#mark writes

The flurry in his mind is nothing more than memories, coming in quick flashes, sometimes too fast for him to ever process; despite that, he knows exactly what he’s seeing behind his eyelids.

The warm eyes that he had come to see as kind, once upon a time. A familiar voice, though it sounds faint, almost muffled and underwater in his memories.

That horrible texture of the skin under his fingers. Everything is always simple visual and auditory memory, until this moment. The realization of whose skin that was — whose skin that should have been — always brings a new sensation.

That same feeling of raw, fresh fear, mixed with a dreaded sense of misery and hopelessness. Despite their short time together, they seemed to click. Everything was a perfect fit. It all seemed to work.

Zeke raises his hands to his face, immediately placing his palms over his eyes as he grits his teeth.

Why — why must his brain torture him with the constantly replays, the constant want and need to see him? None of this was ethical.

His life was nowhere near normal — nor ethical — anymore. So, why should he care?

The detective stands up, letting out a groan as his back pops. He thinks about it long enough to wonder if he’s really getting that old. He knows he isn’t.

Grabbing his coat, Zeke slips on arm through a sleeve as he grabs his keys off of the table near his door, walking out. He’s not planning on going far, but he carefully secures the door, anyway.

Bounding down the hallway, he manages to fight his right arm into its sleeve, pulling the coat up over his shoulders. It feels looser than usual, no shoulder holster to take up space.

Zeke notes that he feels a bit naked without it, but he’s only going downstairs. He should be fine. William — no, he refuses to think of him by name — that monster should be nowhere near his apartment. He’s not that stupid. Is he?

No, this cat-and-mouse game has gone on for months, reaching a year by the end of the next month. He isn’t anywhere near that stupid.

In his train of thought, Zeke doesn’t realize how fast he’s made it to the lobby, his destination. He slips past a small group of neighbors having a friendly, even joyful, conversation, with a barely muttered “excuse me.”

His keys jingle in his hand as he shakes the keyring, trying to shuffle through them to the key of his mailbox. He manages to select the correct one, fixing his grasp on it between his fingers as he unlocks the mailbox.

Such a simple action puts him on edge. The ‘gifts’ left for him still haunt him. They always will, he thinks, though he hates to imagine it.

Zeke’s breath catches in his throat as he sees a small package in his mailbox. He hasn’t ordered anything. He started to reach for his phone, but what’s he going to do? Call for help?

They’d laugh. Call him paranoid. Tell him that Schenk was gone, moved away, not to be seen or heard from again.

In that moment, Zeke felt completely and utterly alone.

Chest tight, he struggles to take a few breaths, and slowly glances around. It feels as if time is slowed; but just on the other side of the lobby windows, the sun is shining, the cars passing by as if everything is normal.

Zeke wonders for a brief moment if Schenk is inside one of those cars. Maybe he’s inside the white Chevrolet Suburban that just drove westbound, or he could be in that midnight blue Mazda 3 that was going eastbound.

Or maybe he isn’t here at all, right, Zeke?

Why would Schenk be here, again? Why would he be near the one person who saw him for what he is?

A blonde female in the small group of neighbors turns her head to look at the detective, a quizzical look in her bright eyes. She seems to want to ask him if he’s okay, and such a sentiment is enough to snap Zeke out of his thoughts.

He grabs the package, the action too quick for him to talk himself out of it, practically slamming the mailbox shut before pulling his keys out and walking past the group once again.

This time, they fall silent, a few stepping away to give him space. He does brush arms with the blonde, who still looks to him as if she wants to say something, but Zeke runs up the stairs to his floor before she can.

He needs to open this package. Suddenly, it feels as if his life depends on it. He stares at it, noting that there is no return address, no postage stamp or label.

Just a handwritten name;

Detective Banks.

Looking up from the package, Zeke notes that the numbers before him, on the door, are not his apartment, but rather the apartment of his late father, and he ducks away. His feet are moving on their own, down the hall.

