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Eyes roll despite her best efforts and there’s a spike in the aggressiveness she’s hitting the bag with as she grinds out a word through a tense jaw. “Cute.” The dryness of her tone makes it apparent that she finds it anything but, his comments only serving as a reminder as to why their interactions had only been kept to a minimum in the past. “You know, I almost missed your sarcasm.” Maybe from someone else the sentence would hold a gentle teasing or maybe they just wouldn’t bring the topic of his absence up but Livia wasn’t someone else and she’d never been one for tiptoeing around. Keeping to herself and not prying sure but biting her tongue was something she’d never been able to do.

“Almost but I was too busy taking out dangerous people.” There’d maybe be a pointed note to her words if she cared more, except she didn’t. What Elijah chose to do was his own business and as long as it didn’t interfere with her goals then they’d be fine leading their own lives. A few more punches were given before she turned back to him, eyes latching onto the knife in his hand. It wasn’t exactly unusual to see one of them carrying a weapon but Livia still found herself wracking her brain over whether it was normal for him. There was no answer forthcoming and she quickly discarded the thought as unimportant.

Raising her eyebrows slightly, the brunette headed toward him as she began to unwind the bindings from her hand. “If you’d wanted your turn so bad you should’ve just said, no need to take me out for it.”

The words pull a laugh from his lips, even if he doesn’t expect there’s any kindness buried beneath the comments she throws back at him. Maybe they’re supposed to hurt, and there’s an odd awareness of the implications behind them. If she’s spent her time taking out dangerous people, he’s spent the last seven months as someone standing in that category. Even if it wasn’t by choice, and he hates that it bothers him more than the memory of blood on his hands. Every sin he’s committed, every life he’s taken or cry of pain left echoing in his ears, all the while he was left wailing inside the prison of his own head. He doesn’t see the need to point it out.

“Oh, ow. Was that a burn?" He shifts to settle himself more comfortably against the wall, no real investment in how much longer she wants to take. All he really came down here for was some distraction, an outlet for that ache in his fingers that has him toying with the knife in hand in the first place. It’s too much to ask that he settle easily back into his life, old habits half forgotten when they’ve been replaced by new ones that don’t belong to him.

But she doesn’t take much longer, and whether she’s finished or simply trying to placate him, the answer doesn’t matter much. “Calm your tits, princess. I can wait my turn like a good boy.”

It isn’t where she wants to be. None of it is ever where she wants to be. She’d been ripped from her home years ago for the naughty tendencies of many a fae. She’d been deemed a liability to her people’s way of life, too many stolen trinkets around her fingers and dangling from her neck, hidden in the curls of long red hair. She understands her women’s fear better now, even if she still couldn’t agree that sending her off to the Tenebrae had been the greatest judgement call. She accepted it anyway, went dutifully if not begrudgingly across the Atlantic to the New World, that wasn’t so new anymore. It had been different and parts of it had been splendid, but there’s an ache in her chest that won’t go away for a little island off the coast of Scotland and the magical warrior women who reside there.

Charlie agrees out of formality when the head of her branch hands her a thick file with the information of a wayward soul, a face she recognizes after a filthy deed that need to be clean up. She had known then upon looking at the lost boy that he’d see more trouble in his lifetime and the extensive information they have on him is proof. Before she’s allowed to peruse it more, the order comes to pack her bags. Keeping Elijah Gray in line isn’t her responsibility. It’s most likely a duty that falls on the brother. But she’s instructed to do one thing: end his life if his eyes turn black once more. In most possession cases, there’s no other option.

Looking up at the massive structure of her new home, the little fae raps her knuckles on the door quickly to signal her arrival, in the hopes that someone is home to welcome her in.

It isn’t Eli’s intention to play welcoming committee. If anything it’s just bad timing, fingers busy tugging a cigarette from his pack while he heads towards the door. It’s a habit he’s easily slipped back into, despite the months without. Demons didn’t need to smoke, or eat, or do anything remotely human unless they needed to pass for one. And the one who’d taken control of his frame hadn’t bothered with most of that. Eli didn’t have any family or friends it had to fool, only victims. It’s a thing his hands remember too well, even if he’s done his best to shut out most of it. The nightmares are less considerate, but he doesn’t need to sleep as much as he used to either.

