hi. (u can if u want)

a drag path, on ao3 (entire work, completed)

on tumblr:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

etched in the surface, on ao3 (entire work, completed)

on tumblr:

chapter one

chapter two

chapter three

chapter four

chapter five

chapter six

chapter seven

chapter eight

chapter nine

chapter ten

chapter eleven

chapter twelve

chapter thirteen

Additional Tags: Blood and Violence, Medical Trauma, Slow Burn (emotionally), protective MC, Angst, Catharsis, Vulnerability, Parenthood, Found Family, Family Dynamics, Domestic Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, kidnapping recovery (again) (in my defense they're so kidnapable your honor), telepathic twin bond, "would it be so terrible?", "if it were me?"

He freezes – caught. His body is crunched up on the chair next to the bed, the one reserved for Sylus. Kieran lets his leg drop off the edge, quietly, biting his nails. 

Your brow furrows, and just as he thinks he can silently escape, your eyes open. 

It takes several rounds of wincing and blinking for you just to see him. 

When you do, everything about you eases. Your body, your expression. You look less like a patient, and more like –

“There you are,” you rasp, smiling.

His gaze drops. 

He doesn’t speak for a while.

“You should sleep,” he goes, at some point, equally as hoarse. He clears his throat. 

He catches you moving in his periphery. “Don’t –” he exclaims, softly, reaching automatically to stop you. It’s too late – you’ve already shuffled over on the enormous bed, pushed yourself upright, allowing enough space for another.

You lift a hand, palm up, fingers outstretched.

It takes effort that you shouldn’t expend. Your arm shakes with it. 

He stills instantly, eyes snapping back to your face like he’s been called by name. 

Kieran swallows. 

And he reaches back.

You curl around his hand and pull. Not hard – just enough for him to know where you want him.

He stands, careful where he places his weight, unsure whether the floor might give in beneath him if he’s not gentle enough. Slowly, he sits, legs up on the bed. The mattress dips beside you. 

He feels your warmth even before your shoulders brush.

You sigh, like it’s a relief. “I am,” you reply, far too late, as you tip your head to rest your head against his. Your eyes must be closed again. 

This is better, and this is worse, for so many reasons. He’s hyper-aware of your presence, though it isn’t as if he wasn’t before. He can’t look at you without disturbing your rest, and it’s nice to not have to meet your gaze. 

He didn’t know. He didn’t know it could be like this. 

You both breathe, together, for a time. 

After, you twist your head slightly against his, as if to look at him. He tilts, too, for your benefit.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He chokes on an answer. He wants to yell at you. 

His eyes burn. “Yeah, mom.”

“And Luke?”

“He’s fine.”

You pause. Quietly, “...Sylus?”

He nods. The motion musses both your hair. “We’re all okay,” he croaks.

You think on that. 

Everything he had wanted to say has flown away from him. He thought he had so much, but it turns out – he doesn’t. Not really. Save for the apology they’ll never stop owing you. 

Words cease in the spaces between heartbeats. 

Your voice is soft when you choose to speak next. “What happened? While I was gone?”

Kieran closes his eyes. Again, he doesn’t answer immediately. Shame bubbles up in his throat like bile.

Don’t say it.

Don’t say it.

“We – fought,” he admits.

He can feel the way your body falls, like a part of you has collapsed at his words. Your fingers close around his hand lying next to your thigh. 

He presses his lips together in a tight line, and grits his teeth. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly. “You must’ve been so worried.”

He shakes next to you.

You’re back to silence. The holy kind, where the feelings are bigger than the body he inhabits; flowing out of him as if he were the one leaving threads of light behind. 

He’d never want anyone else to witness this, except for maybe you. His brother. The ones already present. 

“Sylus stopped us.” It comes out as a gasp. 

Before grief could kill them both, he stopped them.

You stay quiet, just listening.

“We didn’t – we didn’t do what he told us to,” he goes, swallowing again; encouraged by your thumb stroking the side of hand absently. “Because there was this – trail you left behind.”

His jaw tightens. “We couldn’t figure out what it was, really, but – we knew it was you. So we followed it.” His voice is barely above a whisper. “S-Sylus said to stay put, when we found you.” 

He forces himself to keep going. 

“We didn’t.”

You don’t pull away. 

His voice cracks. “We – we should’ve saved you.” 

He’s breathing hard. “At the s-safehouse. We were r-right t-there, and – we didn’t –”

He finally drowns in it. He tries turning away from you to bury his face into his sweatshirt.

You don’t let him. 

Your hand leaves his, slow; on purpose. He panics for half a second – until your palm meets his jaw. 

You’re shaking your head. “No,” you say.

Your face is shining. With tears, with something impossible and true. 

He’s stricken. “You don’t get it –” 

“I do,” you interrupt, smiling so wide. Unyielding. “I do.” 

You lift your other hand up, turning painfully toward him, thumbs wiping away the tears that keep falling down his face. 

“Thank you. Thank you both,” you say, finally, eyes searching his. “For finding me.”

His face screws up. Mouth opening, closing. And then – without thinking – with neither armor nor deflection – it just slips out of him.

“You – found us, first,” he says.

