bro i am. i am just trying to write

It had been a year since Eros finally asked Archie out.

Well, “asked him out” is a bit of an understatement. It was more of a spur of the moment kiss after Eros found out that Archie was alive, but the date came soon after.

There wasn’t too big of a change in their relationship, to be honest. They had always been close, closer to each other than anyone else. Being together romantically was just their friendship with kisses sprinkled in. Also the fact that they had moved in together, and regularly went on ~romantic~ dates (heavily different from their friend dates (not really)).

Long story short, they had gotten comfortable together. While Storybrooke was not exactly… safe, they finally truly had each other, and so they were comfortable. Comfortable enough that Eros bought Archie a ring.

Admittedly, Eros never considered marriage. He’d only ever loved one person, and said person chose to become a cricket before he ever worked up the courage to confess his feelings. And, understandably, he did not intend to marry a cricket.

But now Archie- Jiminy- was human again. They were finally returned to each other, and he wasn’t going to give the universe any chance to pull Archie away from him again.

So he bought a ring, and planned to propose somewhere they both liked. Given they both have dogs (who, interestingly enough, were mates as well), they spent a lot of time in the local park. Archie was weary about the woods, so Eros was fine with the park.

It was where they had their first date, and all the people in town were always so busy so there was rarely anyone else there. Which was a good thing- because they were both way too anxious about their private lives to do something like this so publicly. 

It took a while for the perfect day to approach, but finally, it did.

“Arch! Perdita’s getting antsy, I think it’s time for a walk. You wanna leash up Pongo and head down to the park with me?” Eros called up the stairs of their house, clipping the leash onto his dog’s collar before standing back up, watching those same stairs.

He heard Archie move around upstairs, before he appeared on the top landing. “Yes! Just give me a moment to grab my jacket- do not forget yours. It’s on the coat rack next to your scarf, which you should also wear.”

Eros let out a soft chuckle at his lover’s concern, but he knew said concern was necessary. So, he hunted down that jacket and scarf, greeted by Archie leashing up Pongo when he came back to the door.

“Ready to go?” he asked after leaning down to grab Perdita’s leash again. Archie looked over at him, giving him that bright smile of his, before nodding a ‘yes’.

Eros opened the door for them, keeping it propped open with his foot for his lover and his lover’s dog, before following them out with Perdita by his side. She sat patiently next to him while he locked the door, and was rewarded with a pat to the head.

After that, they were on the move.

Honestly, although it was unlikely Eros would ever admit it, he was glad for the extra cold precaution. He could feel the fresh winter air nipping at his arms through his jacket, however it probably was worse for Archie. He hadn’t built up the same tolerance to the elements that Eros had.

So, with that in mind, he decided they should probably speed this up. He nudged Archie gently, before walking a little faster. Luckily, Archie got the message, and sped up as well.

It wasn’t too long until they reached the park, but Eros noticed the cold getting to Archie in the form of reddened cheeks and a little red tint on his nose. “Awww, I told you you should have camped in the winter more often with me,” he teased, pulling Archie down to press a kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Eros, I couldn’t camp with you, we were always on the move,” Archie replied, putting a hand on his boyfriend’s back to get him to start walking again. “Though it would be nice to have your nigh-inhuman tolerance to the elements.”

“That’s just the benefit of being a hunter, my dear,” Eros teased, grinning up at his lover. “You can’t be very effective in winter if you’re shaking the whole time.”

That drew a laugh from Archie, and the sound brought a soft smile to Eros’s lips. When they were alone like this, in a place they both loved, there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted to marry the man next to him. They waited so long to be together, and he didn’t want to wait any longer.

Though, he was not the one to bring them to a stop. Eros could tell Archie had something he wanted to say- he was doing that thing where he mentally hyped himself up and accidentally made it super obvious on his face.

“Arch?” he asked gently, his confusion probably extremely clear when Archie moved in front of him.

His boyfriend took one last deep breath, before pulling something small out of his pocket. Eros couldn’t see it yet, but he didn’t have to speculate long.

“Eros- Hellion- you’ve always been my closest friend. I’ve loved you for as long as I can remember, even if I didn’t realize it until, well, the curse was closing in on us. But the curse is gone, and I still didn’t make a move. I was scared you didn’t feel the same,” Archie paused to take a breath, the cold making it come out shaky. There was a moment where he hyped himself up again, before continuing.

“I don’t want to give us the chance to lose each other again, or to be stuck in some weird limbo that we won’t climb out of because we’re afraid of the consequences. I’m not letting you go, not again.”

“So…” he paused again, and finally revealed the object in his hands. A ring. A beautiful ring, that he probably meticulously picked out to make sure the gem was Eros’s favourite colour- green. “Will you, Hellion, be my husband?”

Eros didn’t know what to do. He brought him here because he planned to propose, and then Archie pulls out this beautiful ring with an equally beautiful speech… he should have expected this.

Archie opened his mouth, likely to prompt an answer or ask if something was wrong, but Eros cut him off with a tear filled laugh. “No no no no, I was supposed to do that,” he told him, laughing again as he pulled out the ring he’d bought. “Jiminy we- we really need to get better at communicating plans.”

There was quiet for a moment, before Archie laughed as well, running a hand through his hair before pulling Eros in for a tight hug. “You- you were going to propose too?” he asked, sounding deeply surprised, as if Eros wasn’t the one to make every first move in their relationship.

“Of course! Jiminy, you’re the only person I’ve ever loved as deeply as this. You mean everything for me, of course I wasn’t going to let you go! I had to make sure you wouldn’t turn into a cricket on me,” he replied, resting his forehead on Archie’s chest with a laugh.

So here they were. Standing in the middle of the park they spent so much time in, crying in each other’s arms because it was so on brand for them to try to propose at the same time.

After a moment, Eros looked back up, gently holding one side of Archie’s face with his free hand, which his lover leaned into. “Well, Jiminy, my answer is yes. A thousand yeses for all the times we didn’t make a move. It will forever be yes.”

Archie let out a soft chuckle and leaned forward to press a kiss to Eros’s forehead. “It’s a yes from me too, Hellion. I’m not letting you go ever again. No.. curse or royal family drama will ever pull us apart ever again. I promise.”

Of course, they had to make use of those rings, so they took a moment to slip on the rings made for them- Eros with the gorgeous green gem, and Archie with a band that Eros had gotten a cricket carved into.

And then Eros pulled his new fiance into a kiss; one that expressed all the feelings he’d ever had for the man into it. All the sadness he felt when they had to part ways, and the relief and joy he felt when they found each other again when the curse had broken.

Unfortunately, the moment was cut short when they realized that something was a bit off. And when they pulled back, they found their dogs’ leashes wrapped around their legs, and the culprits sitting there all innocent and shit.

“Seriously, you two?” Eros asked them, giving an incredulous laugh when Perdita looked sheepish and Pongo almost looked smug.

“I think they’re saying that it’s about time,” Archie offered, grinning at his lover before pressing a short kiss to his cheek. “I know that’s what I’m thinking.”

Eros rolled his eyes in response, but stole another quick kiss. “Alright, alright. But here’s what I’ll ask you, my beloved conscience: how are we supposed to get out of it?”

“Now, that’s an answer I don’t have,” Archie replied, and there was quiet for a second before both of them laughed.

Jack could never give himself a straight answer for why he became a detective. Anything but his brother’s death, anything but wanting to take down the petty thief that let him burn.

He told Zenigata it was because he wanted something simple that would keep him out of thieving for good. He told his partner at work that it was because his father worked for the ICPO, and he looked up to him. Even told the old lady that he visited for tea and gossip sometimes that it was because he wanted to make the world a better place.

But deep down, he knew. He knew that every criminal he brought down was brought down with Dean in mind. After every success, he visited his grave, replaced the flowers. Everything he did since the day he was old enough to do anything was for his brother.

And his newest target dedicated to the deceased was none other than the samurai assassin, Goemon Ishikawa.

His dad, Inspector Zenigata, was currently assigned to the case but since the assassin had now entered Jack’s jurisdiction, meaning he could now work it as well until it was solved, even if he went somewhere else. That was simply the benefit of having the lead investigator vouch for you.

Currently, he was off duty and at home in his apartment, going over the file Zenigata had gotten together and given to him. It was basically all the information he’d ever gathered on the samurai, with the exception of a few things that were ICPO exclusive.

He was really just trying to get a feel for the guy and his patterns, as well as look into his partner, Fujiko Mine. Every time he saw a picture of the two, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he recognized it, but brushed it off as knowing them in a past life, or crossing paths with them when he was still a thief.

Though, it probably wasn’t fair to say Jack was no longer a criminal. Zenigata never learned of the deep rooted pyromania his son kindled, so Jack was never sent to therapy for it. Because of that, he still liked to watch the fire roar, and went out of his way to make it happen.

He wasn’t sure if anyone had died in his fires. That wasn’t his problem, and he never paid attention to the news coverage on it. He didn’t want attention. He wanted the relief the flames brought. They settled that burning ache that was forever present in his chest, which he relied on to stay a good detective.

The fire wasn’t going to be needed for a while, since he’d gotten a hit about a week ago, and he’d grown enough to be able to hold off for several months now. His full focus just needed to be on this case, so he made sure it was.

However, if fire was needed to take out the samurai assassin, he wouldn’t complain about it.

One day, maybe, he would feel safe enough to go to therapy. Probably not, but a man could hope. Either way, the words on the page were starting to blur, so he figured it was a good time to stop.

He pulled his hair from its low ponytail, allowing it to be free across his back and shoulders. A quick inspection of the small scar on his jaw was made, and when he was satisfied he stripped to his boxers and collapsed on top of his bed. Despite how cold he was, he no longer slept with a shirt or under a blanket, because almost everything seemed to irritate his burn scars at night.

There was no explanation for that that he’d found just yet, but it’d be foolish of him to stop trying to figure it out. After all, he was always cold as fuck, and he missed being able to wear shirts at night.

But for now, it was sleepy time, and boy was he tired from trying to exist as a normal person in a world of so very fucked up things.

—

Waking up hadn’t been easy when Jack remembered his new job he needed to get up and go to. Truth be told, he hated being a detective, and he missed archeology. But thievery and digging wouldn’t honour his brother, and he would have died for Dean.

Getting dressed was more of an autopilot thing now, followed up by coffee and grabbing his helmet. He hardly remembered the ride to work, focused just enough to stop his motorcycle from running off the road. He couldn’t die, not yet.

He always got to the precinct before anyone that worked with him, sometimes before even the earliest risers. It made him feel secure, knowing that there was no chance of showing up late.

Today, however, he was surprised by his father sitting at his desk, looking through some of his old cases.

“You’re doing even better on your own,” Zenigata commented, smiling at him as he set the file down. “I taught you everything I knew, and somehow you still found more to learn. I bet no one ever expected a former thief to have such a near-perfect track record!”

Zenigata had always been too excited for his own good. Too proud. Jack simply huffed out a soft laugh, shooing the inspector out of his chair and offering up the one his partner usually used.

“I heard Perez is taking a different case while I’m on the samurai assassin,” Jack spoke up, glancing at his dad through the bits of hair his hair tie never contained. “Did you have anything to do with that?”

Zenigata’s immediate embarrassment was all the answer he needed. He’d be working directly with his father on this case, acting as his temporary partner for as long as Jack was on the case.

Of course, that was more than okay. Perez wouldn’t be able to handle something like this, they could barely even handle the homicides the two already dealt with. 

That was another reason Jack was put on the samurai assassin case- he was a homicide detective, and since the target was a murderer, it immediately entered his jurisdiction. And even if his father hadn’t asked for him directly, he was the one with the best track record, so he would have been put on it regardless.

“How long does he usually stay in one spot? Clearly long enough to garner attention, but does he have a set time?” Jack asked after he finished setting up his desk, having the file laid out on it.

Zenigata hummed softly, clearly thinking it over. “He typically takes three or four jobs in each country he ends up in, usually people connected to each other. He works for organizations a lot, and they have quite a few people they want taken out.”

So he was going to be here a while longer, since he’d only killed once since arriving in the country. He’d already ID’d the first victim a day or so before Zenigata came to the precinct, it was a pretty rich and upstanding guy- definitely the type Jack would have stolen an artifact from.

He didn’t wanna say he deserved to be dead, but he most certainly did.

However, the point was that he had connections. A group of people he worked with on a regular basis, ones that were just as rich and weird as him. The problem was that it was a large group of people, and it seemed the samurai assassin was never hired for groups bigger than four. 

That either meant he would have help, or they needed to narrow down who he was hired to kill.

“I’ve already narrowed down the list of people the victim was closest to, but it’s still over four. I think we should put a guard on all of them, just in case, and personally gather the ones that seem the most likely to be targetted. I’d also like to talk to his other friends, to ensure my list is correct.”

