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The Grayson house is quiet, now.
Before, it was a lively place, bursting with warmth and laughter. Although their family was small, they were close; their love was a constellation glowing with the force of their bond, celestial bodies tied together even from great distances. Even when Nolan had to leave on missions—sometimes for weeks at a time—it felt like he was still with them. Touches of him were left behind, lovingly sprawled throughout the house—his coffee-stained mug still sitting on the counter, his reading glasses on the desk in his study, the crater in the backyard from a miscalculated landing.
Now, the only traces of him left are starbursts of blood on hardwood floors, the fresh mahogany of the door that replaced the one he broke down, and the glaring gaps on shelves where picture frames used to reside.
It doesn’t feel like a home anymore.
The time in the hospital following that day was an untethered haze of physical pain and betrayal—the heartbreak was raw and jagged, but directionless. Locked behind a veil of heavy sedatives and anaesthesia. It was like Mark’s brain physically couldn’t comprehend the events of that day; he remembered, in theory, snatches of sensation—his nose buckling under his father’s blood-drenched fist, the shrapnel of the train splintering through his skin, the wet slap of organs and shards of bone against every inch of his body, hot blood in his mouth oh god so much he can’t breathe—but he couldn’t connect those fists, those eyes, with the loving eyes of Nolan Grayson.
His Father.
To Mark’s eternal shame, he was too caught up in his own turmoil to really assess how his mother was doing. Debbie, for lack of a kinder term, completely shattered. She bears almost no resemblance to the kind, independent, and capable mother Mark remembers; now, she’s short, never saying more than five words at a time, and so distant. A permanent film of tears resides over her dark eyes, and it’s not lost on Mark how she never seems to look at him.
Mark wonders what she sees, when she does. Her son, or Nolan’s?
The thought makes him feel sick.
She hasn’t been eating. Mark first realised about two days after being discharged from the hospital; she’s always been quite thin, but now her bones are almost poking through her paper-thin, translucent skin. Her face is like wax stretched taut over corpse-like eyes, and it seems to Mark that she isn’t really living.
Not anymore.
But she’s his Mom, and he’d rather fly into the sun than see her suffer, so he’s been doing his best to help her. Even if she doesn’t want to see or talk to him, it’s the least he can do to bring her food, tuck her in, and take care of the house. Maybe that way, he can apologise for the way he is. For who he is.
“Mom?” Lightly, he raps his knuckles twice on her door. The plate of lasagna is hot in his hand, probably enough to burn a normal human one. “I made dinner.”
There’s no answer.
Mark huffs out a quiet, heavy breath, leaning forward to press his forehead against the door. His body feels so lethargic these days, as if the weight of it all is too much. He’s treading water in a turbulent storm, and his limbs are losing strength. “Okay, I’m coming in,” he warns wearily, before twisting the doorknob.
The sight that greets him within his mother’s room is as unsurprising as it is heart-wrenching.
Debbie is sprawled across her bed, half-empty wine bottle dripping saccharine red onto her white covers like pooling blood. The room itself is a mess, numerous cans and bottles of every kind of alcohol infesting the space like a colony of ants. Her hair is a coal halo around her head, hopelessly knotted and slick with grease.
“Oh, Mom,” he whispers to himself, swallowing thickly. For a few seconds, he stands there, feeling like he can’t draw in a full breath as he just watches his Mom sleep. Her face looks almost peaceful like this, slackened features lacking the drawn pinch they always seem to when she’s around him.
Hovering in the air to avoid the bottles littering the ground, Mark makes his way towards her, stopping by her bed. He places the plate on her bedside table, and reaches for the wine bottle in her hand before hesitating. He doesn’t want to wake her. She needs the rest, but also… who knows how she might react upon waking to see his face in front of her.
He gnaws on his lip as he considers, arms wrapped around him as he floats in place. Debbie’s heartbeat, which until now had been a constant, calm drone, suddenly lurches with rabbit-like speed. A terrified moan leaves her lips as she shifts, becoming even more tangled in the covers. Her eyes tremble at the edges, lips moving to form soundless words.
“Mom?” Mark tries, trepidation rendering the word soft and breathy. He sends a glance at the open door, then back at his Mom, torn. He can’t just leave her to suffer in what must be the throes of a nightmare, but he can’t remember if you’re supposed to wake someone when they’re having one. Does that help, or just make it worse?
He doesn’t know.
His own heart starts to speed up, crawling into his throat, as he watches his Mother grow progressively more agitated. Her words are voiced now, which is infinitely worse.