You don’t say anything. You just knock your forehead against his, the weight of you grounding. You must be in so much pain. When one of them woke up from their last surgery, they were so thirsty, so weary. But here you are, comforting him – comforting them. Asking for nothing, giving everything. 

A light knock at the door.

Neither of you flinch.

He knew it was coming well before the door partially opens. 

The first thing he sees is Luke. His awareness slides into place like a missing piece of himself, warm and electric. His eyes are sharp, red-rimmed, and his attention snaps directly to you. 

Sylus stands in the doorway, one arm slung around his brother’s shoulders. 

Sylus’s gaze flicks from the two of you – your foreheads still together, shoulders touching, your hand dragging away from him as you turn – to your face. It looks like the sight catches his breath; like he can’t believe his luck. The tenderness remains when he finally exhales. 

“Are we interrupting?” he asks, voice low. 

You speak first. “No, come in.” You try to sit up more upright, and Kieran immediately goes to help you do it. He feels it when Sylus gives Luke’s shoulder a brief squeeze before guiding him forward into the room. 

As soon as he does, an ominous feeling enters with them. The sense that the words that needed to be said would carry more weight with both you and Sylus together. 

In the back of their heads, they think: this is what it must feel like to be caught in some wrongdoing by one’s guardians. 

"Sit," Sylus directs at Luke, gesturing to the chair. Sylus himself sits on the side of the bed, a hand moving up your blanketed leg, meeting your gaze. When you nod back to him, he continues.

"It has come to our attention," he murmurs, "that you may not be aware of… what you mean to us."

Their jaws drop.

His tone is vicious, but Sylus's eyes retain that old tenderness that’s usually reserved for you. "So allow me to lay it out, in no uncertain terms."

He looks at them both. 

"You – are – ours,” he growls.

"To be clear," you say, swallowing, "this does not restrict either of you, in any way. You are free to do as you please. And –” Sylus crosses his arms while you go on. “We're not punishing you for acting as you have." 

Much as I would like to, Sylus doesn't say, but they hear, anyway.

"You both deserve to know," you say, and you look weary as you say it. Maybe a little guilty, too, like this is some secret you've kept from them, all this time. And it is, if they're being honest. But you smile, and they know – you're not tired of them. You're just tired. "We didn't tell you because we didn't want to pressure you, or make you feel obligated in any way."

You continue, "All we can do is… hope that you choose self-preservation."

Luke folds his arms, too, brows raising.

"Just like how we hoped you wouldn't jump in front of a bullet?"

His words are sharp. But if it's all true – if you both meant it; really, actually meant it – this was their way of testing. Because you can't mean it. You don't realize what you're getting into.

You wince, and Sylus looks at you, pointedly.

You avoid his gaze.

"If you're looking for apologies," Kieran goes, "you can start with that."

You're silent.

Then, "Okay, so maybe it runs in the family," you mumble, picking at your blankets.

Sylus snorts, taking your hand in his. Kieran rolls his eyes, sighing, but neither of them can hold back the growing grins on both their faces.

Luke groans, throwing his head back; rubbing his knuckles into his eyes. "Does this mean we have a curfew now?"

"Weren't you listening?" you tease, just as Sylus lets out a spiteful, "Yes."

They both grumble, complaining, "Aw, fuck," and "Come ooon."

Their hearts are soaring. It's probably obvious in their expressions, which is why Luke piped up in the first place – to hide the pure elation that's overwhelming them. They had chosen you months ago; they had chosen Sylus when they were sixteen. But they never thought – never expected –

To be chosen in return.

They were always the tag-alongs. The rejects. Failed experiments; to be tossed in the trash once things got boring.

And the worst part – the best part about it, is that – they've already seen the proof. A hundred times over. In every memory, every thought – every moment made worthwhile by your presence. It was never a question of whether they loved you – that much was obvious. But now, they know. They know it for certain.

You love them.

They are loved.

And maybe they were stupid for not seeing it earlier, when it shines so brightly; like golden threads of light, tying you all together.

Or maybe they were just – survivors. People who never learned the things that others knew unquestionably, like how to be held gently, or how to hold others, in softness.

So maybe they can forgive themselves for not knowing.

Just this once.

They're still mad at you, for reasons both logical and irrational, but you'd be mad at them if they did the same things. It seems appropriate. 

The only doubt left in their hearts is about how they got off basically scot-free. Of course, if Sylus was serious about curfew, then that would be different, but – now that they think about it –

"Don't we already have a curfew?" Luke asks, dubious, but Kieran is already shaking his head.

"You're thinking of the 'No Explosions after five AM' rule."

"That shit never made sense, though. Four AM is still twenty-three hours after five," he points out. "So, what? We're just not allowed any controlled explosions, at all, in our own home?"

"They're never controlled," Sylus retorts, fondly. "Don't be obtuse."

"Wow," Luke says.

Kieran scoffs. "Are you hearing this, mom?"

You're laughing, clutching your side: all three of them look at you attentively, ready to steady you, to get whatever you need, anything. "We've done everything backwards," you say, your smile infectious. "But… we probably should still ask."

For the first time, you look a little cautious. "Luke, Kieran," you go, voice firm, yet soft. "You chose us to be your family. So would it be okay… if we chose you, too?"

