Vassal [3/3] - The Social Network - Eduardo/Mark
Title: Vassal [3/3]
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark (mentions of assorted others)
Word Count: 8020
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: One :: Two
Summary: When Sean gave Mark a supernatural sex slave, Mark thought that was going to be the strangest part of his month. He never thought he'd end up in court arguing for his ownership rights.
viii.
Mark's gaze rests on the tabletop as he tries to bore a hole in it with his mind. Through the broad windows on the other side of the table, sunlight creeps through the blinds and pours onto the wood, but Mark won't look up. Wardo is there, in his neatly pressed suit, spinning lies and half-truths as prompted.
"On the night that you and Mr Zuckerberg met, you exchanged blood, is this correct?"
Eduardo nods, but is told to speak aloud for the record. "Yes," he answers. From the periphery of his vision, Mark can see the way that Eduardo glances towards his twins before giving any answer at all.
He taps his pen against the edge of the table at breakneck speed, his hands jittery and longing to get back to a keyboard. In the bright, bland office of the law firm he feels trapped. There are glass walls and broad windows; it makes him long for the darkness of a cloistered bedroom.
"Can you explain the significance of sharing blood?"
"I drank from him," Eduardo answers. His voice seems to come out of a dream. "From the wrist. Not very much. It's not about the actual transfer of blood - it's symbolic. The master gives sustenance and life force; in return, the vassal offers his service. There isn't anything mystical about the event itself. It's like children becoming blood brothers."
It hadn't felt that way at the time. The memories are fuzzy with alcohol, but Mark can still remember how Eduardo had knelt at his feet and pressed his lips against the slim cut on his wrist, kissing the single drop of blood that had beaded there. When he'd raised his head, the blood had been like a splotch of lipstick, and a sense of ownership had hooked through him from the centre of his chest. That hadn't been freaking symbolic.
"Would you say that there is anything legally binding about that transference?"
"Civil aspects of the law are largely a human notion," Eduardo says. It sounds scripted. "It's a case of tradition, not legality."
Mark looks up without meaning to, even when at his side his lawyer tenses at the sudden motion. "Traditionally, then, you're supposed to be mine," he states. "And to you guys tradition is law. Why the hell are we even here?"
"Mr Zuckerberg, we'd thank you not to address our client," Eduardo's lawyer requests.
Mark lowers his attention to the tabletop again, in an attempt to zone out as Eduardo is prompted to continue. He thinks maybe it would have been better if he hadn't come to these things at all, if he'd just let his lawyers handle it. Listening to Eduardo now is like listening to someone else entirely. He doesn't sound like the person Mark remembers; he's a stranger.
"Can you tell us how many others you served before Mr Zuckerberg?"
A long pause is enough to make Mark look up again. Eduardo is looking towards his lawyers and the twins again, as if they are the ones whose opinion matters. Mark's pen taps faster against the table, until Marylin reaches over to stop him, her hand resting on his arm. Mark wants to glance up, wants to see if Eduardo's looking, wants him to be jealous because there's a woman touching his arm.
"Seven long-term engagements with mortals," Eduardo answers. "I'm not able to give you their names. It's confidential."
Seven. Seven people before him, and that's apparently just counting the long-term ones. What does 'long-term' mean to an immortal person? A year? Two? Ten? Mark's thinking that there should be heightened specificity, but the lawyers are moving on.
"With these others, was there an emotional attachment?"
"I lived with them for several years; I wouldn't have done that if I didn't care about them."
"Have there been any other 'engagements' that you've ended prematurely, as with Mr Zuckerberg?"
Mark tries to keep his gaze lowered, but once more he finds his eyes rising to peek at Eduardo. Eduardo is staring right at him, his eyes wide but unseeing, as if he's unaware that Mark is even there. "No. They've always come to a natural end."
"Can you be more specific?"
"No one wants to spend their life with a vassal," Eduardo says. There's a curl like a smile on his lips, but it's dark and bitter. There are memories in his eyes that Mark has no way of accessing. "I leave when my services are no longer required. That's how it's worked in the past."
"But not this time?"
Mark studies Eduardo's face, and there's a flicker of life in his eyes, as Eduardo notices he's been staring. He holds his gaze and Mark's eyes narrow as he evaluates every shift and twitch, trying to pick out what is going on under there.
"No," Eduardo says when he's prompted again. "Not this time. I decided to leave Mark's care myself."
"That isn't what happened," Mark blurts. "You can't just lie."
"Mr Zuckerberg," Wardo's counsel cautions.
"He didn't choose to leave. They took him away."
"In your statement, you said that you were asleep when Mr Saverin departed."
That might be true, but it isn't the point. He knows that Eduardo didn't get up and leave of his own choice; he wouldn't do that. Mark would have known, would have sensed it.
For a start, maybe he would have freaking woken up instead of sleeping straight through the whole thing.
"Has he told you about the white room they're keeping him in? He was crying when I last visited him. I've been told I'm bad with emotions, but I'm still reasonably certain that people don't burst into tears when they're the ones that walked out."
"Mark," Wardo says - and his voice is gentle and understanding and that is utter, total bullshit. Wardo doesn't understand a damn thing.
Mark flings his pen down on the table, watches it bounce and then he leans back, the muscle in his jaw clenching wildly. He doesn't answer when he's asked if he has any further contributions, just stares at Wardo and tries to set him alight with his gaze.
It doesn't work.
Sometimes, Mark thinks it's a good thing that he wasn't gifted with any powers. The temptation to misuse them would be too much to handle. He has no idea how Wardo and his kind cope.
*
Two days into the depositions, Wardo corners him in the bathroom. It's becoming a regular meeting spot, if two times is allowed to count as regular. Wardo leans against the door to stop anyone else from entering, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that is bound to crease his expensive suit.
"I don't think we're supposed to talk to each other. I might try to corrupt you," Mark states, not allowing himself to be drawn in - because, shit, he can't make sense of Wardo any more. He never really could, but it's worse than ever now. None of it makes sense.
"I was corrupted a long time ago," Wardo says. His face twitches, revealing a brilliant smile that disappears into nerves. "They're going to offer you a deal. You should settle."
Mark shakes his head, a miniscule movement. "I don't need money. I'm the world's youngest billionaire." There isn't a sum high enough to call him off, and he thinks they know that. He thinks that must be why they're scared of him.
"It doesn't have to be money." Wardo tilts his head to the side, studying him. "You have no idea about the kind of power The Father has. They could give you anything."
"I want you," Mark snaps. It sounds ridiculously sappy, and he wants to claw the words back when he sees the surprise register on Wardo's face. He looks down, breathes in, and shrugs.
"If you win this case, do you understand what kind of precedent that sets? This isn't just about me and you."
Mark hears him, he really does, but he's not going to accept it. Screw precedents, screw everyone else; they are all that matters. The rest of the world can cope.
"Mark," Wardo says - like he's pleading, like he thinks that his wide puppy-dog eyes are going to be enough to win this. Mark wonders if the other side sent him in here on purpose, a Trojan horse here to disarm him.
He pushes away from the sinks and moves towards Wardo, closing in, allowing himself to think of lions and their prey. He isn't sure which of them holds which role; he doesn't know who is hunting who, not any more. With Wardo, the world becomes more complicated. Mark barely understands humanity itself - he isn't equipped to add an extra underworld to his understanding.
He shuffles closer until personal space becomes irrelevant, and he has to look up in order to hold Wardo's gaze, boring into his almond eyes. There's guarded caution waiting for him there, but Wardo doesn't try to push him away.
Mark reaches out to place his hands on Wardo's hips, holding him firmly against the door. "I'm going to win," he states. Losing isn't something that he does, not any more. Facebook and all of the benefits that it brings have made him a winner; he gets to leave high school and all its bullshit behind. "You guys wouldn't be so scared of me if I wasn't."
"We're not scared," Wardo answers.
Mark looks down as he undoes Wardo's dress pants, watching his own actions instead of Wardo's face. He hears Wardo say his name, but blocks it out. Unless Wardo is going to tell him to stop, or tell him he's sorry, then there is nothing relevant to say to each other until all of this is over.
