#4k words

The office was quiet... too quiet. Even though Nanami had often craved silence, today the silence felt.. like it was chocking him, accompanied only by the scratching of his pen against the endless stack of reports.

He adjusted his glasses, his fingers lingering a moment too long against the bridge of his nose as he looked over the shit ton of papers — activity logs, financial disbursements, and mission debris summaries. Each page was a tedious repetition of the last. His eyes scanned a line of text, but the words blurred into a smudge of black ink. Because honestly, who even has the patience for things like this?

There was nothing on his desk that he wanted to touch. Nothing that he truly desired, making his mind wander, slipping away from the budget projections and toward the image of you. You would look sooo perfect here, draped across his desk. He could see it so clearly — your hair spilling over the edge of a folder as you presented yourself for him oh so nicely. He imagined your palms pressing down against the wood as they flattened the documents he so desperately needed to finish.

He pictured you arching your back, the tension in your body so obvious as you looked back at him over your shoulder. He wanted to see that look on your face.. the one you only gave him when you were alone.

He traced the edge of the yearly report with his thumb, his gaze drifting to the door of his office. He longed to leave the papers where they lay and sink into the leather of his chair, pulling you toward him. He missed the taste of your lips, the scent of your skin that lingered on his clothes long after you’d spent time with him.

The air in the office felt too warm, or perhaps he was just stifled by his own longing. It was hard to say, really. He set the pen down and leaned back with a tired sigh as he moved two fingers — hooking them over his tie and lightly loosening it. The dull ache in his lower back begging him to forget the grind of his duties.

"Can't focus," he muttered as the thought of your body against his desk became more vivid — he could almost feel the texture of your skin under his fingers, the warmth of your breath near his ear. The reports and endless paperwork... none of it mattered as much as the thought of you here, with him.

He imagined the way you would shudder when he touched you and the way your body would yield to his demands. He wanted to replace the sterile smell of the office with your natural one.

Tomorrow.

The deadline was tomorrow, and the mountain of paperwork on his desk seemed to grow taller with every blink of his tired eyes. It was inefficient. And quite frankly, it was an insult to his time. He hated the way these trivialities took all of his focus, stealing minutes that should have been spent in the comfort of his own home, specifically, in your arms.

His gaze fell once more to a particularly dense report, but the ink seemed to mock him. Every time he tried to get back into the rhythm of his work, his mind would just drift back to you, so he just closed his eyes tight, pressing the heels of his palms into his sockets. Focus, Kento, he scolded himself internally.

He knew the math: if he stayed to finish this entire stack, he would be home late. Again. The thought of leaving you waiting made him irritated as hell. He hated the imbalance — the way that his responsibilities demanded his presence, while his heart demanded to be right beside you, perhaps sharing a sweet treat and the quiet you both loved so much.

He forced his eyes open and picked up his pen, his grip a little tighter than necessary. He had to shove the image of you bent over his desk into the dark corner of his mind. He couldn't afford to be distracted. Not when he wanted to finish this quickly so he could get to you... With a calm motion, he began to write, forcing his mind to obey the structure of the task at hand.

The clock on the office wall had long since ticked past a reasonable hour. When Nanami finally set his pen down, the building was dead silent. Everyone had gone home by now, naturally. He leaned back and sighed in relief. "Finally," he whispered to the empty room.

He gathered his things, though his movements were less coordinated due to the growing irritation. The sheer amount of time wasted on such trivial, soul-sucking things was a grievance he felt in his very bones. He was tired not just physically, but also mentally, which made every step toward the exit feel like wading through sludge.

The walk home was a blur of city lights and the cool night air, which did little to soothe the restless ache in his chest. Soon enough, he was back home and turned the door handle before stepping inside to find the apartment to be.. silent. Ah, jeez, he felt so guilty, since you were likely asleep by now. He hated that his work had stolen the best parts of his day from you. Damn thieves.

He then carefully slipped off his shoes to not disturb the peace before reaching up and pulling the tie fully free, casting the silk aside. The restriction was gone.

Walking into the bathroom, he turned on the tap, the sound of running water feeling unnaturally loud in the quiet house. He leaned over the sink, splashing cool water onto his face to shock the lingering fatigue from his system. As he gripped the edges of the sink and stared at his reflection in the mirror – eyes tired, jaw set. He grabbed a towel, patting his skin dry, his mind already drifting away from the office and toward the bed. He didn't really want to sleep. He wanted to sink into the warmth of you and to make up for every lost minute.

He then silently entered your shared bedroom. The bullshit of the office, the endless reports, the ticking clocks.. ahh, it all finally fell away at the threshold.

He approached the bed, his eyes softening as they landed on you. You were so damn beautiful, and he genuinely wondered how he managed to get someone like you.

Carefully, he tugged back the edge of the covers, not wanting to startle you, nor did he want to demand anything from you while you were in such a delicate state. He simply needed to be near you.

He slid into the bed, the mattress shifting slightly under his weight. Instead of pulling you close immediately, he reached out, his hands finding your legs beneath the fabric before gently lifting and guiding your thighs, hooking them over his broad shoulders to open you up to him. He was seeking a connection.. in.. a very interesting way..

He leaned down, his hair brushing against the skin of your leg as he pressed a tender kiss against the skin of your inner thigh, staying there for a moment, just breathing in your scent, that aroma that always signaled to his brain that he was finally home.

"You're so beautiful," he breathed, the words barely a ghost of a sound, intended more for the silence than for your ears. He shifted his position, sliding further up, wrapping his arms around your waist and hugging it – his lips beginning to move as he pressed soft, worshipful kisses along the curve of your waist, his mouth moving over the skin, while tracing the line of your hip. Every kiss was a silent apology for his lateness, a way to tether himself to you and let the stress of the day dissolve into the dark.

The soft sensation of his lips against your skin began to stir you awake as you felt the warmth of his body pressing against yours. Your eyes fluttered open, vision hazy, and you felt his weight keeping you nice and steady on the bed.

"'Nami...?" you murmured, a little confused by the sudden warmth and the sensation of his breath against your hip. "What are you... doing?"

He didn't answer with words at first. since he answered with the heat of his mouth, pressing a series of slow, sloppy, and needy kisses against the skin of your waist. He paused, his forehead resting against your stomach as he took a breath before looking up.

"Please.. I need this... just a little bit." Even in his desperation, he was mindful of you, since he wouldn't dare force himself upon you while you were half-conscious - he required your presence and your utmost permission.

His hand slid down, his calloused fingers tracing the delicate lace edge of your panties, lingering there – the touch light, almost hesitant as he waited, his thumb stroking the fabric, his eyes locked onto yours, silently asking the question.

"Is it okay?"

You reached out, your fingers tangling in his blonde hair, pulling him closer as you gave him the soft, affirmative nod he was waiting for.

The moment he saw the signal, he sighed as his fingers hooked firmly under the elastic of your panties before tugging them and sliding them down your legs.

The moment the barrier of your lace was gone, brochosaurus didn’t waste a single second as he shifted, sliding down your body again, until his lips were near your heat again. He needed to erase the mental fatigue of those damn reports. He wanted to drown the memory of ink and paper in the taste of you.

His tongue darted out, finding your delightful taste immediately, sweeping upward in a long, wet stroke. He was messy, unconcerned with being neat or composed. He wanted to feel everything: the slickness of your arousal, the heat radiating from your core, the way your body trembled under his mouth.

He began to eat you with a pretty sloppy rhythm, his tongue lashing against your clitoris, chasing a release from the day's irritation, using the sensation of your sweetness to scrub his mind clean. Every time he heard a hitched breath or a soft moan escape your lips, he redoubled his efforts, his nose pressing into your soft skin as he buried his face deeper into you.

The sounds in the room were thick and heavy: the wet, rhythmic slapping of his mouth against your thighs, the sound of his deep, ragged breathing, and the friction of your skin as you arched toward him. He was devouring you, his tongue swirling in wide circles before narrowing into pointed tugs and nibbles with his lips. He was thorough, leaving a glistening trail of saliva behind as he worked, hands reaching up to grip your thighs harder, his fingers digging slightly into your flesh to hold you steady as he worshipped you. He was obsessed with the taste, the salt, and the sweetness of you as if you were the only thing keeping him grounded.

He worked his tongue intensely, lashing against your sensitive folds. He wasn't being gentle, preferring to stay thorough, his tongue sweeping deep into your heat, exploring every inch of your slickness with a desperate sort of greed. He was incredibly messy, leaving your inner thighs glistening and wet, the sound of his mouth working against you, a rhythmic, squelching friction filling the quiet room.

He seemed to have forgotten the very concept of breathing, his nose completely delved into your heat, needing to be physically submerged in you. His face was buried entirely into your crotch, his nose and mouth pressing so firmly against you that there was no space left between his lips and your skin.

His tongue trailed down, circling around your entrance. He didn't want to use his fingers just yet, wanting to prep you first, making sure that you were nice and ready for him. His tongue delved, pushing past your outer folds to probe deep inside the slick heat of you. He was working mindlessly, his brain turning into mush as he bobbed his head rhythmically, his saliva coating your skin and mixing with your own arousal until you were a glistening, beautiful mess. He was completely uninhibited, his jaw working hard as he focused entirely on the sensation of your walls clenching around his tongue.

The friction of his tongue intensified, transitioning from sweeping strokes to more focused pressure. He slid his tongue into your entrance, starting to drive it in and out, tongue fucking you, the muscle of his tongue mimicking the heavy, deep thrusts of a cock, pushing deep into your canal to find every sensitive ridge.

Each time he drove inward, a low grunt escaped his throat. He was far too busy to offer any words right now, especially since he was fully focused on the sensation of your walls squeezing against the motion of his tongue.

He was completely lost in the act, and the messiness was stirring a life force in his loins; the squelching sounds of his tongue sliding in and out of you filled the air. Every time he pushed deep, he could feel the pulse of your clitoris against the tip of his tongue. Honestly, he was greedy, wanting to consume every drop of your sweetness, his breath coming in jagged, hot puffs against your skin.

He didn't care about the mess on his chin or the way his hair was becoming damp from your heat, since he only cared about the way you were reacting to him, which drove him to work even harder.

Once he was certain you were drenched, your slickness acting as a perfect lubricant against his face, Nanami finally shifted his focus by pulling back just enough as one of his hands slid from your thigh, his palm touching every inch of your skin on the way before reaching the center of your heat. He began to massage your pussy, his fingertips dancing over your swollen clit and tracing the delicate, soaking lines of your labia. He was thorough, feeling the way that your muscles twitched and pulsed under his guidance.

Then, he began to slide two fingers into your entrance, moving them with a steady rhythm, stretching you slightly, and feeling the clenching of your walls as they tried to swallow his hand.

Not content with just his fingers, he leaned back down, his mouth finding your clitoris once again, using dual sensation -- while his fingers worked inside you, driving deep and pulling back to create a relentless friction, his tongue was busy lashing against your clit.

The combination was overwhelming, his fingers curling inside you to find the most sensitive spots while his tongue flicked and swirled in a way that made your hips buck.

He was becoming increasingly unhinged, like some little goblin that just wanted to consume you. His movements grew more starved as he worked to drive you to the edge of madness.

His fingers inside you became more insistent, curling and hooking against your walls. He was digging into you, his knuckles slamming wetly against your entrance as he worked you, to feel the exact moment your internal muscles began to spasm and tighten around him.