A million different responses flood their minds. They're encompassed in the cacophony of noise; in all the answers that spring forth and threaten to spill past their tongues. 

A shrinking part of them wants to cower from this. Wants to avoid, deflect, joke around: to find some measure of protection against the ways in which this could hurt.

But overwhelmingly amongst the replies is wonder. Happiness.

They don't have to worry anymore, or pull away.

This can be theirs.

So they say simultaneously, and quite simply:

"Fuck yeah."

epilogue:

When morning comes around again, you're swathed in tolerable and loving warmth.

Not the feverish kind of heat, but the kind that's soft. The sheets cling, and the air feels thick with sleep. Blinking, you watch dust motes drift lazily in the bare light of the base's bedroom. Flowers sit on the bedside table.

The house is quiet, except for the sounds of breathing.

Time moves again. Slowly. It stretches, but does not stall. Your side aches, and it's proof that this is real.

It's impossible to know who fell asleep first, or who followed after. At some point, exhaustion simply won.

You're not as tangled with them as you might have been had you not been injured, but you're still held in multiple ways. By your hand, your head on a shoulder, your back against Sylus's chest. Luke is sprawled out below, snoring lightly, while Kieran snoozes, his head tilted against the headboard in a way that's sure to give him a neck ache.

You shift, and you feel Sylus's lips in your hair once you do.

You tilt your head up to look at him, but you catch only the tip of his nose.

"When did the flowers get here?" you murmur quietly, careful not to wake the boys.

His arm tightens around you – and he breathes into your ear, "Yesterday morning," while stroking the skin of your neck. Like he can't get enough of you.

You know the feeling.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" You can't read the tone of his voice, so you try to spin around to see his face – only to let out a soft groan. Immediately, Sylus is helping you upright, slowly; passing you a myriad of pills left in a cup beside the bed. You swallow them down with a gulp of water, and Sylus settles you back down, in his arms.

"Thank you," you go, eyes closing again. Kieran snuffles in his sleep, twisting out of the awful position.

Thoughts seem to appear before you like the dust motes, swirling with your breath.

This was not over.

Maybe it will never be over. Perhaps you'd spend the rest of your life being hunted like this. The thought should fill you with fear, with dread, but all you can feel is peace in this quiet moment between.

So be it.

At least you have this.

"I can feel you thinking," Sylus whispers.

You don't want to break the moment; the holiness of what you've been given, today and yesterday. You don't want to bring up the wild hallucinations you've endured, or the pain that you've suffered.

So instead, you ask, "How… yesterday morning?"

He's silent for a beat. "They were meant to be delivered to the safehouse," he says, and you can hear the frown in his voice. You frown, too, confused. "Did they not tell you?"

You're almost back to sleeping again. You breathe out, "Hm?"

He holds you tighter. You hear his last words in your ear, hazy and drifting, as you nod off.

“It was yesterday. Happy Mother’s Day, kitten."

The warmth settles over you again; gentle, indifferent.

As if nothing had changed at all.

author's notes:

everyone say THANK U NEVS for everything, mostly, but more specifically for her suggestion that i include that it was mother's day in the story. otherwise, it would have just been a footnote, and this story would've taken MONTHS longer to get out

and thank you thank you THANK YOU for reading. this has been a treat!! i've loved chatting with everyone, and seeing your reactions. my heart is full when i think of u

but tumblr user jasminished, you say, why did you leave some things ambiguous, open-ended? to which i answer, why indeed? :D

Additional Tags: Blood and Violence, Medical Trauma, Slow Burn (emotionally), protective MC, Angst, Catharsis, Vulnerability, Parenthood, Found Family, Family Dynamics, Domestic Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, kidnapping recovery (again) (in my defense they're so kidnapable your honor), telepathic twin bond, "would it be so terrible?", "if it were me?"

Then, red-black energy coils around them mid-fall, snapping taut like a net. Their momentum halts in an instant, replaced by the solid, unmistakable grip of power.

He deposits them on the pavement below with far less grace than he probably used for you, boots skidding as they land hard but upright, the world coming back into focus around them.

Sylus releases them. "I told you to wait," he hisses.

They don't hear him.

They're too busy – breathless, giddy, half-mad with relief. Kieran doubles over, hands on his knees. Luke tips his head back, staring up at the distant, broken window far above them, chest heaving.

They're alive.

You're alive.

They're going home.

__________

The third time you wake that day – 

Not the little jolts of consciousness, or the hazy moments in between, or by the pulse of your evol misfiring – but real, actual wakefulness –

You're in the arms of your beloved.

You must have been given some sort of medication. You feel floaty, airy. That's the first thing you notice: the absence of pain.

The second thing you notice is that you're warm. 

Held.

"Sylus," you mumble.

"I'm here," he murmurs back immediately, his warm breath in your hair. "I've got you."

Your heart swells, even with how muted you feel. You hum softly, the sound vibrating in your chest. 

You're not strapped down, or being pulled apart anymore; visions don't plague your sight.

It occurs to you, then. "Where…?"

"They're here," he replies. "We're home."

You can feel Sylus slow, adjusting his grip gently while your fingers tighten around his neck. You shift, trying to see past his shoulder, eyes unfocused but intent.

