Vassal [2/3] - The Social Network - Eduardo/Mark
Title: Vassal [2/3]
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark (mentions of assorted others)
Word Count: 8335
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: One
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.
iv.
Looking at Chris, Dustin thinks that he might be about to explode. Literally. Maybe that's one of the side effects of a succubus accidentally invading your thoughts. Or instincts. Or body.
To be honest, Dustin isn't even sure exactly what Eduardo did. One second, he had been plugged in and coding at a speed that would have impressed even Mark. The next second, he was more turned on than he had been in his entire life, and Chris was frantically pulling at the buttons of his loose shirt. After that, everything is something of a sticky mess.
Now, three hours later, and everything is beginning to calm down. It feels like the wake after a funeral - only less depressing, and with way more computers on every surface. Bad analogy, maybe.
Point is, so far no one seems to have called in either the police or the press. They'll need to wait until tomorrow's papers come out to be sure, but there's nothing on the internet, and for a company employing such a huge number of people it's practically a miracle.
Literally.
Dustin doesn't mean to be disparaging about Chris's crisis-management skills, because god knows the company would have exploded into atom-sized pieces a thousand times over if not for him, but this is supernaturally lucky.
"Do you think They've done something?" he asks, spinning around once on his computer chair.
Chris looks up at him from where he is currently glaring at something on his computer screen. His expression is cross as hell. On the other hand, it's the first time he's actually met his eyes since their little Eduardo-inspired make-out session. That's an improvement.
"'They'?"
"Y'know. They. Whoever controls the whole supernatural network." He waggles his fingers in the air. "There's got to be something behind it all. Everyone's feeling chilled out. That would not be happening without outside influence."
Chris returns his gaze to his computer and carries on with what he was doing. "Maybe I drugged the coffee," he suggests.
Deadpan. Total deadpan.
Chilled out, joking Chris. That definitely hasn't happened since college, since pre-Facebook days. Whatever They are doing, maybe Dustin's okay with it.
*
It isn't until the next morning that the shit starts to hit the fan.
Dustin is sleeping facedown in his bed, cheek smushed against the pillow, when his phone's ring tone begins to sound at an obnoxiously loud volume. Fumbling blindly, he reaches for it - knocking several other loud objects from his bedside cabinet in the meantime, until he manages to lock his hand around it.
Shoving the phone against his ear, he answers with a mumble. "This better be good," he mutters, although for anyone to be calling this early it has to be bad news.
"He's gone," says the panting voice on the other end. Dustin pulls the phone from his ear for a moment to look at the display: Mark. Weird. Panicked Mark. "Wardo's left."
"What?" Dustin rolls over and begins to sit up. "How do you know? Maybe he's buying a paper or something."
"He's a fairy. He can click his fingers if he wants a paper. He needs my permission to leave anyway."
"So…" It is far too early in the morning for him to be able to understand this. "He can't have left. Have you checked the closet?"
"Why would Wardo be in the closet?"
Dustin grunts. "Where else would he be?"
"I don't know. That's the point. Are you listening?"
"It's six in the morning. You're lucky I'm even conscious."
Mark makes a tiny noise of disapproval on the other end of the line. No doubt he's already wishing that he'd called Chris instead. Dustin tries to pull himself together more effectively. It must be freaking Mark out a lot for him to have bothered calling at all.
"Has he ever done anything like this before?" he asks. After Mark answers, he racks his brain. "Did you guys have a fight or anything?"
Considering what Eduardo had done yesterday - and, to be perfectly honest, Dustin's memory of exactly what happened already feels fuzzy and hard to grasp - arguing seems likely.
"No. We came home, we talked, and we had sex." Mark doesn't seem to hear Dustin groan in violation. "A lot of sex. And now he's gone."
"Was the sex that bad?"
Mark is glaring at him. Down the phone. Dustin can hear it.
"Okay, sorry. You're really worried about this?"
"He said he was going to be in a lot of trouble. I don't think he meant with me."
Still holding the phone to his ear, Dustin starts to get out of bed. "I knew it," he says, because - hey - finally a conspiracy theory he's right about. "You think They've taken him?"
Mark's doing his phone-glaring thing again. He's actually pretty good at it.
"Alright, okay. I'm getting up, and I'm going to be at your apartment in ten minutes. Call Chris, he'll know what to do."
"I already have. I called him first."
Dustin scowls. Sometimes, he wishes that Mark would learn the value of tact. "Well. Is he coming over?"
"He's on his way."
Dustin nods and continues getting dressed, hopping into his jeans while holding the phone against his ear. If he makes it out of the flat without falling on his face it's going to be a cause worth celebrating.
"Just get here," Mark demands. "I want this sorted."
With that last order, the commander-in-chief hangs up. Dustin rolls his eyes, chucks his phone onto his bed, and finishes getting dressed. It sounds like Mark is ready to go to war.
*
The summit meeting at Mark's flat doesn't go especially well, since no one actually has a clue about what they ought to do or how to locate a missing vassal. It's not like he came with an instruction manual.
So Mark glares and scowls and then goes all zombie-robot on them until they leave amid promises to work something out. "That could've gone better," Chris says, leaning against the back of the elevator as they make the long trip down.
Dustin doesn't feel like joking, not any more. "Do you think Wardo's okay?" he asks - because Wardo might belong to Mark, but he's their friend too. If something's happened to him, they want to help. And if Mark has screwed up and chased him off, Dustin needs his new email address so that they can keep in touch (and, largely, so that he can convince him to come back and stop Mark from exploding or dissolving).
The elevator lurches to a stop and Chris leaves to go to the library. A real library, with books and everything. Dustin, meanwhile, heads straight for his computer. If there is a conspiracy to be found, what better place to look than the almighty internet?
Three hours later, he has been persuaded of the existence of aliens, he is sure he knows who was behind the JFK shooting, and knows that the world is going to end in 2012 - but there's no sign of Eduardo anywhere, not in pages or in cyberspace.
v.
There is a set of twins in his kitchen. Tall, tanned and muscular, they are not the kind of people that belong in Mark's apartment. Especially without an invitation.
Standing in the doorway with his dressing gown falling open, he should probably be more afraid than he is. They don't look like they're robbing the place. They look, in fact, like they're cleaning up and making breakfast. That's Wardo's job.
"Why are you in my kitchen?" Mark asks.
They turn around to face him at the same time, their movements a perfect mirror. "Mr Zuckerberg," one of them says with a far too pleasant smile. "I hope we didn't wake you."
"You're in my apartment."
"Yes. We're Mr Saverin's replacements."
And that is not an acceptable explanation on any level whatsoever. Mark's brow is so furrowed that he feels like a caveman. "I don't need a replacement. Where's Wardo gone?"
"We're afraid we're not able to discuss our colleagues," the twin says. "I'm Cameron; this is my brother Tyler. Let me assure you that we're very well-trained and more than capable of filling Eduardo's shoes."
"I don't want anyone else in his shoes," Mark answers. "When is he coming back?" He hates the wobbling sense of the unknown beneath his feet. Events are happening around him that he apparently had no control over. He needs to steady himself; he needs this fixed.
The twins look at each other, long and significant. This time, Tyler is the one that answers. "I'm afraid that Eduardo had to be recalled for training," he says. "We apologise whole-heartedly for the mix-up, and I promise that nothing like that will happen again."
Training. Mix-up. It's all starting to sound far more bureaucratic than anything Mark has dealt with since Harvard.
"How long does his training take?" he asks. "He doesn't need it."
The twins look at each other again. It seems as if there is an entire conversation going on that Mark isn't privy to.
"He may be gone for quite some time," Tyler says.
He sounds like a Bond villain. Mark would really rather not have evil overlords standing in his kitchen.
"Please, Mark," Cameron says generously, after Mark has been glaring at them for several moments too long without saying anything. Silence doesn’t seem to be enough to make them bring Eduardo back. "Take a seat. Have breakfast with us."
Mark stays exactly where he is. "If you've been sent as Eduardo's replacements, then there must be someone in charge."
Cameron nods helpfully. "We belong to The Father. And before you ask: no, it's not a religious thing." He smiles as if he expects Mark to smile too. His face doesn't twitch. "It's a lineage that has gone back to at least the ninth century. We - our kind, anyway - were the original vassals, long before it became a trend."
Ninth century. That's older than he expected. "Eduardo's been around that long?"
"No, god no. He's young. I think he joined us in the -" Cameron looks towards his brother, who doesn't say anything but seems to give him the answer anyway. "Late eighteenth century. Tyler and I have been working as vassals since the Renaissance. You're in very good hands."
The thought of being in their identical hands makes Mark need to go and have a shower. He stays in the seat, looking down as Tyler places a stack of pancakes in front of him. Even if his mouth is watering, he doesn't reach for a fork.
"You still haven't told me who's in charge," Mark points out. He leans back and folds his hand over his stomach. "I'm asking because I want to know who it is I'm going to be suing about all this."
That gets the twins to look at each other (again) and a stream of satisfying confusion passes between them. "If you feel aggrieved, Mr Zuckerberg, let us apologise now. That wasn't our intention."
"I made an agreement with Wardo," Mark says. "Not with you, and not with your Father. This is breaking that contract."
"We understand that you're upset," Cameron soothes. "But - "
"I'm not upset," Mark says. He doesn't get upset. "You should get out of my apartment and send Wardo back. Otherwise, I'm going to get a lawyer, and I'm going to make sure that they destroy you."
Which is overdramatic.
He doesn't want to destroy their millennia-old organisation. He just wants to cripple them so that they're unable to piss him off any more.
The twins look at each other again, and leave a card on the kitchen island. They vanish into thin air while Mark is reaching for the card, leaving him with an empty kitchen, cooling pancakes, and a mystical legal battle coming for him. He wishes Wardo was there to take care of the stupid little things for him. The air in his apartment is slowly cooling.
