark nods, opening his phone to check a nonexistent notification. “Yeah... just wanted to check. Just in case.”

Will frowns. Clearly trying to read more from Mark's face as he leans closer. “You want help? You're way too deep in the internet hole. Pretty soon you're gonna be printing red strings and building a murder board.”

Mark gives a weak chuckle and shakes his head. “Nah. It's fine. It's probably nothing.”

Will leans on the desk beside him. Obviously not done with him yet. Casually poking Mark's arm with the eraser end of his pencil. 

“By the way,” Will starts. “You never told me why you needed that cover a few days ago.” 

“Huh?” Mark gives the sound despite knowing already what Will means. Trying for more time to think of something. What was the reason he wanted to give Will? Did he ever even think of one?

“You know, when you told me, to tell your mom, that we were watching some show?” Will reminds him. “I thought you were doing something cool. But now you're searching up some random dude named Cecil. Sketchy…”

Mark fidgets with his phone. “Oh- yeah. That…” Mark says it quickly, trying to sound offhanded. “It was dumb. I just didn't want to go to one of my dad's book things.”

Will doesn't look convinced. One brow raised as he looks at him. “Book things?”

“Yeah. Like signings or whatever.” Mark adds. Waving vaguely. “It's super boring, and I figured you'd cover for me if I said I was at your place.”

Will gives him a look. “I didn't even know your dad did book signings.”

His stomach twists. His dad never does. Too busy, doesn't like small talk. But Mark forces a shrug. “He doesn't do them often. It was like, one of those private publishing things. Super small.”

Will still doesn't look convinced, but he doesn't push it. “And here I thought I was going to get juicy gossip. Should have known you were too goodie goodie for it.” Will sighs, turning away and leaning back. Looking at the teacher's desk. Who has sat down, their lecture long over. Everyone sitting around with filled backpacks and empty desks, waiting for the bell to send them home. 

Mark looks at Will, foot bouncing on the tile. “Did they call? When I was… y'know. ‘at your place'?”

Will shakes his head. “Nope. No texts, no calls either. Kinda surprising, actually.”

Mark lets out a long sigh. “Cool.”

Maybe, just maybe, his dad isn't suspicious anymore. Maybe no one noticed anything strange. 

When the final bell rings, Mark is the first out of the door before most of the class even stands. His bag slung low on his shoulder as he slips into the crowd of students heading home on autopilot. The moment Will is picked up by some guy, Mark has his phone out again. Eyes glued to it. 

He'd gotten nowhere all day. Search after search, dead end after dead end. 

But just as he reaches the sidewalk turn into his neighborhood, Mark taps a random link. Page twelve if the search results under the 'recruit class' tab. A message board on quora of all places. 

A random board thread titled:

“Anyone remember this guy? Trained with him back in the 80's. Police recruit class of 82? No trace of him anywhere.”

The photo that loads makes him stop entirely. His shoes scuffing loudly on the sidewalk as he comes to a dead stand still.

Mark doesn't recognize him, at first. Almost clicks off of the page. But the way the guy holds himself makes him do a double take. That half open grin and hands on his hips. Head tilted down just slightly. Hair just past his neck. 

Cecil.

Younger. Barely older than Mark is now. 

With a face Mark hardly recognizes without the frown lines or the scar. His hair is blonde, sun-washed and cropped a little shorter. He looks annoyed in the picture. Tired. Some kind of obstacle course behind him. Eyes closed with an exhausted grin on his mouth. 

White T-shirt half transparent from mud and water. Clinging to the muscles underneath. His build is more defined- lean and full. Less weighed down by stress and age. 

He's standing beside someone else, equally muddy. Whoever took the shot must have caught them right after an exercise test, or training session, or something rough. Cecil's body is turned slightly toward the man. Just making every muscle down his front more vivid. He looks annoyed, exhausted, and alive in a way Mark hasn't seen before. 

The sight hits him like a blow to the gut. 

Cecil looked good. Really good. 

Mark stands there like an idiot. Staring way too long. His face feels warm. 

He only pulls himself out of it when a car passes. The sound of tires on the road dragging him out of his thoughts. Realizing he's been standing in front of someone's mailbox a little too long. 

Mark forces his feet to move. Still glancing down at the picture between steps. He hadn't even known Cecil had blond hair once. Or that he used to smile- kind of. Or that he'd looked like… that.

He tries to focus on the details- like when Cecil got the scar, what year the photo was from, or if the other man in the picture was someone important- but it all blurs together. His thoughts and eyes are stuck on how transparent Cecil's shirt is, how it clings, every detail of his chest, how-

Mark squeezes his eyes shut. Shoving his phone into his pocket. Face burning as he walks faster. 

He barely remembers saying “Hey” to his mom when he comes in. She is already in the kitchen, probably making dinner, but he doesn't stop to chat. He just needs to get to his room- now. 

