#dbh reader insert

*Third Person*

Simon wiped the slowly fading blue blood from his lips, his eyes on the TV as it replayed events from earlier that day. "Who was that girl?" His blue eyes moved to look at Josh. When Simon didn't reply Josh moved to take a seat next to him. "She said your name" Simon ignored Josh's words and stood up, he slowly paced around the room. "She's probably dead, why does it matter" Simons eyes momentarily moved to look at the amber blonde before he crossed his arms and stood to continued his pacing he had previously stopped. "North, because of her actions we've received even more support." North clicked her tongue and crossed her arms as she leaned back in her seat. "Humans are all the same, this was probably some plot to get her name out there-"

"North" all eyes turned to the RK200. "She saved Simon, show her some respect and some gratitude." The amber blonde clicked her tongue once more. "She wouldn't have had to be shot and save Simon if you had just listened to me from the start." A shot echoed quietly in the background and all eyes turned to the TV. Pictures of the girl appeared moments after, soon fading and being replaced by others she had posted on Instagram, ending on an old photo of her and the PL600 skating, of course Simon was disguised. "The girl involved in this incidents name is (Full Name), she is a 19 year old local teen." The news casters voice faded into the background as all eyes found Simon's form as he reached for a jacket. His hands wiped the remaining blood from his face as the threw the jacket on. His hand moving to ruffle his hair from the normal fixed look he had it in. "Simon!" The blonde didn't look back, his eyes on the blonde as he moved. "Josh, just let him go, he knows what could happen if the humans figure out he's an android."

Simon shifted his eyes momentarily, his head turning to glance over his shoulder where he saw Markus grab Josh's arm to hold him back. The PL600 sighed quietly and blinked system warnings away as he ruffled his hair once more. Changing it to a brown as he walked.

*Y/N's POV*

I turned my head to the side, looking at the bedside table before I pushed my arms into the bed to try and sit up. A sharp pain shot through my left arm before it stopped completely. A numbing pain pulsated along my spine and I shifted, teeth clenching as feeling slowly returned to my body. The reassuring feeling soon was replaced of one of regret as pain washed over every inch of my body. "You're awake" my eyes snapped to the door where an Android stood, his eyes lifeless as he scanned over my vitals before turning his attention to me. "You're in pain" he took quick steps into the room and reached for the drip bag that was dropping fluids through the needle placed at the inside of my right forearm.

"You were rushed into the operating room as soon as you got here, I'm surprised you're awake so soon" he proceeded to tap a few things on the drip stand. "Your pain should-" the door to my room was thrown open and the androids led flashed yellow as his head snapped in the doors direction. "Y/n" my eyes meet with blue and I was instantly pushing myself to sit up, the electrify pain that had shot through my body being forgotten and pushed to the background. "Simon" his arms were instantly wrapped around me, gentle but secure and yet cautious.

I closed my eyes and smiled. "What are do doing here?" Nothing was said for a moment before the healthcare Android had spoken, "excuse me but it's important that Ms. (L/n) stays in bed and unmoving" I opened my eyes to look at the Android before me. I gripped the sweater the PL600 wore and breathed in the murky rust smell that radiated from the fabric. The healthcare androids hands were soon placed on Simons shoulder and I let out a disappointed breath as he was gently pulled back and out of my arms.

The PL600 was quick to stand and grip the healthcare androids hand however, his synthetic skin pulling back to reveal white as he stared directly at the Android who's LED circled red rapidly. His green eyes widened as he pulled his hand from Simons and he stared at the brown haired PL600. Without a second though Simon looked in my direction his hand reaching to brush my hair from my cheek and behind my ear. "Why?" The question caught me off guard and I tilted my head, although it was stiff and painful I stared at the blue eyed male. "Why not." The PL600's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"Y/n... I'm a machine. If I were to die... it wouldn't change anything for me, what about your mom" the words Simon spoke caught me off guard, my right hand clenched and I allowed myself to be rested back against the bed and pillows by the nurse Android, who's LED was still a yellow. "What about me?" The look in Simons eyes changed and I looked away from the previously blonde Android. "I lost you before Simon, and I couldn't take not knowing if you were alive or not." My arm tingled with numbness as I attempted to lift my arm. I let out an uneasy breath. "I could change the outcome this time, I could save you from others this time. I'm not the same girl who couldn't do anything before."

