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The first time Mark catches Peter humming to himself, it’s at the precinct, and he’s pretty sure it’s a Bruce Springsteen song. He can’t say he had really taken him as someone who would ever hum to himself, but the choice in music is somehow less surprising. Peter doesn’t even seem to be aware that he’s doing it; his brows are currently furrowed as he’s hunched over a report, the fingers of his free hand impatiently drumming on the desk. His foot taps now and again too – the man seems at almost all times to be physically incapable of staying still. The humming is faint, but the room is empty save for the two of them, and Mark can’t help but listen.
In the admittedly short time they have been seeing each other (Mark isn’t sure what the hell to call it, and apparently neither does Peter), they have never really talked about music taste. God, what song is this? Mark knows he recognises it, but can’t place it. He stares at the side of Peter’s focused face, as if that will help it come to him. Finally, he caves.
“What song is that?”
Peter’s head shoots up, a mixture of confusion and irritation etched onto the lines on his face. It’s almost comical.
“What?”
Mark’s eyebrows raise, amused.
“Uh… the song you were just humming?” Peter scowls.
“I wasn’t humming.” Mark would have thought anyone else responding this way was messing with him. But no, not Peter.
“Yeah, you were. Springsteen, right?”
“Shut up,” he grumbles, turning his attention back to the report. The tips of his ears have flushed a warm shade of pink, and Mark just about represses a laugh at the sight.
“Whatever you say,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, sipping his coffee and getting back to his own stack of paperwork. Every now and again, though, he glances back over at Peter, allowing himself a smile when he sees that the flush is still there. Oh, this is going to be fun.
The second time he catches him humming, they’re in Peter’s car. Fingers tapping against the steering wheel, eyes fixed on the quiet road, once again he doesn’t seem to realise he’s doing it. He looks more relaxed today, Mark thinks as he sneaks glances from the passenger seat, trying not to get too caught up in the way the afternoon sun falls on his angular face. But still he can’t place the song – he forgot to look it up, plus he has no lyrics to go on. Doesn’t help that Peter hasn’t even acknowledged it, either. So Mark decides to push his luck.
“You seem relaxed today,” he says as casually as if he’s discussing the weather. Peter glances over at him, quizzical.
“Yeah? How’s that?” There’s no irritation in his voice – yet. Mark almost doesn’t want to push it. But with a shrug, his usual instincts win, and he reaches for the glovebox. A now bemused Peter stares. “The hell are you doing?” Mark only answers with a grin, greeted with a pile of old looking tapes stashed beside a spare pistol. Because of course Peter Strahm still listens to tapes. “What are you even looking for? Get out of there,” the man in question half-heartedly complains.
Mark rummages. He’s not all that surprised by what he finds – David Bowie, Bryan Adams, Elton John, even Depeche Mode he can picture Peter listening to. But none of this is what he’s looking for.
“Tapes,” he says simply as he keeps meticulously turning them over. Peter frowns.
“Well congrats, you found them. What about the tapes?” Then it hits him, and he groans with a long suffering roll of his eyes. “Not this shit again. I wasn’t humming.” He yanks at Mark’s arm as much as he can without swerving the car, and this time Mark doesn’t bother repressing a laugh.
“Think I’m deaf, Pete? I heard you.” Peter glowers, ears flushing again both in embarrassment, and, begrudgingly, the sound of that nickname on Mark’s lips. “What’s the big deal, anyway? Can’t let anyone know you like things?”
“I will crash this goddamn car.”
“C’mon. It’s kind of adorable, actually.”
“With both of us in it, Mark.” Mark just grins – technically he isn’t denying it anymore, but if he points that out, steam may actually start coming out of Peter’s ears. Plus that whole thing about crashing the car; best avoided.
“Dramatic,” he settles for muttering as he gives in, putting the tapes back in their places and shutting the glovebox. Peter grumbles something unintelligible, shaking his head and focusing on the road – well, more glaring at it. Mark settles back in his seat, almost catlike in the way he leisurely stretches out and grins over at Peter. He reaches for the radio, and Peter predictably bats his hand away.
Mark leaves the matter alone for a few days, until he’s at Peter’s apartment one warm and hazy evening. Peter is slumped back on his couch, tie loosened and a cold beer in his hand (Mark had assured him many times that he didn’t mind it if he drank around him – he’d be fine with soda). It’s somewhat rare to see Peter like this, quite so relaxed, and it’s a sight that Mark admittedly savours each time. Something about the way the day’s tension gradually dissolves from those broad shoulders as he slowly sips his drink makes Mark’s mouth feel a little dry. Taking a lazy swig of his soda, he casually took in the details of Peter’s apartment; he’d been here a few times, but only really had chance to fleetingly look around. It was a little sparsely decorated, but there were a few nice touches – a succulent and cactus here and there (there’s a joke about them being prickly like Peter to be made there), various little things on shelves that caught Mark’s eye. Including what looked like a stack of old records.
He sets his soda down and pads over across the wooden floor to take a closer look. Peter watches, an eyebrow raised, but he doesn’t complain just yet. Even if he were to make some comment, he’s not sure Mark would take much notice. Maybe if Mark ever stops being so oddly cagey about letting Peter visit his house, he’ll have a rummage around of his own and get him back. It’s only when he sees Mark running his fingers along the edges, searching, that he finally speaks up. Quietly, though, like he doesn’t really want to be heard.
“Dancing in the Dark,” he mutters, glancing away and taking a sip of beer. Mark pauses, then looks back over his shoulder. He waits for Peter to elaborate, taking in the endearing way he’s still refusing eye contact. When he eventually turns his head back to Mark, he looks almost sheepish. “That’s the song. Dancing in the Dark. And yeah, it’s Springsteen.”