Wardo shifts his hips to help Mark to drag his trousers down to his ankles. Mark drops to the ground and kneels at his feet, his face settling into a frown of determination. His palms tingle with the bare excitement from touching Wardo's skin again, as he strokes over Wardo's legs and up his thighs, back to his hips where he pins him again.
Wardo's cock is only half-hard, but that's enough. Mark hasn't done this before, and he's trying hard not to think about how experienced Wardo must be - with his seven long-term engagements and his decades of fucking his way across the world and if Mark thinks about all of this too much then he is probably going to end up hurting someone.
Instead he takes Wardo's cock in hand, and feels him begin to lengthen and stiffen as blood rushes where it is needed. Mark keeps his gaze lowered on purpose, glowering with intensity as he takes the tip into his mouth, no teasing, no pretence. It's not like they're here to draw things out and make sweet love.
Low, strangled moans leave Wardo's chest like he isn't able to fight them, slipping out unguarded. Mark strokes his thumbs along Wardo's hipbones as he hollows his cheeks and sucks on his cock, desperate to make this good and fast, like he's got a point to prove. Wardo's fingers run through his hair and clench on to the curls, too tight to be comfortable. He puts up with it, as his head moves back and forth, Wardo's cock sliding wet and hot against his lips. The taste overwhelms him, blocking out the rest of the world. If he focuses on it enough, maybe he can even forget the situation they are in and what led them here.
The bathroom tiles are hard beneath his knees, but it fades away as soon as he sucks hard enough to make Wardo cry out and give a little back; heat shoots through him from Wardo's hand, tingling and brilliant in the way it had been when Wardo touched just his foot.
It's pure, undiluted feeling, and Mark moans greedily around Wardo's cock at the experience. His hands clutch Wardo's hips before he moves them back to the firm muscle of Wardo's ass, squeezing hold as he runs his tongue along the length of Wardo's dick. He's achingly hard in his pants at the memory of how it had felt to be inside of him, to own him utterly and unapologetically.
He hopes his mouth feels as good, and the pulses of power shooting from Wardo to him are a good indication. Wardo's head falls back against the bathroom door, his lips parted, groans tumbling from his throat as if he's never felt anything this good before.
He brushes his fingers against Wardo's hole, feather-light as he sucks on him with determined focus. Wardo whines, high-pitched and strangled, before he comes down Mark's throat, his fingers clenching in Mark's curls. It stings, and the musky taste fills his mouth, but the expression of released pleasure on Wardo's face makes it worth it.
Mark pulls his mouth from Wardo's face and climbs to his feet, slamming their lips together instead of swallowing. Wardo must taste the way that he's flooded his mouth and stained him completely. Mark clings hold of him and thrusts his tongue where it belongs, clashing teeth and bumping noses in his urgency.
Wardo moans under his assault, finally defeated, as he returns Mark's attention with blissed-out skill. Pulse after pulse of Wardo's energy pumps into him through every point of contact that they share, until Mark can feel fire licking at his skin and burning him brilliantly. It makes him shove Wardo more firmly against the door, feeling his bare legs and slack cock pressed against his body.
He breaks from Wardo's lips and moves down onto his neck instead, teeth digging in and sucking bruises onto his tanned skin. His clothed hips push against Wardo, rubbing himself off, but it's Wardo's power that makes him feel like his skin is too tight and that drags him closer and closer to the edge; it's the bright sense of Wardo inside him, penetrating every cell in a way that no human could do.
Mark grunts and spills inside his pants, his lips resting against Wardo's neck. Wardo's fingers comb through his hair as if he needs soothing and petting, while his power withdraws and purposefully fades away, expertly wielded instead of out of control.
"I can't give that up," Mark pants, as if this is all about the sex, as if that's all that he means.
Wardo's hand rests at the nape of his neck, his thumb stroking back and forth. There's no hurry to move, so Mark rests his head against his shoulder. He wonders if Wardo would take him home if he asked: if he would snap his fingers and get them out of there, as if none of the past few weeks had happened.
With a warm puff of air against his temple, the thought evaporates: "I need you to settle," Wardo pleads. Mark's shoulders tense. "It'll be easier on all of us."
And -
Shit.
After all this, Wardo still thinks about settlements and what is going to be 'easiest'. Mark wishes that he was a violent man, wishes that he was the kind of person that could make himself feel better with a balled fist.
"Why am I the only one fighting for this?" he demands.
It's supposed to be mutual. He had felt something between them, something real, and that has to mean something - he doesn't care about people very often. Now, it feels like it might be nothing more than a trick. It's a cheap ploy to hollow him out.
He feels like Dustin, with conspiracy theories running through his head, but he pulls away from Wardo. There's a wet, uncomfortable patch in his pants that is all Wardo's fault, and Wardo looks down to tuck himself away and rearrange his clothes. He has to look presentable after all, Mark thinks with a bitter stab. It's all about appearances.
"Mark…" Wardo sighs. "They're my family. I've been with them for longer than you've been alive."
"You sound like an old man."
"I am an old man." Wardo shakes his head. "Sometimes it's like you really don't get it, Mark."
"No, Eduardo, I don't." He hates admitting that, the words like acid, but nothing else is working. "What don't I get?"
Wardo flails for a moment, hands spread wide, as if there are too many words that want to come out at once. "I'm not like you," he snaps eventually. "The newspapers? They're right. They say we're different and we are."
"That's bullshit." Mark has lived with Wardo in his life. Aside from magical powers and mind-blowing sex, there's nothing 'different' about him. "You're like everyone else: an idiot."
The anger on Eduardo's face flashes immediately, like he's been splashed with cold water. "If that's what you think then you'll be glad to get rid of me," he says, pushing away from the door so that he can turn around and fling it open.
And everything is starting to spin around and around in Mark's head; he's not even sure what side he is supposed to be arguing from any more, or even who he is arguing against. He wants Wardo with him. That's the end-game here - but Wardo is difficult and confusing and impossible to pin down.
Eduardo disappears out of the door before Mark has a chance to tell him to slow down and stop being an asshole. Mark kicks the door in irritation, but that only leaves him with a sore foot and a throbbing temper. The room is too hot and too brightly lit. Mark glares at the light strip above him as if he might be able to make it explode in his anger. It glows petulantly down at him.
*
"Mark," Marylin sighs. She presses the tips of her fingers against the document on the desk. "This is a good deal. If we press harder, maybe we can get something more out of them, but that's aiming high."
"I've told you: I don't care about settling." Mark rests his head in his hands, his elbows settled firmly on the desk. It's dark outside beyond the windows. The lights glow in the skyscrapers around the city. It feels as if they've been arguing about this all day. "I don't care what they offer me."
"Three wishes," Marylin says, her voice dropping to a murmur, as if this is a secret. Alone in the room, there isn't much chance of anyone else overhearing. "That's what they're offering you, Mark. Do you understand how rare that is? No one has ever made a settlement like this."
And that makes it tempting. Mark likes treading on new ground, leaving footprints behind where none have been before. But -
"Could I wish for Wardo?"
Marylin glares at him as fiercely as any lawyer is able to do. It's almost enough to singe his eyebrows.
Mark glares back. "I'll take that as a no," he grumbles.
"You're not going to win this case," Marylin states.
"Then I'll get new lawyers." Mark shifts his attention back to the papers on the table, the ones that promise him the world if he'll just back off. "I'll find someone more capable."
"It won't matter who you hire." She's determinedly unruffled. He can't even hear a hitch in her voice to prove that he's unsettled her. "No one can win this. You have to settle and move on."
Everyone keeps telling him the same thing. It's hard to listen to them when he still has the taste of Wardo's cock in his mouth. "You should go," he says. "Take the others too. I'll find someone else."
With Facebook behind him, these guys are supposed to be the best that money can buy. There must be better. He'll find it.
Marylin argues with him but he waves her away, keeping his head down as he reaches for his laptop. He doesn't hear her parting words and is barely aware of the door closing, leaving him alone in the large conference room. His mind is already elsewhere, determined fingers flying over the keyboard. The clatter of hammered keys fills the room.
*
During the night, when he finally makes it home, he shudders under the covers as a chill glides through the room. His cheek burns hot for a few moments, red like a branding iron in the dark, before it fades to nothing.
Morning comes, and his apartment is empty.
He heads to the Facebook offices on default, head in his own thoughts, and it isn't until he's slouching his way past frantic interns that he realises he's supposed to be fighting this case - by himself, since his lawyers have dutifully been disposed of.
