Chapter Text
Abby never touches him any more.
It’s a jarring thought that crops up into his mind one evening as he walks next to her, suddenly recognizing the distance she seems intent on keeping between the two of them.
At first, he wants to write it off, tries to tell himself that he’s imagining things. But it burrows into his mind and he can’t help but mentally run through a list of all the moments he’s had with her since the end of ALIE all those weeks ago.
He realizes that where she might have once brushed her hand down his arm in comfort or knocked her shoulder into his in light teasing, now there is only empty space; where she once reached out freely to run her hands through the ends of his curling hair or grazed her hand over his beard, there is now only the vibrations of want and ghosts of touch. She no longer leans into him as they discuss the running of Arkadia, never brushes her hands against his as they walk together.
All her movements carry a rigid, invisible wall of her own making; a carefully constructed distance where closeness and warmth used to be.
He tries to remember the last time she willingly reached out for him, realizes that it was right after their triumph over ALIE and Jaha. Right after the end of the City of Light.
There’d been one, pure moment between the two of them. Uncomplicated, unhurried, and honest.
“Marcus,” she’d said, reaching for him, her words choked and dry. His name an invocation and a hymn and a benediction wrapped in one.
Her arms had wrapped around him, her hands had tangled themselves in his hair.
He’d frozen then, an action he replays in his mind over and over again and hates himself for; wishes that he could have just lost himself in the feel of her arms and hands and breath against his neck. But then - for one, small, hateful moment - all he could think of were tender hugs and fierce kisses that were nothing more than artifice and manipulation.
He’d shaken off the memory, though, managed to spur his arms to wrap themselves around her. Buried himself in the scent of her hair and the slope of her neck.
She’d felt his hesitation, though. Had unwrapped her arms from around him, trailed her hands down his forearms, stopped her fingertips at the angry scars on his wrists.
She’d taken in a shuddering breath; he’d felt the hot press of tears washing the wounds.
He’d wrapped her hands in his own, kissed each fingertip. Raised his hands to cup her face and rested his forehead on hers.
“It wasn’t you, it wasn’t you, it wasn’t you,” he’d whispered, again and again. Breathed it quietly in between soft kisses on her face. Kissed each tear that fell and looked her in the eyes until she’d nodded at him and closed her eyes.
She’d pressed her hands against his and had taken a quavering breath, then. Had reached up on her tiptoes and pressed a tender kiss to his lips.
He’d thought it was acceptance and hope and a new beginning.
Now -
Now, he wonders if it was goodbye.
He still walks her to her room every night.
It’s comforting to him that at least some habits have survived what they’ve gone through. Even though they never linger by the door. Even though there’s a filter of grief and guilt that covers all her expressions.
She puts her hand on the doorknob and tilts her head.
“Good night, Marcus.”
She says it quietly.
Everything about her is quiet, now, with him.
One night, he walks into medical and finds her asleep at her desk.
There’s an awkward bent to her neck that he knows will pain her when she wakes up. Her features are pinched and tense, her jaw clenching and teeth gritting painfully in her sleep. Just as he’s about to reach out and shake her gently awake, she sits up quickly, breathing quickly, almost painfully.
“Abby,” he calls out, soft and urgent. He settles a hand on her shoulder.
“Abby, it’s ok. It’s just a dream.”
She looks up at him blearily, panic still lining her pupils.
He crouches down, looks at her directly, drops his voice to a lower, soothing tone.
“Shh, it’s ok, Abby. You’re ok.”
She reaches out and cups his face in her hands. Brushes her fingers over his cheekbones, leans forward to rest her forehead on his, and breathes in deeply. He draws in a stuttering breath, can’t believe the longing in her heart. Feels the yearning pull at every nerve and tendon and muscle in his body at the feel of her hands on him.
He rests his hands on her shoulders and breaths in deeply, encourages her to breath in slowly in time with him.
Eventually, her breathing slows and her eyes clear. She looks at him, her eyes soft and affectionate for one, long, glorious moment.
Then -
Her eyes cloud with guilt and sadness, then shutter closed, away from him. She draws back quickly and clenches her jaw tightly for a moment.
“I’m sorry,” she says softly, not meeting his eyes.
He swallows thickly.
“It’s ok, Abby.”
He reaches out to rest a hand on her shoulder. Sees her flinch away from his touch as he does.
He pretends not to notice. Takes a deep breath instead and clears his throat.
“C’mon, let’s get you to a proper bed.”
The walk back to her room is quiet; heavy and acrid in a way he doesn’t recognize.
He walks slowly to his own room; closes the door quietly and leans against it, his head resting against his forearm.
He replays her flinching away from his touch over and over again. Can’t help the bitter pain that pumps through his veins at the thought.
He knows physiologically and literally it can’t be true. Knows that it’s the worst kind of melodramatic hyperbole.
But -
In that moment, he swears it hurts more than the feel of metal piercing through skin and muscle and bone.
“She loves you, Kane. Still.”
