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(but happiness is a little more
like knocking on your door,
you just let it in)
It is not correct to claim Mark wasn't expecting to come home and find John Luther waiting around his front door. He might have not expected him on a specific day or at a certain time; but sooner or later, it was due to happen.
« So . »
And that's quite an opening coming from John. Mark shoves his groceries into the other man's arms and proceeds to unlock the door as if this is all very normal and uninteresting.
« So . » Mark echoes him, in his best neutral voice.
« I have a very good excuse. I wasn't avoiding you or anything, I was just busy. You know, prison and all that. »
« Mh, » and yes, Mark is definitely nailing the casual tone, « funny, one would think that's exactly when you call people for support. »
John quietly follows him into the apartment. Mark doesn't need to turn and look at him to know what the scene looks like: John slouching a little in an unconscious attempt at making himself smaller, less bothersome somehow, his clever eyes scanning the living room to collect new data; and how he struggles to shut up, even for a few seconds, just enough to give Mark a chance to adjust to his presence, instead of talking his way out of whatever trouble he's gotten himself into. Bless him, he makes an effort, though, and an effort from John means much more than an accomplishment from anyone else.
« Mark- you drink oat milk now? »
When he finally does turn, John has half his face hidden in the paper bag. His shock seems so genuine that Mark has to giggle.
« It's quite good, actually. »
« Whatever makes you happy. »
Happy .
What an interesting choice of words. Mark knows better than to initiate a banter on that subject. He is not in the mood for a suicide mission.
« So. Prison . »
« Yeah. And... the other stuff. Have you read the papers? »
« I tried not to. »
I try not to, but it's so hard when she keeps bombarding me with magic links that appear out of nowhere so that I check on you and she can pretend not to care .
« I didn't want to drag you into my mess. »
« Oh. New year's resolution? »
« Ouch . »
Fair shot , Mark thinks, John can take this much.
« Truth is...after all that, I was in shambles. I made it out in one piece, yes, but it didn't feel like that. Like I needed some time to get together whatever was left of me and be- you know, a whole person again. »
That's honest. Mark hardly ever pushes John when he's being a self-entitled prick, he could never deny him his understanding when he is showing his neck like this.
« Well, John. You're a big guy with an even bigger ego. Half of you would already be a lot of you . So, some of you will probably be more than enough. »
It's meant to be a joke, but, alas Mark has never been renowned for his comedy skills. For a moment, John seems frozen in place, eyes so focused on Mark they give him the chills. Whatever he is looking for, he is satisfied with what he finds. His face remains serious, but a trained eye would notice how his features soften, a subtle yet telling sign John is grateful. Comfortable, even. Mark might be one of the very few people left in this world that get to witness this.
He sighs deeply.
« You know you have no right? »
« Right to what, exactly? »
Mark makes a dismissive gesture - anything, everything. Draw people in and get them to care about you this way.
« What . » John repeats, tilting his head to the side a little, a hint of a smile on his lips
Unfair , it's the first thought that comes to mind. Mark understands the basics of a plot twist. The purpose of keeping some things a secret, of John withholding the best and brightest of himself so to be sure his first genuine display of happiness will cause a sensation. And yet. Mark also has something stuck in his throat, he thinks. It could be regret or nostalgia or guilt, or perhaps just an embarrassing case of self-awareness. When has it become so easy to accept he can't say no to this man?
« Unfair », Mark says again, out loud this time, but meaning something else, light and laughable and that has nothing to do with the feeling spreading in his chest.
« Life, you mean? »
« No, you , John Luther, I mean you . It's unfair I got to deal with you alone . »
« Ah. »
Eyes down to the floor, a hand scratching the back of his neck. John fake coughs.
« She’s still pissed? »
« Well, I don't know. She sent me these gorgeous pebbles from some remote island the other week and told me to drop them in your porridge if you ever stopped for breakfast. Hoped you'd choke on them. »
« Not terribly pissed, then. »
« You think? »
« She knows I loathe porridge. »
Their love language is definitely still out of Mark’s comprehension but, hey, whatever works for them. Or doesn’t work. It is not like most people have it easier just because they have never tried to kill each other.
« Do you miss her? » John asks, after a moment.
« I wouldn't phrase it like that. I am afraid she is not eating well. »
« 'course you are. »
« Are you? Eating well? » then, « Eating? At all? »
« No, mother. I am not. I've been my usual clusterfuck of a self. »
« Shall I make some dinner? »
« You can make whatever you want, as long as you let me nap on your couch. »
Later, after John has launched himself on said couch, fully clothed, and Mark has carefully removed at least his coat, he tries to distract himself by making soup.
Stir and breathe, Mark, stir and breathe.
It doesn't work, his throat is still not cooperating, and he has no idea if it will all get more complicated the next time John disappears.
Here's the thing, though: John doesn't .