Struggling with his keys as he very carefully tucks the package under his left arm, as carefully as someone may handle a live bomb, the detective lets out a frustrated hiss as his keychain slips from his grasp, landing on the floor.

“God damnit-“ He crouches down, reaching for the keychain, but movement spotted out of the corner of his eye catches his attention.

Zeke instinctively jumps up, and he scrambles for his firearm, realizing that it’s not on his person. Again, the feeling of being vulnerable, exposed, is back.

His sidearm is in his apartment. His has no weapon to defend himself, only his fists.

Does he retreat inside his apartment with the package, or does he follow the person he saw?

He debates, knowing that there is no guarantee that what he thought he saw, just out of the corner of his eye, was really there.

After a moment, Zeke picks up his keys, and slowly, stepping very gingerly, walks down the hall, towards the location of the movement. It’s another stairwell, he knows.

He doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath, his grasp on the package under his arm suddenly much tighter, as he steps out to look at the stairwell leading to the next floor.

Nothing. There was no one there.

Zeke wonders if he’s going crazy. Maybe his paranoia, his lack of sleep, and everything else in his life is finally catching up.

He retreats back to his apartment, walking quickly as he finally manages to select his apartment key from his keyring. He slides the key into the lock, turning it and pushing the door open before pulling the key from the lock and shutting the door.

He, once again, is sure to secure the door behind him. His keys are dropped back onto the table, and he picks up his sidearm, holding the pistol in his right hand as he walks to his counter, setting the package down.

Zeke sets his pistol on the counter next to the package, carefully and hesitantly. Maybe this will, quite literally, blow up in his face. Would it be worth it?

In the back of his mind, if this is from Schenk, maybe it would be. Part of him feels as if he’d do anything to hear from that man, at least one more time.

He has the passing thought that he wishes he had taken Schenk up on the offer to be partners. He was going to, before his emotions clouded his judgement.

He grabs the sealed fold-over flap at the top of the packaging, slowly ripping it open. He tenses, pausing mid-tear to feel for any threads, any wires.

Zeke comes to the realization that the package is, likely, not rigged. None of the others had been.

William only wanted to kill the bad cops. He didn’t consider Zeke to be one, and Zeke knew that.

I have been loyal to you since the day we met; fifteen years ago.

… Is this a show of loyalty? To show that William hadn’t forgotten him?

Zeke, once more, grabs the fold-over flap, and completely tears it from the package, spilling the contents out onto the kitchen counter.

His breath catches as a badge falls from the package, skidding across the counter surface, a horrible sound of metal against faux marble.

Has it started again?

Pure fear courses through Zeke’s veins, and he grabs the badge as quickly as he can, raising it to peer at the badge number. It’s not one he’s familiar with, but he memorizes it. He needs to remember it.

He picks up the disc, in it’s own small sleeve, to protect it from scratches during transportation. There’s another handwritten message on the sleeve, though it’s not a name.

Miss me?

Zeke doesn’t notice as a faint, whispered “yes” escapes his lips, carefully removing the disc from the protective sleeve. He feels like a ghost as he walks towards his small, almost pathetic looking, television set.

His footsteps don’t sound out in his mind. He isn’t hearing himself. His feet feel as if he is floating, hovering just barely above the floor. All of this feels surreal.

He’s suddenly hopeful. Hopeful that William has come back for him.

He opens his DVD player, slipping the disc inside and closing it, focusing on the television screen, as it his entire life hinged on what he was shown.

His stomach twisted as the screen came to life, a smiling, thinner build man, dressed in a black coat, with that familiar red hood, seemed to peer at him, unseeing.

“William,” Zeke mutters, and his fingers twitch as if he wants to reach out, but there’s no one to touch, no one to hold. He is alone in this room.

The smile falters, and Zeke notices a hint of sadness in William’s eyes, which would possibly be hidden by the slight distortion of the video, if not for the fact that the man’s shoulders were down, almost as if he were slumping.