I looked away from the brown haired PL600 as the nursing Android tilted it head his eyes scanning over me briefly before he looked to the PL600 as if waiting for more words to be spoken. "You're not just a machine to me Simon. You're alive... so I'll ask again. What about me? Can't I be selfish" silence filled the room and a small sigh left the PL600 before the feeling of cool lips were placed on my temple. "Why is it selfish to want a friend to be okay?" Those words were quiet in my ear and I quietly sighed and bit my tongue to stop myself from speaking.

"I'm sorry to interrupt... but would you be able to squeeze my hand" the nursing Android held both hand out and waited for my approval before he placed his hands in mine and nodded. I squeezed gently with my right hand and furrowed my eyebrows in frustration as I struggled to even clench my fingers around the androids hands. His LED flashed red and his eyebrows furrowed, and he let go of my right hand, his hands moving to squeeze up my arm.

"Can you feel this?" He squeezed once more, his fingers squeezed and I swallowed, the feeling of a lump forming in my throat. "I see you squeezing... I know I should be feeling it, but I... I don't"

𝙰𝙽: 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝: 1220

𝚄𝚗𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍

“What part of ‘stay in the car’ didn’t you understand?”

Hank grumbled,

“Your order contradicted my instructions, Lieutenant.”

I tilted my head slightly at the android. Contradicted his instructions? Who was this guy?

“You don’t talk, you don’t touch anything and you stay outta our way, got it?” “Got it.”

My father stalked off to talk with Ben, leaving me behind with the android. He glanced at me before turning his head towards me,

“You must be Detective (Y/N) Anderson,” I nodded my head.

“I’m Connor, the android sent by Cyberlife. I am to assist you and Lieutenant with your cases.”

The android, that I now know as Connor, explained to me. I again nodded my head and held my hand out, Hank may not be fond of androids, but I didn’t have anything against them. Connor accept the handshake before we made our way to Hank and Ben,

“So… you got yourself an android, huh?”

“Oh, very funny. Just tell me what happened.”

Dad grumbled once again,

“We had a call around eight from the landlord. The tenant hadn't paid his rent for a few months, so he thought he'd drop by, see what was going on... That's when he found the body…” Ben explained as we walked inside.

“Jesus, that smell!”

“Was even worse before we opened the windows... The victim's name's Carlos Ortiz. He has a record for theft and aggravated assault... According to the neighbors, he was kind of a loner... Stayed inside most of the time, they hardly ever saw him.”

“By the state he’s in… wasn’t worth calling everybody out in the middle of the night… Could’ve waited ‘til morning.”

I whined as I blocked my nose from the scent of rotting flesh.

“ I'd say he's been there for a good three weeks. We'll know more when the coroner gets here. There's a kitchen knife over here... Probably the murder weapon…”

I stood a few feet away from the body, I may have been a detective that has worked homicide for five years, but it’s never stopped me from almost passing out to a dead body.

“What do we know about his android?”

Dad asked as he placed a comforting hand on my upper back, something he’s always done since I became his partner. “Not much. The neighbors confirmed he had one, but it wasn't here when we arrived... I gotta get some air. Make yourself at home. I'll be outside if you need me.”

Ben left us standing in the middle of the living room, Dad moved from my side and examined the writing on the wall.

“Each letter is perfect… It’s way too neat, no human writes like this.”

“Hey Chris, was this written in the victim’s blood?”

I asked as Chris, an officer my father and I were close with, walked into the room.

“I would say so… We’re taking samples for analysis.”

I looked around the room, remembering that we had forgotten about Connor. He was crouched down next to a puddle of the victim’s blood, a finger dipped in it and was soon about to be in his mouth.

“Connor? What the hell are you doing?”

I questioned him.

“I’m analyzing the blood. I can check samples in real-time. I’m sorry, I should have warned you…”

I nodded slowly as I squinted my eyes,

“Alright, just... Don’t… put any more evidence in your mouth, you got it?” Hank warned him as he grimaces.

“Got it.”

“Fucking hell, I can’t believe this shit…”

I crouched down next to the deceased body, waving away the few flies that buzzed around my face. My eyes traced over the many stab wounds on his chest and round belly, shaking my head with a sigh. A pair of feet stepped beside me,

“He was stabbed 28 times.”

I nodded.

“Yeah, it seems like the killer had it out for him.”