"Mark," Chris says, with an absent-minded beckon of his hand. "Have you had a look at those reports I sent over? I need them back today."
"I'm supposed to be at the depositions," Mark answers with a scowl, although he knows that technically it isn't Chris's job to know his assigned location at all moments of the day. It is someone's job, but he's not sure who. He's sure he used to have an assistant, before Wardo crashed into his life. "I should go."
"Wait, what?" Chris double-takes so quickly that he almost spins on the spot. "Are we being sued again? Who's suing us?"
Mark stares at him. And stares. And stares.
Chris doesn't flinch. "I'm serious, man. You haven't told me about this. How could you not have told me?" His eyes are wide and bulging and his hand twitches as if he's considering smacking Mark with it. Far too violent this early in the morning.
"Wardo," Mark snaps. "It's Wardo, remember?"
But Chris doesn't back off or apologise or even look guilty. He just gestures wildly as if Mark is the one in the wrong here. "Who the hell is Wardo?"
Which is...
No.
Mark's face twitches its way through a dozen reactions, but nothing sticks. He waits for the next beat, waits for something else to happen, but Chris stares at him in horror that can't be faked.
"They erased it," he murmurs aloud. "Everything."
They offered him a settlement, a legal way out, and when that didn't work - they took matters into their own hands. It's shitty as hell, and it's cheating. Mark's sure it can't be legal, but he doesn't know how to press a case against an organisation that wipes itself from the public's minds.
"Mark, you better tell me what's going on," Chris says. "I'm going to have a huge mess to clean up, aren't I?"
Mark shakes his head. There's nothing. He'll have to investigate, and ask everyone that he can, but he knows already that he won't find anything. The Father have wiped away all traces of Eduardo's earlier mistake; this is a practised retread. They probably frequently have to tidy up after their charges' mistakes, and the wider world is never any the wiser.
"It's done; it's dealt with," he answers in order to silence Chris and disentangle himself. Retreating to his office, he picks up the phone and dials every number that he can think of, barking at secretaries and growling at blank dial tones.
Marylin's office has no record of any dealings with him. They've never heard of The Father. Shoulders tense enough to burn, Mark presses the phone down into its holder and breathes deeply. His brow is furrowed; he doesn't know what to do next.
iv.
"You won't need to come in today, Mr Saverin," Tyler tells him over the phone. "The Father has dealt with the matter."
Holding his phone to his ear, Eduardo stands in the centre of his new apartment and tries to follow the thread of what is going on. "What does that mean? Is Mark okay?"
"He's unharmed," Tyler confirms. It's not actually as reassuring as it ought to be. "You needn't concern yourself with it. Take a long break, like we discussed. Cameron and I will drop by sometime to talk about your options."
They hang up after polite goodbyes, leaving Eduardo to wonder what exactly that future is supposed to be. He's been avoiding thinking about it so far. With a slow, steady pace, he makes his way through to the kitchen that he hardly uses, staring out across the city through the window above the sink.
He misses Mark's apartment, with its constant mess and the soundtrack of typing; he misses Mark. A few snatched moments together in a corporate bathroom aren't enough. Mark drives him insane, until he wants to shout and claw at him, but despite that he doesn't know how to stay away from him.
It's strange, this connection. He has lived for centuries, and watched humans live and die with an impassive eye, always one step removed from their lives. He's not a monster; he had felt it and had mourned every single time that a friend or lover had passed away or left him.
Yet this is different.
Eduardo stares out of the window at the world that is offered to him: freedom and a long vacation. The world waits for him, with dozens of new people to meet and to help - and for the first time, he doesn't want to stride forward to find them.
He holds onto the edge of the sink and hangs his head down. His hair falls in front of his forehead, nearly long enough to block out his eyes, and he breathes deeply and steadily. "This is what we wanted," he mutters to himself, speaking under his breath. In the empty kitchen, his words still seem to be shouted.
His lawyers and the twins have all rehearsed all of the reasons why he and Mark have to separate. Mark is dangerous; Mark makes him dangerous. They couldn't have allowed him to win the court case - think of what that might mean for all other vassals serving under masters. Think of what that might mean for the principle of supernatural freedom.
He had heard their arguments. He had listened to them all.
He had sat at the other side of that large conference table and said everything that needed to be said. He'd painted the story with the slant they needed.
And now it is over. Now it's over and Eduardo is alone in his kitchen, looking down at his floor and wondering if Mark has remembered to eat properly without him there to mother him into it.
He's in trouble, he knows. Straightening up and running his hands through his hair, he knows he's in a lot of trouble. He doesn't have the slightest clue how to fix it.
*
The next day, the twins 'strongly advise' him to take a decade's leave, and he feels the doors of The Father close firmly behind him. Ten years. It feels like a long time stretching before him, and before he can second-guess himself he finds himself outside an unfamiliar home.
"Christy," he says through the intercom. "It's me. Wardo."
He hears a laugh before she buzzes him through, leaving him to ascend the stairs with worries flying through his mind. "I wondered when you would be turning up," she says, leaning against her doorframe when he reaches her. He feels the same longing for her that he always has, a pulse of desire that makes his palms tingle; he doubts that will ever fade. "Did they finally throw you out?"
He places a hand on her hips and kisses her cheek before she allows him into her home. The air is cold, like stepping into a fridge, but it has nothing to do with air conditioning.
"I heard the news," she says, heading straight for her kitchen to get him a drink. "Everyone has."
"News?"
"You've been fired." She smiles and shrugs. "As close as They can get to firing anyone, anyway."
"I'm taking some time off. It's not the same thing." He can feel the dishonour of it, though, like a choking blanket in the air. "I don't know what to do."
"You survived fine without them before," she reminds him with a sharp glance. He can feel the disapproval radiating from her.
She passes him a bottle of beer and they settle down onto large, white couches, nursing their sorrows while he tries to find his feet once more. The world still feels unsteady around him, but at least with Christy he can feel the solid rock of his past beneath his feet; he can remember that there was a time before he became entangled with humanity.
"He sent someone to visit me, you know," she says. "An arrogant young thing. He was delicious."
Wardo's brow furrows. "He sent someone?"
"Sean, I think," Christy says. She grins, fangs on show, and the sight of it means that Eduardo can't help but smile back. If anyone deserves to end up on the sharp side of those fangs, it's Sean. "Digging up dirt about you. I suppose they thought it might help their case, the poor things."
"They didn't know what they were up against," Eduardo sighs. Mark likes to attack giants. Eduardo thinks it makes him feel smarter, stronger; it feeds into his ego, already heavy and swollen. Maybe they're lucky that The Father played their dirty trick on him. The world couldn't have handled Mark Zuckerberg high on a supernatural success. "I should never have got him into this."
"Exactly," Christy agrees - and he finds himself frowning, displeased. "Humans have no place in our lives. This is a blessing."
He sighs and covers his face with his hands. "I know," he agrees. "I knew you'd think so, anyway."
"That's why you came here," she informs him, her expression guarded. "You wanted someone to remind you that humans are dogs."
"They're not." He's seen wonderful things during his time as a vassal; he has served amazing and kind people over the years, and has again and again seen the brightest side of humanity. He's not sure if that includes Mark yet. He doesn't think there's a right word or category for where he would fit in.
"Are we really going to argue about this?" She extends her leg across the couch and nudges him with her bare foot. "I always win."
"You always think you win," he corrects with a smile. He gives in too easily; hasn't that always been his problem? Yet he sobers quickly, as the thought of his current predicament hits him again. It's impossible to escape. With a pathetic groan, he flops against the back of the sofa and folds his arms over his chest. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You could travel," Christy suggests, but the thought of beautiful landscapes and ancient relics makes him sigh, "Or you could retreat to the other side and join one of the fairy courts. Even as a half-blood they're bound to accept you." Spending the next decade being treated as naturally inferior due to his mixed blood is even more unpalatable. Christy smirks. "Or you could go back to that bone-headed human of yours."
Eduardo raises his head and frowns at her. "I just fought a court case against him so I didn't have to go back."
"The Father fought a case to make sure he couldn't force you to go back," Christy corrects. "Don't act so confused, Eduardo. This is really why you came here: you wanted me to tell you to do this."
