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Everything Marcus wanted to say was contained in that tape. Roku would know that his faith and trust lied in her. She would know to pick up the things he would leave behind. She would know to fulfill everything that he wasn’t able to. She would know that it didn’t matter how she went about it; she just had to protect the people. She would know who to take care of.
His heart could finally rest. Not easily, but at least it could rest.
The murky, dirtied, and terribly salty ocean is what kills him. What should be pristine and crystal clear water is instead an ugly sight, muddled by all of his disgusting regrets, failures, and sins he would never have the opportunity to atone for. A solemnly cruel and slow death that was befitting of someone like Marcus.
His body’s natural response led him to cough and sputter; his lungs filled up with water like it was a tank, clearly not built to intake as much as it was, and it burned the inside of his nose and throat. Each of his breaths became laborious as the saltwater filled his lungs with a sludgy mixture. It hurt. Marcus couldn’t formulate anything more articulate to describe the feeling. He couldn’t rely on the morphine that he would usually use to relieve the pain.
His skin began to prune, becoming increasingly wrinkled and starting to peel away as he sunk deeper and deeper. The water had long submerged him and, ironically, dehydrated his skin until he was shriveled and pathetic-looking. The discoloration in his skin was harsh, an ugly pale blue settling itself into him. Marcus’ eyes, so carefully attuned for his detective duties, were now vacant, glazed over and rolled back into his head—bloodshot, the tiny blood vessels inside eventually bursting the deeper he sank.
There was nothing left for the man to do except sink.
As his eyes struggled in vain to remain open, Marcus’ thoughts wandered to those he had encountered. The man he shot in cold blood those years ago. The woman who turned out to be that man’s daughter, who was so incredibly jaded that the day he first met her felt like staring into a mirror. Her, and the man they investigated the mansion with, easygoing yet earnest in his efforts. The chief, who was so shaped by his experiences that it made Marcus want to live up to the expectations he held for the entire department. The captain, whose faith he had betrayed and would never gain back. His fellow officers who offered him a normalcy and routine he never even thought of receiving, and therefore, rarely returned.
Strangely, for reasons unbeknownst to Marcus, thoughts of Justin floated to the surface. They were never truly in each other’s orbits, their minimal interactions stemming solely from their respective occupations. Despite that fact, the doctor showed such blatant albeit clumsy interest in him each time they were face to face. Justin’s feelings existed as a constant from the beginning. He thought nothing of it. Others had many thoughts on it.
With no duties on his plate any longer, Marcus thought—what if?
If he had taken Justin seriously, with the same sincerity as the head of EMS presented himself with, would something have come of it? Would he have gotten to know how well Justin could cook? How the timbre in his voice would change in the mornings? What kind of scent would waft from him fresh after a shower? How the corners of his eyes would crinkle when he smiled? The words or actions that would lift Justin up if the day wasn't going well? How the weight of his hand would feel in his own? The warmth their bodies would share in an embrace? If his snoring would be soft as they drifted off to sleep for the night?
Would he have gotten to know Justin, not just as who he was in his position, but simply him? His background, his family, his motivations, his goals, his values, even the way he loved? Would Marcus have gotten to know how Justin would love him? Would Marcus be able to love selfishly?
Would Justin love him selflessly?
Marcus had no desire to learn the answer to these questions while he was still walking amidst Los Santos. There was no reason to. Despite that, a curious thought dawned on him.
Maybe I wouldn’t have hated it.
He didn’t mourn any missed opportunities. He wouldn't even truly call them “missed”; he had no reason to seek them out, not in the same way that Justin seeked him out. He wasn’t going to mourn a relationship he never bothered to build. Though, if he had—if he and Justin had called for reasons outside of work, if they had been in each other's spaces more often, if Marcus wasn't as driven, yet unknowingly chained, by his responsibilities as he was…
Maybe he would've enjoyed it. Maybe he would’ve enjoyed allowing someone to truly see him. Maybe he would've enjoyed being able to call someone else his one and only. Maybe he would've enjoyed having someone know him inside and out, as terribly vulnerable as that sounded. Maybe he would've enjoyed the pure, innocent love that Justin so readily wanted to offer. One that never even had the chance to bloom, because only now, in his final moments, could Marcus begin to entertain questions that he would never learn the answers to. Possibilities that were never nurtured and would never be fulfilled. All he could do was ask himself “what if?”
He let out his final, painful breath with an uncertainty he was finally free enough to feel.
Justin didn’t love selflessly. He didn’t love purely, nor did he love innocently.
His love was one without abandon, without restraint, without shame, without consideration or regard for anyone who wasn’t him.
“Marcus… You’ll come back for me, won’t you, Marcus…?” he muttered to himself as he donned the mask Marcus was so infamous for, obsession seeping into his voice. “You will. I know you will. I’ll make sure of it.”
Justin Thyme died that day. The only parts that remained were the worst of him.