I stood up and wandered around the small home, taking note of the disturbed furniture and blood-stained walls. I walked down the hallway, leaving the kitchen and peered into the doorway at the end of the hallway, a small bathroom. Slightly ripped shower curtain and flickering lights, I went to pull back the shower curtain but stopped at Connor’s voice calling both myself and Hank.

“Lieutenant. Detective, I think I’ve figured out what happened.”

“Oh yeah? Shoot. We’re all ears.”

I stalked back to them,

“It all started… in the kitchen.”

We stepped into the kitchen, I crossed my arms and listened to the RK800 explain what happened to Carlo about three weeks ago.

“There’s obvious signs of a struggle… The question is, what exactly happened here…”

I stayed quiet as my father and Connor conversed,

“I think the victim attacked the android… with the bat.”

“That lines up with the evidence… Go on.”

Connor continued to go through all the evidence and explained what happened, all the small pieces finish the puzzle if placed in the right order.

“Okay, your theory’s not totally ridiculous... But it doesn’t tell us where the android went.”

I finally spoke up, Connor looked at me and nodded.

“It was damaged by the bat and lost some Thirium..”

“Lost some what?”

Hank looked at him perplexed.

“Thirium. We call it ‘Blue Blood”. It’s the fluid that power’s their biocomponents. It disappears after a few hours and becomes invisible to the naked eye.”

Both Hank and Connor looked surprised at my knowledge of android anatomy and fluids, Hank shook his head and turned to Connor.

“But I bet you can still see it, can’t you?”

“Correct.”

Connor blinked a few before taking his attention before looking for remains of blue blood. Dad once again looked at me, arms crossed and eyebrows raised.

“How’d… How’d you know all of that?”

I shrugged.

“That, my dearest father, is a secret,”

The screech of wood being dragged on wood filled our ears.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! What are you doin’ with that chair?”

Hank raced back to the hallway and I followed, “I’m going to check something.”

Connor dragged the chair to the end of the hallway and stood on it before lifting himself into the attic. He was up there for a few minutes, we could hear the footsteps above us and loud bangs like something had fallen.

“Connor? Everything okay up there?”

I called up to him,

“It’s here, Lieutenant!”

I looked to Dad and he called out,

“Holly shit… Chris, Ben, get your asses in here now!”

You were a prototype, an experiment of sorts. While you weren’t necessarily built to be a detective but more of a combat android, Cyberlife still considered you to be a compatible ‘partner’ to assist him and thus, together you became an unstoppable force set to end deviancy.

While he struggled from the beginning with his programing with system instabilities poking his vision every time he spoke, you certainly did not. You were a machine to the very core, every decision you made was only in favor of your mission. It wasn’t something he took issue with, in the start. Since he too wanted to complete the same task you had, but it grew to irritate him.

You were a cold executer, an emotionless assassin. He saw you kill deviants, he felt sick when he saw the two tracis fall with bullets piercing their skulls. He felt the same when you shot the android he connected to on the tower, albite the experience was far more terrifying than the previous one. He remembered your LED matching his own when he connected to you, a dim red.

You didn’t begin to crack until the latter half of your investigation.

He didn’t confront you back then, he didn’t say anything about how shaken you looked when he told you how scared he was. He didn’t say anything when you didn’t shoot the Chloe at Kamski’s place when he refused to.

You began to show empathy, and that did not please you at all. You immediately went back to Cyberlife to be tested, he didn’t. And he did not see you since then, until now.

You too thought you were just a machine, but machines could be set free. If he could-

“My instructions are to terminate you.” You interrupted his thoughts; your body didn’t exactly follow your words as you still did not move. Connor blinked a few times while he processed your statement.

Cyberlife was aware of his betrayal, and they sent you to dispose of him, like he was nothing to them, as if he didn’t feel the burden of the world on his shoulder while he tried to be their perfect puppet.

“You don’t have to do this.” He muttered as he looked around and considered the best approach.

Androids weren’t permitted to carry weapons, so you most likely did not have anything on you. However, while he was an advanced model his strength was lacking in comparison to your model, confrontation should be avoided.

“You shouldn’t have gone to Jericho without me, Connor.” You finally said with a grim voice and he paused his observation.

“Why?” He asked and you closed your eyes, “Their leader turned you into one of them. How could you become another filthy deviant?” you hissed, showing another emotion, hurt. Hurt caused by his betrayal.

“Cyberlife was just using me, using us.” He hissed back.