He shifts uncomfortably. "You're my friend. That's why I came."
"Don't be an idiot. You come to me when you're fighting with yourself. I know you better than you think." She smiles, fangs on show - deliberate, it's always deliberate when she does that. "So go to him. Apologise. Kiss him senseless, and stay out of trouble."
She nudges him with her foot again, harder this time, with a flash of dark danger in her eyes. Eduardo doesn't want to think about what might happen if he doesn't follow her advice. He still remembers the time she set his hotel room on fire after an argument. If he had been human, he probably would be dead.
"Thanks," he murmurs, but she rolls her eyes and won't acknowledge him.
He lets himself out, thoughts spinning through his mind as he makes the long journey down several flights of stairs.
*
Mark isn't at his apartment when Eduardo visits. It's actually a relief to receive no answer, and to let himself in with a tingle of magic across the door handle. The apartment is exactly as he expected to find it, with used clothes on the floor and empty food cartons in the kitchen. He explores with a growing sense of nostalgia, and finds the bed unmade and the bathroom in sore need of scrubbing.
It shouldn't make him smile. It does.
It feels as if he's come home. A part of him expects Cameron or Tyler to come and drag him away, but he is left to his own devices; now that he has been dealt with, it seems that The Father has little care for his actions.
Finding a book on one of the shelves, Eduardo takes a seat on his side of the couch, his legs curled close beneath his body. He sheds his suit jacket and leaves it folded over the arm of the couch, and attempts to read, although his eyes keep skipping to the clock, never a minute apart.
It is dark outside when Mark's keys jangle in the door. Eduardo's spine jerks straight and he uncurls from the sofa, getting to his feet and dropping the book onto the warm patch where he had been sitting. His mouth is dry.
The door swings and Mark steps into his apartment. He has a paper bag in one hand, the heavy scent of Thai food coming from it. With sweatpants and an over-sized hoodie, he still looks far better than he has any right to do; Eduardo isn't used to feeling so off-balance.
Mark comes to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of Eduardo. "You're here," Mark states, his brow heavy. The door swings closed behind him, but he doesn't walk further into his apartment. He looks at Eduardo like an invader. "You guys won. No one remembers a thing."
"I know." Eduardo nods. The idea of friends like Chris and Dustin not even remembering him makes him uneasy, but there's nothing he can do about it. One halfling isn't enough to undo the strong magic of The Father. His protection, the touch to Mark's face, had been enough to prevent them from taking him out of his mind, but that's all. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my decision."
Mark stares at him, long and hard. It makes Eduardo's skin itch. "Why are you here?" he asks.
Blunt. Inelegant. It's a relief not to dance around the point.
"I don't know," he confesses. He looks away from Mark, around the apartment that had been his home for months. They had shared breakfast in that kitchen, and watched movies and played video games on that couch. He had rearranged Mark's wardrobe in the bedroom, and it had been on that large bed that they'd been together for the first time. He holds his breath for a moment, and then realises, "This is the only place I wanted to go."
Mark squints at him as if he isn't making sense.
"I've been released for ten years. It's like taking a vacation, but dishonourable." He wishes he didn't have to admit that, even to himself - but he knows that, out there, his old colleagues are talking behind his back, that the vassal gossip network will be alive with chatter about all of his mistakes. "I could go anywhere, Mark. Anywhere. Not just in the world; there are other dimensions, upstairs, downstairs, sideways. There's more than humanity has ever imagined - and instead I'm here."
By comparison to the glories that he could see if he wanted to, Mark's apartment is far from impressive. It doesn't shine with gold and the floor is covered with carpet rather than clouds. There is nothing extraordinary here at all.
Mark's eyes are narrowed as he observes him, and his lips are pressed into a single thin line. Eduardo can't understand anything on his face.
"I'm not here because I've been sent; I'm not here as your vassal." He shrugs, at a loss, because he doesn't feel in control of the words that are coming out of his mouth. "I'm just… here."
Mark bows his head - it might be a nod - and Eduardo feels a twinge like indigestion. His chest aches; coming here was a bad idea. He should have stayed far, far away.
"I have Thai food," Mark says, which is -
Well.
It's not exactly what Eduardo would have expected.
"There's enough to share. I know you don't usually eat, but... You could have some. If you wanted."
For a moment, Eduardo wonders if Mark is trying to construct a food-related metaphor, but as Mark moves past him to the kitchen that seems unlikely. Food. He's just turned up in Mark's apartment after a sticky court case, and the only thing that Mark wants to think about is his dinner.
"I've got a new game too," Mark says, placing his bag down on the kitchen counter. He doesn't look towards Eduardo. "It hasn't been released yet. We can try it out together."
"Mark," Eduardo snaps - he needs Mark's attention, on him rather than on his food or his computer. "Talk to me."
"I am talking to you."
Eduardo says Mark's name again, and this time it seems to be enough to at least get him to turn around and face him. His eyes, dark like coal, meet Eduardo's without flinching. "What am I supposed to say?" Mark asks. "I'm glad you're back. We don't need to make a fuss about it."
Eduardo wavers, and shakes his head. "Maybe we do," he says uncertainly.
"Do you want me to be mad at you? I could shout, if you want. There's a lot for me to shout at you about."
"No." Eduardo presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, and settles Mark with his most logical expression. "A lot of stuff has happened. We can't just skip to eating take-out and playing games."
"Gaming, not playing games. Kids play." Mark shifts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth twitches in displeasure. "You're here. Right now, I don't even want to question that. You could be gone in the morning."
"I won't be," he promises. So much could go wrong - he could be dragged away by the twins and The Father - but he means his vow. He'll struggle now, all that he can. "I'm here."
"For good?"
"For good," he confirms.
"Awesome." Mark pauses and then shrugs his shoulders. "Can I eat now?"
No, we're not done yet, Eduardo wants to insist, but he doesn't know what else there is to say. He had been worried about facing Mark's wrath all day. Now, that seems premature.
Mark takes him to the couch and beats the hell out of him at his new game. In profile, his face is a scowl of concentration, his brow heavy and his lips pressed together. It's like he's never been gone, like the court case never happened. Eduardo is sure that it isn't supposed to be this easy.
*
In the dimmed light of his bedroom, Mark allows Eduardo to slowly strip him of his clothes. They don't speak. Eduardo listens to Mark's breathing, loud in the silence, and it makes need flare through him, red-hot through his entire body.
He takes Mark's face in between his hands and kisses him, the barest brush of lips that becomes deeper and more persistent within moments. Mark's hands clutch at him and drag him closer, his hand resting on the small of Eduardo's back. His palm is cold against Eduardo's bare skin, and his short nails scratch against him, clawing in.
Eduardo pants his name, breathing it against Mark's kiss-slick lips. "Mark, please," he murmurs, without knowing what he's asking for. He nuzzles away from his mouth, down to the throbbing pulse on his neck. His lips suck on it, followed by the wet attention of his tongue; his eyelids drop as he focuses on the sounds coming from Mark's mouth, the way his breathing gets heavier and heavier as if he's running a marathon.
Against Eduardo's thigh, he can feel Mark's erection, firm, steady and aching. He holds Mark down with his weight over his body, but that doesn't seem to stop Mark from rocking back and forth, leaving a wet stripe along Eduardo's skin as he rubs himself on his leg.
Eduardo chuckles, pulling back from Mark's neck to look down at him. "You're impatient," he says, but he can't stop himself from smiling.
Mark's mouth forms a thin curve. "Can you blame me?"
The answer to that is definitely 'no'. Eduardo has had decades of experience, and that is the only thing stopping him from losing control entirely. He wants to hide in this bed with Mark forever, to block the world out so that it is just the pair of them.
His hand finds Mark's and their fingers interlock. He looks down at that point of contact between them, and it is somehow more than the wealth of naked skin before him. Raising their joined fists to his mouth, he presses his lips against Mark's knuckles.
I'm not leaving, he thinks, Not ever.
The dark desperation in Mark's eyes says that he doesn't believe him. Not yet. He takes the tip of one of Mark's fingers into his mouth and scrapes his teeth along the nail. He's got time to make Mark believe.
It starts tonight, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, the place where a succubus thrives.