“No—please, don’t, please—let me go—”
It’s the trembling pleas of someone who already knows they’ll have no effect, and is just awaiting whatever fate they fear so. It hurts Mark to see her like this, God it hurts, because it shows just how fragile she really is. How breakable.
It’s easy, as a kid, to imagine your parents as invincible. In Mark’s case, it was literally true—at least, half true. When you’re so small that the world feels as immense and unknowable as the deepest depths of space, your parents are impossibly large figures in comparison. Even when Mark grew, eventually becoming taller than his Mom, she still retained this air of confidence in his eyes. As if she could take on anything the world threw at her and come out untouched on the other side.
But now, watching her convulse on her wine-stained bed screaming pleas to not hurt me, please don’t hurt me, it’s crushingly clear that that was little more than a fleeting fantasy of childhood.
“Mom,” he says again with more urgency, reaching his hand towards her shoulder. He hesitates, the hand hanging in the air and trembling with anxiety; is this the right thing to do? Will his presence help her, or just hurt her further?
The decision is made for him as her begging amps up to a wordless, strangled scream, one that sounds like it scrapes her vocal chords raw. The sound slides between his ribs like a cold knife, and he sets a hand on her warm shoulder, not willing to listen to this any longer. “Mom! You’re okay, it’s okay! Just wake up!”
She awakens with stuttering violence, eyes opening to settle on his face a split second before she throws herself backwards with a choked breath. “Don’t—don’t hurt me!” she pleads, pressing herself as far into the corner as physically possible. Her head is turned away from him, trembling arms thrown up to protect herself from him.
As if that could do anything, if he really wanted to hurt her.
“Mom,” he says, the word like ash in his mouth as he attempts to swallow down the nauseous feeling of guilt and discomfort. “It’s okay, Mom. It was just a nightmare. It’s me, Mark.”
Agonisingly slowly, Debbie lowers her arms, daring to peer over them. In the dim light from the hallway, her dark eyes are that of a wild animal, a scared rabbit cowering from the jaws of a hungry wolf. They find Mark, who’s trying to school his face into a facsimile of a comforting smile, and some of the distant haze drains away. Her eyes are sharp, comprehending. Entirely present.
It’s more than he can say for her in the past few weeks.
“See?” he offers, his voice losing tightness as he relaxes slightly. “Just me. You’re okay.”
“Please don’t hurt me,” Debbie repeats, less dazed but still shivering with the same amount of fear. Her hands lower enough that he can see most of her face, and her lips are trembling, drying tears making the skin around them glisten.
She’s terrified.
Of him.
The realisation hits later than it should, like an ice cold hand prying apart his ribs and squeezing his heart. His feet hit the ground and he stumbles back a half-step, not even blinking as he stares at her. As if staring at her will reveal the flaw, the error, and he’ll realise this is nothing but a dream.
“Mom?” he whispers, fear lurking in the raw edges of his voice. Absurdly, this reminds him of when he was a kid, and he ran to his Mom after having a nightmare.
Only this time, the nightmare isn’t some imaginary monster, but a real, flesh-and-blood one.
The nightmare—her nightmare—is Mark.
She’s still shaking like a leaf, and Mark realises that the silence has stretched on unforgivingly, the distant ticks of the clock in the hallway gouging into his heart like blades. “Mom, I’m not—it’s Mark. I’m not gonna hurt you.”
She doesn’t say anything, but her face says it all. Her fear is written in the taut lining of her muscles, the tears carving their way down her cheeks.
She’s not seeing ghosts anymore. She knows exactly who she’s seeing.
And that changes nothing.
“You know that, right?” he asks, a little bit delirious. He feels as if the ground has fallen away from him, and he’s tumbling through an endless fall, his powers of flight failing him. The open air which is usually a comfort is rather the expectant jaws of a great beast, about to snap shut any second. “You know that I wouldn’t hurt you.”
She makes an aborted movement towards him, something other than terror boiling in her expression for a split second, before it closes off and she cowers again. “Please—please leave.”
“Mom…” He knows he should go, he knows he’s just making everything worse, but he’s so fucking desperate for his Mom to look at him with anything other than absolute fear. “I wouldn’t—”
“Please,” she chokes out again, her voice unravelling as if she can’t even make her tongue cooperate with her. As if fear has consumed her entirely, robbing her of even control of her own body.
Mark doesn’t think he could say anything else even if he tried; his tongue is sandpaper in his mouth, bile fighting in his throat to escape. He thinks if he opens his mouth at all, he’ll throw up.
