Eleven
Mark pulled his truck into his driveway, smiling. It was always nice to be home.
Celeste had been on his mind ever since she took off for the safety of his home. He wondered how she had adjusted to life in his home since her arrival. He thought about her mental state and the bruising on her face and wrists. Killing the ignition, Mark exhaled, putting a hand to his head. He was on dangerous ground, and he knew it. The night before, Brock had found out his hotel room from somebody and had spent the entire night harassing him, demanding to know where Celeste had run off to. It didn't bother him, except that he was tired. The more Mark played dumb, the angrier Brock seemed to get. He was relieved that Celeste was far away from the monster that he would never get his hands on her again.
The sky was beginning to turn a deep shade of blue. Mark got out of the car and gathered his bags from the trunk before making his way up the front steps. He was relieved that Celeste had been keeping the doors locked. Dropping his bag, he reached into his pocket for his keys and unlocked the front door.
His face darkened in concern as he stepped inside, leaving his bags in the front hallway beside the door. The entire house was dark. He flicked the switch by the door and flooded the hallway with light.
"Celeste?" he called out. There was no answer. He made his way down the long hallway, towards the living room. He found her passed out on his recliner, curled up awkwardly in the fetal position. On the TV, Homer Simpson was attempting to jump Springfield Gorge on a skateboard. He smirked. She looked so sweet in her slumber. In the darkness, he could barely see the bruising on her cheek. He reached over and touched her shoulder, shaking her gently.
"Celeste..." he called softly. She jumped, frightened and jerking at the surprise contact. She exhaled, smiling awkwardly at him as her eyes adjusted.
"Hey. You're home," she said with a yawn. "How was your flight?"
"It was fine," he answered. The truth was that his flight had been incredibly inconvenient. He'd paid for two seats, but ended up getting one because they overbooked the flight. His knees were bothering him as a result. "It's nice to be home. Have you eaten yet?" She shook her head. "What say we go out then?"
She shook her head. "No thank you, Mark. If it's all the same, I'd rather just stay in. Besides, you just got home." She rotated her head to try and work the kinks out. Mark nodded; it was clear to him that she didn't want to be seen in public with a black and blue face. He wasn't about to push the issue. "Why don't you go and get yourself cleaned up and settled in, and while you're doing that, I'll make dinner. Does that sound okay?"
"I guess so. Are you sure?"
"Yeah. Go get settled. I'll get dinner started."
Mark was reluctant, but he knew better than to say anything. He made his way up the stairs. Celeste stretched and got off the couch, walking to the kitchen. She was glad to see him home. She hated being alone in his house. Every creak and every bump scared her to death.
Reaching into the cupboard, Celeste pulled out a frying pan. She placed it on the burner. Her mind was racing. Brock was at least double her size. If he found her, she had no doubt that all the fighting in the world would do her no good. Mark was bigger than Brock in height and weight, but she knew Brock could really hurt Mark if he wanted to. She shook her head; over-thinking about the situation wasn't going to do her any good, but she couldn't help it. She moved to the refrigerator to grab everything she needed to make quesidillas and salad for dinner. She felt guilty for pulling Mark into her fight, and she knew that it was only going to get worse before it got better.
Mark came downstairs after his shower. He had changed into an old black Harley Davidson T-shirt and black drawstring sweatpants. He found Celeste working in the kitchen, standing with her back to him. She was leaning against the counter. He could tell she was thinking about what was going on. He knew she was scared of what Brock would do to the two of them if he got his hands on her. It didn't even matter to Brock that Mark hadn't slept with Celeste; he was guilty because she had made friends with him and he had rescued her. The thought of what he had done to her and the terror she must have felt made him feel sick to his stomach. He never could figure out how they could treat her so badly.
"Celeste?" His voice was soft, but she jolted like he had shouted at her. She looked over at him. Celeste knew there was no real way to thank him for everything he had done for her since everything had gone south with Brock. She flashed him a quick smile.
"How was your shower?" she asked, forcing a chipper edge to her voice. He smiled back at her.
"Good. What are you making?"
"Caesar salad and quesidillas. Does that sound okay?" she asked. He nodded. The truth was that he had eaten with a few of the guys when they had gotten off the plane. He just knew that she had spent all of her time indoors and wanted to get her out of the house and getting back to normal. Since arriving, he knew she hadn't left; she was too scared of being found. Even with Brock halfway across the country, she still didn't feel safe. He was worried she was going to become agoraphobic. He hated that Paul Heyman and Brock Lesnar had her in such a state of fear that she was afraid to live.
He put a gentle hand on her shoulder and turned her so she was looking at him. She shot him a look. "I just want to take a look at your face," he explained. He saw the red flush of embarrassment start at her neck and work its way up to her face. He knew that she was mortified that she had dragged him into this situation, and that she had allowed herself to be Brock's doormat for so long. His fingers lightly roamed over the bruise on her cheek. His thumb brushed over her blackened eye and she winced in pain. "I'm sorry," he apologized sheepishly, "I don't mean to hurt you. I just wanted to..."
"It's fine," she told him softly. Tears were threatening to spill over. She turned away, flipping a tortilla in the pain so it didn't burn. "I'm fine, Mark. Really, I am."
"I don't doubt that, darlin'. You look better than you did the last time I saw you," he told her. She smirked. There was a long, awkward silence.
"Mark...I don't know if I've told you this, but...thank you. For everything. I don't..." She exhaled. She kept her eyes down, paying all her attention to the quesidilla in the pan. "I don't know where I'd be without you."
"Don't even worry about it," he told her. "Look, why don't you let me finish up here? You go get cleaned up before dinner."
"Are you sure? I mean, you just got in and..."
"I just got in. I'm not an invalid. Go on." She was worried he was mad at her for a second, but the amused gleam in his eye and the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips convinced her otherwise. She smiled softly and nodded before disappearing up the steps. He shook his head when she disappeared from his view. He was pretty sure she was afraid of him, even though he'd given her no reason to be. Mark blamed Brock. The fear of being discovered and the fear of her family being targeted by Brock and Paul were torturing her, and it made him angry to know that there was nothing he could do to alleviate it.
Celeste stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror and did her best to keep her expression stoic. Every time she looked at her battered reflection in the mirror, she wanted to cry. She couldn't understand how Mark could look at her without thinking she was a total idiot. She splashed some cold water on her face, the nerves under her bruises flaring up as the water made contact with her skin. She took a white towel off the rack and dried off her face gingerly. Tears burned behind her eyelids.
She thought she was going to be with Brock forever, through better or worse. Now here she was, in the home of another man, living with him and fearing for her life. She felt safe knowing Mark was downstairs; after all, he was The Undertaker. Nobody messed with him, unless they had a death wish. She gazed at her reflection again, noting the wild fear in her eyes. She wondered what life was going to be like without Brock. As much as those thoughts hurt her and felt so foreign, she couldn't cry.
"Celeste? Are you all right up there?"
Mark's voice cut into her thoughts. She looked at the closed door. "F...fine," she called back, shaking the thoughts out of her head. She stared back at herself. It felt like she was staring back at a stranger.
"Well, dinner's ready, so come down whenever you're ready. I'll meet you in the dining room." She exhaled. Downstairs, she heard him moving away from the stairs, his footsteps heavy on the wood. With a deep sigh, Celeste opened the door and made her way downstairs.