Chapter Text
Welcome to…the toilet?
Mark had pressed his hands around Thragg’s face to draw him closer. He looked straight into those dark eyes before closing his own, and gently, oh so gently pressed their lips together. Thragg was startlingly cold compared to how warm and supple Amber’s kisses had been, but the way they fit was intoxicating. The power behind Thragg’s hand, so heavy on Mark’s chest, had been a strike to his heart.
Electric.
Mark wanted to kiss him again— but no. He was too worked up from the afternoon with the neighbors.
Thragg and Mark sat awkwardly at the newly acquired kitchen table and chair, Mark having come back from their community meeting. He was tired, a little bit freaked out, and had just accidentally said, “I’m not going to kiss you again. You should just get in bed or—or go get a new bed or something.”
Thragg looked at him. “Do you want—”
“No, no,” Mark replied hastily, adjusting his wheelchair. “I just,” he looked down, took a deep breath, and reminded himself, you’re almost there. He’s halfway to falling in love with you and giving up the Viltrumite empire already. Just— smile or something.
Mark glanced up and looked through his fringe to inspect his Viltrumite roommate.
Thragg was staring down at him, his incredible hair immaculate and stupidly serious expression unchanged. Mark honestly couldn’t tell if he was always pissed or if that was just how his face was.
Snap out of it! Mark bullied himself. Everyone says you smile cute. Just— aaargh, what does that lip thing even mean?
It was either a half snarl or a…really bad smile. Thragg was unreadable.
Um. Well. Some people like my eyes too, he rallied, giving up on the grin attack. He pursed his lips and was about to ask, come to bed, when Thragg interrupted him.
“You should eat.”
…well at least watching him spin around was nice. The jaunt to the kitchen was really too short to appreciate much of anything but, yeah, Thragg looked really really nice in that skirt.
“Do you…always wear skirts?” Mark wondered.
“No,” Thragg replied, taking out a pot and hopefully not actually dumping everything in one big soup thing.
Mark winced internally. If that leftover sandwich from the cafe found its way into the half-decent soup, Mark was going to scream.
Fortunately or not, it turned out to be warmed up soup. Maybe a little watery, with something that tasted suspiciously like the smoothie of doom.
“How is it?” Thragg demanded after Mark half finished a bowl.
“Fine,” Mark slurped a little more. “Soup always tastes better warm.”
Thragg was eying him. “Yes…if the cold bothers you.”
Thragg’s cheek had been cold. His lips, too, and warming him up had been the work of a half hour. Mark was pretty sure his tongue had gotten cold before Thragg had matched his body temperature, and oh shit, he’d kissed the Viltrumite medic.
He abruptly coughed up a mouthful of soup.
Thragg raised an eyebrow at him.
Mark, feeling the heat come to his cheeks, hastily covered his embarrassment by finishing the bowl.
“It’s good!” he choked.
Thragg nodded, getting up from the table again. He deposited his dishes and Mark’s in the sink before turning away once more. “I… got you something.” Thragg said in his low, melodious voice.
“What?” Mark asked nervously.
“A support bar for the toilet.” Thragg said uselessly.
“Oh.” Mark chewed on his lip before saying, “It’s going to be a while before I’m better, huh.”
Thragg returned to Mark, gliding back in that eerie way Viltrumites did when nobody forbade them from flying inside. He took possession of Mark’s space in an instant, and as he leaned over Mark, gently bringing their foreheads together. “You will be as before in the blink of an eye.”
Mark wasn’t breathing but that was a totally normal response to being so close.
His brain caught up with him. “Hey now. I have on good authority that my whole life is a speck—”
Thragg ignored him. “Eat. Sleep. You can still go on short outings, and even fly a little if you need to.”
“You just got tired of me yelling at you in the toilet,” Mark grumbled.
“Indeed,” Thragg smirked. “You embarrass too easily, young fool.”
“Sorry,” Mark said as lightly as he could, “but I have no use for the toilet at this time.” God, his Viltrumite was starting to sound way too much like Thragg’s.
Thragg only nodded, took control over Mark’s wheelchair, and put him back to bed. Once there, he stroked Mark's hair for a time.
Slowly, Mark forgot about all the drama that came with living with an alien in Seattle. He only remembered that the cold presence was safe.
Mark slept.
He was only vaguely aware of the sounds of metal pans clinking.
He didn’t dream at all. It was a nice change from after the Conquest assault and the Multiple-Invincibles attack… Rest did good things for one’s psyche. That or a huge-ass Viltrumite to protect you helped.
Much later, the tempting smells of food on his bed tray roused him from his sleep. A half empty carton of takeout tempted him into sitting, especially with the chopsticks helpfully at hand, and a tiny bowl the shape of a flower.
“This is new,” Mark croaked. He sipped his least favorite tea in the galaxy (even though it helped him stay awake), and examined the spread.
“You didn’t seem to like the other gift.” Thragg said, his voice amused and elegant.
“The toilet thing?” Mark laughed. “No, uh, your present was nice. Kind of. I mean, it’s helpful, and I don’t really need presents– anyway. Thanks.” Mark looked down, and immediately hated that he had. That was a sign of weakness and he wouldn’t– nope, he couldn’t look at Thragg’s smug face. Mark rubbed at the back of his neck.
“Eat. Then go back to sleep,” Thragg hummed.
***
Cold hands woke Mark.
