captain-tch

It had been a good night. A proper one.

Not fancy. Not peaceful. Nothing that could ever be called normal with this lot involved. But good all the same.

The fire had sunk low, all red belly and spit, breathing smoke up through the trees in lazy drifts. The speaker had finally given up after hours of being bullied into playing everything from trance to ABBA to some dreadful nineties club track Cardi swore was a classic. Now the woods had gone soft round the edges. Damp leaves. Crickets. The occasional pop from the fire as wet wood gave in and split.

Vinnie’s fairy lights, half of them nicked from somebody’s garden party about three summers ago, drooped between the trees like they were hanging on out of spite. Empty cans and bottles glittered in the leaf litter. Somebody’s trainer had ended up by the cake table. Nobody knew whose. Nobody wanted to claim it.

And for once, no one was bleeding.

Which, with this gang, felt less like luck and more like a trap.

Under the tarp, Vinnie’s birthday cake sat on a folding table looking like it had survived a small bombing. One side had caved in. The icing had started to sweat. A deep trench ran straight through the middle of the words HAPPY BIRTHDAY VINNIE.

Tommo had done that.

Earlier, he’d wandered over to it half-cut and deeply offended on principle, stared at the top like it had insulted his mother, then said, “Nah. That’s all wrong, that.”

JJ had looked up from opening another beer. “What’s wrong with it?”

“The middle.”

“The middle of what?”

“The cake.”

“It’s a cake, Tommo. It’s not structural.”

Tommo had frowned harder, as though JJ had revealed himself to be simple. Then, before anybody could stop him, he stuck one finger straight into the icing and dragged it through the writing.

“There,” he’d said, sucking the icing off his knuckle. “Saved it.”

“You have just fingered Vinnie’s birthday cake,” Erin had said, flat as anything.

“It needed intervention.”

“It needed you nowhere near it,” Carol had muttered.

Tommo had looked genuinely wounded by the criticism.

Vinnie had laughed.

That was the bit that had stuck with you.

Not the cake. Not Tommo committing some sort of frosting-based sex crime. Vinnie laughing.

Real laughing. Quick and low, head ducked as if he’d not meant it to get out. Like it had slipped past him before he could shut it down.

He’d been like that most of the night. Still Vinnie, still wired with that restless energy that made it seem like half of him was always ready to bolt, still all quick hands and quicker glances and that odd little tension he carried round even when he was happy. But easier. Looser. Letting himself get fussed over without acting like he wanted to gnaw his own arm off to escape it.

It suited him far too much.

You were sat off a little from the fire with the girls, chairs dragged together in a wonky little crescent. Erin had Tyler tucked into her side, fast asleep in a child’s sleeping bag with his hat sliding over one eyebrow and one sock missing. Every now and then she’d reach down and fix the blanket round him without even breaking conversation. Sugar had a can balanced on her knee and that sharp little glint in her eye that meant she’d clocked something and was having a lovely time sitting on it. Carol, naturally, had nicked the best chair and sat in it like she paid council tax on the woods.

You had a warm can in your hand and a very stupid problem.

Vinnie was over by the fire on an upturned crate, lighter turning between his fingers, half listening to JJ and half keeping one eye on Cardi, who had got very passionate about sausages and was now arguing with Dylan while using a burnt one like a conductor’s baton. Ash had disappeared almost completely into a sleeping bag and now only contributed from inside it like a grumpy caterpillar.

Tommo, meanwhile, had staggered off for a piss still zipped halfway into his tartan sleeping bag like some sort of Victorian patient trying to escape an institution.

You glanced over.

Vinnie looked up at the exact same moment.

Your eyes met.

He looked away so quickly it would have been funny if it didn’t make your stomach turn over. He rubbed the side of his nose, reached for the lighter, flicked it once, then again, like setting fire to nothing at all had suddenly become urgent.

Sugar made a small sound into her drink.

“There.”

You looked at her. “There what?”

“That.”

“That’s not a sentence.”

“It’s enough of one.”

Carol took a drag on her cigarette and gave you a look. “Tis if you’re not thick.”

You snorted. “I’m sat here minding my own business.”

“No, you’re not,” Erin said at once.

“Y’are sat there lookin’ at Vinnie like you’d let him bend you over the nearest flat surface,” Carol added.

You turned to her, scandalised. “Jesus Christ, Carol.”

“She’s not wrong, though,” Sugar said, grinning into her can.

“I’m surrounded by awful women.”

“You’ve been surrounded by awful women since school,” Erin said.

That was the problem with Erin. She knew you too well to let you get away with anything. You’d known each other since you were kids. Not in that vague, once-sat-near-each-other-in-maths sort of way. Properly. Shared chips, school detentions, bus fares, cigs behind the sports hall, bad decisions, worse mascara, and one truly shambolic attempt at nicking eyeliner when you were fourteen and panicked so hard you nearly handed it back with an apology.

She knew every version of your face.

And the one you had on now.

The lying one.

The fuming one.

The trying-not-to-care one.

She tipped her head at you. “So. How bad is it?”

You looked at her. “Why d’you say it like it’s a rash?”

Sugar laughed. Carol smirked. Erin just waited.

You looked back down at the can in your hands. “I dunno.”

That was a lie, really.

You did know.

You knew you liked him. That part had been obvious for a while now, no matter how much you’d tried to play it off as nothing. The trouble was it had stopped being one of them stupid little crushes that vanish after a week and become something slower. Worse. Built out of tiny things that kept stacking up until there was nowhere left to put them.

The way he noticed when you’d gone quiet.

The way he listened, even when he was pretending not to.

The way he’d nudged your chair closer to the fire earlier with the side of his boot without making a thing of it.

The way he was with Tyler.

That one always got you.

Your eyes dropped to the little lump of Tyler in his sleeping bag. Erin saw it immediately.

“Oh, don’t do that,” she said.

You frowned. “Do what?”

“That face.”

“What face?”

“The guilty one.”

“It’s not guilt.”

“It’s in the same family.”

You rubbed a thumb over the beer label. “I just don’t want it being weird.”

“For me?” Erin asked.

You didn’t answer. Which answered it.

She let out a dry little laugh. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“You and him have got history.”

“History,” she repeated. “Makes it sound glamorous. Me and Vinnie have got Tyler. That’s our history. One lovely accident and years of learning not to murder each other at soft play.”

Carol barked a laugh. Sugar nearly choked on her drink.

Erin ignored both of them. “Whatever me and Vinnie were, it’s done. Been done. If I thought there were any weirdness in it, you’d know.”

“With violence,” Sugar added.

“With enthusiasm,” Erin corrected.

That pulled a laugh out of you, but only a small one.

Because that only took one worry away, and the bigger one was still sat there.

Hope.

That was the nasty part.

If Vinnie didn’t feel the same, fine. Embarrassing, horrible, survivable.

If he did, then it stopped being a private little disaster and turned into a real thing. Something with consequences. Something that could go wrong. Something that might matter.

Carol, who had the emotional sensitivity of a hand grenade, nodded toward the fire. “He notices you an’ all.”

You gave a snort. “No, he doesn’t.”

All three of them looked at you in pity.

“Oh, don’t be daft,” Carol said.

“He does,” Erin said.

Sugar just raised her brows.

You shook your head and, against your better judgement, looked over again.

Vinnie was already looking.

The second he realised you’d caught him at it, he looked away, rubbed the back of his neck, and bent to pick up a bit of bark off the floor with all the intensity of a man diffusing a bomb.

Sugar made a delighted little noise. “Aw, look at him.”

You put a hand over your face. “He’s just awkward.”

That was when Tommo came back.

None of you noticed him at first. He must’ve been lurking in the trees just long enough to catch bits of the conversation and, being Tommo, had stitched them together into something completely demented.

He staggered into the edge of the firelight still half-zipped into the tartan sleeping bag, hair feral, expression solemn in the way only Tommo could manage when he was about to say the stupidest thing ever heard by man.

He stopped.

Looked at the four of you.

Then looked directly at you.

Put one hand to his chest.

And said, with heartfelt sincerity, “I’m flattered.”

There was a beat.

You blinked at him. “What?”

Tommo nodded slowly, generous already. “Nah. I heard enough.”

Sugar folded in half.

Erin turned away at once, shoulders shaking, so she didn’t laugh straight into Tyler’s sleeping head.

Carol gave Tommo a long look. “Christ. It’s evolved.”

Tommo ignored her. “I’m in the bushes, yeah, mindin’ me own business, havin’ a slash like a gentleman, and all I can hear is, ‘he notices you,’ ‘he does,’ ‘don’t be daft’.”

JJ sat bolt upright. “Oh no, what's going on?"

From inside the sleeping bag, Ash said, deadpan, “This is gonna be awful.”

You stared at Tommo. “You think that was about you?”

He pointed lightly at himself, not smug exactly, but not far off. “Well. I’ve got eyes. I know when there’s a vibe.”

Carol let out a laugh that was almost a cough. “What you’ve got is brain damage.”

Tommo shuffled a bit closer, the tartan bunching round his ankles. “And I’m not bein' funny, but I do have a pull. There’s a certain energy.”

“You’ve got blow on your sleeve,” Carol observed.

He brushed at it once, offended. “That’s not the point.”

“It’s a very strong point.”

Tommo carried on regardless. “Look, I’m just sayin', there’s no shame in it. I’m a handsome bloke. I’m charismatic. I’ve got stamina.”

“You fell over putting your own shoes on earlier,” Dylan said from under his blanket.

“Slippery ground.”

“You were on gravel.”

Tommo pressed a hand to his chest like he was rising above pettiness. Then, with a solemnity that made it a hundred times worse, he dropped to one knee in front of you.

Or attempted to.

Because the sleeping bag caught under him, he lurched sideways, nearly headbutted your chair, corrected himself, and then ended up in a weird sort of kneeling crouch.

He looked up at you.

“I’m just sayin',” he said, lowering his voice to something he probably thought was seductive, “if that’s where your head’s at, I’m available.”

Cardi wheezed so hard he had to slap his own leg.

“No, say it again,” he said. “‘I’m available.’ Fucking hell.”

You stared down at Tommo in horror. “My head’s where?”

Tommo winked. “On me. Clearly.”

Across the fire, Vinnie had gone perfectly still.

The lighter stopped in his hand. His whole face went blank in that particular way that meant his brain had simply refused to process what it was seeing. His gaze flicked from Tommo, to you, then back again, as though maybe he’d misheard and if he looked hard enough the scene might rearrange itself into something less insane.

Carol clocked him straight away.

“Ooh, look at him,” she shouted. “You all right there, Vincent?”

Vinnie blinked. “What’s he doing?”

“Misreading the room on a spiritual level,” Ash said from inside the sleeping bag.

Tommo frowned without getting up. “I’m in the middle of summat.”

“No, you’re not,” Carol snapped. “We’re talking about Vinnie, you absolute turnip.”

Silence.

Real silence.

Even the fire seemed to stop crackling for a second.

Tommo stayed exactly where he was, still on one knee, still looking up at you, as the words worked their way across his face with painful slowness.

“…Vinnie?” he said.

“Yes, Vinnie,” Erin managed, tears in her eyes now from laughing.

Tommo turned to look across the fire.

At Vinnie.

At you.

At the girls.

At Vinnie again.

The whole thing clicked into place behind his eyes with the grim finality of a trap snapping shut.

To his credit, he didn’t even try to save it.

He just nodded once, face falling into that dazed, soul-left-body look he got when life humbled him in public, and said, very quietly, “Oh.”

That was it.

Not a speech. Not a comeback. Not even a half-arsed attempt at swagger.

Just one tiny, devastated oh.

Then he looked back at you, winced like a man receiving bad news from his solicitor, and muttered, “Right. My mistake.”

He pushed himself back upright in stages, snagged the sleeping bag on your chair again, fought it for a moment, lost, then lurched away toward the fire with all the dignity of a drunk badger.

The silence he left behind was somehow worse.

Because now everybody knew.

Cardi was the first to break.

He looked from Tommo to you, then to Vinnie, and his face lit up like Christmas. “Well, this is-"

“Don’t,” you cut in at once.

“I’m not doing nowt.”

JJ, grinning like a lunatic, jabbed a finger at Vinnie. “Mate, look at your face.”

“For fuck’s sake, JJ, it’s the fire,” Vinnie said too quickly.

“No it isn’t,” Carol laughed.

“It is.”

“It absolutely is not,” Dylan smirked. “You look like a blushing bride.”

That finished Cardi completely. He fell over laughing. JJ slapped both hands against the ground. Even Erin had to cover her mouth because Tyler stirred and grumbled in his sleep.

Vinnie looked like he wanted the earth to open up and take him.

He was red right up through the ears, one hand trapped uselessly round the lighter, the other scrubbing at the back of his neck in short, agitated passes. He kept looking anywhere but at you. At the fire. At the cake. At the trees. At Tommo, who’d now wrapped himself back into the tartan with the solemn expression of a man who had been publicly shamed.

Cardi leaned forward, delighted. “Did you really not know?”

Vinnie opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“Well, I mean…” He dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s not exactly obvious, is it? Nobody’s said anything. I’m not just gonna assume somthin' like that, am I?” He cut himself off, muttered, “Oh, fuck off,” and folded his arms. “All of you. Just fuck off.”

“He’s fumbling,” Cardi said happily.

“He’s gone,” JJ agreed.

Dylan took a sip of beer. “Painful, this.”

“Very,” Carol agreed.

Vinnie stared hard into the fire. “Can everybody just be normal for once?”

“That ship sailed years ago,” JJ said.

“It were never docked,” Cardi added.

Your whole body had gone hot.

Not just your face. Everything. Hands. Ears. Stomach. Knees. You could feel every inch of yourself, and worse, you could feel every eye on you.

And the worst part was Vinnie wasn’t brushing it off.

If he’d laughed, or rolled his eyes, or called Tommo a knobhead and moved on, fine. Horrible, yes. Humiliating, definitely. But clean.

This wasn’t clean.

Because when he finally did glance at you, just for a second, there was something so awkward and soft and unprepared in his face that it turned your whole stomach over.

You stood up so fast your chair scraped through the mud.

Everyone looked at you.

“I’m going.”

“Where?” Cardi asked at once.

“To die, probably.”

“That feels dramatic,” Dylan said.

“Feels right though,” you muttered.

Erin’s smile fell first. “Hey.”

But you were already shaking your head, eyes on the trees because there was no dignified way to say I need to stop existing in front of you all for five minutes.

“I’m fine. I just need some air.”

No one pointed out that you were already in the middle of a forest.

You walked anyway.

Leaves cracked under your boots. The air got colder the further you went from the fire. Behind you the noise of the camp blurred into something softer. Laughter, muttering, the low drone of people settling themselves again.

One voice was missing.

You kept going until the fire was only an orange blur through the branches, then stopped beside a tree and let out a breath.

Brilliant.

Absolutely brilliant.

You heard footsteps behind you.

“If that’s Tommo,” you said without turning, “I’m strangling him.”

“It’s not Tommo.”

Of course it wasn’t.

You shut your eyes for a second, then turned.

Vinnie stood a few feet away with both hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold. Without the fire on him he looked different. Softer somehow. Not calmer, exactly. Just less lit up. More tired. Like he’d followed you on instinct and only now realised he had no clue what he was meant to say once he got here.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then he said, quiet, “You all right?”

You let out a short laugh through your nose. “Not especially, no.”

He nodded once, like that was fair. “Yeah.”

From back at the camp came the faint sound of Cardi laughing, then JJ shouting something too muffled to make out. A second later Tommo’s voice carried through the trees, loud and offended.

“I said I misread the situation, not that I’m ashamed of being desirable.”

You shut your eyes. “Jesus Christ.”

That got the ghost of a smile out of Vinnie, but it vanished quick enough.

“They’ll shut up in a minute,” he said.

“They won’t.”

“No.” He glanced back toward the fire. “No, they probably won’t.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, not exactly. Just full of too much.

You folded your arms, more from nerves than cold. “You didn’t have to follow me.”

He frowned. “Course I did.”

“Why?”

That caught him.

You watched it happen. He looked down at the leaves, scuffed the toe of his trainer through the dirt, then shrugged one shoulder like maybe that would get him out of answering.

“Because,” he started, then stopped.

You said nothing.

He rubbed once at his jaw, eyes still on the ground. “Because you looked upset.”

That took some of the air out of you.

You looked away first. “I’m just embarrassed.”

“Yeah.”

“That was awful.”

“It was a bit awful, yeah.”

“A bit?”

“All right, deeply awful.”

You huffed a laugh despite yourself, and some of the knot in your chest loosened.

Then the cold hit you properly. The kind that creeps in mean once you’re away from the fire. You tried not to shiver.

Vinnie noticed straight off.

Without saying anything, he tugged off his jacket.

You shook your head. “No.”

“You’re freezing.”

“I’m not.”

He gave you a look.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re shiverin’.”

“I’m not shiverin’.”

“You are.”

Before you could argue again, he stepped in and draped the jacket round your shoulders. Warm from him. Heavy. Smelling faintly of smoke and outside and him.

“There,” he said, tugging it closed a bit at the front. “Stop acting like Billy Big Bollocks.”

You looked down at the sleeves swallowing your hands. “Thanks.”

He stepped back again, but only just. Still close enough that you could feel the heat of him in the cold.

Back at the camp, Ash shouted, “Will somebody shut Tommo up before he starts singin’?”

“I’ll sing if I want,” Tommo shouted back.

Vinnie let out a breath that was nearly a laugh, then dragged a hand over his face.

“I’m shit at this,” he muttered.

“I know.”

“Nice one.”

“I meant it kindly.”

“That’s worse, that.”

You smiled properly then, small and helpless, and his mouth twitched in answer. It should’ve eased things. It didn’t, not really.

You could see him folding back in on himself already.

His shoulders tightened. His jaw worked. He looked off into the trees like he wanted something out there to rescue him from having to keep going.

“It’s not…” He stopped, scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, then let it fall. “It’s not just tonight.”

You stayed quiet.

He swallowed. “I know what I’m like.”

“Vinnie.”

“No, but I do.” He gave a quick, humourless laugh and shook his head. “I do. One minute I’m all right, then I’m not. Then I’m in me own head and everything’s too loud or too fast or I can’t switch off, and then I say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing, disappear, come back, make a show of meself. You know.”

His voice had gone flatter now. Not cold. Just stripped down.

He looked away from you when he said the next bit.

“I make a mess of stuff.”

You opened your mouth, but he barrelled on, like if he stopped he wouldn’t get it out again.

“And I know everyone acts like, y’know, it’s fine, it’s just me, it’s just Vinnie, whatever, but it’s not always fine, is it?” He dragged a hand through his hair. “Sometimes I’m a fucking nightmare.”

“You’re not.”

He laughed once under his breath. “I am, though.”

The wind shifted through the trees. Somewhere back at the camp somebody cracked another can open. You could still hear them, but dim now, like they belonged to another world for a minute.

Vinnie’s eyes stayed on the ground.

“I don’t want you walking into something thinking it’s one thing, then finding out it’s… this.”

“This?” you repeated quietly.

He finally looked at you then, and there was something almost angry in it, but only at himself.

“Me,” he said. “Me head. All of it.”

Your chest tightened.

He shrugged, awkward and miserable. “I’m not good for people. Not for long.”

“That’s not true.”

He gave a tiny shake of his head. “Maybe not on purpose. Still happens.”

Then, softer, rougher, like it cost him more to say than everything else put together, “Especially not you.”

That hurt, not because it was cruel, but because he meant it so completely.

You stepped closer.

He didn’t move. Didn’t pull back. Just watched you, tense all through him.

“That’s not yours to decide by yourself,” you said.

He let out a breath through his nose. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s got to be sensible.”

“You?”

“No,” he admitted. “Definitely not me.”

That got a tiny laugh from both of you, but it faded quick.

He looked wrecked suddenly. Properly wrecked. Like getting those few sentences out had cost him more than he’d wanted you to see.

“I just…” He stopped, jaw tight. Tried again. “I don’t want to ruin somethin' before it’s even had a chance.”

There it was.

Not neat. Not rehearsed. Just there.

“Vinnie.”

He looked at you, wary.

“I know what you’re like.”

His face changed a little at that. Not much. Just enough.

“And I’m still here,” you said.

He looked down at you for a second, saying nothing.

Then he gave a short, broken sort of laugh and turned his head away, dragging the heel of his hand across one eye like he was just tired, like that was all it was.

“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Nice one.”

“Hey.”

“I’m all right.”

He wasn’t.

He scrubbed at his face again, harder this time, annoyed with himself for it. That was worse somehow than if he’d just cried outright. The effort of not doing it.

“Don’t,” he said quietly. “Don’t make it a thing.”

You didn’t answer him with words.

You just stepped in and put a hand on his arm.

He went completely still.

Not flinching. Not moving away. Just still.

You could feel the tension in him under your hand, the way he held it all in like he thought if he let one bit slip the whole lot would go.

“I’m not asking for perfect,” you said softly. “I’m not asking for easy. I’m just here.”

For a second you thought he might laugh it off. Make a joke. Step back. Do anything except let that land.

Instead he shut his eyes.

Only for a second.

Then he let out one shaky breath.

You opened your arms a little. “Come here.”

He hesitated.

Just long enough for you to see him think about refusing.

Then he stepped into you.

At first it was awkward, because of course it was. One arm, then the other, like he wasn’t used to not having to joke his way out of something like this. Then suddenly he was holding you properly. Tight. One hand across your back, the other gripping at the jacket round your shoulders as if he needed to be sure you were actually there.

His chin dipped slightly, just brushing the top of your head, and you felt him breathe in hard through his nose.

You folded into him without thinking, cheek against his chest.

Not dramatic. Not some sweeping big moment.

Just relief.

Just him holding on.

Back at camp, Cardi’s voice rang out through the trees.

“If you two are having a moment, just know Tommo’s written a speech.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Vinnie muttered into your hair.

That made you laugh against his chest, and you felt his arms tighten for a second.

After a while, quieter now, he said, “Sorry.”

You tipped your head back enough to look at him. “For what?”

He gave the smallest shrug. “This. Me being… like this.”

“Don’t apologise for that.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“Yeah. It is.”

That pulled the faintest smile out of him.

You looked at him for a second, really looked, at the red round his eyes and the embarrassment and the softness he clearly hated being caught in.

Then you said, “For the record, Tommo getting on one knee was far more upsetting than any of this.”

He let out a laugh. Proper one this time, brief and helpless. “Yeah?”

“Deeply upsetting.”

“Fair.”

You stayed like that another moment before he finally pulled back a little, just enough to look at you properly.

“We should go back,” he said. “Before they come looking.”

“Tommo’ll make it worse.”

“He’ll make it loads worse.”

He took hold of the front of the jacket where it hung round you and pulled it closed a bit tighter against the cold, his hand lingering for half a second before he let go.

Then the two of you started back toward the fire together.

As you got close enough for the noise to sharpen again, you heard JJ say, “I’m telling you now, if they come back holding hands, I’m making sick.”

Tommo, deeply wounded, said, “No one’s said a word about how brave I’ve been tonight.”

“Because you haven’t,” Carol said.

Vinnie glanced at you, and for the first time since following you into the trees, he looked a little less like he wanted the ground to swallow him whole.

“Ready?” he asked.

“No,” you said.

The Pitt existed in a constant state of controlled disaster. Every hallway carried noise. Every room carried urgency. It breathed around you like a living thing with stretchers rattling over worn tile floors, trauma pages shrieking overhead, nurses calling for labs over the phone while exhausted residents moved from room to room with coffee-stained charts tucked beneath their arms. The overhead light cast everything in the same washed-out brightness that made it impossible to tell whether it was four in the afternoon or four in the morning, and by the twelfth hour of your shift, time itself had begun to feel slippery and unreal. 

You had learned to survive inside the madness long before you had learned how to survive anywhere else. 

Only a year into residency, most people in the department knew you as the resident who never stopped moving. You picked up extra shifts before anyone could ask. You stayed late without complaint. You volunteered for difficult patients, difficult procedures, and even more difficult families. If someone needed help, you were already there before your name was called. 

Nurses adored you for it. Attendings trusted you because of it. Med students followed after you like ducklings because despite your exhaustion, despite the permanent shadows beneath your eyes and the way your hands occasionally shook after eighteen-hour shifts, you were patients with them in a way few residents still had the energy to be. 

But Jack and Robby knew better. 

That was the most unfortunate thing about being mentored by two men who noticed everything.

You had somehow ended up under both of their wings during your first terrifying months at the Pitt, though neither of them would probably describe it that way aloud. Jack had claimed you first, in a sense. He had been the one to sit beside you after your first patient death that happened to be right as he walked in for handoffs, talking softly while you stared blankly at the vending machine in the waiting area because you couldn’t stop hearing the flatline in your head. Somewhere between that moment and now, he had somehow become the person who checked whether you’d eaten, who remembered the names of your difficult patients, who bumped his shoulder against yours after bad shifts and told you quietly that you did good work before your brain could convince you otherwise. 

Robby had been different. 

Robby mentored you the way sharpened steel honed another blade: precise, observant, relentless in a way that had terrified you initially because he missed absolutely nothing. He corrected your charting with brutal efficiency, expected excellence without excuse, and had a habit of standing silently behind you during procedures until your nerves nearly gave out completely. Yet somehow, beneath all of that intimidating composure, he had become one of the few people whose approval genuinely mattered to you. Maybe because it had been hard-earned. Maybe because when Robby praised someone, it actually meant something. 

Together, the two of them had slowly turned into the closest thing you had to stability inside and outside the hospital. 

Which was dangerous, really, because it meant they noticed things you desperately wanted hidden. 

“You’re doing it again,” Jack’s voice cut through your concentration softly enough that you nearly missed it beneath the noise of the department. 

You looked up from the computer at the nurses’ station to find him leaning against the counter beside you, early like always, salt and pepper curls slightly flattened and damp like he’d just stepped out of the shower and only ran a towel over them without any added products. There was a coffee cup balanced carelessly in one hand and a familiar look on his face that instantly made your stomach sink.

“What?” 

“You’re clenching your jaw.” He pointed toward your face. “You only do that when you haven’t eaten like biting your cheek is going to magically fill your stomach.” 

You looked back down at the chart in front of you, tearing your eyes away from his hazel ones. “I ate.” 

He snorted quietly. “You are genuinely one of the worst liars I’ve ever met.” 

“I had half a muffin,” you confessed. 

“Was that before or after noon?” 

You didn’t answer and that in itself was answer enough to make the man sigh dramatically before reaching into the pocket of his jacket and producing a protein bar that he slid across the counter in your way. The gesture was so practiced now it almost embarrassed you, because somewhere along the way, Jack had apparently decided monitoring your nutritional intake had become his person responsibility. 

“You know,” he said casually, “most people usually eat more than vending machine crumbs during a twelve-hour shift.” 

“I’m busy.” 

“So is everybody else.” 

You finally glanced up at him, an argument resting on your tongue, but the words died behind your teeth because he was looking at you with that same unbearably gentle concern he always wore whenever he thought you were running yourself into the ground again. 

It disarmed you every single damn time. 

Before you could force out another excuse, a trauma alert rang overhead sharp enough to snap the entire department into motion. 

“Trauma two, ambulance bay. ETA two minutes.” 

Jack straightened automatically. Across the department, you caught sight of Robby (who was supposed to already be gone) already moving toward the trauma room while barking instructions to a nurse beside him, his expression shifting seamlessly into focused command. 

“Come on,” Jack said, but you were already following. 

Moments later, the patient arrived unconscious after a multi-car collision, blood soaking through gauze wrapped hastily around his abdomen while paramedics rattled off vitals over the anxiousness of the group. The trauma room exploded into movement the second the stretcher crossed the threshold. Nurses shifted around each other with practiced efficiency, monitors shrieked intermittently, and beside you Robby’s voice remained impossibly calm. 

“Pressure?”

“Dropping.”

“Get another line in.” 

You slipped into place near the patient’s shoulder, adrenaline replacing exhaustion as your gloved hands moved through familiar motions. Your mind always quieted during trauma cases. There wasn’t room for self-doubt when someone’s life was actively bleeding out in front of you. 

Robby glanced toward you briefly while adjusting his gloves. “You’re on airway.” 

You nodded once. 

Years ago in med school, the assignment would’ve terrified you enough to make you freeze even with an attending helping you through it. Now you moved through muscle memory, repetition overriding fear. To your left, Jack handed over supplied before stepping in to stabilize the patient’s chest. 

The three of you worked together seamlessly by now: one of the problems with mentorship built over too many sleepless nights and too many near disasters; you learned each other’s rhythms too well. Jack knew exactly where your confidence faltered during procedures. Robby knew when you were overcompensating by volunteering for more than you could realistically handle. Both of them knew the particular silence tat settled over you after difficult phone calls from home. 

Neither had ever pushed too hard about those. 

That is until now. 

The trauma stabilized eventually after what felt like hours compressed into minutes. Once the patience was sent upstairs, the adrenaline drained out of your body so suddenly it left you dizzy. Your head pounded faintly behind your eyes. You realized belatedly you were running entirely on caffeine and anxiety. 

No one noticed when you slipped quietly down the hallway toward the supply closet near the back of the ER. 

Or at least, you thought no one noticed. 

The closet was cramped and dimly lit, packed floor-to-ceiling with stacked saline boxes and extra linens. It smelled faintly like antiseptic and cardboard. You leaned back heavily against the shelving unit with your eyes closed, fingers pressing hard against your temples while you tried to steady your breathing. 

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale—

Your phone buzzed wildly in your pocket, and the same lighting up the screen had your stomach dropping. 

Mom. 

For a brief moment, you considered ignore it entirely. But years of guilt and obligation had conditioned your body to respond before your brain could argue otherwise. 

You answered quietly. “Hi.” 

“There you are,” you mother said, her irritation bleeding through the speaker. “I’ve been calling.” 

You closed your eyes harder. “I’m at work.” 

“Well, forgive me for wanting to hear from my daughter.” 

In the background, you could hear the television from your parents’ living room playing faintly. The sound hit you with sudden painful familiarity. You could practically picture the entire scene despite being hundreds of miles away: your father in his recliner, your mother pacing the kitchen while holding the phone too tightly. 

“How’s the hospital?” she asked. 

“Tiring.” 

Your father’s voice cut in from somewhere behind her. “Still pretending to be a hotshot doctor?” 

His words landed exactly where they always did, making your bottom lip wobble before you trapped it under teeth. 

You swallowed carefully. “I’m not pretending.” 

He laughed once under his breath. “Right.” 

Silence stretched. The voices on the TV laughed. You slid slowly down the unit until you were sitting on the floor between the shelf and stacked boxes, exhaustion suddenly pressing into your bones with unbearable heaviness. 

“We just worry about you,” your mother continued, though the concern in her voice always came wrapped in something sharper. “You sound miserable every time we talk.” 

“Everyone’s the same, Mom. That’s residency.” 

“No,” your father snapped, voice now closer and louder in the phone. “That’s what happens when somebody spends their whole life chasing things they were never meant for.” 

Your chest tightened painfully as footsteps approached quietly down the hallway outside the supply closet. You didn’t notice. 

“You could’ve stayed here,” your mother said. “You could’ve worked somewhere smaller. Normal. But no, you always just had to prove something.” 

“I’m not trying to prove anything.” 

“Aren’t you?” your father snarked back. “You think these people actually see you as one of them? You think you belong in that fancy hospital?” 

Your throat burned. 

No matter how many patients trusted you, no matter how much Jack and Robby praised your work, no matter how many lives you helped save, some small broken part of you still believed him. 

You stared numbly at the floor tiles beneath your shoes, eyes blinking away tears and failing. 

“I have to go,” you whispered. 

“Of course you do,” your mother replied sharply. “Work matters more than family again.” 

The call ended before you could pull the phone away from your ear. Quiet swallowed the room afterward so completely that the distant sounds of the emergency department suddenly felt muffled and far away. Your grip tightened painfully around your phone while humiliation and exhaustion tangled together so tightly in your chest it became difficult to breathe. 

When the closet door opened suddenly, your head jerked upward. 

Jack stood there first, one hand resting against the handle. The concern on his face hit you like a physical blow because it wasn’t pity. Somehow thought, pity would have been easier to stomach instead of the open heartbreak painted across his face. 

Robby stood just behind him, arms folded tightly across his chest, jaw visibly tense beneath his incoming beard. 

Neither man spoke right away, which told you that they heard enough. The thought made heat blood your face. 

“I’m fine,” you blurted out, the response almost automatic and reflexive. 

Jack’s expression only softened further. “You’re sitting on the floor of a supply closet.” 

You tried to laugh weakly. “Needed a minute.” 

Robby’s gaze remained fixed on you with clinical precision, but there was anger simmering under his composure now. You could tell it wasn’t directed at you but outwards to the voices he’d overheard tearing pieces of out of somebody he had spent years trying to build back up. 

“How long has that been going on?” he asked quietly. 

Your eyes went back down to the flooring. “It’s not a big deal.” 

Jack exhaled slowly through his nose. “You don’t believe that.” 

The gentleness in his voice nearly undid you more than the phone call itself had. You always hated this part most, the unbearable vulnerability of being seen clearly by people you respected. Jack and Robby had watched you become a doctor piece by piece. They had seen you at three in the morning after losing patients. Seen you shaking before procedures. Seen you exhausted, angry, frightened, overworked. And along the way, they had also noticed the deeper wound beneath all of it: 

The one you spent most of your life trying to hide. 

Robby stepped forward and crouched slightly so he was closer to eye level, his voice remaining calm and even in the way it always did when he was trying very hard to not overwhelm patients. 

“You are one of the best residents in this department,” he said plainly. “You know that right?” 

The laugh that followed came out thin and humorless. “Sure.” 

“I’m serious.” 

“I think as my attending you have to say that.” 

“No. I really don’t.” 

Jack stepped further inside the closet before leaning back carefully against the shelves opposite of you. “You stayed two hours past shift last week helping an uninsured patient figure out medication access because you knew nobody else would. You caught a pulmonary embolism every other resident missed in triage. Half the med students here want to be you when they graduate.” 

You stared down at your hands because looking at either of them suddenly hurt too much. Whatever they said didn’t matter against the voices you’d been hearing your entire life. Robby seemed to recognize that quickly as sadness settled under his frustration. 

“They’re wrong about you,” he said softly. “So very wrong” 

Tears now burned at your eyes because, honestly, no one had ever said that to you before. Not friends. Not professors. Not even yourself. 

Jack’s voice softened even further. “You do not have to destroy yourself to prove that you have the right to be here.” 

Your face must have cracked at that because both men went still as the terrible truth sat openly between all three of you: you genuinely didn’t know how to exist without earning your worth first.

_______________________

Robby’s office always smelled faintly like burned coffee and old paper. 

You noticed that before anything else when you stepped hesitantly through the partially open door, your stomach already twisted tight with anxiety from the brief message Dana had relayed twenty minutes earlier. 

Robby wants to see you in his office. 

Which, in your experience usually meant one of three things: you charted something incorrectly, you had forgotten something important, or someone had died. 

By the time you reached the office, your pulse had worked itself into a miserable rapid flutter under your ribs despite trying to convince yourself you were overreacting. The Pitt swallowed the rest of the noise, leaving behind a small ringing in your ears. Robby’s office felt strangely isolated from all of it. 

Behind his desk, Robby sat with his reading glasses low on his nose, flipping through a stack of papers with the same composed concentration he approached nearly everything with. The desk lamp cast warm yellow light across the room, softening the harshness of the hospital fluorescents filtering in through the blinds. A half-finished cup of coffee sat forgotten near his elbow beside several patient charts and an open laptop screen crowded with emails. 

He looked up when you entered. 

“There you are,” he said warmly. “Close the door.” 

Your stomach dropped further. 

You obeyed instantly, fingers tightening around the strap of your bag as the door clicked softly shut behind you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Robby returned his attention firefly to the papers in front of him while you remained awkwardly hovering near the doorway trying not to catastrophize every possibly outcome. 

Your brain, against your best wished, supplied several anyway. 

You replayed the last few shifts rapidly in your head searching for mistakes. Had you missed a lab? Forgotten an order? Spoken too sharply to a nurse during trauma intake? The anxiety sat so naturally in your body now that panic felt less like an emotion and more like muscle memory. 

“You can sit down,” Robby said after a moment, finally glancing back up at you. 

“Oh. Right.” 

You skittered across the office and lowered yourself carefully down into the chair across from his desk, posture still rigid with apprehension. Robby watched you for a long moment over the rim of his glasses. 

“You think you’re in trouble.” 

His observation landed embarrassingly accurate. 

You opened your mouth automatically. “Am I?” 

To your surprise, something almost amused flashed briefly across his face. “No.” 

The tension in your shoulders loosened slightly, though not fully. Years of criticism had taught your nervous system not to trust relief too quickly. 

Robby leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together atop the desk. “How long have you been considering fellowship programs outside Pennsylvania?” 

Your breath caught. The question hit so directly you genuinely didn’t know how to answer for a second. The trust was humiliating in its own way. You had been considering them for months in secret, in the privacy of late nights and exhausted internet searches and moments where Pittsburgh suddenly felt too small for the life you wanted but had never allowed yourself to reach. 

Sometimes after difficult shifts, you would sit alone in your apartment scrolling through fellowship programs across the country just to imagine it for a moment. California. Seattle. Boston. Places so impossibly far away they barely felt real. Hospitals attached to research institutions and trauma centers bigger than anything you’d ever known. Places where no one knew your parents. Places where your entire history wouldn’t already be waiting for you before you arrived. 

But then guilt would settle almost immediately afterward. 

You would close the tabs, delete the searches, and clock in the next day without thinking of leaving. Because wanting to leave felt selfish. And because some part of you still couldn’t imagine being brave enough to actually go. 

Your hands folded tightly in your lap. “I haven’t really.” 

Robby remained entirely unconvinced. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

The words startled an unwilling laugh out of you despite your nerves. Jack was the one to usually say that not him. At the sound, Robby’s face melted before he reached for a folder sitting near the corner of his desk. 

“I got a call last week,” he said hesitantly, almost like he was testing the waters. “From a colleague at Harborview.” 

Your heartbeat stumbles. 

Harborview. 

Seattle. 

Clear across the country. 

You stared at him silently as the office suddenly became too warm. 

He slid the folder across the desk toward you, the paper catching slightly against the grain before stopping directly in front of your hands. You looked down slowly, eyes catching and widening at the sight of the logo at the top that belonged to one of the most prestigious trauma centers in the country.

And below it, your name was written in Robby’s perfect penmanship. 

Something cold and electric moved down your spine all at once. Your fingers hesitated against the edge of the folder before opening it carefully. Inside sat printed information about the fellowship program alongside a letter clipped neatly to the front. 

A recommendation letter. 

Signed by Michael Robinavitch, MD

Your eyes caught only fragments at first because your pulse had become unbearably loud in your ears. What he had written brought tears to your lash line. 

Exceptional clinical instincts . . . 

Among the most promising residents . . . 

Demonstrates rare emotional intelligence under pressure . . . 

Would excel in any institution fortunate to train them . . . 

Your throat tightened at you looked up too quickly. “You—” 

“I submitted it three days ago,” Robby confessed quietly. 

Shock hit first. Then confusion. Then something dangerously close to hurt. 

