Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Leaves crunch under Mark's boots as he stalks through the forest

The gentle hum of the woods soothe him like no other on days like this. The snow receding slowly as the winter gives way into a gentle spring.

He thumbs at some treebark, it peels off with little give. Revealing the clean wood underneath.

He's taken to carving little things into the trees out here. He's not sure why, but its a nice break for his legs. Sometimes its just a number thats on his mind, or a simple shape. Mostly its just whatever he spots on the horizon, crappy carvings of mountains and trees litter the trees around his cabin by now.

He leans back, observing the blank canvas. He thinks about those shed antlers he put over the fireplace a few weeks ago. Marks never been much of a trophy collector, but it had filled the empty space nicely, maybe a bit cliche all things considered.

Slowly he carves in a shoddy imitation of them, trying to remember the way the lines connected and branched out.

Once he's done its not much better than a toddlers attempt, more of a mess of lines than anything coherent. But it works, his hands feel less restless.

He tucks his knife away and smooths over the carving one last time. Feeling the ridges against his palm.

With his gun perched on his sack, Mark contines his trek.

The trees stretch for miles this far out. He could probably walk for days and come across nothing but the occasional rock and hill

He shouldn't stay out too late, he reminds himself. Even if he can't find any prey today he still has that elk from a few weeks ago…

With his gun bolstered on his back he scans the treeline for any sign of wildlife.

Ever since he moved out here he's become accustomed to the quiet. Days without hearing as much as another person's voice. Expect for the few times he'll call his sister on the payphone in town.

It's a better life somehow. At the very least far better than choking on Gemma's ghost back in ganz

He couldn't stay in that house, her soul was baked into it, far more than his had ever been.

With the help of Devon he had been able to sell it, some couple she knew through ricken. Not that he cared much, hungover as he was at half the meetings.

He'd found the listing for the old cabin while scrolling through an old realtors website. Impulse had guided him more than logic but by the time he had come to his sense he was a bit too far in.

All had turned out well though, he had taken well to the place,

The evenings stretched long and still, the kind of silence that presses against his skin, but doesn't suffocate.

The walls didn’t remember Gemma, didn’t judge him.

He remembers the last time they spoke, how her eyes didn’t quite look at him, the air between them thick with things left unsaid. It was like she was already gone.

It was like he was already grieving before the cops even knocked on his door.

Gemma used to love the forest, nature in general. Summers spent camping whenever they could away from the city. Camp ground echoing with her bright voice.

Now, the forest felt different. It was quieter, yes—but also colder, lonelier. Like the trees themselves mourned something lost. Maybe it was him.

He's thrown out of his thoughts as he spots a lump in a clearing ahead.

He backs away on instinct. A dead and undisturbed animal is usually never a good sign. Pulling his gun from its holster, he inches closer.

The silence hangs heavy, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves underfoot. Mark finds himself gripping the gun tighter. Something in the air feels wrong, too clouded and tight for his liking anyway.

He freezes for a moment, heart pounding. The shape on the ground shifts slightly in front of him. Lowering the gun just a fraction, he steps closer, squinting to make out the features.

It’s not an animal.

It's a person. At least he thinks and- yeah no thats certainly a human shaped form there.

He throws a glance behind himself before cautiously moving closer.

It's a woman, or maybe a girl? He's twice her size for goodness sake

At first Mark wonders if she's dead, her frail appearance and torn up clothes certainly aren't helping.

But then he catches it, a barely perceptible whimper, her brows furrowing.

She reminds him of an injured deer, all long dangly limbs, curly reddish brown hair that reaches her shoulders..

Mark presses a finger against her pulse, feeling it jump alive. It's weak.. but its there. His hands tremble as he removes them from her, just barely brushing past her hair.

What the fuck.

He looks around to make sure this isn't some kind of movie shoot, like this was just some extremely dedicated and devoted method actress.

But noone emerges from the bushes, only the ever imposing silence of the forest echoing back.

His eyes flick back to the figure on the ground, the faintest rise and fall of her chest the only sign of life. No footsteps. No voices. Nothing but that oppressive quiet.

Slowly, he kneels down, voice low and cautious. “Hey... can you hear me?”

No answer, only the lighest whimper leaving her far too pale lips. He looks at her for what feels like forever, she's so delicate he half believes if he blinks she'll simply drift away with the wind, running through the cracks of his fingers like runaway.

Mark knows he can't just leave her there. Regardless of who she is or where she came from she needs help, and regardless of how long he's enjoyed the relative peace out here. He's not a monster who'd leave a poor defenseless girl out here all alone.