Without sparing his shaking Mother another glance, Mark flees.
It doesn't hurt Mark to stare at the sun.
It feels like it should; humans frequently have to squint to avoid damaging their eyes, and never look directly into the sun. That’s yet another yawning ravine of difference between him and everyone else, another wall that separates him from the people he loves.
It strikes him as terribly ironic that he spent his whole childhood waiting eagerly to get his powers and be like his Dad, and now wants nothing more than to distance himself from the man as much as he can. Part of him wishes he didn’t have these fucking powers, and he was just a regular person. A regular person with a regular family, who couldn’t crush a skull like a grape, who didn’t have the weight of the entire world resting on his tired shoulders.
But wishing won’t get him anywhere. He knows that better than most; he’s spent so long after that day doing nothing but moping and wishing. Wishing is for cowards, and Mark has spent far too long being weak.
It’s the least he can do to face who he is. What he is.
He stays perched on the cliff somewhere in Norway’s wilderness until the sun straddles the clouds, trying his best not to think. He tries to lose himself in the sprawling landscape, the mottled trees surrounding a glittering silver lake that’s as round as a full moon. Debbie’s terrified words are ghostly wails on the wind, echoing in the recesses of Mark’s memory and clinging resolutely to his mind.
“Please don’t hurt me.”
The worst part about all this is that it makes a horrible sort of sense. Mark wants to feel hurt, he wants to feel betrayed, he wants to be able to say that’s not fair. He wants to point out that he’s her son and he’s never done anything violent to her. He’s never done anything to make her afraid of him.
But Nolan was the same.
And if Nolan can turn around after twenty years of marriage and call her a pet, what can Mark do?
And this turmoil he feels, this bubbling ache and tacky guilt that clings to his skin, it’s so fucking meaningless in the face of everything else. What does it matter if Mark’s Mom doesn’t love him anymore? The world has bigger problems—it’s still reeling from the massacre he and his Father caused, and is trembling in fear of the possibility of more Viltrumite attacks. Mark doesn’t have time to feel sad. He doesn’t have time to mope around on far away cliffs.
But it turns out he’s one selfish son of a bitch.
He knows he should go back, but he doesn’t want to. Out here, he can almost convince himself that time has frozen, and he doesn't have any responsibilities. No enemies to fight, no lives to save, no broken relationships to navigate. It’s just him and the biting chill of the winter air which does little to affect his body, even in shorts and a t-shirt.
The cliff’s pretty high. If he were human, a fall from up here would definitely kill him instantly. It would be about four, five seconds of feet-over-head free fall, and then it would be over. Just… nothingness. Would it be like space, he wonders? Floating through a never-ending sea of blackness, with nothing but his own thoughts? Or would he just cease to be, as if he’d never existed?
Mark thinks that sounds kind of nice.
Or maybe he’d go to heaven, or hell. Mark wouldn’t know; he’s never really given much thought to religion. He doesn't really believe in God. After all, what ‘loving father’ would create a world like this?
And anyway, assuming God was real, Mark would probably end up in hell. It’s literally the first commandment—wait, no it’s not. Either way, it’s sort of written in bold, unmissable text: You shall not kill.
Heaven wouldn’t take him. Not with the amount of blood coating his hands.
It’s a futile fantasy to entertain, since Mark knows a fall from this height would barely even scratch him.
He stays for a while longer, staring at the ground below.
Mark stands in front of his front door for a long while.
He can hear his Mom’s heartbeat inside, fluttery but otherwise normal, so he knows she’s okay. He’s half tempted to just leave and crash at William’s or something. His reluctance to enter is partly out of concern for the effect he might have on his Mom’s fragile mental state, but if he’s being honest, it’s mostly because he doesn’t want to face her. He doesn’t want to see her look at him with fear ever again.
Fucking coward. If only Nolan could see him now: afraid to even face his Mom.
Eventually, though, he drums up the courage and opens the door. It’s strangely anti-climactic; it swings open with scarcely a sound, and Mark stands in the doorway for a second, afraid to enter.
There’s no need to be afraid of her, that voice that sounds like his Father whispers in his mind. If anything, she should be afraid of you.
That just makes him feel worse.
His first step into the house feels like wading through drying concrete; the air of the house sits stale in his lungs. He keeps going until the space opens up into the living room, and freezes when he sees Debbie sitting, back to him, in one of the kitchen stools.
Her heartbeat jumps up a notch; she knows he’s there, and she’s afraid. With her facing away like this, Mark is left to guess as to her emotional state—is she terrified? Regretful? Angry?