Zenigata stared at him for a long moment, but as soon as he seemed like he was going to drown him in praise, Jack cut him off. “Inspector, I’d like to talk to Miss Tanaka first. She seems the most likely to be attacked next.”

The inspector once again looked like a deer caught in headlights, but then firmly nodded and stood up a bit too fast, knocking the chair over. While he fumbled over his apologies, Jack simply moved past him, hooking his foot on the chair and just kicking it back into place.

“You know, I’ve never been to Japan,” Rabbit admitted as he looked around the apartment they were renting for the duration of the heist, surprised by the fact that Jigen and Lupin let Goemon pick it. “Every time I need something to end up here, I just send it with Gallow.”

Lupin looked at him funny, clearly curious why he just sent it with Gallow. Normally, he never trusted just his brother alone with important things like that. “Why? I thought you liked the idea of going to Japan?”

Rabbit stared at him for a second, before pulling the bottle of xanax out of his pocket and shaking it lightly. “Lupin, you had to drug me to get me on that plane without the heat of battle pushing me. I hate planes. And you can’t get to Japan fast enough on boat.”

“Right, you always take a boat to get wherever you want,” Jigen spoke up, dropping his bag on the floor. “You’ve never traveled just for fun? Zenigata never brought you here?”

Rabbit simply shook his head, dropping his own bag as well before pulling off his jacket. “Zenigata moved to America for me and my brother. He didn’t wanna force us to travel with him, especially when he realized I was never gonna set foot on a plane.”

His explanation just got a “huh” from the two other men, but they didn’t get the chance to ask more because once Goemon entered the room he grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to the bedroom they’d be sharing with Jigen.

“Well- bye I guess,” Rabbit waved awkwardly at the other two before the door was shut and Goemon was taking his usual place on the middle of the floor. “Alright, are you going to explain why you pulled me away?” he asked, tilting his head to the side slightly.

Goemon simply hummed, moving to pat the floor next to him. Rabbit sighed, and sat down on the floor, stretching his legs out in front of him. There was silence for a moment, before the samurai finally spoke up.

“There is an ongoing festival around this time of the year, a snow festival. I was… hoping that I could ask you to join me in it. I know you don’t see snow often,” Goemon told him, a light blush dusting his cheeks. He was so, so easily embarrassed.

Rabbit was quiet for a moment, before letting out a soft chuckle. “Goemon… I hate snow,” he told him, which made the samurai’s blush deepen. He was clearly about to apologize, but Rabbit cut him off. “It’s okay though. I can tolerate anything if it means extra time with you. I’ll join you in the festival.”

That garnered an ever so small smile from his boyfriend, before Jigen crashed the party by joining them in the room and falling face first onto the bed with a groan. That was practically a signal to join him and accept their fate in sleep.

—

“I feel more frozen than the ice sculptures,” Rabbit commented, staring at the sight of his breath in the cold air, clinging to Goemon’s arm for dear life, as if the samurai would suddenly be warmer than usual.

Goemon just hummed, having already gotten used to his lover’s complaints about being cold. But, since he hadn’t run back inside, he knew the complaints weren’t serious.

He simply took Rabbit’s hand in his own, pulling him further into the festival. “I’ll get you something warm to drink,” he promised, glancing around for somewhere selling tea or hot chocolate (he never liked the stuff himself, but he knew Rabbit adored it).

It wasn’t long before he found one of them, the hot chocolate. He bought a cup in the biggest size they had, and gave a small smile at the grin that lit up his lover’s face when it was in his hands. “Oh, I do so adore you, Goemon,” Rabbit said, pressing a kiss to his cheek before taking a cautious sip.

They continued through the festival after that, looking through the different stands (Rabbit was legally obligated to buy the keychain of the previous year’s winning sculpture- it was beautiful!), before they finally got to the sculptures.

“I’m surprised you didn’t wanna join the competition,” Rabbit commented, while they were looking at one of the only finished ones. “With you and zantetsuken, you could have won without problem.”

Goemon hummed in response, as if he was thinking over his reply. “I did not feel it was necessary for me to join. I’m not in need of money, and I have never participated in something like this.”

Rabbit stared at him for a long moment. “Goemon, do you ever do anything for fun? Just… by yourself? I know you do a lot with me and Jigen, but do you ever do anything fun by yourself?”

The samurai had to think that one over for a long few minutes, before letting out a sigh and shaking his head.

“Huh,” Rabbit muttered, before shaking it off and taking a longer sip of his hot chocolate. “Next year, we’ll join the competition. Just me and you, and we’ll have fun. How’s that sound?”

Goemon glanced down at him, before smiling. “That sounds wonderful, Jack. I would love to join it with you.”

They spent the rest of the day exploring the festival and even once getting dragged into a snowball fight with a bunch of kids. It was wonderful and fun and so worth the way Rabbit felt frozen solid by the end of it.

Rabbit would never be sure how he managed to get Goemon to wear the necklace and rings he now does. The samurai seemed like he’d never bend on something like this, but all he had to do was show him the jewelry and he didn’t even argue.

The necklace matched the one Rabbit wore since he was thirteen, and looked gorgeous on him. He was pretty sure that part of why he agreed to it so fast was the significance the necklace held for him. 

However, the rings? That was actually Goemon’s suggestion. Neither of them were interested in marriage, nor was Jigen, so nothing like that seemed like it would be in the cards.

But Goemon had apparently just “found” these rings that he thought were perfect for them, and how was Rabbit supposed to say no? They were simple and silver, with small leaves on a vine engraved on them.

As far as Rabbit was aware, they only ever took the rings off when there would be water on their hands, otherwise always wearing them. It was like their own version of getting married. Something simpler. Something better.

Goemon always kissed the ring on his finger after they laid down together, right before going to sleep. Rabbit had picked up a habit of toying with his lover’s necklace whenever he was close enough.

They were so simple, and yet they brought the two so much closer together. Maybe it was the idea that Goemon would wear jewelry for him, maybe it was just the fact that it matched.

Rabbit was slow and quiet when he got dressed that morning, listening intently to the voices in his living room. He figured Gallow was doing the same in the guest room. It wasn’t hard to break into Rabbit’s apartment, but normally he’d be warned.

His best guess as to why he didn’t get a call from the woman working at the counter was because these strangers hadn’t come in through the front door.

Once he was dressed in something that wasn’t that dress, he carefully opened his door, knife in hand, and made his way to the living room, only to be greeted by a band of thieves he hoped he’d never see again.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he asked loudly, his voice making Lupin flinch and all three men look at him. “So it’s not enough to ruin the job I’ve been planning for months, you have to taint my personal space too?”

“Now that’s just rude,” was Lupin’s almost immediate response, even crossing his arms like an offended child would. “We just wanted to pay you a visit, is that so bad?”

“Generally, yeah,” Gallow spoke up next, coming up behind his older brother. “You broke into a thief’s apartment. That’s pretty shitty.” He was smart for taking Rabbit’s side.

Lupin let out a dramatic whine, going so far as to lay back on the couch he was seated on. His friends, Goemon and Jigen, didn’t say anything, but Jigen did have the audacity to try to light a cigarette.

“No smoking in my apartment. I have a sign and everything,” Rabbit told him as he snatched the awful thing away, tossing it in the trash can. Before Jigen could complain, he cut him off with, “If my own flesh and blood can’t smoke in here, neither can my newest trio of enemies.”

“Enemies!?” Lupin forced himself back into relevancy, faux heartbreak on his face and a hand on his chest. “Why, Rabbit, we simply want to be your friends!”

Rabbit stared at him like he was insane, leading Lupin to finally understand that he didn’t believe him.

“Oh, come now, last night was an accident! We didn’t even know you were there until Goemon found your stuff. It was supposed to go smoother but then you were there and your amor was there-” Lupin explained, not noticing Rabbit’s instantly tense form at the mention of his “amor”.

“We fully planned to be in and out,” Goemon spoke up, actually gaining Rabbit’s attention. He expected the samurai to sit there quietly, to be honest. “I was outside to be the getaway. I did not expect to find your bag there. I barely got the chance to warn Lupin.”

Rabbit let out a soft sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as he processed what the fuck was going on. Truly, this was awful. Three famous people were in his living room, trying to get the same thing as him but for money. 

He was already planning how he was supposed to recover from this. The location of the third scarab was unknown to the public, he had to stalk the person moving it in order to find it. That was good, it meant there was no way Lupin and his gang knew where it was.

… Unless they followed him when he went to grab it. Which would mean he needed to take them out of the running before he went for it, to ensure there was no chance of them fucking it up.

“You sure got quiet fast,” a new voice spoke up; Jigen’s voice, he quickly realized. “Thinking about how to get rid of us?”

“You’ll be lucky if I don’t kill you to ensure the safety of the rest of the scarabs,” Rabbit replied without hesitation, moving his hand to gently bite down on his thumb nail. There was silence after that, before Gallow awkwardly cleared his throat.

Before Rabbit could ask why, his brother had him by the sleeve and was dragging him away, into the guest room. “Dude, I know you hate them for last night, but consider for a moment: they could help us.”

“No they can’t,” Rabbit immediately fired back, his voice a low hiss. “They’re disorganized and can’t roll with the punches. Didn’t you see what happened just from me existing? I haven’t been hurt on a job in years, years.”

He needed to wrap his wrist, now that he was thinking about it. It was throbbing in pain, but he refused to show it on his face. He was older, he needed to be stronger. Besides, he was a quick healer.

Gallow let out a sigh, glancing at the door. “Rabbit, he’s the best thief in the world. If anyone can help us get the scarabs, it’s Lupin and his crew! They can be helpful, and it stops them from getting in the way.”

“But we’re a duo, Gallow, we’re not a team,” Rabbit replied, practically pleading with his brother to drop it. “We don’t need them, we can do it ourselves. We already have the first one-!”

“You can’t be afraid of people forever, Rabbit,” Gallow cut him off, nothing but sympathy on his face. “Not everyone is out to hurt you. They can help. I’m going to let them. You should too.”

And with that, he left, gently closing the door behind him. Rabbit stayed a little longer, staring at one of the paintings on the wall. He’d never accepted help before. And working with Lupin’s gang would bring the ICPO down on them.

On the other hand… Lupin gets everything he sets his sights on, except when Fujiko Mine is involved, and then it’s a 50/50 chance. There was no doubt Fujiko would get involved, but her tricks wouldn’t work on two gay men.

Maybe… this wouldn’t be so bad.

Finally, he let a huff of a sigh escape him, and followed Gallow to the living room, where the gang was still waiting.

“Any of you like tea? I hate being a bad host,” he said, making his way to the kitchen. He didn’t wait for an answer, pulling down five mugs and filling his kettle up, before setting it down on the stove and dropping the tea leaves in.

That was when he returned, taking a moment to observe the group. 

Daisuke Jigen, the world’s greatest gunman, known for his perfect aim and his ability to almost never miss. He always covered his eyes with his trademark hat, but it never affected his sight. He would work well with Gallow.

Then there was Goemon Ishikawa XVIII. He was a samurai, and a descendent of the Ishikawa clan- a long line of thieves, according to Rabbit’s research. He always had his sword that could cut through everything it strikes by his side. A fellow bladesmen, Rabbit could use him.

And then there was Lupin III. Grandson of the master thief Arsene Lupin I. He stole everything he set his eyes on and was a master of solving puzzles. Incredibly smart, and incredibly weak to women. Annoying. But useful.

“I know the location of the third scarab, and Olivier will no doubt bring the second one to the same location as the fourth. If you help me, I will pay you, but you will not be selling the scarabs. They’ll be returned to Egypt where someone trusted will put them on display in a safe place.”

“You’ll be paid out of pocket, to put it simply. I don’t steal for money, I work for it, so don’t worry about that. I am in charge of this heist, plain and simple. Anything you bring up will be a suggestion at best, and will not be set in stone unless I think it can work. Understand? You are nothing more than temporary work partners.”

There was quiet for about a second, before Lupin grinned and gave him a goofy looking salute. “Aye, aye captain!” Wow. What a fucking freak.

Goemon and Jigen simply gave him a short nod, but since the cooperation seemed out of character, he would be keeping a close eye on them. “Jigen, get used to Gallow. He’s a damn good shot himself, and you two will be working together a lot.”

Jigen grumbled, but tilted his hat a little. “And Goemon, we both use blades, so I’d like you to stick with me. We can help each other a lot.” That got him a nod from the samurai, and then heard the kettle.

When he came back with the tea, Lupin looked expectant. He handed out the cups, set some sugar and cream down, and sighed.

“Hey. Eyes up- you get distracted, and we’re gonna get caught.”

Rabbit didn’t even look up when he smacked his younger brother in the back of the head, regaining his attention. “You’re the gunman, slugger. My knives aren’t gonna do shit if I get shot.”