His steps are quick as he head towards the door, but he stalls when he hears a knock from the other side. A glance around yields no one with more interest or more authority who might be standing on the doorstep, and a large part of him is tempted to turn around and go back the way he came. If he doesn’t like most people, it’s a thing that’s only gotten worse since he came back, and interacting with a  stranger is the lowest thing on his list.

But he’s never run from anything, let alone something so mundane, and in the end it doesn’t matter who’s there. He doubts they’re there for him. Without a second thought he yanks the door open, and if he hadn’t held any expectations of who might be standing there, he’s still surprised for a moment at the small redhead in front of him. “If you’re here to sell Girl Scout cookies I want a box of Thin Mints.”

The sound of a familiar voice that she hadn’t heard for a while made her pause, snatching up her water bottle as she did.  Taking a drink, the brunette eyed him, making note of anything that seemed difference but never asking any of the questions that came to mind. Instead she just lowered the bottle and shrugged. “Suit yourself.” She’d never been one to pry, despite her curiosity practically begging her to at times. But prying lead to discovering things about people, which lead to understanding and understanding brought attachment hot on its heels. Something she refused to make room for in her life.

 Still, it had never stopped her from making her own silent conclusions that’d never be voiced, though he was definitely a more difficult subject to do it for. Eli had always been a bit of a mystery to her, partially her own doing with how much she avoided company but she never could get her head around the difference in the siblings. Sam easily had her respect, something of a rarity but his brother had yet to qualify for it. Pushing those thoughts aside her fists met the bag once more, finding her rhythm again. “I’ll be done in five. Unless you’re dying to have a go in in which case I’ll come back later.”

There’s no real reaction to his presence except a glance, a thing he’s oddly grateful for even if he didn’t expect much else. He’ll take indifference, he’ll even take fear, and there’s a part of him concerned just how intensely he watches for that. Pity’s the only emotion he thinks he’d choke on, but he doesn’t know if that’s an expression Livia even knows how to summon. Most days it leaves him torn between his own sense of amusement and indifference towards her, but that cold demeanor was nothing unfamiliar at this point. Most hunters had perfected the icy stare, shoulders braced to try and carry the weight of humanity on their back. Though he might depend too heavily on his brother for that impression.

The man was a soldier, through and through. Eli had just opened his eyes to a different war, and he still hasn’t figured out if he was doing him any favors or not. Right now his thoughts are more selfish, questioning just what he’s done to himself, because there’s the point of a knife digging into his index finger as he spins it just to see light reflecting off metal. It was never one of his habits, more prone to toying with one of the half dozen rings decorating his fingers than anything else.

“I’m dying.” And at least the sarcastic drawl should be familiar, as if nothing’s really changed in him at all. “Literally gagging over here just for my turn to hit a bag.”

There were two things  in life that she found therapeutic: stripping down an engine and punching something. The first only worked if she was in a reasonably relaxed mindset, which was becoming rarer and rarer by the day, but the second had never failed her yet. With her knuckles wrapped to avoid the bruising and splitting that had been ever present in her teenage years, Livia had been landing punch after punch on the bag without any let up for a good while.

Despite the binding around her hands, each blow still gave a little sting, a reminder that she did feel but also that she could be in control when emotions did arise. This was using anger and channelling it productively instead of just snapping at others as she was wont to doing. Out of the corner of her eye she glimpsed someone, speaking without turning to look at them. “I’m almost done.” Her fist made contact with the bag a few more times before she spoke again, a slight smirk on her face as she did. “Unless of course you want to go a couple of rounds.”

It’s odd, but Eli thinks now that the first day back was easier. His priorities had been narrowed to the simplest level of survival. Shower, feed himself, sleep as much as possible. Remember that his hands were his own again and he was fully capable of doing all those things. He was in one piece, but that was about the best that could be said of him when he’d spent the last seven months with a demon in his head and controlling his hands.

It’s the aftermath he’s struggling with. A lingering dark and restless energy that has him toying with a knife when he’s not fully aware he’s doing it. The muted nature of every emotion and the tendency to study every person that’s supposed to be on his team like he’s looking for weaknesses. All so he can decide whether or not he’d win in a fight. It’s what he’s doing to Livia now, back against the wall while he waits for his turn at the punching bag. It’s not why he came down here, his only intention to try and burn off some of that energy, but it still strikes him as a bad idea to take her up on the offer she tosses over at him. “I’m good. Not in the mood to dance, thanks all the same.”