*
Chris keeps staring at him as if he has declared that he wants to go and slay Goliath. The clock on his office wall is ticking menacingly and Mark slouches in his chair, sinking deep into his problems.
"Wardo didn't leave willingly," he states, "and he didn't go for some bullshit 'training' program. They're doing something to him. We're going to stop them."
Simple as that.
Only Chris keeps staring at him as if it is not that simple, which is ridiculous.
"Mark, you're asking us to take on an extremely shady supernatural organisation that no one else even knows exists," Chris stage-whispers, as if someone might be listening in.
"I have a business card," Mark says, pointing at it again. "That's proof."
"That's proof that someone made a business card, not that there's an evil company that has kidnapped Wardo." Chris reaches for his phone, but doesn't yet dial any number. "I'll make some enquiries and see what I can do. Go home, Mark. Get some sleep. You look like shit."
Mark isn't sure how he looks any different to how he usually looks, but he leaves Chris's office all the same. He doesn't go back to his apartment. He heads to the closest computer instead, scaring away an intern with a frown of authority, and plugs in.
There's an organisation. There's a business. There's a business card.
Medieval or not, everyone is hooked in these days. If there is a trail, he can find it. He's going to burn them to the cyber-ground.
*
Twenty minutes later, his computer has exploded into a mess of green flames.
Looks like The Father takes the 'burning' thing literally.
*
He wakes up in the middle of the night, after sleeping spread like a starfish in the centre of his bed. His room is glowing.
Flipping onto his back and scrambling to his feet, he looks out for aliens, but the only thing that is there is a glowing ball of green light. It hovers in the centre of the room, waiting. Mark's hand rises to his head and he rubs at his scalp as he tries to work out if he's about to be set on fire as well.
"What the hell?" he asks aloud.
The ball doesn't answer. It just glows.
"What are you? Are you even a thing?" He's talking to light now. This so isn't good. Reaching for his abandoned dressing gown, he doesn't take his eyes off of it. "Can you speak?"
Maybe it's just a light, but it doesn't feel that way. Mark is usually too rational to rely on anything other than logic and facts. He doesn't make decisions based on 'feelings'. Yet, right now, he can feel himself being watched and weighted and judged. He stops slouching. It doesn't help.
"You're coming to me in the middle of the night, and you're setting my computer on fire when I get close to you," Mark says. He takes one step towards the light. It may only be a small half-step, but he hopes it looks threatening. "That means you're scared of me. You should be."
He's not an action hero, and he has no supernatural powers, but he has a lot of money at his disposal and maybe that's just about the same thing. His eyes narrow. The light isn't even doing anything.
"What's the plan? You're going to glow me to death? Or keep me up all night so I'm too tired to do anything in the morning?" The light refuses to answer. It's ruder than Mark. "I work with computers. I run off of caffeine."
No reaction.
While he ought to reach for the phone and call someone (is phoning the police to report a menacing light an acceptable response?) he moves forward instead. It's the action of a dumb blonde in a horror movie, but he walks straight towards the danger. For Wardo's sake, maybe it's his duty to investigate.
He reaches out with a hesitant twitch, until his fingers skim against the centre of the light. A pleasant tingling sensation spreads up his fingers, his arm, into his chest and downwards, far down - and he knows that, recognises it, opens his lips and -
And he isn't in his bedroom any more.
He isn't anywhere, actually.
It's a white room, with no windows, no doors, no furniture. No features. No noticeable light source, although that doesn't stop it from being as blinding as staring into the sun.
Mark hardly notices any of that, unable to give the room anything more than a cursory glance, because Eduardo is there, right there in front of him. His hair is a mess, and the skin around his eyes is pink and puffy as if he's been crying. He is a blot of colour on the blank canvass.
"You're not dead," Mark observes.
What he actually wants to do is grab hold of Eduardo and never let go of him again, but that's kind of sappy and he's never been too comfortable with the romantic-gestures thing. Just ask his ex-girlfriends.
Or.
Ex-girlfriend. Singular.
Not the point.
"I'm not dead," Eduardo confirms, but his voice is shaking and he won't look Mark in the eyes. Mark stares intently at his face, trying to work out exactly what has happened here. "Mark, you can't stay long. It isn't safe here."
"Then let's go. You can glow us out of here," Mark says. He's not actually sure what of the exact limits of Eduardo's powers, but if he can appear as a glowing ball in his bedroom then he can definitely get them out of a sterile exitless room.
But Eduardo's shaking his head. "I can't leave," he says. "I was able to bring you here, but I can't leave the room."
"I'm going to get you away from them," Mark says. He scowls. "They burned my computer." On the scale of things, it might not be the most harmful of their crimes, and it was an intern's computer rather than his own personal laptop, but that's beside the point.
"You have to forget about this stupid vendetta," Eduardo insists, the words snapping from him like an explosion. "Just let it go."
"You mean I should let you go," Mark translates, because that's what it boils down to. If he forgets about this, and accepts someone else in exchange, then he gets the feeling that Eduardo isn't ever going to return from his 'training' trip, not for years and not to him.
"Yes," Eduardo answers. "You're in over your head. This is dangerous, and I'm in so much trouble. You have to - Mark, you have to back off."
Water is welling in Eduardo's eyes again, and Mark isn't sure if he is capable of watching Eduardo cry. It makes him want to escape, but this room has no doors - there's no way out, nothing to do but watch with glaring clarity as Wardo fights back tears.
Wardo wipes at his face angrily, although nothing has spilled yet. "I mean it. Go home, and go to work tomorrow, and please take care of yourself." He sounds like he might remind Mark to eat his vegetables at any moment. "But this, you and me, that's done. It has to be."
"We bonded," Mark says. "I let you drink my blood. That's like a contract, which means you can't dissolve it."
"Mark."
"If you really wanted to I would let it go, but when you're standing in an exit-free room crying at me I'm inclined to think it isn't your decision." Mark stares at Eduardo as he talks, trying to mentally will him out of this place. It's like a prison. "Wardo, tell me how to pin them down. And, yes, that's an order."
"You have their card," Eduardo says, the words willed from him. "That's all you need."
Mark gives him a long and solid stare, which he hopes is enough to say that he'll need a lot more detail than that. He hates having to actually ask.
"Find something silver and press it against the card. It'll take you to them."
They couldn't just have a subway stop, could they? Mark can feel himself tumbling further and further into the supernatural realm; it's not a place that humans belong. With Eduardo in front of him like this, though, it's not as if there's any other option.
"What happens then?" Mark asks. "Once I'm there, what do I do?"
He's still hoping for a technological angle to all of this. He's seen Independence Day. Give him a laptop and their mainframe and he could cripple them in under ten minutes.
Eduardo is shaking his head. It's not a good sign.
"I don't know. Nobody has done this before."
Which isn't exactly encouraging, but it doesn't matter either. Mark is used to creating and breaking things that nobody ever has before, usually just for fun. It's more serious now, but it's the same principle.
Eduardo reaches out to touch his face, cupping his cheek, and his palm is so hot that it almost burns. "Be careful," he pleads - it sounds like he's begging and Mark wants to tell him to stop.
Eduardo infringes on his personal space before he can say anything, leaning down to nudge Mark's mouth open with his dry lips. His hand stays against the side of Mark's face, his fingertips like fire, as he kisses Mark like it's going to be the last time ever, slow and steady and more than a little desperate.
Mark holds onto the front of Eduardo's shirt, feeling the fluttering of his stomach with frantic breaths. He clings on as if it might be an anchor, while Eduardo's fingers on his face get hotter and hotter, until it's painful and Mark still doesn't want to pull away.
Eduardo pulls back, panting, and with his eyes still closed. "You have to go," he says. "They're coming."
That is in no way a good way to end a conversation, and Mark would tell him so, but the room flashes white. It's blinding.
When his vision clears, he's back in own bedroom. It's dark and hot and Eduardo is nowhere to be found. It's almost as if nothing has happened, but he can feel the skin on his cheek scalded from where Eduardo touched him. It happened. He's making progress.
Now he just needs to work out what to do next.
*
Chris is staring at him as if he's insane.
"Have you looked in the mirror?" Chris asks.
And, yes, of course he has. People like to think that he must get dressed in the dark and have no reflective surfaces in his house, but that isn't true. He knows exactly what he looks like. He just doesn't care.
In this case, it is probably the finger-shaped burns on his face that are attracting attention rather than his dishevelled appearance. They still feel hot to the touch if he skims his fingers over them - so he does that a lot, as if that tingling, burning sensation means that Eduardo is still in the room.
"Eduardo did that?" Chris asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.
"He didn't mean to. Something was coming." And there is no possible way that anything that sounds that ominous can be good. Mark frowns. "He was crying, or about to cry, so I need to - we need to - do something. Fix it. Somehow."
"And you think that the way to fix it is to follow Eduardo's advice and supernaturally transport yourself using a business card," Chris states.
There needs to be a new Facebook rule that says Chris is not allowed to sound that deadpan or disapproving. That's supposed to be Mark's job.
"It's Wardo. He's mine." Which is stupid and illogical but when he says it he can imagine Wardo smiling so what the hell. It's true anyway. Chris is staring at him in confusion, so Mark says it again: "It's Wardo."
There must be something new in the way that he says it, something breakable and desperate, because Chris's face softens and he nods as if he understands. "What do you need me to do?" he asks.
What Mark needs is for him to find him something made of pure silver, and watch his back as he goes through with this.
Half an hour later, he is armed with a small spoon in one hand and the business card in the other. Dustin and Chris are both in the room with him now, ready for back-up, just in case -
Well. Just in case of anything. No one knows quite what it going to happen.
"Good luck," Dustin says, clapping him on the shoulder with more force than is at all necessary. "You'll be fine."