His brother, who was currently going by the name Gallow, scoffed at the mere idea of being responsible, but put his focus back on the rifle in his hands nonetheless. “Yeah, like they can even see us.”

They couldn’t, he was right, but that didn’t stop Rabbit from being anxious. Not only was security tighter than it would have been under any other circumstance, it was tighter because of some group of thieves from Japan.

He didn’t want to give them the credit of knowing their names- unfortunately, the only information he ever forgot was stupid shit. He also knew about their secret fourth member/rival. She was a handful, or so he’d heard.

Obviously, they were in America because they were hunting the same thing he was. But they clearly didn’t know what they were trying to steal from him- not like he did.

Rabbit was an archeologist by trade, and only stooped to stealing when he felt it absolutely necessary. He never did it for money, not anymore, instead using his skills to ensure that treasures are only kept and displayed by the most trustworthy of collectors.

Said collectors were usually his friends, ones he met in his youth. Ones he’s stolen for before.

He usually did things like this alone, his brother always had something better to do, but this was important and Gallow understood that.

“The first one’s still safe, right?” Gallow asked, watching the guards with the scope of his rifle. “I mean, your apartment ain’t exactly the safest place in the world,” he added, getting a side glare from his older brother.

“My apartment is the safest place for it right now. No one but me can get into it, and it’s inconspicuous enough that no one will think to look there. Better with me than with someone like you.” Rabbit grinned at the grimace Gallow made, before his attention was quickly grabbed again.

It was showtime.

Rabbit dropped from their perch, giving his brother a two fingered salute before making his way to the gates. He pulled off his jacket and jeans once he was right against the wall, pulling his dress down and flaring it out. He dropped everything in a duffel bag, strapping a knife to his thigh and- reluctantly- placing a small handgun in the purse he was going to carry.

Once done, he hid the duffel bag in a nearby bush. After fully straightening himself out, he walked up to the gates at the guard standing out front. He pulled a piece of paper out of his purse, handing it over to the guard with a sweet smile.

With that, the gates were open for him, and he strode past them and into the building beyond.

He loathed things like this. These fancy parties so rich people could gawk at an artifact that should be in the public view, in the country it came from. Like the set of four scarabs he was after.

There were four of them, and Rabbit already had the first. Each was made of a different gem, and they had been stolen. Not the way Rabbit and Gallow were stealing them, but in the way rich people stole. With money, and egos. With disrespect.

Rabbit was no saint, but he refused to be a villain like the people he was now surrounded by. Not that they saw him as anything but one of them, in his long and deep green dress, tight enough to look good and loose enough to conceal his knife.

He also didn’t like dropping money on clothes to wear to these awful gatherings. Standing there for hours to get fitted for a suit or dress that he can only wear once because otherwise he’ll be recognizable? Not fucking worth it.

… But he couldn’t avoid it. This was the only way he’d get a look at the security around the scarab before he went in when everyone was gone. God he hoped everything would go smoothly and that he could go in later.

“Don’t get your hopes up, brother o’ mine. The samurai’s outside,” Gallow’s voice crackled over the comms, making Rabbit grimace. He knew there was no way out of a bad situation.

Gallow had spotted the samurai, and Rabbit had just spotted the gunman.

Unfortunately, that meant the ringleader was nearby, and possibly the spy as well. She’d likely be dressed up all pretty, while the ringleader was more than likely in disguise. 

He wanted to look around and find them, but the showing began, and he knew it was too late to stop them. “We’re not getting out of here without a fight,” he muttered into the comm, glancing out the window his brother was targeting.

Gallow sighed, and Rabbit wished he could do the same, but he was too busy watching the target get put on the display stage. The man on it started describing it and the fact that it came from a set.

That was when Rabbit realized which one was the leader. The only one up there that wasn’t speaking, the only one that was eyeing it.

So he did something stupid. Something he’d regret. Something that might just give him the edge he needed.

“That’s not who you think it is- it’s the thief, Lupin III!” he yelled out, pointing at the offending man. “Just look! It’s a disguise!” Luckily, perfectly timed, one of the guards ran in with a card, yelling something about it being a note from Lupin III.

“We’ll be getting something out of tonight,” Rabbit muttered into the comm when the chaos broke out, watching as the guards grabbed Lupin and subsequently got smoked.

Rabbit took his chance, running towards the stage and lunging for the scarab. He got it right before the international thief could, quickly throwing himself back to avoid him. “Hey! That’s mine!” Lupin yelled, to which Rabbit responded by baring his teeth.

His victory was short-lived however. He thought it would have been the gunman, who had his pistol drawn, but it was not a bullet that hit his wrist- it was a shoe, and it hurt. He cried out in pain from the sheer force of the kick, but did not let go of the scarab.

Instead, it was forced out of his hand by a tight grip on his injured wrist. When he looked up to see who it was, he froze, knowing the face all too well.

“Sorry amor, no hard feelings,” the man said with a wink, throwing Rabbit to the side and making his way to the door.

Rabbit hardly got the chance to draw his knife before there were several guns pointed at his head. He always forgot that his former lover had armed guards on him at all times. They only let up when Olivier was out the door, and they quickly followed.

The thief only gave himself a second to mourn, before he was on his feet and storming out the doors. Not ONLY was everything ruined by that stupid asshole Lupin, Olivier had been there too? Was one scarab not good enough for him?

Rabbit kicked off his heels once outside, unsurprised when the samurai was waiting where he’d hidden his things, holding the bag in his hand. “You’re not the type to gloat, so hand it over or I’ll shoot you,” he said plainly, holding out his own hand to him.

The samurai stared at him for a moment, probably expecting a fight or something, but eventually dropped the bag in his hand. “Thank you,” Rabbit told him, fishing his more comfortable shoes out and pulling them on.

It wasn’t long after that that Gallow pulled up in the car. “We should get out of here, Jackrabbit. Won’t be long ‘till the cops show up,” he called out, earning a sigh from Rabbit.

He looked the samurai in the eye once he had the car door open, gaze colder than ever. “I hope all of you burn for this,” he told him, staring for another moment before giving that awkward white boy smile and sitting down in the passenger’s seat.

The drive back to his apartment was long and silent. He wanted to make a new plan as soon as possible, but he was lucky that he ended up on his bed before he was out like a light. Planning could wait for tomorrow.

Jekyll didn’t like people.

Ever since his parents died and he took to the streets, he hasn’t let anyone get close. As a child in the Undercity, you can’t let anyone get close. He’d survived far too long by himself to risk dying to someone he wrongly put trust in.

That’s why he was hesitant to even exist near the girl he’d just watched fall from a rooftop and land right in front of his feet. She couldn’t have been too much younger than him, but he couldn’t be sure. Children all looked the same to him at this point.

But something told him to at least make sure she wasn’t dead, so he reached down to check her pulse before he took off. Right before his fingers brushed her skin, she shot up, making a jolt of fear rocket through him as he stumbled back, falling right on his ass.

After a moment, she laughed. It was clear, and joyous, like she thought the whole thing was funny. “Oh man, that was fun! Shouldn’t do it again though, Viktor will kill me,” she said to herself, not even noticing Jekyll.

He should have taken that as his chance to escape, but he was frozen. She’d been so loud…. it made his ears ache. She spotted him before he got the chance to gather his bearings, grinning so wide it looked like her face was splitting.

“Hi there!” she said, excitedly, clamoring over to him and seemingly ignoring the way he flinched. “I’m Millie! Who are you? Where did you come from? Did you see me fall? Was it at least funny? I hope it was funny.”

Jekyll stared at her, utterly baffled by how quickly she took to him. Millie was, very obviously, from the Undercity, and yet she didn’t seem to have self preservation like he did.

But something unfamiliar blossomed in his chest, and he reacted in a way he never thought he would.

He stuck his hand out to her, remembering all the times he’d seen the adults shake hands for whatever reason. “I’m- I’m Jekyll,” he said after a moment, desperately trying to not make eye contact with Millie.

Part of him knew that this- this insignificant interaction with another presumably homeless child- was going to change everything for him. He hadn’t interacted with another human being in years, aside from running away from them. Logically, he should have run, he should have realized that he wouldn’t escape.

And yet, a bigger part of him was hopeful that this would change nothing and he could continue living the life he was used to.

Unfortunately though, Millie was too clingy for that.

—

Jekyll let out a soft, shaky sigh as he crouched on the rooftop of a building that could easily cost him his life if he so much as scuffed it, staring down at the streets below. He’d never been to Piltover before now, and it was just as glaringly bright as he imagined.

Fortunately though, it was also as quiet as he thought it would be. Of course, there was the usual hustle and bustle of a city this size, but no obnoxiously loud music or neon lights, therefore better than Zaun.

He didn’t like calling it Zaun. It was a name given to it by Silco, and he didn’t feel it fit because of that. In general, he hated the changes Silco had made. All of them made his home feel…. unlivable.

Well, not that it wasn’t already unlivable, but at least Vander made it less hostile. Less loud. More breathable.

Speaking of breathable, Jekyll was sure he’d never gotten this clear of a breath… ever. It was a little intoxicating, but more so it was slightly painful. His lungs had never handled unburdened air before. It was odd.

But that’s not what he was here for. Jekyll got most of his income from petty thievery- small things that no one would miss, but would get him enough money to survive. Sometimes he took food, but only if there was surplus in the place he took it from. He refused to take from people who needed just as much help as him.

Piltover, however, didn’t need the same constraints. They didn’t have to struggle and fight just to survive. Especially not the students of the academy, with their personal labs and rich parents. And with all the enforcers still focused on finding the people that robbed the Talis boy’s lab, he’d be able to slip in and run out without problem.

He picked a random lab, far away from the destroyed one, and found the balcony door unlocked. Admittedly, that was incredibly surprising, but what else would you expect from Piltover.

The room was dark, all of the glass covered by almost black curtains, like the owner didn’t want to be spied on.

Jekyll carefully made his way through the room, looking for small things that wouldn’t be missed. He’d actually brought a bag for once, though he didn’t expect to take too much.

He set his bag down on one of the tables and pulled his gloves on, unwilling to leave any trace of his existence. Even his footsteps were light, just in case sound traveled well to the lower floors.

And then he started taking. Again, it was small things. A gear, a fancy looking wrench that had probably never been used if the lack of scuff marks was anything to go by, a small puzzle that looked like a child’s toy.

He only noticed the large chalkboard when he was packing up to leave, and found it rather curious. Did he understand a single thing on it? Of course not. If he were to go into science, it would be about bugs, he didn’t get the whole mechanical thing.

Without thinking, he brushed his fingertips over it, wondering if he truly recognized the handwriting or if his brain was trying to make him unlock a memory about his father.

He didn’t get the chance to figure it out, because the lock clicked. Normally he would have heard the approaching footsteps from a mile away, but he’d been so distracted by the things written on the board that his mind had gone silent.

A hissed curse slipped from him as he realized he didn’t have nearly enough time to run. Luckily, there were plenty of shadows for him to hide in, as long as he covered his eyes.

But first, his bag. He was quick to grab it, shoving it behind some dusty boxes in one of the corners, somewhere it wouldn’t be seen. And then he quickly glanced around for a place to hide himself, his eyes soon landing on the thing that had distracted him.

The chalkboard was huge, and just barely not against the wall behind it, so he moved to press himself against that wall, narrowing his eyes enough that he could still see but the glow was significantly lowered.

And then the door opened, making him tense up. He didn’t move, hardly even took a breath as the footsteps got louder. He couldn’t see the person, but he could hear their gait just fine.

They walked with a pretty heavy limp, it was likely their right leg. They had a cane too, he could hear it tapping in time with the click of their dress shoes. They held it on the wrong side though- that was something Jekyll had learned about the hard way when he started having to occasionally use a cane of his own.

The temptation to say something was strong, but he held his tongue. Why should he help a Piltie, after all? What had they ever done for him? Besides, they’d just call the Enforcers on him.

But then they spoke, and Jekyll felt like he’d just heard a ghost.

“Hm, curious. I thought I had left it here…” the person said to themself, bearing an all too familiar accent, and Jekyll made the mistake of moving.

His foot shifted just slightly, and it moved the chalkboard, making it creak. He heard the person turn toward him, their cane tapping on the ground. There was silence for a long, long moment, before they spoke.

“Who’s there? You can come out, I am not going to hurt you. I promise,” they said, and Jekyll almost believed that. But there was no point in staying in hiding, especially because they already knew he was there.

Carefully, he pushed the chalkboard forward just a little more, and stepped out from behind it. His glowing yellow eyes met a pair of familiar golden ones, and a look of shock fell over the other man’s face.

Florian’s old targets never really fought back like the new ones did. He didn’t come home with the same wounds that he came home with now when he was picking off smaller petty criminals.

He’d learned how to stitch himself up after getting stabbed one night, simply because he refused to go to the hospital. He couldn’t explain the wounds without giving himself away.

