#omni-mark

you hate winter. always have. it’s too quiet in the worst ways, too full of memories that cling like frost—cold hospital rooms, the hollow silence after sirens, the way grief settles like snow, heavy and suffocating. but nights like this? they make it worth it. if braving the cold means people get to go home safe, if it means kids get to keep laughing like that, then you’ll freeze on this rooftop every damn night.

stretching your arms above your head, you roll your shoulders, wincing as the cold stiffens your muscles. patrol’s been quiet tonight. too quiet. either a good sign or the calm before the storm.

"you’re slower than usual."

the voice cuts through the silence, smooth as ice, and you don’t even flinch. you’ve gotten used to him appearing out of nowhere—like a shadow given sentience, like the winter itself decided to take shape behind you. your lips quirk into a grin before you even turn around, your breath still fogging the air between you.

"or maybe you’re just getting faster," you shoot back, twisting to face him with a playful tilt of your head.

mark stands there, arms crossed, his red cape barely stirring in the frozen air. the black lenses of his mask give nothing away, but you don’t need to see his eyes to know he’s studying you—that slight tilt of his chin, the way his mouth twitches, just barely, like he’s caught between annoyance and something dangerously close to fondness.

you grin wider, just to see if you can pull that expression out of him again.

"doubtful," he says, but there’s no real bite to it—just that low, measured tone that always makes you want to poke at him until it cracks.

you hop down from the ledge, landing in a crouch before springing up lightly in front of him. the snow crunches under your boots as you straighten, already grinning, your breath a visible puff between you. "what, did you miss me?" you tease, leaning in just enough to invade his space—close enough to watch the way his mask tilts ever so slightly downward to track your movement. "couldn’t resist tagging along on my super thrilling patrol once again?" your voice lilts, all mischief, and you punctuate it with a wink, just to see if you can get a reaction. (you always can. it’s your favorite game.)

"i had nothing better to do," he replies, monotone as ever—but there it is, that tell: the faintest tilt of his head, the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides like he’s stopping himself from reaching out.

"uh-huh. sure. definitely," you draw out the word, slow and syrupy, just to watch his jaw tighten under the mask. you nudge his shoulder with yours as you pass, the contact lingering just a beat too long—his cape brushes against your arm, cold and smooth, but beneath it, you can feel the warmth of him. "well, since you’re here," you call over your shoulder, already breaking into a jog, "you can be my backup. try to keep up."

you don’t look back. you don’t need to. you already know he’s right behind you. you take off running, leaping across the gap to the next building. you don’t need to look back to know he’s right behind you—his presence is like a shadow, steady and inevitable.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

patrolling with mark is... different. not in the way it is with other heroes—no boisterous banter bouncing between fire escapes, no synchronized flips off billboards just for the thrill of it. when it was just you, nights were quieter, lonelier; just the hum of the city and your own breath fogging in the cold as you kept watch from shadowed ledges, a solitary guardian in the dark. you'd learned the rhythm of these streets alone—the way moonlight pooled in alleyways, the particular creak of that one fire escape on 5th, how silence could be either comforting or ominous depending on the hour.

but mark? he moves through the night like he owns it, all silent certainty and effortless power. he doesn't fill the spaces with jokes or pointless chatter, but his presence changes everything. where you used to weave through shadows, now you move through pools of streetlight unafraid. where silence used to sit heavy on your shoulders, now there's the quiet sound of his cape whispering against concrete when he lands beside you. he listens in that intense way of his—head tilted just so, like every word you say is being filed away somewhere important. and sometimes, when you say something particularly ridiculous (usually mid-swing between buildings), you catch it: that tiny quirk at the corner of his mouth, the barest hint of a smirk he thinks the dark hides. (it doesn't.)

you stop a mugging with your usual flair (minimal property damage this time, a new personal best), help a swaying drunk guy who squints up at you with bleary reverence—"you're either a tall an' really ripped angel or i died at the bar. both?"—and even rescue a hissing ball of fluff from a tree.

mark observes it all with his arms crossed, the picture of detached amusement, right up until the moment the terrified feline decides his shoulder is the safest perch in the city. the way he goes perfectly still—back rigid, fingers twitching like he's calculating sixteen different ways to remove the creature without looking like he's fleeing—makes him resemble some ancient statue of a very confused, very murderous saint. you press your lips together so hard they tremble, shoulders shaking with silent laughter you can't quite contain.