“You sent this without asking me?” 

Robby held your gaze steadily. “Yes.” 

It felt almost impossible to breath because this—this was the dream, wasn’t it? This was something you had secretly wanted for so long it physically ached sometimes. An escape route handed gently into your trembling hands. A chance at something bigger than the life you’d been told to settle for. 

So why did it suddenly feel a little like grief too? 

“You want me to leave?” you asked before you could stop yourself. 

Robby’s face dropped slightly. “No.” 

“Then why would you—” 

“Because you were never going to do it yourself.” 

You looked back down at the letter because suddenly meeting his eyes felt unmanageable. You had spent so long imagining leaving that you never truly prepared yourself for the possibility someone else might believe you capable of it too. 

Robby leaned forward in his chair, head tilting to try to meet your eyes. “You belong somewhere like this. You know that.” 

You laughed under your breath, the sound fragile in and of itself. “My parents would lose their minds.” 

Robby’s jaw tightened as he said your name. “This isn’t about your parents.” 

Except it always was. Every choice, every opportunity, every dream carefully cut down before it could grow too large to reach. 

You swallowed hard against the sudden pressure building in your throat. “Seattle is across the country.” 

“I’m aware.” 

“I don’t know anyone there.” 

“You would.” 

The certainty in his voice hurt unexpected because it implied something you still struggled to believe yourself: that people would want you there. You stared down at the recommendation letter, vision beginning to blur slightly. 

“You really think I could do this?” 

“I think,” he started, “you’ve spent your entire life making yourself smaller for other people.” 

Your breath hitched again. 

“You are one of the best doctors I’ve had to privilege to train,” he continued. “And if you stay here because you’re afraid of disappointing people who will never be satisfied anyway, you’re going to wake up in ten years from now wondering what happened to your life.” 

His words landed with devastating precision because deep down, under all the fear and guilt and fatigue, you had already wondered that yourself.  

Robby’s kind, brown eyes held yours. “You’re getting smaller here.” 

The office felt unbearable quiet now except for the faint hum of his fan and the occasional muffled announcement from the ER outside. 

Finally, your voice came out barely above a whisper. “What if I fail?” 

He looked at you the same way he looked at difficult trauma cases; not dismissing the fear but refusing to let it dictate the outcome. He wasn’t going to let you walk away from this because you were scared. 

“Then you fail,” he said simply. “And you survive it.” 

Failure had always sounded catastrophic in your parents’ voices. Permanent. Proof that they had been right all along. 

But with how Robby said it, it felt like it was survivable and human.

For the first time, the possibility of leaving didn’t feel entirely impossible anymore. It felt terrifying yes, but also maybe worth it all anyway.

_______________________

The emergency department had somehow managed to pause for you. 

Not fully, of course. The Pitt never truly stopped moving. But for once, the chaos had shifted itself long enough to make room for something softer.

You stood near the center of the department feeling almost painfully aware of yourself while half the ER crowded around the nurses’ station holding vending machine snacks, cafeteria cupcakes, and paper coffee cups lifted in celebration. Someone had dragged over a flimsy folding table covered in sheet cake with GOOD LUCK written across it in slightly smeared blue icing. Balloons bobbled lazily near the ceiling tiles, looking deeply out of place in the harsh lighting. 

It was absurd, embarrassing, and almost humiliating. And somehow it nearly made you cry. 

“You look terrified.” Jack’s voice appeared beside you through the noise, warm amusement threading easily into his words. 

You glanced sideways to find him balancing two plastic cups of terrible hospital punch while watching you with barely concealed fondness. “I hate this,” you muttered under your breath. 

“You absolutely do not.” 

“I’m being publicly perceived.” 

Jack snorted softly before handing you one of the drinks. “Tragic.” 

Across the department, several nurses had cornered Robby near the charting computers demanding he say something resembling a speech. Judging by the look on his face, he would’ve preferred active physical violence. 

“You trained them,” Dana was insisting firmly. 

“So did literally anyone else here,” Robby replied. 

“Yeah, but you’re the scary one, so it’ll mean more.” 

A ripple of laughter moved through the staff nearby while Robby looked profoundly unamused by this logic. 

Your chest tightened unexpected as you watched your surroundings unfold in the familiar faces, the exhausted laughter, the warmth threaded through the department despite another endless shift looming only hours away. The Pitt had become something dangerously close to home somewhere along the way. Not because the work was easy—God knew it wasn’t. But because these people had seen every broken terrified version of you and stayed anyway. 

And now you were leaving them; the thought still felt surreal even after the acceptance calls, even after signing the paperwork, even after the official announcement against your will that you would be joining one of the most prestigious trauma fellowship programs in the country at Harborview in Seattle. 

Seattle. 

The word still startled you. It was so far from Pittsburgh that it barely felt attached to your real life at all. 

A resident from across the department raised his coffee cup toward you. “You know how insane this is, right?” 

Heat flooded your face. “Please don’t start.” 

“No, seriously,” Perlah chimed in. “Do you know how many people would kill for that placement?” 

“You’re representing the Pitt now,” Princess added proudly. 

Her sentence lodged itself awkwardly beneath your ribs. Representing the Pitt. You weren’t escaping it, weren’t abandoning it, but representing it. You looked instinctive toward Robby. As if he sensed it, his gaze lifted from across the room and settled briefly on yours. His features softened for a half a second before Dana shoved a plastic knife into his hand and demanded he cut the cake already. 

Jack bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. “You should probably enjoy this.” 

You laughed weakly. “I’m trying.” 

“You’re spiraling internally.” 

“I’m always spiraling internally.” 

“Fair enough.” 

The familiar ease of the conversation helped settled your nerves slightly, though not enough to stop the overwhelming ache building slowly in your chest. You kept catching yourself looking around the department like you were trying to memorize it all before it disappeared: the trauma bay doors, the faded blue walls near triage, the nurses’ station where you had spent countless night charting beside Jack while Robb criticized your caffeine intake with hypocritical seriousness. 

This place had watched you become someone, and now it was letting you go.

A few hours later, after the cake had been mostly demolished and the department slowly returned to its normal rhythm, you found yourself cornered near the supply station by Perlah and Princess aggressively insisting you take leftovers home. 

“You’re too skinny for Seatle,” Princess informed you. 

“I don’t think that’s how geography works,” you replied. 

Before they could continue, Jack appeared suddenly at your elbow. “Borrowing them,” he announced. 

Perlah narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “For what?” 

“Secret attending business.” 

“That sounds fake.” 

“It is fake,” you admitted. 

Jack ignored the three of you and jerked his head toward the hallway. “Come on.” 

Confusion washed over you, but you followed him anyway. A few feet ahead, Robby waited near the elevators with his hands tucked into the pockets of his zip up jacket. The second he saw the two of you approaching, he pressed the button for the elevator without explanation. 

You frowned slightly. “Am I being murdered?” 

“Probably,” Jack teased. 

“Good to know.” 

Robby simply shook his head tiredly as the elevator doors slid open. Neither man explained anything during the ride upward. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but it carried a strange weight to it that settled gradually over your shoulders the higher the elevator climbed. Your pulse quickened with anticipation and something sadder underneath it. 

The roof access door creaked loudly when Jack shoved it opening, causing the cold night air to hit your face. 

Pittsburgh stretched endlessly around you under the dark sky, the city glittering gold and white against the streets below while ambulance sirens echoed faintly off in the distance. The hospital roof had become something sacred over the years for exhausted staff members needing five minutes away from the noise downstairs. You had come up here after bad shifts before, after losing patients, about pulling doubles that left you too hollowed out to immediately drive home after. 

Tonight, though, it felt different. 

You stepped further onto the roof slowly while Jack let the heavy door slam shut behind him. The city wind tugged lightly at your jacket while your eyes drifted toward the skyline. Seattle suddenly feeling impossibly far away. 

“You know,” Jack said quietly behind you, “you almost turned this down.”

You huffed softly. “I know.” 

“And you’re still thinking about it.” 

“I know.” The honestly slipped out before you could hold it back. 

Despite everything—the excitement, the honor, the impossible opportunity—fear still lived stubbornly in your body. Fear of failing. Fear of disappointing everyone. Fear that your parents had been right all along and eventually someone at Harborview would realize they had made a mistake choosing you. 

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself against the cold. “I keep waiting for somebody to figure out I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Jack and Robby exchanged a brief glance behind you. 

Robby sighted softly through his nose like the words physically pained him. “You know,” he said, “most arrogant doctors are the most terrible doctors.”

You glanced back toward him. 

“However, the ones who question themselves,” he continued, “the ones who worry about failing . . . they’re usually the ones who care enough to become great doctors.” 

You swallowed tears down thickly. 

Jack stepped closer, pulling something oblong from the pocket of his jacket. “We got you something.” 

“You didn’t have to—” 

“We know,” Jack interrupted gently before holding the item out for you to take. 

Your eyes dropped toward the object in his hands, and your heart fluttered. 

A stethoscope. 

It wasn’t hospital-issued, wasn’t cheap. 

The instrument was beautiful with dark blue tubing catching faint city light beneath the skyline while silver detailing gleamed softly near the chest piece. You stared down at it wordlessly. For a second, you genuinely couldn’t breathe as you took it from him, fingers rubbing along the soft rubber. 

“There’s something engraved on it,” Robby added softly. 

Your fingers trembled slightly as you turned it over. Near the tubing junction, etched carefully into the metal in precise lettering, were four simple words: 

Still in your corner. 

The world blurred, and you swallowed hard against the sudden painful pressure in your throat while your thumb brushed shakily over the engraving again.

“Oh,” you whispered. 

Neither Jack nor Robby spoke, which somehow made it all worse. 

Your eyes burned fiercely as a tumble of emotions crashed through you all at once: gratitude, grief, fear, love so deep and overwhelming it physically hurt to carry. 

“You take this with you,” Jack spoke softly but sternly. “Every interview. Every trauma. Every shift from hell.” 

“And when you’re convinced that you’re failing,” Robby added, “you hold onto it and remember that two old guys from Pittsburgh already know exactly how capable you are.” 

Your composure broke as you tried to laugh through the tears threatening your voice, eyes looking back down because crying in front of them still embarrassed you despite all the versions of you they’ve seen before. 

“This is unfair,” you muttered, back of your hand wiping aggressively under your eyes. 

Jack smiled sadly. “Yeah, probably.” 

The stethoscope felt heavier in your hands than it should have only because of what it meant. 

For so much of your life, support had always felt conditional, fragile, something that disappeared the second you disappointed people. But standing there on the hospital roof with a glowing Pittsburgh and cold night air nipping your skin, Jack and Robby were handing you something terrifyingly unfamiliar: 

the certainty that even thousands of miles away, even if you struggled, even if you failed sometimes, even if Seattle became lonely and overwhelming and difficult, you would not lose them. 

You pressed your fingers tighter around the tubing, Robby’s features softening as he watched you. 

“You’re going to do extraordinary there,” he whispered. 

Your eyes burned harder not because you fully believed him yet, but because you finally found yourself wanting to. 

_______________________

The Pitt had changed in a thousand tiny ways over the years. 

Some changes were obvious. Different residents moved through the halls now, newer faces slipping into routines that once belonged to people long gone from the Pitt. The trauma bays had newer monitors. The waiting room chairs had finally been replaced after years of complaints. Dana had somehow gained even less patience despite everyone previously believing that impossible. 

Other changes felt quieter. 

The kind you only noticed in passing moments. 

Like how Robby still occasionally looked toward room six whenever an especially difficult trauma rolled through because that had always been your room somehow. Or how Jack still brough an extra coffee on his way in before remembering halfway through the line that you weren’t there to steal the extra one anymore.

Absence settled strangely into places once someone left them behind especially when they had mattered. 

“Whitaker, if you touch that central line tray with your bare hands again, I’m revoking your ability to speak.” 

“I literally wasn’t touching it. I merely glanced in its direction.” 

“You were thinking about touching it.” 

“I can’t believe this is my work environment.” 

The familiar noise buzzed around Robby as he stood near the nurses’ station review labs on a tablet, exhaustion pressing heavily behind his eyes after hours’ worth of chaos. Nearby, Dana looked personally victimized by Dennis’s existence while Trinity tried unsuccessfully to hid her laughter behind a patient chart. 

Victoria glanced up from the computer beside them. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “I think Dana actually likes bullying him.” 

Dana didn’t even look up from her paperwork. “Correct.” 

Dennis pointed accusingly. “See?” 

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” 

“That feels entirely unrelated.” 

A tired smile tugged briefly at the corner of Robby’s mouth despite his best effort not to seem interested in the banter.   

The newer residents had settled into the Pitt in their own messy way over the past year. Samira moved through rooms with sharp instinct and too much emotional attachment to sad patients. Frank boasted too much when nervous and somehow ended up charming most of the nursing staff because of it. Trinity hid startling clinical intelligence beneath dry sarcasm and exhaustion. Dennis had slipped into the department like he belonged there from the beginning, steady and observant in a way Robby respected immediately. And Mel blessed the Pitt with her soft voice that never seemed to sugar coat things but still had the ease to bring patients down from panic. 

Different from your class but good. 

Still, every once in a while, one of them would do something that reminded him painfully of you. Usually it happened when they stayed too late helping patients who technically weren’t their responsibility anymore. 

Dana finally looked up from her charting. “You heard from your golden child lately?” 

Robby sighed softy without looking away from the tablet. “They are not my golden child.” 

“Sure they are.” 

Dennis looked between them curiously. “Wait, who?” 

Dana said your name as she casually leaned against the counter. “Former resident. Robby and Abbot’s favorite.” 

“We—I don’t have favorites.” 

“You still bring them up during trauma reviews.” 

“It’s educational.” 

“No, Cap, that’s emotional attachment.” 

Robby shot her a flat look while several residents nearby became more interested. 

“Hold on,” Frank said, glancing up from his chart. “This is the one from Seattle, right?” 

His sentence caught everyone’s attention; even Jack’s, who had just wandered back into the department carrying two coffees and the stagger of a man who maybe got 5 hours of sleep before heading back into work. 

“Who’s talking about Seattle?” he asked. 

Dana pointed toward Robby. “I asked how your kid was doing.” 

“Oh,” he answered, face dropping all sharpness and melting into something melancholy at the thought of you.

Trinity blinked between the two attendings. “Okay, now I need context because both of you suddenly look like divorced parents at a graduation.” 

Samira, bless her heart, nodded along. “Seriously. Who are they?” 

The two men glanced at each other before taking breathing out a synchronous sigh before Robby set the tablet down against the counter. 

“They were probably one of the best residents the Pitt has had,” he said.

Mel’s eyebrows raised. “That good?” 

Robby crossed his arms loosely and nodded. “Top of their class. Exceptional under pressure. Trauma instincts most attendings would kill for.” 

“And terrifyingly hardworking,” Jack added while handing one of the coffees to Dana. “Like, genuinely concerning levels of hardworking.” 

“I once found them charting with a concussion,” Dana mentioned. 

The small group all looked horrified. 

“That cannot be real,” Trinity spoke. 

“It was absolutely real,” Jack confirmed. “They tried to tell us they were ‘fine’ while their head actively bled through gauze.” 

Victoria let out an impressed laugh. “Okay, that’s kind of iconic.” 

“It was deeply annoying,” Robby corrected even though there was an unmistakable fondness in his tone. “The kid wouldn’t just stay down.” 

Mel tilted her head slightly. “So why’d they leave?” 

Jack leaned back against the counter next to Robby, hazel eyes drifting absently toward the trauma bay doors like you’d step through them in the next moment. “They got offered a fellowship at Harborview. Trauma surgery.” 

Trinity’s eyes widened. “Harborview?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Holy shit.” 

Frank looked genuinely stunned. “That’s insane.” 

The corner of Robby’s mouth tugged upward. “They deserved it.” 

Mel studied the two attendings quietly for a second before speaking. “You miss them.” 

Jack huffed something similar to a quiet laugh. “Turns out when somebody spends years haunting your ER, you noticed when they’re gone.” 

Trinity pointed her pen toward him. “See? Divorced parents.” 

Jack’s eyebrows pinched. “Nobody’s divorced.” 

“You’re coparenting emotionally.” 

Robby pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly while Dennis nearly choked laughing. 

However, underneath all the humor, their ache remained. Because the truth was you’d been gone for years. Seattle had become your life. Harborview. Research publications. National conferences. Cases more complex than anything the Pitt could ever offer Every once in a while, Dana would forward an article mentioning your name, and the entire department would pass it around like proud relatives.  

Look at them!

Look how far they’ve made it! 

Yet whether you’d ever come back was always a lingering uncertainty that threaded with their pride. 

Jack stared absently into his coffee for a moment before smiling faintly to himself. “You know they still call Robby before major procedures.” 

A look of irritation crossed Robby’s face. “That happened once.” 

“Three times.” 

“Four,” Dana corrected helpfully. 

Robby looked personally betrayed. 

Samira grinned. “Wait, seriously?” 

Jack nodded. “Middle of the night sometimes. They’ll panic about a surgery complication and call him like he’s Google MD.” 

“That is adorable.” 

“It is not.” 

“It’s extremely adorable,” Dana cheesed. 

“Seems like you really love them,” Dennis added after watching Robby try to hide a fond smile. 

Robby simply shrugged. “They’re worth loving.” 

Everyone in emergency medicine understood what he meant. To train someone, watch them grow, lose sleep over them, fight for them, and let them leave anyway because loving them properly meant wanting more for them than you could personally give had to mean something. 

“They’re doing good things out there,” Jack said softly. 

Beneath their sadness of missing you, beneath the uncertainty of whether Pittsburgh would ever become home for you again, there was still steady, undeniable, endless, and unwavering pride that blossomed in their voices whenever your name came up. 

And that was more than some could even wish for.  

_______________________

The Pitt sounded exactly the same. 

That was the first thing you noticed standing just outside the ambulance bay entrance beside Gloria, fingers curled tightly around the strap of your bag while your pulse thudded unevenly beneath your ribs. Even through the sliding doors, you could hear the department breathing in a familiar rhythm with distant overhead pages crackling through speakers, monitors beeping deeper into the ER, phones ringing near the nurses’ station, and voices overlapping one another beneath the constant movement of gurneys against tile floors. 

For years after leaving Pittsburgh, those sounds haunted you a little like a phantom limb and memories stitched into your nervous system. 

Seattle had its own rhythm. Harborview had become home in many ways over the years in its trauma rooms, its residents, the skyline outside your apartment after long shifts. You had built an entirely life there; a very successful one; the kind of life younger you used to ache for so badly it hurt.

But the Pitt still lived deep in your bones. 

You swallowed thickly. 

Gloria glanced sideways at you as she pushed open the ambulance bay doors. “You look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“I might,” you answered truthfully. 

“That’s reassuring from our new attending.” 

“I haven’t been back here in years.” 

“You’ve also performed surgery on people with rebar through their chest cavities without breaking a sweat.” 

“That was highly dramatized.”

Gloria laughed softly before stepping fully into the department. 

Warm light spilled over your instantly. The familiar smell of antiseptic, coffee, and stale hospital air wrapped around your senses so quickly your chest tightened. The ER stretched before you exactly as you remembered. And somehow, despite all the years apart, your body still knew this place instinctively. 

No one noticed you at first which was good; you weren’t entirely sure your heart could survive being perceived so quickly. 

Gloria guided you quietly toward the side of the nurses’ station while staff rushed around nearby. A sleepy looking blond stood half-asleep beside a computer while a brunette argued with Dana about discharge paperwork. A young, dark-skinned med student leaned against the counter drinking matcha with an expression of someone reconsidering every life choice that brought her into emergency medicine. 

And across the department, Robby stood at the center of handoff looking so tired enough that your chest ached on instinct for him. He looked older than when you left, all worn down in the way emergency medicine wore people down eventually. His sleeves were rolled unevenly to his elbows, stethoscope hanging crookedly around his neck while he scanned through a chart with quiet concentration. The sight hit you harder than expected because memories came rushing back all at once. 

For years after the move, there were still moments you caught yourself thinking: I should ask Robby what’d he do.

Some habits never left. 

He looked up briefly while continuing handoff, entirely unaware you were standing barely twenty feet away watching him. 

"We’re short two nurses today,” he said tiredly, glancing between the residents gathered around him. “Which means nobody gets to psychologically unravel until after noon.” 

The sleepy blond raised a hand weakly. “Can I schedule mine in advance?”

“No, Whitaker, you cannot.” 

“That feels very anti-worker.” 

“You’re lucky we feed you,” Dana spoke up without looking away from her board. 

Whitaker (now that his name had been provided) blinked. “We’re getting fed?” 

Nearby, the brunette laughed while a man with a hairline people would fly to Turkey for shook his head behind a patient chart with visible amusement.

At the sight, a warmth settled low in your stomach. You had missed this—the Pitt and all its ramblings and teasing and ability to make someone feel comfortable in their own skin. 

Robby flipped absently to another page in the chart before continuing. “Also, administration finally approved another attending for day-shift trauma coverage.”

That caught everyone’s attention. 

The brunette straightened slightly. “Wait, seriously?” 

“About time,” Dana muttered. “You’ve been stretched thin for far too long.”  

Whitaker looked suspicious. “Are they normal?” 

“No normal person willingly works here,” the dark-skinned med student said around her straw. 

“Fair.” 

Robby sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head. “I haven’t met them yet, but apparently they’re starting this morning, so please try not to scare them off immediately.” 

Dana finally looked at him. “You say that like it’s our fault people quit.” 

“It usually is.” 

A ripple of tired laughter moved through the group. 

Robby opened his mouth to say something again as he lifted his gaze, but his words died instantly on his tongue as his eyes found yours. 

For one suspended second, the entire department seemed to blur around his face’s expression that changed through confusion first, then disbelief, before settling on something so sharp and emotional it nearly knocked the breath from your lungs even from across the room. 

The chart lowered slowly in his hand, his feet already shuffling slowly toward you while everyone looked between you and him with confused wide eyes. 

Michael Robinavitch didn’t freeze for anyone. 

You smile before your nerves could completely betray you. “Hi, Robby.” 

Whitaker frowned, eyes glancing between you too as he leaned closer to the brunette. “Why do I suddenly feel like I’m watching something deeply important?” he stage whispered. 

Robby didn’t hear him. He stopped and stared at you like the floor had disappeared beneath him. “Kid?” 

The nickname hit hard. No one in Seattle ever called you that. There, you were doctor, attending, colleague. Somewhere along the way, you had become someone polished and capable and frighteningly respected.  

But one word from Robby and suddenly you felt twenty-six again, exhausted and terrified and trying desperately to prove you deserved to exist in this department. 

“You’re here,” he said softly. 

You giggled, eyes bright and glossy. “That’s usually how jobs work.” 

That seemed to finally know him back into motion as he wrapped his arms around you and brought you into his chest. You all but melted into him, the smell of his cologne hitting warm in your nose. His cheek rested on the top of your head.

“You didn’t tell me,” he murmured. 

“I wanted to surprise you.” 

“Well, congrats; color me very surprised and very happy.” 

Around you, the rest of them had gone nearly silent watching the interaction. 

Dennis glanced wildly between everyone. “Hold on.” 

Trinity’s eyes grew even bigger. “Oh. OH!” 

Victoria slapped a hand over her mouth. “That’s them.” 

Mel blinked slowly. “The Seattle one?” 

You pulled back from Robby and looked over at Dana. “Am I hospital folklore?” 

She nodded, eyes also glossy as she took you in over her silver frames. “You absolutely are.” 

Dennis looked scandalized. “Wait, this is the resident you two keep talking about?” 

Robby sighed softly without taking his eyes off you. “Apparently.” 

“No, seriously,” Trinity cut in, staring openly now. “You’re like . . . Pitt mythology.” 

A snort flew loudly through your nose. “That feel so dramatic.” 

Hearing you laugh again seemed to physically settled something inside Robby as his face morphed into something prideful. His arm raised and wrapped around your shoulders, effectively pulling you back into his side with a smile.

It looked like everyone was dying to interrogate you further, but before they could, the trauma alarms screamed overhead. Dana, who had picked up the station phone, lowered it. 

“GSW incoming. SWAT raid gone wrong; officer involved. ETA two minutes,” she announced. 

Like a clack of thunder, the department exploded back into motion. Nurses rushed toward the bay, and the residents scattered for more supplies all while monitors flickered awake. Gloves snapped loudly in the air into place around wrists. And without even thinking about it, you set your bag down on the station and grabbed a pair yourself. 

“Mind if I join in?” you asked calmly. 

The newer residents went slightly quiet at the confidence in your voice while Robby looked at you fully. You weren’t the frightened resident he used to know you as. Now, you were a physician standing tall beside him. Another wave of pride washed over him. 

“Yeah,” he said awestruck in a way. “Please do.” 

The trauma bay doors slid open moments later. Paramedics and uniformed SWAT members wheeled in a bleeding officer while voices overlapped through the commotion.

“GSW through the shoulder—” 

“Pressure is dropping—” 

“Move, move—” 

Then, another familiar and sarcastic voice cut through the others. “If one more drop of blood gets on my new shoes, I’m actually going to file a complaint against veteran discrimination.” 

Your head snapped in his direction as Jack stepped through the ambulance bay doors half-covered in SWAT gear, helmet tucked beneath one arm while blood stained the bottom of his pant leg. He looked irritated and entirely focused on the patient—

Until his eyes landed on you, causing him to freeze instantly. Everyone watched as disbelief, relief, and love flashed so quickly across his face it almost felt too intimate to witness. Your composure nearly shattered on the spot. 

“Hey, Jack,” you said, voice loud enough to carry over. 

The words had barely left your mouth before he crossed the department toward you quickly. He didn’t seem to care about the motion around him, didn’t seem to even notice he had an audience. 

Once second you stood there clutching your blue, latex gloves in trembling hands and the next Jack had pulled you tightly against him, one arm wrapping around your shoulders hard enough to nearly steal your breath entirely. 

“Oh,” he whispered quietly against your hair. “Hey, kid.” 

Your eyes burned while your arms wrapped around his middle, familiar warmth and exhaustion and home hitting all at once beneath the light. 

“You came back,” he murmured softly.   

“Yeah,” you whispered back.” 

Suddenly, the years of distance, Seattle itself, phone calls, missed birthdays, research conferences, and lonely apartments after terrible shifts didn’t matter because Jack still held you exactly the same way he used to after nights in the Pitt, carefully like something precious that had exhausted itself by trying too hard for too long. 

Somewhere nearby, Dennis whispered, “Oh my gosh, they really are their kid.” 

No one corrected him. 

Jack finally pulled back enough just to cup your face briefly in both hands, hazel eyes moving over you like he was trying to memorize every changed detail all at once. “You look good.” 

Healthier his expression implied. Lighter

You swallowed thickly. “You look tired.” 

“That’s because Robby keeps aging me prematurely.” 

“Liar,” Robby muttered nearby, though his voice had gone suspiciously soft. 

The patient groaned loudly behind all of you, shattering the moment but snapping the motion back into place. You stepped toward the trauma bed first. 

“Okay,” you said, pulling gloves on. “Let’s save this guy before Dana kills us for emotional loitering.” 

Dana pointed toward you across the room. “See? They did come back healthier.” 

Laughter rippled quickly through the bay as you, Jack, and Robby moved together in a seamless action just like no time had passed at all. 

The Byers' family women had always been fierce.

You defended your brothers in more than one way -- in all of the ways that your mother couldn't be there for. You'd joined forces to make sure that your brothers' sensitive souls were always protected. Jonathan, your twin, was gentle, quiet, and never one to snap. Will was the same.

That couldn't be said for you or your mom.

You'd socked more bullies in the face than you could count when you were in middle school. When things were their worst for Jonathan, no one could so much as look at him without you kicking them in their knees with your sparkly pink sneakers, promptly ensuring that no one would ever touch him again or get the chance to say something that he'd think about for days after.

Will, your younger brother, knew you extended the same type of protection to him. But instead of putting your hands on people, you terrified the little shits by chasing them in your Sedan, honking loudly. You'd yank the window down and yell something in warning, then drive away satisfied.

You were the spitting image of Joyce.

You were a storm in a hand-me-down flannel. The spitfire second child, born ten minutes after Jonathan and inheriting all the fight he seemed to have been born without. Where Jonathan observed the world through a camera lens, absorbing its pain and beauty quietly, you met it head-on, fists up and teeth bared. You were your mother’s daughter through and through -- the same wild curls, the same wide, expressive eyes that could flash from warmth to warning in a heartbeat, the same stubborn set to your jaw that said try me.

Joyce fought monsters you couldn’t see, battles with bills and bad wiring and a world that felt constantly tilted against her. You fought the monsters you could. The ones with names like Troy and James, who shoved Will into lockers and called Jonathan a freak. Your weapon of choice evolved with age: the sparkly pink sneakers of middle school gave way to a terrifying competence with your father’s old wrench, the one he'd left when he did, and finally, to a reputation. A reputation that said, mess with a Byers, and you answer to her.

Jonathan never asked you to fight his battles. He’d just give you a small, irritated frown when you came home with scraped knuckles, wordlessly cleaning you up at the kitchen sink. Will would look at you with a mixture of awe and worry, knowing his big sister was a force of nature, one he was secretly grateful was on his side.

The Byers family was a fortress, and you were its most volatile, loyal guard. You loved fiercely, protected violently, and held a grudge like it was a cherished heirloom. You didn’t start fights, but you sure as hell finished them.

When Will went missing, it wracked you and your brother's souls -- and destroyed your mother's. She was spiraling out of control, and you two were desperately trying to hold her together in any way you could. Caught between missing and grieving Will and making sure your mother would survive, it definitely made things tense.

The world had gone silent in the worst way. Will’s absence wasn't just an empty chair at dinner; it was a scream that had sucked all the sound out of the house, leaving only the frantic, scraping noise of your mother’s fear. You watched her tape up Christmas lights, her hands trembling, her eyes seeing things you couldn't. The fortress was cracking, and you and Jonathan stood in the breach, holding up the crumbling walls with your bare hands.

You took the night shifts, patrolling the quiet, oppressive dark of the house with Lonnie’s old wrench held tight, your knuckles white. Jonathan took the days, following your mother on her desperate errands, a silent, anxious shadow. You communicated in looks, in sighs, in the way you’d wordlessly make a pot of coffee at 3 AM for the other. The twin bond, usually a quiet understanding, had become a taut wire of shared dread.

School was a forgotten concept. The bullies, the whispers, the petty high school dramas -- they were echoes from another life. Steve Harrington and his court were irrelevant, just background noise in a town that was eating your family alive.

Until they weren’t.

The aroma of the corner store made you cringe -- all of the smells combined themselves into a raunchy odor. Pizza, cleaning supplies, medication and plastic. You'd only gone in to buy Jonathan something to eat. In fact, you were forcing it on him, just like you had to force your mother sometimes.

Fingering a 5 dollar bill out of your back pocket, you paid for the slice of pizza and the bottle of soda quickly, giving the clerk a polite smile before getting out of there as quickly as you could.

The street was empty. Jonathan and Nancy were nowhere to be seen.

Furrowing your eyebrows, you took a few steps forward before you heard the commotion. Scuffling, yelling, Nancy's cries of "stop!" You turned into the direction you'd heard it, your steps increasing in speed until you reached a jog. This was the sound of danger. This was a sound you were familiar with -- your brother being fucked with.

As you rounded the corner, the scene unfolded in front of you.

"BYERS IS A PERV" spray painted onto a garage door in red ink, glaring into your face brightly.

Steve Harrington, the infamous douchebag king of Hawkins High, had an iron tight grip on your brother, close to wrestling him to the ground. Without another word, you stalked forward, shoving the brown paper bag of Jonathan's lunch into Nancy's arms when you finally reached her, and threaded yourself quickly between the two men.

Your shoulder connected hard with Steve's chest, shoving him back a step, breaking his grip on Jonathan. Then, you curled your nimble hands into Steve's shirt, shoving him further, watching him stumble back.

"You wanna fight someone? Fight someone who's good at it!" You hissed.

Before Steve could regain his footing, there was a crack in the air. A groan followed soon after, but immediately, another crack sounded. After years of fighting for your brother, you'd learned how to do it effectively, not giving Steve time to respond before decking him yet again in his face.

"Where'd all that confidence go now, Harrington? Huh?" You taunted, watching him fall, jeans soaked in a puddle on the pavement, bleeding on the ground.

"Y/N, stop it--" Jonathan attempted, but you were beyond that.

Reeling your leg back, you sent it straight into Steve's gut.

Once.

"Don't you ever fucking touch--"

Again.

"--my brother again, you brainless--"

The final time, releasing all of the power in your lean, trembling body.

"--douchebag!"

The final kick was a punctuation mark of pure, unadulterated fury. Steve folded around the impact with a sickening wheeze, curling into a fetal position on the wet asphalt. The alley fell into a shocked, heavy silence, broken only by Steve's ragged, pained gasps.

You stood over him, chest heaving, the adrenaline a deafening roar in your ears. You’d done it. You’d put the king in the mud. It should have felt like victory. It just felt like another terrible thing in a week of terrible things.

Nancy was staring at you with wide, horrified eyes, the brown paper bag crumpled forgotten in her arms. Jonathan looked pale, his own anger drained away, replaced by a deep, unsettling worry. He wasn't looking at Steve; he was looking at you.

And Steve… Steve was looking at you too.

Slowly, agonizingly, he pushed himself up onto his elbows. Blood and dirty water streaked his face, his expensive jacket was ruined, and he was holding his stomach where your foot had connected. But his eyes, one already swelling shut, were locked on you with an intensity that felt like a physical touch.

He didn't look angry. He didn't look humiliated.

He looked… transfixed.

A slow, pained look of shock spread across his bloody face. "Holy shit," he breathed, the words a pained rasp of pure wonder.

In the midst of your confusion, there were police in the alley. To add bullshit to bullshit, you were being arrested.

The cold, impersonal grip of the officer’s hand on your bicep was a jarring slap back to reality. The adrenaline haze evaporated, leaving you shivering in your damp clothes, the metallic taste of fury still on your tongue. You didn’t resist as you were pulled away from Steve, who was still staring at you from the ground with that dazed, bloody smile.

“You’re under arrest for assault,” the officer was saying, his voice a flat monotone as he recited your rights.

Assault. The word seemed ridiculous. You’d been defending your brother from the guy who’d just spray-painted a lie about him for the whole town to see. You looked over at Jonathan, who was being questioned by another cop, his face pale and pinched. Nancy was crying quietly, her arms wrapped around herself.

As you were led toward the waiting patrol car, you heard a groan and a scramble of movement.

When you looked back, Steve, Tommy, and Carol were all gone. Groaning, you allowed yourself to be tucked into the squad car.

The ride to the police station was a blur of gray streets and the officer's low, crackling radio. Your knuckles throbbed in time with your heartbeat. The quiet in the car was oppressive, broken only by the occasional staticky transmission.

It gave you too much time to think. To replay the scene. The red spray paint. Jonathan's terrified face. The solid, sickening impact of your fists and feet connecting with Steve Harrington. And that look on his face... that wasn't right. People didn't look at you like that after you beat them senseless. They cowered. They swore revenge. They didn't stare like you'd just performed a miracle.

The processing at the station was a numb, bureaucratic nightmare. Mugshot. Fingerprints. The cold metal of the holding cell bench seeping through your damp jeans. You sat, arms wrapped around yourself, staring at the scuffed floor. They'd let Jonathan and Nancy go after taking their statements. You were the one who'd thrown the punches. Well, and the kicks.

You didn't know how long you'd been there when the heavy door clanged open. There stood Hopper, gesturing for you to come out.

"You're being released. Your family has been through enough without this," Hopper remarked. "Your mother's here. No more assaulting people."

Hopper’s voice, a familiar gravelly mix of authority and exhausted compassion, cut through the fog. You looked up, meeting his tired eyes. He gave you a brief, almost imperceptible nod. It wasn’t approval, but it was understanding. He knew what it was to fight for family.

You stood, your joints protesting, and followed him out of the cell. The fluorescent lights of the station lobby were blinding. And there was Joyce, a small, frantic silhouette against the harsh light. She looked like she’d been carved from pure anxiety, but when she saw you, she surged forward, pulling you into a hug so tight it hurt your bruised ribs. You didn’t mind.

“Oh, honey,” she murmured, her voice cracking. Her hands fluttered over your back, your arms, as if checking for broken pieces.

“I’m okay, Mom,” you mumbled into her shoulder.

She pulled back, her eyes scanning your face, landing on your raw knuckles. A flicker of that old, fierce pride shone through the worry before it was swallowed by fresh fear. “We’re going home.”

Hopper cleared his throat. “I’ll drive you. Your car’s still back there, and you,” he pointed a thick finger at you, “are in no state.”

You didn’t argue. The thought of getting behind the wheel made your hands shake. You just nodded.

-

When the worst was over, it seemed that everyone's perspective on Steve changed. Aside from yours, of course.

Will had returned home, tentatively healthy. Your mom was doting over him more than ever. Jonathan was now transfixed on Nancy Wheeler. And you were back in your element -- working at the automotive shop in town. There were three of them; you just happened to work at the one that Steve and family took his BMW to.

He knew it was weird. He knew it was completely off center and extremely to the left that ever since you'd kicked the dog shit out of him, he was completely enamored by you. But he couldn't help it. And he saw you a few times a week -- after all, he chaperoned your little brother and his friends wherever they went. When he picked Will up and he clambered his way into Steve's backseat to sit next to Mike, he always looked up into the window. And he always caught your look of distaste.

He'd helped your family. He'd protected the kids. He'd swung nail covered bats at alien creatures with 200 teeth to defend Jonathan. But you still hated him. It should've driven him away.

But.. Steve Harrington had a problem.

It wasn't the usual kind. Not failing grades, or a fight with his dad, or even the lingering, bone-deep terror from facing down inter-dimensional monsters. No, his problem had your wild, furious eyes, your fists that hit like a freight train, and a grudge you held that was colder and harder than the wrench you’d once threatened him with.

You. Your name was a constant hum in the back of his mind, a background noise to every other thought. It had been months. Months since the alley, since the spray paint and the blood and the blinding, life-altering moment you’d looked down at him, a vengeful angel in a hand-me-down flannel, and he’d realized he’d never seen anything more beautiful.

Everyone else had moved on. Hell, he’d moved on, in every practical sense. He’d ditched the asshole crown. He’d apologized to Jonathan (who’d accepted it with a quiet, wary nod). He’d become the kids’ glorified babysitter, a role that was somehow more exhausting and more rewarding than being King Steve had ever been. He’d fought actual monsters. He was trying to be a better guy.

But it all felt… secondary. Like he was just killing time between sightings of you.

He saw you at the shop, grease smudged on your cheek, wielding tools with a competence that made his mouth go dry. He saw you dropping Will off, your expression softening for a millisecond for your little brother before hardening again when you spotted him. He saw you everywhere, and every time, it was like a punch to the solar plexus, a jolt of something electric and painful and addicting.

He knew it was pathetic. Tommy would have laughed himself sick. Nancy, in the brief, awkward moments they still had to interact, looked at him with a sort of pitying confusion. He didn’t care.