The only problem started when the Watchmen were formed, and he had to meet with a group of others at the end of every night.

Tonight was the first meeting. Adrian wanted to talk about pooling efforts to focus on one large group, and Florian already knew it wasn’t going to work out.

After all, they had a Comedian in the room.

Luckily, the Comedian was accompanied by his partner, the Ghost. Hopefully, he’d be able to keep him in check, but Florian was ready to toss either of them should they get too rowdy.

“We’re just waiting for one more person,” Florian spoke up, when he noticed a few people getting fidgety. “He likes to drop in last minute. Please just try to be patient for a moment longer.”

Apparently, Ghost didn’t like being patient, and he was met with a glare from him. He almost said something, but then there was a flash of blue and an uncomfortable tingling in the air before they were looking at Dr. Manhattan and his paramour, Janey Slater.

Florian looked to Adrian now, giving him a small nod and smile so he knew he could get started.

Adrian started his little speech, and Florian took a chance to look around the room. Out of everyone, he figured that Nite Owl II and his partner, Rorschach, would be the most likely to work well in a team. They already seemed set on it, paying close attention to Adrian as he spoke.

Silk Spectre II- who was surprisingly young, considering that this was not a young person’s game- looked like she was only there because she was bored. Like she didn’t have anything better to do. She likely wouldn’t be a great team player.

And then, of course, there was the Comedian and the Ghost, objectively two of the rudest masks to ever take on the job. The Comedian, at the very least, was open about how stupid he thought things were, but the Ghost rarely even spoke.

If anyone was going to quit early, it would be those two.

He snapped out of his thoughts when the Comedian spoke up. “Bullshit,” he spat, taking his cigar out of his mouth to blow out some of the smoke. His partner rolled his eyes, clearly not looking forward to his tangent.

There was a pause, and then, “For a guy who calls himself the Comedian,

I can never tell when you're joking,” from Adrian, his head slightly tilted to the side and annoyance peeking past his carefully constructed neutral expression.

“Watchmen. That's the real joke,” the Comedian continued, unscrewing the cap on his flask and taking a swig of whatever was inside. “It didn't work 15 years ago,

and it ain't gonna work now, because you wanna play cowboys and Indians.”

“Maybe we should agree on no drinking at meetings,” Nite Owl II suddenly spoke up, staring down the flask in the Comedian’s hand. “Rorschach and I have made headway on the gang problem by working together.”

Which was true, from what Florian had observed. The two were a good team, and they’d be useful for the Watchmen.

“A group this size seems like a publicity stunt. I'm not in it for the ink,” Rorschach suddenly cut in, and Florian felt it was time for him to say something.

“If this were a publicity stunt, we would have cameras in here, would we not?” he said, loud enough to be heard, but soft enough that they would be more likely to trust him. “We genuinely want to work together to help solve some of the problems in our city. I mean, how can we live here and do nothing?”

“Brigade is right,” Adrian stepped in, shooting Florian a grateful look. “We can do so much more. We can save this world, with the right leadership.”

The Comedian let out a sharp laugh at that, the suddenness and volume making his partner glare down at him.

“Yeah. And that'd be you, right, Ozy? I mean, hell, you're the smartest man on the planet,” he spat, his expression turning sour for a moment before he was taking another drink from his flask.

“It doesn’t take a genius to see that the world has problems,” Adrian immediately countered. He was doing good with keeping himself calm and composed, but Florian could see the cracks starting to form.

“But it takes a room of morons to think they're small enough for you to handle,” the Comedian snapped back, a scowl now on his face. “You people. You hear Moloch's back in town, get your panties all in a bunch. You think catching him matters?”

“Justice matters!” Rorschach suddenly cut in, taking a step forward and immediately being stopped by a hand on his shoulder from his partner.

The Comedian chuckled at that, shaking his head. Florian could see the Ghost’s hand twitch, like he was two seconds away from smacking him in the back of the head. “You’re causing a scene,” he hissed, but his partner ignored him.

“Justice. Justice is coming to all of us. No matter what the fuck we do. You know, mankind's been trying to kill each other off since the beginning of time. Now we finally have the power to finish the job,” he said, sticking his cigar back in his mouth as he stood up.

“Ain't nothing gonna matter once those nukes start flying. We'll all be dust,” he continued, moving his hands in a “poof” motion to accentuate his point. He moved over to the board with the map on it before continuing.

“Then Ozymandias here…” he started, as he pulled out his lighter, flicked it open, and lit it. No one moved to stop him as he held it under the map, setting it alight. “... will be the smartest man on the cinder.”

He left after that, followed closely behind by his partner, who was already scolding him in a hushed, but harsh tone.

“Maybe… maybe this isn’t gonna work out,” Nite Owl II spoke up, and Florian quickly realized that it wouldn’t be easy to salvage the situation.

He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it when he heard Janey instead, telling Dr. Manhattan that she wanted to go home. So, in a flash of blue, that’s presumably where they went.

That was okay. They didn’t need Manhattan. “Please just listen to me,” Florian all but begged the duo in front of him, still holding out hope that they could be convinced. “The Comedian is a jaded old man who says shit like that to feel relevant. He’s an attention whore but- but this could really work out. You two work great together, and Ozymandias and I have been partnered for half a year now, I really think we can do this.”

The two of them stared at him for a long moment, before glancing at each other. “We could… give it a try, at least,” Nite Owl II finally said, offering a slightly awkward smile.

Florian gave a significantly more genuine one in reply. “Thank you, really. You have no idea how much this means.”

They said their goodbyes after that, and Florian discovered that Silk Spectre II must have slipped out while they were talking.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Adrian said as he made his way toward Florian, removing his mask as he went. “I don’t know why we invited that asshole.”

Florian chuckled softly at the word, entirely unused to Adrian cussing. “We didn’t. We invited his partner, and he just had to come along for the ride.” Adrian gave a soft hum at the explanation, even tapping his chin lightly.

“Well, I don’t suppose it’d be too late to rescind the offer?”

That got a sharp laugh out of Florian, one that made him quickly cover his mouth. Unfortunately, it also sent a piercing pain through his side, where the injury he’d gotten before tonight’s meeting was. He’d ignored it to make it through the speech, but now it was coming back with a vengeance.

He let out a sharp wince, immediately catching his partner’s attention. “You’re injured? For how long?” Adrian asked, taking a few quick steps forward to get to him and immediately looking for the wound.

“Since before the meeting,” Florian replied, surprised when he didn’t flinch when Adrian’s hand found his side. When he drew it back, there was blood on the tips of his fingers.

He let out a dissatisfied hum. “Come on, you shouldn’t just ignore your needs because of a meeting,” he said, grabbing Florian by the wrist and pulling him toward the locker room.

It was rather sweet that Adrian was so concerned, seeing as they used to refuse to hang out with each other after patrol- there was always the looming fear that if they became friends, they could become targets. But it hadn’t happened yet, and they were only getting closer.

“Take off your top, I need unobstructed access to properly stitch it up, should it need them,” Adrian told him after sitting him down in the locker room, and he just nodded.

Adrian had never seen him head on without his shirt, but he trusted him enough at that point. Really, the worst part was pulling his shirt over his head after his jacket was off. The stretch made him hiss, but it was over soon enough.

He didn’t notice when Adrian came back and froze at the sight of him, simply focusing on getting a good look at the wound. It didn’t take long for him to look up though, first glancing at the first aid kit.

“I don’t think it’ll need stitches, just a clean up and some bandaging,” he said, smiling up at Adrian, who cleared his throat and made his way over. He kneeled down next to Florian and popped the kit open, pulling out some alcohol wipes first.

He worked in silence, focusing on the wound and how much he was trying not to look at Florian’s chest. He’d never considered himself to be physically attracted to his partner- though, he’d probably admit to being emotionally attracted to him- so this was… a new development.

“You okay, Adrian?” Florian finally spoke up, snapping Adrian out of his thoughts as he finished up with the bandages.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Adrian replied with a reassuring smile, one that Florian returned. “Make sure you change the bandages regularly until you’re healed. I can walk you home, if you’d like?”

They hadn’t been to each other's houses yet, but Florian just smiled and put on his shirt. “I’d like that,” he said, offering a hand to Adrian.

Decidedly, this was a bad idea. Adrian knew what happened when he got attached to people, and Florian’s apparently obliviousness would do him no favours. He was running head first into rejection, and he knew it would hurt anyway.

But, for now, he was simply going to focus on how Florian’s hand felt against his- cold, soft despite his day job, and small.

It was a simple thing to focus on. But it helped. And he liked holding his hand.

Vaguely, Florian really wanted to ask his new partner in crime-fighting why he tended to go after drug rings a lot. He’d definitely noticed it since he began working with him and, while he wasn’t complaining, he had to admit that it was a little curious.

But he never asked. Plenty of masks had specific types of people that they went after. Rorschach favoured petty criminals, kidnappers, and the like. Nite Owl II mostly went along with this, but seemed to target a lot of thieves as well. Silk Spectre II also had a type- traffickers, whether human or drug related. Really, the only one he’d seen without a real target seemed to be the Comedian.

Personally, Florian enjoyed going after the people who’d commit hate crimes. Didn’t matter the crime, if they attacked someone for their differences, he was sure to find them.

And, like himself, Ozymandias never asked. Hell, he never even asked how he found these people.

They shared a level of respect for each other that Florian hadn’t seen in a lot of partnered up masks. The Ghost and the Comedian despised each other, Rorschach would often stalk Nite Owl, and Silk Spectre would ask questions that no one should really be answering for their own safety.

She’d pulled that on him once, asking if he was married yet or if he had any kids. He shut her down quick, telling her that it was none of her business what he did with his life unmasked. She never tried to pry into him again.

And then there was the media. They seemed obsessed with masks who had partners, often implying that they had some sort of relationship outside of work. The amount of times they’d asked him and Ozymandias if they were dating was too many to remember, and saying ‘no’ had become such a routine that he cut it off before they even got to ask.

As tiring as all of this got, he didn’t regret putting on the mask. He felt better about where he was in the world by the time he finally made it home in the early hours in the morning, satisfied in the knowledge that he was making his city a better place.

Sure the bruises took forever to heal, and he often had to stitch himself up before collapsing into his bed, but he was also learning. Ozymandias had taught him a lot more about how to effectively fight than those self defense classes ever had, and he was gaining a better hold over his gift.

Plus, his success rate was growing, without the help of his partner. Despite working mainly together, Ozymandias liked to keep a lot of his targets secret from Florian, so he often had to spend a lot of his nights alone. He usually went after petty criminals on those nights, or went after his own favoured targets. Eventually, he added a new kind of people to that list- abusers.

He’d seen it happen. Watched the man lead what seemed to be his wife into that alley. He’d heard him yelling at her.

His reaction was purely instinct at that point, but by the time he was done with the man, his wife seemed relieved. Happy, even. She thanked him over and over again, even hugged him tightly and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

And he smiled at her, told her that everything was going to be okay, and that she needed to get the police for him. She did so without question or complaint, running off for the nearest police station.

That was a satisfying night. It was the first time he’d allowed himself to be proud of his work, as he watched the man be taken into police custody. The media was on him immediately like a swarm, unfortunately, but he thought he handled it well enough. It’d been a long time since cameras were on him without Ozymandias by his side.

He did not, however, take to the streets for a while after that.

It wasn’t that he was injured, it was because he felt the need to re-evaluate what he was doing. He’d heard the complaints from the police, he’d heard that a lot of them had been losing their jobs due to masks doing them for them.

As a man who had never once trusted the police in his life, he genuinely didn’t care.

The corruption was always going to be there. Florian had seen what masks had done to people. He watched the Comedian beat the life out of a man, witnessed the Ghost throwing someone out of a window to their death.

Not to mention Dr. Manhattan. As long as he was here, people were going to do whatever the hell they wanted. What was the point of being what society considered good if your life was going to be short anyway?

A lot of people threw themselves at masks now. They did what they could to not get caught, of course, but they no longer cared if they were found.

“Do you think we’re making crime worse?” Florian finally asked, while he and Ozymandias were alone in the soon-to-be Watchmen HQ locker room. The team hadn't been put together yet- their first meeting was quickly approaching- so it was just them in there.

“I mean, we’ve been working together for half a year now, and hardly anyone is scared of us. It feels like we’re all just going through the motions. People who want to do bad things just will, and they’re not even surprised anymore when they get caught,” he continued, staring down at his binder for a long moment before sighing and pulling it on.

He heard a soft hum from Ozymandias, glancing over at him. “I believe you’re right,” his partner replied, his grip on his button up tightening for a second before he was putting it on. “I can’t remember the last time a criminal ran, or attempted to keep from being discovered. We no longer scare them.”