This time, he makes a point to be present. Mark can tell by the little details, like the fact John always calls on the same day, unless he's calling because something worth telling about happened. Mark imagines a yellow post-it stuck somewhere inside John's apartment, on the fridge perhaps, or on the tv he most likely never uses. It's a silly picture, the image of John writing down "call Mark" on a piece of paper. He wants to ask. He does ask.
« No, I don't, » John immediately replies; but then, in a tone that could be almost shy, « not anymore. I read somewhere that if you do something for more than ten days, it becomes a habit. »
For at least ten days, then, there has been a post-it with his name on John’s fridge. It might have been a metaphorical post-it on a metaphorical fridge - does John have a fridge anyway? - but hey, it is the small things that make a great life.
« I took a day off. » John says, casually, and Mark drops what he is doing, whatever that is, he suddenly doesn’t care anymore.
« You. » and there’s a pause, a deliberate, careful word-by-word deconstruction of the concept because it feels surreal « Took a day off. As in, you asked , you wanted it. It was not given to you. You don’t have to take it. You came up with the idea. »
John stares at him from across the dining room, clearly amused. He tilted his head, looking every inch innocent and genuinely surprised, but Marks knows better, oh , no sir , he knows so much better than this. John is perhaps the smartest person he’s ever met, it is just impossible that he might not get the implications of this moment.
« You’re a funny guy. » John decides, after a little more staring, as if they had just met.
As if he isn’t practically living on Mark’s sofa.
And if a day off isn’t enough to give Mark a stroke, surely John taking him on a day trip might do the trick. Sure, Mark is the one driving, but John picks the place and has clearly thought this through. They drive up to the Seven Sisters. It’s a bit chilly this time of the year, nonetheless, the view is quite charming. It is also not crowded at all, Mark remembers coming during the summer and finding the place packed with tourists. It is an unspoken rule they both prefer the quiet, and if it can’t be just the two of them, the fewer people, the better.
They stop to get a coffee at the only cafè, before starting the long walk up and down the cliffs. John can’t be bothered to interact with anyone, not even to pick a coffee - “you can pick for me, darling”, and a wink - so Mark rolls his eyes - “as you wish, sweetheart” - and takes the executive decision it is time for John to enter his oat latte era. The girl behind the bar, who has witnessed the whole scene, offers Mark her best sympathetic smile as she makes their drinks.
« Here we go sir, one for you, one for the husband. »
« Thank you. » he replies on autopilot before the words truly sink in.
Dear lord, has it really come to this?
« I’d like to go somewhere else. » he says, gloomily, as he rejoins John.
« Why? »
« The lovely young lady who made my coffee called you my husband. »
There is no way - and frankly, no reason - John can stop himself before bursting into laughter.
« I am sorry…? » he offers, wiping off a tear.
« No no » Mark shakes his head, dead serious, « She said it to me , so it’s clearly my fault. I am doing something wrong. »
« Uh uh, » John nods, biting his lips in a futile attempt to stop giggling « yeah, no, sure. Whatever makes you feel better. »
Mark is aware that grabbing John by the sleeve and dragging him across the cafè might go against the plan of not looking like an old married couple, but, alas, that is what he does.
In the evening, Mark sits down at his desk, turns his laptop on and opens the draft folder in his email account. He couldn’t pinpoint the moment when he realised this, or how it worked out; all he knows now is that whenever he types on his drafts, she can see it. Sometimes she types back, more often he will get a text later. That’s how they keep in touch. He imagines hacking into his email might be one of the easiest, least impressive things Alice has ever had to accomplish in her life. He is almost touched, though, that however big or small, she is putting any effort into talking to him. On certain days, the thought that these two very different but equally troublesome geniuses allow him to scold them on their unhealthy eating habits and poor manners, well, it’s quite something .
He starts typing about their day by the sea, wondering what Alice will think of it. He gets a reply almost immediately. “Pic or it didn’t happen”. He doesn’t have any, so he tells her about the cafè, the young barista, and the ease of it all. “Did he bring you to the cottage?”. Marks frowns. He doesn’t know what she is talking about. They walked past a few of those, maybe that is what she meant. “There’s no ‘maybe’. When you’ll know, you’ll know, trust me”. He can hear the tone and the exact pitch of her voice in those words. He sees her giggling, her blue eyes sparkling with excitement and a secret joke she hasn’t let him in just yet.
When he returns to the living room, John is already asleep on the sofa, as usual, so Mark puts a blanket over him.
« What I am going to do with you, » he sighs « with both of you. »
“Come and rescue me”, he types one day in his draft, while John is out getting takeaway because it’s Friday night and they are playing reruns of ‘Midsomer Murder’ and they both had a crazy week at work and they deserve it. Then he deletes the last bit and “come and rescue us” , he settles for.
“You’re both so silly.”