Because the thing was, Steve had been liked his whole life. For his hair, his car, his family’s money, his position on the team. It had been easy, surface-level. What he felt for you was the exact opposite of easy. It was a bruise that wouldn’t fade. An obsession born not from getting what he wanted, but from being thoroughly, decisively destroyed by it.

You hated him. He could see it in every line of your body when he was near, in the way your eyes would sweep over him like he was something unpleasant you’d stepped in. You held that grudge like it was a precious thing, and he was weirdly, desperately proud of you for it. Of course you wouldn’t forgive him. He didn’t deserve it. You had standards. You had fire.

He wanted to stand in that fire forever.

So he drove the kids to the arcade, he picked up parts from the shop even when he didn’t need to, he made sure Will got home safe, and he stole every single glance of you he could get. He was a lovesick idiot, pining after you, who’d probably rather set his car on fire than speak to him. And the worst part -- the truly, wonderfully, sickeningly worst part -- was that he wouldn’t have it any other way. The kick had broken something in him, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Steve Harrington back together again. He didn't want them to. He just wanted you to look at him one more time, even if it was with pure, unadulterated hate.

The scent of motor oil and old rubber was a familiar comfort, a welcome replacement for the cloying smells of antiseptic and fear that had haunted the house for weeks. You were back where you belonged: under a car, the solid weight of an engine above you, a problem you could actually solve in your hands.

You were replacing the alternator on a sleek BMW. You knew whose car it was. Of course you did. It was an unwelcome, persistent fact, like a pebble in your shoe. Steve Harrington’s shiny, expensive toy. The shop owner, old man Murdoch, had handed you the work order with a grunt, and you’d taken it without a word, because a job was a job, and you were damn good at this one.

But it didn’t mean you had to like it.

As you tightened a bolt, your knuckles -- the same ones that had split open on his jaw months ago -- ached faintly with the memory. You could still see the red spray paint. You could still hear Nancy’s cry, and feel the sickening give of his ribs under your foot. The violence didn't haunt you; you’d done what needed doing. What haunted you was the aftermath. The way he’d looked at you. Not with anger, but with a dazed, bloody wonder. It had been confusing then, and it was infuriating now.

Because now, he was everywhere. A permanent, unwanted fixture. He’d wormed his way into your family’s new, fragile peace. Will spoke of him with a hesitant admiration. Your mom mentioned him in passing, a tone of weary gratitude in her voice. Jonathan… Jonathan had forgiven him. Or at least, he’d accepted his help, which in your brother’s book was close enough.

It made your blood boil. They’d all forgotten. Forgotten the years of whispers, the casual cruelty, the way he and his friends had made your brothers feel small. They saw the redeemed hero, the monster-fighting babysitter. You saw the entitled king who’d only changed his tune because the world had literally gone to hell, and even then, it had taken you beating it into him first.

Your forgiveness wasn’t for sale. Not for apologies, not for nail bats, not for driving your brother home. That grudge was yours. You’d polished it, honed it, held it close. It was the last line of defense for the people you loved, a reminder that not everyone got a clean slate just because they decided to stop being the worst version of themselves.

Hearing steps crackle on the garage cement, you slid out from under the car, anticipating a customer or your boss coming to see how the work was going. Wiping your hands quickly on a rag, you turned to face them, a professional look on your oil blemished face.

Immediately, your jaw set.

Harrington.

He stood in the open bay doorway, backlit by the sinking sun like some misplaced golden boy statue. He had his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched, as if trying to make himself smaller. The confident swagger he’d worn like a second skin in the halls of Hawkins High was gone, replaced by a nervous, watchful energy that was almost worse.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little too casual, like he’d practiced the tone in the mirror.

You didn’t say anything. You just stared at him, the rag twisting tight in your grip.

He cleared his throat, his eyes darting from your face to the BMW and back again. “Is it, uh… is it ready?”

You bit your cheek, your eyes analyzing him like a snake did its prey. "No. It'll take a couple more minutes. Feel free to wait." You said shortly.

Steve fought the urge to shiver. The frigidness of your demeanor was enough to cool down the entire garage. But something about it was just so intriguing, he couldn't get enough.

The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, more like a reflex to the verbal slap. "Okay," he said, his voice softer now. "I'll wait."

He didn't go back to the waiting area with the stained magazines and the lukewarm coffee. He just... hovered. Leaning against the tool cabinet a careful distance away, watching you as you slid back under the car. He knew he shouldn't. He knew it made you bristle, that it probably violated some unspoken rule. But he was a moth to a particularly dangerous, grease-stained flame.

The sounds from under the car were efficient, professional: the clink of metal, the ratcheting of a wrench, the soft thud of something being set aside. You worked with a focused silence that was somehow louder than any tantrum.

He cleared his throat again. "What made you choose cars?"

You stilled. "What?"

He faltered slightly, but persevered. "What, um.. What made you choose working on cars? As a line of work."

Your wrench clattered against the concrete floor with a loud, jarring ring. The sudden noise made Steve jump.

For a long moment, there was only the fading echo of metal on concrete. You didn't move from under the car. He could see the tense line of your legs, frozen in place.

When you finally spoke, your voice was dangerously quiet, each word measured and sharp. "Why do you care, Harrington?"

He swallowed, his throat dry. This was it. This was the crack he'd been prying at, and it was about to split wide open, maybe right in his face. "I just... I don't know. I see you here, you're... you're really good at it. Seems like more than just a job. I was curious."

You slid out from under the car slowly, like a predator emerging from its den. You didn't stand up. You stayed on the creeper, looking up at him from the floor, grease smeared across your cheekbone, your eyes blazing. The position should have made you seem vulnerable. It didn't. It made him feel like he was the one being inspected from a disadvantage.

"You want to know what made me choose cars?" you repeated, your voice low. "Lonnie."

The name hung in the oily air. Steve knew that name. Everyone in Hawkins knew the story of Lonnie Byers, the deadbeat dad who took off.

"He left a lot of things when he walked out," you continued, your gaze never leaving his. "Bills. A broken family. A lot of bad memories." You picked up the wrench you'd dropped, your grip tightening on the handle. "And a toolbox. A really nice, professional-grade toolbox."

You pushed yourself to your feet in one smooth motion, the wrench held loosely at your side. "My mom was drowning. Jonathan was... Jonathan. Will was a baby. The bills kept coming. So I opened the toolbox." You took a step toward him, and he couldn't have moved if he wanted to. "I figured out how to fix the sink. Then the wiring in the wall that was making the lights flicker. Then the neighbors' lawnmower for twenty bucks. Then Mr. Perkins' pickup when it wouldn't start, for fifty."

You were close enough now that he could see the flecks of gold in your furious eyes, smell the sharp, clean scent of the industrial soap you used under the grease. "It was the one thing he left that wasn't completely useless. The one thing I could turn into something that actually helped my family. So I got good at it. Really good. Because when the world is falling apart, being able to fix something, anything, makes you feel like you're not completely powerless."

You stopped, your chest rising and falling slightly. The raw honesty of the confession seemed to hang between you, stark and uncomfortable. You'd just shown him a piece of your backbone, the gritty, unglamorous reason for your competence, and you looked like you regretted every word.

"So that's why, Steve," you finished, your voice dropping back to its usual icy chill. "Not because it's fun. Not because I like getting dirty. Because it pays the bills he left behind. Now, are we done with the heartfelt interviews, or do you need to know my favorite color next?"

He just stared at you, his heart hammering. He’d asked for a glimpse behind the wall, and you’d handed him a blueprint of your soul, etched in hardship and resilience. It was the most incredible, devastating thing he’d ever heard. He’d never wanted to kiss someone and apologize to them so badly in his entire life.

"Blue," he heard himself say, his voice hoarse.

Your brow furrowed. "What?"

"Your favorite color. It's blue. Will told me."

You stared for a moment, your eyes mixing shock with the leftover hatred from moments ago. Then, as if snapping back into yourself, you laughed bitterly.

"Obviously me spraining your ribs with my size 6 taught you nothing." You hissed. "I don't like you, Harrington."

The laugh, bitter and sharp, was the final straw. Something snapped inside Steve. The awe, the infatuation, the desperate hope -- it all coalesced into a stubborn, white-hot defiance. He was done just taking it.

He took a step forward, closing the distance you’d just created. He didn't tower over you, but his presence was suddenly solid, immovable. The playful, nervous energy was gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that mirrored your own.

“I know you don’t like me,” he said, his voice low and steady, cutting through the garage’s hum. “Trust me, the feeling’s been made crystal clear.”

You stared right up into his face, not moved at all by his change in behavior. But it didn't surprise him, nor did it scare him.

"I hate you. You and your fuck-face friends terrorized Jonathan for years. You broke his camera, which I don't know if you realized, but was his entire world," you growled. "And we aren't made of money like the Harrington family. If Nancy didn't feel bad, that would've taken over a year to replace."

Instead of cutting in, instead of a rebuttal, Steve just listened.

"Tommy used to knock his books out of his hands and shove him into lockers until I put a stop to it," You continued, jabbing a finger into Steve's chest. He could feel the warmth of your touch seep through his sweater. "I know your kind. You're all self-centered, shallow, day-dreaming morons. You think you have all the answers, or that your magical charm is gonna forge a relationship between us? You're delusional. I don't know what your problem is, or why you stare at me all the time, ask my brothers questions about me, why you're so obsessed, but you're gonna get a rerun of the ass kicking from months ago if you don't use your brain a little bit!" You finished, breathing hard.

Steve didn't flinch. He didn't step back. He absorbed every word like a blow, letting them land, letting them settle. The truth of them was a bitter pill, but he swallowed it. He’d earned every single accusation.

When you finished, chest heaving, finger still pressed against his sternum, he was quiet for a long moment. The garage felt charged, the air thick with the history you’d just thrown in his face.

Finally, he spoke, his voice rough but calm. "You're right."

You dropped the hand that was pressing a harsh fingertip against his chest.

"About all of it," he continued, his gaze unwavering. "I was a self-centered, shallow moron. Tommy and Carol... they were my friends, and I let it happen. I didn't start it, but I didn't stop it. I'm sorry about his camera. I'm sorry about the spray paint. I'm sorry for what I said about your family. I'm sorry for every single day Jonathan felt small because of me or anyone near me."

He took a slow breath, your touch still burning a hole through his sweater. "But I'm not asking for a relationship. I don't have any charm, not with you. It doesn't work. All I've got is this." He gestured between the two of you, at the scant inches of charged space. "This... whatever it is. This thing where you want to murder me and I can't stop thinking about you. I don't understand it either. But I'm not going to pretend I'm not obsessed. I am. I'm completely obsessed with you, Y/N Byers."

He saw the shock flash in your eyes, the way your anger momentarily faltered, replaced by sheer disbelief.

"And you're right about another thing," he said, his voice dropping even lower, almost a whisper. "I am delusional. Because I think, somewhere under all that justified hate, you see that I'm trying. You see that I'm not that guy anymore. And that pisses you off even more, because it’s easier to hate a cartoon villain than a real person who’s actually sorry."

You felt your throat close up.

"So go ahead," he murmured, his eyes holding yours, dark and serious. "Give me that rerun. Kick my ass again. I'll probably thank you for it. But it won't change anything. I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to keep driving your brother around. I'm going to keep picking up my car from this shop. And I'm going to keep being pathetically obsessed with you until you look at me and see something other than an asshole in a varsity jersey."

The silence that followed was absolute. The hum of the fluorescent lights seemed to grow louder, the scent of oil and metal suddenly overwhelming. Your hand, which had been jabbing his chest, now hung limply at your side, tingling with the phantom echo of his heartbeat.

He’d stripped it all bare. No defenses, no excuses, just the raw, ugly, bewildering truth. An obsession. He’d named it, claimed it, and laid it at your feet like a challenge.

You wanted to hit him. The urge was a physical pulse in your tightened fists. You wanted to wipe that intense, earnest look off his face, to prove that nothing he said could penetrate the fortress of your resentment.

But you couldn’t move.

Because he was right. It was easier to hate the caricature. The King Steve who sneered from the yearbook, the one-dimensional bully. This Steve -- the one with shadows under his eyes from babysitting monsters, the one who spoke in a ragged whisper about being sorry, the one who looked at you like you were a complicated, terrifying puzzle he was willing to spend a lifetime solving -- this Steve was infinitely more dangerous.

He wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He wasn’t asking for anything. He was just… stating facts. Uncomfortable, insane facts that shifted the ground beneath your feet.

Your voice, when it finally came, was a dry rasp. “You need help.”

A smile touched his lips. “Probably.”

You turned away, unable to hold his gaze any longer. You focused on the BMW, on the job you’d finished, on the mundane reality of a repair invoice. You snatched the keys off the bench and thrust them toward him without looking. “$285.40. Then get out.”

You heard the rustle of fabric as he pulled out his wallet, the soft shuffle of bills being counted. He placed the cash on the counter next to you, his fingers careful not to brush yours.

“Thanks,” he said quietly. Not for the car. You knew what he meant.

Then he was gone. The sound of his engine starting was too smooth, too perfect -- a testament to your skill. You stood rigid, staring at the greasy imprint your fingertip had left on his dark sweater, now slowly fading from view.

The anger was still there, a familiar, comforting furnace in your chest. But it was banked now, smothered under the weight of his confession. Obsessed. The word echoed, disturbing and potent.

As much as you wanted to, you had the sinking, terrifying feeling that simply hating him wasn’t going to be enough to make him disappear this time.

-

Your keys jingled in the lock, alerting Will to the fact that you were home. A weak smile crossed your lips as you heard his footsteps, leaving his room and coming to the kitchen to welcome you home.

Will padded into the kitchen, a comic book dangling from one hand. "Hey," he said, his voice still soft, a permanent reminder of everything he’d been through. His eyes, so much like your mother’s, scanned your face with an empathy that always unnerved you a little. "Long day?"

"You could say that," you mumbled, dropping your keys on the counter with a clatter that felt too loud in the quiet house. You moved to the fridge, more to have something to do than out of any real hunger. "Mom still at work?"

"Late shift," Will confirmed, hovering near the doorway. He was watching you, that quiet observation you’d inherited from Jonathan. "Steve brought me home."

Your hand stilled on the refrigerator door handle. Of course he had. "Yeah?"

"Yep." Will responded. His tone allowed you to realize that he knew the situation between you and the man in question.

You shut the fridge door a little harder than necessary. “Great,” you said, the word flat.

Will bit his lip, his comic book forgotten. “He… he asked the best way to get you to talk. Without yelling.”

The air left your lungs. So it wasn’t just general, creepy interest. It was specific. He’d left the garage, driven your brother home, and immediately asked about your state of mind. The intimacy of it, the concern, felt like a violation.

“What did you tell him?” Your voice was tighter now.

Will shifted his weight, looking down at his sneakers. “I told him… I told him you like it when people are honest. Even if it’s bad honesty. And that you hate small talk. And that you really like the cherry slushies from the Gas-N-Sip.”

You stared at your brother. He’d just given Steve Harrington a tactical manual. Honesty. No small talk. Cherry slushies. Three data points to be used against you. The betrayal was quiet but profound.

“Will,” you said, your voice dangerously calm. “Why would you tell him that?”

He looked up, his eyes wide and earnest. “Because he seemed… lost. And he’s trying. Really trying. And… I don’t know. Maybe if he stops being such an idiot about it, you could at least not hate him so much. It’s exhausting just watching it.”

The blunt truth from your usually gentle brother hit you like a physical blow. It’s exhausting just watching it. You were so busy guarding the fortress, you hadn’t considered how the siege looked to those inside with you.

You turned away, gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles turned white. The image of Steve, with his “lost” expression, grilling your little brother for tips on how to handle you, was too much. It was pathetic. It was infuriating.

And yet, a tiny, traitorous part of you recognized the strategy. It was smart. Going to the source. Seeking intel. It showed a level of thought and effort that the old Steve Harrington would never have possessed. The old Steve would have just bought you a meaningless gift or tried to flash a smile. Turning back towards him, you rolled your eyes at the younger boy in front of you. Always doing what he could to help. Always meaning well.

"If Steve Harrington shows up here with a slushy and a page of notes on what to say to me, I'm hiding all your D&D figures."

Will cracked a small smile.

"You won't. You always say that."

A comfortable silence filled the room as Will settled into the living room couch next to you, covering himself with his favorite blanket.

"What is it that you kids love about Steve so much anyways?"

The question felt foreign to your lips. Never in your life had you allowed yourself to express any interest in the fluffy-haired rich prick. You wanted to curse yourself for allowing today to change anything.

Will didn't answer right away. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, his gaze fixed on the static-snow of the turned-off TV, as if the answer were written there in the fuzz.

"It's not one thing," he said finally, his voice thoughtful. "It's... a bunch of little things. He always shows up when he says he will. He doesn't treat us like we're dumb kids, even when we're being dumb kids. He listens. Like, really listens. He remembered that Lucas is allergic to peanuts, and he checks candy bags before he hands them out."

You stayed silent, your own fingers tracing a seam in the couch cushion.

"And..." Will hesitated, his voice dropping. "After everything that happened... with me... he never looked at me like I was broken. Or weird. Everyone else does, a little. Even Mike sometimes. But Steve just... he treated me the same. Maybe even tougher, because he knew I could handle it."

You felt a sharp pang in your chest. You'd been so focused on the past Steve had with Jonathan, you hadn't fully considered the present he had with Will. The Steve who had been in the trenches, who had seen the unspeakable and come out the other side trying to be a decent human being. A guardian, not a king.

"He's just... there," Will concluded simply. "Solid. You can count on him. And I think... I think he's lonely. And we're kind of all he's got now."

Lonely. The word landed with a soft, surprising weight. You'd never considered Steve Harrington as lonely. He was supposed to be surrounded by people, by adoration. But the court was gone. Nancy was gone. The easy, shallow life was gone. All he had was a beat-up nail bat, a BMW, and a bunch of nerdy kids who relied on him.

You hummed.

"Lonely? What about.. Nancy? I thought they were a thing."

Will shook his head, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Not for a while. They broke up after… you know, everything. It wasn't messy. Mike said Nancy didn't even cry. Steve doesn’t really talk about it. Its just another thing to him.”

You absorbed this. The perfect King Steve and Princess Nancy fairytale had shattered. Another casualty of the upside-down chaos. It made sense, in a way. The things they’d seen would either bind people together with unbreakable glue or tear them apart with the sheer weight of it all.

“So he’s just… what? A free agent with a bunch of middle-schoolers as his social circle?” The words came out, but the old edge was gone. Now it just sounded like a genuine, bewildered question.

Will gave a small shrug. “Pretty much. He hangs out with that girl Robin sometimes. She’s cool. But mostly… it’s us. And he doesn’t seem to mind. He acts like it’s the most important job in the world.”

The most important job in the world. The phrase echoed, reshaping the Steve in your mind from a pathetic hanger-on to something else entirely. Someone who had found purpose in the rubble of his old life. It was a kind of strength you understood -- the kind forged in necessity and duty.

"Huh. Different than I would've thought. Not that I cared much." You disguised your shock with disinterest.

Will snorted.

"You spent so long hating him that you didn't even realize what you were hating changed. Even Jonathan doesn't mind him much now."

The observation, delivered with the brutal, unvarnished clarity only a little brother could muster, felt like a bucket of cold water. It doused the last flickering embers of your performative disinterest.

You stared at Will, who was now completely absorbed in his comic again, as if he hadn’t just dropped a truth bomb that shattered the entire foundation of your worldview.

Even Jonathan doesn’t mind him much now.

Jonathan. Your twin. Your gentle, wounded mirror. The primary victim of Steve Harrington’s reign. If he could move past it… what did that make you? You felt like everything was crumbling beneath you -- all of the resentment, the anger, the grudges. The things you'd held on to in an attempt to block of the softness of yourself.

Your eyes welled up. You realized who you needed. Even just for a moment. The person that knew you inside and out. Getting up gently, you walked to Jonathan's room and hesitantly knocked.

The door opened almost immediately, as if he’d been expecting you. Jonathan stood there, camera in hand as usual, his expression shifting from mild curiosity to instant concern when he saw your face. He knew your every micro-expression, the way your jaw tightened when you were angry, the way your eyes shimmered just before you cried.

“Hey,” he said softly, stepping aside to let you in. His room was a familiar sanctuary of developing photographs, band posters, and the faint chemical smell of fixer. “What’s up?”

Without another word, you curled yourself into his chest.

Jonathan didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, his camera pressing gently into your back. He didn't ask questions. He just held you, his chin resting on the top of your head, the familiar, steady rhythm of his heart a calming metronome against your ear.

You didn't cry. Not fully. But you trembled, the dam of your own stubbornness finally cracking under the weight of Will's observation and your own exhausting solitude. You clung to your brother, the one person who had shared every scar, every silent battle, every moment of defending your tiny, fragile kingdom.

After a long while, when your breathing had evened out, he spoke, his voice a quiet rumble in his chest.

"This is about Steve." He acknowledged.

You released a watery laugh, tears finally spilling over.

"Unfortunately."

Jonathan’s arms tightened around you for a second, a silent acknowledgment of the absurd, painful truth. “Yeah,” he sighed. “Figured.”

He guided you to sit on the edge of his bed, keeping an arm around your shoulders. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand, leaving a faint smudge of grease and tears.

“It’s just… everyone else has moved on,” you whispered, the confession torn from a raw place. “But it feels like betraying you if I do.. And he won't leave me alone. He keeps finding ways to reach me.”

Jonathan nodded slowly, staring at a photograph of a lonely-looking tree on his wall. “He’s hard to ignore when he’s trying that hard,” he said, a hint of dry amusement in his tone. “The guy’s like a golden retriever that got hit by a car but still wants to be your friend.”

The analogy was so unexpectedly accurate it startled another wet laugh from you. “A really annoying, formerly evil golden retriever.”

“With a blowout haircut,” Jonathan added, finally cracking a real smile. It faded as he turned to face you fully. “Listen to me. You moving on, you letting this go… that’s not a betrayal of me. It’s the opposite. It’s you finally letting me be okay. Because I am okay. I’ve made my peace. You holding onto this… it feels like you’re still fighting a battle I’ve already walked away from. It hurts to watch.”

His words were a gentle, precise incision, cutting straight to the heart of your guilt. You weren’t protecting him. He no longer needed it.

“He’s reaching you because you’re the only one still in the ring with him,” Jonathan continued. “Will’s team Steve. Mom’s grateful to him. I’m… neutral territory. But you? You’re the final boss. And he’s weirdly into it.” He made a vague, frustrated gesture. “He’s not going to leave you alone until you either knock him out for good or step out of the ring.”

You sniffed, the options laid bare. Permanent violence or surrender.

“There’s a third option,” Jonathan said, as if reading your mind again. “You stop seeing it as a ring. You stop seeing him as an opponent. You just… see him as Steve. The slightly pathetic, overly persistent guy who got beat up by a girl.”

You leaned back, staring at the water stain on his ceiling. “How?”

“Next time he looks at you, don’t think ‘there’s the guy who broke Jonathan’s camera.’ Think, ‘there’s the guy who keeps Will safe when we can't.’ It’s harder to hate him that way.”

The reframing was a mental sucker-punch. Simple. Brutally effective.

The guy who keeps Will safe.

You’d been so fixated on the past -- the broken camera, the spray-painted lies, the locker shoves -- you’d deliberately blinded yourself to the present. The present where Steve Harrington was the one in the driver’s seat when your little brother needed a ride. The one who had stood between Will and things far worse than high school bullies. The one who, by all accounts, took that job seriously.

Your anger, once a roaring fire, guttered and sank into embers. It wasn't gone, but its fuel had been cut off.

"Yeah," you breathed out, the word carrying the weight of a thousand released tensions. "Okay."

Jonathan nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, unless you want to help me mix developing chemicals, I need you to vacate. Your emotional crises are bad for the exposure."

You managed a weak smile and shoved yourself off his bed. "You're a real comfort, you know that?"

"The best," he said flatly, already turning back to his trays of chemicals.

You left his room, the hallway feeling different. Lighter. The blueprint of your soul you'd accidentally shown Steve in the garage -- the one built on Lonnie's toolbox and sheer necessity -- had a new line on it now. A line that connected, however tenuously, to him. Not as an enemy, but as a fellow guardian. A terribly flawed, deeply annoying, but undeniably present one.

You walked back into the living room. Will was asleep on the couch, comic book splayed on his chest. You gently pulled the blanket up over his shoulders, your heart doing that familiar, fierce squeeze. The guy who keeps Will safe.

-

You sat on the bench in your bay of the garage, picking at a piece of pizza. You peeled the greasy pepperoni off, tossing it into the garbage behind you, before turning back to the food your stomach felt too unsettled to consume.

The scent of pepperoni and motor oil was a familiar, oddly comforting combination. You were on your lunch break, but your appetite had vanished somewhere between Jonathan's talk and the seismic shift in your own head. You were just going through the motions, peeling toppings off as if fixing the pizza would fix the weird, hollow feeling in your gut.

The familiar, smooth purr of a BMW engine cut through the garage's usual cacophony. You didn't need to look up. You knew the sound, the way it idled, the specific timbre of its door closing.

Footsteps approached, hesitant at first, then more decisive. They stopped at the entrance to your bay. You took a deliberate bite of your now-bare-cheese pizza, chewed slowly, and finally looked up.

Steve Harrington stood there, holding two gas station cups. He looked nervous, his free hand shoved in his pocket, but there was a new determination in his stance, a lack of that cowering deference. He met your gaze head-on.

He walked forward and placed one of the cups on the workbench beside you. Condensation beaded on the red plastic. A cherry slushie.

"Harrington." You acknowledged, now attempting to keep the bitterness out of your tone. It was easier than it had been before. But it felt so odd to you. Your constant objective of icing Steve Harrington out had been stripped bare, so now it only left him.

Now that you had no reason to hate his guts, you were forced to see the appeal in him in the first place.

He was easy on the eyes, as much as you'd previously hated to admit it. His face was handsome in a clean way, chiseled lines with a boyish smile. His hair, which must've taken time, looked effortless. And he smelled good. The scent of an impeccably picked cologne flooded the bay -- not assaulting you, but seeping in quietly. He even dressed well.

You caught yourself staring, scolding yourself with disgust inwardly.

He saw you looking. A faint flush crept up his neck, but he didn't look away. He just stood there, holding his own cup, letting you look. There was no smugness in his expression, just a quiet, hopeful vulnerability that was somehow more disarming than any confident smirk.

"The, uh... the kid said you liked these," he repeated, his voice a little softer this time. "Peace offering. From the Gas-N-Sip."

The simple, honest statement cut through the last of your internal noise. Nothing grand or dramatic. Just a peace offering, sourced from intel provided by your own brother. It was disarmingly straightforward.

You looked from the slushie to his face. The vulnerability was still there, but it was grounded now. This wasn’t the desperate, bloody awe from the alley. This was a conscious choice. He was here, trying, with a cherry-flavored token.

Your fingers curled around the cold cup. “He’s got a big mouth,” you said, but there was no real heat behind it.

A small, genuine smile touched Steve’s lips. “He’s a good kid. Worries about you.”

That did it. The last brick in the wall wobbled. Will, your sweet, observant brother, was worried about you in this stupid standoff. And here was Steve, not just acknowledging it, but showing he’d listened.

You lifted the slushie and took a long pull. The sugar was a shock, the cold a relief. You swallowed and met his eyes. “It’s mediocre.”

The smile on his face widened, transforming it. The boyish charm you’d been reluctantly cataloging became fully, devastatingly operational. “Yeah,” he agreed, his voice warm. “The cherry’s always kinda fake-tasting. But it’s the principle.”

“The principle of bribery?”

“The principle of showing up,” he corrected softly.

You hummed, unwanted warmth spreading through your chest.

"You're not afraid I'll kick your ass? Paint your windshield with slushy?"

The question, laced with a hint of amusement, made his smile turn wry, almost fond. He shook his head, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Nah,” he said, his voice low and sure. “The ass-kicking’s already happened. And it was… informative.” He rubbed his jaw absently, a gesture that was both an acknowledgment of the past and a dismissal of its threat. “And you can paint my windshield if you want. I’ll just bring it back here for you to fix. Seems like a waste of a good slushie, though.”

The logic was circular, stubborn, and utterly Steve. He wasn't afraid because he'd already faced the worst you could do, and he'd not only survived it but somehow decided he liked the view from the floor. And he’d found a way to loop even your potential vandalism back into another interaction with you.

It was maddening. It was also, you realized with a sinking feeling, kind of impressive. The guy had resilience. A stupid, baffling, unkillable resilience. And it was somewhat.. attractive, which was a truth, but also a betrayal to who you'd been since you were in 8th grade.

You took another sip of the mediocre slushie, using the cold to ground yourself. “You’re a real piece of work, Harrington.”

“I’ve been told,” he repeated, but this time there was a lightness to it, a shared acknowledgment of the absurdity. "You kicking the shit out of me in an alley turned into me having a huge crush on you. Anyone else would've pressed charges for assault."

The words hung in the oily air, stark and breathtakingly honest. He’d said ‘obsessed’ before, in the heat of the garage confrontation. But this… ‘huge crush’. It was simpler. More human. More terrifying.

The slushy felt suddenly too cold in your hand. You set it down with a soft clack on the workbench.

“Anyone else wouldn’t have deserved it in the first place,” you replied, your voice quieter than you intended. It wasn’t an excuse. It was just… context. The context he’d finally, fully acknowledged.

He nodded, accepting that too. “True.” He took a half-step closer, the space between you humming with the weight of all the unsaid things. “But it’s not about deserving it. It’s about… what happened after. I looked up from the pavement, saw you standing over me looking like some pissed-off avenging angel, and something in my brain just… clicked. Or broke. Not sure which," He admitted. "Plus, I wondered where all the strength came from. You're tiny and almost knocked me out.”

The observation, delivered with such bewildered admiration, was the final straw. The last vestige of your defensive posture crumbled into dust. An incredulous laugh escaped you, shaking your shoulders.

"Comes from Joyce. She would've handed it to you too if she walked into that alley instead of me."

"Yeah," he said, his voice so quiet it was almost lost in the garage hum. "I believe that. I met her, when Will was... you know. She's... she's badass." He shook his head, a flicker of genuine awe in his eyes. "You come by it honestly, then. The fierceness."

He wasn't just complimenting you. He was acknowledging your lineage, your roots. Seeing the connection between you and your mother not as a weakness, but as a source of power. It was a level of perception you hadn't thought him capable of.

A genuine smile finally formed onto your lips.

"She likes you. Will does too." You admitted.

The admission felt like unlocking a door you’d kept deadbolted for years. It wasn’t about you. It was about them. About the people you loved most giving their stamp of approval to the person you’d dedicated so much energy to despising.

"Will tells me every time he sees me that he has the best sister in the world. And I'm not just being a kiss ass." Steve responded, stuffing his hands in his pockets, a mannerism of his that you'd seen countless times. "You're his world. Literally."

You looked away, suddenly unable to hold his gaze. Your eyes stung. You focused on a greasy smudge on the floor, blinking rapidly. He wasn't trying to flatter you. He was stating a fact he'd observed, a truth he'd been trusted with. You're his world. It was the highest compliment, the heaviest responsibility, and the one thing that could instantly dissolve the last of your icy resolve.

When you finally looked back, your vision was slightly blurred, but your voice was steady. "He's mine too."

Steve nodded, his expression solemn, understanding the weight of that simple exchange. It was a pact acknowledged. He saw the heart of you, the protector, and he respected it. More than that, he was telling you he valued it.

The air between you changed again. The last of the combat zone evaporated. This wasn't a battlefield anymore; it was common ground, hallowed by shared love for a kid who'd been through hell.

"So," Steve said, his voice regaining a bit of its normal cadence, though it was still softer than you'd ever heard it. "I figure if I'm gonna be hanging around... I should probably be on the good side of his world. Seems like a smart play."

Another laugh escaped you. "I wouldn't worry about smart plays anymore. I don't think you've ever made one."

The insult, delivered without malice, with almost fond exasperation, made him laugh.

“You’re probably right,” he admitted, still chuckling. “But hey, I’m here, aren’t I? In your garage. You’re talking to me. You haven’t threatened bodily harm in…” He made a show of checking an invisible watch on his wrist. “...at least ten minutes. I’d call that progress. Maybe my first smart play was just being too stupid to quit.”

He had a point. His strategy -- if it could even be called that -- had been sheer, dogged persistence. A stubborn refusal to be vanquished. And against your fortified walls of anger, it had somehow, miraculously, worked.

You looked at him, this former king, standing in your domain with grease on his designer shoes and hope in his eyes. He was a mess. A beautiful, confusing, resilient mess.

“Just don’t break anything on purpose anymore,” you said, the warning lacking any real threat. It was practically an invitation.

His smile softened, turning sincere. “No sabotage. Scout’s honor.” He took a step backward toward the exit. “I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe with another slushy. Maybe with flowers if I can get Will to tell me which ones you like."

He didn’t wait for a response. He just turned and walked out, leaving you with the echo of his words.

You watched him go, the sound of his BMW fading into the Hawkins afternoon. The bay was quiet again, but the silence was different. It wasn't empty. It was full of the echo of his laugh, the ghost of his cologne, and the terrifying, exhilarating realization that Steve Harrington wasn't just a problem you'd solved or a war you'd ended.

He was a possibility. A messy, complicated, stubbornly present possibility who bought cherry slushies for research and talked to your brother about how to get a chance with you.

You finished your shift in a daze. The world had tipped on its axis, and everything looked new. Grease was just grease. Tools were just tools. But the air felt charged, like the calm before a storm, except this storm smelled like synthetic cherry and expensive aftershave.

When you got home, Will was in the living room, a knowing look on his face. "So?"

"So, what?" you grumbled, hanging up your keys.

"Steve. Did he... you know. Do the thing?"

"What thing?"

"The cherry slushy. The weird stare where he acts like you invented gravity. They're his signature moves."

You stared at your little brother, this suddenly wise, observant creature. "Since when are you an expert on Steve Harrington's signature moves?"

Will shrugged, a mischievous glint in his eye. "I pay attention. He asked about flowers, by the way. I told him you like dandelions because they're weeds and they piss off the neighbors."

A laugh burst out of you, loud and surprised. "You did not."

"I did. He wrote it down. In a little notebook." Will was grinning now, delighted with himself. "He said, 'Weeds. Got it. Makes sense.'"

You stood there, stunned. Steve Harrington was keeping a notebook. About you. And your brother was his chief informant.

The world hadn't just tipped. It had somersaulted.

That night, as you lay in bed, you didn't think about spray paint or broken cameras. You thought about a notebook entry that spoke about your favorite flowers. You thought about shared looks over a slushie, and a truce built on common ground named Will.

The war was over. The peace was strange, and it came with a side of floral research and potential dandelions. And as you drifted to sleep, you realized you weren't just okay with it.

Daryl couldn’t stand you when the world first fell apart. The sound of your cane plodding on asphalt or dirt drove him up the wall. Too loud. Too slow. Too risky. Every time the group moved, he stalked twenty feet ahead, muttering under his breath whenever you lagged half a step behind.

“Can ya move any slower?” He snapped once, turning back with that irritated scowl of his.

Your grip tightened on the handle. “If you wanna carry me, Dixon, be my guest.”

His lip curled when he scoffed. Turning away quickly, he muttered something that sounded like it included your name but the words surrounding it likely weren’t polite. Still, you thought there was a glance each time your back spasmed, forcing you to massage muscles that never stopped hurting. At least once, Daryl’s eyes definitely flicked toward you before he jerked them away like he’d done something wrong.

That twenty foot gap that had remained steady between the two of you seemed to narrow after that, though he pretended not to notice. 

On the Greene farm, things shifted by inches. Sophia had vanished. You searched just as diligently as anyone else, ignoring your body’s pleas for rest throughout hours of climbing over uneven ground. That was, until the pain finally clamped down on your vertebrae and your legs gave out. Before you hit the dirt, a rough hand caught your arm.

“Whoa—just stay still.” Daryl muttered, steadying you. His voice had lost its edge.

You waited for some jab, but it didn’t come.

“I didn’t choose for my spine to quit on me.” You said through clenched teeth.

“Didn’t say ya did.” He helped you straighten slowly, awkward but careful, then stepped away like touching you had been some kind of accident he didn’t want witnessed. “Damn stubborn. S’gonna be what kills ya.”

The corner of your mouth ticked up when you failed to stifle a quiet snort. “Not the walkers?”

“Them too.”

After that, he stopped barreling ahead of you, whether or not the group was present. He walked beside you. Sometimes slightly in front, always within earshot. And when your cane skidded on a rock, he instinctively shifted closer, crossbow raised as if he was just waiting for something to threaten you. 

He would never admit that he had actually started watching out for you. He couldn’t. You were the weakest link. He couldn’t get soft. So at night, when the pain made you whimper, he stared at the fire and pretended he couldn’t hear you. 

By the time the group settled into the prison, you and your aching back were just another part of the world he seemed to track without thinking. But he still put on like you were an inconvenience—right up until the day your spine seized mid-run.

Your knees buckled. You reached for the wall, dizzy and nearly sobbing. You had insisted on going, on proving you were worth the effort put into keeping you around. What a fine example that moment set. 

Daryl was there instantly. “Alright, nah. On my back.” You watched with saucer-wide eyes as he crouched, moving his crossbow over his shoulder to dangle from his chest. 

“What? No, I can keep going.”

“Ain’t havin’ this argument.” He said, wiggling his fingers in anticipation of grabbing your legs when you ultimately conceded. “Ain’t leavin’ ya here, an’ y’ain’t walkin’. So climb on.”

You didn’t have a choice. You looped your arms around him and squeezed your eyes shut—embarrassed and guilt-laden—when he gripped behind your knees. He lifted you like you weighed nothing and carried you down the dimly lit hallway at a near jog. The sound of metal tapping metal—your cane slapping his crossbow with each step—carried a tune with the sinewy songs sung from the throats of the dead. 

“Huh. Y’ain’t even that heavy.” He muttered. 

You huffed, your breath warm against his ear. “Rude.”

“Well, y’ain’t.” There was an undercurrent of humor. He might have even smirked. 

He carried you through the halls, deftly avoiding debris and dangling ceiling tiles. He was silent and fast. Protective and focused in a way that made your throat grow tight and hot. 

Later, when you tried to apologize, he cut you off. “Don’t need ya sayin’ sorry for shit ya been dealin’ with ‘fore all this. Y’ain’t gotta pretend with me. I get it.”

You weren’t sure he really did, but the effort mattered. So did the little things that started appearing near your cell afterward. Cane tips. Half empty bottles of pain reliever. Gel insoles for your shoes that had most definitely been trimmed to fit with a knife. He never admitted they were from him. He didn’t have to. His guilty avoidance gave him away.

Then the prison fell. 

You could barely walk. Hunger, cold, and constant movement made the pain unbearable. Eventually, your legs warped under the stress. Even your arms were too weak to catch your balance on the cane. But where the device failed to keep you upright, a pair of strong arms and steady hands didn’t. 

“You’re done for today.” He said, already lowering you to sit.

“We can’t stop.” You warned. “I heard walkers. They’re not far be—”

“Don’t care.” His voice was low and final. “I ain’t losin’ ya.” Well, that stunned you into silence. “Y’just let me worry ‘bout them walkers.” You knew then that arguing was going to do little more than waste time and breath. 

