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kricketsshadow of a man
grey's anatomy, owen/mark, (hints of derek/mark), r, 2636
written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
slybrunette, inspired (very minimally) by this song
After George dies, a silence falls over Seattle Grace, like if someone so much as moves, their stack of cards is going to crumble and fall. Mark can't stand it, can't breathe in that tight claustrophobic circle of grief. Even the Chief seems to move in mime, everyone nodding in silent agreement, a chorus of gesture and long, drawn breaths.
One night of the first week, Mark finds himself walking the path to Joe's Bar and finding the place nearly empty, all of the regulars noticeably absent.
All except Owen Hunt.
Hunt's always been of a quiet breed, but even he looks uncomfortable at all the unspoken sorrow around him. He's a 'deal with it and move on' kind of guy, a guy who's stared death in the face more times than most surgeons, and that's saying a lot.
Mark slides onto the stool next to Owen, gestures to Joe for his regular.
"Suprised to see you here," Owen says, taking another swig from his beer. "Quite the ghost town."
Ghost town.
"That's apt," Mark says and Owen almost laughs. Mark too, in spite of himself.
The moment passes, and Mark feels a sense of relief, a crack in the silence.
"O'Malley was a great guy," Owen says finally, almost apologetically.
Mark agrees. "Would have been a great trauma surgeon," he says, pats Owen heavy on the shoulder.
And the week goes on like this, the both of them feeling outside this whole thing, but too close to not need their own kind of mourning, their own kind of release, a little less-than-quiet commiseration in this ghost town of theirs.
--
There's a rough couple of days down at the ER. Trauma after trauma, and Owen can't put them all back together, not with everyone moving like sleepy cattle in this fucking hospital. Wake! Up! he wants to scream, eventually does at a few of the interns, gets sent to his time out by the Chief, and finally manages to pull a few miracles in the end, despite the odds.
He crashes his way into an on-call room at the end of his shift, kicking the metal bunks, swearing and punching the walls.
"Slow down there, cowboy," Mark's voice from the door.
Owen turns on him, a look of rage in his eyes, face flush and red, a look that tells Mark he really doesn't want to be in this room just now. "Mark," he says, a warning. But Mark's already at his side, a hand reaching out for Owen's.
"You're gonna need stitches," Mark says, bending at the knee to examine the wound.
Owen looks down, sees a rash of red across his knuckles, didn't even know he was bleeding.
"Stay here." Mark says pointedly, as if giving orders to a wounded dog. "I'll go get some sutures." He looks on from his crouch until Owen desists, sitting on the bottom bunk behind him.
"Okay," Owen says. "Okay."
--
Death changes people, changes them in ways that no one can expect.
So months later, after they've buried Izzie too, and Lexie starts flinching at Mark's touch, he knows it's because she's afraid. Afraid of all the things she has to lose.
"Whatever you need," he says, brushes the hair off of Lexie's neck as she sits curled at his side one morning, kisses her shoulder.
She doesn't answer, only nods in silence, and Mark knows it's because there's nothing left to say.
--
Owen helps Mark clear out Lexie's things, drive the load down to Meredith's. They pack books, clothes, odds and ends, moving slowly, silently around Mark's new house, which suddenly seems far too big for just one person. Mark will point to something, Owen will nod, stuff it carefully into a box, and then they move to the next room and do it all over again.
"It's amazing how much crap one single person can accumulate," Mark says once they're in Owen's truck, a blue tarp fastened over the bed, dark clouds threatening overhead. He rubs the back of his neck, lets a sigh slip past his lips.
"Tell me about it," Owen says, reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, flashes a look to the passenger side, one that is returned, one that acknowledges the multitude of meaning behind Mark's statement.
At Meredith's, they unload the boxes that now house Lexie's entire life with the help of Derek, who appears to be strategically the only one home that evening.
Afterward, Owen leans against the driver's side door of the truck while Derek talks to Mark, a hand over Mark's shoulder, his eyes cast downward. This didn't end the way Derek had long accused Mark that it would. Turns out, Lexie broke Mark's heart instead. Owen watches the two old friends, their body language, the forgiveness in it, the genuine care, and figures this must be an acknowledgment of that truth.
--
Back at his place, Mark can't take that first step inside. Can't bear to sink into the hole Lexie's left behind.
He hikes back down the driveway to Owen's truck, knocks on the window.
