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Mark is a shitty brother. Ever since Gemma died, Devon has been his emergency contact, and he's not made it easy on her. Twice now, she's picked him up from the sheriff's office—once for drunk driving, once for creating a public disturbance. Another time, she's rushed to the hospital in time to watch his stomach get pumped. And now, she's opening her door at three fourteen in the morning because he can't stand to sleep in an empty house tonight.
"Oh, Bud, what's wrong?" Devon's expression is all concern rather than the anger he deserves. She's in pajamas: an old, oversized band shirt and long, cotton pants. "Come inside."
Mark steps into the house he just spent five minutes knocking on the door of. For the first time that week he can breathe. Devon's house doesn't smell like two professors' worth of old books or dead flowers or shitty casseroles gone bad in the fridge; it smells like wood and citrus furniture polish and fresh baked bread. "I'm sorry," is all he says.
She herds him toward the kitchen and starts making two mugs of hot chocolate without being asked. "Are you drunk?" She asks.
"No." It isn't even a lie. He ran out of alcohol two days ago and hasn't had the energy to drag himself to the store.
"Have you eaten today?"
"No." He ran out of food too. The aforementioned shitty casseroles have been his main diet—when he remembers to eat that is.
"Sandwich or cereal?" She offers.
His stomach recoils at the thought of food. "Not hungry," he mumbles.
She opens the fridge regardless. "Fine, I won't give you options," she tells him. "You're getting a BLT, I have leftover ingredients from my dinner."
Mark hums noncommittally and shifts his gaze to watch the two mugs of water slowly spin in the microwave. He's tired. He's hungry. He's lost in his own head. Mostly, he's goddamn lonely. Devon talks, but the words roll off him like water off a duck. He must have driven himself here, but he doesn't remember. He couldn't tell you the day of the week if asked. Did he have work today? Did he skip it? Has he been fired yet? He’s not sure of anything. Gemma is dead and he’s still here. Gemma is dead and he was the one who deserved it. Gemma is dead and he spent the last few months of her life digging himself a hole that he’ll never have the chance to climb out of now. Maybe tomorrow he’ll buy more alcohol and the bottom of a bottle will answer his questions for him.
"Your food, Milady." Devon does her best impression of a butler and flourishes a plate.
He blinks. Somehow a mug materialized in his hand and she finished putting the sandwich together without him noticing. "Thanks." He doesn't look at her as he takes a sip of the warm liquid. The sugar barely registers on his tongue, nor does the temperature; he peers into the mug and sees three ice cubes slowly melting into the drink—she must have known he’d burn his mouth otherwise.
Warm hands rest on his shoulders. "Eat," she insists. "Please."
He doesn’t want to, but she's cut his sandwich into four triangles for him. Plus he drove all this way; surely he didn’t do that for nothing. He picks a triangle up and idly nibbles at the crust. It's no more flavorful than the hot chocolate. The bread crunches between his teeth; any other person would say it tastes great, he thinks it tastes like cardboard. “I’m eating,” he says around a bit of tomato.
Devon squeezes his shoulders and settles into the stool next to him. “You don’t have to finish it,” she tells him. “But do try to.”
Already, his nonexistent appetite is dwindling away. The food settles too heavy in his stomach. He tries washing it down with a swig of the cocoa, but that isn’t any better. “I am,” he tells her, taking a full bite more for her sake than for his. Convincing his throat to let him swallow is a whole ordeal. He finishes the triangle and opts to pick at the remaining three, pinching off small pieces indiscriminately and popping them in his mouth.
While he plays with his food, Devon finishes her cup of hot chocolate and regards him with a sadness that doesn’t border on pity. She’s the only one who still has patience left for him. He doesn’t deserve her as a sister. Once she's satisfied with the amount of food in his stomach, she stands up to take a good look at him. "You look like shit," she observes.
Mark shrugs one shoulder. "I feel like shit."
"Why are you here?" She asks. At least she's direct in her questioning rather than beating around the bush. He appreciates it.
There's no reason to lie. "I can't sleep," he answers. "It's too quiet and the bed is too big and everything smells like her." He’s washed the sheets half a dozen times and her scent still clings to their room. Last week he went out and bought a new set in hopes that would get rid of the lingering jasmine and sandalwood, but it didn’t. Some nights he thinks about lighting one of her candles, leaving it too close to the curtains, and going to bed. A house fire would solve at least one of his problems.
"So you came here,” she states.
"So I came here,” he echoes.
"When's the last time you slept through the night?" She clears his plate and the two mugs.
He doesn't need to do the math to answer. "Before," he tells her. How long before he doesn't know. He's not been sleeping well since the first miscarriage; it’s been a long time. "I was hoping to..." He stops himself and shakes his head.