He was pretty much attacking your clitoris now, his tongue flattening out to lap at the sensitive bud before narrowing into a flick.

The sound of his efforts was crazy as hell - the wet squelch of his fingers sliding in and out of your soaking wet canal, the sloppy slapping of his lips against your skin, and the grunts of satisfaction . He was worshipful in his greed, treating your body like a sacred altar he had to feast upon to survive.

"Fuck... you're so fucking good..." he groaned against your skin, the words muffled against your heat. He was losing himself in the friction, his nose pressed so hard against your pelvis that he was practically part of you. He wanted to taste every drop of your nectar, to ensure that no part of your pleasure went unrecorded by his mouth.

Finally, he pulled back, though he didn't move far. His breathing was heavy as his chest heaved, his blonde hair, usually so neat, was a complete disaster - damp and matted from being buried so deep between your thighs.

Despite the break in his mouth's work, he didn't let the sensation die - his fingers remained buried inside you, continuing a relentless motion while he himself leaned up and pressed his lips against your own into this messy, nasty kiss, tasting of salt and the shared heat of your bodies.

While his mouth was busy devouring yours, his free hand worked with trembling urgency at his waist as he fumbled with his belt, the metallic click of the buckle sounding loud in the quiet room, before he shoved his trousers down.

God, he was already so incredibly hard. The moment his pants were out of the way, his cock sprang to life, thick and pulsing with a life of its own as it slapped and rubbed wetly against his abdomen with every heavy breath he took, the tip already weeping clear beads of precum that glistened in the dim light.

And so, he had positioned himself between your legs as he aligned the thick head of his cock with your drenched entrance. He took a deep, shaky breath, his chest heaving against yours, before he began to push slowly. The first inch was a struggle, his shoulders tensing as he guided himself home, inch by inch, feeling all of you molding and stretching around him.

When he was finally buried deep within you, he stopped for a moment, his eyes fluttering shut as he leaned forward and buried his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent, making his entire frame shudder with the effort of not spilling over immediately.

In one swift motion, he reached for your hands, intertwining his fingers with yours, thumbs brushing against your knuckles as he pinned your hands to the mattress on either side of your head. He held them there, grounding himself, his eyes half closed, his breath warm and labored against your skin, intentionally savoring the feeling of being inside you before he dared to move again.

He slowly began to pull back, the friction of your tight, wet walls dragging against the length of his shaft until he was almost entirely out. The sensation of being released made him groan, and he lingered for just a second, just like that, savoring the cool air hitting his damp skin, before he drove himself back into you with a thrust.

He started with a measured, agonizingly slow rhythm, wanting to feel every single millimeter of himself sliding through your slickness, wanting to ensure he was hitting the deepest part of you, his hips moving in a steady, grinding circle, forcing the head of his cock to rub against your most sensitive spots as he slowly established a pace.

But the restraint wouldn't last long. The irritation from his workday, the desperation of his longing, and the overwhelming warmth of your body were all merging into one, and so, the slow slides began to roughen up. His thrusts became more frequent, the tempo picking up as his breathing turned into ragged, heavy gasps. The soft, squelching sounds of his cock sliding in and out of your drenched entrance became more intense, since he was no longer just moving — he was straight up drilling into you, his hips slamming against yours, making the poor bed frame creak.

His grip on your hands tightened, his knuckles white, using the leverage to push even harder. He was relentless, his body working with a singular focus to bridge the gap between his fatigue and your pleasure, his movements growing more frantic.

The room was filled with the rhythmic, wet slapping of his balls against your ass with every deep, driving thrust, a sound that punctuated his heavy grunts. He was being so incredibly messy, the friction of his cock sliding through your excess arousal creating a thick, squelching noise... He was all sweaty, his skin slick against yours as he drove himself into you, seeking an outlet for every ounce of frustration he had harbored all day.

He was rough, his grip on your hands tightening so much you could feel the strength in his large palms, pinning you down as if he needed to anchor himself to you to keep from floating away into pure sensation. He was needy, his head dropping to your shoulder as he bit at your skin.

Every thrust was a desperate attempt to purge the stress of the office and the exhaustion of his duties. You were the perfect outlet, the only thing that could silence the noise in his head. His movements became more uncoordinated as the pleasure peaked, completely consumed by the sensation of being buried deep inside your warmth, his entire being focused on the way your body reacted to him.

Inside you, he felt as though he were drowning in silk and fire. Every time he drove himself home, the sensation of your incredible walls clenching around his shaft was almost too much to bear. It felt as if you were trying to swallow him whole with every desperate thrust. The friction was immense.. the way your wetness coated his entire length made every slide feel like a sliding caress.

The mental spreadsheets, the mission reports.. ah yeah, they were all long gone. He couldn't think in sentences anymore, since he could only think in the way your hips rose to meet his, and the way your breath hitched.

The feeling of being buried so deep inside you made his brain feel like mush, which left him unable to even remember his own name. All he knew was the delicious weight of you. He felt unmoored, as if the only thing keeping him from dissolving into the mattress was solely the connection between his hips and yours.

"Fuck..." he cursed under his breath. The friction was becoming almost unbearable, something that demanded more than just rhythmic thrusting.

He abruptly released your hands, the sudden lack of pressure making you gasp, but he didn't give you a moment to recover as those said hands slid down your body, his fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs before hooking his arms under your legs and hauling them upward, bending you nearly in half. The position was.. ah.. well, primal, exposing you completely to him, tilting your pelvis upward to offer him the most direct path to your core.

He needed to go deeper and feel himself hit the very back of you, and so he kept on moving, his thrusts becoming punishingly deep. Each time he slammed home, the sound of his pelvis hitting your ass was a loud, wet *smack* that echoed in the silent room. He was fucking you with a desperate, starving sort of energy, his body acting on pure instinct. He was messy, his sweat dripping from his brow onto yours.

As he worked, he kept his eyes on you the entire time, seeing the way you tossed your head back, and it drove him even harder.

"Yes... just like that," he panted, as you began to lose your grip on reality, your fingers reaching out to find some sort of aid, you began to claw at his back, nails digging into it, dragging down the muscles of his shoulders as you arched toward him.

Instead of pulling away, he leaned into the sensation, groaning in approval. "You're so good... god, you're so fucking good for me," he praised, since he absolutely loved the way you took him, the way you fought to stay grounded even as he drove you toward the edge. "Do that... keep doing that to me, sweetheart..."

He leaned forward, his chest gently pressing against yours as he kissed you, tongue sliding into yours with a desperate friction that mirrored the way his cock was working inside you. It was a messy, beautiful collision, the taste of your saliva and breath as he swallowed your moans.

Even as he focused on your mouth, he never slowed the pace of his hips, his pelvis hitting yours with a series of heavy, wet thuds that vibrated through your entire frame. Every thrust was deeper than the last, aimed at the very center of your pleasure, his cock feeling massive and unyielding as it stretched you to your absolute limit.

He was pressing so hard, so deeply into the skin of your thighs, that he was undoubtedly starting to leave bruises, marking you with the evidence of how much he needed you.

You like him. You're the only single in the car so it's natural that he spends the most time talking to you. Lord knows it's hard to keep a conversation going with a couple when they look like they'd rather be tonsil deep in each other's throats.

You like him and you get the feeling he likes you too. When you stop at a sleazy motel for the night, he invites you to eat dinner with him outside his room. All your friends are off doing what couples do best - getting cosy in the hot tub, testing the speeds on the vibrating bed, finding new and interesting ways to use the ice machine. So you're glad for the company.

Mostly.

You're almost done eating when he pops the question.

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

You look away from him. Take in the greasy boxes of takeout on the concrete, the neon red wash of the vacancy sign spelling across the parking lot. It's not an easy question. It brings up ugly memories.

"I used to have one. Things ended...badly. He's in Cook County Corrections now. Serving fifty to life."

He gives a low whistle.

"That bad huh? You ever go to see him?"

"No. Never."

He stretches out, folds his hands behind his head and looks up at the dull scattering of stars.

"You should. It gets lonely in there. A guy could use the pick me up, especially if the visitor is a pretty thing like you."

You shiver despite the balmy summer air.

"I'd rather not. I'll be happy to never see his face again."

Thankfully, he drops the subject. You go back to talking about awful first dates and the best dishes to order at a Chinese restaurant. He's a complete gentleman but you can't help the slight relief you feel when he stands to leave.

" 'Night gorgeous."

"Good night, stranger."

In the morning you walk out to see him reading the early paper. He crumples and tosses it before you can catch the headline.

" 'Morning. How did you sleep?"

You shrug. "Not the best. I swear these kinds of places all get their beds from the same supplier. Lumpy Mattresses Inc."

He grins. "Don't forget their trusty partner Damp and Musty Carpets LTD."

Your friends are slow to wake up and groggy when they do. Most of them nursing nasty hangovers. You and the hitchhiker have most of the morning to eat breakfast and shoot the breeze together. When it's time to leave, he takes his place in the passenger seat like it's the most natural thing in the world.

"I couldn't find any newspapers," one of your friends complains when you're back on the road.  

"I wanted to see the football results."

"Eagles beats the Rams in the final playoff," the hitchhiker says.

"Aww man. Where'd you get a paper from?"

"I must have gotten lucky. Staff is 'sposed to leave the local paper at reception. Guess they must not have the budget anymore."

You stay quiet but something doesn't feel quite right about that statement.

The day passes fast. Your playlist is a lot more mellow, on account of the many lingering headaches. Still, you think there's nothing quite as fine as the open road. It's only near evening when the trouble starts.

"Shit. I can't find our reservations."

You look at your friends in the rear view mirror. They've already pulled apart two backpacks trying to find the papers. You can't help feeling irritated. The one thing you asked them to take care of...

You pull over and search the Jeep from top to bottom. Unpack almost everything. Check and then recheck your pockets. Nothing.

"I'm really sorry y/n. On the phone they said we needed the copies to check in. Maybe we can still stop by and get it sorted with the front desk but..."

You can here the unspoken thought in their words. You're all thinking the same thing - that hotels can get so uptight when their potential guests are rowdy students with still bloodshot eyes. You worry at your nail, thinking. You paid the fees in advance so maybe if you showed them your credit card...

"My friend has a cabin not far from here," the hitchhiker says. "Pretty big place. He'd be happy to let us crash there for the night."

You bite your lip. It's a two hour drive to the hotel. And if they turn you away you'll be off the beaten path with almost no cash, on a near empty petrol tank.

"You think he'd mind letting us sleep on his couch?" you ask. "We'll be well-behaved and I can pay."

He smiles at you, totally easy going about the whole thing.

"Sure we'll just have to call ahead."

You manage to track down a payphone and you wait with the rest of your crew while he calls. You can't make out what he's saying but every once in a while his eyes drift to you. No one else. Just you.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he was talking about you.

When he puts the receiver down, he's all smiles.

"Got it all sorted. It's out of the way though, so I reckon we grab some chow first."

Your friends are quick to agree. What self respecting kid on spring break is going to say no to fast food and cold beer? It's only you that lingers, brow furrowed. It all feels too convenient. Your reservations go missing and the stranger you picked up just happens to have a place nearby? No way. The more you think about, it the stranger it seems.

You're still lost in thought when the hitchhiker swings an arm around your shoulders and half drags you along behind your friends.

"What's you got you so worried gorgeous?"

It's hard to be suspicious of him when he smile so easy, his shaggy brown hair dancing across his forehead.