"Do you want to stay for a while?" He asks when Owen rolls down the window, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Owen doesn't say anything, only answers by turning off the ignition.
--
Cristina doesn't understand why Owen's taken up smoking, she can't find the good in something so harmful, says she's not particularly interested in being convinced otherwise.
Owen says it keeps him focused, keeps him here. It's something unfamiliar, and it helps him always remember where he is. There's something about the weight of a hard pack of cigarettes, tight in his pocket, the feel of the thin paper-covered filter between his fingertips, the faint aroma of tobacco.
Mark gets it. They talk over the pool table in Mark's attic and Owen is just glad he doesn't have to explain it over and over. Mark even smokes one with him, fakes an obvious cough, then he inhales deeply, leans back against the old broken-in thrift-store couch, his weight pressed against Owen's side.
"You doing alright?" Owen asks, realizing it's been almost a month since Lexie moved out.
Mark nods, takes another drag from the cigarette. "I'm doing okay," he says, exhales a cloud of smoke, hands Owen his half-finished leftovers. "Let's play some more pool."
The next day Owen finds a pack of nicotine patches in his locker, a yellow livestrong bracelet, a bottle of tobacco scented cologne, and a note.
Maybe these can remind you, it reads. There aren't enough good trauma surgeons around. Or good friends for that matter.
It's unsigned.
--
There's a noise from behind the door of the on-call room, voices, angry, penetrating.
They pull Mark from his sleep, and he almost raises his voice in a shout. Hey! Someone's sleeping in here! crosses his mind a moment before he recognizes Cristina's voice, Owen's too.
They're arguing. It's about a patient, but Mark can tell it's more than that, and frankly, this isn't the first time he's found the two of them in this position. There's something about doctors that make them do what they do, something that keeps them awake all those long necessary hours, something that keeps them from throwing in the towel. Cristina has her own story, but what motivates her at the end of the day is being the best, being right, and that's clear to anyone who knows her. George, well, he just wanted to help people, to make their lives better, to save them. And from what Mark can tell, Owen is George times two. You wouldn't think it, to look at him, to watch him work, even despite his numerous adaptations since showing up at Seattle Grace. It's not that he's particularly interested in saving their souls or handing out helpful encouragement. For him it's all about the saving, everything else be damned, just make that happen, if you can. And if you can't? On a bad day there's always someone else waiting for you to bring them back to life, so you move on.
Cristina couldn't understand Owen's cigarettes because Cristina knows there's a better way. She doesn't understand Owen's methods because he's never looking for the better way, just a way, period.
Mark tries not to overhear too much over the conversation, but he gleans enough. So when Cristina says, "Well maybe this just isn't going to work." And Owen whispers, "No. Maybe it's not." And after some considerable silence, their footsteps trail off in different directions, Mark makes a mental note to pick up a six-pack or two and chalk the pool cues.
--
There's something freeing about being unattached. And Owen Hunt's been attached for far too long: first to a woman he couldn't love, and then to a war that made him think he couldn't be loved, and finally the woman he did love, and lost, as these things tend to go.
And now the rope's untied, and Mark talks him into going out on the town, finding someone for the both of them to get lost in, to love and leave without guilt, to erase that heavy feeling in the pit of both their stomachs. But at the end of the night, their prospects tag-teaming back to the ladies room, they both come to the conclusion that they're both a little too old, and a little too inebriated, to be playing the game in quite this way.
Owen watches Mark's face, tight and forced into a smile as he waves at the leggy brunette who signals to him that they'll only be a minute.
"You wanna get out of here?" Owen asks, as soon as the girls are out of sight.
"Can we?" Mark says fast enough to let Owen know that he was thinking it too.
They abandon their stools, and their beers, and their girls. And Owen can't help but think that there's something a little liberating about that too.
--
They leave Owen's truck in the lot and catch a cab to his apartment since they're both too drunk to drive and it's considerably closer.
When they get out of the car, Owen walks over to the black trash bin outside his building, pulls something from his back pocket, tosses it in, points. Mark squints, unsure of what he's supposed to be looking at. Then he sees. Atop what is now technically yesterday morning's paper, lies a pack of cigarettes, a little crushed, but obviously full, still wrapped in the original plastic.
"Sixty days," Owen says.
Mark leans against him for balance, his cheek coming down on Owen's shoulder, a hand going to his back. "You're clean." He says, his words running together a little.
