Chapter Text
Oliver
“Mark, hold up!”
So close. Mark and Oliver are halfway across the parking lot. Oliver’s mainly just trying to stay upright. His head is throbbing, his body aches, and he’s had enough teenage rom-com drama to last a goddamn lifetime.
You’d think there would be some sympathy for the man who just got kidnapped and nearly human-sacrificed by a maniacal magic cult leader, but no.
He barely suppresses an eye roll as Mark slows, turning to face the floppy-haired teenager jogging across the parking lot after them.
Caleb comes to an awkward halt several feet away. He throws a wary look at Oliver, who would usually be curious, but is instead focusing all his energy on taking even, shallow breaths. Mark just shrugs, jerking his head toward the navy monstrosity on wheels that he calls a car.
“Go start up the heat, will you Ritz? I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“I live to serve,” Oliver intones with a half-bow. Bad idea. As soon as Mark is focused back on the boy, he curls a protective arm around his stinging chest. Why did he have to park up a fucking hill?
Fragments of conversation drift after him.
“You okay, man?”
“Yeah, I just don’t know when I’ll see you next…” Keep walking, Ritz. He’s tempted to slow down, to drag his feet just a bit. To puzzle out another piece of Byron Mark Bryant… heh, it really does sound bad when you string it all together. But it’s none of his business, it really, really isn’t, and once you put a puzzle together you can’t unsee whatever picture it makes... or something. God, his head hurts.
Against all odds, Oliver reaches the car. He nearly collapses against the solid surface as he digs in his pockets for the keys. Maybe it’s the head injury, but he takes a bit too long sifting through the same bits of paper, various pens, and, inexplicably, a business card for a tattoo parlor he’s never seen before, before it hits him.
Mark has the keys. The shattered remnants of Oliver’s phone, too, and hopefully his wallet. Shit.
The adrenaline of the past 24 hours is wearing off, and the trek back to the parking lot looks infinite, even though it can’t be more than fifty yards. Plus, he probably shouldn’t interrupt… Mark is facing him though, so if he gets closer he could try to catch his attention.
Fuck it. He starts retracing his steps, crunching deliberately across the gravel. Just in case they’re talking about anything sensitive. In the end, it doesn’t matter.
As Oliver nears the other two, he takes stock. Mark looks– well, mostly confused, maybe a bit concerned. Carter’s probably having boy trouble with whatshisface… Albert. Oliver racks his brain for a moment in a confused stupor, but he genuinely can’t turn up the emo one’s name. Problem for tomorrow.
He draws closer. Caleb’s voice suddenly rises in pitch. His words are a long, desperate string. “–but I’m like him, kind of, now? Until I figure out how to control it, and I’d totally understand if you didn’t want to be around me until I can–”
Mark hasn’t noticed Oliver yet, but his face falls. “Oh, no, Caleb hang on–”
Oliver realizes two things simultaneously: this is most definitely not about Albert, and he most definitely shouldn’t be hearing any of it.
He freezes about five yards away, face heating up. It’s too late to slink away unnoticed. He can’t keep standing there either, though? Maybe he should clear his throat. Or, walk over confidently as if he hasn’t heard a word they’ve said. But he’s frozen.
He shifts awkwardly and finally, that small movement does it. Mark’s gaze flicks over and pins him in place. Oliver’s former roommate looks like he’s seen a ghost. Then his face settles into a funny expression. Oliver’s palms start to sweat. I wasn’t trying to listen, I swear, I wanted to but I didn’t, I wouldn’t-
Except he did, he is, and Boy Wonder is still talking, oblivious.
“Like this isn’t me being down on myself or anything, I just… I don’t know everything that happened with you and Damien because you never talk about it, which is fine,”
“Caleb–” Mark’s voice is rising with alarm, but Caleb misreads the feeling behind the tone and only starts talking faster. Oliver is made of stone, a secret audience to this horrible monologue that Caleb is forcing out.
“–but I know it was fucked up! And now I’m, like... I make people feel things, do things, and I can’t control it! I only felt a sliver of that from Blackwell and it was terrifying – Damien basically kidnapped you for like, a week–”
“Caleb!” Mark’s voice cracks a bit, eyes flicking briefly to Oliver again, and the kid finally catches on. He turns and his eyes widen comically when he sees the alchemist awkwardly standing behind him.
“Er… you have the keys, Byron.”
With visible effort, Mark tears his eyes from Oliver and levels out his voice. “Caleb… we’ll talk about this later, okay? In person?” He even rallies enough to ruffle the younger man’s hair. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily!” His smile is more of a grimace, but Caleb looks relieved.