"Nothing. I just hate to intrude on your friend."

He laughs, squeezing your shoulders before letting go.

"Trust me he'll be very glad for the company. He doesn't get out much."

He pulls the diner door open for you. Your friends have already claimed a booth and a single harried waitress is struggling to jot down their long list of requests. The hitchhiker grabs your hand before you can join them.

"My friend is a great guy. I think you'll like him."

He smiles, crooked and amused, like he's laughing at a joke only he understands.

"Hell, I know for a fact that he'll like you. You're just his type."

Your smile is tight. The last guy who said you were just his type... well, you and the district attorney both know how that ended.

You take a seat and smile at the waitress. She looks beyond overwhelmed and you silently promise to tip her as well as your half drained credit card can manage.

"I'll take a steak. Rare. Bloody as you can make it," the hitchhiker says.

You raise your brows. Not exactly the typical order for an out of the way little diner. He sees your look and grins.

"Been a while without good meat. You have no idea the craving I've had this past few days."

The booth is packed tight and his thigh is flush against yours. Warm, even though his jeans.

"We all get cravings now and again. I get it."

He tilts his head at you and it must be a trick of the light, because his pupils are blown out wide. It looks like you're staring into oil. Just... emptier somehow. You wouldn't go so far as to say he feels soulless, but if it's not in the same street it sure as hell is in the same neighbourhood. Like oil, it leaves you feeling dirty in a way that doesn't easily scrub off.

"Do you?" he asks quietly.

You open your mouth to say something along the lines of I'm only human and of course I do but his eyes stop you. He isn't talking about food or meat. No. It feels like he's asking about flesh.

One of your friends cracks a joke and you turn away from him in a hurry, pretending to laugh at something you only half heard. You don't talk to him for the rest of the meal. Try to avoid looking him even. But you can't avoid the feel of his leg against yours. Warm and solid. Can't ignore the way your heart jumps when he reaches for his wallet and his fingers accidentally scrape you inner thigh.

You're the last one out of the diner. You throw away the dirty napkins and, true to your word, tip the waitress as well as you can manage. You're half afraid that he might wait for you, but when the door clicks shut behind you, you see him with the rest of your friends. Joking around with some of the boys.

The second you start towards them, his eyes fix on yours. You aren't sure how he does it - always narrowing in on you like you have your own gravitational pull. Like he's aware of your every move.

"Ready to go?"

Are you? You aren't sure. Some dull instinct is making you want to turn tail and run. You try and talk yourself out of it. What concrete evidence do you have? What has he done wrong, besides be a little intense? Folk do that all the time and it doesn't bother you. And it's not like you'll be alone. Your whole pack of friends will be right next to you.

"Yeah, let's go. Time doesn't wait for anyone."

It's a long drive. The highway splitting off into a main road and then splintering into a half-dozen country tracks. By the time you arrive, you're beyond grateful for choosing the Jeep. Heaven alone knows how much more jostling and bouncing your teeth could take.

It's a nice place. A big cabin out in a clearing, the trees thick for miles around. Much nicer than the crummy hotel you'd otherwise have to settle for. You can't even hear the traffic.

Your friends grab their bags and the hitchhiker holds the front door open as you all file in. The entryway is clean and bright, and besides the lingering tang of bleach, there's nothing to set your suspicions racing. Honestly, you feel a little silly for being so paranoid. Must be the bad memories. They make you jumpy regardless of actual circumstances.

"Where's your friend?"

You turn just in time to see the hitchhiker slipping something small and metallic into his pocket.

"Is that the key for the -"

"My friend will be here soon," he talks over you, loud enough to get everyone's attention. "I'll show you guys your rooms and once you get settled, we can grab some beers and hit the hot tub."

He brushes past you and ignores your half-hearted grab for his arm. Your friends are already pounding up the stairs, too hyped to notice your expression. He pauses on the landing and looks back at you - the only one still standing by the door. His eyes are bright and almost hard.

"You coming?"

Nothing to be scared of, right? It's a common habit to lock the front door, especially out in the woods.

"Yep. Right behind you."

But no matter what you tell yourself, your feet still drag along when you follow him deeper into the cabin. Further and further from escape.

You're the only one who gets a room of their own. Everyone else is piled two and three deep in the guest rooms, half your buddies on couches more than beds.

You're also the last to get a room, so by the time he shows you your bed, it's only you and him. You wonder if he planned it on purpose.

"Quiet out here."

He hums in agreement, standing at your window and watching the woods. He stays silent while you unpack. Whatever he's watching for takes all his attention.

It's only when you hear your friends start splashing around in the hot tub that he speaks.

"You should probably take a shower before anyone else. The water is unreliable out here."

You silently agree. It's s been a long day, and while a quick dip in the jacuzzi sounds good, a hot shower and a cool bed sound even better. He pauses at your bedroom door to say good night. You're already heading to the bathroom and you only half hear the rest of his sentence.

"Sleep tight. And don't worry too much about any noises you hear. There's mountain lions around and the sound carries funny sometimes."

He closes your door softly behind him. Your en-suite is echoey, and when you turn on the water, you don't hear the quiet click of him locking you in.

After your shower, you're totally exhausted. You don't even bother leaving your room to check on your friends. You just curl up under your borrowed duvet and drift off. When you half wake at three in the morning to the dying echo of a scream, you mutter something about mountain lions and fall right back to sleep.

You don't see it but the figure in the corner of your room smiles. Moonlight catching for a split second on the butcher's knife in his hand.

"You always were a deep sleeper, baby. Can never remember your dreams."

Morning comes fast after that. When you wake, the only evidence of your midnight visitor is a slightly misplaced pair of sneakers that you're too drowsy to notice.

Your room door opens easily and you're half way down the stairs before you even start to wonder where your friends are.

Still sleeping probably. Had a late night.

The only sign that someone else is awake is a half empty pot of coffee and a dirty mug in the sink. You don't really feel comfortable rooting around in someone else's kitchen, but the hitchhiker did say to help yourself... You end up snatching a small Greek yogurt from the fridge and taking it out to the porch.

The forest is alive with bird song, dew still melting in the grass. It's peaceful. Tranquil. For the first time, you're entirely happy that you accepted the hitchhiker's offer.

The only thing that disrupts the picture perfect scene is a single discarded sneaker, thick with mud and left right in the middle of the yard.

You sigh. Did one of your friends really lose a whole shoe and not notice? You pick it up and knock the worst of the mud off.

So much for being well-behaved. You'll have to check over the whole place before you leave, make sure they haven't somehow tanked to the property value. The edges of the laces are stained a rusty red but you chalk it up to spilled wine or something.

You drop the shoe at the door and make your way back into the kitchen. It takes some searching but you finally find the dustbin, half hidden in a cupboard. Ugh, why do rich people always have to hide the trash away in the most obscure places?

Yesterday's paper is shoved under some tea bags, the edges of the front page barely visible.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY

You frown, you gut suddenly nauseous and rolling. You dig the newspaper out of the trash. Slowly. Hesitantly. Amost afraid that the reality will be twice as bad as your suspicions. There's a massive stain on the front but you can still read the print clearly.

CONVICTS ESCAPE COOK COUNTY CORRECTIONS. MANHUNT UNDERWAY.

You don't bother to read the article. The pictures alone tell you everything. You feel sick enough to faint.

You didn't think you'd ever see his face again, but here it is. Mugshot slightly blurry and the ink starting to run. Scowling at the camera like he's more pissed at being caught than anything else.

Your ex boyfriend.

You might have been fine if it was just him. Might have called the DA and the lead homicide detective, begged for witness protection. But trouble never visits without company. There's another mugshot under his, this one captioned Serial Arsonist & Convicted Killer.

The hitchhiker wasn't smiling when the cops lined him up for his red carpet shoot. His eyes are as black and empty in his mugshot as they were last night. When he looked at you and said he was craving meat. Meat.

You might have laughed if you didn't think you were about to vomit. Yeah, he was probably craving meat alright. The roasted and still screaming kind.

You drop the newspaper, hands shaking so bad you can't hold onto it even if you wanted to.

"I told him to take out the trash. But does he listen?"

You whirl around. The hitchhiker is blocking the back door and holding your friend's lost sneaker, rolling the stained laces between his fingers.

"Thanks for grabbing this, gorgeous. If we missed it, the pigs would be back on our asses in no time."

You run.

You don't bother hearing him out or rationalising. You turn away from him and bolt straight for the front door.

You almost make it.

Your fingers just brush the metal of the doorknob before someone grabs a handful of your hair and yanks you towards them, hard enough that you end up on your back. Winded. Your scalp burning.

"Gonna leave without even saying hello? C'mon baby, is that how you greet your man?"

Your boyfriend is standing above you, smirking like this is all a game. He's still in his prison jumpsuit, the sleeves knotted around his waist. He's wearing a white tank and one glance is enough to tell you that prison has been great for his gym journey. His muscles - always toned to begin with - are positively huge.

He's always been strong, but the sight of him like this has your heart racing. How much harder can he hit, with all that extra bulk to back him up?

He slams you back onto the floor when you move to get up, his boot pressing into your sternum so hard you can almost hear your bones creaking.

"Aww, don't get up baby. Let's just talk. We've got so much to catch up on."

He presses his heel into you. Hard enough that you can't breathe out it hurting.

"Where to start... Oh, I know! Have you fucked anyone else while I've been gone? Gotten yourself a new man? Who's been between your legs while I've. Been. Rotting. Away?"

He punctuates his sentence with sharp jabs of his boot.

"No one," you managed to choke out. "Didn't have anybody."

He takes his boot off your chest and you suck in a painful breath, your lungs and ribs on fire. You roll onto you hands and knees, coughing.

Shit. Fuck.

He squats down so he's level with you, voice a sickly sweet drawl.

"You promise?"

"I-" Another painful coughing fit. "I swear. No one else."

"I don't know if I can believe you, baby. You said you loved me, and then you ratted on me to the cops. Not the best record."

He grabs your hair and hauls you to your feet, totally unbothered that you still can't breathe right.

You shriek and try to pull away, only for him to wrap a hand around your throat and pin you against his chest.

He squeezes hard enough that your larynx feels like it's going to collapse.

"What do you think I should do?"

You think he's asking you, but it's the hitchhiker that answers. He's leaning against the kitchen door, arms crossed like he's watching two kittens at play rather than seeing your boyfriend almost choke the life out of you.

"I reckon we should check. Her cunt should be all tight and wet after months without cock. And if it isn't...well, there's your answer."

"You hear that baby? We're gonna make sure you've been well behaved."

We?

You start fighting all the harder. One murderer is enough. You don't want both their hands on you. You'll never be able to scrub yourself clean again.

The hitchhiker smirks and pushes himself away from the wall. His pupils are all wide again, twin blackholes hungry enough to swallow you, your friends, the whole damn world.

Adrenaline is a hell of a thing but you're up against two convicted killers who've had nothing but time to get stronger. Who've had the world's hardest lessons in cruelty.

Your boyfriend lets go of your hair and grabs one flailing wrist. He bends your arm up your back until you heads tucked under his chin and you're standing on your tiptoes to alleviate the pressure.

The hitchhiker twists one ankle behind yours so you can't kick out of him. It feels like a move cops and wardens might use. He must have had it done to him plenty, if he can so easily put you in the same position.

"I'll scream."

That makes them laugh.

"Go on then gorgeous. Scream. No one heard your friends last night. What makes you think they'll hear you?"