Someone stroked Mark’s cheek, and he relaxed a little more. It was nice being held, not being the one in charge. He opened his eyes, unconsciously trying to sit, and he winced.
Thragg gently removed an issue of Seance Dog from under Mark’s pillow. Mark blinked blearily up at him.
Thragg frowned as Mark gave a half smile. Sleep still fogging his brain, and Mark just spat out what first came to mind. “You’re cute… are you a librarian? Did me wrinkling my own comic bother you?”
Thragg smoothed the comic cover, and put it on the stack of comics on the bedside table. Mark blinked at it, wondering when the furniture had been placed there. He reached out, almost touching the white table, but drew back, opting to stretch instead.
“We will go out. A little exercise is good for healing,” Thragg intoned.
Mark shrugged, spreading his arms out and generally taking up more of the bed than strictly necessary. “Are you feeling cooped up? Because I could just as easily go back to sleep… I haven’t finished any of my comics yet.” Mark yawned.
“You can finish them later. Would you like to change?”
Mark blinked, looking down at his white Viltrumite jumpsuit bottoms and rumpled hoodie. “That sounds like a hassle. Hey, where’d your skirt go?”
Thragg shrugged. “It seems people change their clothes frequently. I’m trying something else.”
Mark looked Thragg up and down. The big Viltrumite was wrinkle free in his red and black exercise clothes. The tight fitting material’s only difference from a superhero outfit was that they were two garments– a long sleeved shirt and some very form fitting leggings.
“I’ll help you. I got some of the joggers you requested.”
A half hour later, they were walking in the light foot traffic, Mark looking around. “You only recently started cooking, right? Did you live off of the smoothie thing for ages?”
Thragg harumphed. “That is for invalids. We have cooking. I understand the concept of cooking–”
“But you didn’t cook for yourself, right? Do Viltrimites only hunt their own meat or something? And then just… eat it?” Mark wondered aloud, trying to endear himself to the older man.
“We place value in other things. We can eat anything– any race’s cooking will do.”
“You’ve got to enjoy cooking though. You’re really good at it.” Mark gestured the way they came. “I saw this guy with some tasty-looking kebabs…and some other van with Turkish coffee…man, that stuff is good. Different than Italian coffee, you know?”
“I presume those…types of coffee are…”
“Place names,” Mark supplied. “Dad was a traveler. We always went on family weekend trips when he wasn’t busy.” It was strangely nice for Thragg not to be weirded out by just-how-far a Viltrumite dad could take his wife and son on a ‘weekend trip.’ Mark, for once, was the normal one.
Thragg stopped at the first block, saying ‘hello’ to a ‘Big Issue’ magazine seller. They spoke about the weather, and Mark eyed Thragg with trepidation unsure how he would respond.
“You have a good day,” Thragg repeated the phrase wholesale back at the guy, who smiled and nodded.
Mark thought it was only a little strange. Then it happened again– this time to a little old lady sweeping. He adjusted his accent once more, mimicking hers, and she laughed and called him something (probably) sweet in a language Mark thought might have been French. Or European at any rate.
To some, he spoke with a perfect northern accent, and yet when they neared a group of immigrants working on the road, his accent changed again.
Is that … some slavic language? Mark wondered. He tried not to stare as he wondered how and when Thragg had managed to pick up even the basics of a whole language.
Then again he was doing unexpectedly well in English. Ugh.
Mark could only guess what was going on based on body language, but the people seemed to be rather accepting of the big stranger.
Mark watched, bewildered. There was very little for Thragg to gain by talking to so many people. What could he hope to accomplish by learning other languages? Still, it was impressive… and either suspicious or admirable, he couldn’t decide.
So he tried to be patient. Nevertheless, the longer he sat there, putting stress on a wound that was only just starting to close fully, the more his body shot warning pain up his spine. He had a bad feeling he was going white. He shouldn’t be awake with this sort of pain.
Sleep, his dad had told him many times. Just sleep.
Thragg put a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We can go back to the apartment now. Eat one of the foods you suggested.”
***
On another day, Mark found himself concerned with his appearance.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, Mark thought. He had to fix his hair. He held his breath, his feet hovering off the footrests of the wheelchair as he flew into the air, resting very, very lightly on the bathroom sink.
He let his breath out slowly, turning the faucet on. He had barely begun to work the water into his hair, when Thragg opened the bathroom door without so much as a knock.
Mark yelped and nearly fell from where he perched. Thragg put a big hand on the small of Mark’s back. He raised an eye. “Do you need a hair brush?”
Mark laughed incredulously. “I have one? Right here? It’s amazing my hair has held up as well as it was considering I haven’t been taking care of it. But I need to fix this.” He gestured at his wild hair.
“Your hair is… fine.”
“Yeah, well it’s usually art. Styled. I need my hair products…”
Mark held his breath as Thragg brushed his hand over Mark’s hair. He looked into Mark’s reflection, his sharp eyes meeting his.
“We’ll buy some soon. Where do you get these… products?” Thragg asked in a way that could be described as kind.
“Great! We can go now. Just let me use the toilet and we can get out of here.”
“See if the new bar is helpful,” Thragg said simply as he took Mark’s waist in his entirely too big hands and forced him down toward his porcelain throne.
Mark swatted at Thragg until he went away, but he was pretty sure Thragg was silently laughing at him.
Well. He’d do his hair justice soon enough.
***