Daryl half-carried you to what was more of a burned-out shell than a car but it was the most comfortable you had been in days. Sprawled out over the backseat, you sighed quietly. The hungry calls of the dead were nearing but you couldn’t be bothered to be that scared.

Eyes already closed, you only opened them when you felt Daryl’s hand on your cheek. Cold. Wet. Putrid. “Daryl, what—”

He gave you a pointed look, half warning and half exasperation. “Be quiet.” Leaning between the two front seats, he smeared the walker innards over your cheeks and brow, down your arms. “Stay still now.” A dusty blanket of questionable origin was draped over you. 

Daryl stayed awake the entire night, hidden under his own blanket, watching the dead through a tear in the fabric. You shifted once with a quiet grunt, and his eyes flicked over to check on you without making a sound. And that’s how you survived the night. Hidden beneath a blanket in the sedan-shaped skeleton, with him never too far away. More and more time on the road. Just the two of you. You would be lying if you said it was entirely unpleasant. Daryl was quiet, but he did talk. And so did you. Peeling back layer after layer of one another one sporadic conversation at a time. You were talking about dogs when it happened. It was too fast for Daryl to even reach for his knife. Distracted, neither of you noticed the walker on the ground. It was lying in front of a car, easily grabbing Daryl’s ankle as he passed. He crashed to the ground, another one of the dead grabbing the shoulder of his vest. He couldn’t do much more than hold the one above him up, gnashing teeth inches from his face while he tried to kick the one crawling up his legs. There wasn’t time for you to think. Muscles spasmed and joints shrieked, but you shifted your cane to hold it by the bottom, swinging it like a bat. The hard plastic handle cracked against the walker’s temple with a squelching thud. It rolled away from Daryl’s face, granting him the opportunity to make a grab for his knife. But you didn’t stop there. You couldn’t. The dead had taken everything and everyone. Daryl was all you had left and you were not letting the world take him too. Swing after swing. The visceral crunch of compromised bone caving was prominent—louder than your own labored breathing. When you lifted the cane for one last pummel, something stopped it. Daryl’s hand. The other walker lay dispatched behind him. “Hey.” He rasped, sliding his knife into its sheath in favor of peeling your fingers away from the shaft of your walking device-turned-murder stick. “Easy.” You let him steer you to sit against the car while he tore a piece of fabric from the shirt of the walker he’d killed. Your cane was battered and smeared with gore. When he plopped down beside you, you watched him like he was going to scold you for putting yourself in danger. It would be on brand. “Saved my bacon.” He muttered as he worked on your device, wiping it clean and trying to adjust the parts you had bent and dented. “Guess I’m not dead weight after all.” You had meant it as a joke, but the glare he shot you made it very apparent that he didn’t find it funny. “Y’ain’t never been dead weight.” With a grunt, he was able to shift the handle somewhat back into place. “Don’t say no shit like that again.” You gave him a nod and watched him stand, taking his hand when he offered it. He didn’t let go until he knew the cane was going to hold your weight after you had used it to hit a hole-in-one with a walker’s brain matter. “Gonna find ya a new one.” And he did. 

When Alexandria came, Daryl didn’t fall back into old habits. He created new ones. He adjusted your cane height the first time he noticed you leaning wrong. He slipped under your arm when stairs were too much after a long day. He brought you pillows stolen from three houses just to see which one felt right. He also lingered near you more and more, even when he pretended he wasn’t doing it on purpose. One quiet evening, you both sat on the porch steps of the house you had claimed—the one he stayed at more than the one given to him and Carol. You winced as you settled, his eyes tracking the tension in your jaw. “Y’know,” he said, nudging your cane with his boot, “back when we met, I figured ya was slow cause ya was scared. Cause ya just wanted someone to do the fightin’ an’ feedin’ for ya.”

You looked over sharply. “And now?” He rubbed at the back of his neck, keeping his eyes down. “Well, reckon now I know diff’rent.” You watched as he shifted on the step. Did he just move closer? “You’re always hurtin’ an’ ya still move better than most folks. You’re a tough lil’ wildcat.” You blinked before your lips curved into a subtle smile. “That was—surprisingly sweet, Daryl.” His ears turned red, his shoulder nudging yours. “Whatever. Don’t make it weird.” 

“Right. We don’t need any more weird in our lives, do we?” You teased. He didn’t move his hand away when yours brushed it. He didn’t get up. He just stayed there, close enough that the warmth between the two of you felt intentional. Over time, it became undeniable. Daryl Dixon, of all people, had gone from being annoyed by your every step to watching each one like it mattered. He didn’t just put up with your pain, your cane, your slower pace. He adjusted himself around it. Around you. He cared. More deeply than he knew how to say. But you didn’t need words. Daryl wasn’t a man of sweet nothings. He was a man of action. And it was clear what you meant to him on the days that he carried you. But even more on the days that he didn’t.

The river that snakes through the dense forest is a merciless torrent, swollen from the rains. Its waters, frothy and wild, churn over boulders and shattered logs, their jagged edges slick with moss and spray. Branches, stripped bare of leaves, whirl chaotically in the current, their twisting shapes momentarily snagging on stones before being pulled back into the fray. The sound is constant and deafening, a relentless cacophony of crashing water and the guttural grumble of rocks grinding against each other beneath the surface.

You crouch at the river’s edge, boots braced against the slippery rocks, arms outstretched to catch the icy water in mason jars to filter back at camp. Overhead, the canopy is dense, needles interwoven with skeletal branches still clinging to the remnants of rain, droplets falling sporadically to pock the surface of the river. Despite the chaos of the water, you feel grounded here, your focus narrowed to the task at hand. The white noise of the rushing river drowns out the rest of the world, and for a brief moment, the wilderness feels almost serene.

Then, a movement—quick, sharp—in the corner of your eye. You freeze mid-pour, breath catching in your throat. Turning slowly toward the treeline, you rise to your feet, knees protesting against the sudden shift. The forest stretches out before you in shadowy stillness, dense with towering evergreens and underbrush thick with rain-drenched ferns. Your eyes dart through the gloom, searching for the source of the movement, but the dimming light and shifting leaves conspire against you. The world feels suddenly larger, the quiet of the forest pressing in at the edges of the river’s roar, your pulse quickening in the cold dusk.

The snap of a branch shatters the stillness of the forest, cutting through the constant roar of the rain-swollen river. You freeze, heart lurching in your chest, as a low, guttural snarl ripples from somewhere just beyond the treeline. It’s faint, almost lost between the river and the rush of your heartbeat in your ears, but unmistakable.

But before you can fully process the danger, it’s already too late. A blur of movement, a rush of air, and then a heavy weight slams into your side. The impact sends you sprawling, crashing hard onto the slick, rocky ground. Pain jolts through your ribs as the world tilts, your vision swimming from the force of the blow. The jar in your hand shatters on impact, slicing your palm as shards of glass scattering across the wet earth.

The creature is on you before you can even catch your breath. Its weight is crushing, its limbs flailing wildly as it pins you to the ground. A feral snarl tears from its throat, a horrifying mix of rage and hunger, as its face, a twisted mask of decay and filth, looms inches from your own. Its skin is gray and bloated, patches of it sloughing off to reveal sinew and bone beneath. The stench of rot and old blood is overwhelming, its acrid breath clawing at your senses.

You thrash beneath it, hands instinctively going to its shoulders to push it away, but it’s strong, so fucking strong, and its gnashing teeth snap just shy of your face. Droplets of its fetid saliva spray your cheek as its jaw clamps shut on empty air.

Panic surges like a shot of adrenaline, cold and sharp. Shit. You twist your body, feet scrambling for leverage on the slippery ground, but the creature’s weight is unrelenting. You try to reach for your knife, only to remember—you didn’t bring it. You thought this area was clear, that the river’s roar would drown out any noise that might attract them.

A mistake. A stupid, deadly mistake.

Your pulse pounds in your ears as the stalker lunges again, its teeth snapping so close you can feel the rush of air against your skin. With a desperate yell, you plant your feet and buck upward, trying to throw it off. But it doesn’t let go, its rotting fingers clawing at your jacket, its growls reverberating through your chest.

You twist violently beneath its crushing weight, legs curling upward as you fight for leverage. With a guttural cry, you shove your boots hard into its torso, muscles straining as you push with everything you’ve got. The creature topples to the side with a sickening grunt, its limbs flailing as it scrambles to regain its grip. Wasting no time, you roll over and claw your way forward, boots slipping on the wet earth as your eyes lock onto one of the mason jars lying just out of reach.

Your fingers are inches from the glass when a cold, rotting hand seizes your waist, nails tearing through fabric and skin as it drags you back. Then the pain hits, a searing, white-hot agony as the creature buries its face into your side, teeth scraping against flesh. You scream, a sound ripped raw from your throat, and your free hand finds the mason jar. Without hesitation, you swing it with all the strength you can muster, smashing it into the creature’s skull.

The jar shatters on impact, shards of glass slicing into the putrid flesh. The stalker reels back, momentarily stunned, its snarls faltering into gurgles as blackened ichor oozes from its shattered head. You’re screaming again, this time desperate, panicked. 

“Joel!” The name tears from your throat as you shove yourself backward, kicking at the writhing body, desperate to put distance between you and the thing on the ground.

A single gunshot cracks through the chaos, sharp and deafening. The creature jerks once, then stills, its grotesque form collapsing into a lifeless heap.

Your chest heaves as silence rushes back in, broken only by the relentless roar of the river and the distant patter of rain. You scramble to your feet, legs trembling, hands flying instinctively to your side where pain pulses in hot, angry waves. The world feels unsteady beneath you, every movement sharp and raw as you clutch at your side. Your fingers dig into the fabric of your shirt, and with a hiss of pain, you pull it up to inspect the damage.

Blood. So much blood. It blooms across your skin, bright and vivid, the gash at your hip jagged and cruel, clawing its way across your waist. Your breath catches, panic rising like a flood as the implications hit you.

Before you can speak—before you can even think—you hear it. The unmistakable click of a pistol being cocked.

Your head snaps up, eyes locking onto Joel. He stands a few feet away, his face a mask of hardened resolve, his breathing labored but steady. The barrel of his pistol is trained on you, unwavering. His eyes are dark, unreadable, jaw squared.

“Joel—” your voice trembles, barely a whisper.

“Don’t move,” he warns, his tone low and sharp. His grip on the gun tightens as he steps closer, each movement deliberate, measured.

“Wait!” Your voice cracks as the word bursts out, raw and desperate. You throw your hand out in front of you as if it could shield you from the inevitable, as though the small gesture might protect you from the bullet with your name on it. “Please, just… wait,” you beg, the words coming out as a broken, trembling whine that shames you even as you say them.

Joel doesn’t move. His shoulders are stiff, his hands trembling around the pistol, knuckles white with the pressure of his grip. His eyes dart frantically, torn between your face and the wound at your side, the gash you’ve tried to hide, like covering it could somehow erase it from existence.

Your left hand moves instinctively, tugging at your shirt to pull it over the gaping wound. The thick cotton clings to your skin, soaking up the blood in heavy, sticky patches. You feel the wetness against your fingertips, warm and damning, and your stomach churns at the realization of how bad it is. You don’t need to look at it again to know the truth, you can feel it.

“No…” Joel murmurs, the sound barely audible over the rushing river and your own ragged breathing. His voice is shaky, distant, like he’s talking to himself now instead of you. His gaze hardens, his jaw clenches, and his finger hovers near the trigger. He’s slipping away from you, mentally already miles ahead, as if you’re not even standing in front of him anymore.

You know what he’s thinking. To him, you’re already dead. The infection is a foregone conclusion, the gash on your body as good as a death sentence. You see it in his face—this is no longer you standing here. In his eyes, you’re just a corpse waiting to fall, a hollow body waiting for the bullet that will silence you before the sickness has a chance to take hold.

It’s over. 

“Joel.” You force his name out through chattering teeth, your lips trembling uncontrollably. “Listen to me. Please.” The words crack under the weight of your fear, barely holding together as dizziness washes over you. Pain radiates outward from your side, sharp and unrelenting, but the ache in your chest, the utter hopelessness gripping your heart, is far worse.

In any other moment, you’d hate yourself for this. You’d hate the way your lip quivers, the way your voice shakes, the way you’ve laid yourself bare in front of him, vulnerable and pathetic. You’d curse yourself for throwing every card onto the table, for showing him just how desperate you are. You’d tell yourself to stand up straight, to act strong, to meet death with dignity.

But none of that matters now. You’re not ready. You don’t want to die.

This isn’t the first time you’ve begged for your life. There were countless moments over the years when you were forced to plead, to barter, to lie just to stay alive. But this is the first time you’ve begged knowing it’s utterly futile. Knowing that no amount of pleading will change the truth, or his mind.

You’d talked about this moment, back when you left the QZ together, when survival was still something you both believed in. You’d made a pact, as so many travelers do. 

If you get bit, I won’t hesitate. 

The words had come from Joel himself, blunt and unflinching, delivered in that steady, gravelly tone you’d grown to trust.

And you’d agreed. Of course you had. It was practical, logical. You’d said the same thing to every companion before him. A foregone conclusion this late in the game, but still you'd felt the need to make it entirely clear that your definition of mercy was a swift bullet to the forehead. 

And yet, here you stand, begging the man in front of you to wait, listen, hear me out. 

“Joel,” you whisper again, softer this time, pleading. “You have to listen to me. I’m not—” Your voice catches, the words faltering as the weight of his gaze presses down on you. His face is unreadable, his expression stone-cold and unyielding, but his eyes…

His eyes tell a different story.

You see the anguish there, buried beneath the hard lines of his face. The war waging inside him. The man you’ve come to trust, who’s fought beside you, bled beside you, isn’t made for this kind of mercy, no matter what he says.

And yet, you see his finger twitch on the trigger.

“Joel.” Your voice is shaking, but louder now, cutting through the space between you. “I’m not ready. Please.”

The world feels smaller, darker, as you wait for his answer. For the sound of the shot and the unknown that follows.

This was the reality you’d known since you were a child, torn from innocence and thrust headlong into the nightmare of the end of the world. The collapse had been swift and merciless, leaving you to navigate the jagged edges of survival before you even understood what it meant to truly live. Death had been a constant companion, circling you like a predator, never far away. You’d faced it down more times than you could count, each encounter stripping away another layer of who you once were.

You knew it now with the intimacy of an old, cruel lover. The way it crept in quietly, the way it demanded submission, the way it took and never gave back. And yet, now that it has finally come for you, fully and undeniably, you recoil. You flee.

Your breath shudders as you stare into Joel’s eyes, searching for something, anything, to hold onto. His gaze is hard, but there’s something beneath it, a crack in the armor. You plead with him, your voice trembling, words spilling out in a desperate torrent, but it’s more than words. It’s the raw urgency building in your chest, clawing its way up your throat, begging him to feel it.

He shakes his head, almost imperceptibly at first, then harder, his face tightening in anguish. His lip quivers, just the faintest tremble, but it’s enough. It’s a crack in the foundation, a glimmer of doubt in the man who never hesitates. You catch it, latch onto it like a lifeline.

When he says your name, it’s like a prayer, soft and broken. A plea wrapped in the syllables of something he’s never wanted to say. It cuts through you, sharp and cold, leaving you raw and exposed.

His hands are shaking now, the gun unsteady in his grip. You watch it tremble, the barrel wavering slightly, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might miss. That if he pulled the trigger now, the bullet would veer off course, grazing past you instead of ending you. Your mind whispers, Run. Maybe you could bolt, maybe you could make it. But deep down, you know better. Joel doesn’t miss. And if he did, he wouldn’t miss again.

The two of you remain locked in this fragile standstill, unmoving, unblinking, as the moment stretches unbearably long. The adrenaline that had flooded your system begins to ebb, leaving you hollow and weak. Your outstretched hand, once rigid with desperation, falters and starts to fall. It drifts downward, as if surrendering to the weight of inevitability.

Your legs buckle beneath you, the strength draining from them as exhaustion and pain take hold. You collapse slowly, leaning back against the rough bark of the tree behind you, its surface digging into your shoulder blades. Joel’s gun follows your movement, unwavering, the barrel trailing you as you sink to the ground.

“Just wait, okay?” you whisper, the words barely audible over the pounding of your heart. Your eyelids flutter, heavy with exhaustion, but you force yourself to keep your gaze locked on Joel’s. “Wait until I turn. Don’t shoot me… not yet. Just… wait.”

He doesn’t move. His grip on the pistol is steady, but his chest rises and falls unevenly, betraying the storm inside him. For a moment, the silence stretches so thin it feels like the world itself is holding its breath. Then, he exhales, a long, ragged sigh slipping past his lips.

“D-darlin’...” His voice cracks on the word, soft and uneven, a plea in itself. His eyes glisten with unshed tears, and you see one break free, tracking a shining path down his cheek. “We agreed. You—” His voice falters, breaking on the words he can’t quite bring himself to say. “You were bit, and I… I have to.”

The way he says it—have to—isn’t just broken; it’s shattered. The weight of the words twists something inside you, but even now, as death looms close, the tenderness of his pet name stirs a small, bittersweet pang in your chest.

“You don’t have to do anything, Joel,” you murmur, shaking your head, your voice unsteady. “Just let me live a little bit longer, okay? I didn’t get to see much or do much… Just give me a few more minutes. Please.”

The words feel foreign, like they’re coming from someone else’s mouth, distant and detached. The adrenaline that once roared through your veins has ebbed, leaving you woozy and untethered. The world around you feels unreal, a blurry haze of pain and fear.

Joel’s jaw tightens as he fights with himself. His finger hovers near the trigger, but his hand trembles now, betraying the conflict raging inside him. You watch his face carefully, every muscle tense as he weighs the impossible decision before him. His eyes flicker, darting around the clearing, searching for something—anything—that would deliver him from the scene laid before him. 

He tilts his head back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows hard. His gaze turns skyward, as if beckoning the heavens to intervene. The seconds crawl by, agonizing and infinite.

Then, slowly, Joel lowers his gun.

You shudder as a strangled, heaving sigh escapes your lips. Relief floods through you, too sharp and too cruel, making your chest ache with its weight. It tricks you, just for a moment, into believing you’ve cheated death, that you’ve won. Your lips twitch with the urge to laugh, but you hold it in, choking back the sound before it escapes.

Joel moves quickly, breaking the fragile stillness between you. He drops to one knee, his pack already in his hands, and begins digging through it with a kind of frantic determination. You watch him, your body too heavy and your mind too dazed to question what he’s doing.

When he stands and starts toward you, a small bundle clutched in his hands, your stomach lurches. He unfurls it, and your breath catches, terror and confusion gripping you. Your eyes squeeze shut, bracing for the feel of a knife piercing your skull.

“W-what are you doing?” you manage to whisper, your voice trembling with fear.

“Fuckin’—stay still,” he growls, his tone clipped and uneven.

Your eyes flutter open as his arms reach around you, and you realize what he’s holding: nylon rope. He pulls it around your torso, cinching it tightly against the tree. His breath comes in sharp, hot gasps, fanning against your cheeks as he works.

“Joel,” you gasp, your voice rising in alarm, but he doesn’t respond. His eyes are locked on his hands, refusing to meet yours as he ties knot after knot, the rope biting into your sides with cruel precision. The pressure sends fresh waves of pain shooting from your wound, and you wince, clenching your teeth to keep from crying out.

The final tug is brutal, the knot digging into your flesh, and he ends up behind you, his hands lingering for a moment as if testing the ropes’ strength. You feel him pause, his breath shuddering as he finally stops moving.

“Joel,” you say again, softer now, your voice cracking under the weight of everything left unsaid.

But he still doesn’t look at you.

When he steps back, his shoulders are slumped, his face shadowed by something you can’t quite name—grief, guilt, maybe both. He wipes at his face roughly, as though trying to erase the evidence of his tears, but they’ve already betrayed him.

You’re bound, defenseless, and hurting, and yet all you can think about is how utterly broken he looks as he stands there, staring at the mess the world has forced you both into.

“Thank you,” you manage to whisper, your voice small and steeped in guilt. The words hang in the air, fragile and trembling, but Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even glance your way.

Instead, he turns on his heel, his shoulders tight and his head bowed, and walks to another tree about ten feet away. He plants himself at its base, his back to you. His silence cuts deeper than any words might have, and you feel the weight of it settling over you like a suffocating shroud.

The two of you share the silence, your shallow breaths filling the void between you. Each exhale feels labored, your body struggling against the pain radiating from your side, but you force yourself to focus on something else. You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, the texture biting into your scalp, and lift your gaze to the heavens.

The stars are impossibly bright tonight, scattered like shards of broken glass across a velvet sky. You try to commit them to memory, tracing their constellations with your eyes, knowing these moments might be your last chance before you navigate them on your imminent departure. 

As you stare upward, memories begin to filter through your mind, unbidden and fragmented, slipping through the cracks of your composure.

Your parents, once so vivid in your mind, are now nothing more than faint, blurred shapes. You can almost feel the warmth of their presence, the comfort of their arms around you, the safety they once provided. Almost. The memory is fleeting, like a firefly winking out in the dark.

Will their faces greet you on the other side?

Your adolescence in the QZ flashes through next, a sharp contrast to the hazy warmth of childhood. The cold, unforgiving reality of it all. Hunger gnawing at your belly, desperation clawing at your throat, the endless days that taught you how to survive but left little room for hope.

Then the years on the road in between QZs, each one harder than the last. The faces of strangers, some kind, most cruel, blur together. Every day had been a gamble, every night a test of endurance. And yet, through it all, you’d kept going.

Finally, your thoughts settle on Joel. The better part of a year spent in his company, you guessed. It had started as a shaky partnership, the two of you circling each other like wary predators. Two feral creatures lowering their hackles just enough to agree to watch each other’s backs. You’d both been so used to solitude, to the cold comfort of self-reliance, that you’d resisted the vulnerability of companionship.

But somehow, somewhere along the way, that had changed. 

The memory surfaces vividly, as if it had only just happened. The two of you had set up camp, the evening falling quiet save for the crackle of the fire. Joel had rolled out his sleeping bag next to yours, closer than he ever had before. It was unmistakable, deliberate. Your breath had caught in your chest when you realized just how close he was. Close enough to reach out, to touch. To feel his warmth radiating.

That night, he’d taken first watch, as always, sitting cross-legged by the fire with his rifle resting across his lap. But you hadn’t slept, not really. You’d stayed awake, your heart pounding in your chest, stealing glances at him through the dim light of the flames. The moonlight dusted his features in silver, softening the hard lines of his face. You’d stared at the rough stubble along his jawline, aching to reach out and trace it with your fingers.

You’d felt like a teenager again, giddy and restless, wanting something so badly it made your chest ache. It was dangerous to feel that way in this world, to allow yourself even a sliver of something as fragile as hope, but you couldn’t help it. That night had changed everything for you, though you couldn’t say if Joel even realized it.

Now, sitting bound to this tree, your side throbbing and your vision dimming, you wonder if he’s thinking about it too. If he remembers that night, or any of the moments you’d shared since. You glance toward him, his back still turned to you, his shoulders hunched. You want to call out to him, to say something, but the words catch in your throat.

Instead, you close your eyes, letting the memories wrap around you like a fragile cocoon. You hold onto them tightly, as though they might somehow tether you to this life for just a little longer.

You’d never said anything. How could you? This life wasn’t made for love, for relationships, or for anything that resembled romance. Whatever you felt for Joel, whatever that small, fragile thing blooming inside you was, had always seemed impossible to name, let alone act on.

The world you lived in was harsh, brutal, and unforgiving. There wasn’t room for tender words or soft moments, and certainly no place for anything as foolish as hope. All you knew was that you felt safe under his protection, warm under his rare but lingering gaze. Anything beyond that, any flicker of desire, longing, or affection, could be swallowed whole by the world so long as it meant keeping him close.

But now, things are different. You’re staring down the end, and there’s nothing left to lose. Everything worth losing had already been ripped from you piece by piece over the years. Maybe it’s selfish of you to want this moment, to unburden yourself of something you could have taken silently to the grave. Maybe it’s selfish to pile this weight onto Joel when he was already carrying so much. But then again, you’d already been selfish, hadn’t you? Begging him to forgo his own safety for the sake of putting a bit more time between yourself and his bullet in your brain.

And he had complied, hadn’t he?

Fuck it.

“You know what I thought of you when I first met you?” you ask into the silence, your voice low and trembling, but steady enough to carry through the night air.

Joel doesn’t answer. He doesn’t even flinch. His broad shoulders remain rigid, his gaze fixed on the darkness in front of him as though it holds some kind of answer he’s desperate to find.

“I thought you were an asshole,” you continue, forcing a small, breathy laugh out of your chest. It sounds pathetic, even to you, but you push on. “A grumpy asshole.”

Still, nothing from him. But you’re certain, almost certain, you catch the faintest twitch of his shoulder.

“And once I figured out how easy it was to piss you off, I couldn’t stop myself. I’d say the dumbest shit just to get you all riled up.” You smile faintly at the memory, even as the ache in your side deepens. You stop to take a deep breath, hoping he might take this chance to interject, beg you to shut the fuck up and die quietly already. But he doesn't.  “You’d get so mad, Joel. Your face would do this thing, this little twitch, like you were trying so hard not to tell me to shut the fuck up. And I think—no, I know—you liked it.”

That finally earns you something: a sharp exhale from his nose. A sound so faint you might’ve missed it if you weren’t straining to catch every little thing.

“If I was nice to you, you’d ignore me. But if I said something dumb just to piss you off? You couldn’t help yourself,” you press on, emboldened now. “I think you liked the banter. The arguing. Maybe it made things feel… normal.”

You pause, drawing in a shaky breath. Your chest feels tight, your body heavy, but you force yourself to keep going. “Do you remember that night a few months ago? When you set your sleeping bag up right next to mine?”

His shoulders tense at that, just barely, but he still doesn’t turn to look at you.

“I liked it,” you admit softly. “A lot. Probably more than I should’ve. And I couldn’t sleep that night, Joel. I just kept laying there, staring at you while you were on watch, thinking… Maybe you liked me, too.”

Your voice breaks on the last word, the confession hanging between you like a fragile thread. You don’t expect a response, but part of you still hopes, desperately, foolishly, that he’ll turn around and say something. Anything.

Instead, his shoulders shudder, and you hear it, a ragged, broken breath that shakes his entire frame.

“Joel?” you whisper, your own voice trembling now.

But he doesn’t answer. He stays where he is, his back to you, his head dipping forward as though the weight of your words, and everything they mean, has finally crushed him.

You lean your head back against the tree, the bark biting into your scalp, and close your eyes. The pain in your side throbs in time with your heartbeat, and your breaths grow more shallow with each passing moment. But you don’t regret saying it.

If this is how it ends, if this is your last night on this broken earth, you’re glad you told him. Even if he never responds. Even if the silence stretches on forever.

“I know what you're gonna say, Joel. You're gonna tell me it didn’t mean anything, and…” You stop, your breath hitching as tears well up and threaten to spill. “Fuck, maybe it didn’t. I don’t know.” You inhale sharply, struggling to keep the flood of emotions from overtaking you. “But you should know that it meant something to me. All this time we spent together, it wasn’t just survival for me. Being with you, it’s the closest thing to happiness I’ve felt since… since before the world ended.”

Your voice cracks again, the weight of your confession pulling it down to a trembling whisper. The tears that had gathered finally spill over, streaming hot down your cheeks. You can’t wipe them away, but even if you could, what would be the point?

“If I could go back,” you continue, voice thick with emotion, “I would have told you then. I wouldn’t have waited. I’d have kissed you just so I could’ve known what it felt like. I’d have asked you to lay with me, to hold me, to—”

“Stop.”

The word cuts through the air like a whip, startling you into silence. Joel’s voice is low and hoarse, laced with something sharp and raw.

Your eyes dart to him, still sitting against the tree, his face hidden in shadow but his posture stiff, brimming with tension. His shoulders rise and fall heavily, and for a moment, you think he might stay there, unmoving, until the sun rises.

“Joel—”

“No,” he snaps, his voice rough and cracking like a fraying rope. “You need to stop.”

Before you can respond, he pushes himself to his feet in one swift, almost frantic motion. His boots crunch against the underbrush as he rounds the tree, his long strides closing the distance between you in seconds.

The gun glints in his hand as the moonlight catches it, but he doesn’t raise it. He doesn’t point it at you. Instead, he stops just in front of you, towering over your slumped, trembling form.

You crane your neck to look up at him, your breath catching as his broad silhouette eclipses the moon. The glow from behind outlines his unruly curls, casting his face into shadow, turning him into something impossibly dark and imposing.

And yet, despite the towering presence above you, the sharpness in his voice, and the speed with which he closed the gap, you feel no fear. You’ve seen Joel like this before, anger weaponized, his mere presence a threat designed to cow and intimidate. He’s used it countless times against others, and now it’s turned on you.

You should feel afraid.

But the only fear you feel now is for yourself, for the minutes, the seconds you have left before the darkness comes to take you. For the inevitability you can’t run from.

You stare up at him, the moonlight weaving through his curls like a halo, his face cast in shadow but no less striking. He looks like some tragic figure out of a dream, the kind that lingers in your chest long after you wake. Your lips part, and before you can stop yourself, the words spill out.

“I love you.”

It’s barely a whisper, cracked and fragile, but he hears it. You can see the way his shoulders tense, the faint shudder in his breath. Despite yourself, you smile, a soft, bittersweet curve of your lips. You want nothing more than for him to drop to his knees, to pull you close, to press his lips to yours and grant you one final wish before the inevitable.

But you don’t ask. You know better.

You’ve been selfish enough, asking him to delay the mercy he’d promised you. And Joel—Joel is many things, but generous isn’t one of them. Not when it comes to matters of the heart.

He shakes his head, the motion jerky and stilted, and you feel tiny droplets splash across your cheeks. For a second you fight the urge to chuckle at the insult of sudden rainfall added to the injury of your imminent demise. Of course you would spend your last moments shivering, cold, and wet. 

But when you glance up, the sky is clear, the stars sharp and bright against the endless black.

It’s not raining.

The realization dawns slowly, your gaze drifting back to him. His broad shoulders quake, his head bowed, his face hidden from view. A sob tears free from his chest, jagged and raw, the sound of a man breaking under the weight of something far too heavy to bear.

“Oh no, Joel—please don’t cry,” you croak, your voice trembling as guilt twists like a knife in your gut. “I’m sorry, I—”

Your words catch in your throat as a sob wracks your own body, your tears flowing freely now, warm and relentless. The two of you dissolve into shared grief, your cries mingling in the stillness of the night. The air between you feels heavy, saturated with sorrow so thick it’s almost suffocating.

And then he moves.

Joel drops to his knees in front of you, the motion unsteady, like his legs are buckling under a weight he can no longer carry. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, trembling, before it finds your cheek. His palm is rough and calloused, but his touch is impossibly gentle, wiping away the tracks of your tears. His thumb lingers, as though he’s memorizing the curve of your cheek, the warmth of your skin, before it fades forever.

He leans forward, his breath uneven as it fans across your face, and presses a kiss to your forehead. It’s soft and lingering, a silent prayer offered up to whatever gods might still be listening.

When he pulls back, you tilt your head up instinctively, angling your lips toward his. You can feel his hesitation, the way he freezes, his hand faltering on your cheek. His eyes dart between your mouth and your tear-filled gaze, his own eyes wide and uncertain, searching for something he can’t seem to find.

But then he pulls away.

Your heart clenches, fracturing further as he backs up, his boots dragging across the dirt. He doesn’t stop until he’s ten feet away, where he collapses against the base of another tree. His posture mirrors yours, slumped and defeated, but he’s unbound. Untainted.

You can’t blame him. You know how the infection spreads, the risks it poses. A kiss might seal his fate as well as yours, and you couldn’t bear that, not after everything. But there’s a cruel, gnawing thought that whispers something worse: that he didn’t want to kiss you at all. That it wasn’t the infection that held him back, but a lack of affection.

You’d been his companion, his partner in survival. Nothing more. His tears now are a testament to his enduring humanity, to his ability to feel for others despite the walls he’s built around himself.

And you? You’re a dying woman desperately clinging to the scraps of a life already slipping through her fingers. A life at its end, spent confessing your love to a man who might never have loved you back.

You let your head fall back against the tree, your vision swimming as fresh tears blur the stars above. You’ve never felt so small, so painfully insignificant. The weight of the unspoken words between you feels unbearable, pressing down on your chest, suffocating.

The two of you sit there in the thick, silent night, your breaths the only sound between you. For what feels like forever, you both stare at each other, the weight of unsaid things lingering in the space between you. The moonlight plays across his features, painting him in shadows and silver, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if he sees you the same way, if he’ll remember this night after you’re gone.

You start talking.

You tell him about your life before the world ended, the warmth of your parents’ smiles, the taste of summer nights spent in the quiet of a safer world, the way everything seemed so simple back then. You describe the house you grew up in, the creaky wooden floors, the old red bike you used to ride around the neighborhood, the smell of your mother’s cooking wafting through the open windows. It’s all so distant now, like a dream you can’t quite touch.

Then you move to the people you’ve met since the world burned down. Companions, friends, lovers, whatever they were, however brief. You tell him about the ones who had your back, the ones who betrayed you, the ones you couldn’t save. You tell him how, despite everything, none of them ever quite compared to him. There’s a rawness in your voice, a truth you never dared speak before now.

You find yourself laughing a little, shaky at first, when you tell him about the time you tricked a QZ guard into giving you double ration cards. The image of his face when you handed over the counterfeit papers is enough to make you chuckle even now. The momentary relief, the feeling of outsmarting the system, feels almost like a lifetime ago.

But then your voice falters, and you recount the loss of your parents, their faces gone too soon, their absence an ache that never quite goes away. You talk about the lengths you went to survive in the aftermath, how the world didn’t stop for grief and how, somehow, you found a way to keep moving, even when everything inside you screamed to collapse. Your eyes never leave Joel’s face, watching him as he listens. He doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t offer pity or comfort, just listens, soaking up every word, every part of you you’re willing to offer.

As the words flow, they start to spill out faster, louder, and more frantic. You’re no longer telling stories, no longer reminiscing. You’re unraveling, thread by thread. You talk about your regrets, your fears. You speak of all the places you never got to see, all the dreams you’ll never chase, the future you’ll never have. You tell him about Yellowstone and Old Faithful, about the sunrise over the Grand Canyon, about the quiet peace of a morning in the mountains. You make him promise, with desperation edging your voice, that he’ll go. That he’ll see it for both of you, and your hope that, in doing so, you’ll somehow live on.

Your heart aches with the weight of it all. You want him to know you, every little piece of you. You want him to hold onto your stories, to carry them with him long after you're gone, so that maybe, just maybe, someone will know you for who you were, not just what the world reduced you to. You want to be remembered.

But as you talk, you begin to feel the distance between you grow. The adrenaline that once fueled your desperation, your need to be heard, starts to wane. You feel it in the weight of your limbs, the fog creeping at the edges of your mind. You know the end is near, even if you don’t want to admit it. You can feel yourself fading, your words becoming less coherent, your thoughts scattered like the leaves in the wind.

And Joel, he sees it too. He sees the way your shoulders slump, the way your eyes flicker as though trying to hold onto the present but failing. He watches you, his face hardening with the realization that no matter how much he listens, no matter how much he tries to understand, he can’t stop what’s coming. He sees you slipping through his fingers, and it makes it hard for him to focus on anything else.

You try to hold onto the last few fragments of yourself, the last words you want him to hear. But your vision blurs, and the words begin to jumble. You hope, in the deepest part of yourself, that somehow he’ll hold onto them, that something will remain after you’re gone. That somehow, in this moment, you’ve found a way to live again.

But as the world narrows, as the last threads of you unravel, you realize that perhaps all that’s left now is for him to remember you in the way you are right now—alive, speaking, a fleeting presence in the shadow of the man who, in this moment, matters more to you than anything else you could have ever dreamed.

“I… I gotta go.” His voice cracks as the words leave his mouth, and for a moment, he struggles to hold his composure. “I’ll just move over there,” he gestures toward a large tree about ten feet away, a hollow, tired motion. “I’m not leavin’ you. I just… I can’t see you like that. I can’t watch it happen. I’m sorry.”

The words hit you like a blow, but not the one you expected. Not the harsh sting of rejection, but something softer, something heartbreaking. You hold his gaze, letting the weight of his apology settle between you. His eyes are soft, regretful, heavy with the pain of his own helplessness.

In the year you’ve spent together, he’s given you more than anyone else ever could. Tonight, though, he’s sacrificed everything, pushed his own limits to keep you alive just a little longer. You can’t ask him to stay by your side and watch as you slip away, but God, you want him to. You want him to hold you, keep you anchored, be the one who’s there when you cross over.

But you know what’s fair. What’s right. You know he’s already given you everything he has. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, trying to breathe through the ache.

“Joe, will you still talk to me though? Please?” The words are barely a whisper, but you hope he hears them. “Just until… until it’s over. Please.”

It’s his turn to nod now, his eyes wet but unwavering. He gives you one last lingering glance, his gaze a soft promise, something too delicate to touch. A mental photo to keep in the locket of his heart. You catch a brief flash of sorrow in his eyes, something deeper than words can express, before he turns away.

He walks a few paces, the sound of his boots crunching against the damp earth almost too loud in the heavy silence. Then, as he settles at the base of the tree, his back to you, you realize something. He’s doing this for you. He’s giving you space to fade without the burden of his gaze, giving you dignity in the last moments when it matters most.

You can’t help but wish for the opposite, wish for him to be by your side, holding you as you fall away. But you don’t voice it. Instead, you whisper, your words soft and fragile, as though they’re the last thread tying you to this world, to him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, barely audible through the thick air.

“It’s okay,” he answers, his voice rough, strained, like he’s holding back tears. It’s a simple phrase, but it means everything to you.

You smile weakly, the gesture trembling at the edges, as you whisper back, “Please don’t cry.” It feels like an echo, your voice thin and fragile in the night, but you say it because you know it’ll be the last time you can.

“It’ll be okay,” he replies, and you feel the weight of his words settle over you like a blanket, soothing in the way only he can.

But the darkness is creeping in now, slow and inevitable. You’re so, so tired. The exhaustion is more than physical, it’s in your bones, in your soul, and you can’t fight it anymore. You pull your head up just enough to see him one last time, to glimpse his silhouette framed by moonlight, his broad shoulders, the curve of his dark curls.

A weak, tremulous smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. It’s a smile for him, for everything he’s been for you, everything you never expected to have. For the kindness, the tenderness, the fleeting happiness you got to hold onto before it all slipped away.

You feel the weight of your own eyelids, heavy and reluctant. Your head slumps forward, your gaze unable to keep hold of anything.

And then, just like that, you descend into the dark, the world slipping away from you like sand through your fingers, the last breath you take a whisper in the wind.

A somber tone weighs heavily on those five words: “Did you hear the news?”

In brighter circumstances, different context in a more pleasant timeline, that question could lead to something good, something worth celebrating.

Instead, those words landed on the opposite end of the emotional spectrum; even with lack of context, your heart dropped as they hit your ears.

Maybe to an outsider, that could’ve seemed like a drastic, overnight change, but deep down you knew that this had been building for much longer than one night.