Your friends... You were panicking so bad you hadn't even considered them. The hitchhiker sees your eyes go wide and grins that easy, friendly grin of his. The one that made you trust him enough to give him a ride.

"Oh, we took good care of them. I'll spare you the grisly details but there's no one left out here but us."

It's too awful to consider. Too visceral. Too unreal. Your mind blocks it out and changes your whole train of thought to focus on escaping.

You focus on your boyfriend. He isn't acting like himself. The same man who put his hand on the bible and swore before the court that he killed all those people because of you - that man - was suddenly willing to share? Was inviting someone else to enjoy your body?

"You're going to let him touch me? You killed my lab partner because you said he would jerk off to pictures of me. What the hell changed?"

Your boyfriend hums.

"A whole lot. He's my cellmate."

Like that explains anything!

The hitchhiker slips his fingers under the hem of your top, nails running along your waistband.

"He wouldn't shut up about you. Had your pictures pinned up above his bed and everything. It was so fucking annoying at first. My girl this, my baby that. But after a few months..."

He pops open the button of your jeans with a flick of his thumb. You jerk away but your boyfriend twists your arm even harder and you're forced to hold still.

"After a few months, I started to understand the appeal. Could see why he was so into you. And hell, I wanted a taste myself. Wanted to see if you lived up to the hype."

Your boyfriend is smiling. You can tell from his voice.

"And is she worth all the hard work we put in?"

The hitchhiker's hands are cold. You flinch when he slips his fingers past your panties. He rubs his thumb against your slit, savouring every inch.

"For her? I'd kill twice as many as we did last night."

He sighs as he feels your slick starting to collect around his knuckles. Without warning, he slides two fingers inside you. Cold, uncomfortably cold.

He has a guitarist's hands and you can feel the callouses on his fingertips scraping against your walls. Too rough. Too much.

"Just like I thought. Tight and wet. Your girls loyal to a fault."

Your boyfriend practically purrs.

"Been so good while I was gone, baby. You deserve a reward, dontcha?"

He leans down and nips your cheek. You feel sick. His teeth so close...

"Don't worry. We'll fill you up so good that you'll never try running again."

The faint smile was still on his face, at his request you grinned as well. He typically did this. Snuck into your room in the middle of the night, coming in covered in his proud work of the day, then made, or as he called it, offered you to wash it off. No matter how hard you scrubbed though, it wouldn’t make his actions any better. He still made you wash off the blood of those he killed.

The air in the room seemed to thicken. You ignored your thoughts, because truthfully, you still loved him. You loved the parts of him beyond his work, the twitch of his muscles, his broken neurology, the dedication he had. It wasn't something that had happened all at once. There hadn't been a single moment where you'd decided murder was acceptable. Somewhere between the horror of it all and the routine, you'd begun separating Toby from the things he did. You weren't sure whether that made your love stronger or simply made you weaker.

You still kissed him at night knowing he watched the light leave people’s eyes. All the hatred you carried for murderers was suddenly forgotten, maybe your morals should extend to him as well, but that’s a concern for another time, a concern you had buried.

Your bare feet met the cold flooring. “Alright, c’mon.”

As you continued walking down the hall, you could hear the pattering of his feet close behind. Even as you gently twisted the handle to your bathroom, he stayed so close, close enough to where his chilled breath made goosebumps rise on the back of your neck. 

He knew what to do. He walked around you, impatiently lifting his shirt off before he went to strip his clothes entirely. When he did this the first time, it had left you flustered, but after this continuous routine, it no longer affected you. Mostly. He then carried himself to the tub, hurriedly sitting at the bottom of it, looking up at you. Crimson droplets slid from his forearms and disappeared into the drain before you even turned the water on.

If you didn’t know any better, you would say he looked almost innocent now. Sometimes you think maybe you could fix him. He ushers you forward with the wave of his hand, and you go to sit on the edge of the tub, the pristine white finish hopefully wouldn’t stain from him.

His head lulls back in between your thighs, “Toby, I can’t wash your hair like this.”

“Yes, you c-can.” Washing him was like attempting to wash a stray cat’s fur.

You simply sigh in response, reaching over him for the shampoo. As you squeeze a decent amount into your palm, you start to scrub it along his scalp, letting your fingernails scrape it the way he likes. His shoulders immediately loosened beneath your hands. The tension coiled through his body seemed to melt away piece by piece, replaced with tiny contented hums he never made around anyone else. Sometimes you wondered if these moments were the only times he truly relaxed, if this was the closest he'd ever come to feeling normal.

He lets out another satisfied hum. As he lets himself enjoy the moment, your fingers continue to slide around, although your mind is in a different space. You didn’t want to hurt him. Or atleast, you knew you didn’t for the most part. But with each graze your fingers let along his head, another intrusive thought comes bubbling in.

Your thumbs rested near the base of his skull without meaning to. It would take so little force. I mean, you could snap his neck right now, save a good amount of people in the future. End one life, save dozens more. Maybe hundreds. But you wouldn’t, you weren’t a monster.

The thought didn't feel very foreign anymore, though. You watched the suds of soap turn a sickly pink as they traveled down, swirling into the drain. Toby's eyes were closed, his lashes fluttered, the dim lighting behind you both casting shadows against his cheekbones. He looked so fragile, so deceptively human, that the guilt of your own mind rose in your throat.

"You–you're quiet t-tonight," he murmured, his throat making a low vibration against your legs. He didn't open his eyes.

"Just thinking," you whispered. You began to rinse the soap away, the water running too hot, turning his skin a vibrant crimson. He didn't flinch. He never did. He just sat there, accepting it all. You knew he couldn’t feel it anyways.

The routine continued in a blur. You dried his hair gently with a towel that was already starting to grey, every movement a routine that despite yourself, you couldn’t help but admit to love. When he finally stood, dripping wet and pale. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, and for a second, you looked into his eyes—a vast emptiness where you hoped there was maybe a linger of love within it. 

You kissed him anyway, the taste lingering on your lips. He kissed you back with a softness that never belonged to the hands capable of attacking another person. It was careful, almost hesitant, as though he still wasn't entirely convinced he deserved to be touched gently.

You then led him out of the bathroom, back towards your room. After he got clothes from his portion of your wardrobe, he put them on and joined you on the bed. His calloused fingers were laid on your waist.

During moments like these, where you could lay with him behind you, you really did wonder how you could think so many bad things about him. Maybe, you didn’t need to fix him. You could enjoy how he is now, all the memories of how gentle he came across really did make you think there was a possibility he loves you.

Love wasn't supposed to look like this, though. It wasn't supposed to make you question your own morality every time you looked into someone's eyes. Yet here you were, tucked beneath his arm, listening to the slow rhythm of his breathing as sleep threatened to pull you under. For a little while, it was easy to pretend the man behind you wasn't a killer. He was just Toby. And maybe that was the cruelest part of loving him, that he made forgetting so easy.

There was a time when the sound of your window opening in the middle of the night would've made your heart stop. Now, you could recognize Toby's footsteps before he even pulled himself inside. You knew the mundane details about him too, or the exact way he would sigh when he finally settled beside you. It was strange how quickly a person could become part of a routine, how easily you adjust to them. Across from you sat Toby at your little dining table. You both had servings of food that you had been silently eating.

“I’ll hah-have to leave in a bit.” He looked up at you, talking in between his bites. You pouted, “why?” He gives you a look, because you both already knew why.

"I wish you uh–understood." He sighed and leaned forward, his elbows resting on the worn wood of the table, his eyes searching yours with that unsettling intensity that always felt like it was carving you open.

"You a-always look at me, like, like I'm sum–someone else," he said, his voice dropping to a low rasp that seemed to echo in the quiet kitchen. He pointed his fork at you. "Like I'm a monster, buh–but I'm not. You know me better than a-anyone."

You stared into your coffee, watching the steam curl and evaporate, your feet felt rooted to the floorboards. "I know who you are, Toby. I know you aren’t a monster." Every once in a while, he would have some sort of episode, for lack of a better term, and theorize that you secretly hated him. You were used to this, but it didn’t mean you liked it. 

"You always suh–say you hate people l-like me," he continued, ignoring your counter protest. His fingers tapped against the table. "You read the n-news, you hear the stuh–stories, and you say it's wrong. You say it's si-sick."

You had no answer, because that was the truth. "But you never leave," he whispered to himself, a smile playing on his lips, one of strange satisfaction.

You opened your mouth, but the words lodged in your throat. You didn't leave because you simply didn’t want, or need to. Also, because you were more so scared of the quiet that would follow if you weren't there to wash the blood off his hands, if you had to be alone. You were an accomplice, of sorts.

He stood up then, the chair scraping harshly against the ground. He didn't threaten you, nor did he ever attempt to. He moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He looked back at you, "come here," he said. 

You stood up. Your legs felt heavy, every step toward him felt like walking into a trap, yet you kept moving. This wasn’t a new thing. He tested you, over and over, in the small, seemingly harmless ways that paved the road to when you should have left, how far you would go for him. 

First, it was holding his spare hatchet. You still remember how he also made you clean it afterwards, the handle will forever remain stained though.

Then in the present, it was the short walk you were now taking to your car. He didn't ask you to look away, rather he wanted you to watch him. You did, you trusted him more than you probably should.

The drive was agonizingly slow. Toby sat behind the wheel, humming a tune that you didn’t recognize, a tuneless melody that drifted over the radio's static. You passed street-lamps, houses with porch lights on, people living lives where the biggest worry wasn’t the situation they put themselves in with a killer. Alone, with one of all things.

But you stayed quiet. You watched the way his hands gripped the wheel, the way his jaw set, the way he seemed so utterly at peace while you were tearing yourself apart on the inside. You were spiraling, and the worst part was that you were holding his hand the entire way to wherever he was taking you, his thumb rubbed gently across the back of your hand. It all seemed to contrast your nerves. 

As the drive stretched onwards, he pulled near the all too familiar woods. “What are we doing here?” He hummed in reply, although that gave you little to no insight, if not making you more confused even. He gestured to you to hop out, so you did.

After a little bit of walking beside him, you found yourself standing in the clearing. The air was colder here, biting at your exposed skin, but you hardly felt it. 

He pointed at a woman in the distance. He then leaned down to whisper directly into your ear, “she shuh–shouldn’t be out here.” Which was right, nobody should be wandering into the woods this early in the morning, or in general. “Go t-talk to her for me.”

“Why?” You whispered back, looking at him. You knew he had to have some form of ulterior motives, and you hoped it wasn’t what your mind first went to. He gave you a look, “just do it. Act like y-you’re lost or, or something.”

You sighed, glaring at him before abiding. On the walk over, you could only wonder why he was involving you. Maybe it was just him proving to you that he isn’t as cruel as you apparently make him out to be. Or, maybe you really are saving people.

The woman just a few trees away looked much more calm upclose, now that you didn’t have a field of trees blocking your vision, you could note the camera behind her and the backpack alongside it. As you continued, a few twigs and leaves crunched under your weight. At the noise, the girl’s head snapped in your direction.

She jumped, letting her guard down slightly at the sight of you. “Shit, sorry you scared me.” She looked nice, having a clean outfit that one would probably wear to go hiking, definitely recently got out here.

“I’m sorry, I was just wondering why you’re out here.” 

She once again looked you up and down, “getting footage for that sighting stuff that’s going viral everywhere. Apparently, there’s reporters paying if you can get any evidence for all the murders lately.”