Devon knows the answer, but she asks anyway. “To what?"
Ricken is out of town meeting with his agent for an upcoming book deal. It's only the two of them, and he feels like a child again. He was the soft one as kids; the boy who crawled into his little sister's bed when he had a nightmare. And what is this but one extended nightmare? "Sleep here I guess." Mark shrugs.
"The guest room isn't set up," she reminds him. They started remodeling it a couple weeks ago. At least he thinks it’s been a couple weeks; he can’t keep track of time. It’s funny how other peoples’ lives can move on.
"I know," he says, voice small. "Can I sleep with you?" He asks. "Just for tonight, I swear. I'll go home tomorrow, I won't bother you like this again." He’s lying and they both know it, but he needs someone to believe that he’ll get better.
"Mark," she sighs. "I really wish you'd go back to that therapist."
He really wishes she'd stop bringing that up. He'd gone for some time, but it hadn't helped. If anything, the sessions made his grief worse. The doctor talked about Gemma as if he knew her, and he asked too many questions that Mark didn’t want to answer. How was telling a stranger her favorite author supposed to help him with his grief? "That didn't answer my question," he says.
Her expression tells him she wants to push, but she holds back. "Yes, you can," she answers. "C'mon"—she slips her hand into his—"let's get you to bed."
Mark holds onto her like a lifeline, which she very well may be. At least here he isn’t able to do anything stupid—not with her watching him, not with her as collateral damage. He follows her to her bedroom and lets her guide him through the motions of getting ready for bed. He takes off his shirt and pants at her prompting, leaving him in just a pair of striped boxers. It's nothing she hasn't seen before; they shared a bathroom for eighteen years. She presses a spare toothbrush into his hands and he brushes with her cinnamon toothpaste. He only half listens to her telling him what to do; his body responds without needing the input from his brain. At home, this is the point where he falls into his head and can’t find the way out. Here, he has Devon to hold out a hand when he needs one.
Once they’ve both brushed their teeth, she leads him out of the bathroom, and they climb into her bed together. Mercifully, the sheets smell like her shampoo and little else. The duvet settles over both of them as Mark rests his head on the edge of an extra pillow she procured from the closet.
"Need a bedtime story," she teases as she turns on to her side to face him.
"Shut up." He rolls his eyes. In the embrace of her sheets, he feels a little more alive than previously. "I'm not a kid."
Devon shuffles forward until her knees brush his.. "I want to help you," she tells him. "I know I can’t do much, but I want to do what I can. What do you need?"
He squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. He needs Gemma, and she can't give him that. He needs to get his shit together, and she can't do that for him. "Company," is the answer he settles on. "I don't like being alone." He never has. Back when they were little it was him who cried when they moved into the bigger house and they no longer shared a room. Him who begged their mom to let him stay at the elementary school when he was moving on to junior high.
She leans toward him and kisses him on the forehead. "I'm not going anywhere," she promises. "Now try and get some sleep, Bud."
If only it were that easy. "Okay," he says. "Could you, uh..." He's too old to say protect me from monsters, but he wants to. "Stay close."
"Roll over," she tells him.
He obliges and turns his back to her.
She tucks her body against the curve of his. Her arms around his torso, her chin atop his shoulder, and her knees a few inches above his own. "No monsters shall find you here, Milady," she promises on a theatrical whisper.
Despite himself, his mouth twitches into a smile. This is how those nicknames started. After a particularly bad nightmare that had sent him cowering to her room, she pretended he was a princess who needed protection. It evolved from there, and the nicknames stuck. "Are you sure, Milord?" He makes his voice shaky on purpose; it's all too easy to do. He’s no longer afraid of the dark, but there’s a thousand other monsters under his bed.
"Surer than the sunrise," she responds. "Close your eyes and get some rest; I'll fend off any nightmares that come your way."
Mark's body is suddenly heavy with the exhaustion he's been ignoring. "Thank you," he mumbles. "Really."
"Shh," Devon hushes him. "Go to sleep."
His eyelids droop shut. It's not long until he starts to drift off, and as he does, he hears his sister's voice whispering to him.
"You're going to get through this."
He nuzzles into the pillow.
"We all love you."
The tension in his back releases.
"I wish you weren't hurting so badly."
His breathing evens out.
"I will always protect you."
Mark doesn't wake up until the afternoon sunlight streams through the window. The sound of Devon's muffled cursing as she loses a fight in the kitchen drifts through the house. For a moment, the choking weight of Gemma’s ghost doesn’t have its hand around his throat. He’ll stay the rest of the day he decides, but he’ll leave after dinner. He’s handed her his baggage for long enough; it wouldn’t be fair to ask any more of her.