Work Text:
January 1992 - Evening
Mark tapped a pen at the table, staring back at the amateur poem he's spent God-knows-how-long tweaking.
The metre's off again, he thought, though he couldn't figure out why. His scribbled reject lines felt like patchwork on the pages, never quite making sense all together. Is it too obvious? Too boring? The words sat there, lifeless, looking him in the eyes and mocking him.
The faint rustle of pages turning floated through the living room, breaking his focus. Sarah must be re-reading his comics again, it's always something quiet with her. He hadn’t even heard her come in. Come to think of it, he probably shouldn't let her go out in the lawn by herself…
It was strange, how little he saw her these days, though he supposed he wasn’t much better. Their parents' custody arrangements kept them rotating like two mismatched cogs, never quite catching.
He turned his attention back to the poem. Maybe Sarah would have some criticisms... No, nope. Mark's not even considering that train of thought. The idea of showing it to anyone made his stomach tighten. Only his mom knows he writes, and it'd probably stay that way for as long as he lives.
He tears out the page, crumpling it and throwing it into the trash. Because, as he learned, if you stare at a poem long enough it unfortunately doesn't write itself. He leans back in his chair, needing something else to do.
It was far too cold to walk, the kind of cold where he'd hold his breath and pretend he was smoking when the frosty air came out. He’d already pestered Sarah a few minutes ago out of boredom, only for her to stick her tongue out and shrug.
Cesar, his only friend in town, was no help either—off bowling without him. Cesar did invite Mark a while ago, but he had to pathetically say he had to babysit his sister. Sarah didn’t feel like someone to "take care of." Half the time, she just did what she wanted and Mark had no idea how to stop her. It was like the whole world had better things to do than hang out with him.
It's not like she was much trouble most of the time, but Mark was bored enough to wish she was. She'd always been quiet, a bit bossy, but she eventually gained a 'I'll do this, join me if you want because I'm not changing my mind' attitude.
Evident in, how she’d decided—without consulting him—that they were going to explore the creek behind their old house last summer the minute their parents, who were together back then, left to go shopping.
He’d hesitated at the muddy bank, pointing out the ominous “NO TRESPASSING” sign nailed to a nearby tree, mostly just there to make sure Sarah's stubborn hide didn't try swimming in it.
But Sarah had barely glanced at it. Rolling her eyes, she hopped across the stones and wading into the dirty water before Mark dragged her out kicking and squealing. And promptly helping her wash her shorts so their parents didn't know Mark enabled her…
In the past 2 days, she mostly kept to herself. On the first day, they played Scrabble and Monopoly.—Mark won the former because his opponent is a child, and Sarah won the latter because she's a nerd, he declared—.
On the second day, yesterday to be exact, they went to the park. He pushed Sarah on the swings for a few minutes, then got distracted when he saw Cesar in the far distance. His hand slipped from the swing chain mid-push, and he turned without a word, already making his way across the park with a "don't get kidnapped," under his breath.
Sarah had done that to him many times that morning anyway, and he acquiesced, so it was only fair. “Mark, get your butt back here!” she had screamed, her tone sharp enough to make the parents at the nearby sandbox glance over.
So, his position as swing-pusher was resigned, and Cesar came over just to laugh at him. And just as a cherry on top, Sarah jumped out of the swing while he was pushing, sending the swing to his gut as she went over to the play structure.
Suddenly, retching sounds in the living room. . Mark’s head snapped up, his grip on the pen tightening. Sarah? The noise was sharp, sending a chill up his spine.
Maybe she’d eaten too fast, or it was some over dramatic reaction to a scene in her comic. But the sound came again, louder this time, and his stomach twisted… God, he hates puke.
And the sound came again, and it wasn’t the kind of thing he could ignore. With a reluctant sigh, he stood, his heart already pounding as he edged toward the living room.
Mark stepped into the doorway, his breath catching as he scanned the room. Sarah was hunched over by the couch, one hand clutching her stomach while the other braced against the armrest. Her face was pale, beads of sweat glistening.
“Sarah?” he asked, his voice sharper than he intended. She didn’t answer, her body convulsing with another retch.
Panic flared in his chest. “Hey—are you okay?” He moved closer, hesitating a few feet away. She looked up at him then, eyes watery and unfocused, and for a moment, he wasn’t sure she even recognized him.
She huffed momentarily, like she vomited a piece of her soul. "No…" She choked out, skittishly pouncing to the recliner, away from the mess. Mark went around the sofa, careful in his movements.
"What's wrong, did you eat something bad?" He asked, but she tossed her head away from him, obviously embarrassed. For what, Mark didn't know.