Your heart dropped. You hadn’t seen much news lately, always skipping the channel when it popped up. You knew Toby would never take the chance of getting caught, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be concerned.

“What about you?”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

She looked at you with concern, “why are you out here? That’s what I asked.”

“Oh, I live nearby. My sister lost something around here, so I thought I would look before she woke up.” You hoped you sounded convincing enough, maybe she would confuse your blatant lie for being nervous.

She frowned, “awh, I’m sorry to hear that. I hope you find it.”

You thanked her, your eyes still darting around your surroundings. They landed once again on the items she had brought. She noticed after the lack of replies that you were examining her camera from afar. Her guard seemed to completely dissipate at the notice of her equipment.

“You wanna take a look? It’s brand new!” She crouched down beside it before you could answer, looking over her shoulder at you. You nod, squatting down. “I haven’t taken many photos or videos yet, but I normally vlog a little. You know, just for the memories.”

You smiled, she seemed really nice. You asked, “do you wanna do a vlog then?”

She nodded enthusiastically before clicking a few buttons, checking the focus then turning it around to face herself. “Hi to myself whenever I watch this. Today, while on the hunt, I guess? I found a new friend.” She panned the camera to you, in which you waved.

She handed you the camera, “introduce yourself, I didn’t get your name yet.” 

As you held the camera, she smiled in encouragement as you told the camera your name. After you did that, you held it to now have hopefully the both of you in frame. You eased into this lighthearted event with your new friend. You laugh at nothing with her, “we can’t even see ourselves, hopefully it’s focused still.”

“It should be.” She wrapped an arm around your shoulder, “so guys, we’re gonna go wander–” Her sentence was cut off by a rigid scream escaping, her arm tensing around you. Your eyes instantly widen, a shorter scream of shock leaves you. Her gaze instantly hovered above the wound pressed deep into the side of her opposite shoulder. Her breathing quivers, leaning against you. 

Although you knew who did it, you had completely let him slip your mind. The sickening reminder that he was now standing right behind you both was the blood that leaked out of the one beside you.

He called your name, “c’mon, s-stand up.” His hand reached for the arm around you, lifting it then dropping it without a care, the arm hitting her uninjured side. As her sobs began to echo, you couldn’t look away, you didn’t move. 

He nudged your back lightly with his shoe. You began to stand, your legs unstable beneath you.

Her widened eyes looked up at you, her breathing was getting quieter now as well. She looked as though she was trying to catch her breath to talk. He had hit her pretty deep, not deep enough to hit anything vital, but most certainly within muscle.

You looked away, you couldn’t look her in the eye. 

Toby laughed, reaching his hand out, “g-give me the cam–camera.”

The camera resting now heavy in your hands, was still recording, “Toby, what are you doing?” You muttered, if you talked any louder your voice would have cracked.

Toby didn’t answer right away. He stepped closer, his shadow falling over both you and the bleeding woman on the cold forest ground. His twitching fingers reached out, snatching the camera straight from your trembling hands. He aimed the lens directly at the girl, then flipped it toward himself, grinning at the camera.

"R-Recording," he murmured, his voice entirely devoid of remorse as the red light on the casing continued to blink. "A little souvenir."

The woman gasped, her fingers clawing at the dirt, begging you with her eyes for a mercy you were too paralyzed to give. Her gushing shoulder was a pain you couldn’t imagine. Toby reached along his hip, pulling out the familiar, worn handle of his hatchet, the same one you had cleaned a week ago. He didn't raise it to strike her himself. Instead, he turned, pressing the heavy metal weapon firmly into your palm, he held his hand over yours, forcing your fingers to curl around the blood-stained grip.

"You always pretend y-you're better than this," he whispered directly into your ear, his breath chilling your neck as his hand remained clamped over yours. "S-Show me you're not. Do i-it, or I will, and I w-won't make it quick."

Your throat closed up. The camera now facing you in his hand silently captured every shuddering breath, every tear welling in your eyes, and the precise moment your hand tightened around the handle. You could never say no to him.

Your gaze landed back on the woman bleeding out in front of you, you couldn’t understand why she would come out into the woods knowing people kill out here. You wished she hadn’t either, if you didn’t meet like this, you could be friends.

“You re-remember how I d-do it, right?”

Of course you do. You remember back when he would practice, the way his arms raised. He did it without hesitation. But, you weren’t him. This was your first time doing anything remotely similar to this, you witnessed it once or twice, but that was the extent of your knowledge.

As you looked at the woman once more, she looked so innocent. Her eyes were big, yet she looked as though she hadn’t accepted her fate yet. At the sight of her tears, you couldn’t help but continue crying. Friends cry in front of each other, right? 

“I’m so, so sorry.” The camera panned back to the woman as the hatchet swung over your head, building momentum just how your boyfriend did. As it swung down, it dug into her other shoulder. Once more it swung, and again. And again. Toby looked at you, “you’re n-not going hard enough.”

You panted, pausing to breathe. She wanted to try and crawl away, but whenever she tried to drag her arms forward, the torn muscle gave out. The deep burning sensation was overwhelming. She eventually laid there, squeezing her eyes firmly shut.

Your body was moving on autopilot. You choked out shallow cries. The warm, chipped handle of the hatchet was a constant reminder of your boyfriend standing just a foot away. Although you couldn't let your eyes look at anything around you, nor would your blurred vision let you, Toby’s vague praise was what your mind focused on. His words swallowed the sound of the metal meeting flesh, the almost echoing sobs of the victim he set for you, her begs for you to stop were far beyond faded out.

It was an unfamiliar experience—the snap of bone, the wet tearing of fabric and skin breaking, the occasional ticcing from Toby. You looked down at your hands, they were shaking, but they were holding the hatchet still. The hatchet almost slid from your grasp, but you couldn’t let go of the warmth it gave you.

He began talking you through it, telling you simple things like how good you were doing, or what angle to swing at. As the camera went between the two of you, recording all of this, he smiled.

You were no longer the victim of the situation. The guilt was there, a dull ache in your chest, but it was being rapidly eclipsed. You were witnessing the end of a life, and you couldn’t bring yourself to carry the empathy you would’ve before.

As your shoes dig into the ground once more, you stand there. The mud and blood splattered along the calf of your pant legs was the least of your worries, and you couldn’t bring yourself to look away from the now unrecognizable figure laid below you.

The body twitched slightly, the blown out eyes mocking you. You were really crying about something that didn’t have to be done, you didn’t have to be ignorant to her sobs, her pleas, but you did. You had chosen this. You had chosen him. Every time you washed his hair, every time you kissed his bruised forehead, you were making this choice over and over again. Even if you claimed to be a bystander, ones that turn a blind eye are just as bad.

From beside you, Toby glances between the shake of your hands and the tears streaming down your face. Carefully, he wraps an arm around you. His touch was cold, always cold, but in that moment, it was all you needed. He didn't ask you to stop. He just held you, his chin resting on your shoulder, watching the corpse with the same detached interest one might show a particularly interesting insect.

He pressed a kiss against your cheek before he pulled away, “you did such a gah–good job.”

You weren’t sure what you were meant to feel. Is this right? Is it wrong? You wish it wasn’t her still, but maybe you should wish it was no one instead. You could’ve saved her, turned around and swung at him instead, but you didn’t. You wanted to tell yourself it isn’t your fault, she was the one that came seeking murderers, he was the one that told you to do this. But, none of that mattered. You still swung with little to no hesitation.

The drive back was completely silent. The radio didn't play, and he no longer hummed. Toby sat in the driver's seat, his hands resting lightly on the wheel, completely unaffected by the suffocating air filling the car. You stared out the passenger side window, watching the scenery stretch into blur after blur. Your mind felt strangely blank.

When you got back inside, the familiar warmth of your bedroom felt entirely foreign.

Toby dropped the keys onto the dresser with a light clunk. He moved to the edge of the bed, sitting down with the camera still held loosely in his hands. The small digital screen cast a faint, blue glow across his face in the dim room.

"You–You're silent again," he said quietly, his voice lacking its usual edge. You stayed near the door, your back pressed against the frame. "I don't know what you want me to say, Toby."

"I don't w-want you to say an-anything," he replied, turning the screen slightly toward you. He pressed play on the recording, but paused it before anything showed, just holding the frame of where you smiled looking at her, the digital timestamp blinking in the corner. 

"Why are you watching it?" you asked, though your voice lacked indifference.

"No re-reason," Toby murmured. He set the camera down on the nightstand, the screen shutting off and plunging the room back into darkness. He patted the empty space on the mattress beside him.

Your knees felt weak, but you forced yourself to walk across the room. Every step felt heavier than the last. You sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a distance between you, but Toby closed it effortlessly, pulling you closer and leaning your head against his shoulder.

He pet your hair. "It’s a-alright," he whispered, your breathing unsteady against his neck.

It wasn't that he had forced you into this completely, because you knew if you refused he wouldn’t hurt you. it was that he had slowly built a bridge between his world and yours until you didn't even realize you had crossed it.

You looked down at your hands resting in your lap. They were clean now, washed beneath the faucet downstairs until the skin was raw and aching. But as you turned your palms up in the dark, you knew that no amount of soap would ever make you feel clean again.

Toby wrapped an arm around your waist, pulling you back against his chest as he lay down. "Get some sleep," he muttered, closing his eyes.

You lay there in the quiet room, wondering if you would ever be able to sleep again. You don’t think you could, so instead you reached over Toby, grabbing the camera from the nightstand. He watched you silently, opening his eyes at your sudden movement.

There was a faint lingering of dirt on the edge, and as you powered it on you felt even grosser. Your fingertips lightly tapped into the footage once again, playing the part that Toby had a few minutes prior. You kept rewinding it every time she mentioned how you should explore.

You smiled, you still considered her to be a new friend even after this all. Toby looked at you, at the faint smile across your face, at the way your hands shook each time it rewinded. When you looked at your reflection in the now black screen, you couldn’t bear to look yourself in the eyes.

He grabbed the camera out of your now trembling hands as you began crying. He shushed you, holding you closer. He was never good at comforting you, so he tended to just replicate how you held him. You were good at loving him, so this should make you feel better.

You closed your eyes, and the silence of the footage that no longer played offered no real relief. You used to think loving him was just an exception to your rules, a flaw you could wash away if you loved him enough. But as you lay there in the quiet room, listening to the undisturbed beat of his heart against yours, you knew there was no washing this off. There was no going back to who you were, because the truth was, you really did love somebody who would never change for you. And, you began to find comfort in that.

Rating: Explicit

Archive Warning: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings

Categories: Gen; M/M

Fandom:

Disco Elysium (Video Game)

Relationships:

Kim Kitsuragi & Jean Vicquemare

Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare

Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi

Harry Du Bois/Jean Vicquemare

Characters:

Jean Vicquemare

Harry Du Bois

Kim Kitsuragi

Skills (Disco Elysium)

Additional Tags:

Relationships subject to addition as I write more chapters

currently harry/jean is one-sided

Sharing a Bed

Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism

Hallucinations

Trauma-and-stressor disorder

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD

Mental Health Issues

Insomnia

Past Suicide Attempts

heavy stuff but also cute domestic shit

Not sure where the plan is with / relationships

but mostly it's about exploring relationships through sleep deprived snapshots

and about three men caring about each other

---

Jason Todd is dead. It's a fact that both he and his adoptive family are well-aware of. He died in Ethiopia from smoke inhalation following a brutal kidnapping and torture session with now-international criminal, the Joker, and then a warehouse explosion. He survived the kidnapping. Survived the beating. He even survived the explosion.