He shuts the door behind him and locks it. Heart thudding faster than it should be. Kicking off the shoes and dropping his backpack. The second he flops onto his bed, he's already fishing out his phone. 

Still on the photo- blurry and aged, sure, but it hits just as hard the second time. 

Cecil standing there with water dripping from his hair, shirt stuck to his chest and stomach. The smudge of dirt on his cheek. The hint of a smile- or maybe a smirk- no scar yet. No gray in his hair. No cold detachment. 

His eyes drift lower. To the cling of Cecil's wet shirt on his body- it leaves nothing to the imagination. Dark green military pants clinging low to his abdomen. The line of muscles leading down to his pelvis-

Mark shifts on the bed. Legs tense and pants too tight. 

He shouldn't be reacting like this. He didn't go into this for that… right? He knows that. But knowing and feeling are two very different beasts, and now, feeling is winning. Just the sight of Cecil's chest makes him want to squirm. To reach into the picture. Anything more than just sitting here and staring at it.

Heat blooms low in his abdomen, rising up through his chest. An aching tension that makes it harder to breathe. His right hand drifts down absently. Pressing the heel of his palm over his jeans. Baring down over his crotch. Just once. Testing the pressure, rewarding with a twitch, a subtle pulse of pleasure answering right back beneath the fabric of his jeans. Mark's lips part in a soundless sigh, hand moving in earnest now. Palming himself through his pants- hips arching up towards the friction. Eyes glued to the picture. 

He wonders how Cecil's voice sounded back then. If it had already dropped to that low, gravel-soft growl that always catches Mark off guard. If he laughed more often. If he'd been cocky. Reckless. If he'd been the kind of guy who flirted without meaning to.

Mark stays like that for a moment. One hand clutching his phone, the other working his palm over the growing tent where his cock strains against his jeans. 

His eyes drop lower again. To the water clinging to Cecil's waistband, beading along the edge of his belt. The tilt of his hips as he leans forward. Drawing his eyes down in a way that feels deliberate. As if the photo had been taken mid-movement- like the person behind the camera had been admiring him too. 

The idea hits Mark harder than it should have. He bites his lip. Dragging his teeth over his raw bottom lip to stop the groan that wants to rip out of his throat. That possibility draws his attention to how Cecil is the focus of the photo. How the camera is angled a bit too low. More on Cecil's chest than his face.

Had someone taken this photo because they liked what they saw?

Had Cecil known? Is that why he was smiling, exhausted and amused? Knew someone was admiring the view and was having a laugh over it?

Mark drops his phone against his chest- just for a moment. Fumbling to undo the button of his jeans. Unzipping it enough that he can push them down. 

His thumbs slip beneath the waistband. Phone sliding off his chest as he pushes his pants and boxers onto his thighs. Too desperate to get back to the photo to really undress. His cock already hard and twitching from the little friction he gave himself. 

Mark grabs his phone quickly. Hyper aware of every inch of teasing visible skin on the screen. Wrapping his fingers around his dick. Stroking slow and easy, just enough to make his breath catch.  

He keeps his eyes on the picture. Drinking in every detail like he can commit them to memory. 

Cecil's shirt is stretched tight across his shoulders. Sweaty and mud smeared from whatever workout he just went though. Face flushed and messy. The collar of his shirt worn and stretched down, exposing the curve of his collar bone. Showing off the hollow of his throat above it. His pants heavy with soaked mud, the weight pulling them down low enough to tease the sharp line of his hips beneath. Mark's gaze follows the dip below his waistband, throat bobbing hard as he swallows. 

He tightens the grip of his hand. Squeezing harder, his breath hitching at the pressure.

Mark shifts again, leaning back into the mattress now, shoulders pressed into the pillows. One leg bent at the knee, foot planted for leverage. The other half laid on the mattress. His breath leaving him in a soft, uneven exhale.

He pumps his fist tight in smooth, slow pulls, breath shaking with every stroke. The friction sends warmth spreading up his chest, flushed and hot. He glances out at his desk, the lotion he usually uses forgotten. But he's too caught up to tear his eyes away from the photo or stand to get it. 

Instead, he squeezes himself at the base. Pushing his hand up all the way to the head. Coaxing out as much precome as he can get. Running his thumb over the head, spreading it down. Gasping quietly, gritting his teeth. 

“Fuck… Cecil-”

Mark picks up the pace, the only sound in the room is of skin dragging on skin and his own heavy breathing. The friction almost aches as he picks up the pace. Biting his lip, hips lurching upward- thrusting into his own fist. 

He inhales sharply, air filling his lungs as he shudders at surge of pleasure, fumbling to adjust his grip on his cock. 