She coughed, shaking her head weakly, but no words came out. Her breath hitched as another wave of nausea seemed to wrack her body, her fingers digging into the couch like it was the only thing holding her steady.
“Okay, okay,” he muttered, glancing around the room as if the answer might be lying somewhere nearby. “Do you need water? The hospital? Something?” His voice cracked, and he hated how helpless he sounded.
He glanced back at her, the helplessness in her expression as he stared back at her, indirectly saying 'you're the adult, what the hell do I do?' pressing on his chest like a weight. Alright, okay...
Mark swallowed hard, his mind racing. What the hell do I do? The panic was almost suffocating. Okay, first thing: Sarah needed to get out of those clothes, now dirtied and damp from the mess she'd made. That was easy enough. But he couldn't leave the mess—it was technically his responsibility, no matter how much he hated cleaning up after anything. And Sarah wasn’t going to be any help with that, not in her state.
And then—right, food. She needed something to eat, something light. But first, how sick is she? He stared at her, his mind spinning as he tried to figure it out. Maybe it's just a bug... maybe it's nothing. Maybe... maybe it’s something serious.
His mouth opened, desperate for anything that would make him feel like he wasn’t fumbling through a nightmare. “Who wants to take a bath!” he asked, trying to be a little light hearted.
Sarah responded by face-palming with an exaggerated groan, the kind of thing that might’ve been funny in a different moment, but Mark didn’t know whether to laugh or cringe.
Mark scratched the back of his neck. “But seriously, Sarah, you can’t just sit there like…” He gestured vaguely at her slumped form. “Like what?” she shot back naively, raising an eyebrow..
“Like that,” Mark said, exasperated. “Covered in—ugh.” He waved a hand toward the mess. “You need to, like, change or something before you get worse or... I don’t know, die of germs or something.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched in the barest hint of a smirk. “I’m not gonna die.”
“That’s what people always say before they die,” he countered, his nerves getting the better of him. He paused, then added, “Probably. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor!”
"I already took a bath today, can I just change my dress?" She triumphed. "Did I say 'take a bath if it pleases her highness'? Come on," he snapped a finger. That's about as authoritative as he could get…
Sarah groaned again, this time more at him than the nausea, and leaned back against the couch. “Fine. Help me up, then.” Mark hesitated for a second, but the look she shot him left no room for argument. He crouched down, offering an arm. “You better not throw up on me, I swear.”
“No promises,” she said, smirking just enough to make him nervous.
Eventually, he got Sarah situated in the bathtub, her grumbles about how she didn’t actually need help fading behind the closed door. Mark let out a shaky sigh, wiping his hands on his jeans as he took a quick glance at the carnage left in the living room.
His stomach churned in protest. “Lord, give me strength,” he muttered, grabbing the vacuum with a grimace. He turned it on, the loud hum filling the house as he worked to erase the evidence of Sarah’s earlier misery. Every pass over the carpet felt like penance for not acting faster.
He only vaguely knew what came next. Food. Right. Sick people need food. His brain felt sluggish, the stress of the last hour leaving him on autopilot. Soup? Crackers? Was there even anything remotely edible in the fridge? He couldn’t remember the last time someone had gone grocery shopping.
As the vacuum roared and whined, Mark’s mind raced to piece together a plan. Something simple, something that wouldn’t make her sicker—or give her more reasons to roll her eyes at him.
He'd keep her in his room to keep an eye on her, then he'd make a sandwich. He's smart enough to make something as simple as two breads with cheese in the middle? Why is a 6 year old making him question his life skills so much?
Mark shook his head, trying to push the thought away. She probably got sick at the park—kids do that, right? They pick up germs, lick playground equipment, and start mini-pandemics without thinking twice. That one blonde toddler he locked eyes with was sneezing more than he liked, anyway. It was totally normal.
He didn’t remember getting this sick when he was her age. Sure, there was that one time he puked during gym class, but he’d bounced back in minutes. That was different—that was summer. A hot day, a water bottle left half-empty, and a heatwave swallowing the court. He’d wiped his mouth and kept going.
With a deep breath, Mark turned off the vacuum and surveyed the room. Everything looked spotless, like nothing had happened at all. One problem solved. Now, he just needed to start cooking... something. His stomach sank. Cooking wasn’t exactly his strong suit.
It’s just a sandwich, he reminded himself, heading to the kitchen. Bread, cheese, maybe some... butter? Wait, no, that’s grilled cheese.
Mark froze in front of the fridge, staring blankly at its contents—or lack thereof. Half a loaf of bread sat squished on the bottom shelf, next to a single slice of cheese that looked like it had seen better days. It not that it was moldy it was just…. lonely.