It would sound a lot more convincing if he wasn't looking at Mark like this is the last time they're ever going to speak. It's fine. They're all going to be fine.
Mark looks down at the business card, simple and white, and then looks at his spoon. There is still time to back out, but it hardly even seems like an option.
He presses his lips together into a thin, angry line, and then he presses the two items together.
The world flashes white, and when he can see again he is no longer in the office.
vi.
With undistinguished white on all sides, it's difficult for Eduardo to grab hold of any point of reference. He might have been in here for years; it might have been minutes. His palms sweat and his eyes water. Every heartbeat is another second, but he's lost count. He's forgotten.
And that's the point.
Legs folded beneath himself, he presses his hands against his head and tries to keep his thoughts clear; he tries to remember Mark. Mark, who got him into this mess. Mark, who is trying so hard to get him out of it.
Eduardo's body stiffens when a clanking sound breaks the silence, like wheels being turned and machinery grinding to a halt. Unsteady as a child, he climbs to his feet, looking in all blank directions, left and right.
When he turns back, the Winklevoss twins are standing beside him, far too close. After endless white, the colour hurts his eyes. "Eduardo," Cameron says, with something that might be real concern. He reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing? We wanted to check on you."
Eduardo swallows. His mouth feels impossibly dry. "I'm okay."
"Good, good, that's great." Cameron's frown seems far too sincere. "Now, we've got a problem that you could really help us out with."
Eduardo clears his throat. "Mark?" he asks, although it's not much of a question. Of course it's Mark. Who else could cause enough trouble that the twins would have to turn to Eduardo for help?
"He made it here," Tyler says. "He talked to The Father."
Eduardo would laugh at that, if he didn't think it would get him into trouble - because, god, Mark is insane. He's mad and he's stubborn and Eduardo hadn't known it was possible to be so impressed by a human, so infatuated with one. Isolation and reprimands aren't enough to take that away.
"Things are going to get very difficult for you," Cameron says sympathetically. "Mr Zuckerberg wants to sue our firm for breach of contract. We can't let that happen."
"You can't hurt him," Eduardo states. They are able to do what they like to him; if they try to hurt a human, it would go against everything The Father stands for. They serve humankind. They don't destroy it. But it's more than that. "I marked him. I brought him here, and I…" He barely remembers. It's fuzzy on the outside, but he remembers his hand on Mark's cheek and the force of that bond.
"We know. Besides, we wouldn't dream of it," Cameron replies. "That's why we're here talking to you. You know you can't go back to him, right?"
Eduardo stares at him, right through him, because he can't listen to this. He has to believe in Mark - he has to trust in him.
"Eduardo, you lost control. A lot of people were hurt. We tidied that up for you; no one remembers. But we can't risk having that happen again. You must understand that."
"It was a mistake; it happened once."
"Maybe," Cameron says. His sympathy is a smothering pillow. "You can understand that that isn't a risk we can take. It's not about you, or Mark. It's about public safety."
They're right. Of course they're right. That doesn't mean that Eduardo can accept it, shaking his head automatically. "It's never happened before."
"It's unpredictable," Cameron says, as if he's agreeing. "Who knows what might happen next time? What if you hurt Mark?"
Eduardo has been alive for over a hundred years. He knows when he's being manipulated; he also knows, however, that he has a bad track record of falling for it. He looks between the twins, caught between his own desires and his good intentions.
"You can take some time off. Do some travelling; maybe some free-lancing. There are a lot of brilliant opportunities out there for someone with your abilities."
Eduardo nods numbly. He spent the '50s travelling, on a long sabbatical, and this might not be so different - except, he knows, it's going to be hell. There's a difference between a willing break and an official reprimand.
"I'm glad we've got that settled," Tyler says, short and impatient in his words. "Because, thanks to you, we've got a court case on our hands, and you're the main witness."
Eduardo frowns and turns his attention to Tyler. "What?"
"Your testimony is going to be vital to our case. We need to make sure you say the right things."
"I can't lie," Eduardo states.
Cameron shakes his head and places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. "We would never ask you to do that," he says. "We just want to make sure that the story comes out right."
Spin doctoring. That, at least, he can understand. Using it against Mark might go against every instinct he has, but maybe it's better than the alternative. Steeling his resolve, he listens to what the twins have to say, and tries to mentally prepare himself for what has to come next.
*
His new suit had been provided for him by The Father, and is more expensive and well-tailored than anything he could have afforded himself. It feels like armour, as he sits in the corridor of a law firm's building and looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.
He has to look at his hands because, at the other end of the hall, Mark is trying to get his attention.
He's subtle about it, since he's not the kind of guy to up and down with excitement, although Eduardo gets the impression that it's only the stern advice of Mark's lawyers that keep him where he is. Eduardo's glad for that. If Mark came over here, he isn't sure if he would be able to keep his composure.
He stands up, taking a few pacing steps back and forth, and looks at the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Time is going far too slowly; he simply wants this over with, if he has to go through it.
"I need to go to the bathroom," he murmurs to his lawyer, who looks at him as if he might be planning an escape attempt.
He goes anyway, knowing - maybe hoping - that Mark is going to follow. The bathrooms are recently renovated, with bright lights and shiny mirrors. Eduardo stares at his reflection over the top of the sink, seeing exhaustion painted clearly on his face in dark circles under his eyes and a clamminess to his face.
The door squeaks open and shut, and Eduardo doesn't take his eyes from the mirror. In the reflection, he can see Mark's closed-off face and the heavy shadow of his brow. Holding his tongue, he won't say a thing.
Mark shuffles from one foot to the other behind him, like a nervous horse pawing the ground. Eduardo won't allow himself to think it's adorable.
"You're allowed to talk to me," Mark says. "I checked the rules. There's nothing there that says you have to ignore me."
Eduardo closes his eyes. "I don't think it's smart to talk to you right now," he answers.
As a matter of fact, it's probably one of the stupidest things he's ever done - and he's had decades of bad decisions.
Mark's jaw clenches in his reflection, but that's all that Eduardo gets in response. "I'm not leaving you behind," Mark states. "If we get to the end of this and you still want to be an asshole, that's fine. But I'm going to win. You can be an asshole away from them."
"You won't win," Eduardo sighs. There's never been a case like this before; the supernatural community stays out of the spotlight as much as possible. Only Mark would be stubborn enough to push things this far. "They've been doing this for centuries."
"It's a new world now," Mark says, with the distain Eduardo has previously heard directed at old directors and archaic companies. "Everything's changed."
"Not for us." Eduardo shakes his head. "Human society can move on all it likes. We've watched empires fall."
Mark's frown only grows deeper, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. Reluctantly, Eduardo lets go of the side of the sink and turns around to face him properly.
"I'm not on your side in this," Eduardo says. "It's complicated."
"It's not," Mark says. "Physics is complicated; code is complicated. This is just - " He pauses, grunts and shakes his head. "It's stupid."
Eduardo smiles like cracked glass and looks down at the tiled floor. "Mark," he sighs. "Please. This is going to be embarrassing for you."
"I don't get embarrassed," Mark answers.
And that isn't true. Eduardo has slipped into Mark's life like he belongs there, and he knows so much about what hides in Mark's mind. He knows that he gets mad, gets bitter, when the world doesn't go his way. He knows that Mark does his best work when he's been humiliated and is angry at the world in general - it makes him wonder what is going to come out of this, what Mark is going to create in his bitter rage this time.
"You're going to be publicly arguing that you should be allowed to own another person." Eduardo shakes his head. "You'll sound insane."
"You're not a person," Mark answers, eyes narrowed. "You're something else. I'm not arguing that I own you; I'm saying that there's a contract and they broke it."
"No one is going to see it that way." Eduardo knows that much; he is going to be the one on the other side, the one saying that Mark has interpreted everything in the wrong way. "You're going to look like an asshole."
Mark shrugs again, just with one shoulder, and he meets Eduardo's eyes with a coal-black stare. It's as if nothing touches him, nothing at all, and it makes Eduardo want to reach out and shake him until he gets a proper reaction. More than that, it makes him want to cup Mark's face between his hands and kiss him until he knows that he doesn't mean a thing he's said or a thing he's going to say.
"Do you think I should back off? Is that it?" Mark asks. He blinks, lizard-like, and Eduardo thinks that from the outside it might be difficult to tell which of them was human and which of them wasn't. "Because I can do that. I can go back to Facebook and forget all about this. It won't matter to me. I'm here because it's supposed to matter to you."
He's lying; he's got to be lying. Eduardo can remember fragile smiles and the way that Mark's skin felt beneath his hands. He knows that this matters to both of them.
"I hurt a lot of people," he says. "I don't know if you remember -if they let you remember - but it wasn't good. It could happen again."
"That was once, and it was unexpected. Unless you're useless at your job, you won't make the same mistake twice." Mark shuffles like a boy asking a girl to the school dance. "And you're not useless at your job. I wouldn't want you around if you were."
Eduardo smiles despite himself, relaxing into it, because he's sure that Mark is trying to be a lot more complimentary than he is managing.
"We were good together," Mark states, like it's an objective, inarguable fact. "It worked. Unless you're a really good actor, that wasn't just business."
Eduardo moves towards him, closer than he should be, until he's able to place his hand on Mark's cheek. He can feel the heat from where his fingers had burned him last time, in that white room; necessary to protect him, yes, but more evidence of how dangerous this is. He can't risk hurting anyone, least of all Mark.
He leans in to kiss the centre of Mark's forehead, and hears him grunt in displeasure at his target. His lips linger for a moment, dry and warm, as he closes his eyes against the scent of Mark's hair.
"Just for the record, I'm rooting for you," he confesses. His lawyer might hate him for admitting as much, but with Mark frozen beneath him he needs to say something.