"In most of the ways that matter," Owen nods.
Mark sways a little. "This was a lovely moment," he says, manages to hold himself upright as he does so. "Now can we please go inside? I need your bathroom."
--
Upstairs, Mark stumbles back into the main room and finds Owen with a slice of cold pizza in his hand, the box sitting open on his lap. "I borrowed some of your toothpaste," he says.
"Want some?" Owen asks, ignoring what Mark said, his mouth full.
Mark shakes his head, almost recoils at the thought. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks, sitting on the arm of the couch next to Owen.
"I haven't eaten in fourteen hours," Owen says, shoveling in another bite.
Mark laughs, clutching his stomach as he does.
--
They sit together until the black sky turns deep blue, the sun threatening to rise, and their heads starting to throb, a pain they both have known all to well in the past.
Owen tells Mark things he never shared with anyone, not even Cristina, things about the war, about the wrong girl, about how he hasn't had a real friend since he can remember.
Mark tells him about Derek, about their twisted history, how he let him down, about how maybe Derek's really the only person he's ever loved completely, wholly, up to and including Lexie Grey.
Later Owen stands, tells Mark he can use his couch, makes his way to the bedroom. When he stumbles, the rush of blood to his head too slow for his feet, Mark's at his side, holding him up, carrying his weight the rest of the way down the hall.
--
It's afternoon before either of them notices the sun filtering in past the blinds and through Owen's dark curtains.
Mark wakes shirtless, his arm slung around Owen's bare chest, his jeaned legs curled to the side, his head on Owen's shoulder. There's a moment of panic, but the memories are clear, and he thinks about the best way to disentangle himself from his friend, despite Owen's warmth and the fact that Mark feels more comfortable where he is than he might have expected.
Owen sighs, his body beginning to find consciousness, and Mark can't help but let out a quiet inward groan when Owen turns toward him, his leg coming up slightly to brush against Mark's groin.
When Owen's hands reach around Mark, fingers roaming over his muscled back and neck, finding his short locks, Mark feels an un-ignorable tightening against his jeans, and knows it's Owen's turn to panic now.
But he doesn't.
He opens his eyes, that same momentary confusion coming over his face as did Mark's moments ago, but instead of recoiling, instead of sitting up and distancing himself, his mouth moves to cover Mark's.
He's obviously done this before. And the truth is Mark has too, but it's not soley his secret to tell.
Mark imagines Owen spending hot nights in Iraq, a grateful soldier or two, maybe boot camp long ago, a shower wall, an uncomfortable bunk, a supply closet or the back of an empty Hum-V. He grows hard at the thought, and that's only aided when Owen's hand comes down to grip him through his jeans.
Mark uses his strength to push Owen away, and there's a momentary rush of movement as they throw back whatever covers are in the way and rid themselves of enough clothes to satisfy them both.
Owen's hand finds Mark again, this time flesh against flesh, and Mark thrusts his hips a little, almost involuntarily, and a "fuck" escapes his lips. Mark reciprocates, and Owen bites down gently on Mark's collarbone as he does.
They move in near perfect opposition, companionship, their bodies pressed tight, the only movement coming when either tugs at the other's cock. Soon their breathing is shallow, and their eyes are closed tight and they groan and growl and find each other's lips in between, muffling the sounds, and then they shudder and come, their hands and stomachs sticky with fluid, the mattress beneath them bearing the evidence of their coupling.
Afterward there's silence, and more sleep, and more fucking, and Owen eventually wakes up alone.
--
It's two days before Owen sees Mark, and when he does, it's Mark that grabs his hand, pulling him into an empty scrub room.
"Should we talk about this?" Mark asks in a tone that tells him he wasn't abandoning him that day, tells him he just didn't know what else to do. Owen knows that if Mark wanted to forget what happened, they wouldn't be standing here now.
There's a minute of silence, both alternating from looking at the floor, at each other, then back to the floor. Finally, Mark sighs defeated, assuming he has his answer.
"We dont need to talk," Owen says, his voice reassuring, his hand coming to rest on the back of Mark's neck. His mouth comes down to cover Mark's and Mark's lips part, returning the kiss.
Owen backs away, reaches behind him, his hand finding the cool metal of the door handle.
"We don't need to talk at all," he says.
And Mark knows just what he means.