You knew hearing those words on the other end of a line could send everything spiraling, no matter who broke the news, no matter who it involved, your heart would splinter apart. Nothing would ever be the same again.

Especially not after losing Eddie.

—————

A funeral— a traditional, open casket funeral— wasn’t possible, not when Eddie’s body lay rotting away in the Upside Down. Even if he was brought home, it’s not like Hawkins would welcome a funeral for who they saw to be a murderer; it’d be no celebration of his life, or mourning the good person he was, not with the entirety of Hawkins believing he was practically the devil himself.

Even so, you couldn’t make it home in time for the very hush-hush memorial service, only among close friends, and family, being only Wayne, of course.

Everyone in the party were grieving in their own ways, as people do when losing someone they love, but the loss of Eddie had a twisted spin on it. 

While your friends here saw him shortly before he was killed, before he gave up his life to try helping everyone else, you had no visual closure. That’d be unbearable, probably more-so than how you’re grieving.

Steve, Robin and Nancy saw him before they split ways with Eddie and Dustin; a plan set in motion to take out Vecna required the separation. Dustin might’ve been the one hit hardest, having to watch Eddie run off to do what he believed was right. The kid, who found one of his older brother figures, bleeding out on the ground once the bats were gone.

Dustin, too young to witness such horrors, too young to face such grief over Eddie, too young to lose his life over something no one could wrap their heads around.

Though not a competition in mourning, that kid had to have the worst grief of them all.  

You wondered if the kids on the other side of the country felt such strange, empty “closure” as you did. Though, Mike was the only one out of that group to have any connection with Eddie, being in Hellfire and all.

Then everyone else here, the kids, the older teens— one way or another, little or large, everyone had some kind of connection to Eddie. They all had faced the same living nightmare, even if on different levels, it was all in the same realm of suffering.

Steve, who called you to deliver the bad news, knew very little about Eddie before all of this. Once skeptical of Eddie— and honestly, a little jealous over the way Dustin looked up to him, feeling replaced— towards the end, had hoped if they all made it out alive, maybe the two could be friends. Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

That hope was long gone, now.

And you, what a strange plane of grief you existed on. You left to start life over elsewhere, reluctant to leave your friends, but in need of change. Being away for almost one year, away from your friends, made this loss harder to comprehend.

Eddie would never be home when you’d return. Your mind took that as a “see you soon”, not a “goodbye”; you’ll never see your best friend again, but the distance warped your thoughts into “this is temporary.”

Death is certain, death is final, and you were well aware of that. You often had to remind yourself, though, that he wasn’t just absent because of the miles between you two, but absent forever.

Maybe that’s nowhere near as heavy as the grief everyone else has carried, and will carry until the end of time, but it certainly didn’t make this any easier to cope with.

—————

The quarry seemed like a good, quiet place to cry it out, for some reason.

Lost in your thoughts, daylight slips away; you turn to Steve, who was watching you closely, like you were too fragile to be left alone.

“Hey… you don’t have to stay,” You kick at an empty beer can by your feet, unable to look him in the eye. 

You couldn’t look anyone in the eye since coming home.

“I want to.”

You sigh heavily, “Steve—“

“I mean it. We don’t have to talk, or anything.” His voice is gentle, calm, even through the moments it threatens to break. “I— I’m here for you. We all are. You know that, right?”

You nod, pulling your knees to your chest, staring out at the quarry’s water.

“M’here for you too.”

It comes and goes, fluxes and flows; grief is funny like that. Things you’d expect to weigh so heavily on your heart, don’t; instead, the tiniest details of loss engulf you in what feels like a bottomless lake of dread.

“He did this… really stupid thing, always shoving straw wrappers in my glovebox when we’d grab food somewhere.” You chuckled, already bracing yourself for the inevitable. “On the drive back here, I opened the glovebox for my lighter, and all of these— these fucking straw wrappers, all crumpled up in like… like some damn accordion—“ Laugh wavering by the threat of a sob tightening your throat, you shake your head. “Fucking goofball would say he folded them like that so they’d spring out like confetti. And the fucker was right.”

Steve laughs with you, but it’s somber, and before you realize you’re crumbling again, his arm winds around your shoulders, cradling you into his side. 

“I cried more over that than when you called me with the news.”

He keeps silent, because right now there are no words to bring comfort, not without forcing a positivity neither of you can or want to carry currently. Sometimes having someone to listen is a little more soothing than screaming into the void.

“I keep— I tried calling him. Took a few rings to realize it’d only be his uncle that’d answer. Can’t listen to the mixtapes he’s made me, ‘cause I can’t bring myself to hear his voice on them with his silly intros. But I tried calling him to hear his voice again anyway. My brain feels… broken.”

The sun is fully set now, with a pink-orange hue lingering in the sky, mismatched to your emotions.

“He never got to fucking graduate. This is so wrong. My best friend is—“ A sob slips out as the force of a bleak reality settles in all over again; it gets cozy, makes itself at home in the walls of your shattered heart, when you never invited it in.

Steve’s rubbing your back softly, signaling quietly to continue, if you need. That’s when the shattered debris of your heart crumble further; at this rate, there’ll be nothing left. 

Maybe it’s not so bad being heartless. It’s gotta be easier than feeling … this. 

A double edged sword is the human experience, with it’s cruel lesson of grief, whichever path you take. You could be cold, bitter, but lonely, by not allowing anyone in; it’d save you the heartache of losing anyone you love. But you could also love, and be loved, experience this nightmare of life together, rather than stumbling alone; final goodbyes and a hole in your heart are the price to pay.

Maybe, it’s worth living a life rich in love and community, even if the payoff is a grim one.

“I’ll never see him again. None of us will. I kept staring at the door, expecting he’d walk through the door now that I’m home… use the spare key like he always did, waltz right in like everything’s fine. He was the only friend I had that liked going to concerts, or skipping out on a good night’s sleep to take last minute road trips in that janky-ass van of his.

“Now all we have of him are blurry, out of focus pictures, and notes with his goddamned chicken scratch handwriting. Everything in that DnD notebook he kept, all the campaigns and drawings… all his music, his battle vests—“ You glance up at Steve, finally. “The vest he let you wear, you know how many fucking times he stabbed his thumb sewing those patches? I finally got him a thimble so he’d stop jabbing himself with those whip stitches… for what? Now he can’t even fucking use it.”

The tiniest of details of loss really are the culprit of heartbreak.

It pains Steve that this is just one of those things where he can’t protect his friends from the hurt. He can’t shield you or anyone else from the inevitable heartbreak and unpredictable mourning this has and will continue to bring.

“It kills me the two of you didn’t have more time to get to know each other. You’re both Dustin’s favorites, you were so much more alike than either of you realized.” Rubbing your eyes, you murmur, “You’re both my favorite people, too. And I- I should’ve been here, I never should’ve left—“

“No, we all wanted you to be happy, wherever you went. I’m sure Eddie would’ve kept pushing for you to follow your dreams if you tried to stay.” Steve rests his head on yours; the position is a little awkward, with how you hold one another, but it’s a closeness you need, all the same. “I would’ve, too.”

For a few moments, you sit on unspoken words that come to mind; maybe they’re too bold to speak aloud, but your mouth’s always one to be miles ahead from your thoughts.

“You’re not allowed to die before me.”

It’s almost a silly demand, one that makes him snort a little, pulling back with a confused expression.

“What?”

“I mean it. You, everyone, I can’t handle this right now, how the hell would I handle losing anyone else? I could never handle losing you.”

“I’d never be able to handle losing you, either.”

“Well, I said it first, so wait your fucking turn.”

You glare at Steve, bleary-eyed and appearing just as bad as you feel, falling into a stare-off with him. It doesn’t last long; the two of you burst into laughter, real laughter, over how damn ridiculous that exchange was.

“This— this is fucked up to even joke about.”

“Oh, like dark humor’s not up Eddie’s alley? Please.” Your grins, short-lived, fizzle out, leaving the two of you in heavy silence. You don’t mean to break it, especially with such a naive thought, but you do. “He’s really gone… isn’t he?”

Steve nods with a sniffle, not bothering to pull tissues out of his pocket anymore— if there’s any even left to begin with.

“Y’know… back when my parents were around more, my mom told me something kinda comforting when my grandma died.” With a deep breath, his stare falls to the ground beneath the two of you. “I don’t know if it’s true, but she said that people visit you in your dreams after they pass. Kinda like… like, they’re telling you they’re okay on the other side.”

“Did you see your grandma?”

“Yeah, that night, actually. Maybe it’s some weird, psychological thing, ‘cause that’s kinda what dreams are anyway. Just your subconscious trying to tell you shit.”

You lean back, brow quirked in skepticism. “Since when did you become a dream expert?”

He huffs a laugh, “I got desperate trying to cope with the nightmares. Anyway— point is, I think you’ll see Eddie again. Dustin already saw him in his dreams, said he thanked him for trying to help…” Steve hesitates for a second, finishing, “… and for not allowing him to die alone.”

That just feels like a sucker punch straight to the gut.

“What if it’s just a way to cope?” The brain does some fucked up shit when you’re neck deep in pain; you and the others in the group are all too familiar with that. 

“If it is, so what? You have to grieve, or it won’t get easier. And Eddie might’ve beat himself up for running away, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to leave without saying goodbye. Not to his friends, at least.”

—————

There’s a full moon tonight, with only its light guiding you through the woods, but you don’t feel unsafe. There’s no sense of threats, or danger. Just calm, like you’re supposed to be here. The clearing of the trees reveal Lovers’ Lake, with Eddie’s van parked right at the edge of the water.

Hope floods through you, overflows into unshed tears and a pace picking up, closing the distance. You round one of the open doors of the van, finding your best friend. He strums lazily along the strings of his guitar, worn notebook laying open, with his famous chicken-scratch penmanship, chaotically covering the pages.

Eddie glances up, warmly smiling at you.

“Hey, punk.”

It’s a voice your heart’s been both aching to hear again, and not ready for, not yet. The sight is even harder to take in, overwhelming as you race through emotions rapidly.

But it’s like nothing’s changed. Nothing is different, not for now, at least.

You greet him like you always have, “Hey, freak.” Climbing into the back of the van, muscle memory almost leads you to your usual spot, a mountain of pillows in the van; this isn’t a casual hang out, though, so you settle next to him, legs dangling over the bumper. “You’re really here.”

“Harrington was right, y’know. I had to say goodbye the way we’d both want.”

There’s a light mist that dances along the lake’s surface, blanketing the entirety of it, but it’s soothing to see. The stars above, brighter than you’ve ever seen in your entire life, shimmer and glitter above.

“Yeah, guess we’re not getting stoned though, huh?”

Eddie sets his guitar behind him, sighing heavily.

“Maybe later, way later, when you make it to this side someday.” He throws an arm around your shoulders, giving a squeeze. “It’s not so bad here… but it’s not like I wanted to be here so soon.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t really get to see you before— before—“ Even here, it’s far too painful to say aloud. “I should’ve been here with you, with everyone—“

“You can’t plan your life around death, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, but it’s— I know it sounds silly, but not seeing you… not being here before you l- left… my mind refuses to believe it. I’m never gonna see you again, and my stubborn brain keeps trying to convince itself you’re still here.”

“That’d be denial, I believe.” He tries coming off lighthearted, but it falls flat. “Y’know I’m always gonna be with you, right? All that corny shit, in your heart and stuff, among the stars— whatever you wanna believe, I’m there.” He pinches his thumb and forefinger together, scrunching his face up as he adds, “I’ll even be in the teeny, tiny, little straw wrappers I hid everywhere in your car.”

“Oh my god, there’s more?!” You laugh through your tears, but it fades out fast. “Well I’m a selfish prick and want you here, with all of us.”  Kicking at a pebble, you watch it break the lake’s glassy surface. “How the hell do I keep going without you?”

“I don’t have an answer, but you just… do. Just know it’s not easy for me, either.” Eddie sniffles, then chuckles, “It’s gonna be boring as hell waiting on this side for you guys.”

That finally tugs a hint of a laugh out of you; he squeezes your shoulders again, hand shaking against you. 

“I am okay, though. There’s no angry mob ready to burn me at the stake, and no injuries, no pain. No Upside-Down bullshit, like, at all. And, as a wandering soul in the afterlife, I get to watch all the concerts I want, for free. So there’s a perk at least.” He rolls his eyes with a reassuring smile. “Aside from that… you’re gonna be okay, too.”

Eddie pulls away, reaching in his vest pocket— out fly old, crumpled receipts, loose change, some safety pins and dice; it’s a soothing sight, to see nothing changes one’s character when they make it to the other side.

“Aha!” He pulls out necklace cord, with a guitar pick dangling at the end, showing signs of wear, tear, and love over time. Sliding it into your hand, he pushes your fingers to roll into a fist. “Want you to have this.”

“Wh— but your uncle—“

“Dustin gave him the good one,” He snorts, “but my best friend gets the one with history.”

“Is this gonna be like winning the lottery in a dream, only to wake up, still broke?”

Eddie only laughs harder, smile fond, glassy gaze, a sight you take in, hoping you never forget it after waking up. He tugs you back into a bear hug, grip trembling as you mirror the hug. 

“See you later, punk.” He whispers, voice wavering. “Live a good life for me, alright?”

“Wait, Eddie, don’t— I’m not ready to say goodbye yet!” The world around you dissipates into the mist floating in, taking Eddie with it. 

You jolt up with a gasp, eyes darting around the room for some sort of sign or proof that Eddie never left, that it was all just a bad dream.

But was it really a bad dream? All things considered, even if it’s just a coping mechanism, it gives some closure.

Closure. For your dead best friend.

Sobbing, you place your hands over your face, already anticipating the pounding headache this will give you. Something pokes into your cheek, interrupting your tears.

Unfurling your hand, Eddie’s guitar pick necklace lays in your palm, just as it did in your dream.

“No fucking way…”

Holding it up against the moonlight, sneaking between the blinds, it’s the well-loved pick, scratches, worn edges and all. The way it gleams against the moon’s glow, seeing it clearly, feeling it in your hands, it’s real. And you have no idea how it could’ve wound up here, in your hand, but here it is.

This necklace won’t ease your grief, nor will recollecting the dream with Eddie, but you have the closure you needed to begin properly grieving.

Flicking on the lamp on your nightstand, you reach in the drawer for your journal, scribbling down as much of the dream as you can recall, before it fades away as consciousness settles in.

Steve was right; as shitty as this entire situation is, Eddie is okay.

THE LOOKOUT

With closed eyes, you inhale the cool, December air, before looking down at your feet. Here, at the edge of the lookout, the grass has been trampled. You imagine friends taking bets on who dares get closest to the edge, lovers making memories, families taking pictures. It’s strangely soothing that maybe you’re not the first to stand here to do this. 

Far below your feet, the water laps at the rocks. The force of it depends on the weather and tonight it’s violent, with big splashes and crashing sounds. The wind tugs at your coat, pulling you towards the water as if to help you along, making you look up again as you hold your balance. In front of you, the line of the horizon is dark but visible – it would have been impossible to make out if the moon hadn’t been as bright as it is.

It’s like you’re looking at the edge of the world.

During the weeks that fall had made way for winter, you scoped the place out a couple times. The first time you stood at this cliff’s edge, the place it took you to mentally scared you so much that you got back into your car and broke down in tears. The next couple times, things became more and more serious, as your life crumbled around you, and your feelings numbed, and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Something had crept in while you weren’t looking, settling somewhere behind your eyes and spreading out to make a home behind your ribs, slowly but surely changing you. And once you realized it, it was already too late. It had grown large, became jilted and jealous, like it wanted all of you. It pushed away everyone and everything you held dear, until it was just you and that… something.

Especially during the quiet of the night, the lookout became soothing, a strange sense of familiarity enveloping you each time you were here. It was addictive and pretty soon, it became a daily routine to visit. But lately it’s been losing its shine, your feelings here dulling and darkening too. You’re exhausted, fed up, tired of giving it more of you.

Today you want it to be your last time here. 

You’ve had countless hours to contemplate what it would be like, imagined – all but romanticised – how the cold water would paralyse your limbs if the impact wouldn't do the trick. You read somewhere that it’s apparently like falling asleep when the water finally fills your lungs. You’ll be gone, but the thing will be too.

The thought makes your eyes fill with tears, but not from fear. All you feel is relief, like it’s right, how it’s supposed to be. It makes you smile despite everything, and–

“Hey, stop!”

A voice behind you thunders through the silence and makes you shriek into the night, dirt toppling over the edge of the lookout below the shuffle of your foot. A string of curses follows, heavy footfalls behind you indicating that the intruder is approaching you.

“Fuck off!” you throw over your shoulder, your voice a roar with how it’s amplified by the wind. 

After, your throat closes up, fighting the angry tears over the fact that you can’t even fucking kill yourself in peace. Never have you seen anyone here at night, never. What you hate even more is how it breaks your momentum. The haze that was surrounding you is pierced, and your body’s baser instincts kick in. Adrenaline suddenly pumps through your veins, making your legs tremble, your heart hammer, your body scream for you to step back from where you’re standing. Your anger, however, has you nailed to the floor. 

You almost miss the much softer, “Hey,” as a man steps into your peripheral vision. You pretend like you don’t hear him, or see him – you simply pretend he isn’t there, focussing on getting back into your previous mindset. 

But then he takes his hands out of his pockets.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” you warn, hating how your voice comes out trembling – weak.

“Easy.” He holds his hands up in surrender. “Wasn’t planning on it.”

You stand there together for what feels like hours. You will yourself to not let it affect you, setting your jaw to keep your teeth from clattering on account of the cold, allow the wind to blow your hair into your eyes without brushing it away. Even when it begins to rain, you don’t move, don’t blink even once more than you need to. From the corner of your eye you watch the man shove his hands back in the pockets of the brown leather jacket he’s wearing, and you quietly celebrate that your surroundings are fazing him more than they are you.

“You know–” he begins.

“I’m not really looking for a conversation.”

“Me neither,” he immediately counters, suddenly impatient, “so I’ll get right to it: You planning on jumping? Because if you think the water’s gonna be nice to you, you’ve got that wrong. You’ll end up in there feeling everything, that fall isn’t gonna do shit.”

Having expected a gentle approach, his bluntness and his tone knock the wind out of you. You cock your jaw, the shame creeping up your body the first bit of warmth you’ve felt in a while. Your cold fingers ball to fists as you will yourself not to care. Yes, his words and the way he's shatteríng your expectations with them sting, but you don’t even know this guy–

“And there’s nothing fuckin’ peaceful about it, it’s just panic. Right before you go too far…” He raises a fist and holds it against the center of his chest, “...there’s this burning right here that’s hell.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” you finally spit out.

“Died like that a couple times,” he says without waiting a beat.

The casual statement of something so bizarre beats your resolve before you know it, your head turning in his direction. “‘A couple times’?”

“I, uh…” You watch him hesitate, the moonlight illuminating the tick of his jaw, the bob of his throat as he swallows, the way his chest falls as he sighs, “Let’s just say I can’t die.”

Before you can stop yourself, you snort at that. “That must fucking suck.”

He barks out a laugh, “Got that right.” It startles you when his head suddenly turns to you, when he looks you in the eye for the first time. “But trust me, being down there isn’t much better.”

There’s something in the way he looks at you that makes you waver. You can’t really place it, or decipher why it makes you want to open up to him. Maybe it’s because you’re freezing and it’s your body betraying you, tricking you into moving so you can generate some warmth, moving your lips to keep them from going blue. Or maybe it’s simply because he’s a stranger and it’s so much easier to be honest when there are no consequences.

“Things just feel so…,” you begin, voice shaky. Every possible way to end the sentence crosses your mind, seemingly all wrong, before you settle on what’s closest to how you feel, “endless.”

To your relief, he doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t tell you to give it time that it will get better, or any of the other bullshit you’ve heard from all the other people that had been in your life and left a long time ago. You do find something else in the shift in his eyes, something you haven’t encountered before.

Understanding.

It might be worse. If anything, it’s overwhelming, making your eyes dart away from his as you sniff. 

The wind still tugs at you, the waves still hit the rocks, but your moment seems to have passed. It’s a sobering conclusion, a twisted version of wrong place, wrong time. Or maybe it was him who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Either way, the outcome is the same.

You take a step back, and another, but it takes considerable effort; you hadn’t taken your numb legs into consideration. You stumble, falling back on the dewy, cold grass, not quick enough to catch yourself on your hands. With a groan, you move to sit upright.

“Shit. Hey, you still with me?” The stranger kneels next to you, fingers lifting your chin to look into your eyes. “Jesus, you’re fucking freezing.”

“No s-sh-hit,” you retort.

He sighs, offering you a hand so he can pull you up. “C’mon, let's get you warmed up.”

– – – – –

Logan.

That’s his name. 

It’s how he introduced himself, anyway, after he suggested you follow him. To his credit, he did offer to drive you, but you didn’t want to leave your car in the parking lot of the lookout. Logan waited 15 minutes for you while you put the blowers on the highest, warmest setting and waited for the feeling to return to your limbs. After, his brown truck led the way here – here being some hole in the wall, 24 hour diner. You could have not followed, but the drive was kind of mesmerizing; the night seemed darker than usual, and Logan’s tail lights served as a lighthouse.

Outside, the diner is all Christmas lights and flashing signs, but the interior is like something straight out of Twin Peaks; booths to the left, red barstools to the right, a girl that looks too pretty and too young to be here standing behind the counter. There were two other patrons you spotted along the way as Logan led you to one of the back booths. Once seated, Logan studied the pamphlets–or pretended to, more like, because as soon as the waitress came up he ordered two whiskeys and nothing else.

Between then and now, as you nursed your drink sip by careful sip, you hadn’t learned much more about him other than that he could knock back a glass of whiskey like he got paid to do so. And in truth, you like it this way; preferring silent company, the droning of the machinery behind the counter and the quiet hum of a song on the jukebox next to the entrance. The white noise helps to distract from the white noise in your head. Settling back into the leather cushions of the booth, you let some warmth seep back into your body. Opposite you, Logan does the same. 

Some moments after you finish your drink, one of the waitresses walks up to your booth to ask you about a refill, like she’s asked Logan twice now. You’re handing her the glass when Logan says, “She’s had enough.”

Your head whips from her to him. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t say anything, and from the corner of your eye, you see the girl leave. With your glass. Logan’s is on his lips, his eyes observing you over the rim, looking at you like he– Dammit. You sigh deeply, a sense of anger filling you. You don’t need this, least of all from him. When you stand from the booth, those eyes follow you, making you voice your observations,

“Quit pitying me, Logan.”

“I’m not,” he says before taking another sip. “You still have to drive.”

You quirk an eyebrow at him. “And you don’t?”

Logan shrugs. “It’s different for me.”

Anger is still prevalent in your voice when you ask, “Well, let me guess, it’s another case of ‘I died like that a couple times’?” 

He hums.

“And how does that work?”

“Regenerative ability,” he sighs. Another sip before he elaborates, “X-Gene.” 

The admission makes you plop back down in your seat. Well, that explains things – he’s a mutant. You’re not familiar with that world, but you know enough to know it meant that. It isn’t like you couldn’t have deduced it before, but truthfully, you kind of thought he was bullshiting you as part of some tactic. Now, his actions and words make more sense: He really knows what it’s like to... That’s why he had that look on his face. Suddenly, you see him in a different light–

“Now who’s pitying who, hmm?” Logan asks, giving you a thin-lipped smile that doesn't reach his eyes as he sets his glass down on the table.

“I’m not, I’m just… processing. So this...” you lift his glass, swirl the contents around, “...doesn’t even affect you?”

“It does. For a few seconds.” He plucks the glass back from your hand, and throws the whiskey back with one gulp. His pupils dilate, pushing the hazel of his irises out until his eyes are almost black for a second, two… before going back to normal. “But if I chugged the bottle, I’d pass out.”

“Well, so would I,” you say with a chuckle. “So maybe we’re not that different after all.”

Just as the corner of his mouth lifts, your smile falls, because… it isn’t true; you’re very different. You’re pretty sure you don’t have what it takes to do what he did tonight. To care enough to do it. To sit with a stranger and hear them bitch and moan about being denied a drink. A feeling creeps up on you, sticky and uncomfortable, like you’ve overstayed your welcome—burdened him.

“I should head home,” you say, standing again.

Lightning fast, Logan’s hand shoots out to close around your wrist. “That really where you’re going?”

“Yes,” you reply. When you pull your hand back, he doesn’t let up. You fish your car key out of your pocket with your free hand, voice tighter when you say, “Let me go.”

“Just promise me something,” he says, eyes as dark as they’d been earlier, yet his drink has gone untouched since. “Don’t go back there again.”

“Not making promises I can’t keep,” you say, giving him a wry smile. “To strangers, but least of all to myself.”

He sighs, and lets you pull yourself from his hold.

THE CRAVING

New Years comes and goes, and you quickly discover that it was foolish superstition to think that it might change how you feel.

You find yourself in some club, a drink in each hand. You hate to admit it, but Logan’s words scared you out of your original idea and the only time you can bear to think of how to move on from it is when alcohol soothes the embarrassing grief of your shattered, macabre fantasy. It’s not a good way to deal with things, but it works.

There’s a part of you that welcomes feeling anything at all, but that… something inside you is busy trying to squash it. 

It’s getting somewhere, because you have no idea how much you’ve already had to drink, but you’re buzzing pleasantly. Adding to it, you knock both drinks back, slamming the glasses on the bar before spinning around and facing the crowd of dancing bodies. The music sucks, the dance floor is cramped, you’re tired… The truth is that you’re too old for this, but it’s easy to escape here, surrounded by strangers. You clumsily drag the back of your hand over your wet mouth, push your sweaty hair from your eyes, and join them.

The past couple weeks, you found yourself craving something. Contact. And here is where you can get your fill; a hand on your waist, lips on your ear, the music too loud and yourself too drunk to even comprehend what’s being said, but never more. You want them to get close, but never too close.

After some time – could be an hour, could be 10 minutes – you make your way to the bathroom. It’s quieter here, the dulled thump of the music making the time you spend there feel slow and syrupy. 

When you exit the stall, you bump into someone.

It’s a man. The dark hood over his head obscures his eyes, but you can’t help but think he’s looking right at you when a bright, almost unnatural grin appears on his face. It draws you in like a magnet, more so when he says, “Need something to take the edge off?” 

Curiously, you watch as he opens his palm, long fingers unfurling slowly until they reveal a small plastic bag in his hand. 

“First time’s on the house.”

You have no idea what it is exactly, but your eyes widen. This is new territory for you, and all the possibilities it opens up are suddenly invading your mind. As if on auto-pilot, you reach for the place where you keep your money, the sound of the door opening completely lost on you.

A hand closes around your bicep, pulling you aside with a quick yank of an arm.

“She isn’t interested, pal.” 

It’s another man, who effortlessly tucks you half behind him. Before you can protest beyond an indignant huff, there’s a sound, like a sword being unsheathed, and you catch a flash of red, and of knives. Frowning, you try to get a better look, but your view is obscured by the man’s shoulder. The hooded man seems undeterred, regarding the weapons with the same sickening grin, before leaving the bathroom, muttering something that you don’t understand on the way out. The sword sound returns, the man twists around, and–

“Logan?” you slur in disbelief. 

Logan doesn’t reply, instead takes hold of your arm again, making you follow him out of the bathroom. There he stops the two of you to murmur something to a woman wearing the same clothes as him, before tugging you along again. You’re stumbling after him on account of his pace and the iron grip he has on you as he leads you to the back door. He pushes it open with enough force to make the hinges creak, a gust of wind blowing in your face. It’s a contrast to go from the crowded, sweaty club to the silent, cold back-alley where tall brick walls and employee cars cage you in. You shake your arm and Logan’s grip loosens – another and he lets you go.

“How did you even find–” You cut yourself off, eyes widening, “Oh, my god, are you following me?”

Logan scoffs, narrowing his eyes. “Oh, please, do you think I have time to follow you around all day?”

“You’re here, aren’t you? You and your fucking…,” you gesture wildly into the air at him, “savior complex.”

“I work here,” he growls. When you give him a look, he adds, “It’s temporary. ‘Sides, me and my savior complex are the reason that creep isn’t selling god knows what to you in that bathroom right now!” His voice is a roar, echoing off the walls around you.

“Maybe I wanted that creep to sell god knows what to me in that bathroom,” you say, doing a poor impression of his voice, before turning and walking away from him.

Logan sighs. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“And then what, huh?”

“I don’t fucking know, Logan,” you say, twisting around to face him again, arms spread out by your side. “Figure out a new way out of this.”

“Yeah? Third time’s the charm?”

“Why do you even care, huh? You don’t even know me,” you say. Almost immediately, you let out a bitter laugh as your own words hit your ears, a sad realization dawning on you. “But I guess that makes two of us.”

It’s not like you expected him to, but he doesn’t answer.

“You know I used to like myself? I used to smile, I used to have friends, I used to be more sober than drunk. But this feeling, it takes… everything.” You raise a fist, hold it to the center of your chest. “It takes everything I love, pushes away everyone I love, including myself. It eats me up, and wants more and more, until I’m something I’m not and until I’m so far away from that version of myself, my old self, that it feels easier to just fucking–” you pause with a wet gasp for air.

“Destroy yourself,” Logan finishes for you.

Your chest heaves, an unshed tear clings to your lash line. “Exactly.”

He takes a step closer to you. “Let me take you home,” he says, voice gentle. 

You should hate the implications of that gentleness, but you don’t. In your drunk state of mind, it’s easier to admit it’s nice that someone understands, that someone’s there to stop you from going too far… 

Tomorrow, when some of your pragmatism returns, you’ll deny this embarrassing thought ever occurred; if relying on other people worked, it would have worked a long time ago, and you wouldn’t be standing here with him. If you’re lucky, you might even forget this entirely, and wake up with a hangover that you’ll enjoy a little too much because it feels like a punishment–

“What about your job?” you ask with a sniff.

Logan’s palm finds the space between your shoulder blades with a gentle push, the warmth of it seeping in through your clothes, and he leads you to his truck. “They’ll manage without me.”

– – – – –

When you wake, your world is tilted sideways, a blanket is pulled up to your chin and there's a pillow under your head. They’re not your own; the blanket is itchy and the pillow’s too small. When you try to move your legs, they stick uncomfortably to the material below them, and you realize you’re on a leather couch. You squint at the light that comes in from a window across from you–

“Mornin’, sunshine.”

The voice startles you, eyes shifting to focus on the source: A man lying on his front on the floor, chin in his hands as he kicks his feet back and forth in the air. 

“Wish I could say it’s a pleasure, but it hasn’t been very pleasurable. You’ve been barfing up the place since the moment you stepped inside. Kept poor Al up all night. Her ears are sensitive,” he adds with a whisper. “But don’t worry, she left about an hour ago.”

“Who are you?” you slur, blinking against the light.

“Logan.” He sighs when you frown. “I know, not how you remember. This is what I look like during the day; blessed with incredible good looks at night and, well,” he gestures at his face that’s covered in scars, "this, during the day. Bit of a reverse Princess Fiona situation–”

“Cut it out, Wade,” comes the sharp protest from next to you. With considerable effort, you turn your head and see the actual Logan, slumped back in a recliner next to the couch, rubbing some sleep out of his eyes while motioning for the other man to go.

“I’ll let you two talk.” Wade winks.

Logan stands when Wade does, walking from your field of view. Your head is scrambling to catch up, trying to piece together what happened last night, but only coming up with bits and pieces.

“How are you feeling?” Logan asks as he makes his way back to you, handing you a glass of water.

You flinch when the front door closes behind Wade with a bang, before taking the glass from Logan and taking a few thankful sips. “Like shit.”

“Yeah,” is all he says as he sits back down.

“What–”

“You fell asleep in the car. Didn’t know where to take you, figured the couch was the safest place.”

“Oh…,” you say, voice small. 

You try not to think about being so wasted that you had to be carried out of Logan’s car, or about what Wade said earlier about the things that happened as soon as you stepped inside the apartment. During your silence, Logan’s fingers fiddle with the armrest, before his hand balls into a fist, and it unlocks something in your hazy memory.

“I have the weirdest memory of you having… a sword?”

You watch as Logan’s lips purse in amusement. His tongue rolls around in his mouth, seemingly contemplating something, before saying, “You probably saw these.” He holds up his fist, flexing his forearm before three blades shoot from between his knuckles like claws, accompanied by a shing!

“Jesus fucking Christ,” you startle, spilling some water on your blanket. Your head spins with your hangover and the bizarity of the situation. If it didn’t sound so much like how it did in your memory, you might think you were still drunk. 

There’s so many things you want to ask, your intrigue almost winning out over your hangover until the sharp start of a headache gives you pause. Instead, you take another sip of water before rubbing your temple.

“It’s a story for another time,” Logan says, like he can read your mind, and you want to ask him that, too. His claws retreat, the cuts they leave between his knuckles immediately smoothing over until they’re gone. “I gotta go check if I still have a job.”

The words make you feel warm all over, the memory of your back-alley conversation coming back in full force. The thought of the things you admitted to him and that you put him in the position that he had to risk his job for you make you feel even warmer, your gaze no doubt laced with embarrassment and worry when you look at him.

“‘S not your fault,” Logan assures, standing and fishing his car key from the pocket of his jeans. “You don’t have to rush but um, make sure you close the door behind you on the way out. Gets jammed sometimes.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say, watching as he makes his way to the front door. 

He takes a final glance at you over his shoulder, then leaves, accompanied by a bang.

THE PUZZLE

It takes you a little over a week to muster up the courage to go back. Admittedly, your courage is aided by another, foreign feeling. You don’t have a name for it yet, or maybe you’re afraid to call it what it is, but somewhere along the week, you became consumed with the thought that feeling like you did wasn’t all there was. That there is something beyond this. 

Perhaps foreign wasn’t the right way to describe it, because it is something you’ve felt before – it’s just been long dormant. The last time, it lasted about a month before it all came crashing down, and you swore you wouldn’t fall for it again, but you can’t help it. The feeling’s too sweet, and the idea that there’s still some baser instinct willing you to keep fighting for yourself makes you feel like the sun is shining on you. 

So yeah, maybe you’re just having one of your good weeks, where the thing sleeps – quiet while its presence still simmers. But you figured now’s your chance to take advantage of its unguarded moment.

Sneaking into the building is surprisingly easy. It helps that it isn’t anything fancy. You wanted to forego the humiliation of ringing the bell and him not letting you in, but standing in front of the door now, panting after climbing three flights of stairs, you don’t know if this is much better. 

Just when you’re about to knock, the door swings open. In the opening, Logan has one arm in his jacket, head twisted to watch the other that’s caught halfway in the sleeve. It takes him almost bumping into you to realize your presence. “Shit, sorry.” He steadies himself with a hand on your arm, the touch leaving you as fast as it appeared.

“Hi,” you breathe, taking a step back to give him a little more space.

He nods in greeting. “Brings you here?”

It takes you a moment, caught off guard by him skipping over pleasantries and cutting right to the chase, despite your best intentions; it’s not that he’s ever been any different in his interactions with you.

“I came by because I, um, owe you an apology, for my behavior at your workplace and for, you know…,” you trail off, gesturing at the door.

“Barfing up the place!” comes a shout from inside the apartment. 

Logan’s eyes close with a sigh, before he steps into the hallway with you and closes the door with a bang. 

“That,” you finish sheepishly. “I’m really sorry.”

He nods in acknowledgement.

“I also wanted to ask, um, if you want to come with me to get a coffee. To make it up to you.”

Logan just looks at you, the leather of his jacket creaking as he crosses his thick arms in front of his chest. He raises an eyebrow at you expectantly. You hate how he somehow can see right through you, how he makes you elaborate, and honest.

“I want to quit drinking,” you say, fiddling with the sleeve of your coat. “It doesn’t make me better, and when I don’t do it I finally feel a little… normal. Maybe coffee’s technically just as bad, but it’s the only thing that’s currently acting like… like a reverse gateway drink? And I feel like you’re the only person I know that might get that feeling of–”

“I do,” Logan cuts in, voice softer than before – assuring. His arms drop from where they’re crossed and he starts making his way to the stairs. “Let’s go.”

– – – – –

You don’t know this coffee place, and from the way he looks around and shifts around in a chair that might be a bit too small for him, neither does Logan. Main reason you picked it is because the booths remind you a little too much of a bar – and you like the tall windows. The coffee’s pretty decent.

“Did they fire you?” you ask, picking at a loose corner of one of the laminated menus before setting it back in its holder.

“Boss commended me for helping a customer, but not so much for leaving before my shift ended,” Logan replies. “Got off with a warning.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Said that already, and I accepted,” he says. When he takes a sip of the coffee, he winces. “No need to worry about it anymore, okay? I would do it again.”

You nod, folding your hands around the warm cup in front of you.

“But, um, Wade hasn’t shut up about… the incident.” There’s a different tone to his voice, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. “His words.”

“You know, I kind of get the feeling that Wade doesn’t shut up about a lot of things.” It comes out a little meaner than you intend, but it makes Logan laugh and finally slump back in his chair a little. 

“You’re a quick study.”

Offering him a short smile in return, you continue with the other real reason you came to see him, before you chicken out. “I also stopped by because I wanted to, uh… because I realized I never really… I never… I never thanked you, for um… And–”

With a shake of his head, Logan sits upright. “Y’don’t–”

To your horror, your eyes brim with tears, “Logan, I’m supposed to be dead–”

“So am I,” he counters. He lets the words hang between the two of you for a moment, until you look at him, before he continues, “I’ve been where you are. Past it, even.”

You don’t know what to say to that, if the lump in your throat will even permit you to speak, but it’s impossible to look away from him. Logan’s gaze is piercing, frown ever present, but it’s not from anger. Instead, it’s like he’s searching for something, the right thing, to say. The silence doesn’t bother you; if anything, it makes his words seem more genuine when he does speak,

“I had someone who was annoying enough to not give up on me when I could really use it. If getting a coffee with you that’s, frankly…,” he makes a face as he pauses, “a horrible excuse for a coffee, helps… I can do that. I want to do that.”

The corner of your mouth lifts as you blink away your tears. “Was it Wade?”

Logan lets out a chuckle, and it’s honest – fond. “Yeah.”

“Figured,” you say. “How did you meet him?”

Across from you, Logan stills. You swallow thickly, adjusting yourself in your chair. It’s an innocent question, but maybe it isn’t something he’d like to revisit right now. Logan’s mug squeaks when he grips it tighter, and he looks at you with something like defeat– 

It makes you deflate. This must be what you looked like the night you met…

There’s no way to have prepared for what he tells you next: That he came from another timeline about three months ago, that he and Wade saved this one from being destroyed and almost got killed in the process, that he has nothing to go back to after the death of his team, so he stayed here. 

There’s hesitation in it, like he isn’t telling you the whole story, though you don’t comment on it. He doesn’t owe you anything and you’re too busy putting all the pieces in the Logan-shaped puzzle in your mind together; his words and actions towards you are starting to make more and more sense.

“It’s a very brave thing the two of you did,” you say when he’s finished.

“Hmm, it was all Wade,” Logan muses. “He did it all for the people he cares about.”

“I’m sure you would have done the same if you were in his place.”

At that, he lets out a dry laugh with absolutely no joy behind it. “Do me a favor, don’t put me on a pedestal.”