Mark's hand hooks at the back of his neck, his fingers freezing cold against Eduardo's skin. He holds Eduardo where he is, until Eduardo's hands slide automatically onto Mark's hips.
They breathe quietly for a few moments, trapped in each other's space. Eduardo needs to leave. Outside, the lawyers will be missing him, and he has no doubt that they're aware Mark followed him in here. If they're not careful, he's going to get into even more trouble.
"Wardo," Mark sighs, like the word is being pulled from him.
Mark's fingers curl against the nape of his neck, but Eduardo takes a deep breath before he forces himself to break away. "I have to get back," he says.
Mark stares at him and doesn't answer, his face as blank as concrete. Shoulders tense, Eduardo keeps his head down as he leaves the bathroom behind, feeling as if he is walking towards the waiting executioner's block.
Outside the bathroom, he finds himself instantly flanked by the twins, one on each side. It's a struggle not to flinch; it's harder still not to keep walking and walking until he's out of the door. If he does that, he becomes an enemy to the very organisation that is like a family to him. They had saved him and cleaned him up and given him a purpose in life; turning his back on them isn't an option. Turning his back on Mark isn't one either.
Eduardo knows that his future is about to get a lot more complicated.
"We wanted to check that you're not getting cold feet," Tyler says.
"You can talk to us," Cameron adds. He places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder and the three of them walk in line together down the corridor. "Let us know if you have any worries, anything at all."
Caught between an empath and a telepath, Eduardo knows that there isn't much use in lying. "I'm conflicted about the case," he says. It's a considerable understatement. "But I'm not going to back out."
Tyler's hand mirrors his brother's on Eduardo's other shoulder. "That's good to hear. We're going to take this bastard down."
Cameron admonishes his brother for his language, because that is hardly how vassals are supposed to talk about humans. Eduardo almost smiles. Cameron is cut from the oldest of cloth, a true traditionalist.
"Let's get on with it," Eduardo says. "I just want this to be over."
Regardless of the outcome, that's all he's hoping for now: to be able to close his eyes and push all thoughts of depositions and legal battles from his mind.
It's time to get back to what he does best.
vii.
Sean tends to avoid the office these days, partly out of choice and partly as a result of a very stern suggestion from Mark. Apparently he makes them look bad - which is bullshit, and not the kind of thing that one friend should say to another (especially not when the other is him) but whatever. He works with it.
He noses around while he's waiting for Mark to make it back from the first day of depositions, but even when he stares at the computer screens he has no idea what he's looking at. Lines and lines of code are a foreign language. It looks like nothing to him, nothing but dollar signs in a row.
When Mark storms back into the building, his head is down and his shoulders are tight. Sean's gonna guess that the day hasn't gone to plan.
"Mark," he says with a plastered smile. "I thought I'd check in. How's it going?"
Judging by the temperature of Mark's glare, he's guessing 'not good' would be the answer.
Which, okay, is kind of Sean's fault. He maybe could've thought twice before dumping a vassal on his metaphorical doorstep, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
He follows Mark as he storms towards his private office. When Mark is in this kind of mood, the most rational thing would be to stay well away. It's like handling a live bomb. Luckily, Sean isn't exactly known for conforming to rational behaviour.
Mark throws himself down into his computer chair with the kind of defeated violence usually reserved for the end of a bloody battle.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're getting your ass kicked," Sean deduces. He closes the office door behind himself when he enters.
"He's not telling the truth; everything he's saying - it just isn't right. It isn't accurate." Mark stares in the general direction of the window, but Sean gets the impression he isn't seeing a damn thing. "It doesn't make sense."
"They're vassals, man," Sean says. "They don't think the way we do."
To be honest, he doesn't have much of a clue about how supernaturals think. He's never had the deep and involved conversation with one that would be required to understand their thought patterns. They're not human; they're old and they're ancient and they know things that people don't. What else is there to think about?
Mark shakes his head and doesn't turn his attention back to Sean. "He said he's rooting for me," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"What?" Sean starts to think that coming all the way over here to offer moral support was a seriously bad idea. "When?"
"Today, in the bathroom. Eduardo's on my side." Mark nods firmly. "I don't get why he's doing this."
To Sean, the answer remains clear: dude, vassal. They're not known for being clear and truthful bastions of virtue. Apparently as an explanation that isn't going to cut it for Mark.
"Look, I came here to take you out," Sean says. "You shouldn't be stewing in an office."
Mark turns in his chair to see him, slow and leisurely as if he has a thousand years of spare time.
"C'mon, man. One night. You need your mind taken off of all this, and I am the man for that job."
Mark scowls at him some more, but now his eyes narrow and take on a far-away, thoughtful air. That's either very good or very bad. Considering how Mark's day seems to be going, Sean is going to bet his money on 'very bad'.
"Can you find the girl that Eduardo was with?" he asks. "The vampire."
The skin on the back of Sean's neck crawls when he thinks of that night, like cold water dripping down his spine. The raw energy in the club had been more intense than anything he had ever experienced; addictive, if it hadn't felt so dangerous.
"I can ask around," Sean confirms. A girl like that, a guy like him, it won't take too long to uncover her. The question is whether or not he should. "What do you want with her?"
"Wardo knows her," Mark says. "They've got some kind of history together."
"Raking up your boyfriend's exes? That's shady." Sean grins. It isn't reciprocated. "I'm just saying."
"Don't 'just say'," Mark snaps. "Go and do it."
Mark's a messed up son of a bitch, but as far as friends go he's been a good one. Sean does as he's asked; it's about time Mark owed him one.
*
She's beautiful, of course.
Sean is avoiding looking into her eyes (because he doesn't exactly know what powers she has, but he wants to stay safe), but that means that it is almost a physical impossibility not to stare at her exposed cleavage. And, yeah, that's rude, but he'd argue it would be just as rude not to appreciate it.
"I am not at liberty to discuss Mr Saverin," she says, like she's reciting from a script.
Sean grins and relaxes in his seat. He's been invited into her spacious flat; the wide open spaces and the art on the walls says that she's managed to accumulate more than enough wealth during her long unlife.
"I recognise lawyer-speak when I hear it," he says, not dropping his grin. "Who's told you to shut your mouth? Just between you and me."
"If Mark Zuckerberg is the one that sent you, then you already know," she says, stretching her legs out in front of her. "They'll have my head."
"You're not a vassal, though," Sean points out.
Her nose wrinkles. "No, I wouldn't lower myself," she answers. "I don't buy into their propaganda."
Okay, he can work with that. It's kind of terrifying to be near a free-lance vampire, knowing that she isn't bound by any human master, but Sean hasn't allowed himself to be intimidated by beautiful women since high school. Maybe Christy takes it to a new level, but he can meet her there.
When he asks her what she means, she tells him that all humans are like maggots. "They don't deserve to be served."
He's not entirely sure how to respond to that, so he gives a half-laugh as if she's joking. She doesn't laugh with him.
"I fully agree," he says. "Which is why you need to talk to me. We're suing them to try to get Eduardo out of there."
She raises an eyebrow. "Good luck with that," she says. "Eduardo is exactly where he wants to be."
Now they're onto something. Sean sits forward, tilts his head, and listens to everything he can.
*
A couple of hours later, Sean swings by Mark's flat - and, if Mark's eyes narrow at the sight of the sharp bite mark on his neck, he's smart enough not to say anything about it. Doesn't stop Sean's skin from crawling with self-conscious unease.
"I take it you found her," Mark says, stepping back from the door so that Sean can enter. "What did she say?"
It's a bullshit welcome, but it's the best that Sean can expect. "Not anything useful," he admits. Wasted trip, really, although the sweet throb in his neck makes him think that maybe he'll be searching out vampires more often.
"I don't care. Tell me anyway."
Sean heads to the fridge and helps himself to a beer, holding his breath at the scent of something rancid in there. A glance around the apartment, at empty cartons of take-out and crushed drinks cans, tells him that Mark probably hasn't said hello to a bin since Eduardo took off. It's not looking good. Maybe next time he will get Mark a housekeeper rather than anything more complicated.
"She knew Eduardo before he got into the whole do-gooding thing," Sean says with a shrug. "And I mean she knew him, in a very naked, very Biblical sense."
Mark frowns 'til he looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel. Apparently when he wanted details he didn't want that kind. Whatever.
"So, they're running riot through the eighteenth century, when the twins turn up and punch them."
"What?"
"Not in a physical way. Like a final club or something." Sean shrugs, but he sees the way that Mark's eyes darken. Everyone knows that that is a particular sore spot for him. Sean is fine with prodding bruises "The twins turn up, tell them they've been selected, and while Eduardo does cartwheels of glee, Christy tells them where to get off. That's more or less the whole story."
He settles on the arm of Mark's couch while Mark hovers near the window, his fingers scattering nervously on the sill. He won't keep still, as if there's too much energy in his pale limbs. "It's an honour," Mark murmurs, as if he's still processing the information, adding it to previous back-catalogues. "Serving us, being with Them. It's something he wanted."
"That's what I'm saying, man," Sean confirms. "Maybe the reason he's fighting you on this is because he really does want out."
"He doesn't know what he wants," Mark complains.
Sean knows better than to advise Mark to drop the whole thing. If he wants to take on a supernatural organisation all for the sake of some guy who doesn't even want him to win, that's his suicide mission, not Sean's. As long as it doesn't affect Facebook, they're good.
"I'm gonna head off," Sean says, "unless you need any other psycho blood-suckers interrogated?"
Mark mumbles a collection of non-words, which Sean takes as a dismissal. He's glad to be out of there, his neck throbbing; sometimes, a friend's problems are too big to take on.
Mark's in this one alone.
Part Three
Pairing: Eduardo/Mark (mentions of assorted others)
Word Count: 8335
Rating: NC-17
Previous Parts: One
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.
iv.