“Ezekiel… Zeke.” The video distorts, just a bit, and then clears up. “Oh, how long it has been. You’re still with the department, but they’ve turned their backs on you, even more than before, haven’t they?”

The detective casts his gaze downward, as if avoiding eye contact with a man who isn’t there.

“You’re loyal, you believe you can make a difference from where you are. I know that’s what you’re reaching for. Your goal.”

A small, bitter chuckle resounds from the man on the disc, and the recording once again distorts for a moment.

“I want to play a game, Zeke. I want you to find me. It shouldn’t be too hard. You still stop by the place sometimes, despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.”

Zeke’s head perks up, and he immediately stands, rushing to his coatrack to grab his shoulder holster, slipping it on under his coat.

“Come find me, Detective Banks.”

The detective rushes to the door, grabbing his keys and wallet, along with his badge, off of the table in his small makeshift foyer. Nothing can stop him, not now.

He rushes out the door, slamming it shut behind him. When he reaches the stairs, he hops on the railing, sliding down the side of the staircase.

The small group that was previously gathered in the lobby are now dispersed, though Zeke makes little notice of that fact as he exits the building.

Constantine Trains. It has to be that building, right? He stopped revisiting four months after William had vanished. He didn’t see a point in returning, but his trips there, he didn’t doubt that was what William was speaking of in the recording.

Zeke hops in his car, scrambling to put the key in the ignition and start the engine. When he does, he grabs his sunglasses from the overhead visor and slips them on before pulling out of the parking lot, peeling out onto the street as fast as he can.

It only takes a few minutes for Zeke to pull into the empty parking spaces that sit before the butcher shop that was previously known as Constantine Trains. It takes all his strength to not jump out of the running vehicle.

It feels like it takes ages for Zeke to put the vehicle out of gear and into neutral, pulling up the parking brake and shutting off the engine, pulling his keys from the ignition.

He opens the door and climbs out of the car. In his excitement, he never put on his seatbelt. Slamming the door shut, Zeke takes off running into the building, barely conscious of his sidearm hitting his ribs in its holster as he does.

Pulling off his sunglasses and hooking them on his shirt, Zeke rushes to the exact place that brings him so many memories, and so many overwhelming emotions.

Despite the vacancy of it and the memories that follow.

Pulling his pistol from the holster, the detective bursts into the room, and he has almost a wave of deja vu wash over him as he points his pistol in front of him, “Hands up-“ He commands.

But the room is empty.

A wave of disappointment and dread washes over Zeke, and he lets out a frustrated sigh, holstering his firearm before pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Is this really just a game? Is William toying with him? Why?

Didn’t William want to see him, too? The man had looked so sad in the recording, the thought that this all was a game of manipulation never crossed Zeke’s mind, despite knowing William’s true natures.

Hanging his head, Zeke leaves the building, now walking much slower than before. In all his excitement, he now felt let down. Not only did he feel let down, but he felt *embarrassed.*

He takes his time driving back to the apartment complex. There’s no rush this time, no excitement; the feeling of the tires on the asphalt as Zeke drives circles around the city are the only thing keeping his dread at bay.

He doesn’t make it home until eleven o’clock that night, his watch quietly ticking along the hours that he stayed away.

He enters the empty lobby, and then pauses, standing in the doorway as he stares at the mailbox, his eyes narrowing into a squint.

The package. His name, having been handwritten. No address, no shipping information.

Zeke stands straight up, suddenly, and his eyes widen. “Fuck.” He whispers. “You sneaky son of a bitch-“

William couldn’t have shipped the package, not without any postal stamps or addresses. He had to deliver it himself.

He was here.

The memories that follow.

Zeke’s head snaps to look at the staircase. Before he knows it, he’s running up the steps, pulling his pistol from the holster as he finds himself standing in the hallway, staring at the door to his father’s apartment.

Earlier today, he was standing in front of this very door, before he ever opened the package.

So close, and yet so far, this entire time.

William was right under his nose.