You frown, but before you can comment, he stands. A knot forms in your stomach, worried you’ve offended him, but he clears up the uncertainty immediately.

“I gotta go but um, Wade’s friends–,” he stops himself, correcting, “our friends are coming over to watch a movie, next week, 7:30. I have no idea what crap they’re going to be watching but… it’s nice. It’ll be nice to be around good people.” Logan doesn’t wait for your answer, simply takes his wallet from his pocket and leaves enough money to cover the bill.

“Wait, no, I invited you,” you protest. “I should–”

“You can pay next time.” 

When you nod, he says his goodbyes with a jerk of his head and makes his way to the door.

– – – – –

You see Logan two more times for coffee that week. He never lets you pay.

THE PANTRY

“–but it’s the best one!” Wade protests, DVD in hand.

“They fly a car into space, Wade,” Laura sighs.

“Launched off a jet,” he corrects. Like it helps.

You cover your mouth with the back of your hand, hiding the smile that appears at everyone’s babbling. Unbeknownst to you, you had found yourself invited to a double feature night, with Wade as the self proclaimed DVDJ. The credits had barely started rolling on A Good Day To Die Hard, or Wade had another DVD at the ready. It was met with the same amount of enthusiasm as when he presented the first.

It hadn’t been easy to make yourself go to this tonight. On your way, you’d thought of turning around at almost every step. Of course, that was all before you knew it would be this fun, and that you’d be relieved you hadn’t canceled last minute. Even meeting everyone hadn’t been as bad as you feared. 

There’s Peter, Wade’s friend. Ellie, another one of Wade’s friends. Yukio, Ellie’s girlfriend. Laura, Logan’s daughter. Mary Puppins, Wade’s small, disgusting but adorable dog, who had greeted you with equal amounts saliva and enthusiasm, before falling asleep next to the TV, completely unbothered by the commotion. Unlike Althea, Logan and Wade’s blind roommate, who had taken one listen to the gaggle of voices and left. The elusive Vanessa, Wade’s ex-but-we-might-get-back-together you heard about a couple times, wasn’t there.

Logan had been right, it was nice to be surrounded by good people. Especially good people who were… unconventional. It made joining them less complicated, less performative, and as the evening progressed it made you a participant instead of a silent observer. Wade even called you, “good for the group dynamic,” and it made you beam with pride.

“Don’t they have like, rockets attached to the car?” Ellie questions, to which Yukio’s eyebrows knit together.

“Exactly!” Wade exclaims, mistaking her confusion for enthusiasm. “Citizen Kane wishes.”

There’s more grumbling from everyone when Wade pops the DVD into the player, and he grumbles something back about how Logan would back him up if he wasn’t in the bathroom because he, quote unquote, goes way back with some of these dudes.

You’re pretty sure he’s the only one who knows what he’s even talking about.

An empty bowl of popcorn rests in your lap, and as you put it on the table, you notice how sticky and greasy your fingers and palms are. When the opening credits begin to roll, you get up to wash your hands, assuring Wade he doesn’t need to pause the movie before you go.

The apartment’s small, so it isn’t far to the kitchen, but it’s nice to stretch your legs. You can still hear the sounds from movie night; tell-tale action movie music, comments of disbelief and Wade shutting them down. They’re more faint, though, more so when you turn the tap on and wash your hands.

Right as you’re finished, you hear a dull thud. You turn the water off, head tilted and at attention while you dry your hands. There’s another sound, like a muffled groan. It’s coming from the pantry, you realize, noting that the door is slightly ajar. There’s a shing! sound followed by a distressed grunt, and before you know it you’re walking over, wrapping your fingers around the door to pull it open–

You’re not sure what it was you were expecting, but it wasn’t this. Logan’s sitting on the floor, uncharacteristically small, curled up against one of the walls. His chest is heaving, shoulders all but going up to his ears with how he’s trying to draw in breaths. Next to him, his fist is balled against the hardwood, claws buried in the floor.

Fuck.

Dropping to your knees, you wedge yourself between his. “It’s okay, you’re having a panic attack,” you explain, your hands landing on his shoulders with a light shake. “You need to breathe. I’ll help you, just look at me.”

Logan’s head stays tipped down, a deep, rattling breath sailing from his mouth as he curls further in on himself.

“Hey!” you say sharply, cupping his jaw with two hands and tilting his face up, “Look at me.” 

Logan’s eyes are wet when they meet yours, moving frantically as they search your face, tears spilling over when he blinks. Something changes in his gaze, like he finally sees it’s you, and his bottom lip begins to tremble. His hand lifts from where it’s buried in the floor, clutching onto your wrist like a lifeline.

“Breathe,” you instruct, trying not to flinch at the sharp claws in front of you. He doesn’t catch on immediately, so you overdo the purse of your lips when you blow out a breath before exaggerating an inhale through your nose, showing him what to do. It starts off shaky, a fresh set of tears falling from Logan’s eyes as he does as you instruct, but after a couple of times you find a rhythm together. The silver between his knuckles slowly disappears. “There you go, good job. Keep going.”

You sit like that, until the wild shift of his eyes stops, his pulse steadies beneath your fingertips, and eventually his eyes close with a deep exhale. His grip on you loosens and you take it as your cue to let go of him, slumping back against the wall opposite him with a sigh of relief. The both of you catch your breath, sitting together in silence until Logan breaks it.

“Came outta nowhere… suddenly I was back there… letting them down.”

“It caught you off guard, it happens–”

“I let them get killed,” he says, voice raw. “They were like– They were my family, they trusted me to be there for them and I… I was too caught up in my own bullshit. I should have been with them, I should be dead with them.”

Logan’s tears still come, but the words almost sound reverent; as if saying them out loud just to punish himself with his own shortcomings is a balm. He’s talking about his team from there, you realize, and something clicks. All this time, you thought this was about him being unable to die due to his mutation, but it’s more than that. It’s shame, remorse, grief, survivor’s guilt, all wrapped into one.

It’s the final piece of your mind puzzle that makes his picture appear.

“How– How can I ever atone for that?” he asks. “How can I ever–”

“Logan, you can't change your past,” you interrupt carefully. “You made your choices and they made theirs, and you honored them by– by…stepping up to the task, by doing what you did with Wade.”

“What if it wasn’t enough?”

“What if it was?” you counter. Your hand finds his knee with a squeeze, before adding, “You did what they would have done. And now you… you need to allow yourself to honor their memory without feeling like you have to destroy yourself to do it. You deserve that.”

Logan blinks at you, eyes still glossy. He looks devastated yet calmer than before, like the emotion is still there, but displaced. For a good while, you sit with him like that while his sniffles lessen and his breathing returns to normal… until there’s a loud explosion coming from the living room. It’s followed by cheers and hollers, and you’re both suddenly reminded of where you are. 

“C’mon,” you say, patting Logan’s knee before using it as leverage to haul yourself up with a groan. You give him room by holding the door open for him. “Better get back before we miss the good stuff.”

Still on the floor, Logan exhales heavily. “Think this was the good stuff.”

– – – – –

Three weeks later, on your way to your third movie night, you catch Wade and Vanessa making out in the building hallway. 

It stops you dead in your tracks and makes for an awkward meeting with Wade’s mystery woman, who is beautiful but very direct when she asks you what the fuck you’re staring at. Wade certainly has a type when it comes to the company he keeps… He quickly shushes the situation, introducing the two of you, and it immediately makes Vanessa’s expression twist into recognition. 

“Nice to meet you,” she says, followed by an apologetic smile. 

You respond in kind. 

When Wade tugs at her jacket impatiently, they brush past you and make their way to the exit. “See you around!” she throws over her shoulder.

A grin forms on your lips, realizing what you just witnessed, and you race up the stairs. With Wade gone, you’re not sure if there will be a movie, but at least you have gossip to share with your friends.

THE MEETING

April flies by, rolls into May, and thing’s are… okay.

With some help, you find a therapist. It’s good, she’s good, but it’s difficult to be confronted with things that are painful, week after week, and to keep reminding yourself it’s all part of the process you’re going through.

Last week, after a particularly difficult session, you’d left her office being auto-piloted by dark feelings, like they knew exactly when to strike. You had turned corners and crossed streets, wandering as you stewed on everything you’d discussed –  like your mind was playing a constant loop of your most painful moments. It was a small miracle you had heard your phone, and that you had the presence of mind to thumb the green button.

You’d answered without saying a word.

“Got any plans?” Logan had asked on the other side of the line.

“No,” you’d replied, coming back to yourself a little bit at the sound of his voice.

“Al’s making her meatballs – she and Wade can’t agree on if they’re famous or infamous. Thought you might like to come. If it tastes like shit, we’ll order in.”

You’d hummed, managing to ask, “What time?”

It had stayed quiet on the other end, and that’s how you’d known he was onto you, could picture the pinch of his brows, his lips forming a thin line. For the first time, you welcomed it—wanted so badly to reach through the phone, shake his shoulders, ask for his help and accept it, like he had done with you weeks ago. 

“Sounds to me like now might be good.”

“Yeah,” you had agreed, the constricting tightness in your chest easing up. “Yeah, I’ll be there soon.” You’d released a shuddering breath, ear still pressed to the phone as you took in your surroundings before you auto-piloted yourself to a different destination. 

“Logan?”

“Still here.”

“Thank you for calling.”

“‘course. Get here soon, I’ll stay on the phone.”

The afternoon had ended with Logan and yourself allowing Althea to boss you around in the small apartment’s kitchen, rolling meatballs, sharing stories — Althea’s recollection of something that happened to her in her 20s that involved her stealing a police horse while wearing nothing but a thong, made you cry from laughing.

The meatballs were the best you ever had, though you couldn’t be sure if they actually were, or if it was just the taste of the moment that was better than anything had been that day. 

Sometime after dinner, Logan had nudged your shoulder to show you a little plastic chip. He flashed it at you long enough that you could read the words one month, before he pocketed it again. Then he suggested you come with him next week. 

“I thought it was bullshit too, but it helps,” he’d explained. “Figured I couldn’t continue to drink whatever that stuff is you call coffee to… avoid my problems.”

You contemplated his suggestion. Things were going well for you in that regard, but your therapist had also recommended you go to one of these things, even if it was just for the community aspect of it. It just made it so… official. Your problems, but most of all, your recovery. You weren’t good at keeping promises to yourself, and this felt like a big commitment. Not to mention the speeches and other people’s problems...

But as Logan told you more about it, the location, how it had been for him, you sensed something else between the lines: He wasn’t just asking for you, he was also asking for himself. Maybe… this was his way of telling you he needed some support. 

That’s how you find yourself inside a high school gymnasium a week later. It’s as gloomy as you expected. Slick floors, gray fold-out chairs set in neat rows, buzzing lights in a high ceiling, and a slightly raised podium with a whiteboard that reads a welcome message in capital letters. 

Unsure of what to do, you follow Logan as he weaves through the crowd to find a seat. As you do, it strikes you that there’s a pretty even distribution of people, with many genders, ages and lifestyles represented. Eventually you take a seat; not quite in the back, but definitely not in the front. 

The whole thing goes by in a blur, but where you expected to be overwhelmed, you feel… connected. Here you are, surrounded by people with different backgrounds, different lives, but all their stories have something you can relate to. Where you thought addiction was the common denominator, it’s actually the desire to turn your lives around that unites you the most.

“Before we end the night I want to circle back to last week, when we spoke about goals, or things we want to work towards,” says the woman leading the meeting – you’re ashamed to admit you already forgot her name. “Does anyone want to share something about that?”

It takes a lot to hide your surprise when Logan raises his hand. 

“Logan! Come on up!” She sounds as surprised as you feel, beckoning him to her.

The plastic chair he sits on creaks when he stands and his boots squeak against the shiny floor as he does as she asks. He looks so out of place on a podium; both larger than life behind the lectern and lost to the space of the stage. He clears his throat as he retrieves a paper from his pocket and unfolds it while his eyes scan the room until they land on yours. You give him a little nod of encouragement, and it kicks him into gear.

“Not good at this stuff, so I’m going to keep it brief,” he starts. 

It earns him a chuckle or two from the other attendees, and you can tell he doesn’t expect it when he looks up from his paper. Your hands clasp together with nerves as you watch him divide his weight from one leg to another, before focussing his gaze back down.

“My life has changed a lot over the past few months. For the first time in a long time, it’s not all bad. Coming here has been good. I’m starting to feel more like I did before–” 

He stops his monotonous droning with a frustrated sigh, stuffing the piece of paper in his pocket and sounding considerably more lively after. 

“I have people I care about again, and um, it scares me. ‘Cause I don’t want to let them down, and every day I feel like I will because of all of my… past shit.” He pauses and swallows hard before he continues, “They show me so much kindness and understanding, that… that even though it’s fucking hard, I want to be able to see myself the way they see me. And allow them to care about me without feeling like I… have to earn it all the time, without destroying myself to do it.” 

You exhale for what feels like the first time in an eternity.

“So, that’s what I’m currently working on.” Logan sighs. “That’s it. Thank you.”

A small applause follows, and you quickly unclasp your hands to join in.

Your palms hurt after.

– – – – –

“It was really nice, what you said in there,” you say, fingers caressing a little plastic chip of your own that you keep safe in your coat pocket. You haven’t felt proud of yourself in a while, but tonight you do.

The evening is nice, the setting sun bathing the city in hues of orange and pink. Your pace is slow and comfortable, your arm occasionally brushing Logan’s when you make room for all the other pedestrians. You didn’t plan on him walking you home, but he insisted and you enjoy the company – it makes you a little sad when you turn onto your street.

Logan scoffs in reply. 

“I’m being serious,” you say, knocking your elbow against his arm on purpose now. “It was nice for people to hear a guy like you say those things. I’m proud of you.”

You swear he blushes. “A guy like me, huh?” he asks, almost amused.

It’s your turn to scoff. “You know what I mean.” 

“A mutant?” He looks at you from the corner of his eye.

“No,” you say, because it’s not what you meant, but the hint of seriousness in his voice and the fact he’s not entirely wrong make you track back. “Well, maybe that, too, but I meant someone who looks like you, allowing themselves to be vulnerable. Sets a nice example.”

Logan doesn’t shoot your comments down like you expect. Instead, he seems to consider your words, maybe he even silently accepts the compliment. “Think you have some things to say that could set a nice example, too.”

“Maybe next time.”

During the comfortable silence that follows, you’re reminded of something you’ve been considering for weeks now. You hadn’t paid much attention to it since that night, but as you worked through the feelings that got you to that point, the question kept coming back.

“I’ve been wondering something,” you begin. “The night we met... What were you doing at the lookout?”

Logan glances at you, contemplating the question. “When I had just, um, gotten here, it wasn’t always easy to adjust, you know? So I went to all these places that I knew from back there, to ground myself, to see that things may be different, but that they’re not that different.”

“You went there on your side?”

He hums.

“By yourself?”

He hums again.

“Did you…” You hesitate to finish your sentence, both because you’re not sure if you have any right to ask and because you’ve reached your building. You stop walking, and Logan follows your lead. 

“No, no, no, I… I can’t explain it, it’s just one of those places I was always drawn to,” Logan says, shoving his hands in the pockets of his jeans with a shrug. His brows furrow suddenly, his mind seemingly lost in something before his eyes flick back to yours. “Think it took me coming over here to find reason in it.”

It’s a thought that’s equal parts sad and lovely. 

The silence that follows hangs between you, thick with something you can’t place, but Logan doesn’t look away from you, eyes scanning your face before they land back on yours. You can’t help thinking that maybe this is how he does it, and the question comes out before you can help it,

“Is mind reading part of the X-Gene thing?”

His eyes widen – amusement or surprise, you can’t say. “It can be.” 

“Can you do it?”

“No,” he says. “And it’s for the best, fucking hurts when you can’t control it.” Then the start of a smile begins to form on his lips. “‘sides, I don’t know if I would have a lot of… consideration for people’s boundaries.”

It makes you chuckle. “Right. Not to mention some minds are probably a lot – imagine reading Wade’s mind.”

“Hurts to even imagine,” Logan says, gesturing for you to be quiet as he winces, but a smile breaks through anyway. When your shared laughter dies down, he jerks his chin at the building behind you, “This your place?”

“Wha–?” Going home long forgotten in the moment, you glance over your shoulder. “Oh! Yes.”

“All right,” he nods. “See you next week?”

“Definitely,” you reply.

“Oh,” Logan says right before you turn around. “Bring coffee? You owe me.”

You make a face at him. “You don’t have to– I’ll get you something else, I know you don’t like it.”

“I like it when I drink it with you.”

It’s incredibly hard to hide your grin. “Okay, I’ll bring coffee. See you next week, Logan.”

“See you.” 

He lingers, watching you climb the steps, waiting until the door opens after you turn your key in the lock. It’s not until you close the door, when you can only make out his silhouette through the patterned glass window in it, that he walks off.

THE SUMMER

Walking back from a very successful job interview, you find yourself on your way to your friends with a big, plastic bottle of coke under your arm. It’s a warm feeling to know that you’ll soon have a job that suits you and that you have people to celebrate with; you look forward to seeing them and sharing this with them.

You’re invited inside with open arms, tight hugs, exclaimed praise and congratulations, and it makes you giddy, a feeling so foreign that you wish you could bottle it up right this instant. With a grin, you shake the Coca Cola bottle, before twisting the cap off. You let out an excited shout as you watch the foam shoot out from the top, bubbles and dark liquid pulsing down the neck of the bottle as cheers surround you.

It’s not champagne, but Althea grumbles about the soda ruining her floors, Wade gets mismatched glasses from the cupboard, and Logan clinks his glass to yours and tells you he’s proud of you.

It’s way better than champagne.

– – – – –

You’re in serious, desperate need of a new place… 

The August heat is relentless, and the entire building’s AC isn’t working. It’s with considerable effort that you manage to make your way to your friends’ place, the promise of a constant, cold stream of wind the only thing that keeps you going. But when the front door opens, it isn’t with the welcoming, cool waft of air you were hoping for. Instead, there’s no temperature change, only Wade in his underwear.

“No.” It’s a little embarrassing how you literally pout, but these are desperate times. “Here, too?”

“If it wasn’t this fucking hot I’d be offended by that greeting.” He sighs. “Come in.”

Slightly defeated, you shuffle past the threshold, while Wade lingers. Mary Puppins trots by, an ice-pack wrapped in a towel secured on her back, and you catch a glimpse of Logan exiting the bedroom. He’s in black shorts and a ribbed, sleeveless shirt, and with a desperate groan, he lets himself fall back into the recliner in the living room. 

“Tried everything, there’s no fixing that fucking thing.”

Wade makes a face, “Listen, I know what you’re thinking: Wade’s in his underwear, Logan’s emerging from the bedroom… But we didn’t fuck, it’s not that kind of st–”

“Who are you talking to?” you ask from behind him, glancing over his shoulder into the empty hallway.

“No one–You!” The door closes with a bang.

Confused, you walk further into the apartment. “Well, telling me you didn’t is just going to make me think that you did.” Wade darts past you and takes a seat on the couch, but you hang back and lean against the kitchen table to avoid sitting on leather.

Wade suddenly turns to face you. “Did I ever tell you about our time in The Void?”

“Wade,” Logan warns.

Wade’s eyes are sparkling with mischief and you can’t deny how fun it is to indulge the way he pushes Logan’s buttons. It’s a good distraction from how you’re drenched in sweat. And you’re actually curious.

You play your part, letting out a faux-scandalised gasp. “Did you..?”

“Oh, yeah, baby. Wolverine goes both ways. All the ways, really.” He grins. “We’re so alike.”

“Shut up. Both of you.” Logan groans, lacking any real threat as he adjusts in his seat and wipes some sweat off his brow. “It’s too fucking hot to be annoyed.”

It isn’t lost on you he doesn’t deny a thing.

– – – – –

Apartments look weird with nothing in them.

It’s what crossed your mind after you finished packing up your place three days ago, and it crosses your mind now as you look into the open space of your new one from the doorway. It’s a pleasant, late summer day; perfect weather to move, which was on your schedule for today.

“Incoming!” comes from behind you, followed by quick, heavy steps.

You jump aside as Ellie sails through the door, carefully setting a big box marked “Kitchen” down in its designated area, followed by Logan who is balancing three boxes at once. After a beat, Yukio follows, holding a single table lamp in her hand. It takes some effort not to laugh, not just because of how funny it looks, but also because you relate; after all the exhausting late nights you pulled packing up, that’s also the kind of energy you’re bringing to this.

It’s nice of them to help, and instead of shoving that feeling away in fear, you allow yourself to bask in it. You don’t get long, however, because more help has just arrived.

Wade. With Vanessa. Hands interlocked.

It draws everyone’s eyes to the doorway. Wade looks almost bashful, and it baffles you how someone who can say the most insane things unprompted, all without batting an eye, could blush while holding hands with a girl he likes. To his credit, he shakes it off quickly.

“All right, all right,” he says. “Stop ogling me and my girlfriend and get back to work everyone!”

– – – – –

“So it was like an experiment?” you ask, stirring the pot on your stove before taking a careful bite of food off your wooden spoon.

Tonight’s your first night hosting at your new place – Family Dinner, Wade had dubbed it. With fall setting in, you had an idea of what to make, but it still made you nervous to have everyone in your space. Logan saw right through you, offering to come over early to help you prepare. 

Once he had arrived, it hadn’t taken long for him to admit he wasn’t much of a cook, so he mainly chopped vegetables as you chatted; you about your new place, Logan about his new job as a boxing instructor, Laura going off to college. You don’t remember exactly how the subject of his adamantium came up, but he was telling you freely about it.

“They needed someone who could regenerate fast enough to bond with it,” he explains. “I was in a dark place. Figured I didn’t have anything to lose if it didn’t work.”

You nod in understanding. “Do you… remember much about it?” You put your spoon down, then put the lid back on the pan. 

Logan’s knife stops hitting the cutting board. “Yeah, I… I remember every second of it.”

You look at him then. His eyes are still cast down at his task. Unsure of what to say, you think about what you’d want to hear, and you find it might be best to say nothing at all. Instead, your hand finds his shoulder. Logan’s head turns to you, and you feel like the look you share is more important than anything you could’ve told him. His hand covers yours with an appreciative squeeze. 

“But I’m trying to leave that there so I can focus on remembering what happens to me here.” As soon as he’s said it, his hand quickly slips off yours, adding, in a rush, “Here in this timeline, I mean.” 

You smile at him, but a strange feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. “That sounds like a great idea.”

– – – – –

“I need your help with something,” you say, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder while you turn a birthday card over in your hand. Deciding you don’t like it, you throw it back on the pile of cards and continue your grocery shopping.

“Just say the word,” comes Logan’s reply from the other end.

“I need you to steal something out of the apartment for me.” There’s a silence, and you purposely let the feeling of trepidation linger.

“Am gonna need you to say a little more than just that.”

You laugh, “Wade’s been talking about getting a little frame for his polaroid. You know, the polaroid that you held on to for him in The Void, after the two of you fu–”

“Yes, I know the one,” he interjects with a huff. He pauses, sighs, then says, “Consider it done.”

THE PARTY

“There you are!” Wade shouts after he opens the door. He pulls you into a hug that you return with a wide smile. Over his shoulder, you see that the apartment’s crowded, bustling with people who are there for his birthday party.

“I got you something,” you say, offering the small package to him after you step inside and hang up your coat.

“Wouldn’t have let you in if you hadn’t,” he admits as he closes the door behind you with a bang. Wade takes the package from your hand, shaking it next to his ear but hearing it make no sound in response. “Is it a cock ring?”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “Unfortunately, they were all sold out.”

“They always are,” he says, making a disappointed face. Bottom lip tucked between your teeth, you watch as he tears at the wrapping paper to reveal his gift. He makes another face when he sees it. “Well, now I feel like an asshole. This is really nice.”

“Logan helped me kidnap it,” you explain, pointing at the picture. “And the little red hearts on the frame, well, they’re your color, but they also reminded me of how much you care about people.”

When he looks at you after, it’s with genuine emotion… but Wade is Wade. “Never thought I’d say this, but I’m kind of happy you walked in here barfing up the place.”

A strange mix of embarrassment and gratitude claws its way up your neck. “Thank you.”

“We should take a new one,” he decides suddenly, pointing at the picture. “You both should be in it.” His head turns, watching as Logan approaches the two of you. “But let’s be realistic, his shoulders are so broad he wouldn’t even fit in the frame, much less his bul–”

“Stop talking about my dick, Wade,” Logan snaps.

“I was saying only good things! Jeez, so sensitive…” Wade turns, putting the picture on the kitchen table behind him where it joins all the other gifts.

“Did he like it?” Logan asks, voice low.

“Yeah,” you smile.

“Good,” he replies. “Was a nice idea.”

You eye all the other gifts, some clearer who they are from than others. “What did you get him?”

The corner of Logan’s mouth lifts as he points at a roll of silver duct tape with a small red bow on top, making you fix them both with a confused look.

“It’s an inside joke,” Logan shrugs.

Wade’s eyes sparkle, but in a rare turn of events, he doesn’t elaborate, only adds, “It’s classified. I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.” 

“And I have top level clearance, lieutenant,” you reply. You exhale through your nose in an amused laugh when Wade makes a surprised face that indicates you’ve gotten the reference. “What, you thought a Tom Cruise impression could save you?”

“No,” he grins, and as if on cue, the doorbell rings, “but that can. Birthday Boy duty calls, but I want it on record that I could do Top Gun, easily, while Tom would never be able to pull off Deadpool.”

– – – – –

The party settles into something comfortable, soft music in the background of lively chatter. Yukio has just finished telling you about a Professor Layton cosplay she’s doing when you excuse yourself, both your glass and your social battery empty enough to look for a momentary out. Finding your way through the crowd, you make it to the kitchen, filling your glass with water and taking a few sips. 

While you do, the music suddenly gets louder, taking over for the steady chatter. You turn around, leaning back against the kitchen counter, and watch as Wade drags Vanessa to the middle of the apartment. People make room for them, exchanging looks while Wade wraps his arm around her waist, takes her hand in his and begins dancing with her. With a laugh, she slaps him on the chest, before settling into his embrace anyway. Some follow their lead, but your eyes stay glued to them. Wade spins Vanessa under his arm, the smile on her face bright enough to light up the entire room. In return, he looks at her with so much adoration he’s almost glowing himself. It fills you with warmth to see the both of them so happy.

It hits you how you haven’t thought about this in a while. You’d decided long ago that the future wasn’t something you had to worry about, but suddenly you’ve arrived, like you’re in some alternate reality where your future is now, and that it would be nice to share it with someone. The sting behind your eyes catches you a little off guard; mixed feelings of time that has been taken from you, but also of time you’re getting back with the life you now have.

For a while now, you’ve suspected the thing inside you is gone, that there isn’t much to feed off of anymore. If it is, it would make sense that there’s room for something else.

Wade and Vanessa make it look easy, even though you know it’s been far from easy for them. You suppose that’s what it’s like, especially as you get older. It’s less about big gestures, more about small ones; someone to make you laugh, to spin you under their arm, who knows how to apologize, seeks you out during your quiet moments–

“Do you dance?”

You startle, head turning towards the voice next to you– 

“Logan,” you breathe. 

It’s like you’re seeing him for the very first time. He’s standing so close, almost touching you but not quite, heat radiating off of him nonetheless. The plaid shirt he’s wearing isn’t even buttoned and still the fabric is pulled taunt over his shoulders and the thick of his biceps. He’s grinning, his nose pulled up in an adorable scrunch, the corner of his eyes crinkling - you never noticed before, but there’s a hint of green between the hazel.

It hits you so suddenly that you have to grab the counter to keep your balance. Everything that’s been happening, that you’ve been feeling, all the times something happened between the two of you that you couldn’t put your finger on… it falls into place with a well-timed, completely unrelated question and a glance at him.

You like him.

All you can do is blink at him, dazed, unable to speak, even more so when he leans in a little closer, mistaking your silence for misunderstanding. “I mean, not that I– You and Wade were doing a bit earlier, it’s a reference to–” Logan straightens suddenly, his expression slipping into concern as he watches you, “Are you okay?”

You feel warm, so aware of all his attention on you that you’re afraid he might be able to see your pulse blink rapidly below the angle of your jaw. “Yeah,” you reply, voice hoarse, looking away from him to blink the leftover wetness from earlier out of your eyes. 

Anxiety claws its way into your chest, your mind coming to terms with what it’s puzzled together at such a sickening pace that there’s an immediate knot in your stomach. The party has instantly lost its shine, and you look down at the glass in your hand, gulping down its contents. You need to be alone with your thoughts, you need to think about this before–

“I gotta go,” you say in such a rush that it almost sounds like one word while you set your glass on the kitchen counter.

Logan’s eyes follow you as you push past him, grab your coat and reach for the doorknob. “Wait–”

“Bye, Logan.”

THE TABLE

Once at home, you change into something more comfortable, your mind racing while you peel your party clothes off, toss your bra aside, change into an oversized shirt and plop down on the couch after.

Despite having already established that your mind was occupied with other things for a very long time, it’s laughable in hindsight that you never noticed your feelings before. It’s not like you don’t know what Logan’s like; he’s kind, funny, supportive…

…broad, handsome.

Shit.

Why did you have to come to your senses? Things were better before that moment. Logan’s your friend, whom you met in the most unconventional way possible. It’s ridiculous to want more than what you have when what you have is good. Or to think that he would want more.

But he might.

Because you may have been occupied with depression, anxiety, recovery, and everything in between, but you were there; you remember the time you spent with him, the way he looks at you, drinks the coffee you like, laughs at your jokes, seems to know exactly when to call you, seeks you out in a crowd.

But it would change everyth– 

Actually, not a whole lot would change, if you really think about it. You already see him all the time, you’ve seen the very worst of each other, overcome a great deal of hardship together, you make each other better, his friends are your… 

friends. 

You didn’t say goodbye to Wade.

The thought comes suddenly. It was his birthday party and you didn’t even say goodbye to him before you left. You’re a terrible friend. Dread sinks into your limbs, and you reach for your phone to type out a quick, apologetic message. Just as you hit send, there’s a series of loud knocks on the door, and it makes you freeze up where you’re seated.

“Are you in there?” a muffled voice calls out.

It’s Logan, you realize, and a plethora of fake excuses as to why you left the party early present themselves to your mind as you quickly make your way over to the door.

The first thing you notice when you open it is that he’s dripping wet from the rain, clothes soaked through and his hair flat. There’s a deep furrow in his brow, and it’s different from how he usually looks; he looks actually mad.

“Logan, is everything–” you begin, concerned, but he cuts you off by pushing past you and letting himself inside, boots stomping against the wooden floor. 

“Jesus, here you are. Why’d you leave like that, huh? Saying goodbye, your eyes all wet. I went after you and you were fucking gone, it scared the shit out of me. Didn’t see the car at the lookout, but I went to look for you anyway, and you weren’t in the water, thank fuck–”

“Wait, you went–” you pause, the mental image of Logan running out into the rain to the cliffside making your eyes widen. “Did you think..?”

“Yeah,” he sighs, shoulders slumping.

“Shit.” Your heart is racing when you step closer to him. “No, I wasn’t… I don’t want that anymore.”

“Then what the fuck was that all about?”

The desperation and misunderstanding in his eyes is unmistakable, and you hate that you made him feel like that. “I was just… I needed a moment, after seeing Wade and Vanessa like that,” you say, trying to provide yourself with more time to think, unsure if you already want to broach the subject of why you really left.

“You… like Wade?” Logan asks, his frown deepening.

You can’t help the laugh that escapes you at the unexpected question. “No. I mean, I adore Wade, but not like that. He’s with Vanessa.”

The answer does nothing to change his expression. “And you want it to be different?”

His line of questioning confuses you. “I– No. Logan, this isn’t about Wade or Vanessa, but it’s about… what they have. Something that’s real, but imperfect, and that’s what actually makes it perfect, and I just… I was in a really bad place for such a long time, I didn’t give myself time to even think about… I haven’t felt myself wanting for so long,” your gaze flicks up to his. “Seeing them just made me realize there’s so much left that I still want.” 

Internally, you curse the way he always makes you say too much, because you can see the understanding wash over his features. His expression softens, the balled fists by his side loosen, and his eyes search you, as if to see if that thing you want is him. There’s no doubt he finds his answer; you’re ever the open book when it comes to him, and your pulse quickens while he silently observes you. 

Logan reaches for you so quickly that you can barely prepare for it, a hand on your waist to pull you in, another on your cheek to tip your face up and guide your mouth to his. A shaky breath sails out through your nose when your lips meet, your eyes fluttering shut and your palms sliding up his damp but warm chest to curl in the soaked fabric of his shirt. It’s eager, and the angle is off, but it’s quickly adjusted with a brief parting and a near in-sync tilt of your heads in the other direction. 

Logan pulls away, but stays close, and you almost feel his words before hearing them, “Been… thinking about doing that.”

“Really?” you say, breathless and amused. “When did you, um, start wanting to do that?”

“Few weeks ago–Fuck, no, more than that. Almost did, that day after your first meeting, after you told me you were proud of me,” he admits. “But I wanted to give you time, space. Wasn’t sure if you felt–”

“I do. Didn’t realize it before, but I fucking do,” you assure him, another tug on his collar trying to pull him back to you. His admissions, knowing he wants you too, only make you want him more, like you have to make up for all the time you wasted not doing this sooner.

Logan’s hand on your waist holds you off. “I just don’t know how to… how to be this,” he confesses softly.

“That’s okay,” you say, your nose brushing against his. “I don’t either.”

He inches forward like he intends to kiss you again, but seems to reconsider, swallowing hard before saying, “Wouldn’t be the first time we figure it out together, huh?”

The words make you surge forward to close the gap between you, your brows creasing, attempting to convey everything you feel with one press of your lips to his. Logan’s hand slides from your cheek to the back of your head, pulling you to him in a way that seems to mirror your efforts. Something lights up inside you, something you lost long ago, and it makes you bold, opening your mouth under his to get a taste of him. 

His grip on you tightens with a groan, spurring him into action and walking you backwards into the dark kitchen, the only illumination the slivers of moonlight that come through the kitchen window. You jolt when the back of your thighs hit the table, before you’re scrambling to get on top of it, two hands at your waist helping to hoist you up. Your thighs widen to make room for Logan’s while you push the green flannel shirt off his shoulders, struggling to peel it off his arms to the point you have to break away with a laugh to really get it right. It lands on the floor with a wet sound, before he reaches for the back of his shirt, curling his fingers around the collar and pulling it over his head.

Logan’s sturdy, warm to the touch and surprisingly pliant when you can’t help but let your fingers flit along the corded muscles and protruding veins while he toes off his shoes. His hand flies to the back of your head to fist the hair at the nape of your neck when your lips explore, find his jaw, and travel down his neck. A soft sound sails from his mouth, a barely audible moan that carries over into something deeper when your lips brush a spot just above his clavicle. Using the grip he has on you, he drags you back up to his mouth, doing some more of his own exploring when his warm tongue strokes against your own. 

“You’re so good to me,” he murmurs with a buck of his hips against yours. The thrill of having him pushed up against you, half-hard, warm, full of promise, makes you moan, teeth clacking against his when you do. “Always so fucking good to me.”

It makes you want to protest, from the very moment you met, he’s the one always being that to you, but it dies on your tongue when Logan’s flicks over the tips of his fingers. His impatient hand finds its way between you, disappearing under the waistband of your underwear and stretching the material to make room. His name comes out as a whimper when his spit-slick fingers easily glide through the soft skin between your legs. He curses, another buck of his hips pressing his hand closer against you, and your kiss turns messy and uncoordinated when he dips one finger to touch your clit. 

“This okay?” Logan asks when you gasp, drawing languid circles between your legs.

“Yeah, it’s just– Oh, god.” Two thick fingers find your entrance, swirling the wetness there around. “Been a while,” you manage to finish your sentence.

“I’ll make it good for you,” he promises. “You want that?”

All you can do is nod, and Logan presses a kiss to the corner of your mouth before he pulls his hand back. It’s paired with a wet sound that makes your cheeks heat, more so when you watch him get on his knees and yank you to the edge of the table, the quick turn of events and the casual display of his strength making you a little dizzy. Logan’s nose presses into the fabric between your legs with a sharp inhale, before quick, practiced moves work your underwear down your legs. One eager hand places a thigh on his shoulder as another holds you at the bend of your knee. You lie back, arching as you hurriedly pull your t-shirt over your head, leaning up on your elbows just in time to watch him bend down. 

The feeling of Logan’s hot breath sailing out over your sensitive skin alone is enough to make you gasp. He drags his lips and nose across your folds, easing you into it as much as his lack of patience will allow before tasting you with a swipe of his tongue. It isn’t tentative or testing, but firm and sure, and clearly for his enjoyment as much as yours when he repeats his action and groans into you. The vibrations of it and the gentle scratch of his facial hair only add to the liquid feeling in the pit of your stomach. Letting go of your knee, he curls a strong arm around your thigh, spreading you open then pulling you flush against him while he sucks your clit into his mouth.

“Oh, that feels really good,” you spur him on, your heel digging in between his shoulder blades. You watch him with hooded eyes, shifting your weight to one elbow so you can cup your breast with a whine. 

Logan’s eyes slip shut in focus, working his tongue up and down your clit and making you arch into his mouth. Reaching for you blindly, he slides a hand over yours on your chest, fingers fitting between your own and squeezing while his tongue slides lower to lick over where you’re dripping for him. He lets out an appreciative hum as he repeats the move until your thighs clench and shake around his ears. His tongue dips inside you, curling up against the slick walls of your cunt, and his name tumbles from your mouth, soft, pleading, making his eyes shoot open to meet yours.

The sight of him looking up at you like that from between your thighs, with dark eyes, the tip of his nose glistening with your wetness, will probably haunt you for the rest of your life. 

Logan shushes your begging, pulling away and watching as your pussy clenches at the sudden lack of attention. “Let me give you something to come on,” he murmurs, before fitting a finger at your entrance. It meets absolutely no resistance, a second finger sliding inside with just as much ease, and he sets a steady, deep rhythm before his mouth returns to your clit.

“Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Your head rolls back between your shoulder blades, mouth open on a silent gasp, but he draws your attention back to him with a curl of his fingers, finding a spot that makes you go rigid for a second. It all builds so fast, so suddenly. The hand on your chest shakes Logan’s off, finding the crown of his head and sliding your fingers into his hair. He’s too strong to really make purchase, but you try anyway, using your grip to roll your hips against him. The sound of his groans, every flick of his tongue and every squelching, delicious curl of his fingers all send you closer and closer, until his hand presses down on your belly, and…

“Logan,” you manage, voice sharp with a warning that comes too late when he makes you tumble over the edge. 

It’s so much after so long, the force of it making you fall back against the table, something between a gasp and a shout tearing from your throat. He holds you tighter, to keep you in place and guide the desperate roll of your hips against his face. Your orgasm quickly slips into something bordering on oversensitivity, and you let out a dry sob that makes you slap a hand over your mouth when Logan’s tongue travels a path from where his stilled fingers disappear inside you, up to your clit. He stays there, gentle, uncharacteristically patient as you slowly come to a twitching halt. 