"Easy, kitten," he says, quietly. "You're safe."

You blink up at him. For a second, you're sharp, and it seems to startle him.

"Are they?"

Sylus exhales through his nose, careful not to jostle you. 

He has a wry, tired smile. "Debatable," he says, and you know he's teasing, and that he could only tease if they were fine. He clears his throat, but his voice is still soft. "They jumped out of a building."

A corner of your mouth lifts. You lay back on his shoulder, curling into his neck.

"But… you caught them, right?" you whisper.

He kisses your head.

"I always do.”

Your gaze drifts again, and you're astonished at just how exhausted you are. Perhaps you should give yourself a bit more grace, but – there was so much more to say, so much more to do.

"Sy," you go, "we have to tell them."

Sylus halts. You take in your surroundings, finally, and it fills you with determination and resolve. And bone-aching weariness, too, but you fight that with all your might. You're home, but that doesn't mean you're ready to give in.

He waits for you to continue.

"They didn't know…" you mumble, closing your eyes. "It wasn't obvious."

Your brow furrows. Your mind hurts, in that distant way that comes with thinking too hard through painkillers and exhaustion.

But you'd been thinking of it, in the quiet between.

You wondered if you were going to die. Or worse, you were going to live like this – in this half-state of being, hallucinating, out of your mind; your brain concocting impossible stories that broke you.

All you could think of, in the times in which you could think, was your family.

How you loved them.

And how you never told them. 

Sure, you tried to show them, over and over again. But how were they supposed to extrapolate meaning from action, without having the words to describe it? They weren’t children, not anymore, and they’re clever enough that they could figure things out, but why make love a puzzle? Why make them work for it, when they’ve worked so hard for everything else?

Your fingers curl in Sylus's collar, grounding yourself. Pulling yourself up from unconsciousness, you look at him once more. His lips are parted; eyes hooded. He doesn't interrupt.

"Whatever they did," you whisper, "they did because they didn't know." 

You sigh, and repeat, "We have to… tell them…"

Before you drift away again, you hear his last words.

"We will."

__________

Neither of them would remember falling asleep.

One moment, there's the low, constant hum of the engine beneath them, the smell of blood and sweat and dust still clinging to their clothes; the city sliding past the tinted windows in streaks of light – and the next, Luke's head is tipped against Kieran's, and they're out.

It's the kind of exhaustion that flattens thought. The kind that comes after adrenaline burns out everything else.

They don't feel it when the car slows, when Sylus gets out and carries you inside. But he must've, because then – they're both jolting awake as the car door opens – the car that Sylus had 'borrowed' for the escape ride home – 

And you're nowhere to be seen.

Cooler air rushes in. 

Sylus stands there, framed by the open door, his expression unreadable in the low light. He doesn't speak.

He just looks at them, once – long enough that something prickles uncomfortably along their spines – and then turns away, already walking towards the house.

The twins exchange a rapid-fire series of thoughts.

We're screwed –

– So, so fucked –

– There will be nothing left –

– Finally finishing the job –

They unfold themselves from the car, joints protesting and bodies aching. Distantly, beneath the mortal dread, they realize they might be sunburned.

Inside, the house is quiet. Somewhere deeper in, there's the faint murmur of voices, careful and professional. Medical staff. They wander in further. 

Sylus is just outside the bedroom door.

Luke coughs as they approach, air flowing raggedly in his throat. He asks, "How is she?"

Sylus doesn't look up. His head is bowed just enough that his hair shadows his eyes. His voice, when he replies, is even. Too even.

"She's stable," he says. "Sedated. Being monitored."

Kieran nods once. "Is she –" he starts, then stops. "Was she… aware?"

Sylus's jaw tightens. "Briefly." 

The silence stretches. It's thick. Charged; the kind of silence that belongs in a room where nobody survives. 

Their bodies are in defensive positions before they can stop themselves. 

Sylus’s voice is a rumble when he finally chooses to speak again.

“You disobeyed me.”

Nothing about it is sharp, or loud. It’s a simple statement of fact. 

They both tense up further.

He isn’t finished. “Not once,” he goes, lowly, head tilting, “but twice.”

There’s no reasoning, no justification, that comes to them in this moment. It’s irrefutable. 

And they’d do it again. 

Unrepentant. 

Sylus studies them, finally, and the sensation is like pulses of electricity coursing over their bodies. Not unpleasant, but their blood sings with it. As though they’re being sized up by a predator much, much larger than them. 

He approaches, slowly, arms lax at his sides.

They watch him, brows furrowed. 

Sylus’s hands suddenly thrust out – one curling around Luke’s nape, the other grasping Kieran’s shoulder. Tight. Not enough to be painful, but enough to hold them in place. Their minds can’t help but remember the last time they were held in this way – in the driveway of the safehouse. 

“You understand,” Sylus hisses, “that had you been wrong –”

Their breathing hitches. The words tumble out of Kieran’s mouth. 

Audacious. 

“But we weren’t.”

His grip on Kieran turns into his fist clutching his sweatshirt, and they both tilt their heads up – and just as Sylus growls, and they prepare for the worst –

He hauls them in.

For a moment, nothing.

Then –

“Thank you,” Sylus says, roughly.

