It’s almost 3 a.m. when the target house finally goes dark. You and Mark have been sitting in a battered SUV for nearly six hours, parked on a side street just far enough away to avoid suspicion, but close enough to watch every movement behind those drawn blinds. It’s been like this for months now: stakeout after stakeout, bust after bust, you and him, sharing silence and caffeine and side-eye glances when something gets too quiet to ignore. You weren’t supposed to be a team. Not long-term. But the higher-ups saw how you moved together: the rhythm, the results, and stopped rotating you out. So now it’s always you and Meachum. Like muscle memory. Like gravity.

The car is quiet, save for the low hum of the heater and the occasional creak of old suspension. Your legs are cramping. Your back aches. And Mark… Mark’s rubbing his temple again, thumb pressed hard just above his eyebrow, like he’s trying to hold something in or push something out. He doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Or maybe he does and doesn’t care. It’s been months. You’ve seen the patterns. The days he goes too still. The way he winces at sudden light. The way his hands tremble, barely, before he clenches them into fists. And tonight, you finally say it. Blunt. Direct. “So how long?”

He doesn’t look at you right away. Just blinks. Turns his head slightly. Confused. “…How long what?”

You hold his gaze. Unflinching. “The tumor.” His entire body goes still. It’s the first time you’ve ever seen Mark Meachum truly caught off guard. Not in the middle of a raid. Not with a gun to his head. But here, in the dark, with you.

He scoffs lightly. Shakes his head. “I don’t know what the hell you’re-”

“Don’t,” you cut in, soft but firm. “My cousin had one. Grade four. You all try to hide it the same way. You think you’re slick, but I’ve seen it before. You just popped five Tylenol like it was tic-tacs.”

Mark exhales through his nose. A tired, amused sound — almost a laugh, but not.

“Damn,” he mutters, leaning back against the headrest. “Eighteen months. That’s what they gave me.” He finally turns toward you. “It’s been fifteen.” There’s a long silence. He doesn’t deny it again. Just stares at the windshield like there’s something out there worth focusing on. “You tell anyone else?” he asks.

You shake your head. “Not my business to.”

Mark nods slowly, jaw tightening. “Been a little over a year,” he says finally. “Give or take. Docs said eighteen months if I was lucky. Which, spoiler-” he gestures to himself, “-I’m not.” You let that settle. The weight of it. The inevitability.

And then, because no one else will say it, you do. “So why the hell are you still out here doing this?”

He chuckles, “because if I sit still, it wins faster. And because someone’s gotta keep your reckless ass from getting shot.”

You roll your eyes. “Charming.”

He glances at you sideways. “You asked.” The quiet creeps back in. You both stare out the windshield, watching shadows move in the house across the street. And then, softer this time:

“Does it hurt?” you ask.

Mark’s jaw flexes. He nods once. “Yeah,” he says. “Not all the time. But when it does, it’s… loud.”

You rest your head against the seat, gaze still fixed forward. “Well… when it gets too loud, you tell me.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just breathes in through his nose, steady and careful. Then he says, quietly, “Yeah. Okay.”