-fin
grey's anatomy, owen/mark, (hints of derek/mark), r, 2636
written for
slybrunette, inspired (very minimally) by this song After George dies, a silence falls over Seattle Grace, like if someone so much as moves, their stack of cards is going to crumble and fall. Mark can't stand it, can't breathe in that tight claustrophobic circle of grief. Even the Chief seems to move in mime, everyone nodding in silent agreement, a chorus of gesture and long, drawn breaths.
One night of the first week, Mark finds himself walking the path to Joe's Bar and finding the place nearly empty, all of the regulars noticeably absent.
All except Owen Hunt.
Hunt's always been of a quiet breed, but even he looks uncomfortable at all the unspoken sorrow around him. He's a 'deal with it and move on' kind of guy, a guy who's stared death in the face more times than most surgeons, and that's saying a lot.
Mark slides onto the stool next to Owen, gestures to Joe for his regular.
"Suprised to see you here," Owen says, taking another swig from his beer. "Quite the ghost town."
Ghost town.
"That's apt," Mark says and Owen almost laughs. Mark too, in spite of himself.
The moment passes, and Mark feels a sense of relief, a crack in the silence.
"O'Malley was a great guy," Owen says finally, almost apologetically.
Mark agrees. "Would have been a great trauma surgeon," he says, pats Owen heavy on the shoulder.
And the week goes on like this, the both of them feeling outside this whole thing, but too close to not need their own kind of mourning, their own kind of release, a little less-than-quiet commiseration in this ghost town of theirs.
--
There's a rough couple of days down at the ER. Trauma after trauma, and Owen can't put them all back together, not with everyone moving like sleepy cattle in this fucking hospital. Wake! Up! he wants to scream, eventually does at a few of the interns, gets sent to his time out by the Chief, and finally manages to pull a few miracles in the end, despite the odds.
He crashes his way into an on-call room at the end of his shift, kicking the metal bunks, swearing and punching the walls.
"Slow down there, cowboy," Mark's voice from the door.
Owen turns on him, a look of rage in his eyes, face flush and red, a look that tells Mark he really doesn't want to be in this room just now. "Mark," he says, a warning. But Mark's already at his side, a hand reaching out for Owen's.
"You're gonna need stitches," Mark says, bending at the knee to examine the wound.
Owen looks down, sees a rash of red across his knuckles, didn't even know he was bleeding.
"Stay here." Mark says pointedly, as if giving orders to a wounded dog. "I'll go get some sutures." He looks on from his crouch until Owen desists, sitting on the bottom bunk behind him.
"Okay," Owen says. "Okay."
--
Death changes people, changes them in ways that no one can expect.
So months later, after they've buried Izzie too, and Lexie starts flinching at Mark's touch, he knows it's because she's afraid. Afraid of all the things she has to lose.
"Whatever you need," he says, brushes the hair off of Lexie's neck as she sits curled at his side one morning, kisses her shoulder.
She doesn't answer, only nods in silence, and Mark knows it's because there's nothing left to say.
--
Owen helps Mark clear out Lexie's things, drive the load down to Meredith's. They pack books, clothes, odds and ends, moving slowly, silently around Mark's new house, which suddenly seems far too big for just one person. Mark will point to something, Owen will nod, stuff it carefully into a box, and then they move to the next room and do it all over again.
"It's amazing how much crap one single person can accumulate," Mark says once they're in Owen's truck, a blue tarp fastened over the bed, dark clouds threatening overhead. He rubs the back of his neck, lets a sigh slip past his lips.
"Tell me about it," Owen says, reaches for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, flashes a look to the passenger side, one that is returned, one that acknowledges the multitude of meaning behind Mark's statement.
At Meredith's, they unload the boxes that now house Lexie's entire life with the help of Derek, who appears to be strategically the only one home that evening.
Afterward, Owen leans against the driver's side door of the truck while Derek talks to Mark, a hand over Mark's shoulder, his eyes cast downward. This didn't end the way Derek had long accused Mark that it would. Turns out, Lexie broke Mark's heart instead. Owen watches the two old friends, their body language, the forgiveness in it, the genuine care, and figures this must be an acknowledgment of that truth.
--
Back at his place, Mark can't take that first step inside. Can't bear to sink into the hole Lexie's left behind.
He hikes back down the driveway to Owen's truck, knocks on the window.
