White-knuckled fists rest against the cool tile squares of the shower, Mark’s head hangs low, shoulders tensed as a sharp pounding assaults him behind the eyes and in his temples.

Water streams down his face, pooling in the furrows of his face from his scrunched expression. “Fuckin’ hell.” He grits out and swipes the droplets away with a shaking hand.

He hops out the shower, muscles tensed and taut as he walks to the mirror, a towel haphazardly wrapped around his waist. With an aggrieved grimace he dry-swallows the pain relief pills. An inoperable brain tumor. Serves him right, he thinks cynically, for all the hell he’s caused people.

The migraines had only gotten worse, he lied about the pain but it had progressed to the sensation of a knife lodged in his skull. More frequent, to the point it hindered his work in the task force.

You had heard the shower stop, the sound of his disgruntled swear and poked your head into the bathroom. “Hey, there.” He mutters with an anything-but-okay wave when he spots you in the mirror. He attempts to smooth out the creases of his pinched expression.

“I feel a lot better than I look.” Bullshit. He knew, you knew. “No bullshit.” Even more bullshit.