#reblogging and commenting works too | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

haileymorelikestupid · 2 years

Text

The Joy of Loving with Marcus Pike

Pairing: Marcus Pike x reader

Summary: Working late on a Friday night is hardly Marcus Pike’s favorite thing in the world, but if it means he gets to come home to see you soundtracked by the soft sounds of a paintbrush on canvas and even softer life advice, he thinks it might not always be bad.

Warnings/Tags: fluff like fr so much fluff, some language, no use of Y/N, mentions of marriage, not a lot of dialogue tbh just a lot of background and introspection

Word Count: 3.2k

A/N: me, falling asleep last night with the joy of painting with bob ross playing to soothe me to sleep: oh marcus pike would LOVE this (this is actually what happened i came up with this idea as i was falling asleep and then it became 3000 words longer than i thought it would HA n e ways enjoy!)

Marcus wouldn’t go so far as to say that Bob Ross was his biggest inspiration when he chose a career path, but he sure loved him.

He was just a kid the first time he saw the painter with the big hair and bigger heart. It was a sick day for Marcus, an unfortunate bout of whatever had been going around his school finally making it to him. He wasn’t a kid that got sick often and he didn’t like missing school, but he supposed it was kind of nice to get to lay on the couch and watch TV while his mom occasionally kissed his forehead and made him soup. What sucked, though, was the lack of good cartoons on in the middle of the day.

There was no way he was going to spend his precious extra TV time watching boring soap operas, and he didn’t have the energy to focus on something with an actual plotline. His mom knew this somehow, without asking, in that way that moms seem to know things, especially about their sick kids. So she flipped through until she stopped on a channel where there was a man holding a palette and speaking softly to the camera as he brushed paint onto the canvas with an elegant but sure hand.

Marcus’s mom hummed in approval under her breath before running a hand through his hair and offering a gentle, “See how you like this one, baby.” He just blinked slowly at the comfort of her touch and kept his eyes on the screen as she walked out of the living room.

Up to that point, Marcus’s interest in art hadn’t been much more than what could be expected of a kid his age. He thought painting was fun when his art teacher let his class do it, and he was no stranger to sitting at the kitchen table with a coloring sheet, swinging his legs as he colored in a picture that would probably end up on the fridge when he gave it to his mom later.

But this. Well, this was a new level of interest and intrigue and peace all at the same time. Marcus was entranced by the way the man knew exactly how to angle his brush and the movements to make to add life to the painting. The man’s voice seemed to caress Marcus the way his mom’s hand just had, soft and full of love, and he couldn’t help but giggle with the man when he cleaned his brush off with the instruction to “beat the devil out of it.”

He made it through the episode, marveling in quiet awe at the finished painting, and was pleased to see a new episode start immediately after. His mom walked over to him on the couch as the intro music started, bending over to set a cup of water down on the coffee table in front of him and press another kiss to his forehead. She hummed again as she stood straight and asked, “Did you like it, baby?”

He nodded, the movement slightly hindered by her hand running through his hair again. He was so at peace from the gentle affection and the cozy feeling watching the man paint gave him that he drifted to sleep five minutes into the new episode.

Marcus’s love for Bob Ross never diminished over the years. In fact, the show was something that both comforted him when he needed it and led him to explore. Just like before, his mom somehow knew, and he beamed when he unwrapped the beginner’s paint set she bought him for the first birthday he had since watching that first episode. She even occasionally helped him set up in front of the TV so he could try to paint along with the episode. It admittedly never turned out quite the way he hoped it would, but his mom always helped him lay it out to dry, and the next morning he would find it on the fridge.

When he got older and was able to choose the classes he took at school, he always made sure he had room for art class. He wouldn’t say he was an absolute natural, but he loved putting in the effort to create something new. Projects where he could paint were always the ones he looked forward to the most, and he was even able to repeat his childhood and paint along with an episode for part of a senior project.

As he headed into college, Marcus knew that he wasn’t ready to let go of art entirely, but he knew he didn’t really want to turn it into his profession. He knew that art would feel a lot different if it was the thing he had to do to survive rather than the thing that made life worth living. The day he could figure out a steady job that involved art in some way, though maybe not directly, would be his lucky day. Until then, he thought, he would figure out what he could see himself doing for the rest of his life.

He was fortunate enough to find another interest in the field of criminal justice. One introductory class was all it took to pique his interest, and soon enough he knew the kind of path he wanted to take. He took enough art and art history classes for a minor, though, even if he wasn’t sure it would ever prove particularly helpful to him. He just found it all far too interesting to let go of.

Honestly, Marcus doesn’t quite remember how he found out about the art crimes unit, but he remembers the total elation that filled him, the sense of rightness that came with finding the intersection of his interests, his knowledge, his talents. He was beyond excited about it, dedicated to achieving this new dream, but he couldn’t keep the nerves out of his tone when he told his parents about it for the first time.