“Yeah, yeah sure– sorry Mark–,” he starts backing up, running an embarrassed hand through his hair, “I’ll, uh, see you later then.”
And he jogs back to his merry little band of weirdos, leaving Oliver to consider hitchhiking. Calling a taxi. Walking. Crawling. Anything to avoid the awkward car ride ahead. A thousand protests swirl through his head.
I thought it was tier five shit, I thought it was something we shared. I’ve pushed you to tell me shit before, but that’s because I wanted you to tell me.
He doesn’t think he’s actually done anything wrong, but he feels like a kid who got caught with his hand in the cookie jar. The cookie jar full of Mark’s deep, dark secrets.
Without a word, Mark pushes past Oliver. There’s fury in every line of his body as he strides towards the car. For a moment, his brain tells him he’s fucked it up, for good this time, Mark will never forgive you, it’s time to pack up and go.
But Oliver is tired. He needs food. Everything hurts. So because he’s ultimately selfish and can’t seem to stop being a fucking parasite, he follows.
The car hasn’t driven off without him, so that’s a good sign. Heat blasts from the vents, even though Mark never seems to notice the cold. Oliver’s the one constantly complaining about the temperature.
He doesn’t comment on this small peace offering, just slouches into the passenger seat, trying to suppress a groan as his body protests. He doesn’t quite succeed, and Mark’s jaw clenches. He shifts gears jerkily and twists to look behind him as he backs out of the tight spot. Lets out a deep breath.
“Look, I know it’s worse than you’re letting on. Are you... okay.” It comes out more as a statement, given that the answer is rather obvious.
Oliver’s struck with the sudden fear that his injuries are the only reason he hasn’t been left on the side of the road.
“I’m– we don’t have to talk about whatever I just stumbled into. See? I’m not asking you about it. I’ll just forget everything the kid said–
“Goddamn it, Oliver,” Mark groans.
“If anyone understands, I do, right? Your past is yours to share–”
“No, no, it’s really not! Not with you– lurking around, trying to piece me apart like I’m one of your fucking artifacts–”
“What– okay wait, no, that’s not–” Oliver trips over his words trying to keep up.
“And that was a low blow... And I shouldn’t even be yelling! Because it’s not even your fault! It’s not, and I know that! You just almost, fucking, got gutted by Dr. Doom because I asked you to do that, because that’s what I wanted, and fuck –” the seatbelt digs into Oliver’s shoulder as the car abruptly swerves and jerks to a stop at the side of the road.
It sends a fresh spike of pain down Oliver’s side. He lets out a gasp of pain. “Passenger with a head wound, Byron–”
“Fuck! Sorry, your head, I forgot–”
Oliver snatches at the gear shift and wrenches it into park before they both go sliding into oncoming traffic. He feels a sharp stabbing in his head and chest and decides to stay down, long limbs folded in half, arms curled protectively around himself.
The heating vent blasts a stream of stale, burning air into his scalp, and he pulls his sleeves over his hands and burrows further down behind his elbows for protection. The compression sets his ribs on fire, but that’s a problem for later.
Mark’s hands hover uselessly. “Okay! Okay, um, we are going to get you patched up–”
“No… hospital,” Oliver grates out from behind clenched teeth.
“Did I say hospital? I’m not a fucking idiot, but I don’t even know how badly you’re hurt, Oliver!”
“Nothing a good night’s sleep can’t fix, Byron.” Oliver rests his cheek on his knee, trying to find a position he can breathe in. The seat belt is really starting to dig into his neck.
“Yeah, somehow I seriously doubt that.” There’s a sudden sharp pain at the back of his head, and Oliver weakly bats at the hand softly prodding his injury, groaning.
“That’s what I thought. Never known you to be a martyr, Ritz. What gives?”
He’s right, of course. Oliver can turn a stubbed toe into a broken foot if he’s got an audience to perform for. (Though as Mark is quick to remind him, complaining isn’t the same as asking for help.) No, as much as he loves being a martyr, everything is different now, and this kind of sulking is best complemented with an empty apartment and a glass of scotch.
It’s not too late to play this off like he’s been exaggerating. Just a small cut on his neck and a bit of a headache. Definitely no bruised ribs. Mark can drop him off at the airport with a clear conscience.
Because the alternative… the alternative is going back to their apartment. Mark’s apartment. Which he left early in the morning, two months ago, without saying goodbye. Without even stopping to grab his favorite jumper hanging in the hall closet. He hadn’t realized it was missing until he was already in the taxi.