“Yours truly,” he says in response to the slur slung his way. He smirks along with it and doesn’t take offense because he’s been called worse. By Eli, sometimes. Most times. It’s never bothered him because he’d stopped caring a long time ago what people thought of him. Only that they listened to him when the time called for it. He was who he was and people either accepted that or they didn’t. It’s what people credited towards him still being single. Sam had other ideas why he was solitary. 

Another amused snort escapes him when Eli says he can handle telling people to piss off on his own. Of course he could. It didn’t mean Sam wasn’t going to keep a close eye on how people interacted with him. As much normalcy as possible, but there was still a line he’s going to make sure people don’t cross. 

A refusal to talk, or at least a denial and Sam shakes his head. He’s not sure whether he should be surprised when Eli throws the question back at him and if there’s any doubt that they’re brothers, that they share similar habits beneath the obvious differences, it’s erased in the next moment when Sam answers similarly. “I don’t need to talk.” There’s some truth in that. He’d done his talking. He’d sat across from Ethan enough nights to make sure his head was on straight. He didn’t need to talk now and definitely not to Eli about Eli. 

There’s quiet after that for a moment and if Eli didn’t want to talk, and Sam didn’t want to talk, then he was fine just sitting in here bullshitting with his brother. He’d missed a lot of conversations with his brother while he’d been gone. 

“Just to establish this now, I’m not making up for your missed birthday. So don’t try to milk it.” 

It doesn’t surprise him any that his brother turns down the offer, a smile curving his lips before he ducks his head. Sam doesn’t want to talk, he doesn’t want to talk, and maybe a therapist would swear it’s not healthy, but he doubts that would be the worst of either of their issues at this point. He closes his eyes now and he sees blood, and his fingers itch for the familiarity of a knife. It’s nothing he needs to say, and nothing his brother needs to hear.

“Well, if you change your mind I’m here for you man. You wanna cry or hug it out or something just let me know.” He keeps a straight face when he says it, but just the thought is almost laughable. The fact that he’s the one offering some comfort, the thought that his brother would ever even need it. That’s never been Sam. If he’s seen him at his low points, he doesn’t think he’s ever seen him break down, and doubts he ever will. He’s a force of nature all his own, and some part of him finds it comforting.

The part of him that pretends to be a better brother thinks it would do him some good to loosen up and get laid once in a while.

He finishes the bottle of water in the silence that follows, plastic crinkling beneath his fingers. And he doesn’t realize just what day it is until his brother says the words. It might be a few days too late, but it’s still odd, the forced reminder of just how much time has passed. He missed Sam’s birthday. He missed his own. A few holidays, the entirety of the summer, all of it is little more than a blur in his mind, because the thing taking possession of his body hadn’t cared about any of it.

“I’m absolutely milking it.” He tosses the bottle after he says it, aiming for the man’s chest with no real care whether it hits or not. “You owe me a stripper. Two’s better but I know you’re a cheapskate.”

“Yeah, I doubt it’d be a good look.” It’s familiar banter and he’s happy his brother is playing along. Instigating, even. He doesn’t buy it for a second, that Eli can just go back to normal. Not the way he’d come out of that possession with such a start. But he’ll play along with it as long as Eli needs. Thinks it’s probably better to let Eli be the one to start up the line of questioning, or the heart to heart, because any time Sam’s tried to do so in the past, he’d been met with brick walls and angry glares. 

There’s a snort at the question and he motions towards the window at his back. “Why do you think I’m standing way over here?” he says, crossing his arms over his chest after he says it and that smile on his face fades a little bit as he looks down at his little brother. There’s a moment where he wonders what their life would have been like if they hadn’t gotten involved in all of this, but he can only answer his own wonder with a solid thought of not wanting to know. He knew what was out there, ready to pounce on the unaware. 

Look at what had happened to Eli. 

He thinks he should have brought two water bottles, with how quickly Eli is going through that one. Maybe later he’ll get hungry and venture downstairs. He wonders how the others will treat him, what they’ll ask him and it has the corners of his lips quirking upwards. Eli before all of this would have met all the questions with sharp remarks and while he doubts anything will be different now, he wonders how much of a sting those questions will leave behind. 

“I’m not going to ask what it was like,” he tells him bluntly and if it’s a cold thing, it’s nothing Eli shouldn’t be used to. Along with what he follows up with. “But if you want to talk, I’ll listen. Or if you need me to tell people to piss off, I’ll do that too.” 

