after all these years

Seven

Mark shuffles around the kitchen quietly, searching for the k-cups he and Amy had kept moving around. When a shelf turns up empty, he tucks his finger into the groove between the cabinet door and frame, letting the wood close on the soft padding of his skin. It muffles the normal slamming sounds, and soothes some of the strange nerves weighing heavy on his shoulders.

The wooden floor creaks under him as he walks around, and without even thinking about it he shifts his weight up into his hips and lower back, off of his feet.

Finally, he finds the small cups and pops them carefully into the coffee maker. It makes a loud beeping, and though he’s up at a reasonable time (for once), he can’t stop the full-body shiver that runs through him. What if Amy gets mad? What if she comes in here and yells at him over a fucking coffee maker?

The misdirected anger that rises with that thought isn’t a surprise. Still, he’s a little shocked it’s directed at Amy, of all people.

And speak of the devil, Amy herself walks in a moment - or maybe a while? - later. “I think your coffee’s done,” she hums, picking up the mug and handing it to him on her way to the fridge.

Mark nods and leans back against the counter, pretending to watch the trees sway in their backyard.

She reaches a hand out to pat his shoulder, like she would’ve just a couple months ago, before she inevitably aborts the motion - and he hates that - hates that she’s acting like he’s fragile. But he hates that he knows he’d shy away from the touch anyway even more. “You okay? You’re normally not this - I don’t know, pensive? In the morning.”

The coffee burns his throat as he swallows, but it helps him stall. “Fine.”

It’s not a lie - he is fine. Maybe not good, but certainly not bad, and that’s all that matters. Even if the thought of how many half-truths he’s been giving out lately makes something inside of him curl up and die.

"...Okay.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and looks out the window with him. He wonders what she sees out there - his focus drifted long ago, and everything is a green blur to him. “Um, is there anything you wanted to do today? I got the videos edited early, so we have the whole day to ourselves.”

Logically, Mark knows Amy isn’t suggesting what he thinks she is. He knows that. But it ticks him off anyway.

“Whatever’s fine,” he sighs, setting his cup down a little too harshly. It’s still too full, and some of the hot liquid splashes out onto his hand. It’s fine, he deserves it.

Amy purses her lips and turns away from him. She’s frustrated - as evidenced by the way she glances away from the coffee splatter - but Mark is just far too tired to care.

Chica barks from the other room and he jerks back into action, quickly wiping up the spill and dumping the rest of the mug out. “I’m sorry.”

His girlfriend smiles sadly, like she knows something he doesn’t (and doesn’t that just set off the alarm bells in his head?), and shrugs. “It’s fine, I get it. Bad day.” Her hand rests next to his on the marble counter - a compromise between her want to touch him and his utter revulsion at being touched right now.

“I shouldn’t take that out on you.”

“No, but again, I get it. At least you’re being self aware.” The dogs bark again, and she pushes away from him. “I’ll leave you be.”

Mark’s never been so simultaneously relieved and crushed.

His funk lasts into the next day, and he’s honestly surprised Amy hasn’t truly snapped at him yet.