.fin
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark (mentions of assorted others)
Word Count: 8020
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: One :: Two
Summary: When Sean gave Mark a supernatural sex slave, Mark thought that was going to be the strangest part of his month. He never thought he'd end up in court arguing for his ownership rights.
viii.
Mark's gaze rests on the tabletop as he tries to bore a hole in it with his mind. Through the broad windows on the other side of the table, sunlight creeps through the blinds and pours onto the wood, but Mark won't look up. Wardo is there, in his neatly pressed suit, spinning lies and half-truths as prompted.
"On the night that you and Mr Zuckerberg met, you exchanged blood, is this correct?"
Eduardo nods, but is told to speak aloud for the record. "Yes," he answers. From the periphery of his vision, Mark can see the way that Eduardo glances towards his twins before giving any answer at all.
He taps his pen against the edge of the table at breakneck speed, his hands jittery and longing to get back to a keyboard. In the bright, bland office of the law firm he feels trapped. There are glass walls and broad windows; it makes him long for the darkness of a cloistered bedroom.
"Can you explain the significance of sharing blood?"
"I drank from him," Eduardo answers. His voice seems to come out of a dream. "From the wrist. Not very much. It's not about the actual transfer of blood - it's symbolic. The master gives sustenance and life force; in return, the vassal offers his service. There isn't anything mystical about the event itself. It's like children becoming blood brothers."
It hadn't felt that way at the time. The memories are fuzzy with alcohol, but Mark can still remember how Eduardo had knelt at his feet and pressed his lips against the slim cut on his wrist, kissing the single drop of blood that had beaded there. When he'd raised his head, the blood had been like a splotch of lipstick, and a sense of ownership had hooked through him from the centre of his chest. That hadn't been freaking symbolic.
"Would you say that there is anything legally binding about that transference?"
"Civil aspects of the law are largely a human notion," Eduardo says. It sounds scripted. "It's a case of tradition, not legality."
Mark looks up without meaning to, even when at his side his lawyer tenses at the sudden motion. "Traditionally, then, you're supposed to be mine," he states. "And to you guys tradition is law. Why the hell are we even here?"
"Mr Zuckerberg, we'd thank you not to address our client," Eduardo's lawyer requests.
Mark lowers his attention to the tabletop again, in an attempt to zone out as Eduardo is prompted to continue. He thinks maybe it would have been better if he hadn't come to these things at all, if he'd just let his lawyers handle it. Listening to Eduardo now is like listening to someone else entirely. He doesn't sound like the person Mark remembers; he's a stranger.
"Can you tell us how many others you served before Mr Zuckerberg?"
A long pause is enough to make Mark look up again. Eduardo is looking towards his lawyers and the twins again, as if they are the ones whose opinion matters. Mark's pen taps faster against the table, until Marylin reaches over to stop him, her hand resting on his arm. Mark wants to glance up, wants to see if Eduardo's looking, wants him to be jealous because there's a woman touching his arm.
"Seven long-term engagements with mortals," Eduardo answers. "I'm not able to give you their names. It's confidential."
Seven. Seven people before him, and that's apparently just counting the long-term ones. What does 'long-term' mean to an immortal person? A year? Two? Ten? Mark's thinking that there should be heightened specificity, but the lawyers are moving on.
"With these others, was there an emotional attachment?"
"I lived with them for several years; I wouldn't have done that if I didn't care about them."
"Have there been any other 'engagements' that you've ended prematurely, as with Mr Zuckerberg?"
Mark tries to keep his gaze lowered, but once more he finds his eyes rising to peek at Eduardo. Eduardo is staring right at him, his eyes wide but unseeing, as if he's unaware that Mark is even there. "No. They've always come to a natural end."
"Can you be more specific?"
"No one wants to spend their life with a vassal," Eduardo says. There's a curl like a smile on his lips, but it's dark and bitter. There are memories in his eyes that Mark has no way of accessing. "I leave when my services are no longer required. That's how it's worked in the past."
"But not this time?"
Mark studies Eduardo's face, and there's a flicker of life in his eyes, as Eduardo notices he's been staring. He holds his gaze and Mark's eyes narrow as he evaluates every shift and twitch, trying to pick out what is going on under there.
"No," Eduardo says when he's prompted again. "Not this time. I decided to leave Mark's care myself."
"That isn't what happened," Mark blurts. "You can't just lie."
"Mr Zuckerberg," Wardo's counsel cautions.
"He didn't choose to leave. They took him away."
"In your statement, you said that you were asleep when Mr Saverin departed."
That might be true, but it isn't the point. He knows that Eduardo didn't get up and leave of his own choice; he wouldn't do that. Mark would have known, would have sensed it.
For a start, maybe he would have freaking woken up instead of sleeping straight through the whole thing.
"Has he told you about the white room they're keeping him in? He was crying when I last visited him. I've been told I'm bad with emotions, but I'm still reasonably certain that people don't burst into tears when they're the ones that walked out."
"Mark," Wardo says - and his voice is gentle and understanding and that is utter, total bullshit. Wardo doesn't understand a damn thing.
Mark flings his pen down on the table, watches it bounce and then he leans back, the muscle in his jaw clenching wildly. He doesn't answer when he's asked if he has any further contributions, just stares at Wardo and tries to set him alight with his gaze.
It doesn't work.
Sometimes, Mark thinks it's a good thing that he wasn't gifted with any powers. The temptation to misuse them would be too much to handle. He has no idea how Wardo and his kind cope.
*
Two days into the depositions, Wardo corners him in the bathroom. It's becoming a regular meeting spot, if two times is allowed to count as regular. Wardo leans against the door to stop anyone else from entering, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that is bound to crease his expensive suit.
"I don't think we're supposed to talk to each other. I might try to corrupt you," Mark states, not allowing himself to be drawn in - because, shit, he can't make sense of Wardo any more. He never really could, but it's worse than ever now. None of it makes sense.
"I was corrupted a long time ago," Wardo says. His face twitches, revealing a brilliant smile that disappears into nerves. "They're going to offer you a deal. You should settle."
Mark shakes his head, a miniscule movement. "I don't need money. I'm the world's youngest billionaire." There isn't a sum high enough to call him off, and he thinks they know that. He thinks that must be why they're scared of him.
"It doesn't have to be money." Wardo tilts his head to the side, studying him. "You have no idea about the kind of power The Father has. They could give you anything."
"I want you," Mark snaps. It sounds ridiculously sappy, and he wants to claw the words back when he sees the surprise register on Wardo's face. He looks down, breathes in, and shrugs.
"If you win this case, do you understand what kind of precedent that sets? This isn't just about me and you."
Mark hears him, he really does, but he's not going to accept it. Screw precedents, screw everyone else; they are all that matters. The rest of the world can cope.
"Mark," Wardo says - like he's pleading, like he thinks that his wide puppy-dog eyes are going to be enough to win this. Mark wonders if the other side sent him in here on purpose, a Trojan horse here to disarm him.
He pushes away from the sinks and moves towards Wardo, closing in, allowing himself to think of lions and their prey. He isn't sure which of them holds which role; he doesn't know who is hunting who, not any more. With Wardo, the world becomes more complicated. Mark barely understands humanity itself - he isn't equipped to add an extra underworld to his understanding.
He shuffles closer until personal space becomes irrelevant, and he has to look up in order to hold Wardo's gaze, boring into his almond eyes. There's guarded caution waiting for him there, but Wardo doesn't try to push him away.
Mark reaches out to place his hands on Wardo's hips, holding him firmly against the door. "I'm going to win," he states. Losing isn't something that he does, not any more. Facebook and all of the benefits that it brings have made him a winner; he gets to leave high school and all its bullshit behind. "You guys wouldn't be so scared of me if I wasn't."
"We're not scared," Wardo answers.
Mark looks down as he undoes Wardo's dress pants, watching his own actions instead of Wardo's face. He hears Wardo say his name, but blocks it out. Unless Wardo is going to tell him to stop, or tell him he's sorry, then there is nothing relevant to say to each other until all of this is over.
Wardo shifts his hips to help Mark to drag his trousers down to his ankles. Mark drops to the ground and kneels at his feet, his face settling into a frown of determination. His palms tingle with the bare excitement from touching Wardo's skin again, as he strokes over Wardo's legs and up his thighs, back to his hips where he pins him again.