"you're wasting time," he says, voice impressively level considering there's now a puffball of claws and fury draped across his shoulders like some bizarre living epaulet. you scratch the cat behind its ears, grinning when it starts purring loud enough to rival a motorcycle engine.

"it's called community service, markus," you croon, dragging out his name like it's some private joke between you. "look it up. chapter four: 'how to not be a grumpy hero 101'."

then, because you've never been able to resist poking the bear (especially when the bear is currently being used as a cat tree), you scoop up the feline and deposit it directly into his arms. the way he freezes is nothing short of art—hands held out like he's been handed a live grenade, shoulders hiking up toward his ears. the cat, sensing his utter lack of cat-holding expertise, takes exactly three seconds to scramble up his chest, use his face as a stepping stone, and plant itself triumphantly atop his head like some fuzzy, self-appointed crown.

you lose it. completely. your laughter bursts out bright and uncontained, head thrown back as you clutch at your sides. tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, and you're pretty sure you look ridiculous—bent double, one hand braced against your knee as you try (and fail) to catch your breath—but you can't bring yourself to care. not when mark is standing there like some bizarre holiday display, all sharp edges and simmering annoyance topped with the world's most self-satisfied cat.

and if you catch the way his mask can't quite hide the way his lips twitch, the way his shoulders lose just a fraction of their usual tension—if you notice how his gaze lingers on you a second too long, like he's memorizing the sound of your laughter, the crinkles by your eyes, the way your nose scrunches up when you're this unbearably happy—well. that just makes you laugh harder, until your ribs ache and your cheeks hurt and the cold night air feels warmer than it has any right to be.

"get it off," he says, voice eerily calm despite the fact that there's now a very smug cat sitting atop the terrifying omni-man successor like it's claimed its rightful throne. the feline kneads its paws against his scalp, purring loud enough to vibrate his mask, and you watch with absolute delight as one of his eyebrows twitches through the mask—the only crack in that perfect veneer of control.

your grin stretches wide enough to hurt, eyes sparkling with mischief as you whip out your phone with a flourish. "nah, i think it likes you," you sing-song, snapping a quick picture of the ridiculous scene. the camera click echoes between you, and you immediately angle the screen to admire your handiwork—mark, all brooding intensity, topped with a fluffy white cat that looks absurdly pleased with itself. "oh this," you declare, tapping at your screen with exaggerated importance, "is going in the hall of fame. right between that time you face-planted into a dumpster and that other time you face-planted into a dumpster."

"delete that." his voice drops into that dangerous register that makes lesser villains wet themselves, but you've never been lesser anything. not in mark's eyes. never in mark's eyes.

you pocket your phone with a wink, leaning into his space until you can see your own reflection in his dark lenses. "make me," you challenge, crossing your arms with all the bravado of someone who absolutely knows they're playing with fire.

he could, obviously. he's faster, stronger, and you're pretty sure he could vaporize your phone with just a glare if he really wanted to. but he doesn't. instead, he just stands there—a living statue of long-suffering patience—with the cat now grooming itself atop his head like it's settling in for the long haul. the way he exhales through his nose is nothing short of cinematic, his entire body radiating the energy of a man replaying every life choice that led him to this exact, undignified moment.

you can't help it—your expression softens into something unbearably fond, lips quirking at the corners as you take in the sight. there's something almost... soft about it, this terrifyingly powerful man letting you get away with this nonsense. your fingers itch to reach out, to brush away the strand of hair the cat has dislodged from its perfect place, but you settle for nudging his shoulder with yours instead, your smile turning warm and just a little bit smug. "alright, come on pretty boy," you murmur, "patrol ain't over yet."