"Do you want to stay for a while?" He asks when Owen rolls down the window, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Owen doesn't say anything, only answers by turning off the ignition.
--
Cristina doesn't understand why Owen's taken up smoking, she can't find the good in something so harmful, says she's not particularly interested in being convinced otherwise.
Owen says it keeps him focused, keeps him here. It's something unfamiliar, and it helps him always remember where he is. There's something about the weight of a hard pack of cigarettes, tight in his pocket, the feel of the thin paper-covered filter between his fingertips, the faint aroma of tobacco.
Mark gets it. They talk over the pool table in Mark's attic and Owen is just glad he doesn't have to explain it over and over. Mark even smokes one with him, fakes an obvious cough, then he inhales deeply, leans back against the old broken-in thrift-store couch, his weight pressed against Owen's side.
"You doing alright?" Owen asks, realizing it's been almost a month since Lexie moved out.
Mark nods, takes another drag from the cigarette. "I'm doing okay," he says, exhales a cloud of smoke, hands Owen his half-finished leftovers. "Let's play some more pool."
The next day Owen finds a pack of nicotine patches in his locker, a yellow livestrong bracelet, a bottle of tobacco scented cologne, and a note.
Maybe these can remind you, it reads. There aren't enough good trauma surgeons around. Or good friends for that matter.
It's unsigned.
--
There's a noise from behind the door of the on-call room, voices, angry, penetrating.
They pull Mark from his sleep, and he almost raises his voice in a shout. Hey! Someone's sleeping in here! crosses his mind a moment before he recognizes Cristina's voice, Owen's too.
They're arguing. It's about a patient, but Mark can tell it's more than that, and frankly, this isn't the first time he's found the two of them in this position. There's something about doctors that make them do what they do, something that keeps them awake all those long necessary hours, something that keeps them from throwing in the towel. Cristina has her own story, but what motivates her at the end of the day is being the best, being right, and that's clear to anyone who knows her. George, well, he just wanted to help people, to make their lives better, to save them. And from what Mark can tell, Owen is George times two. You wouldn't think it, to look at him, to watch him work, even despite his numerous adaptations since showing up at Seattle Grace. It's not that he's particularly interested in saving their souls or handing out helpful encouragement. For him it's all about the saving, everything else be damned, just make that happen, if you can. And if you can't? On a bad day there's always someone else waiting for you to bring them back to life, so you move on.
Cristina couldn't understand Owen's cigarettes because Cristina knows there's a better way. She doesn't understand Owen's methods because he's never looking for the better way, just a way, period.
Mark tries not to overhear too much over the conversation, but he gleans enough. So when Cristina says, "Well maybe this just isn't going to work." And Owen whispers, "No. Maybe it's not." And after some considerable silence, their footsteps trail off in different directions, Mark makes a mental note to pick up a six-pack or two and chalk the pool cues.
--
There's something freeing about being unattached. And Owen Hunt's been attached for far too long: first to a woman he couldn't love, and then to a war that made him think he couldn't be loved, and finally the woman he did love, and lost, as these things tend to go.
And now the rope's untied, and Mark talks him into going out on the town, finding someone for the both of them to get lost in, to love and leave without guilt, to erase that heavy feeling in the pit of both their stomachs. But at the end of the night, their prospects tag-teaming back to the ladies room, they both come to the conclusion that they're both a little too old, and a little too inebriated, to be playing the game in quite this way.
Owen watches Mark's face, tight and forced into a smile as he waves at the leggy brunette who signals to him that they'll only be a minute.
"You wanna get out of here?" Owen asks, as soon as the girls are out of sight.
"Can we?" Mark says fast enough to let Owen know that he was thinking it too.
They abandon their stools, and their beers, and their girls. And Owen can't help but think that there's something a little liberating about that too.
--
They leave Owen's truck in the lot and catch a cab to his apartment since they're both too drunk to drive and it's considerably closer.
When they get out of the car, Owen walks over to the black trash bin outside his building, pulls something from his back pocket, tosses it in, points. Mark squints, unsure of what he's supposed to be looking at. Then he sees. Atop what is now technically yesterday morning's paper, lies a pack of cigarettes, a little crushed, but obviously full, still wrapped in the original plastic.
"Sixty days," Owen says.
Mark leans against him for balance, his cheek coming down on Owen's shoulder, a hand going to his back. "You're clean." He says, his words running together a little.