That's why he didn't remember anyone going grocery shopping! He was meant to do that this week! Sarah was far too sick to come with him now, so he'd probably just enlist Cesar to babysit her tomorrow so he could get to it.
Bread and cheese. That’s it... Right? He grabbed the bread and cheese, shutting the fridge with more confidence than he actually felt.
At the counter, he stacked the slices together and stared at his handiwork. It looked sad. But sandwiches weren’t supposed to look glamorous, were they? “It’s just fuel,” he muttered, trying to convince himself. She's so gonna judge me. She's gonna remember me as the brother that made struggle meals while she was sick.
A pang of guilt crept in. He should’ve grabbed some soup or something easier to eat—if he’d actually gone grocery shopping. Too late now, he thought, glancing toward the hallway.
He sighed, picked up the plate, and headed toward his room. When he pushed open the door, Sarah was lying there, wrapped in a blanket burrito, her damp hair sticking to her cheeks. She barely glanced at him.
“I come bearing food,” he said with mock grandeur, setting the plate down on her lap. Sarah turned her head, eyeing the sandwich like it had personally offended her. “That’s it?” she croaked. Mark huffed, crossing his arms.
“Hey, I don’t see you making gourmet meals right now.” She didn’t argue, just gave the sandwich one last unimpressed look before grabbing it with shaky hands. “Thanks,” she mumbled before taking a small bite.
Mark sat down on the edge of the bed, watching her carefully. She chewed slowly, her face pale but focused. For a moment, the room felt quieter, calmer. “You know,” Mark said after a beat, his voice lighter, “if you puke that back up, you’re cleaning it this time.” He said, as if he had the strength to make her do that.
Sarah shot him a look, but it lacked any real heat. “Deal,” she muttered, taking another bite.
Mark leaned back, letting the silence settle between them. Sarah seemed more stable now, nibbling at the sandwich like she was trying not to upset her stomach again.
Still, he couldn’t relax. What if she wasn’t okay? What if she got worse? He felt like he was left alone with a ticking time bomb. This is why people don’t trust teenagers to handle anything serious, he thought bitterly.
"Not too bad." Sarah said, setting the half-eaten sandwich aside. “High praise.” Mark leaned back against the wall. She smirked weakly, settling back into the pillows.
"What's that?" She asks pointing to a safe pressed up to his nightstand. He waved a hand dismissively, scrambling for an answer that wasn’t a gun that could blow a hole in the wall. He hadn’t thought she’d notice it, let alone ask about it.
“It’s... nothing, just boring stuff. Papers, receipts, that kind of thing. Boring adult stuff.”
“Okay,” she said, clearly not buying it. Her little eyes lingered on the safe, her brain no doubt working overtime to figure out how to crack it. All she really needed was a fork and free time, after all…
He knew how she operated—cunning, headstrong, and always a little too curious for her own good. That type of kid was described in every safety PSA ever.
Sarah getting a hold of the gun had haunted his dreams the week before she came over. His mom had thought it was fine to leave a loaded Desert Eagle in his drawer, as Sarah wasn’t supposed to be in his room. But “supposed to” didn’t mean much to her, clearly..
"Whatever you’re imagining? It’s not worth it, okay? Just leave it alone.” He said with a firm tone, not even sure if she was thinking about it. “Why?” she shot back, tilting her head.
“Because I said so,” he said, falling back on the oldest sibling line in the book. “And because if you don’t, I’m telling Mom you’re being nosy again." He stared at her, half-expecting her to press further. She didn’t, to his surprise. He sighed, already planning to double-check the safe’s lock the second she left the room.
And now he was imagining things—Sarah parading the gun around in the neighborhood like it was a spy gadget—or, worse, she accidentally shoots herself or someone else with it.
He tried clearing the image, but it lingered. He was going to have to find a new hiding spot for the safe, maybe stash it in the closet under a pile of old junk. Anywhere she wouldn’t think to look. Just to have peace of mind—
"Stop looking at me like that. I won't even look at the secret safe!" Sarah said, throwing her hands up with exaggerated innocence, though the smirk on her face betrayed her amusement. “Right,” he continued, forcing himself to refocus. “How’re you feeling?”
Sarah shrugged, her face half-buried in the blanket. “I dunno. Still kinda gross. My stomach’s not doing back flips anymore, so that’s good, I guess.”
“Progress,” Mark said with mock enthusiasm, though the edge in his voice betrayed his worry. “If it gets worse, you need to tell me, okay? No toughing it out like some hero.”
"Okay…" She murmured, resting in his bed.
Sarah ended up falling asleep, curled up beneath his too-big blanket. Mark glanced at the clock—4:12 PM. Great, he thought. His dad’s voice echoed in his head, stern and matter-of-fact: “No naps past 3 PM. Unless you want to be up all night dealing with her energy.”
