Chapter Text
When Mack was a toddler, he climbed everything. His mother would scold him, his father would laugh and blame it on him being born a boy.
“It’s just their nature.” He'd chuckle, waving it off.
But as he grew into a kid, the climbing never did stop. It was never a phase, but more something to busy his hands with.
When Mack was around…eight, maybe, they moved into this new house with a front yard, tended to perfectly by his father. The yard also had a large tree on the right side, and good god if Mack loved that tree. He would spend every moment on it, coming home and immediately scaling the branches. His mother would yell, tell him to come down immediately, but he rarely listened.
Of course, she wasn't yelling to be mean. She was genuinely worried about him. And she had a right to be. Somewhere over the summer, when Mack spent his entire day in that tree, Mack slipped off one of the branches. It was a mistake on his part, one miscalculation of the many he’d make in life. But nonetheless, his father was also outside, mowing, when Mack fell face first in the grass. Miraculously, he didn’t break any bones, except for his nose. It was an embarrassing thing for the next few weeks, walking around with that stupid cast on. But at that time, when his father was propping him up and slightly fretting over him, Mack had held his hand to his absolutely throbbing nose, and it came back bloody.
His father had stared at the blood as well, on his face rather than his nose, and chuckled to lighten the mood. “Well, you’re taking it like a champ!” He had told him.
Mack just promptly passed out. His father actually panicked around then. That’s when they found out, pathetically enough, that Mack really couldn’t handle blood.
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He’s bleeding.
Mack realizes it numbly, looking down at his hand. Maybe he had scraped it earlier, while things were flying everywhere. He doesn’t really care. Now he feels bad for rolling his eyes when Mark cut his hand.
Mark.
A cold feeling runs over him, along with sudden nausea. It's a stupid feeling, a lightheaded feeling, one that Mack is sort of used to. But Mark had died in such an unexpected, quick way, that Mack isn't sure why he's feeling specifically this. Like he's just watched someone get torn apart, blood and all.
And yet Mark was still dead.
Mack finally gets up from the bathroom floor, only to hunch over the toilet as the nausea becomes too much. At the same time, Gunther practically bangs on the door, standing out in the hall. It's not in an angry sense, considering he probably doesn't even know what fully happened yet. It's just Gunther.
“Hey, The Captain wants to see you.” He demands, probably standing out and waiting. The waiting itself is probably interrupted by the sound of Mack puking his guts out, and Gunther probably hears it, considering Mack hears shuffling from behind the door.
“Mack?”
Fuck. He says it like he cares.
Mack doesn't reply with words instead he flushes the toilet and quickly washes his mouth out. When he opens the door, Gunther is staring down at him.
“...You good?”
Mack just scoffs, and brushes past him.
Gunther doesn't say anything else, he just watches as Mack storms past him.
Maybe he also thinks Mack is a murderer, who knows.
Ever since Mark died, Mack has seen the wary glances. He's seen the way people eye him, quickly shuffling out when he enters. It’s only been two days since Mark died, and he can tell what rumors people have come up with.
Mack would be lying if he said that didn't bother him, just slightly.
Yes, he hated Mark. But he would never stoop as low as to kill him. Mack knows the repercussions, he knows that they're literally in a flying tube in space and that there's no real way to get away with a crime here.
The other crew mates, however, do not know that. And Mack isn't surprised. He already knows how unreliable the others on his team are, but it still mildly pisses him off that they can't see the clear truth.
Although, the clear cut nature of Mark’s death doesn't really help him.
Regardless, the others on the ship were cautious of him now, instead of just a little bit quieter around him and his constant negativity. There were still quite a few people who believed he didn't do it, who still had sense in them,
Somehow, The Captain was one of them.
“Captain, you wanted to see me?” Mack asked through gritted teeth, sitting down across from them. Now truthfully, Mack didn’t know why this bothered him. This is the best possible person on the ship to believe him, and yet he still felt indignant. However, he would never vocalize that. He wasn’t an idiot.
“I did.” The Captain confirmed. “I wanted to hear your side of the story.”
It was a reasonable ask, but Mack still sighed. “Haven't you asked about four times already?”
“I have.” The Captain nodded. They leaned forward, “But I wanna know how you're holding up.”
Mack stares at them, partially in disbelief. “You wanna know how I'm doing? Your head engineer is dead!”
“Exactly, that can't be something to handle lightly. Are you okay?”
Is he okay? The audacity shocks him.
Mack is fine. He's not the one to be worrying about. Even he can admit that.
He's just fine. He's alive.
Am I fine? Of course I'm not.
Mark is gone. He's finally gone. I finally have a true purpose here. He's dead, and everyone thinks I killed him, sure. But at least I'm important now, right?
I didn't mind him that much, did I? Was I so hateful that you guys think I'd actually try to kill him? Am I that bad?
I can't even cheer myself up. How am I supposed to look at the bright side? How? When I can't even get a moment to myself because his death keeps bouncing around my head like a rattle? Why are you all so cruel to me? Why are you all acting like I'm heartless?
I want Mark back.
Is what Mack would have said, if he weren't a fucking coward.
Instead, he simply nodded. “I'm fine. There's more important things to deal with.”
The Captain looks at him, for a moment. Deeply, like they can read through him. They probably can. Everyone can, apparently.
And all they see is a murderer.
“Okay,” They sigh. “You’re dismissed.”
Mack quickly books it out of there, his own lie almost suffocating. On the way out, he runs into Burt, who looks down at him. He opens his mouth once, closes it, and opens it again. For once, Mack realizes he doesn't know what to say.
“Don't.” He scoffs, sparing him the effort. Mack storms past him, making no second glance. He can't handle one.
Burt just watches him. He can feel his eyes on him. He can feel everyone's eyes on him. Everyone, staring. Judging.
Mack doesn't care.
He really doesn't.