Looking at Chris, Dustin thinks that he might be about to explode. Literally. Maybe that's one of the side effects of a succubus accidentally invading your thoughts. Or instincts. Or body.
To be honest, Dustin isn't even sure exactly what Eduardo did. One second, he had been plugged in and coding at a speed that would have impressed even Mark. The next second, he was more turned on than he had been in his entire life, and Chris was frantically pulling at the buttons of his loose shirt. After that, everything is something of a sticky mess.
Now, three hours later, and everything is beginning to calm down. It feels like the wake after a funeral - only less depressing, and with way more computers on every surface. Bad analogy, maybe.
Point is, so far no one seems to have called in either the police or the press. They'll need to wait until tomorrow's papers come out to be sure, but there's nothing on the internet, and for a company employing such a huge number of people it's practically a miracle.
Literally.
Dustin doesn't mean to be disparaging about Chris's crisis-management skills, because god knows the company would have exploded into atom-sized pieces a thousand times over if not for him, but this is supernaturally lucky.
"Do you think They've done something?" he asks, spinning around once on his computer chair.
Chris looks up at him from where he is currently glaring at something on his computer screen. His expression is cross as hell. On the other hand, it's the first time he's actually met his eyes since their little Eduardo-inspired make-out session. That's an improvement.
"'They'?"
"Y'know. They. Whoever controls the whole supernatural network." He waggles his fingers in the air. "There's got to be something behind it all. Everyone's feeling chilled out. That would not be happening without outside influence."
Chris returns his gaze to his computer and carries on with what he was doing. "Maybe I drugged the coffee," he suggests.
Deadpan. Total deadpan.
Chilled out, joking Chris. That definitely hasn't happened since college, since pre-Facebook days. Whatever They are doing, maybe Dustin's okay with it.
*
It isn't until the next morning that the shit starts to hit the fan.
Dustin is sleeping facedown in his bed, cheek smushed against the pillow, when his phone's ring tone begins to sound at an obnoxiously loud volume. Fumbling blindly, he reaches for it - knocking several other loud objects from his bedside cabinet in the meantime, until he manages to lock his hand around it.
Shoving the phone against his ear, he answers with a mumble. "This better be good," he mutters, although for anyone to be calling this early it has to be bad news.
"He's gone," says the panting voice on the other end. Dustin pulls the phone from his ear for a moment to look at the display: Mark. Weird. Panicked Mark. "Wardo's left."
"What?" Dustin rolls over and begins to sit up. "How do you know? Maybe he's buying a paper or something."
"He's a fairy. He can click his fingers if he wants a paper. He needs my permission to leave anyway."
"So…" It is far too early in the morning for him to be able to understand this. "He can't have left. Have you checked the closet?"
"Why would Wardo be in the closet?"
Dustin grunts. "Where else would he be?"
"I don't know. That's the point. Are you listening?"
"It's six in the morning. You're lucky I'm even conscious."
Mark makes a tiny noise of disapproval on the other end of the line. No doubt he's already wishing that he'd called Chris instead. Dustin tries to pull himself together more effectively. It must be freaking Mark out a lot for him to have bothered calling at all.
"Has he ever done anything like this before?" he asks. After Mark answers, he racks his brain. "Did you guys have a fight or anything?"
Considering what Eduardo had done yesterday - and, to be perfectly honest, Dustin's memory of exactly what happened already feels fuzzy and hard to grasp - arguing seems likely.
"No. We came home, we talked, and we had sex." Mark doesn't seem to hear Dustin groan in violation. "A lot of sex. And now he's gone."
"Was the sex that bad?"
Mark is glaring at him. Down the phone. Dustin can hear it.
"Okay, sorry. You're really worried about this?"
"He said he was going to be in a lot of trouble. I don't think he meant with me."
Still holding the phone to his ear, Dustin starts to get out of bed. "I knew it," he says, because - hey - finally a conspiracy theory he's right about. "You think They've taken him?"
Mark's doing his phone-glaring thing again. He's actually pretty good at it.
"Alright, okay. I'm getting up, and I'm going to be at your apartment in ten minutes. Call Chris, he'll know what to do."
"I already have. I called him first."
Dustin scowls. Sometimes, he wishes that Mark would learn the value of tact. "Well. Is he coming over?"
"He's on his way."
Dustin nods and continues getting dressed, hopping into his jeans while holding the phone against his ear. If he makes it out of the flat without falling on his face it's going to be a cause worth celebrating.
"Just get here," Mark demands. "I want this sorted."
With that last order, the commander-in-chief hangs up. Dustin rolls his eyes, chucks his phone onto his bed, and finishes getting dressed. It sounds like Mark is ready to go to war.
*
The summit meeting at Mark's flat doesn't go especially well, since no one actually has a clue about what they ought to do or how to locate a missing vassal. It's not like he came with an instruction manual.
So Mark glares and scowls and then goes all zombie-robot on them until they leave amid promises to work something out. "That could've gone better," Chris says, leaning against the back of the elevator as they make the long trip down.
Dustin doesn't feel like joking, not any more. "Do you think Wardo's okay?" he asks - because Wardo might belong to Mark, but he's their friend too. If something's happened to him, they want to help. And if Mark has screwed up and chased him off, Dustin needs his new email address so that they can keep in touch (and, largely, so that he can convince him to come back and stop Mark from exploding or dissolving).
The elevator lurches to a stop and Chris leaves to go to the library. A real library, with books and everything. Dustin, meanwhile, heads straight for his computer. If there is a conspiracy to be found, what better place to look than the almighty internet?
Three hours later, he has been persuaded of the existence of aliens, he is sure he knows who was behind the JFK shooting, and knows that the world is going to end in 2012 - but there's no sign of Eduardo anywhere, not in pages or in cyberspace.
v.
There is a set of twins in his kitchen. Tall, tanned and muscular, they are not the kind of people that belong in Mark's apartment. Especially without an invitation.
Standing in the doorway with his dressing gown falling open, he should probably be more afraid than he is. They don't look like they're robbing the place. They look, in fact, like they're cleaning up and making breakfast. That's Wardo's job.
"Why are you in my kitchen?" Mark asks.
They turn around to face him at the same time, their movements a perfect mirror. "Mr Zuckerberg," one of them says with a far too pleasant smile. "I hope we didn't wake you."
"You're in my apartment."
"Yes. We're Mr Saverin's replacements."
And that is not an acceptable explanation on any level whatsoever. Mark's brow is so furrowed that he feels like a caveman. "I don't need a replacement. Where's Wardo gone?"
"We're afraid we're not able to discuss our colleagues," the twin says. "I'm Cameron; this is my brother Tyler. Let me assure you that we're very well-trained and more than capable of filling Eduardo's shoes."
"I don't want anyone else in his shoes," Mark answers. "When is he coming back?" He hates the wobbling sense of the unknown beneath his feet. Events are happening around him that he apparently had no control over. He needs to steady himself; he needs this fixed.
The twins look at each other, long and significant. This time, Tyler is the one that answers. "I'm afraid that Eduardo had to be recalled for training," he says. "We apologise whole-heartedly for the mix-up, and I promise that nothing like that will happen again."
Training. Mix-up. It's all starting to sound far more bureaucratic than anything Mark has dealt with since Harvard.
"How long does his training take?" he asks. "He doesn't need it."
The twins look at each other again. It seems as if there is an entire conversation going on that Mark isn't privy to.
"He may be gone for quite some time," Tyler says.
He sounds like a Bond villain. Mark would really rather not have evil overlords standing in his kitchen.
"Please, Mark," Cameron says generously, after Mark has been glaring at them for several moments too long without saying anything. Silence doesn’t seem to be enough to make them bring Eduardo back. "Take a seat. Have breakfast with us."
Mark stays exactly where he is. "If you've been sent as Eduardo's replacements, then there must be someone in charge."
Cameron nods helpfully. "We belong to The Father. And before you ask: no, it's not a religious thing." He smiles as if he expects Mark to smile too. His face doesn't twitch. "It's a lineage that has gone back to at least the ninth century. We - our kind, anyway - were the original vassals, long before it became a trend."
Ninth century. That's older than he expected. "Eduardo's been around that long?"
"No, god no. He's young. I think he joined us in the -" Cameron looks towards his brother, who doesn't say anything but seems to give him the answer anyway. "Late eighteenth century. Tyler and I have been working as vassals since the Renaissance. You're in very good hands."
The thought of being in their identical hands makes Mark need to go and have a shower. He stays in the seat, looking down as Tyler places a stack of pancakes in front of him. Even if his mouth is watering, he doesn't reach for a fork.
"You still haven't told me who's in charge," Mark points out. He leans back and folds his hand over his stomach. "I'm asking because I want to know who it is I'm going to be suing about all this."
That gets the twins to look at each other (again) and a stream of satisfying confusion passes between them. "If you feel aggrieved, Mr Zuckerberg, let us apologise now. That wasn't our intention."
"I made an agreement with Wardo," Mark says. "Not with you, and not with your Father. This is breaking that contract."
"We understand that you're upset," Cameron soothes. "But - "
"I'm not upset," Mark says. He doesn't get upset. "You should get out of my apartment and send Wardo back. Otherwise, I'm going to get a lawyer, and I'm going to make sure that they destroy you."
Which is overdramatic.
He doesn't want to destroy their millennia-old organisation. He just wants to cripple them so that they're unable to piss him off any more.
The twins look at each other again, and leave a card on the kitchen island. They vanish into thin air while Mark is reaching for the card, leaving him with an empty kitchen, cooling pancakes, and a mystical legal battle coming for him. He wishes Wardo was there to take care of the stupid little things for him. The air in his apartment is slowly cooling.
*
Chris keeps staring at him as if he has declared that he wants to go and slay Goliath. The clock on his office wall is ticking menacingly and Mark slouches in his chair, sinking deep into his problems.