Zeke raises his left foot, letting out a grunt as he kicks the door next to the doorframe. He feels the wood immediately give way, and gives it another kick, falling forward into a crouched position as it opens, pointing the pistol into the room.

“William!” The detective shouts, raising an eyebrow. This is it, this should be it. But William isn’t before him. The room is empty, even bare of most furniture, only filled with barebones like the old recliner and loveseat.

Zeke brings himself to an upright position, slowly walking into the room, keeping his sidearm held tight in both hands. He hasn’t been here in months, but he notes the fact that there’s a trash bag in the garbage can near the doorway of the kitchen.

He walks into the living room, scanning the apartment. He goes to take a step, and as his foot hovers over the floorboards, he hears a familiar sound behind him.

Click.

The safety of a gun.

“Hands up, Zeke.”

Panic surges through Zeke’s veins, sent out by every nerve in his body. His urge is to fight, and before he can fight it, he drops his own firearm, turning around and grabbing the barrel of William’s nine millimeter, pointing it up towards the ceiling.

He was a brief moment to note that William’s finger was never on the trigger before the male gives him a sharp kick in the stomach. Zeke falls backwards, gasping for the air that’s been forced from his lungs.

“I don’t want to hurt you, damnit.” William states, and his voice is objective, almost emotionless, but there’s a small frown on his lips as Zeke lunges for him.

The man attempts to step to the side, the detective grabbing the hood of his jacket. A cough escapes William’s throat as Zeke smashes his head into the other’s nose, effectively cracking it to the side and conjuring a cloud of crimson from his nostrils.

“Shit-“ William hisses, hooking his leg behind Zeke’s and pulling back, causing the older to trip and fall backwards, his side hitting the arm of the couch. “Zeke, stop fucking fighting!”

William’s voice is raised, and for a moment they both freeze, staring at each other as they hold their breath. The last thing either of them needed was another resident of the complex hearing the commotion.

For once, the cops arriving here would not be the best idea.

Zeke stares up at William, bringing himself back to an upright position as he watches William wipe his hand under his nose.

The younger is breathing through his mouth, and Zeke realizes that in the struggle, of which William never even wanted, Zeke had broken his nose.

Pulling his sleeve over his hand, William presses the fabric to his bleeding nostrils, peering at Zeke through narrowed eyes.

He manages to let out a grim chuckle despite the pain coming in waves from his broken nose.

“Miss me?” He asks, and Zeke immediately thinks back to the exact words written on the sleeve of the disc.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Zeke approaches the younger man, grabbing William’s arm when he starts to step backwards.

“Don’t move, idiot.” Zeke says, grabbing the bridge of William’s nose. A small yelp escapes William’s lips as the detective snaps his nose back into place, but the rush of air to his lungs through his nostrils is something he’s thankful for.

The silence is awkward, but also somewhat comforting, after so long apart, not knowing what happened to the other.

When Zeke lets him go, William goes to the kitchen and walks back out with a wet washcloth, wiping the drying blood off of his face.

When William enters the room, he notes Zeke sitting on the recliner, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He peers up at William, who smiles at him, now as warm as it was when they first met.

“So, partner, where should we start?”

“Before we start, we need to talk.” Zeke says, in a hushed tone, as if he’s hesitant. This makes the younger tilt his head, and he walks over to the recliner, perching a seat on the arm.

“What’s on your mind, Zeke? Do you not want to do this?” William asks, a tone of apprehension in his voice.

Zeke shakes his head, and wraps an arm around William’s waist, conjuring a yelp from him as he’s pulled down from the recliner’s arm and into Zeke’s lap.

“I just think we should do this first.” Zeke says, his free hand gently grasping William’s chin before leaning in, barely brushing their lips together.

The action is a shock, a surprise, and William almost melts like butter in the elder’s grasp, one hand landing on Zeke’s chest as the other grasps the arm holding his chin.

Zeke lets out a hum as they pull away from each other, his stomach flipping a little.

So much for ethics.