It was the result of one night of weakness. Oliver couldn’t sleep (even after turning on all the lights in the living room, even after opening and closing the apartment door a few times to prove he could leave if he wanted) and Mark had emerged from his room to turn on some quiet show with subtitles. He always had a sixth sense for when Oliver was spiraling at 3AM. But that night was different.
Usually, Oliver woke up with a blanket tossed over him and a glass of water on the coffee table that he ostensibly could have gotten up to get himself and then forgotten.
That night, he woke up with his head on Mark’s chest, a warm arm wrapped around him. Oliver was stretched out the length of the couch, but Mark was half slumped against the armrest, a nightmare for his back and obviously a result of trying not to move so Oliver could sleep.
First and last time. He faked sleep until Mark carefully extracted himself to stumble out for an early photoshoot. Then he haphazardly tossed his few belongings into a bag and called a taxi. He spent the whole ride trying to forget the warmth of Mark’s fingers brushing the skin just under the hem of his shirt, the smell of Mark’s sweater.
Admitting just how badly he’s hurt… well, that means asking for a whole lot more than a glass of water and some band-aids. And Oliver isn’t sure he has a right to ask Mark for anything more than that.
“–Earth to Oliver?”
“W-what?”
Just turning his head to meet Mark’s pointed look has his head aching. By the look on his face, Oliver’s been zoned out longer than he thought. Wordlessly, Mark holds up his hand.
For a second, Oliver thinks this is some bullshit ‘guess how many fingers I’m holding up’ game, and he’s about to lay into him for it, but – then he sees it too. There’s red on Mark’s fingertips where he was prodding at Oliver’s head a few minutes ago.
“...Oh.” Shit.
“I think it’s mostly dried now, but that’s a nasty hit. Plus whatever other injuries you’re keeping weirdly quiet about… we could stop at a hotel? My apartment would probably be safer, but it’s an hour and a half drive…”
“Is that factoring in your driving speed, because–”
“ Oliver . This isn’t a joke!” Mark runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know, I don’t know, what are you even supposed to do for something like this?”
Honestly, Oliver’s pretty sure he’s not dying. Sore, yes, but mostly just exhausted. People on those dramatic soaps Mark likes so much are always getting shot or stabbed or losing limbs in plane crashes. Getting bumped up and down some stairs and lightly – barely – stabbed would be a low-stakes event for them.
“Sleep. I think you’re supposed to let me sleep, and then, buy me waffles. Later.”
“Um, pretty sure sleep is the last thing I’m supposed to let you do?” Mark’s voice sounds a bit like it’s coming through a tunnel.
“Nope, sleep is definitely… really…” Oliver valiantly tries to rally the words that are slipping through his fingers like fish. Really slippery fish. Maybe they’re covered in oil? Everything is definitely getting very thick and slow, except Mark’s voice, which is too loud and too fast to follow.
“Okay look I’m on Google, and it says for concussions–”
“Byron.”
“Okay, well it does say ‘rest’... hold on I’m looking up ‘head trauma,’ that’s gotta be a little different.”
“Mark.” But he can’t tell if the word actually leaves his head. The car is spinning and it’s all he can do not to throw up in Mark’s stupid, stupid car.
“Yeah, yeah, here we go. ‘Watch for changes in breathing or alertness,’ ha! Also supposed to look for any… Oliver? Oliver!”
“Yeah… yeah, I’m still here, Byron.” Barely. “Can we just… can we just go home?” His face heats, the world spins.
There’s a loaded pause.
Then, slowly, as if to keep from startling a wild animal, Mark puts the car in gear. “Yeah... OK, just lemme make a phone call. And, um, try not to die on the way? You’ll let me know if–”
But Oliver never finds out what he’s supposed to let Mark know, because, well, fish. Slippery. Time passes. It could be a few seconds or a few minutes or an hour, but at some point Oliver vaguely registers Mark quietly slipping out of his jacket and draping it over Oliver’s hunched form. He hadn’t even realized he was shivering.
It smells like smoke, and something achingly familiar.
________
“I appreciate the concern, Byron, but the angry cult man hurt my head, not my feelings.”
“Well, he seems fine to me.” The shorter woman deadpans, crossing her arms.
“Oliver, stop being a dick. Joanie, you know more about this stuff than I do. And I know they gave you some medical training at the AM. Just… please?”