“Asshole.” He doesn’t know if his brother’s lying or telling the truth, but either way he thinks a shower will be his next step. Then maybe breakfast, and if it’s always been his hangover food, he doubts it’ll provide much comfort this time around. It brings with it an odd anxiety, the knowledge that there are probably strangers in the house now, and he doesn’t know if facing them is better or worse than having to come across someone he knows. Either way, he doesn’t want sympathy, he doesn’t want understanding. If he deserves anything, he thinks it’s fear. And he hates that he can’t tell if it’s a thought that belongs to him or something left behind.

“Oh, no worries man. I can do that fine on my own.” But it’s with a lazy confidence that he waves off the offer, even with the certainty that his brother would do just that if he asked him to. They might not have always gotten along, and a lot of that was on his end. But he’s never doubted that all he ever had to do was pick up the phone and Sam would be there for him. He used to abuse that fact.

Now he’s just grateful for it, and if he doesn’t need him to play mother hen, his presence in the room is enough. He isn’t scared of him, he didn’t leave him to the prison that had been made of his own head. And if he wasn’t the kid that dragged a dark spirit from his mouth, he was still there.

“I don’t need to talk.” There’s a shake of his head, tipping the bottle back again and draining it fast. There isn’t much he can or even wants to say right now, and if there’s a wall up in his mind right now it’s of his own making. He doesn’t want to look back with too much clarity or reflection. There are too many memories haunting every movement, and it might be why he sits so still and quiet in this room now. There’s nothing attached to it but his own history.

“You need to talk?”

“Nope, none of that.” The words come easy enough. There’d been a time when their relationship had been strained. Where it seemed more and more that Eli felt like a hostage instead of a brother. Samson knew where the feelings came from, he just didn’t know how to fix it and the joking tone was an easier thing to fall into whenever he didn’t know how to fix something. 

He doesn’t begin to believe he can understand what’s going on in Eli’s head. He’d never been possessed, never had an urge to try it out. He’d seen people come out of it in worse shape than Eli. Dead, because of what the demon had done while inside. But it didn’t mean just as much damage wasn’t done. Didn’t mean the demon hadn’t left scars on Eli that weren’t being hidden behind those dumb jokes and forced smiles. 

There’s a moment where he doesn’t know what to say and if there’s an awkward pause, he let’s it come easily. Leaning up against the windowsill, he just crosses his arms over his chest and looks over at his brother. He’s here, he’s safe. He may not be okay, but hopefully that will come in time. He should feel relieved, but that feeling hasn’t come over him yet. It probably won’t for a while, because he’d been off guard when Eli had disappeared in the first place. He wasn’t going to be caught off guard like that again. And if Eli complained about not having enough space, Sam would just deal with hearing the complaints. 

“Not that good at the mother hen stuff,” Sam gave a forced grin back over at him because it was mostly true, Sam didn’t have a great bedside manner and could be cold as hell sometimes, he couldn’t deny that there wasn’t the urge to just give Eli whatever he needed in the moment. Though knowing his brother, none of what he’d listed was what he really needed. 

“You take a shower yet? You look like death.” 

The silence might be awkward, but he doesn’t know that it’s uncomfortable. His brother might not be a mother hen, but that’s how he’s always been, and right now he’s left clinging to every familiarity. Maybe if he sits here long enough it’ll settle in that this is his reality again, finally woken from whatever nightmare he’d been trapped in the last few months. He doubts gentle handling would help with that. There are too many cracks in him already, the last thing he needs is anyone looking too closely at them, just waiting for him to fall apart.

Instead there’s just a snort of amusement before he’s taking a long pull from the water bottle. It’s not alcohol or coffee, but he doesn’t really have any complaints. All of this is better than where he was yesterday, though he stops his thoughts from traveling too far down that road. Time might be a blurry, unreliable thing, but he remembers enough of the sins his hands committed. How to gut a man, how to bleed him dry and still keep him screaming for as long as possible.

He should feel horror at that. Right now he doesn’t feel anything, and maybe that’s better.

“Yeah. You’d look terrible in a dress.” There’s an answering smile at his brother, enough appreciation for his idea of a joke. Even if it’s true. Sam’s more of a soldier than he ever was, and it’s almost funny that Eli’s the one that dragged them both into this life when he thinks his brother is more suited to it, even without magic at his fingertips. He’s never needed it.