His hand cups the back of Luke’s head; his arm scooped around Kieran’s back.

They’re – stunned.

“But –”

“ – we went against –”

Their hands are raised up, as if ready to push him off; as if they’re about to return the embrace. 

Sylus pulls back, scowling at them, his grip around them tightening. “I’m well aware. You’re never leaving this house again, and neither is your mother.” 

He looks like he’d wanted to knock their heads together. He looks like he still might. But for a time, Sylus just takes in the sight of them. Really looks at them. As though – 

They were precious. 

Sylus exhales through his nose. Then, more cautiously, more in control – deliberate – he pulls them back in. 

They can feel it when he swallows. 

“You,” he whispers, hoarse, “are not expendable.”

It hits them, then. 

They’ve always been able to kill Sylus. 

…They’ve been killing him the entire time. 

Without thinking about it, without communicating with one another, the arms on each side of Sylus’s torso rise again. Their bodies tilt in. They squeeze their eyes shut. 

Additional Tags: Blood and Violence, Medical Trauma, Slow Burn (emotionally), protective MC, Angst, Catharsis, Vulnerability, Parenthood, Found Family, Family Dynamics, Domestic Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, kidnapping recovery (again) (in my defense they're so kidnapable your honor), telepathic twin bond, "would it be so terrible?", "if it were me?"

You don't seem to be aware of what he said. Your brow furrows. "Where is your father?" you go, blinking. "He didn't send you to come get me, did he?"

The twins exchange a glance, deciding: all. All of them did this to you. 

That's fine. They can make that work.

It's why they didn't kill the scientists outright.

Immediately, they both know their roles: Luke would stay with you, looking for the way out, while Kieran –

Kieran would have some fun.

So to distract you, passing Kieran the gun behind his back, Luke opens his mouth – and what comes out, soft, reflexive, is, "No, mom. He… he didn't."

But that just confuses you more. "Luke," you mumble, hands transferring to his shoulders as he faces you, fully. "How – why are you –?"

Your grip isn't tight. It wavers, like your sense of balance does, fingers slipping against the fabric of his t-shirt. As if you're afraid he'll drift out of reach if you let go, for even just a second.

Luke doesn't answer right away. There are too many answers to those questions, and all of them feel wrong.

Instead, he looks you in the eye, and says, quietly, "We're here. Okay? We came to get you."

This seems to distress you further. 

"You shouldn't be here," you insist, breath catching, voice cracking. "This isn't –"

Behind him, somewhere down the corridor, there's a sharp cry that's cut off, abruptly. A sound that would make anyone flinch.

You don't react.

"It's okay," he says again, faster now, before you can spiral. "You don't have to worry about that. Kieran's just –" Luke stops, swallowing. "Kieran's handling it."

Your gaze drifts past him, unfocused; as if you're seeing something through the walls; as if they don't make sense to you. "They were asking so many questions," you murmur. "They kept saying I needed to remember… something." You close your eyes. "But what if remembering… makes me forget…" you trail off, and Luke goes to get your arm around his shoulder, holding you up.

There's a metallic crash nearby – loud, jarring. Luke knows what it is: the sound of a chair striking glass. Once. Twice.

You startle this time, mildly, body tensing. "What was that?"

"Nothing," Luke lies, smoothly. "Just – building noises."

As if on cue, the third impact comes. A sharper sound this time, followed by the unmistakable crackle of something giving way. The air shifts; there's a distant rush, like the building itself is exhaling.

Luke shifts you away, body blocking your view of the far wall where the window is slowly, violently, failing. He doesn't want you to see the spiderweb of fractures spreading outward; the laminate glass bowing and whitening.

He doesn't want you to think you're about to fall.

"Hey," he says, softly, drawing your attention back to him. "Can you look at me, for a sec?"

Your eyes refocus, sluggish but obedient. "You look tired," you tell him with sudden concern. You place the back of your palm on his forehead. "Are you eating?"

A hysterical laugh threatens to claw its way up his throat. He stomps it back down.

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I am."

You seem satisfied with that answer. Your hands pat his shoulder once. "Good. You – you have to take care of yourself. Both of you." Your expression tightens, fear flashing through the haze. "Where's your brother?"

Luke doesn't hesitate this time. "Close."

Another cry from the hallway.

You frown, but it doesn't quite connect. Instead your eyelids flutter, exhaustion finally catching up to you. Your weight leans forward, trustingly, and Luke shifts instantly to brace you, keeping you upright.

"I got you," he whispers.

Behind him, the glass finally tears, and air flows into the room.

Almost there. Luke closes his eyes for half a second, holding you.

His brother's voice breaks through the quiet.

"Yo, bird!" Kieran shouts into the hole in the glass. "Tell Bossman to come get us!"

For a second, nothing happens.

The wind pours in through the torn window, sharp and blessedly cold, tugging at loose fabric and sending papers skittering across the floor. Below, the city roars on, lights glittering in the dark.

They both hold their breath.

They hadn't expected this to work. This high up, with the building's interference – Mephisto would be unlikely to pick up any noise they made.

Kieran snorts, stepping back from the opening, his boots crunching on the broken glass. "Figures."