"In most of the ways that matter," Owen nods.
Mark sways a little. "This was a lovely moment," he says, manages to hold himself upright as he does so. "Now can we please go inside? I need your bathroom."
--
Upstairs, Mark stumbles back into the main room and finds Owen with a slice of cold pizza in his hand, the box sitting open on his lap. "I borrowed some of your toothpaste," he says.
"Want some?" Owen asks, ignoring what Mark said, his mouth full.
Mark shakes his head, almost recoils at the thought. "Are you sure that's a good idea?" he asks, sitting on the arm of the couch next to Owen.
"I haven't eaten in fourteen hours," Owen says, shoveling in another bite.
Mark laughs, clutching his stomach as he does.
--
They sit together until the black sky turns deep blue, the sun threatening to rise, and their heads starting to throb, a pain they both have known all to well in the past.
Owen tells Mark things he never shared with anyone, not even Cristina, things about the war, about the wrong girl, about how he hasn't had a real friend since he can remember.
Mark tells him about Derek, about their twisted history, how he let him down, about how maybe Derek's really the only person he's ever loved completely, wholly, up to and including Lexie Grey.
Later Owen stands, tells Mark he can use his couch, makes his way to the bedroom. When he stumbles, the rush of blood to his head too slow for his feet, Mark's at his side, holding him up, carrying his weight the rest of the way down the hall.
--
It's afternoon before either of them notices the sun filtering in past the blinds and through Owen's dark curtains.
Mark wakes shirtless, his arm slung around Owen's bare chest, his jeaned legs curled to the side, his head on Owen's shoulder. There's a moment of panic, but the memories are clear, and he thinks about the best way to disentangle himself from his friend, despite Owen's warmth and the fact that Mark feels more comfortable where he is than he might have expected.
Owen sighs, his body beginning to find consciousness, and Mark can't help but let out a quiet inward groan when Owen turns toward him, his leg coming up slightly to brush against Mark's groin.
When Owen's hands reach around Mark, fingers roaming over his muscled back and neck, finding his short locks, Mark feels an un-ignorable tightening against his jeans, and knows it's Owen's turn to panic now.
But he doesn't.
He opens his eyes, that same momentary confusion coming over his face as did Mark's moments ago, but instead of recoiling, instead of sitting up and distancing himself, his mouth moves to cover Mark's.
He's obviously done this before. And the truth is Mark has too, but it's not soley his secret to tell.
Mark imagines Owen spending hot nights in Iraq, a grateful soldier or two, maybe boot camp long ago, a shower wall, an uncomfortable bunk, a supply closet or the back of an empty Hum-V. He grows hard at the thought, and that's only aided when Owen's hand comes down to grip him through his jeans.
Mark uses his strength to push Owen away, and there's a momentary rush of movement as they throw back whatever covers are in the way and rid themselves of enough clothes to satisfy them both.
Owen's hand finds Mark again, this time flesh against flesh, and Mark thrusts his hips a little, almost involuntarily, and a "fuck" escapes his lips. Mark reciprocates, and Owen bites down gently on Mark's collarbone as he does.
They move in near perfect opposition, companionship, their bodies pressed tight, the only movement coming when either tugs at the other's cock. Soon their breathing is shallow, and their eyes are closed tight and they groan and growl and find each other's lips in between, muffling the sounds, and then they shudder and come, their hands and stomachs sticky with fluid, the mattress beneath them bearing the evidence of their coupling.
Afterward there's silence, and more sleep, and more fucking, and Owen eventually wakes up alone.
--
It's two days before Owen sees Mark, and when he does, it's Mark that grabs his hand, pulling him into an empty scrub room.
"Should we talk about this?" Mark asks in a tone that tells him he wasn't abandoning him that day, tells him he just didn't know what else to do. Owen knows that if Mark wanted to forget what happened, they wouldn't be standing here now.
There's a minute of silence, both alternating from looking at the floor, at each other, then back to the floor. Finally, Mark sighs defeated, assuming he has his answer.
"We dont need to talk," Owen says, his voice reassuring, his hand coming to rest on the back of Mark's neck. His mouth comes down to cover Mark's and Mark's lips part, returning the kiss.
Owen backs away, reaches behind him, his hand finding the cool metal of the door handle.
"We don't need to talk at all," he says.
And Mark knows just what he means.
-fin