Yes, he survived the encounter for a tragically long time. Instead of falling to explosion or crowbar or clown shoe, Jason Todd died in agony, crumpled in the rubble with ash in his lungs and fire in his hair, desperately gasping for breath until his vision went black.

For Jason, these details were once hazy. Once unknown, back when he still had crowbar-related head trauma. But the longer he spends alive, the more comes back to him. Three weeks ago, he finally got a clear picture of the event that led him down this path. Of his mother and the bomb. He could finally see the eyes that matched the hyenic grin haunting his dreams. He finally knew the source of the heinous laughter that had swirled through his nightmares and loomed around dark corners for months. He finally remembered, in crystal-clear, high-def resolution, why Bruce’s failure to kill the Joker hurt him so entirely.

He spent the majority of those weeks on his bathroom floor, switching from hugging the toilet and coughing pathetically to hugging himself, hands occasionally gripping his hair as he stared at nothing.

As for Batman, he determined the specifics of Jason’s death within the hour. It was a tragedy, after all. Bruce’s tragedy. He lost days brooding over just how horrible of a death it must have been. How slow. How painful. If he had ever told Jason about his musings, Jason would’ve confirmed them. It was horrible. It was slow. It was painful.

But Bruce doesn't know Jason is alive again, and Jason isn't in any hurry to change that.

Dick didn’t learn about Jason’s death until months later because he had been in space. And even if he had only been out-of-town rather than out-of-galaxy, Bruce never attempted to call him. Not once. Dick learned after his return by a snot-nosed brat who mentioned, in an off-handed, dismissive comment, that Jason Todd had eaten dirt and had a formal burial months ago. (Dick wishes he knew right away. He wishes he could have found out any other way. But that was how and when he knew, and he doesn’t get to change that.)

So, yes. Everyone - even the government, and Bruce doesn't tell the government anything - knows Jason Todd is dead. The number of people that know Jason is alive again… Well, that fact is a bit more classified. And today, the number increases by one.

Assuming Dick ever emerges from whatever Bat-branded, guilt-ridden nervous breakdown he’s currently in.

“Doing okay, man?” Jason sits beside Dick on the couch and taps him on the leg to get his attention.

“Mmph,” Dick grunts, because truly, genuinely, he thinks he’s finally snapped. He’s on the run from the cops, in dire need of an involuntary hospitalization, and being poked by Halluci-Jason like he thinks this is a game.

It’s not a game. This is Dick’s life.

“Yeah,” Jason sighs. “Guess not.” He’ll admit: he’s feeling a lot more sympathetic to the guy. He may be a jerk for missing his funeral and not always being the most supportive when Jason was alive, but anyone who’s this torn up about a death… hallucinating… muttering about how much they miss the deceased…

Well, it’s hard to believe that they’re faking it. Especially if they almost got arrested for it.

“Can I get you something?” Jason asks hesitantly. His apartment is modest and barely furnished. Half the outlets don’t work, most of the lightbulbs are on their last legs, and something started smelling in the vents last week. But Jason’s still going to try to be a good host. “I… wouldn’t drink the tap water without boiling it or using a serious filter, but I can get you tea? Coffee? I think I’ve got some leftover chicken broth if that’s more your speed?”

Dick doesn’t realize it’s a question at first. But then something clicks in his brain, he blinks, and he glances over at Jason… Not Jason. “You… You can’t make me tea. You’re dead.”

Jason is going to be patient. That is what he tells himself. But what he actually says is:

“How many fucking times do I have to explain this to you? I don’t care what the fuck Serena or Shayla or-”

“Sarah.”

“Thank you. I don’t care what Sarah told you. Do you feel this?” Jason shakes Dick’s shoulder. “Do you hear my fucking voice? Have you ever had a hallucination so fucking real that you believe I’m fake right now?”

For maybe the first time since they’ve arrived at Jason’s apartment, Dick looks at him. Not through him. Not past him. At him, like he actually believes Jason is there. “No,” Dick admits. “I’m… I just think I’ve finally cracked. I… Shit, I’m not supposed to be talking to you.”

“Listen to me,” Jason orders, gripping Dick’s shoulder harder than he needs to. “Talia al Ghul. Remember her?”

Dick frowns. Because, yeah. Obviously, he remembers. How could he forget if his own hallucination is telling him about her? But all he can say is, “Yes.”

“She chucked me in a Lazarus Pit,” Jason explains, words strained with the forced patience that’s been eluding him for the last hour. “I’m back. For real.” He doesn’t go into detail about the waking up in a casket or the digging himself out of his own grave. He doesn’t have a good explanation for that, and this version of Dick Grayson - this guy who’s barely holding it together, if you can even call it that - is not going to believe anything that Jason doesn’t 100% understand and believe himself. The complicated nature of his resurrection can wait until Dick is… normal again.

But that’s not really computing in Dick’s mind. Lazarus Pits aren’t all-powerful. They can revive the recently deceased and no more. How did Talia revive an old corpse? Or did she resurrect him shortly after his death? But why? She barely even knew Jason existed. And how? Bruce wired the casket like it was Fort Knox. He would have known the second an ant walked over the grave, much less if the body was removed. And…

And does Dick really care enough to fight it anymore? So he’s hallucinating. So he’s starting to believe it’s reality. So what? This is…

He just really wants his brother back.

Dick nearly chokes Jason out, hugging him just shy of a second death. But then he realizes that oh, yeah, maybe hallucinations need to breathe too, and he lets up, resting his forehead on Jason’s shoulder.

Jason hugs him back, tentatively at first but then with more intent. He… He supposes he missed Dick. He missed having someone in his corner, even if he could be an angsty asshole at times.

“I miss you, Jay,” Dick murmurs into Jason’s jacket. “I miss you so much.”

Miss, he said. Present tense. He’s still not convinced. Jason will have to take what he can get. “‘s’alright, Dickie,” Jason assures him, giving an awkward pat on the back. “We’re okay.”

“‘m sorry. Shoulda saved you. ‘m so-” His voice cuts off with a sob, and Jason’s grip tightens on Dick’s shoulders.

“It’s okay,” Jason reassures him, though his voice has gone weak, barely holding any comfort at all. He kind of wishes Dick would just shut up. Another part of him needs this, even if every word feels like a twisted dagger in his chest. It’s a confusing swirl of reactions, because Jason thought for sure he’d crave these pleas, this desperation to fix things.

But that’s not true. When Jason first saw Dick today, he wanted revenge. He wanted Dick to feel every ounce of pain that Jason did. There was no reconciling. Forgiveness was never an option. All he wanted was that agony. That realization that he was wrong. That begging for another chance, knowing that it could never happen. That’s what Jason thought he wanted.

But then Dick started apologizing, and all thoughts of revenge fled Jason’s mind. Now, he not only considers forgiveness but craves it. He wants a chance at making things right. He doesn’t like that Dick feels as horrible as he does. He needs Dick to feel this terrible, yes. He needs to know that he was missed. That he was regretted. But he doesn’t bask in it like he thought he would. He just feels sick.

“-see you everywhere now-” Jason doesn’t realize it, but Dick continues speaking. He mumbles a full monologue, explaining every single thing he should have done better. Every moment that he could have been - should have been - a better brother.  He talks about how horrific Jason’s death must have been. How no person should have had to endure that, much less a child. Much less Jason. And then he talks about the now. The now, Bruce is a mess. The now, I see you in every window pane, in the corner of my eye, on the inside of my eyelids. The now, another child has gotten involved, all because I wasn’t willing to pull Bruce out of his own misery. The now, I’ve failed you again with Tim.

Jason doesn’t hear any of it. It’s too muffled, and Dick doesn’t actually voice half of what he means to say. It comes out in slurred half-speech, disappearing under a layer of hysteria and worn leather. Not that Dick realizes this.

“Don’t…” Jason laughs, a sorry, confused, broken little thing. He tastes salt and the must of his stuffy apartment. “Don’t do that,” he pleads, fingers absently running through Dick’s hair as he mumbles into Jason’s shoulder. “You’re fine. It’s okay.”

And then, to Jason’s horror, he feels his last ounce of composure leave him, and he grips Dick’s shirt like it’s about to blow away, knuckles white and palms sweating. He rests the side of his face against Dick’s head.

And then he sobs. Disgustingly. Uncontrollably. Without even the slightest buildup. It’s just a flood. He breathes in the smell of Dick’s conditioner, and he just remembers that time. That moment Before, when things were still okay. When everything wasn’t so goddamn complicated. It was just Jason and Bruce and Alfred, with Dick showing up every once in a while to argue with B or to take Jason out on a secret patrol. Jason remembers when he was a kid - still a traumatized kid, but a kid nonetheless - who didn’t know what his own skull cracking sounded like. Who didn’t know what it felt like to beg, scream, plead for help to some merciless aberration of nature with green hair and red lips. Who didn’t know what it was like to know Batman could never save him but still believed - up until the very end - that he would.

Jason remembers that. He envies that kid. And he mourns the loss of that kid’s future. Not even a Lazarus Pit can fix something like this.

And this man… this guy muttering into his sleeve is an eternal reminder of that envy, that loss. As much as Jason hated him sometimes, he’d looked up to Dick. He hated being compared to the first Robin, but as a person… Dick was pretty cool. Always angry at B. Sometimes a little neglectful if he was in enough of a funk. But still someone that Jason admired. Someone that he thought his future might look like.

Then the clown showed up.

“Jay?” Dick finally says clearly, lifting his head and cuing Jason to let go. “Am I crazy?” Dick assumes he must be. There’s no alternative. No other reason that Jason Todd could be sitting beside him on a couch, desperately wiping away tears with his palms.

Jason considers this. “No,” he replies. “Not crazy.”

“Come home.” Dick doesn’t mean to say this, but that’s what he says. It slips out like he actually believes Jason is real, which of course he isn’t. But he’s here, and he smells the same, and he’s still got the same freckles and nose and face shape and-

And Dick can only take so much before he breaks. If this is a dream, then at least he’ll wake up having seen his brother again. If this is a hallucination, then he’s probably already on his way to a psych ward. Maybe Arkham, if he’s hurt people.

… who cares? He has Jason back.

“Dick, I… I can’t do that.”

“So you are a hallucination?” Dick tries to hide the abject sorrow in his tone. It doesn’t work.

“No. How many times do I need to tell you?”

Dick shifts back against the couch, still shoulder-to-shoulder with Jason. “Then why can’t you come home?”

“It’s-” Jason’s breath halts in his throat. He shouldn’t have to explain himself. It’s obvious. He can’t come home because… Well, because he just can’t. “It’s complicated. I… I miss you too, but…”

Dick’s eyes suddenly sober, and he tilts his head, creases his brow, and then sighs. “B. You’re upset with B.”

“More or less.” Jason says, but it’s really more. More, more, more than upset. Fuming. Livid.

...heartbroken.

Dick sees it all in his brother’s eyes. He sees the anger, the regret, the betrayal. And he knows it all too well.

They’re silent for a moment. The seconds tick by like sap oozing down a tree trunk.

“What did he do, Jase?” Dick finally asks, voice quiet but possibly more dangerous than Jason has ever heard it.

“Nothing,” Jason replies, and it’s the complete truth. “He didn’t do anything.”