Not that he had a reason to be nervous. He tried to downplay how badly he wanted it, but his mom just knew, like she always has. “That sounds perfect for you, honey,” she said, and his dad even nodded along in instant agreement. Once he had that approval, he threw himself headfirst into figuring out his path to the art crimes unit of the FBI.

It was a long journey, and not exactly the easiest, but he cried tears of pure joy when he got the call that the job was his for the taking. That night, he was still buzzing but trying to wind down so that he could actually fall asleep. He turned on the TV, flipped through the channels, and couldn’t help but laugh when he found a rerun of The Joy of Painting with Bob Ross. Admittedly, the laugh turned into more tears when he discovered that it was the exact episode he watched on his sick day all those years ago.

All of these things come rushing to his mind when he walks through the front door and sees you.

He knew he’d be working late tonight and had told you as much apologetically both last night and this morning. As he always did when he had to work late, he told you not to wait up for him, that he was sorry he would miss dinner with you, that he’d make it up to you over the course of the weekend.

And as you always did, you answered with a simple okay with every intention of doing the exact opposite. You stayed up for him more often than you didn’t, honestly, even though he always told you not to, and you always, always waited when he had to work late on a Friday. He’d come home to see you curled up on the couch, and he would always sigh in fond exasperation if only to cover up how warm it always made him feel.

One part of Marcus wanted you to go to bed without him those nights, if only to ensure that you got proper rest in your comfortable bed. The other part of him was endlessly pleased at your thoughtfulness and want to be right there when he walked in the door. He was never disappointed on the nights he walked in to discover that you actually had gone to bed before he got home, but he always high tailed it down the hall to your bedroom on those occasions, wanting to be near you as quickly as he could manage.

Most of the time when you waited up, you were awake when he got home. You would turn your head at the sound of his keys in the door and beam as soon as you made eye contact, a soft but excited greeting pouring off your lips and stretching across the empty space between you.

Sometimes, though, when you’d had a long day or he got home particularly late, he’d find you asleep on the couch. Those nights, there was usually some indication that you really had tried to stay awake but just couldn’t – a book spread across your chest beneath your hands, the TV on a rerun of some sitcom or another. He could never help the deep sigh that puffed his chest before it passed through his lips, totally content to watch the love of his life sleep for a moment before he woke you. He’d stroke his hand over the side of your face or lean down to press a kiss to your head, and you’d stir, his name leaving your mouth in a whisper before you’d even opened your eyes. He’d lead you down the hall and tuck you into bed before doing his nightly routine and joining you there.

This Friday night was one of the latter of these two nights. He came in the door, fully expecting to find you on the couch, and was unsurprised to see you lying there. You didn’t tend to fall asleep on Fridays, though, insisting that you had Saturday to sleep in so you could handle staying up for him. He figures you must have had a busier day than usual or something like that and toes his shoes off before making his way over to you in his familiar song and dance.

He stops short, though, when he catches a glimpse of the TV. There’s a familiar slapping sound followed by a laugh-laced voice uttering, “Beat the devil out of it.”

Marcus is standing by the side of the couch, mouth slightly agape in wonder as the same painting from his childhood sick day and the day his dream job called fills the screen.

It hits him in the chest then. He is going to spend the rest of his life loving you.

He’s known this, of course. But this relationship is the slowest he’s ever gone, and for good reason. He didn’t want to repeat past mistakes. You were special, so special, and he’d be damned if he went too fast and lost you.

The two of you had been neighbors from the moment he arrived in D.C., you having moved in a mere three months before he did. Just neighbors were all you were to each other, for a while. You seemed kind and friendly, but when Teresa never arrived in D.C., he couldn’t do anything but put his head down and work. He survived off take out and whatever shitty meals he could throw together with minimal effort, volunteered to work extra hours that needed to be worked but that no one else wanted, told himself that he would eventually find ways to enjoy himself in this new city.

He occasionally saw you coming out of your door as he went through his or vice versa and always exchanged at least a small smile, but that was the extent of your interaction. But then, in the middle of November, there was a knock on his door and he was too tired to worry much about who it could possibly be.

He opened it and found you twisting your fingers around each other. He probably could have been more polite about it in hindsight, but he was so exhausted and confused that the only thing he could muster up was, “Um, hi?”

“Hi,” you breathed, a nervous grin accompanying it, before your next words came out in a rush. “I’m sorry this is so weird but I’m having this Friendsgiving thing and I decided I needed to practice making what I’m bringing but now I have way too much food for just me to eat and do you want some dinner?”

“Do I want some dinner?”

“I’m sorry, I know I sound like some psycho because we’re just neighbors but I seriously have way too much food and I also want someone else’s input on whether it even tastes good and oh my gosh you can say no this is so awkward I’m sorry.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it, you were just so nervous to be offering him a literal homecooked meal and it was so sweet and he was still so startled and he didn’t know what else to do. He just laughed.