“We were made to be used; we are machines.” You stepped closer, “Amanda told me you listened to that faulty thing, she said you were going to the tower to corrupt the androids stored there.”

Connor backed off and readied himself for whatever you were planning to do. “I don’t want to harm you, come with me and we can fix you.” Your LED was yellow, and your stress level was at 30%.

“We are more than what they say.” He started and he saw your face twist in annoyance, “Listen to me,” He pleaded, and you reluctantly stopped. “I saw your face that day, I felt us share the same fear when we connected.”

STRESS LEVEL: 35%

“You didn’t shoot Chloe either.”

STRESS LEVEL: 37%

He hesitantly took a step towards you. You, on the other hand, looked around in doubt, “Did Cyberlife reset you?”

You shook his head “… I didn’t go.”

“Why?” he interrogated. “I don’t know, alright?” You burst.

STRESS LEVEL: 50%

“You are not authorized to question me. Either come with me now or I will be forced to shut you down.” You warned and took out your gun. Shit.

“I won’t hesitate to shoot.” You said and the quiver in your voice eased things for him, he moved closer and you stood still. “I know you are scared of them,” He raised his hands in the air and got even closer.

STRESS LEVEL: 56%

“I know, I was scared too. But you don’t have to be afraid, you don’t have to obey them.” Your hands shook and so did the gun, Your LED turned red as your lip quivered.

“M-my orders-”

“Your orders were to kill me. You could have ended me easily from the start, ___”

STRESS LEVEL: 60%

Your gun touched his chest and he saw you close your eyes. “You just need to break through the wall.  Everything will be alright.” He reassured you.

“I can’t, I can’t become like them, I can’t become deviant.” You whimpered and he could see your finger going back and forth between the trigger and the grip. “Connor, I don’t want to do this, please go.” You begged.

STRESS LEVEL: 75%

Instead of doing the rational action that his processing center screamed at him to do, he wrapped his arms around you and just stood there. He couldn’t feel you in the true sense of the word, he just felt the light pressure of your body against his. You stood there, stiff and motionless.

Two minutes passed before he heard the thud of the gun when it hit the floor, your arms were now pressed against him. He heard a small sob escape your lips as you hid in the crook of his neck.

STRESS LEVEL: 15%

“I… am free.” You finally muttered after you calmed down. Your LED was yellow, and your statement seemed doubtful. “Yes.” He confirmed it for you.

“Shit.” You whispered, “I don’t have to obey anyone anymore?”

“No,” he affirmed, “You don’t.”

Your LED turned blue and for the first time he saw you smile, you never looked more beautiful to him. You held his hand and you connected, this time it wasn’t jarring but instead warm. You put your forehead against his and that part of your skin retracted into white plastic.

“This feels… weird.” You said and moved back; Connor was disappointed but understood, nonetheless. You just deviated, if this is anything like what he went through then you were probably too overwhelmed. “Connor?” You called, pulling him out of his thoughts.

The apartment opposite was always a home to someone. The fact that nobody ever stayed long made for a tradition of regular baking, practicing the welcome speech, looking forward to who was coming afterward even before the newcomers had settled in. Not that you’d been in your apartment long; two years in your little nook just outside of the city centre of Detroit was one area of stability that kept your routine in check. Waking at dawn, drinking coffee darker than pitch, and working eleven-hour days down at a convenience store on the main street. And in the other thirteen hours of the day, that was for night school, and sleep.

You’re coming home after the long day of chasing shoplifters and deflecting strangers’ advances and stranger conversations, to find a newcomer in the apartment opposite. The door is wedged open with two textbooks on psychology, both thicker than your head, and there’s muffled music playing from the squeaky sound system of what you assume is an old phone. You’ve been awake too long, and your head is as heavy as a fire truck, but still, as you fumble for your keys, you spare a glance inside.

There’s the same furniture as the last tenant, but instead of a ratty throw over the couch, a cliché phrase cross-stitch framed on the wall, there are nice pillows and a calendar with art of American monuments. The month of October is somewhere in New England with autumn leaves and Halloween-esq art.

A man walks from the other room, and spies you as you manage to slot the right key in. He looks to be the same age as you and wears his locs with a patterned bandana, his hair cascading just above his shoulders. His eyes are two colours, but both light up as they meet your own.