“That’s disheartening,” Florian muttered, pulling a t-shirt on over his binder and patting his chest to ensure it looked flat. “We’re supposed to be keeping the peace, but our existence is doing the exact opposite. What the fuck’s up with that? What are we doing wrong?”

Ozymandias didn’t answer. Vaguely, Florian figured he couldn’t. Sometimes, even the smartest man in the world didn’t know what to say.

Finally, Florian was done changing into his civilian clothes. The only reason he changed like this in the locker room is because he and Ozymandias were always alone in there when he changed, and he felt like he could trust his partner.

“Brigade-” he heard, as he went to leave. He paused, turning to the man with a smile.

“You can call me Florian. No point in pretending when you’re the only person I trust.”

Ozymandias was quiet for a long moment, before returning his smile. “Then you may call me by my name,” he replied, knowing that Florian already knew he was. Why wouldn’t he? Adrian Veidt was all over the news.

“Be safe out there, Florian.”

“I can try.”

“What do you mean I should become a masked vigilante? Do you know how often I’d get my ass kicked?”

Florian, at this point, was used to the masks that now populated New York, having seen them all over the news and in person a few times. He’d openly admit that his favourite was Mothman- he always liked the idea of flying.

He was not, however, used to his friends suggesting he should become one.

The reason why was obvious: his “gift”. He wasn’t born with it, as far as he was aware, but something did trigger it in his childhood. It was simple, he didn’t really have much control over it, certainly not enough to start fighting with it.

‘Telekinesis’, the doctors called it. Rare, but not totally unheard of. Usually formed at birth or through trauma. Decidedly, according to his therapist, it was trauma.

It didn’t bother him much, like it did other people with the condition. It helped around the house, that was for sure. Plus it was a great party trick.

But, a lot of people thought he should be using it for more.

He knew better than that though. Every time he even considered it, he was reminded that he couldn’t control it when he woke from a nightmare and found his nightstand a foot off the ground, or the floor length mirror in the corner of his room shattered.

Heroism simply wasn’t feasible, he would much rather leave it to the professionals and law enforcement.

And he told his friends that. Always reminded them that he couldn’t control it and, even if he could, he wasn’t strong enough for something like that. He didn’t know how to fight, he could hardly take a joking punch without bruising, and his low iron made him bleed easily.

Plus, he was still in the binding stage. There was no way he’d be able to fight in a binder without hurting himself, and he didn’t want to be labelled as a woman if a reporter ever caught sight of his chest.

Funnily enough, one of his friends retaliated to that by making him a suit that made his gender unclear, which meant that- paired with his deeper voice thanks to HRT- would make people automatically assume he was a man.

That didn’t suddenly convince him though, but he did keep the costume in the back of his closet, as a ‘just in case’ kind of thing.

Really, the only reason he ended up changing his mind was because he got mugged on his way home one day, and very quickly realized that he genuinely had no idea how to defend himself.

He still wasn’t sure if his attacker survived when he threw out his arms and sent them flying back. He heard the crack when they hit the wall behind them, and saw the blood that adorned the brick when they slumped to the side.

Not wanting to deal with explaining that it was self defense, he ran. And when he got home, he started looking for a place to learn how to fight.

His friends, while they knew he was taking self defense classes, didn’t know why. They didn’t get to know his plan, not when he knew they wouldn’t be able to keep his mouth shut. Besides, them knowing who he was was dangerous. If he made enemies and they knew about his friends, he couldn’t imagine what they’d do.

So he kept it from them. It wasn’t hard, he’d been lying about not remembering his past since before he knew them. It was practically second nature at this point.

By the time he could defend himself well enough to put on the mask, a man called Ozymandias made his debut.

His golden armour was, admittedly, a little gaudy, but the purple cape worked well with it. If Florian had to guess, he’d say the whole aesthetic was a tribute to a handful of historical figures- Alexander the Great and Ramses II (otherwise known as Ozymandias), it seemed.

Good, maybe he’d be able to get along with one of the masks when he made his own debut; a fellow history buff seemed like a likely friend. Or, at the very least, a partner to work with.

He waited about a week before making his own debut, not wanting to take any attention away from Ozymandias right after he introduced himself to the city.

Since his first ‘mission’ was a fire- one that was very easy for him to put out, as he learned that his telekinesis could easily pass as pyrokinesis- the papers took to calling him ‘Brigade’, like a fire brigade. It fit. He liked it.

He was quick to make a name for himself, focusing on things he knew he could do well. Putting out fires, taking down the occasional small time criminal or mugger. One time, he even pulled a cat from a tree, and very quickly became a running joke amongst the people who considered masks to be insane.

His reputation quickly became that of a weak but generally kinder mask. He’d yet to kill a criminal, hardly even beat them up past what was needed to tie them up. Hell, he’d even managed to talk a bank robber down once without even touching them.

It was about a month or two into his new side job that he actually met Ozymandias, and at a gala-like event no less. He hadn’t felt entirely comfortable showing up to an event like this, especially since he was supposed to show up in costume (and did), but he could handle it.

Ozymandias was the one to approach him, simply giving him a gentle smile when he almost jumped out of his skin at a sudden hand on his shoulder, sending a nearby chair flying into a wall.

That was enough to get him to grab the fellow mask’s hand and drag him away from the scene, unwilling to explain what happened.

“Leading me away already? Why, Brigade, you’ll give the media all kinds of ideas.” Ozymandias teased, making him freeze in his tracks. Decidedly, this was a good place to stop. He was extremely happy for the fact that his mask covered the top half of his face, because the blush on his cheeks was going to kill him.

Once he was over that, he realized he’d never heard Ozymandias’s voice before. He furrowed his eyebrows, quickly placing what he thought his accent was. “German?” he asked softly, talking more to himself than anyone else.

He looked up when he heard a low hum. “You’ve got good ears. Do you always guess accents when you meet someone new?”

Ah. He could feel his face flush again. “Oh-! No, no I don’t. Or, I try not to. I’m just- talking makes me less nervous, so I vocalize my thoughts in places like this. Sorry.” He heard a soft chuckle, and quickly realized that Ozymandias wasn’t upset like he thought.

“Well, no matter your nerves, I’m glad to finally get you alone. I’m curious, why is it that you stay away from things that would give you more publicity? I think the worst person I’ve seen you go against was that… Captain Carnage?”

Florian cringed at the mention of Captain Carnage, remembering all too well how he begged to be beat up. He’d pretty much just thrown him a bone when he sent him flying far away from him, and then had to deal with him for the rest of the day until The Comedian showed up and kicked his ass.

He still appreciated the Comedian for that, even if he’d never thank him (apparently, showing him any sort of kindness either made him assume you wanted to fuck him or that you wanted to fight him).

Finally, he realized he’d yet to respond to the question. “Oh, uh, I just know my limits. I’m not a very good fighter, I very much rely on catching people off guard and keeping them moving until they tire out.”

Ozymandias hummed at that, bringing a hand up to lightly tap his chin as he observed Florian. “How would you like to work together? We can be partners. I believe it’d be good for you to have someone watching your back. You never know the kind of trouble you could get into.”

Oh god, that was basically an invitation to get into that kind of trouble!

Of course he took it. He thought Ozymandias was hot.

“Well, I guess you’ve got yourself a partner now,” Florian replied, smiling as he shook Ozymandias’s hand, making it official.

Lysander would never tell Mrs. Poloni this, especially not after she practically begged him to go to the competition to support Marco since they couldn’t, but he was really regretting doing as she asked.

When he agreed to it, he figured it would be fine. He would watch from the crowd and support Marco like any good friend should, and there wouldn’t be any problems.

And then he saw them together.

Marco and Grace worked so well as a team, moving in time with each other and hardly needing to even say what they were doing or planning in order to make the other understand.

It was fucking heartbreaking.

Anyone could see the chemistry between them, but Lysander especially could. He’d known Marco for eight years now, he knew what it was like when he started… liking someone. And every time, it hurt. It hurt so bad, but he was never going to do anything about it.

Like always, Lysander was going to sit there and smile, tell them how great they were together, pretend that his ribs didn’t feel like they were tighter and tighter with every passing second.

Eventually, he had to leave. He couldn’t sit there and watch anymore. So he retreated to his hotel room, locked the door, and allowed himself to quietly cry. It had been a while since he cried over his best friend, but it still felt just as wrong as before.

It felt selfish to love him so much. Lysander was his best friend, that should be more than enough for him but it wasn’t. He wanted so much more, so much more that he simply couldn’t have.

Sometimes he wondered if they’d both be better off if he just left. No more yearning, no more anything. He could go back to Georgia, pretend something went wrong in New York that he just couldn’t talk about. Yes, he’d be sacrificing the best friendship he’d ever had and the man he loved, but surely they’d both be happier.

Right?

His phone ringing broke him out of his thoughts, and he suddenly realized he had several missed calls from both Mrs. Poloni and Marco himself. How had he not heard the phone until now? Was he really that distracted?

It was Marco that was calling now, and the contact photo that he’d set for him made him feel sick. Marco had always been affectionate with him, and every time he’d press a kiss to his cheek or temple it always made his heart flutter. Usually, that’s what he felt when he saw the photo with that very action in it, but now it just made him want to cry harder.

He ignored the call, tossing his phone to the side and curling in on himself on the floor.

Was he aware that this would probably be distracting for Marco and therefore take away from his focus on the competition? Vaguely, but not enough to make him come to his senses and put on his usual smile and pretend he didn’t feel like he was drowning.

Honestly, he thought that was going to be the end of it until he heard knocking on the door, shocking him enough that he looked up fast enough to hit his head on the wall behind him.

“Shit-!” he hissed, rubbing the back of his head as he slowly stood up. “God- who is it?” he called out, leaning next to the door with the full intent of telling whoever it was to fuck off.

“It’s Marco.” Ah. Well, he’d feel bad if he told Marco to fuck off.

He immediately straightened up, flattening out his shirt and doing his best to tidy his hair enough that he looked presentable. Then he wiped down his face to get all the tears off, before putting on a small smile and opening the door.

“Hey, you did great out there today,” Lysander said as he sidestepped to let Marco into the room, shutting the door behind him. “Sorry for the mess, you know I draw when I get nervous, and stuff like this is pretty nerve wracking, even if I’m not particip-”

“Where did you go?” Marco cut him off, surprising him into silence. “When I looked out to the seating, you weren’t there anymore. Why’d you leave? Did something happen? Did my mom call?”

Oh god, he was genuinely so worried, Lysander hated it when he worried. “Hey, Marco, everything’s fine. I just… needed a break, you know? High stress situations and I don’t really mix,” he quickly explained, giving him a reassuring smile.

“Why didn’t you answer my calls then?” God, why couldn’t he just take one excuse and leave it at that.

“I didn’t even know you were calling, I had my phone on silent while I was in there and just forgot to take it off. You know I get distracted easily.”

He could tell that his annoyance at coming up with another excuse was showing, because suddenly Marco’s expression changed from just concern to concern and confusion.

“What’s wrong?” Marco asked after a moment of silence, taking a step forward when Lysander turned away from him. “Come on, you can talk to me. What happened?”

“God, can you just leave it!?” Lysander finally snapped, immediately regretting it the second he turned around and saw the defensive stance Marco took. They’d never argued before- their tempers always worked with each other, not against each other.

Really, it could have been ended quickly, but neither of them ever back down.

And they’d never had to apologize to each other before.

“Seriously, Lysander? I’m just concerned about my friend! Is that such a crime?” Marco snapped back, the stress from the competition and whatever was going on with Lysander crashing down on him.

Lysander could see it, but he couldn’t just leave it. “Well, no! But I think I’ve made it abundantly clear that I don’t wanna talk about it! I don’t get why that’s such a big fucking deal! It’s not like you need more stress!!”

“And what, you think not knowing what’s going on isn’t going to stress me out? Are you fucking kidding me?? It’s like you don’t even know me!” See, the problem lied in knowing him too well.

Lysander groaned in response, running his hands through his hair as he turned away. “God damn it Lysander, why won’t you just tell me what the hell’s going on!? You’re my friend, I want to help!” Marco yelled, and that was the breaking point.

“Because the problem is that I love you!!!” Lysander yelled back, shaking as he spun back around to face Marco. “I love you, Marco! And I have been watching you fall in love with Grace since you met her! It hurts, knowing that I will never have you and knowing that it’s selfish of me to want more but I can’t help it because- because you changed everything, and I’ve never felt like this before..”

He slowly trailed off, feeling wetness on his cheeks all over again. He quickly brought a shaky hand up to his face, wiping the tears off before they got the chance to fall any further.

“Please leave,” Lysander finally spoke up. “I don’t- I can’t talk about this right now.”

“No,” Marco quickly fought back, taking another step forward and reaching for his friend’s hands. “No, Lysander, you- I- you love me? Not just as a friend, but- love?”

