Two face, caught in the middle
AU-gust day 18: Crossover Midland's past comes to bite him in the ass
Midland cracked open the last of the three beer bottles before passing two of them over to Teller and Radio Bob, leaving his own sat on the island in his kitchen.
His apartment was nice and spacious, and he definitely wouldn’t have been able to afford it just on an EOD salary. It was one of the very, very few upsides to the fucked-up everything that happened with Goddard Futuristics.
That, and the fresh start that came with being able to fake his death and leave everything behind.
Almost everything.
He wasn’t Daniel Jacobi anymore. Daniel Jacobi was a daredevil that didn’t care about the risks as long as it got the job done.
Daniel Jacobi died when Alana Maxwell died, in the explosive dumpster fire that was the Hephaestus mission.
“-rth to Midland, you still with us?” Mark blinked a few times as Radio Bob nudged his shoulder. “You seem kinda out of it.”
He shook his head, picking up his beer. “Nah, I’m fine. Just thinking.”
“Well, think less! It’s New Years and you’ve officially been one of us for an entire year.” Teller clinked his beer bottle against Mark's, grinning before taking a sip.
Mark could never seem to truly understand the person that was Simon Teller, no matter how hard he tried.
Not that he’d admit to that out loud, he’d never hear the end of it from either of them.
He took a swig from his beer, cringing internally. Teller had terrible taste in alcohol, usually insisting on Busch Light or something equally as shitty and cheap.
Mark glanced at his phone screen from where it sat on the island, seeing the time.
1:23 A.M.
They had only gotten off shift barely 15 minutes ago, having been called in for a last-minute diffusal just before the ball dropped, causing them to miss it, much to Teller and Radio Bob’s disappointment and disgruntlement.
Radio Bob opened his mouth to say something, before being abruptly cut off by a sharp knock at the door.
Teller frowned, glancing back at Mark. “Did you invite someone else?”
Mark’s frown matched his as he shook his head, setting his beer bottle back onto the island. “I didn’t.”
Mark didn’t just give his address to anybody. There could only be 3 reasonable options:
Any form of mail (he didn’t order anything)
Someone from work (they had his address for tax reasons)
Someone deliberately tracked him down.
The third reason was more plausible than he particularly liked.
“It’s probably just a package.” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he was trying to reassure them, or himself.
Mark crossed his apartment, going from the kitchen towards the front door and opening it.
Minkowski.
Before he could fully process that Renée Minkowski was at his door, she pushed past him and into his apartment, already talking.
“What the actual fuck, Jacobi?” she gave him an expectant look, her fury obvious.
“Whatever happened to hello, Minkowski? I’d ask for a ‘Happy New Year” as well, but I’ll keep my expectations low.” Mark sighed, rubbing his eyes.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Sarcasm dripped from the words. “Hello, Jacobi, what the actual fuck?”
“Yeah, yeah, I get it, what the fuck. Care to explain why?”
“Why- Oh my God.” She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Why, Jacobi? You want to know why? We thought you were dead for FIVE years! That’s why!”
He blinked. “Wait, we-?”
Heavy footsteps flooded from the hallway into the apartment as Doug Eiffel came into view, panting. “Jesus, Renée, you run fast–oh, hey Dan!”
Mark sighed.
“Uh…Mid-land?” Teller’s voice reminded him that he was, in fact, still hosting company while this was happening.
Which made everything ten times worse.
One thing at a time.
“How did you guys even find out where I live?” He looked over at Minkowski and Eiffel, before hearing someone clear their throat from behind Eiffel.
He already knew who it was before he saw her.
“Lovelace.”
“Jacobi.”
“Sobrero?” Radio Bob’s eyebrows shot up. “What are you doing here?”
Mark barely heard him. “You said you weren’t going to tell them.”
“Yeah, well, you made that a bit hard by appearing on national television. Kinda hard to explain away why one of the guys that I interviewed last year looks and sounds exactly like you.” Lovelace crossed her arms, leaning against the doorway.
“Midland, what’s going on?” Teller asked, setting his beer down.
Mark glanced at him before letting out a heavy breath. “Give me five seconds.”
He crossed back over to the kitchen, weaving past Radio Bob and opening one of the cabinets.
“What are you doing?”
“This isn’t a conversation I’m willing to have sober, and I’m not getting drunk off your shitty Busch Light,” he said, pulling a bottle of single malt scotch from the back of the cabinet.