She's light enough that he can simply haul her over his shoulder. More bone than fat really.. Her swollen ankle is thicker than her arm for God's sakes.

The weight is light, almost fragile, and he feels the urgency settle deeper in his chest.

The forest around him remains eerily silent, but Mark pushes aside the creeping unease.

Keeping a tight grip on her, Mark begins the trek back to the cabin.

Chapter Text

She’s still passed out when he gets back home, twitching in his arms on occasion like a half dead fly.

He wonders if she’s been drugged, she’s certainly breathing, he keeps pressing her chest against his, feeling the weak pittering heartbeat through her ribcage.

He barely sheds his boots when he gets inside. Thankfully he didn’t have to wrangle with his keys today, leaving the door open. Not like he had many visitors out here. With the exception of the girl bundled in his arms right now.

Mark makes a beeline straight for the bathroom, she’s covered in dirt and practically cold to the touch. What makes sense is a bath, of course that’s what makes sense.

She crumples like a doll on the floor when he attempts to set her down, needing him to prop up her limp body so she doesn’t fall and crack her goddamn skull open.

Her breath is shallow, eyes fluttering slightly, but he can feel the faintest tremor beneath her skin.

The clothes slip off her slowly, well what little there is of them anyway. One egregiously long nightgown he’s pretty sure his mother would wear, falling down to reveal what looks to be underwear older than even dear old mama fern.

Ruffles and egregiously intricate lace is woven into the pieces. So delicate he’s afraid to rip it.

She paints the picture of an abandoned bride, left to rot on her wedding night. Dressed in all white…

Mark stops himself once he finds himself toying with the edge of her soiled camisole… It had been automatic, like skinning a deer carefully.

Maybe he should spare her this last bit of dignity. Poor thing.

Mark busies himself with readying her bath. He has some leftover warm water from when he washed up this morning thankfully. He’s not sure he could leave her shivering on the floor while he boiled up some more.

She’s still slumped together in the corner every time he looks back. Some part of him expects her to disappear, simply a figment of his imagination…

But she stays, red hair contrasting with her pale skin like blood on snow.

Eventually the tub fills up, the water not quite steaming but warm enough. Probably better, she doesn’t seem like she’d handle either extreme well.

When he returns to her side the same dilemma echoes inside his mind. Her undergarments still perched delicately on her form. They’re not quite as dirty as her gown, but he can spot some stains on her drawers… As well as a rip in the camisole.

Marks hands seemingly move on their own, peeling away the fine garments to reveal more and more strips of achingly pale skin.

He tells himself its to check for wounds, he’d spotted some blood on her chest after all- or well- now he spots it anyway.

Her breasts are as delicate as every other part of her, one tiny cut right above her heart. Almost intentional. He lets his gaze roam over the rest of her upper body. Making sure there’s nothing else on her. Scary tattoos, some kind of human trafficking stamp-

He comes back empty handed, only a plethora of bruises decorate her back, and who knows where those are from.

Mark drags off her drawers last. It feels too terrible to wrench apart her legs, so instead he gently turns her over, finding her lower side absent of any serious wounds as well.

He picks her up, barely weighing any different now that he got those scraps off fabric off her.

Mark lowers her into the tub carefully, the water engulfing her body. The steam rises steadily as he relaxes her head against the wall, watching her intently for any signs of movement.

He gets his wish when she suddenly stirs, eyelids parting to reveal her pupils. Blown wide and locked in on him.

She starts squirming in the water like a bug

Mark has to shield himself from the insuing splash. The water soaks through his sleeve, making it cling to him like a second skin.

The girl keeps up her fit, now moving to try and get out of the tub. She's shaky when she stands, nearly slipping as she practically leaps across the room.

Mark gets up just in time to catch her, hauling her back by the waist before she cracks her skull open on the tile..

Her wet body presses against his front as he holds her still. Seems shielding himself earlier had no use really.

Her mouth opens as she yells, mostly gibberish, undercut with the occasional 'help'

"Jesus- Just stay still christ-" He muttered against her head, trying to ease her squirming without accidentally breaking something.

Eventually she stills long enough for him to haul her back into the tub, painfully aware (and uncomfortable) with how naked she is.

She stares at him like an angry cat from the basin, her entire upper body engulfed by the water.

"Alright." He sighs as he gets back on his knees. Mark considers stripping the now soaked shirt off but instead leaves it on. He reasons that seeing him half naked won't help with making her any less skittish

she's still staring at him cautiously when he gains his bearings to look back up at her. Curly red hair floating in the water as she seemingly tries to dissapear under the waterline.