He’s a blur when he comes back into your field of view after standing up, towering over you to watch as you come back down to earth. Becoming sharper with every heavy blink of your eyes, you notice the smile on his face is smug, that the hair surrounding it is a shade darker than the rest. You sigh softly when his fingers slip from you, the feeling of them sliding wetly over your clit making you tremble, but his touch doesn’t leave you completely when he moves to stroke the outside of your thigh.

“How’s that?” Logan dares to ask.

“Hmm, no speaking yet,” you protest.

Reaching for him, you slide both of your arms up over his broad shoulders, wrists crossed in the nape of his neck to pull him in for another kiss. It’s slow, and deep, the taste of yourself shared between the two of you as your tongue slides over his. The table protests with a creak when his hands land beside your head, more when his chest pushes down on yours and you wrap a leg around his waist to get him even closer. The hair scattered across his broad chest teases your nipples and the hard ridge of his cock strains against his jeans and presses up against your slick cunt. It makes your jaw go slack, stoking your desire and making you burn with the need to make him feel as good as he just made you feel. 

With a push against his shoulders, you take him along as you sit upright again, accompanied by another creak of the table. Mouth still on his, you slide a hand down to cup him over his jeans, the weight of him against your wide open palm making you pulse. Logan grunts when your hand squeezes, and your mouth slides off his, kissing his jaw, sliding back down his neck. He cups your head, keeping you in place while watching your hand.

“Feels nice,” he husks, voice so deep it makes you want to push him aside and get on your knees for him, but then he asks, “Are you gonna let me fuck you?”

“God, yeah,” you say with a nod, watching as the mark you just sucked into his neck disappears far too soon while you continue rubbing him over the denim. “Want you inside of me.”

“Jesus–Then get it out,” he instructs, guiding your hand to his belt. 

If you weren’t so turned on you might wince at how eager you are, at how quickly you tug the buckle open and pull the leather free. Logan groans when it relieves some of the pressure, letting his forehead rest against yours. Together, you watch your hands make quick work of his zipper, your fist closing around his cock while your other hand works his pants down until he can kick it off and under the table.

He fits nicely in your palm, heavy and ready, sticky at the tip. With a purse of your lips, you let your spit trickle down in a straight line, and he hisses when it hits him. Your free hand flattens against his stomach, sliding down along the hard planes of his body and following the vein just below his belly button down, until it meets your other hand that loosely strokes up to the root of his cock. Logan arches into you when you stroke back up with a tighter grip, all but getting on his toes to chase your touch. Using both of your hands to get all of him, you twist your fists in opposite directions once, twice, before circling his tip with one thumb. Your other hand curls around the underside of him, dragging some of your spit down to his balls with the tips of your fingers.

“F–fuck,” Logan stutters when you play with him there, cupping him in your hand as well as you can and squeezing his shaft when it twitches in response. His eyes slip shut as his palms land on the outside of your thighs with a smack, fingertips digging into your soft skin. 

It makes you jolt, then grin, giddy from the sharp sting and the power you have over his pleasure. “How’s that?” you echo with a teasing lilt.

He does have the words to answer, albeit a little slurred, “‘S good, sweetheart.”

The nickname tacked on at the end takes root in your chest, blooms bright and makes you ache. You translate your appreciation into tightening your strokes and spreading more of the precome that steadily leaks from his tip around.

“C’mere,” Logan says softly, taking over for you with one hand, giving himself a few strokes before pushing your thighs further apart and shuffling closer to line himself up with you.

You’re so wet that the head of his cock is practically already slipping inside of you, but your hand clasps around his bicep when he really starts to breach you. After giving you a shallow little thrust, his hips draw back, before pushing a little further, gauging your reaction.

“Just like that,” you sigh, watching the careful slide of him in and out of you. “Keep going just like that.”

He gets you opened up like that, giving you a little more with each wind of his hips. Logan’s hand finds the back of your neck, his palm splaying out and keeping you close enough that you’re practically sharing air with each sigh and moan. Eventually, your knees have to draw up to his flanks in order for him to keep going and you wind a leg around his hip to close the final distance with a press of your heel into one of the firm cheeks of his ass. A long breath sails out from between your lips when you pulse around him, slowly adjusting to having all of him filling you up. You can tell he has to put considerable effort into letting you, wood groaning below you when he clutches onto the table.

“Fuck, it’s a lot,” you say, and when he grins against your mouth you can’t help but kiss him again – just a peck. The hand at the back of your neck squeezes in reassurance as he continues to let you lead, and it’s a small gesture, but it makes you feel warm all over. You melt into it his touch, your body relaxing as the pleasure of the stretch of him takes over.  

“Can stay like this a little longer if you want,” he says, but the strain in his voice says something different.

“Hmm, no, you can move.” You’ve barely said it, or his hips are drawing back, and it would have made you laugh if it didn’t feel so fucking incredible. He almost slips from you completely, before sliding all the way back inside with a grunt. The table scrapes along the floor, and vaguely you register one of your chairs falling over in the process. When he repeats the action, the furniture squeaks again below you. “Just don’t break my table.”

The sound he makes in response is non-commital, and when he fucks back into you and nudges against something wonderful, you can’t say you disagree. Grabbing hold of his shoulder and using the leg you have wrapped around him, you roll your hips against his, and he begins to meet you halfway until you work up a rhythm together. The table protest further, a shrill sound filling the room after each slap of skin–

With a frustrated groan and accompanied by a startled squeal from yourself, Logan lifts you. The surprised laugh that threatens to bubble up your throat quickly morphs into something heavier that comes out with a rasp when he makes it all look unusually effortless. Attempting to brace yourself, you sling one arm over his shoulders, the other winding around his neck so you can rake your fingers through the hair at the back of his head. It’s a struggle to keep your balance, a helpless heel digging into the back of his thigh to keep yourself upright. Quick to aid, Logan slides an arm under you, fingers splayed across your ass as your knee hangs off the inside of his elbow. He turns a quarter, presses you up against the wall, and doesn’t miss a beat as he continues fucking you. 

“Jesus, Logan,” you say, voice almost a growl and barely recognizable as your own.

With your new position, you can see him better, the both of you lit from the side with the window to your left. The moonlight paints him in a tapestry of light and shadows when the wind blows through the tree branches, momentarily amplifying the glint in his eyes and the flex of his chest and arms like a strobe light.

The different angle he finds with his cock is a little too good, the feeling of the thick base of him stretching you open with each thrust making you dazed and talkative, “It’s so deep like this, can–oh, my god–can feel you everywhere.” 

Logan curses at your words, squeezing your waist and pushing you harder against the wall. There’s a deep-voiced appreciation of how good you feel in there too that doesn’t quite make it from your ears to your brain because somehow he’s still speeding up. His head ducks down to your chest, mouthing at the soft skin of your breast before closing his lips around a nipple. 

You whine, using the grip you have on him to roll your hips against the piston of his while you pant into his crown. Though the sound he makes against you when you do it makes you beam with pride, it’s not something you can keep up for very long, your hold on him slacking after a few thrust until you slip back against the wall. 

Logan pulls back when you do, tightening his hold on you while his eyes glide from the bounce of your tits that glisten with his spit to down between your bodies. 

“Touch yourself,” he instructs, grunting when you immediately do as he says by bringing a hand down between where you’re joined. Your fingers spread in a V-shape around where he fucks into you, collecting some of your mixed arousal before using it to rub your clit. “That’s it, sweetheart, fuck, make yourself come.”

You nod, rapidly feeling everything zeroing in on the fingers that draw tight circles over your clit and that spot deep inside you that Logan’s finding with every thrust. “Yeah, fuck, I’m–Don’t stop, don’t stop, please–”

He’s coming before you are, tucking his head below your chin to let out a deep, drawn out moan against your neck that ends with his teeth grazing your skin. It’s so much, the pressure of him grinding himself into you with twitching, barely there thrusts, the heat of his release as it fills you where you’re gripping him like a vice, and as your fingers still twirl between your legs you come, and come, and come. 

The leg you have wrapped around his hip slips off, but before your toes can even scrape the floor, he catches your thigh, cupping your ass with both hands now to keep you up, and close. With a soft, satisfied sound, you let your forehead fall against Logan’s shoulder, tasting the salt of his sweat with every light press of your lips there.

It takes you a moment to notice your back has come off the wall, that Logan is walking the both of you into your living room and to the couch. He bends his knees, dropping you between your pillows, where you land with as much grace as you can muster considering you feel like you’re made of lead. The soft couch is pleasant against your body, your sore limbs sinking into the cushions. 

Logan fits himself between your legs again, widening them around his broad shoulders before his lips find your overstretched thighs, leaving marks and kisses up up up, until his tongue slips back into your pussy. Your back arches off the couch, hands shooting down to fist his hair with a whine while Logan’s hand fists his cock. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you can tell he’s already getting hard again, and his tongue is making something swirl low in your belly that’s making you pant, and...

It’ll be a long night.

THE PEARL

It had taken a lot of convincing and downright groveling, but Wade had allowed you to bring a movie for movie night. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust your taste in movies, his main gripe with your choice was that it wasn’t a Christmas movie – mandatory for December. Wade’s right, but after you explained that it’s the movie you always watch at the end of the year (and after Logan and yourself conceded that yes, his birthday was technically also your anniversary) he’d agreed. 

Now that you’re actually watching it, you suspect he’s genuinely invested, because after a handful of comments about The Hulk, he’s been quiet for longer than you’ve ever heard him be quiet.

In the scene on the screen, Mark Ruffalo’s character Dan and Keira Knightley’s character Gretta are taking an evening walk around New York City, dancing, singing and sharing music with each other as they do. Eventually, they stop and sit next to each other on some steps, watching as the city continues to move without them.

“...the most banal scenes are suddenly invested with so much meaning, ya know? All these banalities, they're suddenly turned into these… these beautiful, effervescent pearls,” Dan says, wistfully looking on as New York bustles around him. “I gotta say, as I've gotten older these pearls are just… becoming increasingly more and more rare to me.”

The arm Logan has slung around your shoulder tightens, and the couch creaks softly as you lean further into his side, your cheek squishing against his warm chest.

“More string than pearls?” Gretta inquires with a frown.

“Yeah. You got to travel over a lot more string to get to the pearls.” There’s a pause as he turns to look at her, “This moment is a pearl, Gretta.”

She gives him a hint of a smile. “It sort of is, isn't it?”

“All this has been a pearl,” he admits, sharing a look with her.

A finger curls under your chin, tipping your head up until your eyes meet Logan’s. He gives you the same look you just saw on the screen, his eyes soft as they take you in, the hint of green between the hazel illuminated by the light of the television. A thumb swipes over your bottom lip fondly, before he leans down to kiss you.

It takes a lot of string indeed.

Sometimes even interdimensional string.

– – – – –

(THE END)

If you made it all the way here, thanks for reading. Seriously. Please come say hi and/or share your thoughts via ask/messages/reblogs/whatever you feel comfortable with. I hope to share more writing soon - emphasis on hope, I'm not making promises, just an educated wish.

It had been so long since he had seen you. Far too long. Logan had missed you with every day, every hour, minute and second that passed. You were his love.

Simultaneously the best and worst thing to happen to him.

The ‘best’ because he hadn't ever thought it possible to find his other half. Hadn't believed in the notion of a Soulmate yet you were the proof.

The ‘worst’ because to meet you was strenuous. It literally meant death. He had to be around tragedy to glimpse you and die to touch you.

He couldn't remember the first time you met. You were able to tell him pieces of his life which helped close some of the gaps in his memory.

There had been a car crash, the flames were sweltering as firefighters tried to quash them. Logan didn't raise his head to the wreckage, partly wanting to be respectful but mostly because he could smell the corpse. It was only when he felt eyes piercing his very being that he glanced around eventually landed on you.

Your hair was long and waving in a nonexistent breeze, you wore a dark headpiece which matched your frankly odd - but who was he (wearing yellow Spandex every other day) to judge? - outfit. It was a black skin tight bodysuit adorned with green. What in the Mutant hell were you?

Logan was ready to give you a sneer and fuck off but you smiled sweetly at him, even waving your fingers in a ‘hello’.

He waited, now curious, were you someone he knew from before?

You glided over with unearthly grace and once again offered a smile. “James, it has been decades.”

Logan's brows furrowed. Who the fuck was James? Instead of asking that he opted for the more diplomatic: “Do I know you?”

Your sweet demeanour fell, a flash of hurt covered by a blank slate. “You do.” He watched as your eyes scanned him and then refocused. “You have lost your memories.”

He gave an impatient huff in response.

“We were acquaintances.” Your voice wasn't familiar but his body had relaxed enough to know that was true. “You gave me my name.”

“You called me the wrong one.” He accused. The dog tags he wore told him his name was Logan, he was Logan. Whoever James was, was lost.

“You were James Howlett when we first met.” The flames were gone behind you, the charred body carted away whilst the morbidly fascinated crowd watched on as police took details. “I took your father. It was premature, I thought he could have more time, but I took him and got him safely to the other side."

“Other side?” He quirked a brow, what were you on about, there was no ‘other side’.

“I am a Reaper.” The words were spoken matter-of-factly, as though they weren't batshit.

“Yeah sure.” He rolled his eyes, completely done with this level of nonsense. “Look bub I ain't buying what you're selling so I suppose I'll see you next time I get in a fight.” And with that Logan walked away grumbling.

~~

There was no God, with all his suffering, Logan knew that to be true and in the not-real almighty's cruel twist of fate he was now eating his words.

Your pleasant face hovered over him as he was sprawled on the floor.

“Logan.” You greet.

He didn't have a name for you. “Bub.” He nodded, extending his hand for you to take.

“You can't touch me whilst you're alive.” You pointedly kept your hands behind your back.

“I thought you were a 'Reaper'?” He hoisted himself up, his torso and leg were covered in still warm blood.

“You did briefly die but you never remain dead.” You clarify for him. He knew he healed but he- he didn't know that he couldn't die. Was he immortal? “It took mere seconds for your body to heal.”

“Why are you here then?” He pried the sticky shirt from his chest and cut away at the material.

“I had a point to prove.” You wink before adding, “I thought we'd have more time.”

“More time?” This was trippy. So - if you were to be believed, which he was still very much on the fence about - you were a ‘Reaper’ and he couldn't die and you had had a previous relationship(?) he was unaware of.

A soft sigh escaped you, “sometimes you can pass the first veil, you can enter limbo where some souls linger. We commune there. Would have immediately proved my point.”

“Let me get this straight.” He was now standing before you, bloodied and shirtless, wearing a big confused frown. “I can't die?”

“No. Strictly speaking you are an abomination but you grew on me.” There was a fondness in the crinkle of your eyes and smile lines.

“And how long have we known each other?”

“We first met as I said when I took your father in the 1800s but it wasn't until the 1900s when we began to actively converse.”

Logan's eyes were wide. He knew his healing was good and, yeah, he had just learnt that he was immortal but learning that he was 200+ was quite something.

“I'm sorry, perhaps I should have eased you into that. I forget myself.” At least you had the decency to look embarrassed.

“Uh, it's- it's alright.” He must have been in shock because he just let someone off the hook.

~~

It took seven more visits for him to realise the two of you had had a special relationship. There was something about you that wedged its way into his mind. Usually because of a throw away comment that blew his mind. Such as the fact that there was a ‘plethora of afterlives’ as well as a ‘pantheon of Gods’. It was weird to have that confirmed. Every religion was based off truth and there were countless forgotten ones that would house the non believers, there were options for reincarnation and by fuck this was all bonkers.

The worst part, though, was that you were funny. He liked listening to you explain your world and he was in awe of your beauty. It hadn't gone unnoticed the first time he laid eyes on you but now he could really appreciate your ethereal splendour. Your eyes and lips had dark makeup that he wasn't sure was makeup - did a Reaper put make up on? - and you gave off an omnipotent air. But you were effortlessly funny, you always found a way to make him laugh and he prided himself on his gruff exterior.

“So who is really in charge then?” He had asked, walking next to you in a forest. Logan had found you stroking the neck of a deer, your face forlorn as he spied the shitty placement of the arrow. He hated hunters.

“In charge of what?” Your palms were folded in front of you, they were pitch black which faded at your wrist and blended into your natural skin tone.

“Out of the Gods.” He clarified. “Who do you work for?”

You turned in consideration and then replied with “I do not work for a God and there is no ‘in charge’.” You paused. “Plus a God can die but you can't kill Death.”

He chuckled, his brows shooting upwards. “Wow, so I'm hanging out with the big guns? With Death? I thought you were a Reaper.”

You rolled your eyes at him. “I am a Reaper and I have taken Gods to their afterlives'.”

“No, there's a difference between ‘Death’ and ‘a Reaper’.” He argued.

“Would it make you feel differently if I told you I was Death?” He had the feeling the two of you had previously had this conversation, there was a pang of familiarity just out of reach.

“No.”

Your lip pulled. “Good.”

~~

“How can you spare all this time for me?” Logan was genuinely curious. You'd appeared to him as he finished up in the Danger Room.

“I am not alone in my job. There are others that help, Yama, Azrael, Thanatos.”

“Why do you spare all this time for me?” He kept his gaze solely on the cigar he held. Observing it between his fingers.

“I enjoy your company.” You simply stated. “There have been others that have healed, that have cheated Death but none like you. The whole idea of you used to irritate me, I believed it was a sick joke at first. That you were sent to vex me but I now think you are a blessing. As I said you named me, you gave me something that made me more than a Reaper. I am still impartial, if I am needed I will be there, but I now tend to stop and watch the sunrise merely because I... want to. You gave me that.”

What does one say to that? You openly admitted that he gave you freedoms in your dutiful life. Was what you had a life? Were you alive? “I think I could've come up with something better than Y/N.”

“No.” You adamantly shook your head. “Y/N is the kindest name I've had in a long time.”

He didn't know how to deal with your eyes. They were pure, affection radiated from them, he didn't deserve that level of affection from a being such as yourself.

If you were a girl in a bar he would've had you in bed by now but you weren't. You were different, he would always be with you in some respect because death was everywhere. He had to approach this differently. He had to befriend you first, which was terrifying as he had no experience with that.

He was open to the idea of getting you in bed, of course he was.

Look at you.

You were fucking beautiful.

And funny.

And scary.

And powerful.

Everything he liked in a woman, wrapped in a gorgeous skintight outfit.

When had he stopped seeing you as an acquaintance and started seeing you as a lover?

“Logan are you alright?” You quirked your head. “That wasn't weird to say was it?”

“No.” He shook his head. “It wasn't weird to say, sorry I just- glad I could help.”

He was fucked.

~~

Logan was being tortured by some shitheel of a Mutant. He didn't even know what the kid had against him but this was different. The kid had been brought in to keep Logan down. To force him to stay dead for as long as it took to take down the others.

Which would've been terrifying if not for: “Logan!”

He spun around, his body lighter than it had ever been, and saw you standing with a concerned expression.

The room he was currently in was still there but the features were blurred, out of focus. He could see the vague shape of his body at his feet but the only in focus objects were you and himself.

“Is this Limbo?”

“Yes.” You knelt to observe the body he couldn't see, your hands hovered at a respectable distance. “This isnt- you need to get back.”

Confused, he asked: “Wait, isn't this what you said we did?”

“Not like this. Not with you being forced-” You cut yourself off.

“So I'm finally here but it's not right?” He couldn't win with you. Wasn't this what you wanted? You'd mentioned the veil twice and that he ‘had passed it before’, he was interested to know what the big deal was and now being lectured. Fucking brilliant.

“Logan, it'll never be right for you to be here.” You stood to your full height, closer than you've ever allowed him to be. “A minute or two here and there in the past was-” He was staring intensely at you. “What?”

“I-I can feel your breath.” He never could out there. You were always there and not there. Half in the living world but never fully.

“Of course you can, you're in my domain. We can even touch in here.” To amplify your point your fingers caught his wrist.

Logan's eyes flickered to your hands and back to your face. Putting two and two together, “You liked us being here. Where we can touch. Did we ever…?” He left the question open ended but he needed to know.

Hesitantly you admit, “We've shared a kiss.”

“Why didn't you mention that?” That should've been the first fucking thing you told him. His strange teenage crush on you was immediately validated.

“You didn't remember, you might not have wanted us to.” You shrug one shoulder. “I am Death.”

Logan placed a palm on your cheek, thumb caressing the soft flesh, and the other on your hip. He could touch you here. Of course you liked it when he visited. Fuck he liked to visit.

Your eyes tried to remain on his but they kept landing on his lips.

He leant down, slow enough for you to pull back - although he'd bet money that you wouldn't - and just as his nose met yours he gasped awake on the floor.

“Fuck!” He growled.

“Tha’ no way to thank ‘he Gambit for saving yo’ ass.”

~~

The almost kiss was seared in his brain. The soft look on your face as your eyes fluttered shut and your lips ghosted his own.

He was angry at Gambit for a solid month which wasn't exactly fair and no one knew about you so it seemed worse but the anger was valid.

He had almost kissed you.

Logan made a point to jot down the name of that mutant - Ignatius Clartion - in case any future opportunity didn't naturally occur.

He could always try Rogue if not.

Look at him, looking for ways to kill himself for long enough to make out with Death.

Fuck this was weird.

But he wasn't above that.

What made this worse was that you had taken a longer hiatus than usual, so he was left to stew alone which resulted in him taking every mission he could. Logan threw himself into the fray with even less care than before. Even considered entering the fight rings he used to dominate in just for a few seconds passed the veil.

He knew he shouldn't. You might not be best pleased if he turned up from basically committing suicide just for a make out session. But it was tempting.

He started sleeping around less, he went weeks without a fuck and that was hard.

All for nothing because you were gone.

~~

“Logan.” Your voice roused him from slumber. “Logan.” He had to blink a few times before his eyes could fully open.

“Y/N.” He grumbled.

“What are you doing?” Your tone was accusatory. “You almost died from kidney failure and that is saying something.”

“Just a couple drinks.” He sat up and flicked the table lamp on. His room was a mess but he could blame that on the whiskey and if you happened to notice his naked chest then that was a bonus. He was so fucked.

“Don't do that again.” You ordered before taking a step back.

“Wait!” He stopped you vanishing just in time. “Are we not gonna even talk about last time?”

“You're right.” You nodded and worried your lip. “You were in a prolonged state of death and I took advantage, I'm sorry. I have tried to keep my distance, I didn't realise quite how inappropriate it was to-”

Logan's chuckle cut you off. “Hold up. I almost kissed you and you're apologising for it?”

“It was an abuse of power.” You inform.

“No, it was almost a really fun time.” He shuffled to the edge of the bed, setting the duvet aside and sitting in only his boxers. “I'm pissed it was cut short, how do I enter the veil correctly?”

Perplexity was splattered across your features. You couldn't believe what you were hearing. “Logan, you have to die. There is no correct way.”

“I can't die.” He offered.

“It wouldn't be right.” You argue.

He realised something, “Why can't I touch you?”

“I cannot touch anything. My touch corrupts, decays, withers.”

“I can't die.” He repeated.

“But you could live your eternal life in a state of paraplegia. My touch could cause the metal of your bones to poison you over time, your skeleton could get so heavy it breaks down, your skin could rot away and you'd live as a corpse.”

“Or my healing factor counteracts you.”

“You can only see me because you have died, even that is taboo, and here I am arguing with you about kissing. Logan it isn't the natural order of things. I shouldn't have admitted that to you. It was better when you couldn't remember me.”

“No.” He vowed, anger rising. “You can't decide that.”

Your shoulders sagged. “I'm trying to keep you safe.”

“Fuck that.” He made a fist in the centre of his chest and unsheathed his claws. He coughed up blood as your eyes bulged and suddenly the room was blurred. There was no longer the taste of iron in his mouth and he stood, immediately crossing the space between you and joining your lips.

You moaned against his tongue before remembering yourself and pulling away slightly - your foreheads still touching - “this is wrong.” You mutter as he chases your lips and once again the two of you are sharing breaths. His tongue glides against yours and you let out another moan, melting in his arms.

Logan breaks the kiss only to trail his lips downwards, leaving sloppy kisses against your jaw and nipping at your neck.

The breathy sigh you release is all he needs in life. He wants this every day. Needs it.

“Feels pretty right to me.” He licks a stripe up your neck and you are forced to agree.

His hands have been frantically grabbing whatever they could due to his need to memorise every part of you. The material of your bodysuit was soft and allowed him to knead your breasts and hips without a barrier.

Logan tried to reign in his frantic movements but as he felt the fierce woman become putty in his hands he couldn't help but tilt your head exposing more of your neck to bite at the tender flesh once, nipping softly around it and kissing the mark he made. He had to mark his territory.

These needs were new.

Never before had he wanted to claim someone. Wanted others to know.

But now...

Seeing you let him do whatever he wanted was stirring something dark within him.

You were literally more powerful than anything in this world, in the universe, and he wanted everyone to know - you were his.

Were you his?

You better be.

He wanted you to be.

How would that work?

Logan coughed awake and let out a frustrated growl.

“Don't vanish!” He yelled sitting up to see that you hadn't. You were still here which was a good sign. “Let me-”

“No.” You stopped him, “Don't do that again, I'll be here if you do die but don't commit suicide for me.” The words were undermined by your fingers touching your lips.

Logan's frown was so large that he could see it in his line of vision. He really wanted to fuck you.

“Please.” You add, stepping forward and actually sitting on the bed. Again there was a distance between the two of you but you were trying.

~~

The whole ‘don’t commit suicide’ thing was bullshit.

Logan had to be sneaky about finding his ways to see you.

You always greeted him with a warm embrace and a hot passionate kiss.

He hated waking up. Which a therapist would argue was not healthy at all but Logan did not give a fuck.

It was noticed by the X-Men that he seemed to have a death wish and he was even approached by Ororo and Jean one day about his mental health. He was thankful that his friends were so caring but the more questions they asked the harder it was to explain.

And so he dialled back.

He ensured when he could die it would be a longer death.

The frequency was less but the time was more. A better compromise.

You were on the battlefield collecting poor innocent civilians and hung around to talk to him. “I know that I can't die but is there any way you can control how long I die for?” It was becoming a running joke amongst the X-Men that Logan talked to the dead. He looked insane.

“I-I can't control that but I do have a certain skillset that I've been thinking of introducing to you.” You wring your hands. “I don't like the idea of it but at least you wouldn't be thrown back without warning.”

“Tell me.”

“Time isn't linear, I can distort it, I can make one minute here be as long as I want there. I could elongate the moment.”

The grin that split his face was infectious. You tried and failed not to look pleased. “Next time, do that.”

~~

The death was fairly ordinary. He was riding Scott's bike home when the front wheel hit a patch of ice and skidded, flinging the bike to the right. Logan landed with a harsh thud on his neck.

He'd never been so excited.

You made good on your promise and displayed your other power of teleportation. Bringing him to his room.

Now that there was time he was going to take as long as he wanted.

There would be no frantic rushing, no, he would spread you out and treat you how you deserved.

Fuck was he going to be your first?

Did beings like you even have the concept of virginity?

You stood awkwardly at his side, your inner debate plain to see.

“Y/N.” He brought you to the present, with a hand on your waist.

“Logan.” You responded by placing your palm on his chest.

“Have you ever?” He wiggles his brows.

You huffed. “You wouldn't know this because of how easy going and encouraging I have been but this is not a common occurrence.”

He liked your sarcasm but loved what you said. You were going to be all his.

There wouldn't be another.

You belonged to him. The two of you knew that.

Logan's right hand found your neck and he tilted you to meet your lips.

This was the first slow kiss between you. He pecked at your lips before sliding his tongue along them, you eagerly opened your mouth and he explored. This time was borrowed and he would gladly accept the cost if it meant he could keep giving you leisurely kisses.

Your fingers flexed against his chest as he kissed you, the slow rhythm drove you equally as wild.

Logan kissed your nose, he loved your nose, then your forehead.

You took advantage of this angle and placed a tentative peck against his exposed neck. You could feel him stiffen and worried he was angry but Logan asked you to do it again.

And so you firmly repeated the action, giving his jaw the same attention he gave yours.

Your tongue ran across the flesh and you could feel the prickle of his stubble.

All these new sensations were maddening. He sensed that you were excited and purposely rubbed the stubble on you causing a full body laugh.

“No!” You wriggled out from the tickly chin but his grip on you tightened. “That's not fair.” You giggled.

Logan adored the sound.

He was well and truly yours.

“I've just discovered the one way I'm superior to you, I am going to expose it.” He smirks down, tempted to tickle you again but holding back.

“If I knew that this was what you were planning I wouldn't have suggested to bend the rules. Maybe I should send you ba-” He cut you off with another kiss. You weren't serious in your words so allowed the interruption.

Logan trailed his fingers up and down your body, making you twitch again but with a new sensation. This was slightly tickly but the new heat in your abdomen override that and made your back arch. Pressed you into him.

A palm found your spine and pulled you closer before it migrated down to grab a handful of your ass. He kneaded the flesh, fingers lower than socially acceptable and they found themselves closer to your pussy than he had actually intended. Oh well, Logan made circles with his middle finger and found where he wanted to be.

The whole time his hand was exploring he was lazily kissing you only stopping once your mouth fell open and you mewed against his lips. Your face contorted in pleasure and he couldn't help but watch.

“I think we should get out of our clothes.” He spoke lowly, to not ruin your high.

Your eyes flickered open and you nodded once, extracting yourself and with a wave of your hand you were bare for him.

Logan ripped the leather jacket from his back and tore the shirt in one swift movement. Eyes not once straying from your form. Your hands were still dark and your face still had the make up on but otherwise you were bare and he was going to wank to this image for the rest of his life.

There was nothing that could make him forget you now. What had happened to make him forget you in the first place?

His belt and trousers fell and he stepped out of his boots, ready for you.

You weren't nervous but he could tell there were things that you were conscious about, having never done them before, so he promised he'd make this perfect.

“Let's sit.” He led you to the bed and sat with you. “Let me know if I'm doing anything wrong.”

“But I won't know.” You countered.

“If it hurts, it's wrong.” He concluded.

You nodded, biting your lip. “You'll do the same?”

He didn't embarrass you with the scoff that tried to claw its way out, merely giving you a nod.

Logan brought you to him again, kissing your neck. Sucking and nipping his way from your left ear to the right. He then journeyed downwards, his hands guiding your body to lay on the bed as he kissed his way to your core.

Logan spent extra attention on your chest, how could he not? Your breasts were glorious. He sucked one nipple as he squeezed the other and your body reacted naturally to the feelings.

He breathed in your scent, a low growl rumbling in his chest as it mixed with your slick.

Leaving your now marked tits he carried on down past your stomach and pubic bone to where he had longed to be. He parted your legs and drooled.

Your cunt was breathtaking. It was moist and free of any hair - not that he would care - and it just invited him in. It did feel naughty to defile such beauty but it was more of a crime to leave you without an orgasm or twenty.

“You ready baby?” He asked, simultaneously lowering himself and lifting your legs over his shoulders.

“Y-eah.” Your breath hitched.

Logan licked from your core to clit and you audibly gasped, hands clutching his hair.

“Sorry.” You detangled them.

“Put them back.” He ordered, “I wanna feel you. If I'm not doing what you want me to, make me.”

He knew he kept thinking it but he had never wanted anyone the way he wanted you.

It was intoxicating to know the two of you were so compatible. He was drunk on you and there was no AA that would be able to help.

Logan buried his face at your core, lapping up your slick. It was sweet. For someone whose touch could only decay you tasted like an angelic being.

He used a hand to spread your folds so he could get his tongue deeper, licking inside.

His hand ached to get closer to the action, finger playing with your core as he spun his tongue against your clit. He knew he would have to ease in, so he tried to slowly introduce his finger by running it across the hole, teasing you, making you want more as he did the same to your clit.

Your thighs were ridged against his ears in an attempt to clamp shut but he used his spare arm to hold one open, hand intertwining with one of yours.

The finger slipped in past the nail as he sucked your clit to distract you. You were dripping with slick so he met zero resistance but he didn't want you to feel any discomfort.

He came up for air - to watch your face - as he pumped the finger in and out, each time going deeper.

Your chest was rapid and he tried to not lose himself in the view but it was hard when your tits were right there.

Logan remembered himself and kissed your inner thigh, adding another finger. Your body shuddered with pleasure as his facial hair scratched your sensitive skin.

Logan was quite content with laying between your legs watching himself disappear in you but he had a job to do. He was going to make you cum, then he was going to do it again and again.

His lips met yours and he pulled his fingers from you to suck the juices. He would need this weekly. Monthly at a push. You tasted fucking perfect.

There was no-one that was better suited to him.

“I feel-I feel really hot.” You told him as he re-entered the fingers, adding a third.

“I'll take care of you.” He promised, quickening the pace.

It didn't take long before your moans increased and you were panting louder and louder before you let a breathy groan and came around his fingers.

He wasn't done with you though.

He kept pumping in and out, working you through the orgasm, forcing it to continue long after you began twitching and tugging his hair.

“It's too much.”

Logan hated those words but did concede, pulling out finally and pushing himself up your body. Your legs fell from his shoulders to his waist, his dick inches from you, he could feel the warmth.

“You okay?” He cupped your cheek with his dry hand.

You nodded, speaking out of breath, “It was really good.”

“Good?” He sassed.

“Really really good.” Your cheeks heated and you crossed your legs around his waist. It was an innocent move on your part to keep them from falling but he was drawn into you and brushed against you.

Your squeak and his growl harmonised.

“You want more?” He nuzzled your nose with his.

“I want more.”

He made you promise to tell him if it was too much before he gathered your slick with his head and rubbed it across his dick. He eased his way deeper in and your body went rigid.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Nodding earnestly. “Jus- just big.”

He did not even attempt to be bashful, instead basked in the compliment. “All yours.”

Logan managed to rock back and forth pushing himself further into your hot core and the two of you were in too much pleasure to speak.

Three thirds of the way there he could feel the most resistance but he played with your clit and kissed your neck, your breasts, your lips to distract you from any pain.

He took his time but finally he was sheathed. Logan gave you as much time as you needed, your brows pulled in pleasure.

“Open your eyes.” He begged.

Your lips were glistening, cheeks hot, eyes glazed. You looked truly fucked out and he hasn't been fucked you yet.

Logan kissed you and ever so slowly did his first full thrust, your lips parted in a silent ‘oh’ and he had to thrust again.

The ‘oh’ was not silent this time. With each thrust he sped up and suddenly the two of you were fucking.

Your string of somewhat lucid “oh, ohoh, oh, yes, fuck, Lo.” spurred him on. He would get you there as many times as you'd let him.

He flicked your nipple and you gave him a half-annoyed-half-horny look.

Logan bent to capture your lips and you eagerly met his, your hands - which had been clutching the slight in focus sheets - cradled his cheeks. Treating him with care that juxtaposed the way he was hammering into you.

The kiss ended with you gasping for breath when your second orgasm erupted, it was unexpected but he wouldn't moan.

Logan wanted to last longer he really did but the way your pussy clutched him, suffocated him, made that nearly impossible.

At least he had zero refractory period.

Logan came inside you, where it was warm and doughy, with a bite of your neck. He worked through his orgasm and finally halted his movements. He tried to keep his weight off you but you forced him down, forced him to hug you. Your lips kissing his temple as he caught his breath.

~~

The two of you were sitting on a park bench, people watching. This was quite possibly the longest time the two of you had spent together.

“Look.” Logan nodded towards a young girl that fell. She sniffled at the scraped knee but immediately stood and booted the soccer ball. “She’s got balls.”

“The human spirit is hard to break.” You comment, leaning your chin on a palm. “It’s commendable.”

Logan watched you out of the corner of his eye, again struck by your beauty. He could write essay after essay about you.

“Do you ever wish you were one?” The question fell from his lips before his brain could catch up. Was that rude? Nah, you’d know what he meant.

“Yes.” Your head swivelled to him. “I haven’t the need to eat or sleep, I’ve never been cut or sunburnt.”

“I think that’s sweet.” His lips upturned, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I could take you on a date if you wanted. I know you don’t need to eat but it couldn't hurt to taste something, right?”

“You’d look insane.” That wasn't a no.

“I'll put on an earpiece and pretend I'm on the phone.”

The shy smile you wore was endearing. “I’ve never been on a date.” You bit your lip. “It's a lovely idea but I'll have to decline. The food would probably rot in my mouth.”

“What about the cinema?”

Your eyes left him, landing back on the field, intently watching the humans interact mundanely. “I suppose it couldn't hurt. As long as no one touches me.”

“What if I kill myself and we can make out?”

You had to restrain yourself from slapping him.

~~

Storm knocked once and then proceeded to let herself into his room. “Logan I'm worried.”

“By all means, make yourself at home.” He snarked.

“You are worrying the team.” She ignored him and sat on his bed, plucked the book from his hands and gave him a look. “You're reading?”

“Was trying to.” He swiped at the book but Ororo kept it out of reach.

“Can you explain what's happening? You are talking to yourself, running headfirst into danger and I haven't seen you flirting, not even in jest!” She smoothed a wrinkle in his duvet. “Is there something I need to do? Someone I need to call?”

Logan had had this same talk time and time again. Perhaps he should just tell someone? Poor Rogue had even started to check up on him. He forced out a sigh and crossed his arms. “It's complicated.”

“We're mutants, everything is complicated.”

The two of them sat in silence for a while, merely staring at each other. How should he begin? What would she think? “I'm seeing Death.”

She nodded, “we all have to face death at one point in our lives. I know it's hard but there are people that can help.” Bless her.

Okay, maybe a different approach. “I've been seeing someone.”

Storm's brows met her hairline. “Yeah? This is why you've been worried about death?”

“No. It's- she's-” He rubbed his neck. “I can't die.” Storm frowned at the subject change. “I can't die and she is Death. I've been seeing Death.”

To her credit Storm's face stayed still, she had no judgement or ridicule or even disbelief but she didn't have acceptance either. “Is this a joke?”

“No.” He spoke with his hands. “I've been going insane because I love this woman and she's brilliant and funny and kind and gorgeous and generous. She is not a Grim Reaper, she is sweet, she is the cycle of life and death. It's fucking chaos. She's a literal God- no she's above them because even God's can die. Oh yeah, Storm there's Gods. Plural! And no one here can see her. I look insane because I can and to even touch her I have to be dead. Fuck, I need a fucking drink.”

Storm let the words settle in the air, taking everything he said in. “It doesn't sound overly healthy to get into a relationship where you have to die to hold the person.”

“Gambit and Rogue make it work.” He mused. “She's not a fan, either.”

“Logan, I'm going to need to process everything you've said and I will come back with questions.”

~~

The team were made aware of Logan's partner. It was mortifying but at least none of them could see how actually whipped he was with you.

If you could be perceived by them he'd be done for.

But he longed for it?

It was a strange realisation that now they knew about you he really craved to show you off, yet he was concerned that they'd know you were his weakness.

If you were human, the Brotherhood, AIM, HYDRA, ALKALI and whoever else would've killed you by now just to prove a point.

No, it was better to have you tucked away.

To keep you to himself, however selfish that was.

But it would be nice to have a photo of the two of you.

He had tried to convince you to enter a mall photo booth with him on your date. You adamantly refused because of the tight squeeze.

“I don't believe I'd show up anyway.” You waved him off. “But it was a nice idea, a very ‘couple’ thing to do.”

That prompted him to ask, “are we a couple?”