It is one of the best episodes in the entire show. John always complains about the investigative procedures unless it’s DCI Barnaby, which is perhaps one of the reasons why Mark has grown to love the show so much over the past few months. Maybe it’s the other way around, though. Maybe John caught on to his love for the show and decided to let Mark enjoy it.
« Remind me to never ever plan a weekend in the English countryside. »
« Why not? I think murder would be precisely the only reason for you to go. »
« Hilarious. »
« Well. You did say I am a funny guy, once. »
John shakes his head, although he never stops smiling. He has been smiling more and more often lately. Mark thinks he quite like it.
Later, when he is under the duvet, in the darkness of his own room, he is still thinking about it. About how John’s edges have gradually smoothed as he has begun to relax in Mark’s presence, truly relax. The instinct to take in every detail is regularly applied to guessing the plot twist in a Netflix movie. His encyclopaedic knowledge of the most random subjects has become a source of good conversations behind a glass of wine. And his brilliance, when used in the privacy of their home, finally feels more like a gift than a burden. He wonders if John has realised that. More than anything, though, Mark is dying to ask if John is happy. Perhaps 'happy' is too strong of a word for John, and too simple of an emotion. ‘Content’ suits him better, and yet, it has a bitter aftertaste. ‘Content’ is a thoughtful, rational choice of mood, but that is not what Mark wants to know. He is interested in metaphorical post-its, in wild things fluttering in your stomachs, in cottages and whatever they mean. In those moments when Alice was around and things suddenly got ten times crazier - which was also ten times better than living each day striving towards a sense of normalcy that was long gone, with Zoe.
There is a light knock on the door.
« Yes…? »
« Do you mind? It’s, uhm, a bit chillin’ over there. »
John stands at the entrance, wrapped in a blanket, waiting for a sign that he is welcomed inside. Mark is too stunned to process the unspoken question, so, when he fails to produce any reply, John simply walks in. He shuts the door behind himself, and all Mark can think of at that moment is why though, there’s no one else in the apartment.
The mattress shifts under John’s weight. Mark instinctively moves to the side to make room for him, only to realise it might come across the wrong way, as if he wants to put some distance between them. The moment John is lying down next to him, Mark rolls just a little bit closer, to make his point. There are a few moments of nothing , before John snuggles even closer and puts an arm around Mark. Fine, Mark thinks, we’re doing this . He finds John’s hand and takes it between his palms.
When Mark wakes up the following morning and finds John still asleep, reality hits him: the world is about to end. There is no other logical explanation. He breaks free from John’s hug and sure, Mark is not a violent person and does so as carefully as he can, but the fact John doesn’t seem to even register what is happening is concerning. Mark actually needs to check John is alive before leaving the room.
He opens his emails from his phone, praying Alice will be her usual, stalking self and reply quickly.
“Hi if he doesn’t wake up before 10 am should I get worried?”
Mark barely has the time to put the kettle on, when his phone buzzes.
“10 am?? What have you done to him?? ;)”
“ He was cold last night. But he doesn’t have a fever. And he is alive bc he’s breathing.”
“Did you put a mirror under his nose to check?”
“No”, he types in super fast, then immediately deletes it. “Maybe.”
“Have you tried a good morning kiss?”
“I hate you.”
Alice keeps bombarding him with equally useless tips. She is clearly having the time of her life, so Mark decides to put his phone to silent and make breakfast. At least a slice of toast won’t make fun of him.
He hears footsteps, yet he doesn’t think John needs his full attention to walk into the kitchen, so he keeps tending to the stove.
« Good morning. » he greets him casually.
«’morning. » John mumbles, and he doesn’t sound awake at all.
Before Mark has the time to turn and find out what a sleepy John Luther looks like, there’s a warm body pressed against his back, a pair of arms around his waist, and a small weight on his left shoulder.
« Mh . »
That is all John has to offer.
« Mh to you. » he replies, his tone excessively cheerful to hide the rising panic.
All it takes is a slight turn of his head, to take a peek at John, nothing more; John leans forward a tiny bit, enough for a hurried kiss. It is awkward, yet so earnest Mark’s heart is melting .
« Thanks for the breakfast. » John murmurs.
« You’re welcome. » Mark says because Mark is stupid, apparently, and this is his life now.
« All the breakfasts. And the dinners. And, you know . »
That’s way too much. He kisses John again, still more of a quick peck on the lips than an actual kiss. He smiles, though.
« I know. »
When John smiles back at him, Mark thinks that maybe 'happy' is a strong word, indeed, for all they've gone through; but it is why happy is exactly what they deserve.
“I miss the rain”, Alice texts him later in the morning, a peace offer and a promise. Mark giggles and John raises an eyebrow. Mark never looks mischievous or like he’s planning something.
« What. » John presses him.
« John , » and a pause, for dramatic effect and because he needs to phrase this in the most generic way possible « when is your next day off? »