He doesn’t say certain words. Important words. Words like, He didn’t kill the Joker. Words like, He didn’t let me be his last victim. Words like, He sat by and did nothing.

But Dick hears them. And maybe he is hallucinating a bit, because he hears the words with such clarity that he doesn’t question the speaker (or lack thereof). He just nods resolutely. “You don’t have to talk to him, but I can’t lose you. Not again.”

“You didn’t do anything either.” Jason doesn’t mean to say it, but it slips out anyway.

Dick nods again, rubbing the back of his neck. He doesn’t move away from Jason, and Jason doesn’t move away from Dick. They just sit side-by-side, shoulders touching.

It’s far too long before Dick speaks again. So long, in fact, that Jason forgot what he said to prompt the response.

“I killed him. The Joker.”

“You…?” Jason turns his whole body to look at Dick, pulling his feet up onto the couch and sitting cross-legged. “You didn’t do shit. He’s alive. Don’t fucking lie to me about it!”

But Dick just clenches his jaw, hands closing into fists and then opening again. “He’s alive, yeah. But I… God, I tried, Jay.” He tries to push back a headache, but Jason grabs his wrist, eyes like lasers.

“Explain,” Jason grits out, because he’s not in the mood to be toyed with today. The Golden Boy would never kill.

… but then again… Dick did have a bit of a psychotic break back there. Maybe… Maybe he really did…?

No. Jason can’t get his hopes up like that.

“I beat him to death,” Dick says simply, staring at his hands in his lap. His voice is eerily steady - steadier than even he expects. “He said your name, and I just-” He scrunches his eyes closed. Chews his lip. “I hit him until he stopped breathing. Batman did CPR.”

Dick doesn’t mean to mention Bruce. He doesn’t. He knows that Bruce only did what was best for Dick. After all, the moment Dick realized the Joker wasn’t breathing, he panicked. There was relief, yes, and he was pleased with the result, of course, but he freaked, because he wasn’t a killer. He didn’t kill. And Bruce brought the Joker back because he knew Dick would never forgive himself.

But looking into Jason’s eyes, Dick realizes just how selfish a sentiment that is. How can he live with himself knowing he was the reason the Joker came back? That he was at fault for the suffering of every subsequent victim of the Joker? And all because Bruce was trying to protect Dick’s feelings.

Dick feels nauseous.

“You killed him,” Jason echoes dumbly. “And Bruce brought him back.”

“I’m… God, I’m so…” Sorry sounds so pathetic. So inadequate. Of course he’s sorry, but what good is sorry now? Now that the Joker is still alive, still hurting people? What good is it?

Dick doesn't know. Jason knows even less.

“You killed him,” Jason repeats, because he actually believes him. Somehow, this fits. This makes sense. This half-crazed, barely functioning version of Dick Grayson would snap if the Joker mentioned Jason. He would beat the guy to death with his bare hands. This person on the couch next to him and that impossible standard in pixie boots are two very, very different people.

And yet, somehow, Bruce hasn't changed a bit. The joy of learning of the Joker’s demise cannot be separated from the devastation of realizing that Bruce has once again spurned Jason for the bleached skin and grinning lips of a homicidal maniac. For the man who took Jason away from him.

It's not fair, and life isn't fair, but this hurts worse than possibly anything Jason has been through.

“I love you, Jay,” Dick says, knowing that that may never be enough. “You're my brother. You… You never should have died, least of all because of him.” He can't mask the growl in his throat.

“You let Bruce bring him back?” Jason asks hesitantly, because that's the sticky part. Dick cared enough to kill the Joker but not enough to stop Bruce from saving him? Not enough to track him down and kill him again? It doesn't make sense.

“I…” Dick rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at Jason’s inescapable gaze. “I don't really remember what I did after I… after he died.”

Lame excuse. Both of them know it, but they also both believe it's the truth. Jason thinks Dick would have to be half-mad to break the no-killing rule. Rage-induced amnesia is plausible enough. Dick, on the other hand, has one certainty and one certainty only: he killed the Joker. Everything else that day is a hazy blur. He didn't even learn Bruce resuscitated the Joker until many guilt-ridden days later, benched from patrol and only barely sane enough to absorb the words.

“But you haven't tried to kill him since?”

Dick laughs. It sounds hollow and rickety. “Like someone would actually let me get within fifty miles of the guy.” He coughs, eyes sobering, and shakes his head. “No. No, I’m… I couldn't.”

Jason leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Bat’s still got you under his thumb, huh? You two always did have a weird dynamic. No matter how much you yelled at him and cussed him out, you still followed his lead when it mattered. Good little soldier,” he huffs.

Bile fills Dick’s mouth, and he swallows it back down. “You followed him too, Jay.”

“I was younger and stupid,” Jason counters, shooting Dick a baleful glance. “I figured it out in the end. Sounds like you didn't.”

“Maybe not,” Dick hums. “I’m sorry.”

Jason expects excuses. Defensiveness. Meaningless, lengthy apologies. But he doesn't expect one simple, “I’m sorry.” No follow-up clarification. No explaining away his fault in the offense. It takes him by surprise.

“You…” Jason doesn't finish the thought. There's not much more to say. He scratches his neck, sighs exaggeratedly, and stands up. “I’ll make tea.”

“Jason?” Dick calls, though he doesn't need to. “It's… It's really you, right? I don't need to seek psychiatric help?”

The snort from Jason’s nose is almost insulting. “Oh, I may be real, but I never said you didn't need help, Dickie.” He taps Dick’s forehead and then smoothly dodges as Dick swats at him. “Actually, I believe my exact words were ‘fucked in the head,’ so… you should probably make that appointment.”

“Dick,” Dick grumbles.

“Good job, buddy,” Jason coos patronizingly as he fills the kettle from the sink. “You remembered your name.” He resorts to humor, because that’s easier. It’s easier than facing what Dick did. What Batman did. What Jason’s blood screams for him to do.

“I’m having a mental crisis,” Dick groans, pulling his legs to his chest and burying his face between his knees. “Don’t mock me.” He, too, finds humor a safe haven in this world of clashing grief and relief. He still isn’t certain Jason is real. It’s… It’s simply too good to be true. But he can’t find evidence to the contrary either. Maybe he should check the gravesite? Just in case?

“What was that?” Jason sets the kettle on the stove and holds a hand to his ear in mock attention. “Couldn’t hear you over the brooding.”

Dick mutters something from the other side of the wall, but Jason doesn’t pay him much mind. He can’t. Not really. His mind is buzzing, thoughts zipping across his brain and crashing into his skull. And honestly, Dick is probably experiencing something similar. They’ve both had their own traumas and revelations tonight. It wouldn’t hurt to take a break.

Content with a mild distraction, Jason focuses on the task at hand. He collects his only two mugs from the sink, considering, for a long moment, simply rinsing them out but then wondering what Alfred would think and washing them properly. Next, he goes to the cabinet, pulling out honey and off-brand Lipton. Again, he considers how appalled Alfred would be to know Jason is resorting to generic tea. (“I prefer to dry the leaves myself, Master Jason,” he’d always say in that stuffy tone.)

It doesn’t matter, though. Alfred isn’t here. And even if he was, Jason doesn’t care about his opinion. He doesn’t care about anyone’s opinions.

The water takes longer to boil than usual, or it at least feels that way. Jason doesn’t go back to the living room to wait it out, though. He just watches for steam, doing his best not to think about all the thoughts that are begging to be thought of.

Dick killed the Joker for me- NO.

Bruce brought the Joker back- STOP.

Dick is probably one stubbed toe away from losing his mind, and I’m worried about- NO, NO, NO.

Jason sighs. Forget simple distractions. He needs the whole Gotham Orchestra and a small arsenal of fireworks to keep his mind off this. Unfortunately for him, he has access to neither.

“Hey, Dick?” Jason calls, giving up on watching the kettle do absolutely nothing. “You, uh… You still good?” He passes from the kitchen to the living room, and his heart sinks to his feet.

The couch is empty. The window is open. And Dick Grayson is nowhere to be found.

Dear Miss O’Brien, Thomas paused and tried to find a more even surface to write on in his ramshackle trench dugout. He had a small board balanced on a couple cans that served as a sort of table, but the board was splintery and difficult to write a letter on with a pencil. Finding a small piece of cardboard he’d stashed away earlier that day, Thomas sandwiched it between his letter and the board.

The sound of bombardment provided a near constant backdrop to his thoughts. It had started sometime in the night and had not let up for even an hour as daylight came. From the sound of it they were under fire from their own side. Someone in the brass must have thought the Germans had retaken about a hundred feet of ground during the night. In the past Thomas might have wondered why the English hadn’t stopped shelling their own side by now, but he no longer tried to make sense of why war ran the way it did.

It’s been a while since I’ve had a letter from you. I am wondering if there’s any news from home. At first it had been something of a joke in his letters to O’Brien to refer to Downton as home. It was a silly, sentimental thing that someone like Mr. Carson might do. Thomas didn’t give a damn about the place and wouldn’t have cared if it burnt to the ground. At least, that’s how he’d felt in 1914. He didn’t know quite what and he wasn’t sure quite when, but he’d started to think differently at some point. He wasn’t really joking when he called Downton home now.

I’d very much like to hear about Lady Edith’s driving lessons. Is Isis in any danger of becoming roadkill with her behind the wheel? How is Branson taking to teaching an aristocrat? Has he converted her to Marxism yet? For as long as Thomas had worked at Downton he’d known a few things to be true about the three daughters. Lady Mary was softer than she pretended to be. Lady Sybil was always looking for some new adventure, which is why O’Brien’s news of her going to be a nurse was not surprising at all. And Lady Edith was one of the most useless creatures on God’s green earth. The idea of her having enough initiative and fortitude to learn a new skill, one that Lord Grantham doubtless didn’t approve of, was mind boggling. Still, Thomas was glad to hear it. Things like this kept his mind occupied when he otherwise might have gone insane.

Licking the end of his pencil he continued. I’m interested to know what all is happening with Anna, is Bates still stringing her along? While Thomas cared very little for Bates, he often thought the man was a cad for continuing to give Anna hope. Anna was a good person in every sense of the word and didn’t deserve Mr. ‘I’m working on a divorce, I swear’ Bates to keep her on a string for years and years on end. He wondered if they were sleeping together and that’s why Anna was reluctant to give him up, now that she’d been sullied. Truth be told, he liked Anna, probably more than he ought to. She was a good little rule follower to be certain. Normally he didn’t care for those types. But Anna always tempered her rule following with sense, and was willing to be a friend to anyone if they treated her decent. That had always been his problem, he’d never treated her decent. Instead he’d constantly tried to get a rise out of her with ugly words and provocative statements. She never fell for it though. She’d just shake her head and go on with her life. Mr. Carson and William would always fall for it, and Bates was easy to bait. But Anna always kept her cool. Part of Thomas actually admired her for it.

Before Thomas could expand on his thoughts about Bates and Anna, a young soldier came to fetch him and his medic’s kit. Shoving his letter and pencil into his pocket, Thomas grabbed his helmet and kit and scurried out of his dugout. Crouching he and the young soldier wended their way through the trenches and tried to avoid becoming victims of the continued shelling. Thomas was eventually led to another dugout where Lt. Crawley was waiting.

“There you are,” said Lt. Crawley, a look of immense relief on his face. “We need you very badly. How much surgical practice do you have?”