“Well, literally speaking we are a couple as we are two people but you don't mean that.” You sidestepped a group of teens. “I'd like to think you aren't just seeing me for my body, I know I'm not.”

“Not bending the rules for a good fuck?” That got him the dirtiest look from an old lady. “Sorry ma’am, Bluetooth.” He pointed to his ear.

“So does she decide when people die?” Jubilee questioned, lollypop in her mouth.

The team had taken to asking Logan anything they could about his ‘relationship’. He had answered the same questions again and again. It was boring.

“No, she just takes them to their destination.” He chewed some jerky. The two of them were sitting on one of the many sofas in Charles' mansion. On the floor in front of them, playing the Gamecube, sat Kurt and Kitty. “I think she knows when she's needed but doesn't do the killing?”

“That's trippy.” Kitty spoke without turning her head.

Logan huffed.

“Do you love her?” Kurt’s head swivelled to make lighting quick eye contact.

“Yeah.” Logan rolled his eyes. “Now can you all shuddup? I came here to drink and watch the game and you knuckleheads put a stop to that.”

“Well, they are playing a game.” Jubilee countered.

~~

Once more the two of you were sitting on a bench observing humankind. This time he had taken you to a museum. You told him about each era and how Vincent Van Gogh was hilariously funny, how Frida Kahlo hated socks, you even stated that you remembered a few of Leonardo’s ‘lovers’ as you passed a painting of Jesus.

“He doesn't look like that at all.” You scoffed at the painting. “It's a beautiful piece of art but that was Leo’s boyfriend.”

Logan had to keep his laughter low.

It wasn't until you both sat to take in an astonishing piece, almost the size of the entire wall, that a lady sat next to him. You had to slip off the bench to accommodate, which was something that you were used to so it didn't bother you.

She dropped her bag and a notepad, two tampons and a pencil fell. The pencil rolled over to his foot so Logan picked it up and handed it back to her.

“Sorry.” She pulled an embarrassed expression, stuffing the items back into her bag. “Not the first time I've made a complete ass of myself in front of a hot guy.”

“It's fine.” He shrugged, giving her a forced smile. “Could happen to anyone.”

“It's what I get for trying to be one of the greats.” She gestured to her notepad. “I can't help it, sometimes when I people watch I see the beauty that we have. It's like I have to try to emulate it, I have to at least do a sketch.”

He nodded along politely as she rambled on, pushing her glasses up her nose twice.

“It's a pleasant place to sketch, I guess.”

“Oh, it's brilliant.” She pointed subtly to the side. “Look there, those two on a date.” Logan followed her finger to see two boys looking at a bust, the shorter boy was bright pink and trying so hard not to smile whenever the taller looked over. The taller one took a quick photo of his partner stating that he was the ‘most perfect piece of art’. It was touchingly cheesy. “And there, they're having a hard time and that painting helps them. It provides comfort.” Logan followed again to see a person with short hair gazing longingly at a tiny painting. They had been standing there for a while, ignored by the masses, lost in thought.

“How do you know that?” He could see that she was right, without her words he would've thought that the person was merely looking at a painting but it made sense. Their shoulders had relaxed substantially, they were being comforted.

“Sit on the sidelines long enough, watch enough people, you get good at it.” She shrugged. “I'm Gladys. Before you say anything, it's an old name, yes I'm aware, it was my grandmother's.”

It felt passive aggressive not to say his, “Logan.”

She held out a hand and he shook it. “Nice to meet you!”

~~

“I've been thinking.” You spoke lying on the grass next to him. It was after midnight but the stars illuminated everything just enough to see.

“That's dangerous.” He joked, grinning wolfishly. He had you sitting on his face less than ten minutes ago and was still in a good mood. If only it was on this side, he ached to taste you on his tongue and smell you on his fingers alas the memory would have to suffice. He was fine with that.

“Har, har.” You rolled your eyes, facing the sky. “No, I've been thinking about what it is to be mortal.”

“Okay?” He kept his gaze on the side of your face.

“I don't think you're fulfilling your duty.” You were pointedly looking away from him.

“Huh? I don't have a duty?”

“Your duty is to live your life amongst your peers.”

“Is this abou-

“Is to not waste a day. To live life without regrets. To procreate, to have relationships with other humans, and to love and be loved.”

Logan propped himself up on his elbow, staring down at you. He forced eye contact. Shit. You were serious. “Okay, let's procreate.”

“Don't be stu-”

He lent closer to you than you'd allow. “You are the only one for me.”

You rolled out from under him, sitting up on your knees. “It's unnatural. I'm holding you back Logan.”

“We’ve had this conversation before. Why are we arguing again?” He was completely puzzled. Hadn't you both decided that this was okay? Why were you the one that got to tell him it wasn't? Why couldn't he have a say in this?

“I think we shouldn't see each other.”

“Fuck off.” He reached a hand out to hold yours, you snatched your wrist back.

“Logan!” You whisper-yelled.

“If this is about that lady at the museum, I don't know what to say. I was just being friendly.” Had he made an eternal being, an inevitable force, jealous?

“I just thought that that was a perfectly good way to meet your person. She was pleasant and confident. She should live a long life, she's a mutant so you have that in common.”

“You looked into her?”

“No,” You shook your head. “I can sense things. She had the smell of a mutant and her aura was blue so long life.”

Logan didn't know what else to do, he sat there scanning you.

He knew fundamentally that you were speaking logically. That you had always said this. Always said this was wrong. But it fucking sucked that you'd say it again when he decided to love you.

He didn't know when fondness became lust and eventually love but it had! He loved you.

He'd always love you.

And how exactly could he avoid you?

It was inevitable that he would die again and you would be there to guide him back into the land of the living.

You mumbled so low that even he almost didn't pick it up. “I've assigned you to Thanatos.”

“Unassign me.” He demanded, offended. “What was your game plan? Fuck me and dump me?”

“No.” You shook your head but he could see your internal debate. “I-I didn't intend-I just. I thought it was a good time to bring it up. You were relaxed. I thought you wouldn't mind.”

Oh. He was now fucking livid. “Wouldn't mind?!”

“Logan, you cannot possibly have a life with me.” You deflated, shoulders sagging. “It's not something I can have and you deserve more than scraps. You're worth more than that.”

The sniffle you let out completely floored him. He was no longer angry. He couldn't be.

You were upset.

You were crying!

He had never seen that.

“Cm’ere.” He waved you over.

To prove your point, “you can't hug me.”

Lightning quick Logan sliced his throat and the world blurred. “I don't care if you lecture me afterwards but come here.”

You fell into his embrace and sobbed quietly, Logan rubbed soft patterns into your back and kissed your head. He squeezed you tight and didn't intend to let go ever. He wouldn't. He would stay here forever if it was possible.

Eventually your shoulders ceased shaking and your breathing evened out. He almost interrupted the quiet until he noticed your closed eyes. You were asleep.

You never slept.

You didn't need to.

He tightened his hug and repeatedly kissed your forehead.

~~

When you woke he was watching you. He'd managed to carry you through the mansion and into his room without so much as a stir.

It was easier to make out this side when time was still. The blur was softer.

Logan played with your hair all night, keeping a watchful eye in case you needed anything.

“I love you.” It was a fact. The sky is blue, maths is hard, Logan loves Y/N. You were groggy from your first ever slumber but the words were sobering. He could see all of this in your eyes so continued, “I know it's unnatural, you're going to tell me off and I'm going to argue. That doesn't change the fact that I am in love with you. That I can't see myself with anyone else. You are it for me, baby.”

“I've never felt this way before.” You whisper. Again he almost missed it. “You make me want things I shouldn't. Sometimes I wish I was mortal and that's sacrilege, that's horrid, but it would be easier. We could be together. You've changed the way I see things, Logan, I will never be the same.”

“That sounds like goodbye.” His voice caught in his throat, so he cleared it.

"Say, what's a boy like you doing studying about demons? " you lean against the shelves and cross your arms against your chest.

You eye Sam up and down and notice a slight pink tinge on his cheeks similar to that of yours. "You seem like a more law type of guy- " you raise an eyebrow waiting for his name. 

Sam feels a wave of nervousness wash over him as you ask the question. He knew he couldn't give you a straightforward answer, not without raising suspicion. He had to think fast. "Oh, you know," he says, forcing a convincing smile. "Just a hobby of mine. I'm interested in mythology and such. “

He glances down at your crossed arms, his eyes lingering on your figure for a moment before he looks back at your face. "The name's Sam Winchester. " he says, his voice a little quieter now.

"Sam, cute. " you stick a hand out at him, "Y/N. " you say, giving him a small smile. Sam takes your hand in his own, his grip firm but gentle.

"Y/N. " he repeats, savouring the way your name rolls off of his tongue. "That's a beautiful name. Suits you. " he lingers for a moment, not wanting to let go of your hand just yet.

"So, a demon hobby, huh? I dabble a little in mythology as well. " you shrugged, peeking at the stack of notes he had in his hand. 

Sam notices you glancing at the notes. They were mostly sketches of demonic symbols, and the occasional drawing of a grotesque demon head. He realises that he has to be careful, he couldn't let you see the truth. 

"Oh, yeah," he says, casually hiding the notes behind his back. "It's a fascinating subject, you know? Not for everyone, I suppose. But I find it intriguing."

"No, I understand. People think I'm crazy for wanting to major in mythology and dark arts. They look at me like I'm going to do some demonic thing to them. " you laugh slightly, gesturing to yourself, clad in a plain white shirt with a red flannel over it and some jeans. "Do I look demonic, Sam? " 

This was said as a joke but you noticed something changed in Sam's demeanour. He tried to remain calm, but your mention of demonic things puts him on edge. He knows that he has to play his cards right.

"Demonic? No, not at all," he responds, forcing a smirk. "Quite the opposite, actually. You look kind and friendly." He glances down at your outfit, trying to keep his expression neutral. "Besides, I think you'd make a terrible demon," he adds, his tone lighthearted.

"A terrible demon? Why'd you reckon? " you place your hands into your back pocket and look into his eyes. They were this pretty blue colour that you couldn't help but get sucked into. You notice him also observing you in the same way. 

"Well," Sam says, his gaze still fixed on yours. "Demons are cunning and manipulative. They prey on people's weaknesses and desires. But you seem different. More authentic, and honest." he takes a step closer to you, his tall frame towering over you. "It's refreshing, in a way. Almost, entangling... alluring."

"Oh. " you trail of feeling a little spark of excitement in your stomach as he steps closer. His smell wafts through your nose, very cinnamon centred with a hint of oak. He towered over you, your face barely peeking over his shoulder. 

Sam notices how much smaller you were than him. It was endearing, in a way. It made him feel protective, wanting to keep you safe. He leaned down closer to you, almost unconsciously. The air between you grew heavy with tension.

"Honesty is important," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I think demons can be a tad dishonest every now and then."

"You seem to speak from personal experience? " you tilt your head, looking up at him through your eyelashes. 

Sam freezes, realising that he said too much. He mentally scolds himself, cursing his slip-up. He steps back, creating a small distance between you. He tries to keep his face neutral as he laughs it off.

"No, not really," he said quickly, forcing a smile. "I just have a lot of experience talking to people, that's all." He glances down at the book he borrowed, then back up at you.

"Oh I understand Sam. " you peek out of the aisle to make sure no one saw you two.

"Sit. " you take a seat on the floor and gesture to Sam to sit beside you. He complies, the space just barely enough for his long legs. Sam feels a mixture of nerves and curiosity as he sits down next to you, his knee barely brushing against your leg, sending a small shiver down his spine.

Taking the book from his hands and laying it between you so you both could see, "What are you looking for in here? "

He glances down at the book and ponders your question. He couldn't tell you the truth, not about demons anyway. He had to come up with something plausible. "Just doing research," he says eventually. "Studying up on some demonic lore, nothing too fascinating."

"Come one Sammy, give me more than that. Maybe I can help. I do study these types of things. " you lightly bump his shoulder, giving him a smile. 

He looks at you, seeing the genuine offer to help. He knew he should keep you at arm's length, keep you safe. But he couldn't resist your smile, your kind eyes. "Okay, fine," he relents. "Honestly, I'm trying to find out more about demons and what they're capable of."

"Any specific type you're looking for? From my knowledge of the type of mythology I study there can be different types. " you continue to explain your studies to him. There was a warm feeling in you as you noticed him listening intently to you, his eyes never leaving your face. You were passionate about the subject, and your excitement about it was contagious.

He felt his heart beat faster as you spoke, hanging on to every word. It was endearing to see you so animated and knowledgeable. "Different types of demons? I never realised," he said, despite already knowing what you're saying. "I thought they were all the same, just evil creatures of the night."

"Well they are, but you see they all have different purposes. Some make deals with humans, you know selling your soul and stuff - " 

Sam's eyes widen as you mention demons making deals, a sudden jolt of adrenaline shooting through him. He tries to keep his composure, praying that his reaction didn't give anything away.

"Deals?" he asks, as casually as possible. "Like, making deals for people's souls? That kind of thing?"

"There's this myth that if you sell your soul to a crossroads demon, they kill you off after ten years. " you whisper.

Sam's heart  races at the mention of crossroads demons. He knew all too well the truth about them. "Crossroads demons," he says, his voice low. "They're tricky bastards, that's for sure. Do you believe that? The ten year deal, I mean."

"Well, it's a myth right? " you laugh but then notice the serious look on Sam's face. "Can I be honest with you Sam? "

Sam glances down at you, his face serious but also curious. He doesn't know what to expect from the question, but nods at you to continue. "What is it? "

"I do believe that there's something out there, like the supernatural. Ever since I was a kid I felt like that. I thought by studying about it in university, it would help me understand. "

Sam looks at you in disbelief, not knowing what to make of your confession. He had never met someone so open about this kind of thing. To be so willing to believe in the supernatural without much evidence was...refreshing.

He leaned in closer as you spoke, hanging on your every word. "You've always felt that way?" he asks. "Since you were a kid? You've never wondered if perhaps it's just your imagination?"

"I think it was maybe just my imagination but hey, it's still interesting to learn about I guess. "

Sam smiled at your response, finding your unwavering belief in the unknown fascinating. Your willingness to explore this world of shadows and demons without fear was admirable.

"Interesting is one word for it," he says, his tone slightly humorous. "Most people run for the hills at the mention of anything supernatural."

"True. " you agree, laying your head against the book shelf behind. "What got you interested? " 

Sam leans into the shelf as well, his body just barely touching yours. He tries to keep a level head, but it's becoming increasingly difficult.

He thinks for a moment, before replying. "Let's just say interest runs in the family. " he says. "There's so much out there in the shadows that people don't understand. It's like a mystery waiting to be unravelled."

"A mystery waiting to be unravelled. " you are unaware of the reality of his words. Sam chuckles as he watches you ponder.   

"What's funny? " you lift your head to look at him only to find him smiling at you. 

Sam shakes his head, his smile growing wider. "It's nothing, just a thought," he replies, his eyes never leaving yours. He can't help but stare at you, admiring the innocence in your gaze. It was refreshing to see someone so curious and open-minded, someone who wasn't aware of the dark secret he carried.

"Share your thoughts with the class, Sam. " you place your hand on his. 

Sam's heart skids in his chest as you place your hand on his. The feeling of your skin against his sends electricity coursing through his body. "Well - " he starts, his voice slightly more strained than usual. "It's just that I find it amusing that you're so interested in the supernatural, and yet you have no idea how close to the truth you actually are."

"The truth? What? Some demon is coming to get me? " you joke. 

Sam lets out a strained laugh, shaking his head. "No, no," he says. "Just...you've got a good eye. You're looking in the right places. You never know what you might find."

The irony is not lost on him. Here he was, a professional demon hunter, sitting with a girl who was oblivious to the monsters that lurk in the shadows.

"And why would I want to find it? Look I may be interested in these things but hey if a demon showed up on my doorstep I'd shit myself. "

Sam laughs heartily at your comment. He imagines your reaction.  "Well, I can't blame you there," he says, still chuckling. "Seeing a demon up close and personal is no joke. Most people would have a heart attack on the spot."

You noticed the honesty in his words and began to wonder, "Yeah, it must be scary. "

Sam nods at your response, his expression becoming a little more serious. "Yeah, it is," he says, his voice quieter now. "Demons are vicious creatures, dangerous and unpredictable. They'll stop at nothing to...well, let's just say they're not here to be your friend."

"Sam are you alright? " You turn fully towards him and take a hold of his hand. There is a tired look in his eyes that grows more prominent now in the dull light of the library. 

Sam's hand instinctively holds onto yours, his grip firm but gentle. He looks down at your intertwined hands, letting out a soft sigh. "I'm just tired," he confesses, his voice weary. "I haven't had a good night's sleep in ages. It's like I can't escape..."

He catches himself, realising he's said too much. He quickly tries to put on a smile, trying to hide his exhaustion.

You couldn't help but caress his cheek, feeling slightly bad for the boy in front of you. He seemed like a genuine person who has been through a lot.

"I know how that feels, I have ADHD and sometimes it doesn't let me sleep at night. " you say, trying to be vulnerable towards him to show him that you were genuine. 

Sam leans into your touch, the feeling of your hand against his cheek soothing. He glances at you, his expression a mixture of surprise and comfort.

"You have ADHD? I never would've guessed." he smiles at your attempt to relate to him, appreciating the gesture more than you could know.

"Was it all the fidgeting or the non-stop talking? " you laugh a little and so does he, a dimple popped out on his cheek that makes you look at him fondly. 

"Maybe a combination of both," he says. "You're surprisingly bouncy and talkative. It's cute."

"Thanks. " you shrugged, "Most think I'm annoying. " 

Sam looks at you, a look of disbelief on his face. "Annoying? Those people must be idiots." He shakes his head, still smiling at you. "You're not annoying. Far from it."

"You're nice Sam. " you brush your hands through his hair before your eyes land on the clock on the wall.  "I've got to get back to my shift. "

Sam helps you gather up the notes he had borrowed, feeling a pang of disappointment as you prepare to leave. "Okay, yeah, of course," he says, still a little reluctant to see you go.

He gazes down at you, his eyes lingering for a moment. "Before you go," he says suddenly, a flicker of courage sparking inside of him. "Can I ask you something?"

"What is it? " 

Sam's heart thumps loudly in his chest, his mind suddenly racing. He knew he was taking a risk here, but he had to ask.

"I was wondering if I could have your number," he says, his voice slightly shaky. "Just in case I need some more myth and lore advice sometime."

"Oh, yeah sure. " you smiled and pulled out a pen from a stack of the notes he had and wrote down your number on the top page of the stack before noticing a symbol he had scribbled down on it. 

"I know this symbol. " you gently pull out the page and examine it closely. Sam looks surprised at the fact that you had recognised it. 

"You know that symbol? " he asks, his tone a mixture of disbelief and caution.

"Hades. " you say, nodding your head. "Ancient Greek, I'm talking like really ancient. This was used as a summoning tool to get one of Hades' men to show up. People who had the means to call upon him used this to get a one way ticket to the underworld, kinda like skipping the whole dead line and passing all those judgement people. "

"That's what this is? A summoning tool? " he glanced back down at the paper. "How did you get that so fast? "

"I study this Sam, kind of my speciality. " you say. 

Eyes widen as you easily identify each symbol, one after the other. Sam can't help but feel a pang of worry mixed with fascination. Were you simply a mythology enthusiast, or was there something more to your vast knowledge?

"Okay, so all these symbols have something to do with summoning one one Hades’ men, Thanatos, but there's a piece missing. "

Sam's mind races as he takes in your words. He swallows hard, trying to keep his cool. "What piece is missing? " he inquires, keeping his voice steady. 

"I'm assuming that's what you're looking for? The missing piece? You're not going to find it in this book then. " you say. 

"Not in this book, why's that? “ he asks. 

"This book is filled with Christian lore. You're not going to find anything here. You need ancient Greek lore. "

He sighs, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Damn," he mutters. "Ancient Greek lore, huh? Any idea where I might find something like that? “

"Follow me mister, I do still work here after all. " you walk past the book aisles to the other side of the library where the ancient Greek and Roman books were situated. "Here they are. "

Sam’s mind was still racing from your earlier revelation. He takes in the unfamiliar titles surrounding him as you stop in front of a shelf filled with ancient Greek and Roman texts.

"I hope you can read ancient Greek. " you laugh. "I'll leave you to it though, my supervisor will kick my ass if she doesn't find me at the front desk. Let me know when you're done though. "

Sam chuckles at your joke and gives a nod as you prepare to leave. He watches you go, appreciating the help you've given him so far. "Hey, wait," he calls out suddenly, a thought crossing his mind.

You stop in your tracks and turn back to him, "Yes? "

Sam hesitates for a moment, wondering if he should ask his question. But then he decides to just go for it. "Since you're so knowledgeable about all this lore, can I ask you one more thing? " he inquires, his eyes searching yours for a response.

"Fire away. "

Sam chews on his lower lip as he considers how to phrase his question. He didn't want to sound crazy, but he had to ask. "Alright," he begins, his voice slightly shaky. "Hypothetically, if someone were to want to call upon Thanatos, how would they do it? “ 

"Summon Thanatos, seriously? " you wanted to laugh but then noticed the serious expression on Sam’s face. You cleared your throat and grabbed the pile of notes from his hand and assembled them onto the table.

It all formed pieces of a really weird puzzle and only the first piece was missing. "There you go, until you find the missing piece you can't do anything though. Whatever you have to do, it needs to be done in this order.  "

Sam watched intently as you arranged the notes into a makeshift puzzle. He was impressed with your ability to piece together seemingly unrelated information, forming a clearer picture. He reaches out to the table, his fingers brushing across the notes. "And if I find the missing piece? " he asks, a hint of anxiousness in his voice.

"You call upon Thanatos, I presume. " you confirm. "That's what these symbols are. All demons are trapped in hell which is the underworld for the ancient Greeks. Get the right piece and I guess it's like opening a door for them.  "

Sam nods slowly, absorbing your words.  

"I'm assuming this isn't some kind of project. " you look at Sam with a serious and concerned expression laced on your face.

Sam's eyes meet yours, and he hesitates for a moment. He could feel your concern, and it tugged at him. He knew he shouldn't keep you in the dark, that you deserved an explanation, but before he can form a response, he's interrupted by a ringing sound from his pocket. He pulls out his phone and glances at the screen, his expression hardening.

Sam answers the call and turns away from you, his voice barely above a whisper as he speaks into the phone "What do you have, Dean? "

He listens for a few moments, his free hand running through his hair in a frustrated gesture. He glances over at you momentarily, making sure you weren't listening. After a brief moment Sam gets off the phone, his voice now hasty and laced with worry.

"I need to go," he says abruptly, his tone urgent. "Something's come up."

"Oh alright, well don't forget your stuff. " you help him gather the pages again and watch him stuff it into his bag.

Sam nods in thanks, his mind clearly elsewhere. He slings the bag over his shoulder and turns to look at you. "Sorry to cut this short," he apologises, his voice tinged with regret. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"Don't worry about it, whatever that was sounded important. " you smile and watch as he walks away fast from the library. You look out the window and watch him get into a black car with another guy as they drive away in a hurry leaving you to your shift. 

~~~

"Find anything? " Dean asks Sam as they speed through the road.

Sam shakes his head, his mind still on the conversation with you. He was frustrated that he didn't have the answer yet. "Not yet," he replies, his voice tight. "But there was this girl at the library, she was surprisingly familiar with the symbols. “

"A girl huh? She's pretty? " Dean smirks at Sam before returning his eyes to the road.

Sam scoffs and rolls his eyes at Dean. Trust him to focus on that aspect.

"She's...interesting," Sam replies, trying to downplay it. "She knew a lot about the symbols, more than most people. “

"You think she's a demon? " Dean asked seriously. 

Sam paused for a moment, considering the possibility. While it seemed far-fetched, it wasn't completely outside the realm of possibility. "No," he finally answers, shaking his head. "She seemed normal. Human."

"What'd she give you? Anything useful that would explain all these walking corpses around town? "

Sam reaches into his bag and pulls out the stack of pages filled with scribbled notes and symbols. "She was able to identify these," he says, shuffling through the pile. "And she explained what they were but we're still missing a piece. It’s like a puzzle. "

"Man, I hate puzzles. " Dean complained. 

Sam nods in agreement, especially when your life, and other people's lives, depended on them. "Yeah, tell me about it," he mutters, rubbing a hand over his tired eyes. "But we have to figure it out. People are dying, Dean. We have to stop it. "

"Yeah I know. She say anything about the missing piece? Where do we find it? “

Sam shakes his head, sighing in frustration. "No, but she did say something about ancient Greek and Roman lore. So we might need to dig through some of Bobby’s old history books."

"Oh yay, love me the Olympics. " Dean rolled his eyes and pulled up to the motel they were staying at. They both rush into the room and shut the doors and windows immediately. 

Sam sits down at the small desk, opening the laptop and immediately launching an online search for information on the mythology. He types in keywords related to their case and scans through page after page of search results, hoping to find something useful.

Dean cracks open a beer and begins looking through Bobby's old journals trying to find something useful to them. After about two and a half hours of searching they came up with nothing. "Damn it man. You're saying this library chick knew this stuff immediately? "

Sam shuts the laptop in frustration, rubbing a hand over his tired face. They had been at it for hours and still had nothing. "Yeah," he confirms. "She seemed to recognize the symbols right away, and knew what they were used for. It's like none of this was a surprise to her. "

"Sounds fishy man, are you sure she was human? " Dean takes a swig of his second beer. 

Sam sighs and shrugs, his mind still lingering on your knowledge of the symbols. It was impressive, but it did raise a few questions. "I don't know," he admits, a hint of uncertainty in his voice. 

"You said she studied these things? Like as a degree? "

Sam nods, recalling what you had told him at the library. "Yeah, she said she was interested in these things, and she had studied them extensively. "

"Look, I know you're developing some sort of attachment to this girl but we might need her help, Sammy. " Dean looks at his brother, Sam's face was conflicted. He too didn't want to drag an innocent girl into this.

Sam frowns,he knew Dean was right, but the thought of putting you in danger didn't sit well with him. "I don't want to put anyone in harm's way," he argues, his voice a mix of concern and determination. "But you're right. We need her help, she's the only lead we have right now."

Sam hesitates for a moment, but he finally pulls out his phone and dials your number and waits anxiously for you to pick up.

You were about to close up the library when your phone rang all of a sudden. Fishing it out of the bag you answered the call, waiting for the caller to speak first. 

As the call connects, Sam takes a deep breath, mentally preparing himself. "Hello?" he says into the phone, his tone laced with urgency.

"Hi, who is this? " you ask.

"It's Sam Winchester," he replies, his voice serious. "The guy from the library earlier today. Look, I need to talk to you about something important."

"Oh hi Sam, what can I do for you? " you asked, locking up the library and heading to the car.

Sam takes note of the sound of keys in the background. "Are you still at the library?" he asks. 

"Almost about to leave, why? Did you forget something here? " you asked, now in the car tossing your bag in the backseat. There was a slight ringing in your head followed by a sharp pain. You reached back to your bag and brought out your painkillers.

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Sam reassures you. "But there's something I need to talk to you about in person. It's pretty important. Can we meet? "

"Yeah sure, how far are you from the library? " you manage to say after swallowing the pills.

Sam looks out the motel window, his gaze fixed on the street outside. "Not too far. We're staying at the Starlight motel. Room 4B. Can you come over here?"

"Oh, alright. Who's 'we' by the way? " you ask, starting the engine and pulling out of the parking lot. 

Sam grimaces, realising that he hadn't really explained the situation fully to you yet. "Oh uh...my brother Dean's here with me," he admits, his voice slightly apologetic.

"Oh I see. I'll be on my way shortly Sam. " you say goodbye and make your way to the motel a little weary of why Sam sounded so urgent. For the sake of protection, you pulled pepper spray from the bag and walked up to the motel room, knocking on the door.

Sam and Dean hear the knock at the door, and Sam jumps up to answer it. He glances through the peephole and sees you standing outside. He opens the door and immediately his eyes widen at the sight of your pepper spray. "Whoa, easy there," he says, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace.

"Sorry, momma taught me to be safe. " you laugh and enter the room, pepper spray still in hand. There was another guy there you assumed to be Sam’s older brother. He was a little older than Sam, slightly shorter with green eyes.

Dean watches you as you enter the room, his expression a mix of curiosity and scepticism. He takes note of the pepper spray in your hand, silently assessing if you were a threat. But when you mention your mother, he barks a laugh. "Smart woman," he comments with a smirk. "Never hurts to be prepared. “ 

"I'm Y/N. "  you extend your hand to the guy and he shakes it, telling you his name. You then turn to Sam, "What is it that you called me for? " 

Sam motions for you to take a seat on the bed. He sits down next to you, while Dean stands by the window with his arms crossed. "Alright, this is going to sound a little strange," Sam begins, looking at you intently. "But there's something we need to ask you about. “

"Alright then, ask away. "

Sam glances at Dean, silently asking if he should reveal the truth fully. Dean just shrugs nonchalantly. Sam takes a deep breath and turns back to you. "Have you ever heard of demons before?" he asks, his voice measured and serious.

"Demons? " you laugh, looking back and forth between the brothers, "Like the ones in myths we were talking about today? "

Sam and Dean exchange a glance, amused by your scepticism. "No, not myths," Sam answers bluntly. "We mean real, authentic demons. Straight out of Hell."

"What? "

Dean leans against the wall, a cocky smirk on his face. "You think we're pulling your leg, don’t you?" he says, looking at your doubtful expression.

"We'll yeah, just little. " you eye Dean up and down.

"Look. demons are real and we need a way to stop them. " Dean blurts out, Sam gives Dean a warning glare. He had wanted to ease you into this revelation, not just dump it all on you at once.

"What he means is that we're hunters," Sam explains, his gaze fixed on you intently. "Hunters of supernatural creatures, like demons, monsters, and witches."

"Hunters? " you tilt your head, taking in the information.

Sam nods, his expression serious. "Yeah," he confirms. "We track and kill things that go bump in the night. We've been doing it our whole lives."

"Wait, this may sound crazy but do you know Bobby Singer? " you ask. 

Dean immediately averts his gaze from you to Sam. "You know Bobby? " Dean stares at me.

Sam pauses, a little taken aback by your question. He glances at Dean, who looks equally surprised. "Yeah," he answers slowly, his curiosity piqued. "We know Bobby. How do you know him?"

"Bobby is my uncle. Well my dad's family friend, I used to see him a lot when I was little. He used to tell me stories all the time about how he was a hunter and he used to kill monsters like what you’re saying now. Of course he was a drunk so nothing he said was real but it still made me interested in mythology. "

Dean looks at you quizzically, his mind racing with questions. "Why hasn't Bobby ever mentioned you? " he asks, his voice laced with suspicion.

"He and my dad had this fight when I was twelve, never saw him since. "

Sam's eyebrows furrowed, "What happened between them? If you don't mind me asking. " he asks, his tone softer now.

"Something about a hunting trip gone wrong? I think my dad must've messed up and Bobby got angry. They used to go deer hunting often. "

Sam and Dean exchange a knowing glance. They both knew about the disastrous hunting trip Bobby had gone on with John. They had heard it from Bobby many times over the years.

"Must have been one hell of a hunt," Dean mutters, more to himself than anyone else.

"Wait but what does that have to do with demons? My dad hunted deer with Bobby, not monsters or whatever. Those were just stories. "

Sam takes a deep breath, knowing that the explanation was about to get more complicated. "It's a little more than that," he begins. "Bobby was involved in a different type of hunting. Supernatural hunting and now I think that your dad was involved too. "

"You're joking, right? " you look between the brothers confused. 

Dean snorts with a sarcastic laugh. "Hell, I wish we were," he says, his expression serious. "But we've been hunting these things all our lives. Demons, ghosts, werewolves, you name it."

You swallowed hard, trying to hide the fear. "So what do you want from me? I'm not some type of demon or anything.  "

Sam quickly senses your fear and places a reassuring hand on your shoulder. "No, no, we know you're not a demon," he reassures you. "We just wanted to ask you about those symbols. "

"Oh. " you eased up a little. "Well those are to summon Thanatos from the underworld like I explained. "

Dean leans forward, intrigued. "How do you know so much about these symbols? "

"Mythology 101 at Harvard. " you say, shrugging as if it were nothing.

Dean raises an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "Harvard, huh? Brains and beauty."

You blush at his words and fail to notice the annoyed look Sam gives his brother. He didn't miss the way Dean was eyeing you up and down.

"So anyway, what do you need me for? I already explained what there was. " you asked.

Sam rubs the back of his neck, slightly hesitating before speaking. "Well, we're trying to figure out how this thing got to earth and why someone would have wanted to summon it."

"And you think that I could help? "

Sam rubs his forehead, the exhaustion from the long day catching up to him. "We don't have anyone else to ask right now," he admits. "You said you know a lot about this, so we thought you might be able to give us some answers. “

You notice the exhaustion on both Sam and Dean's face and nod, agreeing to help them.

"Can you read ancient Greek? " Dean asks, placing one of Bobby’s old journals in front of you. 

"Yes I can, a little rusty but I can do it. " you glance at this book and pull out a blank page to scribble down whatever you decipher. "This might take me a while, it's a lot and let's just say the grammar is terrible. “ 

Dean chuckles at your comment, his impatience showing. "Take all the time you need, sweetheart, we got all night. “ 

You continue pouring over the text, the brothers leave you at the table and do some research on the laptop. You were all busy for what felt like about three hours.

Sam and Dean had gotten so engrossed in their research that they lost track of time. Sam glances over at you at the small table and notices you diligently working on the ancient text. "How's it going over there? " he calls out. 

"I'm almost done. " you say, scribbling the last few words on the page.

"That was quick," Dean comments, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Thanks, I was the top student. " you walk over to them at the coffee table and sit next to Sam, placing the page of translated Greek in the centre.

"Damn, that's some impressive writing skills you got there, sweetheart," Dean smirks.

Sam gives Dean a warning glance, silently telling him to cut it out. "Dean," he says, his tone stern. "Give it a rest, will you? " Dean rolls his eyes and nods.

"Okay so from what was written the missing piece isn't a symbol but more of a chant that you say out loud as you assemble the pieces together. It’s a ritual. “ 

Sam rubs his chin thoughtfully, taking in your translation. “So if we do this, we summon whatever is bringing those corpses back? Thanatos, you said? “

You nod, confirming his words. "Yeah. it says you have to do it thirty minutes before the full moon rises and guess what moon it is tonight. "

"We have about an hour until we need to do this. " Dean says, looking at the time. 

"Damn, you're right," Sam mutters. 

You watch as the brothers scramble to get everything ready for the ritual. They pull out weird looking items in jars and bags with different types of smells. "You just casually have these things? "

Dean looks up from loading his shotgun with salt rounds and gives you a smirk. "We travel a lot," he says, his tone nonchalant. "We're always prepared."

Sam gathers the supplies and sets up a circle on the ground, carefully drawing symbols and diagrams around it. As they prepare the final items for the ritual you take a seat on the couch and rub your temples, trying to subside the oncoming headache. 

With fifteen minutes to spare before they start you pull Sam to the side while Dean is busy. "Hey, are you okay? " you ask him, noticing the fatigue on his face. 

Sam pauses, he can see the concern in your eyes, and appreciates your thoughtfulness. "Yeah, I'm okay," he replies, his voice a bit weary. "Just a little tired, and worried about what we're about to do."

He suddenly takes hold of your hand and intertwines your fingers, surprised by the comfort your touch brings him. 

"It must be scary? Having to deal with all of this. " 

“It is scary," he admits, his gaze meeting yours. "We've seen and faced things most people wouldn't believe exist. But we don't have a choice. We do this, or innocent people get hurt. Or worse."

"You're heroes. " you smile up at him.

Sam can't help but smile back, a hint of pride in his expression. "Thanks," he says, his voice softer now. "But we don't always feel like heroes. There's a lot of pain and suffering we've seen. Sometimes, we question if we're making any difference at all."

"One less demon on earth, I'd say that's a big difference. " you nod and place a soft kiss on his cheek. "It's almost time, you should join your brother. "

Sam's breath hitches and he savours the moment for a brief second, before nodding in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. " 

You watch as they wait for the right moment to begin the ritual. Sam effortlessly says the chant as Dean readies himself for whatever may come with a blade in his hand. You move behind the couch, away from them to be safe and out of the way. 

The room suddenly turned cold and the pain in your head grew more intense. Your vision clouds with green mist and as you make out a figure standing in the middle of the symbol that Sam drew. 

You blink to clear the mist from your eyes and notice the figure at Dean’s foot, dead. Confusion washes over you and you realise that the whole thing was over. 

Finally, Sam looks over at you and gives you a small nod. "It worked," he says, his voice filled with relief and exhaustion as if everything lasted a long time. 

You stare as the brothers clean out the mess. Dean drags the figure outside to bury its body before you could get a close look at it. 

You were left with Sam alone in the room. "I can't believe that just happened. " you say stunned.

"Yeah, believe me, it’s a lot to take in." Sam agrees. 

"Wait until you find out about the angels. " Dean shouts from outside. 

Sam chuckles at your astonishment. “Thank you for staying out of the way, it put up a good fight, you would’ve gotten hurt. “

You nod, having no idea what he was talking about. 

"You okay? " he asks, genuine concern in his eyes. "You holding up alright? " Sam closes the distance between the two of you. In the dim light of the room, he takes a moment to look at you, his gaze lingering on your face.

"I'm going to be honest Sam, that sacred me but I didn't shit myself so I think I'll be fine. " 

Sam throws his head back and lets out a hearty laugh at your unexpected response. There’s a hint of relief in his expression as he looks back at you. "I appreciate your honesty," he grins, still chuckling. "Most people wouldn’t be so calm after witnessing a demon exorcism."

"I'm definitely not going to be able to sleep tonight but that's nothing a little alcohol can't fix. " 

Sam's expression softens. He can only imagine the shock and adrenaline rushing through your body right now. "You sure you want to go the alcohol route? " he says, a hint of worry in his voice.

"What other route is there Sam? I just saw the supernatural in real life, found out everything my drunk uncle Bobby told me was real. I think I deserve a drink. Heck, you deserve like five for dealing with this all the time. "

Sam lets out a sigh, knowing that you had a point. He can't really blame you for wanting to drown out the traumatic events of the night. “Well I wish I could catch a drink with you but there is still a lot to do. “

"There's more? I thought it was over. "

Sam shakes his head with a weary sigh.

"I wish it was that simple. There's still a lot of work to be done. We have to figure out who summoned this thing in the first place. It wasn't just a random occurrence. Someone wanted that thing on earth, and we need to find out why. "

"I don't suppose you'll be needing my help then. " you smile sadly. 

Sam frowns at your assumption. He can't help but feel a pang of disappointment at the thought of you not being involved anymore. 

"Well then Sammy, you know where to find me should you find yourself needing any assistanc. " you pulled him in for a kiss. 

Sam is taken by surprise at your bold gesture, but he doesn't resist, letting himself be pulled in, his hand coming up to cup your face gently as your lips meet his. For a moment, all the chaos and danger of the world fade away.

"See you around. " you walk out the door leaving Sam staring.

Sam watches you walk out the door, his lips still tingling from the unexpected kiss. "Yeah, see you, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice laced with a hint of wistfulness.

~~~

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