You seemed to get more flustered even as you giggled along with him. When his laughter died down a little, you decided to speak once more. “Sorry, I just panicked when I realized I definitely do not have enough Tupperware to keep it all as leftovers and then I thought of you and I rushed over here and now I’m embarrassed because I’m not sure you even remember my name, much less trust me enough to eat food I cooked.”

His answer was to say your name to you, having remembered it from the time you introduced yourself to him the day after he moved in. You lit up at that, and your smile was as clear in your voice as it was on your face when you said, “So, what do you say, Marcus? Dinner?”

That had been the beginning of your friendship. You were friends for a while; he was still healing, trying to work through his heartache rather than ignoring its existence. You understood, especially once he actually worked up the courage to tell you the whole sad story. Through it all, you were just… there, and somewhere along the way, you became all that there was for him.

But he was terrified. He couldn’t jump back in, couldn’t risk not only the heartache of screwing up another relationship, but screwing up a relationship with you. He let himself pine for far too long, but he’s not even sure that he would have acted sooner even if he’d known that you were pining, too.

And then it happened. You started a glorious relationship, communicated beautifully about boundaries and expectations and wants and fears. He was beyond relieved when you admitted that you didn’t want to go too fast either, that it scared you just the same, even if your relationship history didn’t look like his. You worked through it, and you worked through it together.

After a year together, your lease was coming to an end and it just felt right to ask you to move in with him. It’s been another year since, and it’s been magnificent. He knows that you’re it for him, knows that he’s it for you, but he’s held back from thinking too much about that next big step.

But now, seeing you curled up on the couch after falling asleep while waiting for him to come home and watching not only the show that has always radiated kindness and comfort and love and affection for him, but the specific episode that has seen some of the biggest turning points of Marcus Pike’s life?

He’s never felt like this before. Not with his ex-wife, not with Teresa, hadn’t even been able to imagine this kind of love when he pictured a nameless, faceless partner when he had no one to picture in their place. You are the rest of his life. He knows it the way he knows his own name, the way he knew that you would be waiting here for him tonight, the way he knows that his name will come in a whisper from your lips when you wake up to him there.

He squats down in front of you and just takes you in for a moment. He can feel his eyes tearing up, unable and unwilling to quash the well of emotion sitting in his chest, heavy yet somehow also lighter than air. He breathes in a sigh as you exhale one of your own before moving his hand to stroke down your cheek.

As his hand smooths over your temple and down your cheek to rest in a slight grasp at your chin, the end credits of the episode roll behind him, and the change in volume due to the end music along with the warmth of his hand causes you to stir.

Your eyelids flutter, and you whisper it before they even open. “Marcus.”

The tears bead at the corners of his eyes when he leans forward to press a kiss to your forehead, leaving his lips there when he answers, “Hi, my love.”

His lips trail over your face, pressing sweet kisses to your forehead, temple, cheeks, nose, chin, the corners of your mouth, and by the time he makes it to your lips, you’re awake enough to return it in full. When you pull away from each other, you catch it immediately. Maybe you see the glassiness through your sleep-bleary gaze, or maybe you hear it in his voice, or maybe you just know, because you furrow your brows a little and ask, “You okay, baby?”

You are the rest of my life. Marry me. “You watched Bob Ross without me?” he teases.

“Missed you. Reminds me of you. Comforts me.”

Marry me.

He hums, kisses your forehead again as he smooths his palm over your shoulder and responds, “Missed you, too, sweetheart. Ready for bed?”

You hum an affirmative response and let him help you sit up straight, then you both rise to your feet together, hands intertwined. He lets go only to wrap his arms around you, drawing you into his chest. Your own arms slide around his waist like they belong there because they do.

It’s not an abnormal show of affection from Marcus, but it is slightly rare for nights he wakes you from the couch. He’d normally have you down the hall by now, on his way to tuck you into bed and give you a few more kisses before he hustles through his routine to join you. It makes you ask once more, “You okay?”

He won’t ask right now. He wants to, it’s practically begging to come out of his mouth, but he wants to think of a special plan just for you and have a ring when he actually asks, so he won’t yet. He will give you something, though. “Gonna love you for the rest of my life. My love. My life. My everything.”

He doesn’t say it outright, but you know. In that way of yours, you just know. And you look up at him, a shimmer matching his reflecting in your eyes, the love of a thousand lifetimes filling his very being with light as you answer, “Gonna love you all my life, Marcus. All my life.”

#marcus pike x reader #pedro pascal x reader #marcus pike #the mentalist #pedro pascal #marcus pike fanfiction #pedro pascal fanfiction #marcus pike fluff #pedro pascal fluff #my writing #marcus pike is the love of my life fr #i want to give him the world on a silver platter #best i can do is hastily written fanfic tho so it'll have to suffice #please like comment and/or reblog!#or slide into my ask box tbh that works too #every notif makes my day :)

161 notes · View notes