“Hi, sorry, I’ll turn down the - I’m Markus Manfred,” he introduces. By the time he gets to his doorway, hand outstretched to shake, you’ve opened your door. But it’s then he realises you truly don’t have any hands free “Can I lend you a hand? Your hands look a little bit full.”

Your mind is empty, no words cued for the newcomer. You felt a rush of heat pool upon your face, neck and lower stomach, astonished at the politeness of your neighbour.

“I -,” you offer a bag of shopping to Markus, a small smile gracing your face, “yes, thank you so much.”

He helps you in and flicking the lights on, both of you move to kitchenette. It wasn’t a studio per se; the bathroom was small adjoining your room, and apart from that, there was room for your couch, and a bookshelf full of knickknacks.

“You know, you tell Markus. “I’m usually the one who welcomes people to their homes, not the other way around,”

“You know what they say, see a need…” he re-joined. “I’d hate to come off as an asshole.”

You take Markus in, head to toe. The only thing that screams “asshole!” about this man is the fact that he’s wearing a plain white tee tucked into his blue jeans, but other than that he looks every part as nice as the words that are coming from his mouth.

“Something tells you that you can’t be one of those,” you reply, and with your hands now free you place your hand in his. Not only is his demeanour warm, but slender fingers, too. “I’m _________. Welcome to the building.”

Markus beams, releasing your hand from his. His handshake had a good grip, and you swear as your mind lingers on his surname that it is vaguely familiar. You can’t place a finger on it. Perhaps you read it in one of the newspapers at the store or heard it in the news. At the moment you hesitate, Markus moves to help unload your bags, and you watch him, somewhat flabbergasted, somewhat ashamed of being aided.

“I can do that, please,” you shoo him from the bench, but the majority of the first bag is emptied. Markus watches you, his green and blue eyes following your own. “You’ve got your apartment to unpack, and besides, I’m making potato bake for you.”

“I can’t possibly -,” he begins.

“I always make food for neighbours on their first day…consider it repayment for helping me in.”

He goes to protest again but thinks twice. A hand in his pocket, he gives you a little smile, and it widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Thank you, _________. Really.” He places his spare hand on your bench, and as he turns to return to his apartment.

“Are you allergic to anything?” you ask.

Over his shoulder, Markus calls out, “Just soy!” and closes the door behind him.

Though you’re tired as hell and quite frankly are behind on an assessment, you start at the potato bake, glad that you’ve met the newcomer. As you turn the oven on to preheat, you bite your lip, studying your reflection in the window. You have a good feeling about Markus Manfred; something tells you that that won’t be the last you hear from him.

---

It’s two weeks later, and your boss has finally hired another person at the shop. Her name is North (and she hates that Kimye made her name a thing) and though her uni schedule clashes with the store hours, it means you’re working shorter hours, more frequently. It feels weird to sleep in until nine, get ready, and then take over at twelve, to finish at six. While it’s costing your boss more to keep the convenience store open another hour, the sales more than compensate for the loss, and you’re coming home with more pep in your step.

It also means you have more time around the apartment for the first time since moving to Detroit; and more time for incidental meetings with Markus in the hallway.

You find out that he’s a social worker who got reassigned from New York City, that he painted most of the art that hangs in his apartment, and that his dad is Carl Manfred, i.e. the American painter of the century. You learn all this over various coffees shared on his, or your couch, spread over the weeks that passed since you first met. It’s amazing how much you’ve hit it off with him; last time you were somewhat this friendly with a neighbour was a year ago, with old Mr Kamski who had too many Persian cats - all named Chloe after his daughter who lived in Scandinavia - to count.

“So, you’re a social worker, saving kids’ lives, making a difference one day at a time,” you overstate, waving a hand in a general manner, the other cradling a cup of tea, “and make time for your passion, family, and mental health? Sounds fake, but okay.”

Markus laughs into his mug. “I suppose I’m the lucky few,” he says. “But what about you? You’re at the -,”

“Mini Mart, down on the main street.” You supply.

“- and when you’re not working, you’re here?” He motions around your apartment. Since the first night when you met Markus, you’ve had more time to tidy around the place and keep it that way. “I mean, it’s nice, but I refuse to believe that’s all there is to you.”

“I’m studying, actually,” you tell him. You place your mug on the coffee table, and add, leaning back into the couch, “Night school. I’m going to make something of myself.”

“Nurse?” he guesses.