"Hey, uh-" Mark flounders for a name. Before realizing there is nothing, he could call her weird forest girl for all he knows. "You- Okay listen up-"

Her gaze strays again, wandering back towards the door.

Before she can consider anymore funny business he grabs her by the jaw, holding her still as well as making sure her gaze stays on him.

"Listen to me. Alright?" Her eyes are wide as saucers as she nods, and Mark feels a growing satisfaction bloom in his gut. "Good, now, I'm gonna help okay? You need a bath, you can do that yourself if you want. I'm not gonna put my hands on you."

Her eyes look unfocused, okay fuck maybe she was drugged-

He shakes her lightly by the jaw, getting her attention back. "Are you gonna stay still while i do it or should i let you do it yourself?"

Her lips press into a fine line as she considers, Mark waits.

"You can." Her voice comes out croaked, more of a whisper than anything. Mark takes the order, letting go of her jaw gently to grab the washcloth from behind himself.

He tries to think of this clinically, she's tired. Maybe even on something, and he has to help her get clean and feel better.

It's nothing less and nothing more.

So Mark ignores the way her shoulders sag when he presses the warmth was cloth against them, the way the water drips off her bare skin.

He ignores it and tries his damndest not to accidentally scare her into flooding the bathroom again.

She's easier to dry off than she is to bathe, seemingly loosened up by the bath and warm water.

Though her eyes keep darting around aimlessly, like shes trying to get a whole view of the room from where he has her perched on one of the old dining room chairs.

Mark dabs at her naked body carefully, he's using more towels on her than he goes through in a week but it's better than her shivering half naked while he tries to get her legs dry.

His biggest one engulfed her like an oversized duvet, so he had to pull out some of the ones devon had left there when she stayed over a few months back.

She's quiet, barely a word has left her lips since they negotiated their little bath deal. Nor has she done much of anything really. He'd think she demand to dry herself off but instead she'd only stood up and stretched out her arms expectantly.

He stops as the towel dabs over her still swelling ankle. He wonders if its bad enough for a hospital, she definitely can't walk it off though. Her little escape attempt from earlier more a flurry of adrenaline than anything else.

Mark looks back up at her to find her gaze now fixed on him, peculiar wide eyes boring into his skull like a pair of drill horns.

He lowers his head quickly again, finishing drying off her left leg before getting up from his knees with a groan.

"There, all dried off."

She nods, swinging her feet on the chair like she doesn't have a care in the world.

Mark watches her for a moment, she looks like a little fairy, otherwordly. She isn't supposed to be here, and its painfully obvious.

"Who… Who are you?" The question slips from his lips before he can stop himself. He nearly kicks himself, she's naked in a towel and this is when he's decided to ask.

Suprisingly she chuckles smiling a little cheekily. "That's the first question?"

Mark can't help cracking a small smile himself, crossing his arms over his chest as he stifles his own laugh.

"Would be nice to have a name sweetheart." He says, watching as her gentle smile fades slightly.

Her mouth opens to answer, but she pauses. Brows furrowing as she looks down, deep in thought.

"I…I, uhm." She falters, he can practically see the cogs creaking inside her head, then coming to a halting stop.

"I can't remember." The statement settles between them like a concrete block. Breaking up the little good atmosphere that was beginning to form. "I-I can't…"

The tears begin to well in her eyes and Mark sinks to his knees on instinct, kneeling in front of her to cautiously clutch her hands in his.

"Hey, hey its okay." He soothes, stroking up and down her wrist gently. "We'll get there, don't stress alright?"

She looks down at him through clumped up lashes, nodding as she squeezes his hands back gently.

"Mhm.." She mumbles, sniffling slightly as he fiddles with her hands in his.

They're quite small in comparison, the two of them covered almost entirely by his palm.

He holds her gently, as if afraid the weight of his hand alone might bruise her.

He tears his gaze away from the sight, instead focusing on her face. Her red curls have started drying, little ringlets curling up on the sides of her head.

He gets the sudden urge to run his hands through them but abstains.

"Are you like- Are you hungry or?"

She answers after a moment "Kinda," her gaze flickering down to their hands before shooting back up to his face.

"I'll make us something, yeah?" He says as gently as he can manage, turning to rifle through the cabinets.

She watches him wide eyed the whole time as he tries to cobble together a sandwhich from whatever leftovers he has.

He should go into town for a grocery run soon.

He's able to put together a simple meal for her, some jam spread over two simple slices of bread. Not the meal of kings perhaps but it will work.

"There you go." He sets down her plate, pulling out a chair to sit across from her.

She stares at the plate silently, like she's not sure what to do.

"You gonna eat or?"