Wardo's cock is only half-hard, but that's enough. Mark hasn't done this before, and he's trying hard not to think about how experienced Wardo must be - with his seven long-term engagements and his decades of fucking his way across the world and if Mark thinks about all of this too much then he is probably going to end up hurting someone.
Instead he takes Wardo's cock in hand, and feels him begin to lengthen and stiffen as blood rushes where it is needed. Mark keeps his gaze lowered on purpose, glowering with intensity as he takes the tip into his mouth, no teasing, no pretence. It's not like they're here to draw things out and make sweet love.
Low, strangled moans leave Wardo's chest like he isn't able to fight them, slipping out unguarded. Mark strokes his thumbs along Wardo's hipbones as he hollows his cheeks and sucks on his cock, desperate to make this good and fast, like he's got a point to prove. Wardo's fingers run through his hair and clench on to the curls, too tight to be comfortable. He puts up with it, as his head moves back and forth, Wardo's cock sliding wet and hot against his lips. The taste overwhelms him, blocking out the rest of the world. If he focuses on it enough, maybe he can even forget the situation they are in and what led them here.
The bathroom tiles are hard beneath his knees, but it fades away as soon as he sucks hard enough to make Wardo cry out and give a little back; heat shoots through him from Wardo's hand, tingling and brilliant in the way it had been when Wardo touched just his foot.
It's pure, undiluted feeling, and Mark moans greedily around Wardo's cock at the experience. His hands clutch Wardo's hips before he moves them back to the firm muscle of Wardo's ass, squeezing hold as he runs his tongue along the length of Wardo's dick. He's achingly hard in his pants at the memory of how it had felt to be inside of him, to own him utterly and unapologetically.
He hopes his mouth feels as good, and the pulses of power shooting from Wardo to him are a good indication. Wardo's head falls back against the bathroom door, his lips parted, groans tumbling from his throat as if he's never felt anything this good before.
He brushes his fingers against Wardo's hole, feather-light as he sucks on him with determined focus. Wardo whines, high-pitched and strangled, before he comes down Mark's throat, his fingers clenching in Mark's curls. It stings, and the musky taste fills his mouth, but the expression of released pleasure on Wardo's face makes it worth it.
Mark pulls his mouth from Wardo's face and climbs to his feet, slamming their lips together instead of swallowing. Wardo must taste the way that he's flooded his mouth and stained him completely. Mark clings hold of him and thrusts his tongue where it belongs, clashing teeth and bumping noses in his urgency.
Wardo moans under his assault, finally defeated, as he returns Mark's attention with blissed-out skill. Pulse after pulse of Wardo's energy pumps into him through every point of contact that they share, until Mark can feel fire licking at his skin and burning him brilliantly. It makes him shove Wardo more firmly against the door, feeling his bare legs and slack cock pressed against his body.
He breaks from Wardo's lips and moves down onto his neck instead, teeth digging in and sucking bruises onto his tanned skin. His clothed hips push against Wardo, rubbing himself off, but it's Wardo's power that makes him feel like his skin is too tight and that drags him closer and closer to the edge; it's the bright sense of Wardo inside him, penetrating every cell in a way that no human could do.
Mark grunts and spills inside his pants, his lips resting against Wardo's neck. Wardo's fingers comb through his hair as if he needs soothing and petting, while his power withdraws and purposefully fades away, expertly wielded instead of out of control.
"I can't give that up," Mark pants, as if this is all about the sex, as if that's all that he means.
Wardo's hand rests at the nape of his neck, his thumb stroking back and forth. There's no hurry to move, so Mark rests his head against his shoulder. He wonders if Wardo would take him home if he asked: if he would snap his fingers and get them out of there, as if none of the past few weeks had happened.
With a warm puff of air against his temple, the thought evaporates: "I need you to settle," Wardo pleads. Mark's shoulders tense. "It'll be easier on all of us."
And -
Shit.
After all this, Wardo still thinks about settlements and what is going to be 'easiest'. Mark wishes that he was a violent man, wishes that he was the kind of person that could make himself feel better with a balled fist.
"Why am I the only one fighting for this?" he demands.
It's supposed to be mutual. He had felt something between them, something real, and that has to mean something - he doesn't care about people very often. Now, it feels like it might be nothing more than a trick. It's a cheap ploy to hollow him out.
He feels like Dustin, with conspiracy theories running through his head, but he pulls away from Wardo. There's a wet, uncomfortable patch in his pants that is all Wardo's fault, and Wardo looks down to tuck himself away and rearrange his clothes. He has to look presentable after all, Mark thinks with a bitter stab. It's all about appearances.
"Mark…" Wardo sighs. "They're my family. I've been with them for longer than you've been alive."
"You sound like an old man."
"I am an old man." Wardo shakes his head. "Sometimes it's like you really don't get it, Mark."
"No, Eduardo, I don't." He hates admitting that, the words like acid, but nothing else is working. "What don't I get?"
Wardo flails for a moment, hands spread wide, as if there are too many words that want to come out at once. "I'm not like you," he snaps eventually. "The newspapers? They're right. They say we're different and we are."
"That's bullshit." Mark has lived with Wardo in his life. Aside from magical powers and mind-blowing sex, there's nothing 'different' about him. "You're like everyone else: an idiot."
The anger on Eduardo's face flashes immediately, like he's been splashed with cold water. "If that's what you think then you'll be glad to get rid of me," he says, pushing away from the door so that he can turn around and fling it open.
And everything is starting to spin around and around in Mark's head; he's not even sure what side he is supposed to be arguing from any more, or even who he is arguing against. He wants Wardo with him. That's the end-game here - but Wardo is difficult and confusing and impossible to pin down.
Eduardo disappears out of the door before Mark has a chance to tell him to slow down and stop being an asshole. Mark kicks the door in irritation, but that only leaves him with a sore foot and a throbbing temper. The room is too hot and too brightly lit. Mark glares at the light strip above him as if he might be able to make it explode in his anger. It glows petulantly down at him.
*
"Mark," Marylin sighs. She presses the tips of her fingers against the document on the desk. "This is a good deal. If we press harder, maybe we can get something more out of them, but that's aiming high."
"I've told you: I don't care about settling." Mark rests his head in his hands, his elbows settled firmly on the desk. It's dark outside beyond the windows. The lights glow in the skyscrapers around the city. It feels as if they've been arguing about this all day. "I don't care what they offer me."
"Three wishes," Marylin says, her voice dropping to a murmur, as if this is a secret. Alone in the room, there isn't much chance of anyone else overhearing. "That's what they're offering you, Mark. Do you understand how rare that is? No one has ever made a settlement like this."
And that makes it tempting. Mark likes treading on new ground, leaving footprints behind where none have been before. But -
"Could I wish for Wardo?"
Marylin glares at him as fiercely as any lawyer is able to do. It's almost enough to singe his eyebrows.
Mark glares back. "I'll take that as a no," he grumbles.
"You're not going to win this case," Marylin states.
"Then I'll get new lawyers." Mark shifts his attention back to the papers on the table, the ones that promise him the world if he'll just back off. "I'll find someone more capable."
"It won't matter who you hire." She's determinedly unruffled. He can't even hear a hitch in her voice to prove that he's unsettled her. "No one can win this. You have to settle and move on."
Everyone keeps telling him the same thing. It's hard to listen to them when he still has the taste of Wardo's cock in his mouth. "You should go," he says. "Take the others too. I'll find someone else."
With Facebook behind him, these guys are supposed to be the best that money can buy. There must be better. He'll find it.
Marylin argues with him but he waves her away, keeping his head down as he reaches for his laptop. He doesn't hear her parting words and is barely aware of the door closing, leaving him alone in the large conference room. His mind is already elsewhere, determined fingers flying over the keyboard. The clatter of hammered keys fills the room.
*
During the night, when he finally makes it home, he shudders under the covers as a chill glides through the room. His cheek burns hot for a few moments, red like a branding iron in the dark, before it fades to nothing.
Morning comes, and his apartment is empty.
He heads to the Facebook offices on default, head in his own thoughts, and it isn't until he's slouching his way past frantic interns that he realises he's supposed to be fighting this case - by himself, since his lawyers have dutifully been disposed of.
