Another prison riot, or so the guards said. In reality Mark had been about shanked. You, the resident prison nurse, had been clued in on Mark’s true identity as a Task Force agent. Seeing as the agent was a regular visitor, you had to give him the best of care.

The door swings open, a soft jingle of cuffs being unlinked and a prison guard shoves him forward. “How kind.” Meachum scoffs under his breath as the guard leaves without a word. “Well, hello, again.” He plops himself down on the squeaky medical table, a nice black eye and busted lip. Not the worst it’s been but still, certainly not good.

You get to work patching him up and going through the motions. “You take such good care of me here, y’know that?” He tilts his head to the side so you can clean the gash on his jaw, blood matted into the scruff of his facial hair. You were starting to think he got into scuffles on purpose just to catch a break from the hounds that were the prison gangs and guards.

He sucked a quiet sharp breath through his teeth when you (in all honesty—a little more firmly than intended) secured a bandage into place over the wound. “Was it something I said?” He quips and shoots you a smile.

He made it so hard to like him.