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"This is why I have always hated you." She spits at him.
But then, when Nolan says that she's worthless, he puts a hand on her shoulder and comforts her.
And, as they both watch Mark being beaten within an inch of his life, he's trying everything he can to save her son.
And, when the paramedics leave, and she's alone, where her son almost died, he pulls her into a hug.
And, once Mark has healed, he makes sure to help them in every way he can, with money, and the house, and the explanation for what happened to her loving, perfect, former husband.
It's a bit harder to hate him after that.
And even moreso, when he shows up on a Saturday afternoon, awkwardly standing on the front porch with a small offering of coffee for her.
"I just wanted to check in," He says, "Make sure everything's running smoothly."
But then, when the conversation moves to Nolan, and she inevitably tears up, he asks if she wants to talk about it. "I mean- we can talk if you want. Or I can find a few therapists that know to keep their mouths shut- I just- Really, Debbie, if there's anything you need."
He looks down at his coffee, the same straight black cup as hers.
"I just don't know where to start-" Her carefully crafted exterior breaks as the tears slide down her cheeks.
He pulls her into a hug again. He's comforting in a way she'd never expected from the leader of the GDA. Over her shoulder, he says quietly, "That's OK too."
She wonders if she had always hated him because there was only ever one other option.
Most nights she's OK. Well, not OK, but functional. It's just the occasional blue moon that she delves too far into a bottle of wine, and that's when it gets messy. And of course, that's when she decides to call him.
It's happened a couple of times now. He always shows up right away. Uses that fancy teleporter that should probably not be used for simple house calls. He always gently coaxes the drink from her hands and offers her some water, before asking what else she needs.
"I need a hug." - "I need to talk." - I need someone to hold on to .
What she says every time is different. What she actually needs is the same. He knows that, she's sure of it. You don't become the head of the GDA by being an idiot.
The space in her bed where Nolan used to sleep remains so empty, it feels like a vast, soft sea. A sea that seems to grow when she thinks of calling him again.
About 5 drunk calls to him pass, or a year, if you measure in standard units. And, in between the calls, he still shows up on Saturdays, like clockwork. Two coffees in hand. He orders hers with two sugars now, since he's learned she doesn't like it straight black.
She looks forward to Saturdays. She wonders if he does too.
Sometimes when they meet, they're sad together. Sometimes angry. Sometimes, he says something that makes her laugh, and the feeling is so rare now that it catches her by surprise. And she swears, she sees his eyes light up in a way that makes her feel-
-like she's never hated him, at the very least.
When they talk, she is always reminded that he's lost things too. Nolan was his friend, so was Donald. One killed the other and then left the planet. The same thing had almost happened with Nolan and Mark. She remembers to be grateful for that.
Sometimes, when he talks about things he regrets (Donald's death, everything Nolan did that he couldn't stop), she puts her hand on his, and threads their fingers together, like puzzle pieces. Even after he composes himself, she doesn't let go. He doesn't either.
Eventually, she asks if he's doing this out of pity, or kindness, or something else- please let it be something else -and he looks at her with this soft, gentle look as he says that he likes spending time with her, and that he'd like if they could name this thing they've been doing.
She's been wanting to name it too. For a while now.
So they do. When Mark comes home from William's, he hears her humming a song in the kitchen, something that stopped after Nolan did what he did.
"I don't usually do this," He says to her. I never do this , it translates to. "But if you wanted, I have an extra ticket to the play downtown. We could go together, if you aren't busy."
It is so direct, after such a long time of skirting about and subtlety, that she lets out a small chuckle. "Are you asking me out, Cecil?" Her flirting has gone unpracticed for a while now, but she thinks she's still alright at it.
"Out to a play," He replies shrewdly. "But yes, Debbie, I am asking you out."
The confidence is based on over a year of clear signals between them. She replies, "It's about time."
The play is decent, the company exemplary. At the end of the night, he opens the door for her and looks surprised when she stands on her tiptoes to give him a kiss.
He sees her confusion at his reaction. "Sorry, I just- most people get put off by this-" He gestures to the scar tissue running from his cheek to the corner of his mouth.
"Well, too bad for them." She replies curtly, taking the liberty to pull on his tie and bring him down into another, better kiss.
They frequent the plays downtown.
And at some point, she closes the door to her house with him on the inside, instead of on her front porch. And they sit and talk for hours into the night.
Mark knows they're dating, he's known for a while now, she's sure of it. But she's amazed by how happy he is for her, how little resistance he has to the idea of her moving on to someone else.
She's unaware how Mark sees it; how she laughs more, how she no longer curls up and cries in bed, when she thinks no one is around to witness it.
Sometimes on Saturdays, Mark needs help with the college classes he's been taking. And, well, who better to help him with geography and politics than the man sitting on the living room sofa, drinking a black coffee?
She watches them, sometimes, Cecil helping guide Mark through some stupid quiz question. Once, when a quiz marked his (correct) answer as wrong, Cecil had sat back, laughed that dry laugh of his, and said "Your teacher's an idiot," before writing down the incorrect answer on a notepad, to retry the quiz with later.
Nolan had never helped Mark with 'normal' things like that. He'd always said he was too busy saving the world. She'd never seen that it was an excuse, until a man with the same job description spends over an hour explaining middle eastern politics to her son.
Eventually, her heart doesn't even feel like the bundle of scars and open wounds that it used to be. He makes dinner when he's not busy ordering superheroes about. She finds he has a particular love for curry.
The sea in her bed has shrunk significantly, no longer a vast, empty space. Instead, it hosts a new, kinder occupant, his chest rising and falling slowly, an arm usually slung around her shoulder. He steals the blankets every now and then, much to her chagrin.
Sometimes, Mark calls him Dad without thinking. And sometimes, Mark threatens to get a spray bottle.