"Mark," Chris says, with an absent-minded beckon of his hand. "Have you had a look at those reports I sent over? I need them back today."
"I'm supposed to be at the depositions," Mark answers with a scowl, although he knows that technically it isn't Chris's job to know his assigned location at all moments of the day. It is someone's job, but he's not sure who. He's sure he used to have an assistant, before Wardo crashed into his life. "I should go."
"Wait, what?" Chris double-takes so quickly that he almost spins on the spot. "Are we being sued again? Who's suing us?"
Mark stares at him. And stares. And stares.
Chris doesn't flinch. "I'm serious, man. You haven't told me about this. How could you not have told me?" His eyes are wide and bulging and his hand twitches as if he's considering smacking Mark with it. Far too violent this early in the morning.
"Wardo," Mark snaps. "It's Wardo, remember?"
But Chris doesn't back off or apologise or even look guilty. He just gestures wildly as if Mark is the one in the wrong here. "Who the hell is Wardo?"
Which is...
No.
Mark's face twitches its way through a dozen reactions, but nothing sticks. He waits for the next beat, waits for something else to happen, but Chris stares at him in horror that can't be faked.
"They erased it," he murmurs aloud. "Everything."
They offered him a settlement, a legal way out, and when that didn't work - they took matters into their own hands. It's shitty as hell, and it's cheating. Mark's sure it can't be legal, but he doesn't know how to press a case against an organisation that wipes itself from the public's minds.
"Mark, you better tell me what's going on," Chris says. "I'm going to have a huge mess to clean up, aren't I?"
Mark shakes his head. There's nothing. He'll have to investigate, and ask everyone that he can, but he knows already that he won't find anything. The Father have wiped away all traces of Eduardo's earlier mistake; this is a practised retread. They probably frequently have to tidy up after their charges' mistakes, and the wider world is never any the wiser.
"It's done; it's dealt with," he answers in order to silence Chris and disentangle himself. Retreating to his office, he picks up the phone and dials every number that he can think of, barking at secretaries and growling at blank dial tones.
Marylin's office has no record of any dealings with him. They've never heard of The Father. Shoulders tense enough to burn, Mark presses the phone down into its holder and breathes deeply. His brow is furrowed; he doesn't know what to do next.
iv.
"You won't need to come in today, Mr Saverin," Tyler tells him over the phone. "The Father has dealt with the matter."
Holding his phone to his ear, Eduardo stands in the centre of his new apartment and tries to follow the thread of what is going on. "What does that mean? Is Mark okay?"
"He's unharmed," Tyler confirms. It's not actually as reassuring as it ought to be. "You needn't concern yourself with it. Take a long break, like we discussed. Cameron and I will drop by sometime to talk about your options."
They hang up after polite goodbyes, leaving Eduardo to wonder what exactly that future is supposed to be. He's been avoiding thinking about it so far. With a slow, steady pace, he makes his way through to the kitchen that he hardly uses, staring out across the city through the window above the sink.
He misses Mark's apartment, with its constant mess and the soundtrack of typing; he misses Mark. A few snatched moments together in a corporate bathroom aren't enough. Mark drives him insane, until he wants to shout and claw at him, but despite that he doesn't know how to stay away from him.
It's strange, this connection. He has lived for centuries, and watched humans live and die with an impassive eye, always one step removed from their lives. He's not a monster; he had felt it and had mourned every single time that a friend or lover had passed away or left him.
Yet this is different.
Eduardo stares out of the window at the world that is offered to him: freedom and a long vacation. The world waits for him, with dozens of new people to meet and to help - and for the first time, he doesn't want to stride forward to find them.
He holds onto the edge of the sink and hangs his head down. His hair falls in front of his forehead, nearly long enough to block out his eyes, and he breathes deeply and steadily. "This is what we wanted," he mutters to himself, speaking under his breath. In the empty kitchen, his words still seem to be shouted.
His lawyers and the twins have all rehearsed all of the reasons why he and Mark have to separate. Mark is dangerous; Mark makes him dangerous. They couldn't have allowed him to win the court case - think of what that might mean for all other vassals serving under masters. Think of what that might mean for the principle of supernatural freedom.
He had heard their arguments. He had listened to them all.
He had sat at the other side of that large conference table and said everything that needed to be said. He'd painted the story with the slant they needed.
And now it is over. Now it's over and Eduardo is alone in his kitchen, looking down at his floor and wondering if Mark has remembered to eat properly without him there to mother him into it.
He's in trouble, he knows. Straightening up and running his hands through his hair, he knows he's in a lot of trouble. He doesn't have the slightest clue how to fix it.
*
The next day, the twins 'strongly advise' him to take a decade's leave, and he feels the doors of The Father close firmly behind him. Ten years. It feels like a long time stretching before him, and before he can second-guess himself he finds himself outside an unfamiliar home.
"Christy," he says through the intercom. "It's me. Wardo."
He hears a laugh before she buzzes him through, leaving him to ascend the stairs with worries flying through his mind. "I wondered when you would be turning up," she says, leaning against her doorframe when he reaches her. He feels the same longing for her that he always has, a pulse of desire that makes his palms tingle; he doubts that will ever fade. "Did they finally throw you out?"
He places a hand on her hips and kisses her cheek before she allows him into her home. The air is cold, like stepping into a fridge, but it has nothing to do with air conditioning.
"I heard the news," she says, heading straight for her kitchen to get him a drink. "Everyone has."
"News?"
"You've been fired." She smiles and shrugs. "As close as They can get to firing anyone, anyway."
"I'm taking some time off. It's not the same thing." He can feel the dishonour of it, though, like a choking blanket in the air. "I don't know what to do."
"You survived fine without them before," she reminds him with a sharp glance. He can feel the disapproval radiating from her.
She passes him a bottle of beer and they settle down onto large, white couches, nursing their sorrows while he tries to find his feet once more. The world still feels unsteady around him, but at least with Christy he can feel the solid rock of his past beneath his feet; he can remember that there was a time before he became entangled with humanity.
"He sent someone to visit me, you know," she says. "An arrogant young thing. He was delicious."
Wardo's brow furrows. "He sent someone?"
"Sean, I think," Christy says. She grins, fangs on show, and the sight of it means that Eduardo can't help but smile back. If anyone deserves to end up on the sharp side of those fangs, it's Sean. "Digging up dirt about you. I suppose they thought it might help their case, the poor things."
"They didn't know what they were up against," Eduardo sighs. Mark likes to attack giants. Eduardo thinks it makes him feel smarter, stronger; it feeds into his ego, already heavy and swollen. Maybe they're lucky that The Father played their dirty trick on him. The world couldn't have handled Mark Zuckerberg high on a supernatural success. "I should never have got him into this."
"Exactly," Christy agrees - and he finds himself frowning, displeased. "Humans have no place in our lives. This is a blessing."
He sighs and covers his face with his hands. "I know," he agrees. "I knew you'd think so, anyway."
"That's why you came here," she informs him, her expression guarded. "You wanted someone to remind you that humans are dogs."
"They're not." He's seen wonderful things during his time as a vassal; he has served amazing and kind people over the years, and has again and again seen the brightest side of humanity. He's not sure if that includes Mark yet. He doesn't think there's a right word or category for where he would fit in.
"Are we really going to argue about this?" She extends her leg across the couch and nudges him with her bare foot. "I always win."
"You always think you win," he corrects with a smile. He gives in too easily; hasn't that always been his problem? Yet he sobers quickly, as the thought of his current predicament hits him again. It's impossible to escape. With a pathetic groan, he flops against the back of the sofa and folds his arms over his chest. "What am I supposed to do?"
"You could travel," Christy suggests, but the thought of beautiful landscapes and ancient relics makes him sigh, "Or you could retreat to the other side and join one of the fairy courts. Even as a half-blood they're bound to accept you." Spending the next decade being treated as naturally inferior due to his mixed blood is even more unpalatable. Christy smirks. "Or you could go back to that bone-headed human of yours."
Eduardo raises his head and frowns at her. "I just fought a court case against him so I didn't have to go back."
"The Father fought a case to make sure he couldn't force you to go back," Christy corrects. "Don't act so confused, Eduardo. This is really why you came here: you wanted me to tell you to do this."
He shifts uncomfortably. "You're my friend. That's why I came."