Mark grins, triumphant.
“Never took you for a record guy,” he muses aloud, turning back to keep going through the impressive selection. Peter huffs in amusement, rolling his eyes.
“Yeah, well, clearly I live to surprise you.” His eyes follow Mark’s hand as it finally pauses on one particular record. Of course. “Mark. What’re you-“
“Where’s your record player?” Mark asks as if Peter hasn’t spoken. Hesitating, Peter nods towards a small storage cabinet on the opposite side of the room. On top of it sits a rather old looking record player – well used at one point, but not for a little while now. He would never let it gather dust, though.
“Careful with that,” he grumbles as Mark makes his way over. He just barely resists the urge to bat Mark’s hand away from it – he would probably have to explain why, and Peter doesn’t feel like tonight is the time for the whole it belonged to my dad conversation. Luckily for him, Mark is surprisingly gentle as he sets it up, as if he can sense the sentimental value of it. Well, he is a detective. That, and he can probably feel Peter’s eyes boring holes into the back of his head and hands. Carefully, he moves the needle into the desired place and presses play, taking a step back as the machine whirrs to life. Those first few notes ring out, and with a slight playful smile, Mark is holding out his hand. Peter stares at it, frowning.
“What’re you doing?” he asks yet again. There’s a mischievous twinkle in Mark’s eyes.
“C’mon. Get up.”
Peter scoffs.
“You’re not serious.” But Mark doesn’t budge, simply raising an eyebrow and flexing his fingers as if to beckon him. He’s humming along to the familiar tune.
I get up in the evenin'
And I ain't got nothin' to say
I come home in the mornin'
I go to bed feelin' the same way
Peter sets his beer aside, shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous,” he mutters. But somehow he still finds himself taking Mark’s hand and rising to his feet. As usual, he can’t help but notice just how warm the other man’s hands always seem to be against his cooler skin. Mark immediately tugs him further forward so that they’re practically nose to nose, grabbing his other hand and intertwining their fingers with what might be the most smug looking grin Peter has seen on him yet.
It’s infuriating, he’s infuriating in every possible way, and yet Peter can’t quite ignore that pesky warmth blooming in his chest. He rarely can when it comes to Mark, it seems. Huffing, he refuses to look him in the eyes at first, instead glaring down at their socks against the wooden floor as Mark coaxes him into a swift swaying motion in time with the music. This is not a swaying song, Peter thinks to himself with a flush.
“We look like idiots,” he says with another huff, reluctantly meeting Mark’s eyes. The tips of his ears are warm again, which Mark has very much noticed, if that grin is anything to go by.
“So?”
“And you can’t dance for shit.”
Mark chuckles; a low, soft sound that makes Peter half want to push him away, half pull him closer. It’s dizzying.
“Look who’s talking,” he murmurs, giving Peter’s hands a playful squeeze.
You can't start a fire
You can't start a fire without a spark
“Shut up.” The words come out much quieter than Peter intends, and there’s no real bite behind them anymore. He’s not quite sure when Mark had leaned in so close, but he is suddenly aware of the way their noses are ever so gently brushing together, Mark’s warm breath lightly tickling his lips. And God, the way he’s gazing at him through his eyelashes could melt butter – scratch that, the goddamn icecaps, Peter thinks. Still, he refuses to be the one to close the distance. Call him stubborn, whatever; it will feel too much like giving in. No, that’s something that Mark usually has to carefully coax out of him. And coax he does, pressing his lips so agonisingly gently against Peter’s that he just has to deepen it himself.
For all his stubbornness, he can’t recall a time his brain hasn’t turned to mush when Mark has kissed him. A fact that Mark is all too smugly aware of, letting go of one of Peter’s hands in favour of resting his own on the side of his neck, thumb grazing his sharp jaw as he kisses him slowly, languidly. Peter’s newly free hand tangles in the other man’s hair, threading through the strands and tilting his head with a small sigh. He can feel the way the corner of Mark’s mouth twitches upwards, the way the fingers intertwined with his clutch just a little bit tighter. Peter huffs.
“If you try to twirl me, I’ll put your head through the wall,” he mumbles against Mark’s lips. He outright laughs at that, and Peter desperately tries to ignore that tugging feeling in his chest, how much he enjoys that sound despite it being somewhat at his expense. Again, infuriating.
“Wouldn’t dare.”
I'll shake this world off my shoulders
Come on, baby, the laugh's on me
He leans in again, and this time Peter meets him halfway. Mark drops his other hand and gently grasps at his waist, still smiling into the kiss as he tugs Peter closer. Though his eyes are closed, he can tell that Peter’s brows are furrowed, though not from annoyance this time. Well, alright, maybe still a tiny bit, but it’s mixed with some other thing; something uniquely Peter. Something he is very much enjoying gradually picking apart, piece by stubborn piece. Both of Peter’s hands are tangled in Mark’s hair now as their lips glide together, breath wavering at the sheer warmth of it all. It’s almost too much, yet not enough. It’s never enough, not really. When Mark finally pulls away, he’s smiling again, idly trailing his fingers against Peter’s cheek. Peter’s eyes are half-lidded, taking in the sight of Mark before him and the almost embarrassingly comforting sound of the song still thrumming in the background.
You can't start a fire
Worryin' about your little world fallin' apart
This gun's for hire
Even if we're just dancin' in the dark
“I’ll bet this is your karaoke song, right?” Mark says with a grin. Peter pulls away to grab a couch cushion, which he promptly launches at Mark’s head.