Oliver pipes up unhelpfully from the couch (Mark’s couch, the one he has unresolved, complicated feelings about), “This is perfect, actually. I say no hospitals, you bring me straight to the head of the AM! Guess you really were pissed about that blood I got on your car.”
Mark looks like he’s going to grab him and start shaking. Good. At least he isn’t looking at him like he’s a crumpled ball of paper anymore. Anger is better than pity, or whatever pained look he had whenever Oliver leaned a bit too heavily on him as they struggled up the stairwell of Mark’s archaic apartment building.
Oliver nearly threw himself right back down the stairs when he saw Director Joan Bright skulking in the doorway. Instead, he ripped away from Mark’s support as soon as they were through the door, collapsed on the couch, and started doing what he did best– pissing everyone off.
“I don’t care about the fucking car, Oliver! My sister–”
“Who’s shown questionable judgment at best, honestly–”
“Who dropped everything on her day off without notice to help your sorry ass –”
“Excuse me if I’m just a bit wary of her particular brand of–”
“Will you two quit it?!” Joan actually throws up her hands, something Oliver’s seen people do on TV (Mark’s becoming a terrible influence) but never in real life, and Mark slumps back against the door, face burning.
Oliver starts a mental list of the horrible things he could transfigure her hand sanitizer into.
Slime. Poisonous vapor. Sriracha, given enough time.
“You can both take care of,” she gestures between the two men, eyebrows raised, “ whatever this is once I’ve determined the extent of Oliver’s head injury.” She turns pointedly to Oliver. “Which I will only do with your permission, if you think you can set aside your pride long enough to act in your own best interests.”
Acid. Alcohol, for him to drink.
He holds out his arms in a nonchalant ‘have at it’ gesture because he knows it will annoy Mark, and if Mark’s annoyed he’s less likely to notice how deeply scared Oliver is right now. No such luck with Dr. Bright. She perches beside him on the couch like she’s approaching a wild animal.
He hates how she makes him feel – like he’s being unreasonable, which he isn’t, and then angry, because she’s the one running the former torture chamber that kept him imprisoned for years, and Mark is standing there with a stupid anxious look on his face that says he wants them to get along, and he has no right to ask for that, and – dully, Oliver realizes he’s digging half-moon crescents into his stinging palms.
His blood is boiling. His powers feel… sluggish, probably something to do with the head injury Mark keeps bleating about, and that’s his saving grace, but he’s got to calm down before he makes a bomb or sets something on fire.
Oliver digs his nails out of his palm and straightens up with a grimace.
“My standards seem to have been lowered significantly. If you think you can refrain from drugging and gutting me, that would be an improvement from the last 24 hours.”
“I believe I can handle that, yes,” she answers drily.
With a huff, Mark mutters something about water and goes into the kitchen to bang and clatter about a bit. Oliver immediately realizes how dry his mouth feels. He doesn’t think Mark is actually coming back with water anytime soon, but there’s a sour taste behind his teeth that he’s anxious to wash out. Dr. Bright fishes around in her bag and comes up with a small first aid kit.
“I think it’s safe to say your verbal communication is intact, based on your ability to antagonize my brother.” You’re one to talk , Oliver thinks, but he holds his peace. He’s not looking forward to what comes next, and with Mark out of the room, all of the fight is circling out of him like water down a drain.
“Can you follow my finger? Good. Your pupils are even as well, that’s a good sign. Any nausea, difficulty speaking, dizziness?”
Oliver shrugs. Dr. Bright’s eyes narrow.
“We don’t have much time before he works that out of his system,” she gestures to the kitchen. Oliver hears a drawer slam. “And I know you did it on purpose, so if there’s anything you don’t want him to know about, you better show me now.” He wishes she wasn’t so quick on the uptake.
Oliver scoffs, “Sure, because doctor-patient confidentiality is something you’re so great with,” but with a quick glance over his shoulder, he lifts his shirt. To her credit, Dr. Bright doesn’t react beyond a slight raise of her eyebrows.
His right side just under his rib cage and spreading upwards is one large bruise. He can see where the blood has started pooling in certain darker spots. He hopes it looks worse than it is, but every breath is a struggle, and he’s so relieved to stop pretending it’s only a headache that tears start to gather in his eyes.
He underestimated how much this was going to hurt when the adrenaline wore off.
Unfortunately, he also underestimated how fast Mark could compartmentalize.
He and Joan both flinch as the three water glasses Mark was carefully balancing from the kitchen hit the floor and shatter.
“What the fuck, Oliver."