Well, he may as well get the rejection over with now. “Yes, Marco. I love you. I know I shouldn’t. I know you love Grace-”

“I don’t,” he cut him off, shutting him up through sheer shock. “I really don’t. She’s a coworker at best but you- god, Lysander, you’re my best friend.” Ah, the rejection was coming anyway. “I love you too.”

… Or not. “...... Seriously?” Lysander carefully asked, ignoring how his voice cracked and how uncertain he sounded. “Are you fucking serious, Marco?”

His only response was a nod, but that was all he needed. Lysander practically lunged forward, pulling Marco down into a kiss of pure desperation and longing and everything he’d ever felt for him for the past eight years.

Marco returned it without hesitation, his arms snaking around Lysander’s waist to pull him flush against his chest. Lysander responded in kind, tangling one hand in Marco’s hair (it was just as soft as he’d imagined) and placing the other on his jaw.

It wasn’t long before the kiss got sloppier, but they had to pull back to catch their breath soon after.

They stayed there in each other's arms, Marco looking down at him and Lysander looking up to return the gaze. “I know this changes everything but… but I don’t want it to be a bad change,” Lysander finally spoke up, quiet and timid.

“I don’t want that either,” Marco agreed, just as softly. He leaned down to press a kiss to Lysander’s forehead, humming as he did so. “I love you too much to lose you.”

“Then you won’t have to.” There was no way in hell Lysander was going to let him go now that he had him.

“Marco, I think I did something wrong,” Lysander called out from his kitchen, staring down at the flour-y mess he’d created in the minute that Marco had been gone.

Lysander, notably, could not bake. He could barely even cook. But when Marco asked him to help, he couldn’t just say no. He loved bonding with his boyfriend, and he thought that Marco’s skill would cancel out his lack thereof.

It didn’t. Lysander was still an awful baker. Luckily though, Marco found it more amusing than annoying, and would simply correct him in one of those kind teacher voices.

He looked up when he heard footsteps behind him, not even trying to make it look better as he turned to face his boyfriend. “I really did try to do what you told me, I just... “ he knew that he’d fucked up because of his horribly shaky hands, but he refused to use it as an excuse.

Even now, he held his hands behind his back, unwilling to let Marco see them tremble.

“It’s not that big of a deal, sugar,” Marco replied with a chuckle, moving over to the counter Lysander stood at. “We can probably salvage this, it doesn’t look too bad. How much kneading did you get in?”

“Not much…” he admitted, fidgeting now as Marco got to work saving the bread dough, because of course he knew how to do that. He was an incredible baker, which is why it always baffled Lysander when he woke up next to him in the morning.

Marco was so close to getting someone with the same level of skill as him- his old baking partner, Grace Carpenter. And to this day, Lysander still felt bad for confessing his feelings for his old friend. Especially now, as he watched him try to salvage his mistake.

“Why me?” he suddenly blurted out, shocking himself and confusing Marco. Before he could stop himself, he continued, “You could have had anyone you wanted. You could have had Grace, or anyone that could bake with you. So why me? I can’t even be trusted in a kitchen.”

Marco paused in what he was doing, staring at Lysander for a long moment as he processed it. And then he laughed, dusting his hands off. “Sugar, I don’t think I’d like dating someone with the exact same interests as me,” he said, giving him that grin that always made his knees weak.

“Well- that’s not- baby, I’m talking about having someone that can be useful to you. All I know is- is how to pin bugs and copious amounts of useless history facts from a useless degree!”

His hands were really shaking now, and Marco noticed it. Instinctively, he grabbed Lysander’s hands, brushing a thumb over his knuckles. “You think you have to be useful to me?”

There was a pause, before Lysander nodded, staring down at their joined hands. Vaguely, he made a mental note of how warm Marco’s hands were, and how rough his palms were. Callouses, scars, his hands were rough but gentle. He loved it.

“You don’t,” Marco continued, snapping him out of his thoughts. “My love for you isn’t dependent on how much use you are, I’d love you all the same if you could bake. I don’t love you for what you can do, I love you for everything about you. Your history facts, your shitty movie marathons, those.. fucked up little jokes you wake me up at 2am for.”

That drew a short laugh from Lysander, making Marco smile at him. “Sugar, I love you more than I can put into words, and it’s for everything little thing about you. Besides, if you could bake, then what would I be doing all day?”

He had a fair point. Baking was Marco’s passion- it didn’t need to be something Lysander was good at.

“You have so much else to offer. So don’t worry about it, don’t worry about it at all, I’m never- ever- going to consider you useless over anything.”

Man, Marco really just took all of his anxieties and fucked ‘em up in one fell swoop, huh?

Lysander couldn’t stop himself from grabbing Marco’s face and pulling him in for a kiss, muttering a soft “thank you” against his lips. They stayed like that for a few moments, the bread all but forgotten.

“Mm, by the way, we need to remake the dough,” Marco said when they finally pulled back, drawing a laugh from Lysander.

“Baby, I don’t think that bread’s gonna get made with me in the kitchen.”

“Then I’ll do it, and you can order lunch.”

Jonah heard it first.

The clattering, the distinctive sound of someone trying to quietly make their way through an unknown environment.

His only available weapon was his cane- luckily, it was the good one that he brought from home- so he took it out of his office with him. His hip wasn’t giving him nearly as much trouble today, so he should be able to get a good few swings in before going down.

With this mindset, he still swung when he saw Irvin. He recognized him- he was also just aware that this could be the moment when Irvin decided it was time to kill him.

Irvin, to his credit, simply grabbed the cane and cut him short, readjusting his glasses with his free hand. “Hello to you too, darling. Your friend let me in.” Oh. Banky.

“Sorry,” Jonah replied, setting the bottom of his cane back down on the ground when Irvin released it. “You just scared me, that’s all,” he added, gesturing for him to follow him back to his office.

Apparently, judging by the look on his face, Irvin wasn’t expecting the wall of pinned bugs, or the messy state of the office, or the old pottery on the desk that Jonah had been dating when he’d arrived.

“I’d apologize for the mess, but I’m a historian, and I’ve never met one that was organized in a way that was tidy,” Jonah spoke up, moving past his murderous lover to get to his desk. “Well, usually I’m more clean than this. But we just got all of these in and I’ve been cataloguing them all day. If I have any hope to finish before the night is over, I can’t waste time cleaning.”

Huh. This was probably the most confident Irvin had ever seen him. It was like he wasn’t there anymore as Jonah returned to his seat and continued his work, hitting play on his stereo so his office was filled with soft music again.

Notably, he seemed to be listening exclusively to older songs, from the eighties and older. Maybe he had a homemade cassette or CD in there? Irvin couldn’t see the stereo well enough to decide which it would be.

“Well, I apologize for interrupting you,” he spoke up finally, only getting a hum of acknowledgement from Jonah, “but I did come to speak with you about something.”

“It can’t be more important than my work,” Jonah suddenly said, not taking his eyes off the pitcher in front of it as he slowly turned it, his gloved hands not leaving a single mark. “If it was, you would be acting like it.”

Who knew he was good at reading body language? “I just wanted to ask-”

“About my scars? You can ask, but I probably won’t answer.”

… That was fair enough. After all, they hadn’t known each other for long, and Irvin did kill a girl right in front of him. If he were in Jonah’s position, he wouldn’t trust him either.

“I understand,” Irvin replied, pulling a chair up in front of the historian’s desk. “I was just… curious if they are part of the reason for you being so jumpy. I didn’t get a good look at them-”

“Irvin?” Jonah spoke up, getting a “hm?” from Irvin. “Let’s not talk about this. I know you worry, but we’re not dating. I think you’ve made it clear that we only continue seeing each other because you need someone to fuck after a killing.”

That seemed to shut him up good this time. Partially because Jonah was right, but mostly because that nervousness that had shown to be a large part of his personality seemed to have melted away. He was in his comfort zone, and it was interesting for Irvin to see. He took a mental note of it, vaguely wondering if Jonah would take some control should they get together in here.

Jonah took the silence as a chance to return to his work, scribbling down some notes as he inspected the pottery in front of him.

They didn’t talk again until he was done and putting it all to the side to be set up in the museum later, in their small human section. When he was looking over them, propped up against one of the walls, was when Irvin came up behind him and grabbed him by the hips, pulling him against him.

Slowly, his arms snaked around his waist, and Jonah instinctively leaned into the warmth he radiated, despite his hesitation to even consider him a friend.

Irvin pressed his face against Jonah’s neck, pressing a soft kiss there. “I don’t want you to think I’m using you,” he muttered, pausing to reach up and pull his glasses off, to ensure they didn’t counter his warmth with their coldness. “I hope you understand that you’re more than that.”

Right. That wasn’t the first time he heard that. “Well, you haven’t killed me yet, I’d say that’s worth something,” Jonah replied, vaguely trying to lean his head away from Irvin but immediately giving up when the cold hit.

“I’m not going to kill you, Jonah,” Irvin replied, his voice suddenly hard and serious. “I will admit that I considered it when I met you that first night, but it hasn’t crossed my mind since.”

“Unless I tell someone, right? Unless I spill your secret? I’m not stupid Irvin.”

There was silence, before Jonah untangled himself from Irvin and moved away from him, quietly mourning the loss of warmth but knowing that he couldn’t let himself slip up.

“I can-”

“You’re not going home with me unless we’re having sex. I promise you, I’m not going to fall into any trap you leave for me. I already learned that lesson the hard way.”

God, now he was really curious about what happened to him.

Hm. Maybe there were psych records on him somewhere. It wouldn’t be hard to track down where he came from, see if he was ever admitted or went to therapy. Because if Jonah wasn’t going to tell him, then he would just have to put a little more work into figuring it all out.

“I need to head out,” Jonah suddenly spoke up, looking down at the clock he kept on his desk. “Before it gets too late and all. It was nice seeing you, really, but I’d prefer it if you let me know beforehand from now on.”

Admittedly, Irvin was loving this side of Jonah. He really did need to fuck him in this office and see if it changed his demeanour during sex too. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he replied, a slight teasing tone to his voice.

Before leaving, he tried to pull Jonah in for a kiss, but the historian turned away, leaving him to press a kiss to his hair again. “I do hope you’ll get more comfortable with me,” he whispered, squeezing his hip slightly. “I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you.”

And then he left, leaving Jonah to gather him things and head out for the walk back to his home.

As soon as he got inside, it all came crashing down. The anxiety, the fear. He was comfortable in his office, his job, but anywhere else was different. And now he was realizing what he’d said to Irvin- a man he’d watched bludgeon a girl’s head in with a fucking hammer- and was now sure he was going to die when Irvin got bored of him.

In a panic, he sent several apology texts to him. He then almost had a breakdown over it and proceeded to pass out on the couch after being on the verge of tears for about an hour.

He was fully aware that people would ask about the bite marks now covering his hands, but at least he could pretend he was attacked by an animal when he covered them in bandages in the morning.

The pinging of his phone fell on deaf ears, since Irvin apparently got back to him after his body knocked him out to avoid a full blown panic attack.

He didn’t even look at it when his alarm shocked him awake, his focus instead going to the dull stinging in his hands.

There was blood on his couch, but he knew how to get it out, so he got up to shower first. The water hurt when it hit the wounds, but he genuinely didn’t care. The towel hurt too, and so did the substance he put on them to help heal them.

And then he bandaged them up with quick and skilled motions, like he’d done it a million times before.

Which, he had. This wasn’t new to him. He knew himself too well to forget how to tend to himself.

Admittedly, he tried not to go for his hands. He needed them to be mobile, even if they did tend to be shaky. But he wasn’t thinking straight last night. He’d been terrified that Irvin was going to change his mind and decide he was too much of a hassle to live.

That was when he finally checked his phone.

There were several texts from Irvin reassuring him that he’d done nothing wrong, and there was no need to apologize.

Luckily, unlike times where he texted his old friends, there were no texts asking if he’d hurt himself. How would Irvin possibly know it was a relapse? He couldn’t. He refused to tell him.

He let out a heavy sigh as he turned off his phone before getting dressed and making himself some coffee to go, heading out for work as soon as physically possible so he couldn’t sit there and stew.

By the time he got to work, he had a full story planned out in case anyone asked why his hands were wrapped. It was an animal attack- it had gotten loose in his house and he’d been injured by the time he got it out. He was perfectly fine, it was acting normal, and he’d thoroughly cleaned the wounds.

He was aware that he found it all too easy to lie like that, but strangers didn’t need to know that he hurt himself when he was upset.

That wasn’t their business.

“Do you think your wax people could withstand a dusting? I don’t like the cobwebs,” Jesse asked as he looked up from his carving, catching Vincent’s attention from where he sat across from him.

Vincent stared for a moment, probably thinking it over. “Be careful,” he finally signed, before returning to his own work.