“Mom?”
A minute flinch makes her shoulders jump towards her ears, and after a second she turns her head, her body following the movement stiltedly. “Mark, you’re back,” she says, her tone all but even. A smile flickers across her face, the dying embers of the expression stamped into dust after a short moment. “I was worried.”
“Um…” Mark’s gaze flickers to the floor, and he shuffles his feet. “I… thought you wanted me to leave?”
Debbie’s face crumples, the sunken pits of her cheeks all the more stark amidst the broken expression. “Mark…” For a moment she reaches towards him, but then she pulls her hands back, clasping them together in her lap. “I… I wasn’t thinking straight.”
Mark grits his teeth together, biting back the sudden surge of bitter frustration. He wants to say so many things, demand answers—why do you hate me? Why are you scared of me? What did I do to deserve this?
But he knows that isn't fair to his Mom. She's suffering, too—maybe even more than he is. And she's completely innocent in all this. He, on the other hand, doesn't have such clean hands.
“Uh… it's okay,” he assures in a small voice. He doesn't know what else he can say. “I get it.”
No, I don't get it, a small, selfish voice in his mind whispers. You're supposed to love me. Why don't you love me?
Unsteadily, Debbie stands to her feet, then takes a step towards Mark. Her face is arranged in a weary smile as she approaches, but Mark can hear her pounding heartbeat, her halting breaths.
Mark waits for her to come to him, not wanting to startle her with any sudden moves. This sudden affection is so bewildering when for the past few weeks she's barely been able to look at him, but he soaks it up all the same.
Mark misses his Mom.
When she reaches him, her gaze traces its way up his neck to his lower face, then with a slight, curling wince, it settles on his eyes.
Mark stares down at her breathlessly, body rigid with anxious excitement. It feels like he's in a fuzzy dream on the fringes of unconsciousness, and if he moves even an inch, it'll slip away.
“Mom?”
She exhales heavily, eyes fluttering shut. “I'm sorry, Mark. I just… you have to understand that it isn't you. Not really. I just…” She waves a hand in the air. “I need time… to adjust.”
He just keeps staring for a few moments, then starts, realising she's waiting for a reply. “Uh… yeah! Yeah, of course. Time. No problem.”
Her smile this time is warmer, a fraction closer to the radiance he remembers. “Thank you, Mark. You really are a sweet boy.”
Mark's lips tick up in the corners absent-mindedly. He feels like he isn't really here; he's struggling to make sense of this interaction in the context of what his life has become. He knows he should be happy—Mom doesn't hate him, which is more than he expected—but there's still a feeling of disquiet crawling underneath his flesh, like wriggling maggots. He just… he doesn't feel right.
He hasn't, ever since that day. Probably won't ever again.
He knows he shouldn't push his luck with his Mom, but…
“Can I—” he cuts himself off, cheeks burning with shame at the cracks in his voice. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Can you, um… hug me?”
Debbie’s eyes widen, and for a fraction of a second, Mark can see his Mom in their inky depths again. But then it’s gone, and her lips tighten just slightly in the corners.
It shouldn’t, but the disappointment hits Mark hard, sitting like stone in his gut. He swallows hard. “Uh—sorry, Mom, you don’t have to if… if you’re not ready…”
“No,” she assures, lips stretching into a plastic smile. “No, it’s okay. Of course I’ll hug you, Mark.”
“Oh. Okay.” Mark reaches his arms towards her, but then thinks better of it. He shrinks into himself. “Uh… thank you.”
Her smile wavering, Debbie reaches her arms agonisingly slowly towards Mark’s shoulders. He can see the violent trembles that rack them, but her movements don’t slow; after a few tense, heart-stopping seconds, her arms make contact with his shoulders. Another second, and then they tighten, pulling him in.
Not as close as they used to, but close enough to make Mark’s eyes prickle with tears. All of his resolve flees him as his Mom holds him, and he buries his face into her neck, ignoring the shiver that goes through her. “I missed you, Mom,” he breathes hoarsely, muffled by her skin. “I… I love you.”
A pause; a sharp intake of breath. “I love you too, Mark.” Her words are empty. “I always will.”
Mark knows she’s lying; he can hear it in the way her heartbeat skips a few steps. But he holds her close anyway, and breathes in her scent, relishing in it. This might be the last time Mark gets to hug his Mom. So even if he can feel her lithe frame shaking like a leaf, even if he can hear her trembling breaths, Mark pretends that this is normal.
Maybe if he keeps pretending, one day it will be.