He doesn’t doubt his brother’s words, certain he looks more like a ghost than a person right now. he doesn’t imagine a shower will wash off the filth of it. “Do I smell that bad?”

He tries to be smiles and calm voices. It hasn’t even been a full day since he’s gotten his brother back and he thinks he’s already failing at that. If there was a relief that was supposed to come with getting Eli back, Samson’s not feeling it. He keeps waiting for it to hit, waiting for that sense to wash over him, but it doesn’t. There’s still that feeling of panic and loss sitting heavily in his chest, like it has been for as long as his brother’s been gone.

He’d searched for him. He really had. He’d put everything he had into looking for Eli, while at the same time trying to help Ethan run an organization here. It was a dual mindset he doesn’t know if he was very capable of pulling off, but he’d like to think the work hadn’t suffered. If anything, he thinks he should have searched harder for his brother. He’d taken a month off when it first happened, chased ghosts around the country, but it was just sand through his fingers at that point. Empty trails, while his brother got further and further away from him.

Then Ethan had found him, some kid had shone up to take the demon out of his brother and Sam knew they’d have to find a way to cope with that eventually. Possession wasn’t a thing you woke up okay from and he hadn’t really gotten the chance to talk to his brother about it yet. Wasn’t planning on doing so soon. Eli needed rest. He needed to get grounded again.

Then they’d talk.

It doesn’t keep Samson out of his room, though. A mixture of needed to check to make sure he was still there and just check on him to make sure he was in one piece. He looked skinny, unkempt, but he didn’t really expect anything else from someone who’d been possessed for as long as Eli had.

“Hey,” he responds in kind as he comes to stand next to his brother’s bed. He looked strung out, ready to bolt. So Sam tried to be smiles and calm voices. “Brought you some water,” he shakes the bottled water at his brother before tossing it on the bed behind him.

It’s a long moment until he can drag his gaze up to focus on his brother. He’d known it was him before he said anything, even without the sound of his footsteps. And it hadn’t surprised him that he’d been one of the first faces he’d seen when he’d forced his eyes open for the first time in too long. That’s always been Samson. Looking out for him, even if there’d been a point in his life when he’d only seen him looking down on him. Right now he can’t hold onto old resentments even if he wanted to, he’s closer to numb, but there’s an intense gratitude left in his chest that’s better than this ache.

It might be an uncomfortably long time that he’s just left watching his brother, but at some point hope had died that he’d ever see him again. If anything, he’d hoped he wouldn’t, too many promises offered to him by that monster in his head that when Sam did find them, he’d have to watch as his own hands cut him apart. He could blink and imagine the blood, but here he is. Whole, undamaged, strong as ever. If anything he just looks tired.

The shift is abrupt, a quick smile offered up before he’s turning to grasp for the bottle. “No eggs? No coffee?" He shakes his head in some mocking disappointment, honestly uncertain if he’d be able to stomach either right now. Not when he can’t tell which is more shredded, his body or his soul. It’s funny when he didn’t think he used to be all that whole in the first place, enough sins leaving scars on his veins and a black dog on his shoulders. But this is worse, worse than that addiction he’d been trying to shake for years, and maybe part of it’s because it wasn’t his own doing this time.

Even if he’d played with black magic, he’d never asked for this.

His hands are surprisingly steady when he unscrews the cap, and whatever he says that tastes good right now too. Anything is better than the memory of a metallic taste on his tongue, and if demons don’t worry about dehydration, humans do. But normalcy is just as important, and it keeps poorly timed jokes on his tongue. “Not even gonna offer me a shot?"

He does anyway. Demons don’t sleep much, and it leaves him with months of exhaustion and an ache in his chest he’s trying to shake off. It runs deep this time, a wound left behind when a monster was torn out of him. The few hours he gets might not be enough to soothe that, but it’s something.

He’s already upright when the door opens, though he hasn’t made it much farther than the edge of his bed. That’s unfamiliar now too, and if his body’s been dropped right back into his old life, his head hasn’t followed yet. He’s too busy staring at the window, skin warmed beneath the suns rays, but there’s an oddly tilted reflection looking back at him. It’s just as foreign to him now, when he looks closer to some wild beast just waiting to bolt.

He doesn’t. He’s still and quiet, a sharp contrast to the chaos that’s raged in his mind, until he hears those footsteps stop next to the bed and he offers a weak greeting. “Hey.”