"Don't be an idiot. You come to me when you're fighting with yourself. I know you better than you think." She smiles, fangs on show - deliberate, it's always deliberate when she does that. "So go to him. Apologise. Kiss him senseless, and stay out of trouble."
She nudges him with her foot again, harder this time, with a flash of dark danger in her eyes. Eduardo doesn't want to think about what might happen if he doesn't follow her advice. He still remembers the time she set his hotel room on fire after an argument. If he had been human, he probably would be dead.
"Thanks," he murmurs, but she rolls her eyes and won't acknowledge him.
He lets himself out, thoughts spinning through his mind as he makes the long journey down several flights of stairs.
*
Mark isn't at his apartment when Eduardo visits. It's actually a relief to receive no answer, and to let himself in with a tingle of magic across the door handle. The apartment is exactly as he expected to find it, with used clothes on the floor and empty food cartons in the kitchen. He explores with a growing sense of nostalgia, and finds the bed unmade and the bathroom in sore need of scrubbing.
It shouldn't make him smile. It does.
It feels as if he's come home. A part of him expects Cameron or Tyler to come and drag him away, but he is left to his own devices; now that he has been dealt with, it seems that The Father has little care for his actions.
Finding a book on one of the shelves, Eduardo takes a seat on his side of the couch, his legs curled close beneath his body. He sheds his suit jacket and leaves it folded over the arm of the couch, and attempts to read, although his eyes keep skipping to the clock, never a minute apart.
It is dark outside when Mark's keys jangle in the door. Eduardo's spine jerks straight and he uncurls from the sofa, getting to his feet and dropping the book onto the warm patch where he had been sitting. His mouth is dry.
The door swings and Mark steps into his apartment. He has a paper bag in one hand, the heavy scent of Thai food coming from it. With sweatpants and an over-sized hoodie, he still looks far better than he has any right to do; Eduardo isn't used to feeling so off-balance.
Mark comes to an abrupt halt when he catches sight of Eduardo. "You're here," Mark states, his brow heavy. The door swings closed behind him, but he doesn't walk further into his apartment. He looks at Eduardo like an invader. "You guys won. No one remembers a thing."
"I know." Eduardo nods. The idea of friends like Chris and Dustin not even remembering him makes him uneasy, but there's nothing he can do about it. One halfling isn't enough to undo the strong magic of The Father. His protection, the touch to Mark's face, had been enough to prevent them from taking him out of his mind, but that's all. "I'm sorry. It wasn't my decision."
Mark stares at him, long and hard. It makes Eduardo's skin itch. "Why are you here?" he asks.
Blunt. Inelegant. It's a relief not to dance around the point.
"I don't know," he confesses. He looks away from Mark, around the apartment that had been his home for months. They had shared breakfast in that kitchen, and watched movies and played video games on that couch. He had rearranged Mark's wardrobe in the bedroom, and it had been on that large bed that they'd been together for the first time. He holds his breath for a moment, and then realises, "This is the only place I wanted to go."
Mark squints at him as if he isn't making sense.
"I've been released for ten years. It's like taking a vacation, but dishonourable." He wishes he didn't have to admit that, even to himself - but he knows that, out there, his old colleagues are talking behind his back, that the vassal gossip network will be alive with chatter about all of his mistakes. "I could go anywhere, Mark. Anywhere. Not just in the world; there are other dimensions, upstairs, downstairs, sideways. There's more than humanity has ever imagined - and instead I'm here."
By comparison to the glories that he could see if he wanted to, Mark's apartment is far from impressive. It doesn't shine with gold and the floor is covered with carpet rather than clouds. There is nothing extraordinary here at all.
Mark's eyes are narrowed as he observes him, and his lips are pressed into a single thin line. Eduardo can't understand anything on his face.
"I'm not here because I've been sent; I'm not here as your vassal." He shrugs, at a loss, because he doesn't feel in control of the words that are coming out of his mouth. "I'm just… here."
Mark bows his head - it might be a nod - and Eduardo feels a twinge like indigestion. His chest aches; coming here was a bad idea. He should have stayed far, far away.
"I have Thai food," Mark says, which is -
Well.
It's not exactly what Eduardo would have expected.
"There's enough to share. I know you don't usually eat, but... You could have some. If you wanted."
For a moment, Eduardo wonders if Mark is trying to construct a food-related metaphor, but as Mark moves past him to the kitchen that seems unlikely. Food. He's just turned up in Mark's apartment after a sticky court case, and the only thing that Mark wants to think about is his dinner.
"I've got a new game too," Mark says, placing his bag down on the kitchen counter. He doesn't look towards Eduardo. "It hasn't been released yet. We can try it out together."
"Mark," Eduardo snaps - he needs Mark's attention, on him rather than on his food or his computer. "Talk to me."
"I am talking to you."
Eduardo says Mark's name again, and this time it seems to be enough to at least get him to turn around and face him. His eyes, dark like coal, meet Eduardo's without flinching. "What am I supposed to say?" Mark asks. "I'm glad you're back. We don't need to make a fuss about it."
Eduardo wavers, and shakes his head. "Maybe we do," he says uncertainly.
"Do you want me to be mad at you? I could shout, if you want. There's a lot for me to shout at you about."
"No." Eduardo presses the heel of his hand against his forehead, and settles Mark with his most logical expression. "A lot of stuff has happened. We can't just skip to eating take-out and playing games."
"Gaming, not playing games. Kids play." Mark shifts his weight from foot to foot. His mouth twitches in displeasure. "You're here. Right now, I don't even want to question that. You could be gone in the morning."
"I won't be," he promises. So much could go wrong - he could be dragged away by the twins and The Father - but he means his vow. He'll struggle now, all that he can. "I'm here."
"For good?"
"For good," he confirms.
"Awesome." Mark pauses and then shrugs his shoulders. "Can I eat now?"
No, we're not done yet, Eduardo wants to insist, but he doesn't know what else there is to say. He had been worried about facing Mark's wrath all day. Now, that seems premature.
Mark takes him to the couch and beats the hell out of him at his new game. In profile, his face is a scowl of concentration, his brow heavy and his lips pressed together. It's like he's never been gone, like the court case never happened. Eduardo is sure that it isn't supposed to be this easy.
*
In the dimmed light of his bedroom, Mark allows Eduardo to slowly strip him of his clothes. They don't speak. Eduardo listens to Mark's breathing, loud in the silence, and it makes need flare through him, red-hot through his entire body.
He takes Mark's face in between his hands and kisses him, the barest brush of lips that becomes deeper and more persistent within moments. Mark's hands clutch at him and drag him closer, his hand resting on the small of Eduardo's back. His palm is cold against Eduardo's bare skin, and his short nails scratch against him, clawing in.
Eduardo pants his name, breathing it against Mark's kiss-slick lips. "Mark, please," he murmurs, without knowing what he's asking for. He nuzzles away from his mouth, down to the throbbing pulse on his neck. His lips suck on it, followed by the wet attention of his tongue; his eyelids drop as he focuses on the sounds coming from Mark's mouth, the way his breathing gets heavier and heavier as if he's running a marathon.
Against Eduardo's thigh, he can feel Mark's erection, firm, steady and aching. He holds Mark down with his weight over his body, but that doesn't seem to stop Mark from rocking back and forth, leaving a wet stripe along Eduardo's skin as he rubs himself on his leg.
Eduardo chuckles, pulling back from Mark's neck to look down at him. "You're impatient," he says, but he can't stop himself from smiling.
Mark's mouth forms a thin curve. "Can you blame me?"
The answer to that is definitely 'no'. Eduardo has had decades of experience, and that is the only thing stopping him from losing control entirely. He wants to hide in this bed with Mark forever, to block the world out so that it is just the pair of them.
His hand finds Mark's and their fingers interlock. He looks down at that point of contact between them, and it is somehow more than the wealth of naked skin before him. Raising their joined fists to his mouth, he presses his lips against Mark's knuckles.
I'm not leaving, he thinks, Not ever.
The dark desperation in Mark's eyes says that he doesn't believe him. Not yet. He takes the tip of one of Mark's fingers into his mouth and scrapes his teeth along the nail. He's got time to make Mark believe.
It starts tonight, skin on skin, flesh on flesh, the place where a succubus thrives.
.fin