"Wardo didn't leave willingly," he states, "and he didn't go for some bullshit 'training' program. They're doing something to him. We're going to stop them."
Simple as that.
Only Chris keeps staring at him as if it is not that simple, which is ridiculous.
"Mark, you're asking us to take on an extremely shady supernatural organisation that no one else even knows exists," Chris stage-whispers, as if someone might be listening in.
"I have a business card," Mark says, pointing at it again. "That's proof."
"That's proof that someone made a business card, not that there's an evil company that has kidnapped Wardo." Chris reaches for his phone, but doesn't yet dial any number. "I'll make some enquiries and see what I can do. Go home, Mark. Get some sleep. You look like shit."
Mark isn't sure how he looks any different to how he usually looks, but he leaves Chris's office all the same. He doesn't go back to his apartment. He heads to the closest computer instead, scaring away an intern with a frown of authority, and plugs in.
There's an organisation. There's a business. There's a business card.
Medieval or not, everyone is hooked in these days. If there is a trail, he can find it. He's going to burn them to the cyber-ground.
*
Twenty minutes later, his computer has exploded into a mess of green flames.
Looks like The Father takes the 'burning' thing literally.
*
He wakes up in the middle of the night, after sleeping spread like a starfish in the centre of his bed. His room is glowing.
Flipping onto his back and scrambling to his feet, he looks out for aliens, but the only thing that is there is a glowing ball of green light. It hovers in the centre of the room, waiting. Mark's hand rises to his head and he rubs at his scalp as he tries to work out if he's about to be set on fire as well.
"What the hell?" he asks aloud.
The ball doesn't answer. It just glows.
"What are you? Are you even a thing?" He's talking to light now. This so isn't good. Reaching for his abandoned dressing gown, he doesn't take his eyes off of it. "Can you speak?"
Maybe it's just a light, but it doesn't feel that way. Mark is usually too rational to rely on anything other than logic and facts. He doesn't make decisions based on 'feelings'. Yet, right now, he can feel himself being watched and weighted and judged. He stops slouching. It doesn't help.
"You're coming to me in the middle of the night, and you're setting my computer on fire when I get close to you," Mark says. He takes one step towards the light. It may only be a small half-step, but he hopes it looks threatening. "That means you're scared of me. You should be."
He's not an action hero, and he has no supernatural powers, but he has a lot of money at his disposal and maybe that's just about the same thing. His eyes narrow. The light isn't even doing anything.
"What's the plan? You're going to glow me to death? Or keep me up all night so I'm too tired to do anything in the morning?" The light refuses to answer. It's ruder than Mark. "I work with computers. I run off of caffeine."
No reaction.
While he ought to reach for the phone and call someone (is phoning the police to report a menacing light an acceptable response?) he moves forward instead. It's the action of a dumb blonde in a horror movie, but he walks straight towards the danger. For Wardo's sake, maybe it's his duty to investigate.
He reaches out with a hesitant twitch, until his fingers skim against the centre of the light. A pleasant tingling sensation spreads up his fingers, his arm, into his chest and downwards, far down - and he knows that, recognises it, opens his lips and -
And he isn't in his bedroom any more.
He isn't anywhere, actually.
It's a white room, with no windows, no doors, no furniture. No features. No noticeable light source, although that doesn't stop it from being as blinding as staring into the sun.
Mark hardly notices any of that, unable to give the room anything more than a cursory glance, because Eduardo is there, right there in front of him. His hair is a mess, and the skin around his eyes is pink and puffy as if he's been crying. He is a blot of colour on the blank canvass.
"You're not dead," Mark observes.
What he actually wants to do is grab hold of Eduardo and never let go of him again, but that's kind of sappy and he's never been too comfortable with the romantic-gestures thing. Just ask his ex-girlfriends.
Or.
Ex-girlfriend. Singular.
Not the point.
"I'm not dead," Eduardo confirms, but his voice is shaking and he won't look Mark in the eyes. Mark stares intently at his face, trying to work out exactly what has happened here. "Mark, you can't stay long. It isn't safe here."
"Then let's go. You can glow us out of here," Mark says. He's not actually sure what of the exact limits of Eduardo's powers, but if he can appear as a glowing ball in his bedroom then he can definitely get them out of a sterile exitless room.
But Eduardo's shaking his head. "I can't leave," he says. "I was able to bring you here, but I can't leave the room."
"I'm going to get you away from them," Mark says. He scowls. "They burned my computer." On the scale of things, it might not be the most harmful of their crimes, and it was an intern's computer rather than his own personal laptop, but that's beside the point.
"You have to forget about this stupid vendetta," Eduardo insists, the words snapping from him like an explosion. "Just let it go."
"You mean I should let you go," Mark translates, because that's what it boils down to. If he forgets about this, and accepts someone else in exchange, then he gets the feeling that Eduardo isn't ever going to return from his 'training' trip, not for years and not to him.
"Yes," Eduardo answers. "You're in over your head. This is dangerous, and I'm in so much trouble. You have to - Mark, you have to back off."
Water is welling in Eduardo's eyes again, and Mark isn't sure if he is capable of watching Eduardo cry. It makes him want to escape, but this room has no doors - there's no way out, nothing to do but watch with glaring clarity as Wardo fights back tears.
Wardo wipes at his face angrily, although nothing has spilled yet. "I mean it. Go home, and go to work tomorrow, and please take care of yourself." He sounds like he might remind Mark to eat his vegetables at any moment. "But this, you and me, that's done. It has to be."
"We bonded," Mark says. "I let you drink my blood. That's like a contract, which means you can't dissolve it."
"Mark."
"If you really wanted to I would let it go, but when you're standing in an exit-free room crying at me I'm inclined to think it isn't your decision." Mark stares at Eduardo as he talks, trying to mentally will him out of this place. It's like a prison. "Wardo, tell me how to pin them down. And, yes, that's an order."
"You have their card," Eduardo says, the words willed from him. "That's all you need."
Mark gives him a long and solid stare, which he hopes is enough to say that he'll need a lot more detail than that. He hates having to actually ask.
"Find something silver and press it against the card. It'll take you to them."
They couldn't just have a subway stop, could they? Mark can feel himself tumbling further and further into the supernatural realm; it's not a place that humans belong. With Eduardo in front of him like this, though, it's not as if there's any other option.
"What happens then?" Mark asks. "Once I'm there, what do I do?"
He's still hoping for a technological angle to all of this. He's seen Independence Day. Give him a laptop and their mainframe and he could cripple them in under ten minutes.
Eduardo is shaking his head. It's not a good sign.
"I don't know. Nobody has done this before."
Which isn't exactly encouraging, but it doesn't matter either. Mark is used to creating and breaking things that nobody ever has before, usually just for fun. It's more serious now, but it's the same principle.
Eduardo reaches out to touch his face, cupping his cheek, and his palm is so hot that it almost burns. "Be careful," he pleads - it sounds like he's begging and Mark wants to tell him to stop.
Eduardo infringes on his personal space before he can say anything, leaning down to nudge Mark's mouth open with his dry lips. His hand stays against the side of Mark's face, his fingertips like fire, as he kisses Mark like it's going to be the last time ever, slow and steady and more than a little desperate.
Mark holds onto the front of Eduardo's shirt, feeling the fluttering of his stomach with frantic breaths. He clings on as if it might be an anchor, while Eduardo's fingers on his face get hotter and hotter, until it's painful and Mark still doesn't want to pull away.
Eduardo pulls back, panting, and with his eyes still closed. "You have to go," he says. "They're coming."
That is in no way a good way to end a conversation, and Mark would tell him so, but the room flashes white. It's blinding.
When his vision clears, he's back in own bedroom. It's dark and hot and Eduardo is nowhere to be found. It's almost as if nothing has happened, but he can feel the skin on his cheek scalded from where Eduardo touched him. It happened. He's making progress.
Now he just needs to work out what to do next.
*
Chris is staring at him as if he's insane.
"Have you looked in the mirror?" Chris asks.
And, yes, of course he has. People like to think that he must get dressed in the dark and have no reflective surfaces in his house, but that isn't true. He knows exactly what he looks like. He just doesn't care.
In this case, it is probably the finger-shaped burns on his face that are attracting attention rather than his dishevelled appearance. They still feel hot to the touch if he skims his fingers over them - so he does that a lot, as if that tingling, burning sensation means that Eduardo is still in the room.
"Eduardo did that?" Chris asks, for what feels like the thousandth time.
"He didn't mean to. Something was coming." And there is no possible way that anything that sounds that ominous can be good. Mark frowns. "He was crying, or about to cry, so I need to - we need to - do something. Fix it. Somehow."
"And you think that the way to fix it is to follow Eduardo's advice and supernaturally transport yourself using a business card," Chris states.
There needs to be a new Facebook rule that says Chris is not allowed to sound that deadpan or disapproving. That's supposed to be Mark's job.
"It's Wardo. He's mine." Which is stupid and illogical but when he says it he can imagine Wardo smiling so what the hell. It's true anyway. Chris is staring at him in confusion, so Mark says it again: "It's Wardo."
There must be something new in the way that he says it, something breakable and desperate, because Chris's face softens and he nods as if he understands. "What do you need me to do?" he asks.
What Mark needs is for him to find him something made of pure silver, and watch his back as he goes through with this.
Half an hour later, he is armed with a small spoon in one hand and the business card in the other. Dustin and Chris are both in the room with him now, ready for back-up, just in case -
Well. Just in case of anything. No one knows quite what it going to happen.
"Good luck," Dustin says, clapping him on the shoulder with more force than is at all necessary. "You'll be fine."
It would sound a lot more convincing if he wasn't looking at Mark like this is the last time they're ever going to speak. It's fine. They're all going to be fine.