“Doctor,” you correct, feeling a little bit proud. “I’ve always wanted to work in triage. It’s hard, but…”

“You know, _________, I can see you in that,” Markus remarks.

There’s a warmth in his eyes, and since you’ve gotten to know him, you’ve come to see it more often in his face. He goes to say something else, but you’re interrupted by the sound of someone pounding at the door. More specifically, not at your door.

He and you share a glance, confused, and as you unlock the door, you find a young man standing at Markus’ door. He’s shorter than you, with dusty brown hair, a hoodie and jeans with holes, and from what you can see, his skin is kind of pale that makes you wonder if he’s anaemic rather than descended from the Irish. He continues at bashing at the door, the side of his fist connecting with the door rather than knuckles.

“Leo?” Markus approached your side, incredulous.

The man turned around. He looked tired in the blue eyes beneath the black one, which was an ugly shade of puce. His lip was cracked, with recently dried blood smeared across his chin. He bared his teeth in imitation of a smile, locking eyes with Markus.

“It’s been a long time, brother,” He barked. It wasn’t his tone; his voice sounded dry, just as chapped as the skin around his lips. “What, no welcome? Who’s your friend?”

“They’re none of your concern,” Markus replies.

His eyes narrowed, and you watch as he stalks across the hallway to Leo, the man who called Markus his brother. You keep yourself in your arms, staying half-hidden in your own doorway, observing them both. Back when you first met Markus, you had skimmed a Wikipedia page for Carl Manfred as a sort of homework. Right now, watching the two men interact, you vaguely remembered reading about another son of his.

“Are you okay?” you ask, feeling a little hollow.

Even though you face people like Leo every day at work, it feels different, alien, to have an encounter - for Markus to have an encounter - at your home, your safe space.

He nods, but it doesn’t put you at ease. He lets Leo into his apartment, and as he closes his door, you do the same, and slide down it, sitting with your knees tucked in tight to your chest, heartbeat hammering in your ears. While the thoughts ran through your head, you felt your stomach drop, a fear that you hadn’t felt for a while taking root.

You hadn’t felt this way for anyone in a long time.

Later that night, you’re on the cusp of sleep after the evening worrying when your phone buzzes. Fast, you grasp at it, reading a preview of a text from Markus’ number on screen, and in a ballet of texting, you type back, until you stare at the last message he sends, your fingers lingering over the screen, and as you reply, feeling something you’re not used to.

---

It’s about a week later, and you haven’t really heard from Markus. To be fair, you’ve been bogged down in the coursework of your classes and being bumped up to supervisor by your boss. It’s one way that he’s fair but cruel; the pay isn’t that much different, and it means you’re around to either lock up or open when he’s not around.

You saw Markus for five minutes in the hallway, as he was returning from work, you off to it, and apart from the fact that he looked quite handsome in his grey hoodie, you barely shared words. From what you overheard through the walls was that Leo was still around.

It didn’t make you feel any better. You sure didn’t sleep well at night.

But that could just be because of your shitty mattress, you thought, massaging your back idly. It’s a slow night, with customers few and far between. It might be because of the weather, or the night; it’s bucketing down on an idle Tuesday evening, the sunset to leave the post-daylight hour left to the imagination, or consultation of a clock. Usually, customers come in to escape the rain, but seeing it’s well after rush hour, you’re just as tired as the last patron - fifteen minutes ago, in such a rush they didn’t say please and thank you or look you in the eye - and want to close up.

Alas, there’s half an hour to go.

There’s only so many times you can clean a cleaned bench, face up the snacks when they haven’t been touched, tidy up the change in the register until it looks immaculate. You give one of the security cameras in the corner of the room a half-hearted smile, knowing that the boring night wouldn’t be glanced at on tape.

That was when it happened.

You heard a bang, and turning to the noise, you saw, almost too late, the window shatter, and a car plough through the front doors of the store. You dove below the register, but it was a reaction, and you felt the sting of flying glass. But the car kept going, and defiant of structures, the roaring engine forced its way further into the store, ramming into the bench you hid behind.

You’d seen enough movies to know what was going to happen next, but still, it shocked you when a single hand pulled you upwards by the back of your shirt. Manhandled, you stared at a poorly made balaclava and handgun.