What now? Luke asks, eyes darting over to the makeshift barricade that the scientists made, the one they remade to keep the assault teams from coming up. With everything they unleashed below, going back down is a futile option. And yet –

A black shape arcs up from below the building's edge, banking hard, metallic feathers catching the light as it climbs impossibly fast.

Mephisto crests the window line in a rush of wind and noise, cawing once, triumphant.

The relief has them both laughing.

Mephisto hovers just outside the opening, riding the updrafts, eyes bright and unblinking. He caws again, sharp, insistent, then tilts once – twice – three times – like he's counting heads.

"Yeah, yeah, we're all here," Luke says as something in his chest loosens painfully. "Can you get us out of here?"

Mephisto's wings beat harder, feathers rapping against the fractured frame. He circles, then swoops inside, perching on a nearby desk, head cocking, watching.

From the stairwell, the first impact hits the barricade. A heavy thud. Shouts, boots pounding up the concrete steps.Kieran moves fast, crossing back to Luke's side. Okay. So. Some fun facts, while we wait.

Luke doesn't look away from you. You're still braced against his side.

Now?

Yeah, now, Kieran goes, grim. These guys are standard EVER.

Luke finally glances up.

They're some splinter group, Kieran replies to the unspoken question. They broke off a while back. Ideological bullshit. His mouth twists. They think she's a holy weapon.

Luke stills. Rage, powerful rage, grows steadily within his heart.

They weren't trying to extract data, Kieran continues. They said they were trying to… reveal her. Said, EVER was wasting time, treating her like an asset instead of a – a miracle.

They're both quiet, listening to the sounds of their own breathing and yours, as well as the rising noises coming from down the corridor.

The information settles. That's what the gas was. A means to disorient them, and a means to affect you, in some peculiar way. Only, they couldn't have predicted what you left behind.

For them.

Maybe this group was right, but not in the way they think. Maybe you are some kind of divinity, and that’s why you could leave traces of your memories behind for them to follow. But you're also – you. Human. Fallible. Holy, only in the sense of what you mean to them.

Luke's jaw tightens. How long?

Kieran exhales through his nose. Longer than us. For over two years. They hired the ones who got us six months ago.

Something dark hums through the bond. The bangs are louder now.

He's going to be so pissed.

Violently, Kieran agrees. His gaze flickers back towards the window. Mephisto has taken flight again, circling wider. "How do you think he'll show?" he murmurs.

Luke risks a glance outside. "Helicopter?"

"I bet a plane. He'll land on the roof and repel us down."

Another crash from the stairwell. The barricade groans.

"You're on," Luke goes.

Mephisto lets out a piercing caw and suddenly veers away from the building, shooting downward like a black arrow loosed from the sky.

Both twins feel it at the same time.

It's subtle at first – pressure, like the room is being pulled inward, toward the giant hole leading out to clear, darkened skies. The lights flicker; the wind stutters.

Red-black energy coils along the exterior wall, carving a path straight up the side of the tower. The air shrieks as something tears through it – and Sylus steps out of nothing, shoes on the fractured floor as if he'd simply walked through a door.

His eyes sweep the room once. When they land on you, his breath hitches. 

Then he exhales, sharp, controlled.

"I had a helicopter," he says, flatly. "It was too slow."

He doesn't wait for a response.

He crosses the room in three strides, the air still warping around him as the last of the teleportation energy bleeds off. His hands are already reaching for you, careful where Luke had been bracing you, mindful of the bandages, the IV bruising, the way you are sagging against him.

You make a soft sound when he lifts you – surprise more than pain – and your fingers clutch weakly at the front of his jacket.

Your voice is so soft, they barely catch it. 

"My dragon," you're whispering, reaching, smiling. "You're here. You’re here."

Sylus is already looking at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. 

His voice, when he speaks, is low and steady. Just for you. "I'm here." 

He bows to let your hand pat his head – as if you're searching for what's real.

Your shoulders loosen, tension draining like someone pulled a plug. Your head tips against his chest, breath evening out.

Behind him, the barricade splinters.

Wood gives way with a sharp, ugly crack. Metal screams. The voices are closer, now – too close.

Sylus turns his head, slightly. "Stay," he tells the twins. "Mom first. Then I'll come back."

Luke opens his mouth –

– And the world bends.

Sylus is gone, taking you with him in a rush of displaced air and heat, the space where he stood snapping back into place with a hollow thrum. The wind howls through the broken window.

For half a second, there's nothing but that.

Luke blinks.

Kieran exhales.

They don't have long.

The barricade finally gives way in a shower of debris, collapsing inward as a squad pours through the stairwell entrance – dark uniforms, raised weapons, faces tight.

And then –

Ding.

The elevator chimes cheerfully behind them. They both turn as the door slides open.

More of them. Much, much more of them.

They don't think. The twins move as one.

Their shoes pound over the broken glass, over cables and scattered equipment – straight for the gaping hole in the wall where the city yawns below them, vast and bright in the night and impossibly far away, but not for long –

Someone shouts. Weapons fire.

Additional Tags: Blood and Violence, Medical Trauma, Slow Burn (emotionally), protective MC, Angst, Catharsis, Vulnerability, Parenthood, Found Family, Family Dynamics, Domestic Fluff, Angst with a Happy Ending, kidnapping recovery (again) (in my defense they're so kidnapable your honor), telepathic twin bond, "would it be so terrible?", "if it were me?"