Mark looks down at the business card, simple and white, and then looks at his spoon. There is still time to back out, but it hardly even seems like an option.
He presses his lips together into a thin, angry line, and then he presses the two items together.
The world flashes white, and when he can see again he is no longer in the office.
vi.
With undistinguished white on all sides, it's difficult for Eduardo to grab hold of any point of reference. He might have been in here for years; it might have been minutes. His palms sweat and his eyes water. Every heartbeat is another second, but he's lost count. He's forgotten.
And that's the point.
Legs folded beneath himself, he presses his hands against his head and tries to keep his thoughts clear; he tries to remember Mark. Mark, who got him into this mess. Mark, who is trying so hard to get him out of it.
Eduardo's body stiffens when a clanking sound breaks the silence, like wheels being turned and machinery grinding to a halt. Unsteady as a child, he climbs to his feet, looking in all blank directions, left and right.
When he turns back, the Winklevoss twins are standing beside him, far too close. After endless white, the colour hurts his eyes. "Eduardo," Cameron says, with something that might be real concern. He reaches out to place a hand on his shoulder. "How are you doing? We wanted to check on you."
Eduardo swallows. His mouth feels impossibly dry. "I'm okay."
"Good, good, that's great." Cameron's frown seems far too sincere. "Now, we've got a problem that you could really help us out with."
Eduardo clears his throat. "Mark?" he asks, although it's not much of a question. Of course it's Mark. Who else could cause enough trouble that the twins would have to turn to Eduardo for help?
"He made it here," Tyler says. "He talked to The Father."
Eduardo would laugh at that, if he didn't think it would get him into trouble - because, god, Mark is insane. He's mad and he's stubborn and Eduardo hadn't known it was possible to be so impressed by a human, so infatuated with one. Isolation and reprimands aren't enough to take that away.
"Things are going to get very difficult for you," Cameron says sympathetically. "Mr Zuckerberg wants to sue our firm for breach of contract. We can't let that happen."
"You can't hurt him," Eduardo states. They are able to do what they like to him; if they try to hurt a human, it would go against everything The Father stands for. They serve humankind. They don't destroy it. But it's more than that. "I marked him. I brought him here, and I…" He barely remembers. It's fuzzy on the outside, but he remembers his hand on Mark's cheek and the force of that bond.
"We know. Besides, we wouldn't dream of it," Cameron replies. "That's why we're here talking to you. You know you can't go back to him, right?"
Eduardo stares at him, right through him, because he can't listen to this. He has to believe in Mark - he has to trust in him.
"Eduardo, you lost control. A lot of people were hurt. We tidied that up for you; no one remembers. But we can't risk having that happen again. You must understand that."
"It was a mistake; it happened once."
"Maybe," Cameron says. His sympathy is a smothering pillow. "You can understand that that isn't a risk we can take. It's not about you, or Mark. It's about public safety."
They're right. Of course they're right. That doesn't mean that Eduardo can accept it, shaking his head automatically. "It's never happened before."
"It's unpredictable," Cameron says, as if he's agreeing. "Who knows what might happen next time? What if you hurt Mark?"
Eduardo has been alive for over a hundred years. He knows when he's being manipulated; he also knows, however, that he has a bad track record of falling for it. He looks between the twins, caught between his own desires and his good intentions.
"You can take some time off. Do some travelling; maybe some free-lancing. There are a lot of brilliant opportunities out there for someone with your abilities."
Eduardo nods numbly. He spent the '50s travelling, on a long sabbatical, and this might not be so different - except, he knows, it's going to be hell. There's a difference between a willing break and an official reprimand.
"I'm glad we've got that settled," Tyler says, short and impatient in his words. "Because, thanks to you, we've got a court case on our hands, and you're the main witness."
Eduardo frowns and turns his attention to Tyler. "What?"
"Your testimony is going to be vital to our case. We need to make sure you say the right things."
"I can't lie," Eduardo states.
Cameron shakes his head and places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder. "We would never ask you to do that," he says. "We just want to make sure that the story comes out right."
Spin doctoring. That, at least, he can understand. Using it against Mark might go against every instinct he has, but maybe it's better than the alternative. Steeling his resolve, he listens to what the twins have to say, and tries to mentally prepare himself for what has to come next.
*
His new suit had been provided for him by The Father, and is more expensive and well-tailored than anything he could have afforded himself. It feels like armour, as he sits in the corridor of a law firm's building and looks down at his hands, folded neatly in his lap.
He has to look at his hands because, at the other end of the hall, Mark is trying to get his attention.
He's subtle about it, since he's not the kind of guy to up and down with excitement, although Eduardo gets the impression that it's only the stern advice of Mark's lawyers that keep him where he is. Eduardo's glad for that. If Mark came over here, he isn't sure if he would be able to keep his composure.
He stands up, taking a few pacing steps back and forth, and looks at the clock for the third time in as many minutes. Time is going far too slowly; he simply wants this over with, if he has to go through it.
"I need to go to the bathroom," he murmurs to his lawyer, who looks at him as if he might be planning an escape attempt.
He goes anyway, knowing - maybe hoping - that Mark is going to follow. The bathrooms are recently renovated, with bright lights and shiny mirrors. Eduardo stares at his reflection over the top of the sink, seeing exhaustion painted clearly on his face in dark circles under his eyes and a clamminess to his face.
The door squeaks open and shut, and Eduardo doesn't take his eyes from the mirror. In the reflection, he can see Mark's closed-off face and the heavy shadow of his brow. Holding his tongue, he won't say a thing.
Mark shuffles from one foot to the other behind him, like a nervous horse pawing the ground. Eduardo won't allow himself to think it's adorable.
"You're allowed to talk to me," Mark says. "I checked the rules. There's nothing there that says you have to ignore me."
Eduardo closes his eyes. "I don't think it's smart to talk to you right now," he answers.
As a matter of fact, it's probably one of the stupidest things he's ever done - and he's had decades of bad decisions.
Mark's jaw clenches in his reflection, but that's all that Eduardo gets in response. "I'm not leaving you behind," Mark states. "If we get to the end of this and you still want to be an asshole, that's fine. But I'm going to win. You can be an asshole away from them."
"You won't win," Eduardo sighs. There's never been a case like this before; the supernatural community stays out of the spotlight as much as possible. Only Mark would be stubborn enough to push things this far. "They've been doing this for centuries."
"It's a new world now," Mark says, with the distain Eduardo has previously heard directed at old directors and archaic companies. "Everything's changed."
"Not for us." Eduardo shakes his head. "Human society can move on all it likes. We've watched empires fall."
Mark's frown only grows deeper, and he shoves his hands into his pockets. Reluctantly, Eduardo lets go of the side of the sink and turns around to face him properly.
"I'm not on your side in this," Eduardo says. "It's complicated."
"It's not," Mark says. "Physics is complicated; code is complicated. This is just - " He pauses, grunts and shakes his head. "It's stupid."
Eduardo smiles like cracked glass and looks down at the tiled floor. "Mark," he sighs. "Please. This is going to be embarrassing for you."
"I don't get embarrassed," Mark answers.
And that isn't true. Eduardo has slipped into Mark's life like he belongs there, and he knows so much about what hides in Mark's mind. He knows that he gets mad, gets bitter, when the world doesn't go his way. He knows that Mark does his best work when he's been humiliated and is angry at the world in general - it makes him wonder what is going to come out of this, what Mark is going to create in his bitter rage this time.
"You're going to be publicly arguing that you should be allowed to own another person." Eduardo shakes his head. "You'll sound insane."
"You're not a person," Mark answers, eyes narrowed. "You're something else. I'm not arguing that I own you; I'm saying that there's a contract and they broke it."
"No one is going to see it that way." Eduardo knows that much; he is going to be the one on the other side, the one saying that Mark has interpreted everything in the wrong way. "You're going to look like an asshole."
Mark shrugs again, just with one shoulder, and he meets Eduardo's eyes with a coal-black stare. It's as if nothing touches him, nothing at all, and it makes Eduardo want to reach out and shake him until he gets a proper reaction. More than that, it makes him want to cup Mark's face between his hands and kiss him until he knows that he doesn't mean a thing he's said or a thing he's going to say.
"Do you think I should back off? Is that it?" Mark asks. He blinks, lizard-like, and Eduardo thinks that from the outside it might be difficult to tell which of them was human and which of them wasn't. "Because I can do that. I can go back to Facebook and forget all about this. It won't matter to me. I'm here because it's supposed to matter to you."
He's lying; he's got to be lying. Eduardo can remember fragile smiles and the way that Mark's skin felt beneath his hands. He knows that this matters to both of them.
"I hurt a lot of people," he says. "I don't know if you remember -if they let you remember - but it wasn't good. It could happen again."
"That was once, and it was unexpected. Unless you're useless at your job, you won't make the same mistake twice." Mark shuffles like a boy asking a girl to the school dance. "And you're not useless at your job. I wouldn't want you around if you were."
Eduardo smiles despite himself, relaxing into it, because he's sure that Mark is trying to be a lot more complimentary than he is managing.
"We were good together," Mark states, like it's an objective, inarguable fact. "It worked. Unless you're a really good actor, that wasn't just business."
Eduardo moves towards him, closer than he should be, until he's able to place his hand on Mark's cheek. He can feel the heat from where his fingers had burned him last time, in that white room; necessary to protect him, yes, but more evidence of how dangerous this is. He can't risk hurting anyone, least of all Mark.
He leans in to kiss the centre of Mark's forehead, and hears him grunt in displeasure at his target. His lips linger for a moment, dry and warm, as he closes his eyes against the scent of Mark's hair.
"Just for the record, I'm rooting for you," he confesses. His lawyer might hate him for admitting as much, but with Mark frozen beneath him he needs to say something.