He tears his eyes away from Abby and turns to look at Octavia. Doesn’t bother denying that he wonders, often; doesn’t try to posit that maybe she never did. The first, he knows, would be a waste of time; the second, too painful to mull over for too long.
Instead he tries to decide on what expression to fix on his face - doubt or hope or hopelessness. Realizes that his features must have flashed through all three to engender the look of fierce sympathy on Octavia’s face.
“What makes you say that?” He says carefully, not wanting to give away how eager he feels, how desperate he knows he is.
“Because it’s true,” she says simply, as though it were the easiest, most obvious thing in the world. She glances at him and leans back on her heels, rests her forearms on the top of her thighs before continuing. “If Clarke isn’t in camp, she looks for you first every time she enters a room. She always manages to be aware of you no matter what she’s doing. There’s always a softness to her expression whenever she thinks you’re not looking.” She hesitates, then continues on, quieter than before. “Last month, when that boar tore up your leg?”
He nods. His leg had been a mess of mangled flesh and blood. The trek back to camp had been excruciating - he’d only just managed to make it to the gates of Arkadia slumped between Harper and Octavia before he’d passed out.
“Abby couldn’t stitch you up. It looked worst than it was - all bloody and torn up - but she could have easily fixed it. But she had to hand it off to Jackson, because her hands were shaking too much. And her face - when she saw you unconscious between the two of us and when she was looking at you on that table…”
She looks at him, stormy and sad.
“It was terror. The kind you only feel when you really love someone. When you realize you don’t want to live in a world without them.”
Her expression shifts then, becomes something plaintive and ferocious and unshakable all at once.
“She loves you. Don’t doubt that.”
He meets her gaze, sees the sincerity and resolve, and nods.
After a quiet moment, he hears her sigh.
“I miss him, Kane.”
He looks over at her, clenches his jaw tightly at the sight of her small, sad features.
“I know, Octavia. I’m sorry.”
She nods and tips back, sits on the ground with her arms wrapped around her knees. He hesitates for a moment, then carefully drapes his arm around her shoulders. She leans into him, rests her head on his shoulder and draws in a shuddering breath.
After a long moment, she sniffs and lifts her head from his shoulder, levels a serious stare at him.
“Don’t give up, ok? It’s worth fighting for.”
He nods at her, equally serious and sincere, then smiles.
“Thank you, Octavia. This…you’ve…just…thank you.”
She nods, then manages to scrounge up a small grin.
“See?” She says softly. “There’s a reason I’m your favorite.”
Clarke splits her time between Polis and Arkadia. Given the duties and responsibilities of being the Fleimkepa to the new Heda, he’s somewhat surprised that she manages to make such frequent treks out to Arkadia.
He’s glad for it though - Abby never smiles as much as when Clarke is around. There’s a relaxation to her movements and a contentment to her expression that makes his heart swell.
It’s also given him a chance to get to know Clarke better. To his great surprise, she comes to him often - for political advice, to hear his thoughts on matters of governance, to debate theories of government and policy.
The two of them are wrapping up a session on trade agreements and mapping out new trade routes on the clear board in front of him when Abby breezes into the room, disheveled from exhaustion but somehow glowing with triumph and joy.
“It worked!” She says gleefully, holding up a small bottle in her hands. “The vaccine works!”
“Mom, that’s great!” Clarke replies, a smile splitting her features.
Marcus smiles at her, finds himself almost breathless when she beams back at him.
She reaches out as though to grab his hand or rest a hand on his shoulder or -
He’ll never know.
Her hand falters halfway, settles itself against her side instead. He tries to hide the disappointment on his face; doesn’t think he’s very successful.
Suddenly, it’s as though all her weariness has caught up with her at once. She gives them both a tired smile.
“I’m going to take about a three hour nap.” She turns to Clarke and reaches out to squeeze her hand. “I’ll see you at dinner, right?”
Clarke smiles at her and nods. Abby gives them both one last look before walking briskly out of the room.
He stares at the space where she just once was, feels his fingers twitch at the her phantom touch.
After a moment, he turns to Clarke, sees her studying him carefully.
He smiles at her.
“I knew your mom would get it eventually. It’ll be good to be protected against flu season this winter.”
She nods, the thoughtful look still on her face. She walks up to the map and traces the routes up to Polis with her eyes.
Finally, she turns to him.
“Octavia told me that you took the chip to save mom’s life.”
There’s a guarded wariness to her question; he isn’t sure if it’s because she’s not quite sure to believe the action or the reason behind it.
He says nothing to explain himself. Simply looks directly at her and nods.
Her expression turns appraising.
“That - ah - that must have been a difficult choice.”
He crosses his arms in front of him, shrugs. Repeats the words he remembers saying to her mother in what almost feels like a lifetime ago.
“It was no choice at all. It’s your mom’s life over mine. Every time.”
There’s a brief flicker of surprise that’s replaced by something he tries - and fails - not to think too deeply about. Something that looks vaguely like approval and faith and fondness wrapped into one.
After a long moment, she gives him a small smile.
“I’m glad she has you.”
He nods at her.
“Always.”