The office building ruse cracks under militant pressure. Security is already in motion; there's the sound of boots and clipped voices; hands hovering over weapons. Yet, in all the noise, no one notices the presence of a few more.

They probably have only seconds before the cameras identify them as a problem.

Luke laughs out loud, quietly. It slips out before he can stop it.

Look how ready they are, he says, delighted.

Kieran feels it ripple through the bond – the sudden loosening, the relief of motion after being frozen for so long. 

The phone call with Sylus changed them.

They’re – freer than they were before. No less tense, but – 

They are themselves again. 

Kieran walks straight into the chaos, dodging converging patrols and ignoring barked orders. He approaches the most official-looking one, and taps them on the shoulder.

“Excuse me,” he says, quiet but firm, and somehow also pleasant, “I think you were looking for me? And doing a bad job of it?”

Recognition flashes in their eyes, but it’s already too late. Just as they go to draw their weapon, they come up empty – and the room fractures into pieces – as Wanderers suddenly pour out of a rift, and a series of explosions shake the ground floor.

Alarms sound.

He ducks swiftly to avoid their grapple, sliding behind a tasteful barrier and hiding out of sight in the ensuing chaos.

Luke reappears, grinning, and Kieran tosses the handgun to Luke, who passes him the grenade pins; souvenirs of their glorious work. Next, they’re vaulting over the biometrics scanners without breaking stride, their boots skidding on the marble. Different alarms go off, and they split apart, sprinting down opposite hallways for the stairwells. When Kieran finds the elevators, he presses all the buttons in one sweeping motion of his hands, laughing. 

EVER would expect intruders to push inward; to beeline for the thing most valuable.

They don’t. 

They ricochet.

The bond between them hums, electric and giddy. For the first time since you were taken, the static clears enough for something like flow – joyful, and loud – to spark through it. It’s their first real mission since one of them got injured. 

And – the first time they’ve had something worth fighting for. 

In this burst of adrenaline, he’s taking the steps three at a time when Luke finds the first trace since the ground floor, located at the top of the stairwell. 

The light isn’t bright. Just there – threaded through the walls like veins beneath skin. Subtle enough that he almost misses it. 

He stills for half a second. And then –

– The race to the top of the stairs in the safehouse has one of them tipping back dangerously, arms pinwheeling, while you yell from below, "What did I say?" His twin grabs him by the shirt and hauls him back before he can fall, only for them to tumble on top of each other. The one who almost fell pushes his brother's face down into the hardwood so he can sprint through the nearest door, laughing, proclaiming, "Mine!" to his brother's chagrin and your chuckling –

From the lobby below, shouting. A team rises the stairs, spilling up towards Luke in an echoing barrage of bullets, hitting concrete instead of bone as he ducks out of the way.

Luke grins. 

While the Wanderer meets the team head on at the top, Luke is already running, following the twisted hallways for the other side of the building.

He tries the handles of what seems to be a million locked doors in between him and his brother – up until one jiggles back, with the hint of laughter just beyond. They both kick and kick, and then – when the door bursts open, they're back to running together, again, headed towards the western stairwell, where Kieran came from.

The multitude of threads on this floor alone make them sick, especially when, on their way up and out, Kieran catches the edge of a memory where you're paraded around the building. Like a prize. Like a trophy. You spit at the armed guards; roll your eyes at the researcher who forces you back under the influence of the same drug they had used before, promising to "Reunite you with your memories."

Whatever the fuck that means.

The twins ascend floor after floor after floor. Sometimes, they take the stairs up; one time, they commandeer an elevator, and when that powers down, they climb the worker ladders. They're both covered in sweat, their wounds from their fighting stinging and burning.

Then – things start to become more difficult.

The earlier levels had the hollow quiet of an office after hours – the upper floors, however, are occupied. On lockdown. Footsteps echo, not their own, when no one is visible. Doors close somewhere above them. A terse voice murmurs through a wall, distorted enough that it could be bleeding through a memory thread, or it could be real, or neither. The rooms shift from cubicle to laboratory-oriented, the equipment droning and buzzing.

There are endless clusters – they're unable to even walk through without touching a few. And they've created enough chaos below that they should be covered for a couple minutes.

But they needed more intel without summoning more Wanderers, now, so – they split up again, and the memories begin to mix together.

You're washing dishes in the safehouse kitchen, from this morning – sleeves rolled, hip braced against the counter – you and Luke are fixing the circuit breaker after the power goes out the night before – he's holding the flashlight, muttering under his breath – Kieran puts a blanket over you while you pretend to sleep on the loveseat –

It's all starting to pile up. Not just physically, but – the feelings, too.

They've been doing this for so long, and you're so close.

Memories upon memories are pouring out of their psyches from the overflow, mixing and melding together into a reconstruction of a life well-lived. 

Only it wasn't well-lived, not completely, because you have so much more to do: plans and dreams and ideas that the twins had never thought to ask about; never felt the need to know, until now.

And god, they want you to live. More than anything, they just want you to live.

So even as they become over-encumbered with memories, they still reach for more. 