Mark's hand hooks at the back of his neck, his fingers freezing cold against Eduardo's skin. He holds Eduardo where he is, until Eduardo's hands slide automatically onto Mark's hips.
They breathe quietly for a few moments, trapped in each other's space. Eduardo needs to leave. Outside, the lawyers will be missing him, and he has no doubt that they're aware Mark followed him in here. If they're not careful, he's going to get into even more trouble.
"Wardo," Mark sighs, like the word is being pulled from him.
Mark's fingers curl against the nape of his neck, but Eduardo takes a deep breath before he forces himself to break away. "I have to get back," he says.
Mark stares at him and doesn't answer, his face as blank as concrete. Shoulders tense, Eduardo keeps his head down as he leaves the bathroom behind, feeling as if he is walking towards the waiting executioner's block.
Outside the bathroom, he finds himself instantly flanked by the twins, one on each side. It's a struggle not to flinch; it's harder still not to keep walking and walking until he's out of the door. If he does that, he becomes an enemy to the very organisation that is like a family to him. They had saved him and cleaned him up and given him a purpose in life; turning his back on them isn't an option. Turning his back on Mark isn't one either.
Eduardo knows that his future is about to get a lot more complicated.
"We wanted to check that you're not getting cold feet," Tyler says.
"You can talk to us," Cameron adds. He places a hand on Eduardo's shoulder and the three of them walk in line together down the corridor. "Let us know if you have any worries, anything at all."
Caught between an empath and a telepath, Eduardo knows that there isn't much use in lying. "I'm conflicted about the case," he says. It's a considerable understatement. "But I'm not going to back out."
Tyler's hand mirrors his brother's on Eduardo's other shoulder. "That's good to hear. We're going to take this bastard down."
Cameron admonishes his brother for his language, because that is hardly how vassals are supposed to talk about humans. Eduardo almost smiles. Cameron is cut from the oldest of cloth, a true traditionalist.
"Let's get on with it," Eduardo says. "I just want this to be over."
Regardless of the outcome, that's all he's hoping for now: to be able to close his eyes and push all thoughts of depositions and legal battles from his mind.
It's time to get back to what he does best.
vii.
Sean tends to avoid the office these days, partly out of choice and partly as a result of a very stern suggestion from Mark. Apparently he makes them look bad - which is bullshit, and not the kind of thing that one friend should say to another (especially not when the other is him) but whatever. He works with it.
He noses around while he's waiting for Mark to make it back from the first day of depositions, but even when he stares at the computer screens he has no idea what he's looking at. Lines and lines of code are a foreign language. It looks like nothing to him, nothing but dollar signs in a row.
When Mark storms back into the building, his head is down and his shoulders are tight. Sean's gonna guess that the day hasn't gone to plan.
"Mark," he says with a plastered smile. "I thought I'd check in. How's it going?"
Judging by the temperature of Mark's glare, he's guessing 'not good' would be the answer.
Which, okay, is kind of Sean's fault. He maybe could've thought twice before dumping a vassal on his metaphorical doorstep, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
He follows Mark as he storms towards his private office. When Mark is in this kind of mood, the most rational thing would be to stay well away. It's like handling a live bomb. Luckily, Sean isn't exactly known for conforming to rational behaviour.
Mark throws himself down into his computer chair with the kind of defeated violence usually reserved for the end of a bloody battle.
"I'm gonna go out on a limb and say you're getting your ass kicked," Sean deduces. He closes the office door behind himself when he enters.
"He's not telling the truth; everything he's saying - it just isn't right. It isn't accurate." Mark stares in the general direction of the window, but Sean gets the impression he isn't seeing a damn thing. "It doesn't make sense."
"They're vassals, man," Sean says. "They don't think the way we do."
To be honest, he doesn't have much of a clue about how supernaturals think. He's never had the deep and involved conversation with one that would be required to understand their thought patterns. They're not human; they're old and they're ancient and they know things that people don't. What else is there to think about?
Mark shakes his head and doesn't turn his attention back to Sean. "He said he's rooting for me," he murmurs, almost to himself.
"What?" Sean starts to think that coming all the way over here to offer moral support was a seriously bad idea. "When?"
"Today, in the bathroom. Eduardo's on my side." Mark nods firmly. "I don't get why he's doing this."
To Sean, the answer remains clear: dude, vassal. They're not known for being clear and truthful bastions of virtue. Apparently as an explanation that isn't going to cut it for Mark.
"Look, I came here to take you out," Sean says. "You shouldn't be stewing in an office."
Mark turns in his chair to see him, slow and leisurely as if he has a thousand years of spare time.
"C'mon, man. One night. You need your mind taken off of all this, and I am the man for that job."
Mark scowls at him some more, but now his eyes narrow and take on a far-away, thoughtful air. That's either very good or very bad. Considering how Mark's day seems to be going, Sean is going to bet his money on 'very bad'.
"Can you find the girl that Eduardo was with?" he asks. "The vampire."
The skin on the back of Sean's neck crawls when he thinks of that night, like cold water dripping down his spine. The raw energy in the club had been more intense than anything he had ever experienced; addictive, if it hadn't felt so dangerous.
"I can ask around," Sean confirms. A girl like that, a guy like him, it won't take too long to uncover her. The question is whether or not he should. "What do you want with her?"
"Wardo knows her," Mark says. "They've got some kind of history together."
"Raking up your boyfriend's exes? That's shady." Sean grins. It isn't reciprocated. "I'm just saying."
"Don't 'just say'," Mark snaps. "Go and do it."
Mark's a messed up son of a bitch, but as far as friends go he's been a good one. Sean does as he's asked; it's about time Mark owed him one.
*
She's beautiful, of course.
Sean is avoiding looking into her eyes (because he doesn't exactly know what powers she has, but he wants to stay safe), but that means that it is almost a physical impossibility not to stare at her exposed cleavage. And, yeah, that's rude, but he'd argue it would be just as rude not to appreciate it.
"I am not at liberty to discuss Mr Saverin," she says, like she's reciting from a script.
Sean grins and relaxes in his seat. He's been invited into her spacious flat; the wide open spaces and the art on the walls says that she's managed to accumulate more than enough wealth during her long unlife.
"I recognise lawyer-speak when I hear it," he says, not dropping his grin. "Who's told you to shut your mouth? Just between you and me."
"If Mark Zuckerberg is the one that sent you, then you already know," she says, stretching her legs out in front of her. "They'll have my head."
"You're not a vassal, though," Sean points out.
Her nose wrinkles. "No, I wouldn't lower myself," she answers. "I don't buy into their propaganda."
Okay, he can work with that. It's kind of terrifying to be near a free-lance vampire, knowing that she isn't bound by any human master, but Sean hasn't allowed himself to be intimidated by beautiful women since high school. Maybe Christy takes it to a new level, but he can meet her there.
When he asks her what she means, she tells him that all humans are like maggots. "They don't deserve to be served."
He's not entirely sure how to respond to that, so he gives a half-laugh as if she's joking. She doesn't laugh with him.
"I fully agree," he says. "Which is why you need to talk to me. We're suing them to try to get Eduardo out of there."
She raises an eyebrow. "Good luck with that," she says. "Eduardo is exactly where he wants to be."
Now they're onto something. Sean sits forward, tilts his head, and listens to everything he can.
*
A couple of hours later, Sean swings by Mark's flat - and, if Mark's eyes narrow at the sight of the sharp bite mark on his neck, he's smart enough not to say anything about it. Doesn't stop Sean's skin from crawling with self-conscious unease.
"I take it you found her," Mark says, stepping back from the door so that Sean can enter. "What did she say?"
It's a bullshit welcome, but it's the best that Sean can expect. "Not anything useful," he admits. Wasted trip, really, although the sweet throb in his neck makes him think that maybe he'll be searching out vampires more often.
"I don't care. Tell me anyway."
Sean heads to the fridge and helps himself to a beer, holding his breath at the scent of something rancid in there. A glance around the apartment, at empty cartons of take-out and crushed drinks cans, tells him that Mark probably hasn't said hello to a bin since Eduardo took off. It's not looking good. Maybe next time he will get Mark a housekeeper rather than anything more complicated.
"She knew Eduardo before he got into the whole do-gooding thing," Sean says with a shrug. "And I mean she knew him, in a very naked, very Biblical sense."
Mark frowns 'til he looks like he's going to burst a blood vessel. Apparently when he wanted details he didn't want that kind. Whatever.
"So, they're running riot through the eighteenth century, when the twins turn up and punch them."
"What?"
"Not in a physical way. Like a final club or something." Sean shrugs, but he sees the way that Mark's eyes darken. Everyone knows that that is a particular sore spot for him. Sean is fine with prodding bruises "The twins turn up, tell them they've been selected, and while Eduardo does cartwheels of glee, Christy tells them where to get off. That's more or less the whole story."
He settles on the arm of Mark's couch while Mark hovers near the window, his fingers scattering nervously on the sill. He won't keep still, as if there's too much energy in his pale limbs. "It's an honour," Mark murmurs, as if he's still processing the information, adding it to previous back-catalogues. "Serving us, being with Them. It's something he wanted."
"That's what I'm saying, man," Sean confirms. "Maybe the reason he's fighting you on this is because he really does want out."
"He doesn't know what he wants," Mark complains.
Sean knows better than to advise Mark to drop the whole thing. If he wants to take on a supernatural organisation all for the sake of some guy who doesn't even want him to win, that's his suicide mission, not Sean's. As long as it doesn't affect Facebook, they're good.
"I'm gonna head off," Sean says, "unless you need any other psycho blood-suckers interrogated?"
Mark mumbles a collection of non-words, which Sean takes as a dismissal. He's glad to be out of there, his neck throbbing; sometimes, a friend's problems are too big to take on.
Mark's in this one alone.
Part Three