his jaw clenches at the pet name. his chest rises with a breath that's just a fraction too deep, like he's physically holding back everything threatening to spill out—all those carefully guarded words and dangerous feelings that hover between you like static in the air before a storm. the cat ruins it with a dramatic sneeze that sends its whole body shuddering. somewhere in the distance, a siren wails its mournful song, the sound weaving through the city canyons to find you here, in this ridiculous, perfect moment where the most dangerous man you know stands frozen with a disgruntled feline perched on his head like some absurd crown. yep, perfect.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

later, when the city's finally settled into that rare pre-dawn hush and the sky bleeds from inky black to soft violet at the edges, you both find yourselves on your favorite rooftop—the one with the cracked concrete ledge that fits your backs just right, the one that frames the sunrise like it was put there just for you. you sink onto the familiar spot, legs swinging carelessly over the sixty-story drop, and after a beat of hesitation that's more habit than anything, mark folds himself down beside you with that unnatural grace of his.

"thanks for hanging out tonight," you say, bumping your elbow against his ribs with just enough force to make him grunt. your smile is all soft edges now, the playful bravado from earlier melted into something more genuine—lips quirking unevenly, eyes crinkling at the corners as you watch the first streaks of gold cut across his sharp profile. "even if you did complain the whole time."

"i didn't complain." his voice is its usual low rumble, but there's something different about it now—less polished, rough around the edges like he's been awake as long as you have.

you snort, leaning further into his space until your shoulders press together from elbow to elbow. "you exuded complaint. it was very loud." you can feel the vibration of his sigh through the contact, the way his muscles tense and release under your weight. "like, impressively loud. olympic-level silent bitching."

he gives you a quick glance, eyebrow lifting slightly before he looks back at the view in front of him. you almost chuckle. right, forgot about how 'swearing doesn't make you cool'. mark doesn't answer, but then—he doesn't need to. not when he shifts just slightly to accommodate your leaning, not when his cape rustles as he tugs it around your shoulders without being asked. the fabric is still warm from his body heat, carrying that faint ozone-and-leather scent that's become as familiar as your own. you let your head tilt against him, cheek pressing into the curve of his shoulder, and if your heart does something complicated in your chest when he doesn't pull away—well. that's between you and... you.

it's different like this. patrols alone had their own rhythm, sure—the quiet solidarity of watching over a sleeping city, the satisfaction of knowing you were enough to keep the darkness at bay. but with mark? the shadows don't just retreat; they reshape themselves around you both, like the night itself knows better than to interfere. there's safety in the way he moves with you, not behind or in front but beside, always beside, even when he pretends he'd rather be anywhere else.

(especially then.)

his mask is off now, discarded somewhere to your left, and when you sneak a glance up through your lashes, you catch the exact moment a sliver of sunlight paints across his face—gilding the stubborn set of his jaw, the dark sweep of his lashes, the barely-there quirk of his mouth that no one but you would ever think to call a smile.

yeah. you could get used to this.

"you're cold," he mutters, the words rough around the edges like gravel, but his thumb is already brushing over your knuckles—once, twice—as if he could chase the winter from your skin through touch alone.

"yeah, well," you laugh, breath clouding between you in a hazy puff, "not all of us have built-in space heater genes." your fingers flex instinctively toward his warmth, pink-tipped and stiff from the cold, and you don't miss the way his gaze drops to them, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

he huffs—a sound that's almost a laugh, almost surrender—and then, after a heartbeat suspended between you, his hand finds yours properly. his fingers slide between yours with a certainty that steals your breath, his grip firm and steady like an unspoken promise. his palm is furnace-hot against your chilled skin, callouses rough in all the right places, and you can feel his pulse where your wrists press together—steady as sunrise, relentless as tides.

your smile comes unbidden, soft at the edges and brighter than the dawn creeping over the skyline. you squeeze back, just once, just enough to say i know, i know, me too.

and maybe—with his warmth seeping into your bones, with his thumb tracing absent circles over your wrist, with the first golden light of morning gilding the snow-dusted rooftops around you—maybe winter wasn't something to endure after all. maybe it was just the universe holding its breath before handing you this: his hand in yours, the quiet between heartbeats, the slow unfurling of spring hidden in the spaces where your fingers intertwine.

huh. maybe you didn't have to wait for spring as long as you thought.