Because maybe what you wanted is hidden in the plethora of visions they've endured. Maybe when they find you, they can make what you want into a reality. If they can just pull on the next, and the next, and the next, maybe, just maybe, what unravels before them will be a way to finally be able to pay you back.

Because violent, disruptive things don't get to have memories like this.

It's above their paygrade; beyond their scope.

It's another reason why they chose you, why they chose Sylus.

They weren't going to have this, with you, or with him, forever. It's selfish, and cruel, but why not hold on tight until the end? Until you, inevitably, push them away?

And yet – 

Something rises within them.

Not memories. Not despair, or overload, or rage. Something that grows and grows, unbidden and true, like the tree of light that exists within and bursting out of the building they now find themselves in.

It starts with a memory that neither twin touches. It just sparks to life in their minds, like the strike of inspiration.

You're babbling on, and the twins are just – silent. Speechless. All four of you, standing in the living room of the base, surrounded by wrapped and unwrapped parcels and bags.

"– And I know it's a lot, so you don't have to keep anything you don't like, especially the ones for –" your face flushes, and you press a hand to your forehead, words halting. Sylus wraps his arms around your waist. "Anyway, you can just –"

Luke goes over and picks out something. It's a blanket, soft, and tiny; barely the size of a hand towel.

"…That's for one," you say, quietly.

Kieran bends and pulls apart the wrapping on another. It's some kind of model plane.

"For twelve," you say.

They point out each and every one of them.

"I think – for eight? No, it says nine plus on the packaging…" you say. "That's –" you laugh, "yeah, that's Luke's, for sixteen. No, that one is Kieran's."

They stop tearing through them like ravenous, wild dogs at some point so they can look up at you with wide eyes.

You are still embarrassed, but – much more at ease as they went through the presents. "I just – missed a lot of birthdays, so…" 

And fuck, they wish they could change how they responded, then. Wish they could've – reacted, like real people do.

Because instead, Luke clears his throat. "It's – good," he says, hoarsely, and Kieran pipes up, "Y-yeah," like that could even come close to how it all feels.

But you – you smile like what they said was enough, and they know the truth.

You won't push them away.

You haven't been pushing them away, and you aren't going to start. No matter what they do, or how they act.

Have you chosen them, too? Like how they chose you?

They called you ‘mom’ all the time now. 

Did it mean the same thing to you as it did to them?

And it's these questions that send them careening into the last traces – into the next memory, and the next, and then –

Sound comes first. Soft, irregular breathing that hiccups and hitches.

Sight comes second.

And… you’re…

Small.

They'd never seen a memory like this one. A memory where you weren't the fully-formed being who stands between them and bullets, or who laughs at their jokes, or who curses and cries when they're hurt.

You're sitting on the edge of a bed that's too big for you, feet dangling; toes barely brushing its metal frame. The hospital gown swallows your shoulders. Your hair is short and uneven.

You're alone.

Your hands are folded in your lap; your knuckles white. There are marks all over your arms and wrists – blooming patches of yellow and purple beneath thin skin. A tube is connected into your vein, disappearing into a series of bags hanging from an IV pole.

And – they're not thrown into the memory the way they usually are. There's no role for them to inhabit, no sensation that overwrites where their body is, how it acts.

It wouldn't matter, anyway. They're frozen in place.

He doesn't remember which one he is, anymore; doesn't know if there's a difference between him and the other him.

All they're aware of are the tears falling silently down your cheeks as you stare at the floor.

Are you… like them? Did your early life begin in the same way theirs did? Why didn’t you say anything before? 

Before they can come to any conclusions, you look up.

At them.

At them.

"Oh," you mumble, wiping your eyes. "You're here."

Their muscles all tense at once. Distantly, they can still hear the alarms blaring in the background; still feel the desperate need to go and break out of this memory. But nothing had prepared them for seeing you like this.

All they can do is look at you.

You pat the bed.

Their feet move forward, slow, and they sit down.

How is this happening? They weren't here – they didn't know you when you were young. Couldn't have known you. How could this be possible?

How could you remember a time with them when you were a child?

It's with a jolt that they realize it.

They thought it was just them.

They still didn’t know what it is about you that makes them so soft. Neither of them have cried since they were very little, and even then, they barely remember it. It’s all a fuzzy haze of white coats, and hospital gowns, and feeling too many things at once. 

But with you – the moment they see you, it’s almost as if their memories have been altered. Where all the hard parts of their life hurt, you were there. As though those short hours on the couch had stretched out wide to encompass the whole of their existence.

It’s something foolish, impossible, but also – the truth. And what’s more, it’s almost as if you know this. They look into your eyes, and they see a reflection of something that was sad, and now – is not. 

It’s the real reason why they chose you, all those months ago. That look. As though you knew how hurt they’d been – knew it, and still, never saw them as the sum of their pain. They were just… them. 

You let them be them.

But those were just memories, squashed together into one just piece of their fragmented minds. Kept secret from you, from even themselves.

And – they never thought that you'd find strength from them in the same way they found strength in you.

You reach up, fingers touching below their eye.

"Are you scared?" you whisper.

They shake their head, sniffling; wiping their nose on their arm.

"No," they say.