But looking at her now, her face peaceful for the first time all day, Mark couldn’t bring himself to wake her. Let her have this, he thought, pulling the blanket up to cover her shoulders.
Mark eased himself off the bed, careful not to jostle her, and moved toward the desk. There was his composition notebook lying there— He flipped it open, hoping to distract himself while she slept. But his eyes kept drifting back to her.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Maybe she’ll sleep through the night anyway. Or... maybe not, he thought with a grimace. He’d deal with it when the time came. Right now, the quiet was a gift, and he wasn’t about to waste it.
Suddenly, about 20 minutes later of sheer focus, Sarah jolted out of bed and cried out. Mark nearly jumped out of his chair, the notebook slipping from his hands and landing with a dull thud on the desk.
“Sarah?” he called, rushing to her side. She was sitting upright, her wide eyes darting around the room like she didn’t recognize it. Her hands clutched the blanket tightly, like it was grounding her towards gravity.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” Mark’s voice was urgent, but he kept it as calm as he could.
"My head— really hurts— just, really randomly," she said, wavering between tears.
He could see the discomfort in her expression, the way she clutched at her forehead like it might burst open. His protective instincts fired up, but he didn’t know what to do.
"Where does it hurt? Is it just your head?” She nodded slowly, her hand trembling against her forehead. “Yeah… it’s like... right here. And it keeps hurting, then stopping, then hurting again. I don’t know why... It’s weird.”
"You need to rest for a bit, alright? You stay here, and I’m gonna go get you some water. It’ll help," he said, his tone a little more firm than before, even though he wasn’t sure it would. She just nodded, barely managing a weak smile as she sank back into the pillows.
He hesitated for a second before leaving the room, his mind buzzing with all the worst-case scenarios. Get it together, he told himself. She’s just sick. It’s probably just a headache or something small.
But the unease was still there, gnawing at him. The way Sarah had looked at him, eyes wide with fear and confusion, it made something twist in his gut. This wasn’t just a stomach bug or a mild cold.
He returned to his room quickly, the water in his hand suddenly feeling too heavy. Sarah was still lying there, curled up in the blankets, but she didn’t look any better. Tears settled over her features, making her red in the face.
“Here,” Mark said softly, setting the glass of water on the nightstand beside her. He sat down on the edge of the bed, his thumb absently rubbing the edge of the sheet. “Take small sips, okay?”
“I’m... I’m scared, she whispered, barely audible. "Am I gonna die?" Mark’s chest tightened. He wasn’t used to hearing that from her.
Mark wrapped an arm around her shoulder, embracing her with a gentle squeeze. "Nobody's gonna die. You're gonna be fine. You're gonna beat this. We'll do this together." He whispers in an attempt to be soothing. For some reason, a part of him thinks: 'you can't promise that.'
Sarah nodded, but the fear in her eyes didn’t fade. She took a sip of water, but it was clear she wasn’t fully with him. Mark sat there for a moment, his own mind racing. What if it’s something more serious? But he pushed the thought down. He wouldn’t let her freak out too.
“Just rest for a bit,” he said, tucking the blanket around her. “I’ll stay, right here,” He presses her closer.
Mark sat on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, staring blankly at the muted flicker of the TV. Some old rerun was playing—he wasn’t even sure what it was, just that it was noise, something to fill the silence.
He glanced at the clock again. 12:47 AM. It might as well have been 4 in the morning for how exhausted he felt, yet sleep wasn’t coming. His mind wouldn’t shut off, cycling through every worry and hypothetical like it was its job.
What if she’s worse in the morning? What if I miss something serious? He leaned back against the couch, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until the darkness behind them danced with patterns. Get a grip, he thought.
After her semi-outburst when she got a migraine, no new symptoms occurred except coughing every now and then. And despite Sarah fancying herself a lone wolf, she whined whenever Mark left her alone.
But even that couldn’t hold him. His gaze drifted to the hallway again. Maybe I should check on her.
Mark hesitated, chewing on his lip. If she was still sleeping, he didn’t want to wake her. But if she wasn’t—if she was tossing and turning, or in pain again—he couldn’t just sit here.
The quiet inside was unnerving, but when he cracked the door open, the soft rise and fall of Sarah’s breathing met his ears. She was curled up on her side, still wrapped in the blanket he’d tucked around her earlier. Mark exhaled slowly, some of the tension in his shoulders easing. She was okay—for now.
Still, he lingered in the doorway for a moment longer before closing it gently behind him and heading back to the couch.
Maybe, tonight wasn’t about sleeping, but just making it through.