Mark shudders. Letting out a shaky, whimpered curse as he brings the image closer- close enough that it's all he can see. The glow of his phone screen burning his eyes. His breath ghosting over it. His hand moves faster now, hips thrusting in time with it. Up and into his fist. Chasing every bit of friction and motion he can savor with the image of Cecil like this. The mattress creaking with each sharp motion. The room feels thick with heat, his back sweaty against the bed. Shirt clinging to his chest and his thighs trembling with both exsertion and restraint. 

He's already close. Too fast. The weight of the image has him like a vice- every line of muscles on Cecil's chest. The drops of water clinging to his skin. How his wet blonde hair hangs against his face. Every smudge of dirt along his arms- the tilt of his hips. That line of muscle leading down, directing any eyes lower- the faintest ghosting of a happy trail leading down below his belt- 

His head tilts back against the pillow, but his eyes never leave the picture. Not even when he comes. 

The strokes of his hand become rough and quick, fist pumping around himself, his steady pace devolving into something sloppy and frantic. Hips thrusting up and ruining it. Stuttering against his hand. He can't bring himself to care- eyes glued to picture. 

It hits him with a tight, guttural groan. A strangled noise ripping itself from his throat before he can muffle it. Cock spasming in his fist, spilling his come over his stomach and fingers. His spine arches, toes digging into the mattress, hand moving frantically, quickly. Riding the waves of pleasure for all their worth. Rolling through the aftershocks, squeezing his cock as he chases them for all he can get. Up until overstimulation nicks at the moment. Forcing him to slow down. Hand slowing to a lazy, sloppy pace. Leaving his body slick, tired, twitching and unbearably warm. Slowly unwinding into the mattress below him.

Mark pants quickly. Chest rising and falling. For a long while, he just lays there. Dazed and breathless, phone flat against his chest. One hand gripping the sheets to not risk damaging his phone. Cock twitching against his abdomen. 

His breath slows. His hand falls away, resting against his stomach. Sticky warmth on his fingers and sweat cooling against his skin. 

For a long moment, he just stares up at the ceiling. Eyes unfocused. Taking in the tempered frustration and shattered tension that's been coiled tight in every muscle for days. Weeks, even.

Then, he lets his gaze drift back down to the photo. Face up against his chest. The picture dimmed to the inactive screen. 

Mark rubs his face with his clean hand. Still breathing hard. A groan escaping him. He doesn't even try to get a tissue. Not yet. Lazily wiping the come off his hand and onto his shirt. 

Fuck…. He just… got off on a picture of Cecil. 

Mark sucks in a breath. Grabbing his phone. Not bothering to pull up his pants. The faintest feeling of guilt in the back of his mind. 

But seeing the photo again- God- Cecil looked so-

His heart has barely steadied. Shirt still pushed up to his ribs. The image of Cecil practically burned into his retinas. Like a screen grab from a dream that hadn't quite faded.

Even knowing he shouldn't- he's already crossed the line, he should stop here... Mark taps the screen. Zooming in to Cecil's face and hitting the reverse image search shortcut for his browser. He'd barely expected anything- it took so long to get this- 

But he already wants more. Greedy and grasping for anything to add onto this little reward. 

And fuck- it works-

He scrolls past the lookalikes. But he finds another. 

It's grainy, lower resolution. It looks like it had been scanned from some old paper, maybe. But it's definitely Cecil. Older, with his scar now- he's wearing orange. 

An orange jumpsuit. Zipped to his collarbone.

Mark frowns. Tapping on the image to zoom in. 

The background is a standard holding cell wall. Cement blocks slathered in that grey bleak paint. 

Is that… a prison uniform?

The expression Cecil wears in the photo is hard to place. Not angry. Not ashamed. Just… neutral. Bored, maybe. Like the photographer had made him wait too long. 

It unsettles Mark in a way he can't explain. 

Mark doesn't know this version of Cecil. The man in this picture is scrubbed raw. No security clearance. No suit and red tie. Just a man in state-issued orange, staring down the camera like it owed him an apology. 

Mark sits up a little straighter. Sweat drying cold on the small of his back. Pants still around his thighs, forgotten. 

He's looking directly at the camera. 

Almost like he's looking at Mark.

Mark swallows hard. Taking in that hard stare. Those sharp eyes. Blonde hair he's never seen in person.

He can't help it- his fingers creep down again. Settling his palm over his worn out cock. Rubbing slow circles over it as he stares at Cecil's face. The heat comes back with ease,  twitching back to life. Though more muted this time. Lower. Steadier. Not driven by the curve of a body or the transparency of a soaked shirt- just by that stare.

Unflinching. Piercing. Judging.

Cecil looks like he's waiting to see what Mark will do next. The weight of Cecil's gaze feels suffocating. It isn't inviting. It isn't even kind. 

But it sends that same thrill down between his legs. Has Mark's hand wrapping around himself again. Eyes fixed on that cold gaze. 

He really hopes there's more photos out there.