Good enough for him. “Thanks,” Jesse told him as he gathered up his stuff and headed for the tunnel that would lead to the hatch connected to his antique shop. Luckily, none of the figures were kept in there.

When the town started to fill up with these wax creations, Jesse had made it very clear that he wouldn’t allow any of them in his shop. Above it was the apartment that he lived in, and he wasn’t having any fucking wax figures watching him sleep.

The feather duster he used on the antiques was easy to find, and he was setting off soon enough.

Most of the residential houses didn’t have figures in them, only one or two, so he went for them first. It felt a little weird to be dusting a wax coated corpse, but he was sure these dead people didn’t want the cobwebs on them any more than he did.

He started with the old lady that opened the curtain on her window, turning off the mechanism that made her move while he dusted her, just to keep her still. He was extra careful with her glasses, after discovering that they weren’t very tightly secured.

The cinema was his next target, followed by the church. The only one he didn’t have to touch was Trudy’s body in the casket. Honestly, the churchgoers in general weren’t all too dusty. Some of them were fresh, others were simply cleaned regularly because of the church’s use in how Bo lured people in.

Any shop he could actually get into were the last places he worked on. It was tempting to break into a few when he glanced inside and saw the cobwebs, but he quite frankly didn’t want a run-in with Bo.

Unfortunately, that run-in would happen anyway.

“What the hell are you doin’?” Bo asked when he caught him in one of the shops, mid-dusting a person’s face.

Jesse tensed up immediately at the sound of his voice, gripping the duster so hard that his knuckles turned white. “I’m dusting them off. I can’t stand the cobwebs,” he replied, letting out a sigh before turning to face him.

Bo scoffed at the answer, rolling his eyes at him. Apparently, the idea that Jesse cared about something seemed stupid to him. “They’re corpses. Gatherin’ cobwebs is kinda their thing.”

It was hard for Jesse to not snap at him, tightening his jaw in order to avoid it. He really hated arguing, especially with Bo. It always got so heated, so… angry. He became a completely different person during these arguments and he fucking hated that side of himself.

“Well, I don’t think they should have to be dirty,” he finally said, turning away again as he continued his work. “They were alive once. They still deserve the respect we give to the living.”

It seemed an argument wasn’t going to be avoided, because within seconds he felt a large hand on his arm (vaguely, he was aware of himself relaxing at the warmth) before he was yanked away from the statue.

“Don’t you fuckin’ forget that these things are dead,” Bo hissed, gripping his arm even tighter. “You start goin’ soft, and I’ll make sure you join ‘em.”

Wow. What an asshole.

Jesse yanked his arm away, just barely forcing himself to not shove Bo away. “Can you fuck off? I’m trying to clean up this shithole of a town, and you’re just gonna stand here and be a dick? What’s your fucking problem, Sinclair?”

“My problem is you treatin’ these fuckin’ things like people! They’re dead Monroe, they ain’t comin’ back! You can’t suddenly take back the shit you did to ‘em, you can’t pretend you didn’t help!”

“I wasn’t pretending that!” Jesse could feel the rage bubbling up the longer they stayed near each other. He knew he needed to get out of there before he did something stupid, but when he tried to push past Bo, he simply shoved him back.

“Why do you have to be such a bastard all the time!?” Jesse yelled, running his hands through his hair. “You can’t just be fucking normal!? All I wanted was to clean up! That was it! I don’t see what’s so fucking wrong with that!!”

Bo opened his mouth, but Jesse couldn’t be there anymore. “Get out of my fucking way!” he snapped, bringing his foot down on Bo’s knee to distract him long enough to literally bolt out of the shop, taking his headstart as a chance to find somewhere to hide.

Normally, Bo would give up when he ran, but sometimes he liked to chase. Jesse wasn’t sure if he thought it was a game, or- even worse- it aroused him, and he really didn’t want to find out.

He heard him call out to him from where he was hidden, but didn’t move, hardly even breathing at this point.

Bo Sinclair didn’t scare him. Jesse was aware that he could kill him, but he knew he could put up one hell of a fight. And he’d never hurt him- not unless he wanted to lose his control over Vincent and Lester.

Even still, he didn’t want to test his luck. He only emerged from his hiding spot when he was sure Bo was gone, cautiously returning to the shop to retrieve his feather duster.

Decidedly, he’d wait for tomorrow to finish up.

---

Jesse jumped at the feeling of a light tap on his shoulder, pulling his earbuds out when he looked up and saw it was Vincent. “What’s up?”

Vincent just gently grabbed him by the sleeve and led him over to his most recent work, stopping in front of it. He liked getting Jesse’s opinion before he dressed them, especially because he’d seen them before they were wax.

“Oh wow, I think this is one of your best yet,” Jesse commented, taking a step forward to get a closer look. “The skin looks so real, even with the wax it looks just like it.”

He almost went to touch it, but quickly remembered to keep his hands to himself, not wanting to ruin it with the oil on his fingers. “It’s beautiful Vincent, really,” he said, backing up so he was standing next to the artist again.

When he glanced over at him, he saw a slight crinkle of his eye from the eye hole. The idea that a compliment would make Vincent smile that big made Jesse grin, giving him a supportive pat on the shoulder before heading over to his desk.

Unfortunately, he didn’t get the chance to get back to work because Bo came jogging down the stairs, interrupting him with a harsh “hey!”.

“We got a new group. You take the guy- he seems like he’d be real easy for you to distract,” he told him, not giving Jesse the chance to argue before he was heading back up the stairs.

Jesse sighed, gathering his tools and wood into his bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “I’ll see you later, Vince. Might wanna make sure you’ve got the wax ready.” Vincent just gave him a nod, and he followed Bo’s path up the stairs.

“Are you sure this guy is gay?” Jesse asked, extremely uncomfortable sitting in Bo’s truck but also aware that if he came out of the ground their cover would immediately be blown.

“How the fuck would I know if a man’s gay?” Bo replied harshly, but at least kept his eyes on the road. “I don’t look out for that kinda shit. He just looked gullible.”

Great. Jesse was supposed to pretend to be interested in a stranger to kill him, and Bo didn’t even know if he was into men. “Well, that sure helps,” he muttered, resting his head against the window.

He heard Bo scoff, but luckily he didn’t say anything else. An argument where both of them could walk away was fine, but arguing in the car could end up with something very bad happening.

Jesse was the first to get out when the truck was parked, just barrel stopping himself from slamming the door before making his way into the gas station where the new group was waiting.

Bo followed close behind, having paused to grab something from his truck before entering the station.

He really didn’t like having the whole group’s focus on him until Bo came in, but he did note that one of the men seemed awkward, and flushed.

Huh. Looks like Bo was right for once.

“This is Jesse,” Bo introduced him, flashing that grin of his and placing a hand on Jesse’s shoulder. “Heard one of ya was interested in checkin’ out the ol’ antique shop and, well, he runs it.”

Jesse put on a smile of his own, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I don’t get many folk interested in checking it out, that’s why I wasn’t there. But if any of you wanted to take a look around, we can walk down there. I’ll warn you, there are some pieces I’m not willing to part with, but I’m sure we can look something out.”

Slipping into the persona he put on for things like this was easy, practically second nature. Hell, he could even tolerate the hand on his shoulder when he was focused like this.

“I’d love to check it out,” the man that had been eyeing him spoke up, cutting off one of his friends that was seemingly about to shut him down. “If- if that’s okay,” he quickly added, embarrassed by his outburst.

Jesse shot him a grin that made his face flush, now silently thanking Bo for assuming he was gay, because maybe he’d actually get something for once. It’s certainly not easy being one of FOUR inhabitants in a town where the only other men there are either like brothers to you or absolutely despise you. He deserves to fuck a stranger before killing him.

“Great,” he responded, shrugging Bo’s hand off his shoulder finally and moving over to the man. “We can head over there now, if you’d like.” Then he leaned forward, lowering his voice for only the stranger to hear. “You can bring your friends, but I’d much rather get you alone.”

Somehow, the man’s flush deepened, making Jesse smile as he leaned back. “I’ll see you guys later,” he told his friends, not letting them argue with him as he let Jesse lead him out of the gas station.

“So, what’s your name?” Jesse asked during the walk, not allowing the persona to slip for even a moment. He couldn’t have him running off, after all.

“Jackson,” the stranger replied, smiling at Jesse’s interest in him. “We match- you know, J names.” Ah, he was far too excited about that, but he just smiled at him. “How long have you been here?”

“My whole life,” Jesse answered, pulling Jackson over to the shop and pausing in front of the door to unlock it. “Ambrose born and raised. My parents were from Georgia though, only lived here long enough for me to turn 18 before they bolted.” That actually wasn’t a lie.

“Sorry about that,” Jackson said, now following him inside the shop. He went quiet as he looked around, seemingly surprised that the shop was bigger inside than it looked outside.

Jesse just hummed at the condolences, leaving it be. He didn’t want his dead parents to spoil the mood. “Now, I have to ask, are you actually interested in the antiques? I rarely meet anyone that wants to see them.”

He heard a nervous chuckle and looked over at Jackson. “Well, yeah, but that’s not the only reason I wanted to check it out. Mr. Sinclair-” oh WOW, he wondered how Bo handled THAT- “said that you were the one who ran it and- well- I… I dunno, I came on this road trip because I wanted to meet someone and now I’m hoping that it’ll be you.”

Ah. So he wanted a genuine relationship and not a quick fuck. “Well…” Jesse started, moving so he stood right in front of Jackson, carefully bringing his hands up to toy with the buttons on the flannel he wore, “I’ve never considered leaving Ambrose, but I might be able to make an exception for you.”

That seemed to be the final breaking point, because Jackson took his face in his hands and pulled him into a kiss, one Jesse eagerly returned.

It was quick, desperate, and heated, and neither of them heard the trapdoor in the backroom open, or the heavy footsteps that came up to them.

In fact, they only knew someone was with them when Jackson was yanked back. He didn’t get the chance to scream before his throat was slit, spraying blood on Jesse, who gasped mainly in offence.

“Bo! What the hell! I fucking had that!” he snapped, glaring up at the man, who just tossed Jackson’s body to the side.

“You were gonna fuck him,” was all Bo said- the malice in his tone admittedly shocked Jesse, and it almost sounded like he was jealous. That made no fucking sense, considering Bo hated him.

“Yeah, Bo, I was going to fuck him because last time I checked, there are no other men in this nowhere town that will!” he yelled in reply, letting out a frustrated huff as he pushed past Bo to get to the stairs that led to his apartment.

He didn’t get two feet before he was being yanked back into a solid chest, feeling Bo’s warm breath against his neck. “Don’t pull that shit again,” he growled, which only made Jesse angrier.

He yanked himself out of the bigger man’s grasp, forcing himself not to attack him. “You don’t get to tell me what to do you ass, I’m not your fucking boyfriend- I’m not even your friend. Keep your problems to yourself,” he spat, before heading for the stairs again.

This time, he wasn’t stopped, but he didn’t hear Bo leave until after he slammed the door shut.

Ambrose was a ghost town.

Jesse could remember a time when it wasn’t. He remembered his parents, and the children he befriended when they were young. He remembered the Sinclairs.

He never messed with the Sinclairs, keeping far away from them. His parents felt that was rude, tried to force him to befriend their kids. They only successfully got him to interact with the youngest, Lester, but he avoided the older twins like the plague.

Normally, he didn’t listen to rumours, but these ones seemed accurate. He saw the scars. He didn’t trust them.

Lester, however, was just a little odd. He had a fascination with roadkill, with the dead. Jesse could understand that, even relate to it a little. He liked seeing the rot. He liked the bugs that the rot brought.

He liked the beetles. The centipedes. The worms. He understood them. He thought they were beautiful.

Lester seemed excited to have a friend, and saw Jesse’s shared interest in the dead as a huge bonus. They ended up becoming inseparable. Lester often compared it to the relationship his older brothers had.

They grew up together. They watched the town as it began to die, starting with Lester’s parents. Slowly, the people they’d know their whole lives began to rot. And they both watched on with that same fascination they’d had as children.

And now, it was all coming to a head, as Jesse lost two bullets in his parents’ skulls.

It was a long time coming. It started when he was a child, got worse when he came out as trans. If this was to become a ghost town, then he was simply working toward the inevitable. No point in delaying it.

He’d planned to lose a third bullet to himself afterwards, but he couldn’t just leave Lester alone in this dead end town. His brothers sure as hell didn’t care about him, so someone had to.

So he stayed around. Started collecting antiques from the houses of the dead or gone. It became something of a passion of his, along with wood carving and pottery. He couldn’t help but smile every time he sat in Lester’s truck and saw the mini wooden statuette he’d made for him sitting on the dashboard.

For a while, things were calm. He was happy, Lester was happy, everything was good.

And then the other Sinclairs emerged.