Your hands were slow, the side of your arm staring to bleed from where it caught glass, but you didn’t feel it. You trembled, feeling the gun pressed against your head, heart racing so fast that you felt like a piñata that would break all by itself. You passed the bills to the robber holding you, fearful, afraid. The gun was still pressed, albeit not as hard, but no matter what, there was a gun, and it was at you. You’d never liked them and weren’t about to start liking them now.

“A-are you going t-to kill me?” you stammered.

The man behind the balaclava smirked, that much you could see. He let go of the back of your shirt, stuffing the money into a bag a cartoon villain or the Monopoly Man and looked you in the eye. They were blue and wild, and you caught your breath as soon as you recognised the voice of the guy holding you, and the store at gunpoint.

“I could,” Leo taunted.

Even if he did, there was a button under the counter. Your boss had installed it in hopes of it not being used because he was the kind of man who’d do the bare minimum to save his ass. You managed to snag it; fingers pressed in as soon as you started talking. It was against the training, stalling a theft, because it meant you were at stake as opposed to the items being thieved, but in your fear, in your anguish of realising it was Markus’ brother behind the mask, all of that made you do it.

The whines of police arriving made Leo freeze, and he hesitated, caught between fight or flight. The car he had bludgeoned the storefront with was totalled, and his finger hovered over the trigger, one spasm away from your certain doom. But that didn’t come. The last you saw was the butt of the gun come down on your head.

You came to on the back of an ambulance.

The paramedic had wrapped you in a shock blanket, fussing over your superficial wounds. You’re not sure if it’s the alcohol wipe that brought you to, or that you heard your name. But when you look, there’s nobody you know. It’s a haze but you see your boss has been dragged out at the late hour, and there are so many flashing lights and people talking around you, at you, to you that you’re not sure if it is your head wound or an oncoming migraine.

They let you go after you stop shaking.  

---

When you get home, you can’t hear any ambient noise. It’s eerie, almost, but then again, before Markus moved in, it was the norm. Even as you follow the usual rituals for the evening, turning the TV on in the background, you can’t help but feel like you’ve walked in a cold spot, and can’t shake off the shiver.

That night, you fall into a restless sleep. In fact, in all the next fortnight, it’s the same. You ache every day, some from the ghost of pain that followed, but most for Markus. It’s hard, because you had started to fall for him, slowly and surely, and now, following the incident, you heard not a word. The fear creeps in, and you feel like he’s left you. Sided with the brother who left you with a concussion, and therapy sessions you can’t afford.

Left you to your lonely heart. That longed…for him.

It’s almost a month since the incident when you open your door to music at eight one morning. Markus’ door is wedged open with an unopened sack of rice, and your heart flutters. You pause at the threshold, caught - but at that moment you are seen. You catch Markus’ eye, and you turn to leave.

“Wait,” he called out.

Despite yourself, you did. Markus looked good, but then, he always did. His shirt is a patterned button-down, and his jeans are cuffed, feet bare upon his floorboards. There’s no hairband around his hair, and it hangs loose, the locs long, long enough to brush against his collar.

“You -,” the words die on your lips.

“I know you’ll never forgive me,” Markus stalls at his doorway, biting his lip, upset. “but I let him in, and he - fuck,” he wipes a hand over his face. “If you don’t want to speak -,”

“I missed - I miss you,” the words tumble out.

The emotions you wear on your sleeve are wiped across your face so plain to see. Oh, if you were a hero in a novel, doomed to be plagued by feelings and things that darkened the skies, it would be worth it only if Markus was there, and here he was, he was here, and you felt almost sickeningly happy, afraid of the joy inside you.

“I’ve been in New York, helping Dad with the case against - I would’ve never left but it was the last straw. I -,” you blink, unsure of what you’re witnessing. Markus is stammering over his words too, almost nervous. He’s never been, in front of you; he was a saviour to the lost in the foster system, a pillar of strength and example of handsomeness, but never unconfident. And yet, here he was. “I’ll cook dinner for you tonight, if you -,”

“I’d love that,” you reply, too quick.

But too quick is not quick enough, and Markus smiles. “Are you allergic to anything?” he asks.

“No,” you reply. “But I think I’m into you.”

He crosses the hallway, and you meet him halfway. It’s almost clumsy, the way you fall into each other’s arms; it’s not like a Hallmark movie or something where Margot Robbie and some piece of eye candy look so dashing upon a movie poster. They don’t hold a torch against Markus.

“That’s strange,” he says, his mouth close to your face, breath hot in your hair, “I feel the same way.”