Her eyes dart up at him, then back down to the food. "Mhm" She murmurs gently, picking at the crust.

Oh well, he'll let her have a moment.

She pulls off another piece of crust and presses it between her fingers, thumb rubbing slowly over the soft center like she's trying to make it disappear.

Mark watches her silently, trying to gauge the best course forward. He’s good at quiet, but this kind of quiet? This feels like walking across thin ice.

It reminds him of dinners before Gemma died. Unspoken grudges and too many hidden drinks in his office before bed.

"You feel any better?" he tries, softer this time.

A pause. Then a little shrug. Noncommittal. It Makes his heart ache.

"What happened?" She asks at last, and Mark takes a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Well.. I was out, and I just sorta, found you." He begins, watching her cautiously. "You were barely breathing so I took you back here as quick as i could. Biggest thing on my mind was cleaning you up I guess."

"So, there was nothing? Noone else there?"

"No, I'm sorry."

She puts down her sandwhich momentarily, lower lip trembling as she speaks.

"Why don't I remember my name?" Her voice cracks as the words spill out.. And Mark is overcome with an urge to hold her.

"I'm not sure… You were all alone, passed out on the ground." He begins, then pauses.

Stupidly he grabs her hand, rubbing his thumb gently over her pulse point.

"We'll figure it okay. First I think you should breathe, heal up. Your leg isn't looking that good alright?" He tries to lower his voice to sound more comforting, paternal.

She sniffles and nods, turning her gaze to land on something behind him.

"Do you have a dog?" The sudden change startles him, but he turns to look regardless.

She’s looking at a picture from when he was younger, one of many Devon had forced him to hang up when he moved.

Its one of him and Devon, with their family dog, lounging in the courtyard.

"Oh no," He chuckles, turning fully in his chair to gaze at the photo. "Family dog, she's been gone a while, she was a good girl when we had her though."

She nods, fidgeting in her chair.

He watches her fingers twist in her lap for a moment, then offers a small smile, his tone softening.

"Helly. That was her name."

She glances up. "Helly?"

"Yeah." He leans forward, elbows perched on his knees. "Short for Helios, actually. Bit of a dramatic name for a mutt who was scared of the vacuum cleaner, but it stuck."

She chuckles warmly, biting the inside of her cheek as she thinks. She shifts in her seat again, then looks at the photo one more time before speaking.

“…Would it be weird if I asked you to call me Helly?”

Mark turns toward her slowly, unsure if he heard her right. “Helly?”

"Yeah I just… I like it, I don't know many names but Helly seems nice." She makes her voice small, fidgeting in her seat.

“Helly,” he says, trying it out, rolling it around on his tongue, sticky sweet. “Yeah. That fits you.”

She lets out a soft breath, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says again, this time with certainty. “It’s a name for someone good. Someone who sticks close. Someone who matters.”

She tucks her head down to hide her rising blush, red curls shielding her features from his gaze. "Thanks."

"Anytime Helly." He says, watching as she picks up her sandwich to finally get some food inside her belly.

Mark leans back in his chair, watching through the window as the sun descends below the horizon as usual..

The sunset is quite nice enjoyed with someone else.

The bed feels strangely empty tonight.

It always is technically, the left side left empty and cold. He's considered getting a smaller bed. But it's work he doesn’t have the heart to start yet.

Mark finds himself considering the

He shuffles underneath the duvet, listening for the sound of her breaths down the hall.

Mark had tried his best to make Helly feel comfortable, snatched some of his old pajamas out of the wardrobe and waited outside as she figured out how to fit them on herself.

She'd seemed content when he tucked her in, practically out like a light before he could even wrap the blanket around her properly.

Poor girl was probably exhausted, who knows what she's been through.

Though she seems as clueless as him. It makes him shudder as he considers it… Horrors terrible enough for her mind to repress.

He should call someone in the morning, take her to a hospital. Maybe.

Some other part of him pulls him away from the very thought. She'd be safer here. Free to explore slowly, with him ready to catch her.

He shouldn’t let that matter so much. He wasn’t a doctor. He didn’t know what he was doing. There were professionals—people who could actually help her.

But the thought of handing her over to some sterile hospital room, filled him with a strange, quiet panic. What if they scared her? What if they tried to fix her too fast, tore open something that wasn't quite ready to be remembered?

What if he could help, let her heal better than he was ever able to?

He swears he can hear the quiet puffs of her breathing through the walls, down to his bones.

She'll stay for a few days. Just until they figure things out.

He stares up into the ceiling, watching the cracks forming in the wood, leading out into nothingness.

Just until she didn’t look so lost anymore.