Jesse avoided their house, and the House of Wax, as if walking near them was going to kill him. He’d told Lester many times that he didn’t like what was left of his family, and that he’d rather leave forever than meet them.

But then he was forced into it, when Bo took over the gas station.

Their first meeting was… bad. Uncomfortable. Hostile, if you looked at it a certain way.

His first meeting with Vincent went much smoother, probably because Vincent knew how to keep his mouth shut. Literally keeping his mouth shut, he spoke with his hands. It was very, very lucky that Jesse got bored easily and had taken up learning sign language from Lester a few years ago.

Besides, he did something beautiful. The wax sculptures, the paintings, they were gorgeous. Jesse found a love for watching him work down in the basement, especially because he could participate in his own hobbies in the same space.

In fact, Vincent seemed equally as fascinated by his pottery as Jesse was by his sculpting. It came to the point that a few of Jesse’s pieces ended up in the House of Wax, making the name slightly inaccurate, but no one was allowed to touch anything in there anyway, so no one would know the difference.

By the time people ended up visiting the town, Jesse had successfully befriended two of the Sinclairs, and pissed off the third.

He didn’t think he’d ever get along with Bo. Where Lester was fun and open, Bo was closed off and standoffish. Where Vincent was quiet and easy to please, Bo was loud and angry.

Jesse, unfortunately, was a stubborn man. He’d gotten his mother’s temper, and he was done being a pushover. When Bo would yell, he’d yell back. If Bo got physical, he would fight back. He wasn’t easy to control, and he knew Bo didn’t like that.

Which meant that they avoided each other as much as possible, going out of their way to change habits in order to keep far away.

It didn’t work.

That was the problem with Jesse being so close with both of Bo’s brothers- even in this dead town, it was harder to avoid someone when you had befriended their only surviving family.

And then people started showing up. Campers from the nearby woods, people who thought they were gonna ghost hunt a derelict town. They all seemed surprised to find four people living there, but at the very least they would give some source of income.

Hell, Jesse had even managed to sell a few of those kind of stolen antiques before the killings started.

Well, he didn’t know they were killings at first. A member of a visiting group would just go missing, and the other people would start asking around in search of them. He tried to help, he really did, but when people started going missing every single time they had visitors, the suspicion grew.

Then the wax sculptures began to appear.

It started in the church. Most alarmingly, the Sinclairs’ mother, laying in a casket, made of wax. He thought she was a statue, an insanely realistic statue. He knew Vincent was talented, it wasn’t farfetched.

But even he couldn’t have this many masterpieces all at once.

They began to fill up the town, taking hold of the empty homes and buildings. Lights started turning on randomly, and Jesse suddenly realized what the breaker room below the House of Wax was for.

Somehow, Bo and Vincent were bringing the town back to life through wax. But how? And why? They’d seemed perfectly fine being alone before. What changed?

He almost ran when he found out the sculptures were people.

Real people, who used to be alive. He realized it when he decided to take a closer look at one of the church goers, and almost tripped over himself when he tried to get away.

He’d dealt with corpses before. He buried his parents himself. But the thing was, when you buried a corpse, they were gone. You’d never see them again, and they would decay.

These people weren’t decaying. There was no sign of the rot that brought the beetles and centipedes and worms. They were smooth, waxy, and almost alive in a sick and twisted way.

The only thing that stopped him from leaving was, once again, the Sinclairs.

He couldn’t leave Lester and Vincent behind. They were his family now, he knew they would probably hate him if he left. So he stayed. He continued to watch people arrive, only to slowly be picked off.

Vaguely, he was aware that Bo did most of the killing, when he tracked someone down to Jesse’s little shop and killed them right there in the middle of it. He’d learned from Vincent later though, that while he preferred them to be alive during the waxing process, killing them was simply easier.

It didn’t make him as sick as he thought it would. Most of these people were trespassers anyway, and it did make the town seem less… empty. Maybe it was all those years of being immune to death, but Jesse didn’t mind it so much.

He even ended up killing a few of them himself, when they came running to him for help.

When would they learn?

“Look at it, it’s all matted up!” Normally, Scrap adored Michael’s beard. It was one of his favourite features that adorned his hulking boyfriend. However, ever since disappearing after his attempt to kill Laurie, Michael had let it grow out of control.

It had been months since they last saw each other, accidentally splitting up when Michael took off and left him behind. Only now that Halloween was approaching had they found each other again.

Scrap sighed as he attempted to run his fingers through the tangled mess, careful not to tug too hard and hurt his lover. “Michael….” he muttered, the disappointment clear in his voice.

The lack of self care didn’t surprise him. Even at Smiths Grove, Michael would only shower when Scrap forced him to. That didn’t make him any less upset about it though.

“Come on.” He took Michael’s hands and led him through the house to the bathroom, sitting him down on the toilet once inside. “You’re lucky I started HRT. If I didn’t start growing facial hair, I wouldn’t have a razer.”

He dug through the cabinet under the sink until he found it, letting out a soft sound of triumph when it was in his hands.

Michael was, of course, silent as he watched Scrap put everything together. He’d never been bothered by the beard, but he should have expected his worrywart of a boyfriend to not like it.

He had to admit that it was cute, watching Scrap worry about him. He’d missed that. He didn’t even mean to leave him behind when he ran, and now the regret was crashing down on him in the form of a tightening in his chest.

So when Scrap moved back over to him, he grabbed his arm, rolled up his sleeve, and tapped his inner forearm twice.

“You wanna say something?” he asked, returning the taps on the back of Michael’s hand, who was now nodding slowly. “Alright, go ahead.”

Michael began to trace the words on Scrap’s forearm, letter by letter, which Scrap vocalised once they were words.

“‘I’m…. sorry’? Are you apologizing?” Scrap asked, once again getting a slow nod from his boyfriend as his hand dropped. “It’s alright baby. I know why you had to leave, and I’m sure you haven’t shaved because you don’t want to nick yourself.”

Well. Scrap knew him better than he realized, apparently.

“Alright, I’m gonna put on the shave cream now,” Scrap told him, knowing that Michael needed to know exactly what was happening to be comfortable. He sprayed some of the shave cream in his hand and started putting it in Michael’s beard, starting at the top.

It was a quiet process as he lathered the cream into the beard, but it wasn’t long before he was softly humming. Once he was sure it was all covered, he rinsed off his hands and grabbed the razer.

He started at the top of the beard, holding his free hand on Michael’s jaw to keep him still.

They both stayed focused on the task at hand through the whole thing, Michael sitting as still as possible and Scrap keeping his hand from shaking.

About halfway through, they took a small break so Scrap could check the newly bare skin for any nicks or reactions, also taking the time to clean it up. “Look at that. A glimpse of my beautiful man,” he purred, pressing a kiss to the clean side of Michael’s face before he got back to work.

By the time Scrap was done, a few hours had passed, enough that both of them were ready to get something and go to bed. “I’ll make dinner, don’t worry about it,” Scrap said as he cleaned the other side of Michael’s face, finding a single nick and putting some neosporin on it.

Michael quickly shook his hand in reply, standing up so he towered over his boyfriend. He raised a big hand to point at himself, jabbing his own chest with his index finger.

“... Do you even know how to cook, Michael?”

No. But he nodded nonetheless. He’d learned how to read recipes at the very least, and he could probably figure something out.

“Fine. Shower first,” Scrap replied, turning around so he could leave, only to find himself pulled back into a large chest. He chuckled softly, having forgotten that Michael wouldn’t bathe unless he was there with him.

“Sorry, forgot,” he muttered, turning around once again to face Michael and pulling him into a kiss. “Let me turn the water on- you go ahead and strip,” he told him, being released a few seconds later.

Michael was satisfied with that, pulling off his coveralls as Scrap leaned into the shower and turned the water on.

While it’s not what Scrap went to school for, mechanics was something he was good at. You could put just about any car in front of him, and he could fix it. It definitely wasn’t his passion, but it paid the bills.

“So, Georgia huh? We don’t get many southerners here,” one of his new coworkers, a woman named Nora, said in an attempt to get to know him on their lunch break. He thought she was okay, so he actually replied.

“It’s pretty far north. A lot of us don’t like to stray too far from home,” he responded, remembering how angry his remaining family was when he told them he was leaving.

Nora gave a hum of understanding, glancing up at the clock. “I feel that. I mean, I’m Haddonfield born and raised, but I’d hate the idea of leaving.”

“Even with your boogieman?” Scrap asked, tilting his head just slightly to the side with the question.

Nora let out a sharp laugh, which only served to confuse him. “Michael Myers only kills people who get in his way or are related to him. Seeing as I don’t fall into either category, I couldn’t care less.”

That was fair, Scrap could see himself standing behind the same logic, if he didn’t literally live in the man’s former home.

“Did you see the news the other day? He’s already out again. No sightings yet, but he’s probably just looking for a new mask. He loses it every time he gets taken back in,” she added, pausing a second to pull up the article on her phone and show it to Scrap.

He hadn’t seen that, and at the very least Myers had not broken into his house yet. “Wow. A whole week before. Doesn’t he usually break out a few days before Halloween?”

Nora nodded, seemingly excited that Scrap was taking interest in what she was saying. Vaguely, he wondered if she had any friends.

“Yeah, he’s ahead of his own schedule. It won’t be surprising if we see a body in the news soon.”

She was.... very desensitized to death. Scrap couldn’t judge her, he was very much the same, but he just… hadn’t expected it.

“Well, back to work,” she said after glancing at the clock again, slapping the table lightly before standing up and heading back into the workshop, followed closely behind by Scrap.

It was easy to fall on autopilot after that, but it was occasionally broken by Nora wanting to show him something, or her asking him to help her out.

It was nice to have a friend. He was glad he met her, even if he’d had no plans to care about anyone in this stupid ass town. Hell, she even offered to help him find a couch to replace his boring one, AND to help him move it into his house. Amazing how that worked.

They exchanged numbers at the end of their shifts and said their goodbyes, going their separate ways in their different cars.

Scrap went straight home, unwilling to deal with anyone else in public until he had gotten into more comfortable clothes.

Something felt… off when he stepped into the house, but he really didn’t want to be bothered with checking it out until he was out of the uncomfortable uniform they made them wear.

Once he was changed, he made his way over to the kitchen to make himself something to eat, and that off feeling returned.

He realized there was someone behind him just in time to turn and bury a knife in their side, ducking under their outstretched arm and taking off toward the front door.

Unfortunately, the intruder was fast, and there were strong arms wrapped around him right before he could grab the door knob. He went to scream but a large, scarred hand covered his mouth.

Instinctively, he bit down, bearing down harder and harder until his assailant dropped him. He took the chance to sidestep them again, bolting upstairs with the hope he’d find a better weapon.

He could hear heavy footsteps on the stairs behind him, but he ignored it, throwing himself into the master bedroom and slamming the door behind him. He knew the lock would only give him a few seconds, but those few seconds would be well worth it, so he went for it.

Luckily, he didn’t have to look for a weapon, already knowing where he had one stashed.

He pulled the serrated knife out of the drawer on his nightstand, not even flinching when a hand punched a hole through the door.

The window was already open. He could jump out of it in any second- with the risk of breaking a bone, but it would be worth it- but he needed to slow his attacker down, at least a little bit, or he’d never get out.

It wasn’t long before the door was forced open and Scrap finally got a good look at the intruder.

And it was Michael fucking Myers. He couldn’t even pretend to be surprised.

Well, he didn’t waste any time wondering how he got in the house, instead just lunging for him the second he moved and burying the knife deep in his chest. It was tempting to leave it there and run, but it would bleed more if he pulled it out.

“If I come back, and you’re still here, I’m locking you in the basement and setting this place ablaze,” Scrap hissed before pulling the knife out and quite literally jumping out the window.

He could feel his leg break when he hit the ground, landing rather heavily on it, but didn’t let it stop him. Hell, he dragged himself to the front of the house, where one of the neighbours saw him and rushed over to help.

When he glanced up at the house, he could see Myers in one of the windows, and took a moment to flip him off with the neighbour called an ambulance.

Myers tilted his head at the gesture, and Scrap wished he’d just gone ahead and lit him on fire.

The neighbour was reassuring him now, telling him the ambulance was on the way and it wouldn’t be much longer now before he was taken to a hospital. He noted that they didn’t ask what happened, either too panicked or well aware of what the probable causation was.

But, as promised, the ambulance arrived quickly, along with the police. The whole damn town probably knew it was Michael Myers and Scrap had to admit that he was less than excited about the questioning that was bound to happen.

He didn’t have to worry about that now though, as he was lifted onto the gurney, and then the ambulance. He hated having to go to the hospital- sick of doctors, and unsure if his insurance would cover it- but he knew better than to attempt to handle a broken bone himself.

On the ride to the hospital, he stayed completely awake and alert. The paramedics commented on his high pain tolerance, and he ignored them.