Thomas grew a little afraid. “Not really very much, sir. I mostly just fetch and pack. I don’t do much in the way of surgery.”

“Well, I’m afraid you’ll have to give it a go. We’re locked down right here and we can’t get anyone else in. You’ll have to do it.” Lt. Crawley and Thomas both ducked as a strong explosion rattled the boards that construed the floor and walls of the officer’s dugout.

Thomas looked around the small dugout for his prospective patient. “Are you needing the surgery, sir?”

Lt. Crawley paused and looked over his shoulder where he was taking a small birdcage off a hook. “No, not for myself. Your patient is Speckled Jim.”

Thomas wasn’t sure if he’d heard the lieutenant correctly. “You mean the courier pigeon?” He couldn’t imagine anyone but a pigeon going by the moniker Speckled Jim.

“I’m afraid so,” said Lt. Crawley as he placed the birdcage on his planning desk. “And as funny as this all might seem it’s deadly serious. We need to get a message out about our position so they’ll stop shelling the hell out of us. All our lines are out of commission, in no small part due to this damn bombardment. This pigeon is the only way for us to get the word out.”

Thomas came to stand by the desk and look at his patient. The small, blood-spattered bird was hopping and flapping about in the cage, clearly in distress. “I’ve never operated on an animal before, sir. Certainly not something as small as a bird. There’s no way I can ensure the survival of this creature.”

“I understand that, Corporal, but you’re the best man I’ve got here. Speckled Jim came in about a half hour ago and seems to have taken some shrapnel.” Lt. Crawley looked up from the bird and caught Thomas’ eye. They both seemed to be having a hard time believing what was being said. “If you can remove it and clean him up so he’s strong enough to fly home that’s all we need.”

Thomas took in a deep breath. “Not asking for much, are you.” He then remembered who he was speaking too and added after the fact, “Sir.”

“I think of it this way, you can operate and if it fails then we’re back to where we started, if you succeed we might get a message out and get a break from this bombardment.” The two men exchanged a meaningful look.

It was a chance Thomas was willing to take.

“Can we clear this desk and make it into an operating theater, sir?” asked Thomas as he unlooped his medic’s bag from over his shoulder. Lt. Crawley was already moving aside his maps and communiques to clear as much of the surface of the desk as possible. Thomas started unpacking anything he thought would be helpful for the pigeon surgery. Looking up from his bag he asked, “Do you have any surgical spirits? I have a very little left and I’d like to keep it for the soldiers if I can.”

“Of course,” said Lt. Crawley as he began to rifle through the flimsy shelves of his dugout. “What about some cognac, this one’s pretty strong and tastes about the same as medical inventory.” Thomas was handed a medium sized bottle that was mostly full. The label was in French and Thomas guessed it was probably some bootleg swill. But he only needed it to kill germs so he didn’t care how it tasted. Pouring out a generous amount on the desk he let it sit and sterilize the surface for a moment before wiping it up. He treated his surgical implements the same way. Then picking up the birdcage he opened the door.

A sudden burst of flapping and feathers came from the cage, causing Thomas to pull his hand back. “I don’t want to hurt him getting him out of the cage.” Looking up at Lt. Crawley, Thomas said, “I’ve never really handled live birds before.” He wasn’t sure how delicate a pigeon was. There was little use performing surgery if he accidentally broke a bone while doing it.

“Here,” said Lt. Crawley, taking the cage from Thomas and plunging his hand inside with confidence. There was no similar burst of feathers from the cage this time and Lt. Crawley withdrew the bird with calm. The animal bobbed his head back and forth but didn’t seem too terribly distressed.

“Nicely done, sir. If I may say,” said Thomas.

Lt. Crawley smiled as he repositioned his hands so that Thomas might take a better look at Speckled Jim. “My first year in uni I spent part of the spring term in a pigeon racing club. Had no idea at the time that it might be any use to me in the future.”

Thomas delicately probed the animal, trying to assess where exactly the worst of the injuries were. “Life has a funny way of working out like that, sir.” Lt. Crawley did an excellent job holding the bird still while Thomas attempted, gingerly as he could, to find all the points of injury. After a moment’s examination, Thomas was confident that he could remove the offending shards embedded in the bird and get him back to flying strength. He cleansed the bird as much as he could so he could see what he was doing. Then he took up his most finest set of forceps, which were indistinguishable from regular tweezers, and held them delicately as possible. Thomas started on the pieces that were easiest to see and the least embedded. All of the shrapnel seemed to be the size of a splinter. Thin, but not too damaging. Possibly deadly if infection set in but not immediately dangerous. The dugout was quiet with only the background of bombardment as noise.

“Do you hear much from home?” asked Lt. Crawley in the silence as he manhandled Speckled Jim.

Thomas had a small tin laying open on the table and began dropping the shards into it as he plucked them out. The bird’s feathers hadn’t done too bad a job of protecting him from the worst of the damage. “I get letters every so often. Miss O’Brien writes me about what’s going on.”

“I guess I was meaning from your family. Do your parents ever write?” Lt. Crawley corrected.

Thomas was momentarily embarrassed. Usually when others asked such a question he remembered that they would be talking about his natural family. Lt. Crawley had taken him off guard because Lt. Crawley had known him at Downton. I may be cracking up, thought Thomas, I really am starting to think of Downton as my home. “Not as often, sir. My mother isn’t much of a letter writer and to be honest I’m not sure my dad can even read.” His father only ever touched the newspaper to check the racing scores, and Thomas had never seen him even so much as holding a book, so it was a fair enough guess.

“I suppose those letters from Downton must keep you going then?” said Lt. Crawley as he carefully stretched out Speckled Jims leg so that Thomas could clear away more shards.

“I would say you’re correct, sir. Takes my mind off things for a few moments at least. Do you hear much about what goes on there?” asked Thomas.

Lt. Crawley shrugged. “Mother writes often enough about the goings on, but it seems life for them never changes very much from year to year. The most exciting thing I’ve heard recently is that Lady Edith is learning to drive.”

Thomas smiled as he dislodged another bit of shrapnel. “I heard that one too, sir. I can’t imagine how that must be going.”

Lt. Crawley released the pigeon’s leg and let it flex back to its normal posture. “Me either. You didn’t hear me say this but I’m not sure the streets of Yorkshire are safe with her on the road.”

Thomas laughed. He knew better than to chip in a derogatory comment of his own, but at least he could enjoy the lieutenant’s words. “I heard Lady Sybil is taking up nursing. Do you think she’s pulling shards out of pigeons?”

“I’d rather think she’s doing that than pulling them out of soldiers. I have no idea what the hospital situation at Downton is like.” Finally, Lt. Crawley spread Speckled Jim’s left wing where a larger piece of shrapnel was nestled right at the join of the wing to the body.

“Hopefully a sight better than it is here.” Thomas had been to the field hospitals and evac stations often enough and knew they were little better than laying in the trenches. Looking over the bird’s wing, Thomas grimaced and picked up his scalpel. “Hold him as still as you can, sir. This one might upset him a bit.”

“How long have you been here?” asked Lt. Crawley.

“In France, or in this trench?” asked Thomas in reply. “I joined in fourteen and it’s been an eternity since then, and this Somme operation has been going on since the beginning of time I think, so I’m not really sure anymore.”

“Have you ever gotten a chance to go back home?” Lt. Crawley did his best to keep Speckled Jim calm as Thomas’ scalpel delicately cut the foreign object free.

“You must be kidding,” said Thomas before once again realizing he was being too rude. “No, sir. I get rotated off the line every so often. Medics are in too short supply to get out of the fun.”

Another round of bombardment shook the entire dugout and drowned out Lt. Crawley’s next words. “This is madness,” said Lt. Crawley once they could hear again. “Absolute lunacy.”

“Hold him now, sir. I’m about to extract.” Thomas picked up his forceps again and began to dislodge the bigger piece. This one was about the size of two grains of rice, but it was more deeply embedded than the others. The bird didn’t put up much of a struggle and Thomas wondered if it was half drunk off the alcohol vapors emanating from the tabletop.

Both men held their breath as Thomas removed the final injurious piece. Then, taking a scrap of gauze, Thomas swabbed the open wound with antiseptic and applied pressure. He treated the other, smaller wounds with a dab of antiseptic as well. The bird struggled and squirmed a bit, but Lt. Crawley kept a firm hand on him.

Thomas reached for the birdcage. “I think if he seems all right in a few hours he’s going to make it. Maybe give him some extra food or whatever it is that pigeons like to perk him up a bit. Are you planning to send him out tomorrow?”

“Today, if he can manage it,” said Lt. Crawley. “The bombardment is costing us lost men and lost time. It needs to end now.” Placing Speckled Jim back into the birdcage, Lt. Crawley hung the cage back on its hook.

Thomas began picking up his tools and cleaning them as best he could. “Let’s hope I was able to help any.”

“I think Speckled Jim stands a chance of at least flying back to HQ. That’s all we need from him now.” Lt. Crawley saw Thomas was packing up his medical bag. “Why don’t you stay and have a drink for a minute. To celebrate a job well done.”

Thomas paused for a moment, catching Lt. Crawley’s eye. Then he gave a half-laugh. “You’re not going to give me that antiseptic cognac we used on the bird, are you?”

Lt. Crawley laughed in turn. “I am not.” Then going over to his shelf he moved around some bottles and came back with a small bottle of real brandy. “I keep this one a secret. Don’t spread it around.”

Lt. Crawley gestured for Thomas to sit. Pouring the brandy into tin mess cups, the two men sipped at the liquor and tried to ignore the sounds of bombardment.

“Do you really think of Downton as home?” Lt. Crawley asked after a moment’s silence passed between them.

“I don’t know. Sometimes.” Thomas answered honestly. “I’ve lived there for a long time. I was little more than a kid when I first came to work there as a hall boy. I guess I sort of grew up there with Mr. Carson as dad and Mrs. Hughes playing mum, and myself the problem child of the family.” Thomas looked at Lt. Crawley. “Where’s home for you? Downton or Manchester?”

Lt. Crawley smiled a bit. “I suppose when I think of home I think about where Mother is. Not a specific place, but the people more so.”

Thomas pulled out his pack of cigarettes and offered one to the officer. Lt. Crawley accepted and lighting up, Thomas asked, “Do you see Downton as your home more now than when you first came?”

Matthew nodded. “Yes. I certainly do. But again, I think it’s the people. I can hardly imagine my life without Lord and Lady Grantham and the rest of them.”

“And Lady Mary?” asked Thomas, taking a drag off his cigarette and knowing he was pushing his luck. In some ways, however, it was almost a joy to talk about the mundanity of old lover’s quarrels instead of having to think about how many men you saw die that day.

“I suppose her too,” said Matthew, “though not like you think. If we ever see each other again it will be only as distant relations.”

Lt. Crawley, too, seemed to be feeling the pull of candid conversation about anything but death and disease. Thomas nodded. “So she doesn’t write you?”

Lt. Crawley shook his head. “No. I don’t get letters from her. Lord or Lady Grantham write on occasion but they never say much about the girls.”

“Miss O’Brien tells me Lady Mary always asks about you when she sees your mother. And that she keeps a photo of you under her pillow.” Thomas wasn’t sure if he was trying to stir up trouble or just sharing gossip.

Matthew looked a little taken aback. Then he shook his head. “You’re putting me on,” he said before taking a puff of his cigarette.

“I am not,” Thomas insisted as he dug the letter out of his pocket. He often kept several letters on him in case he was hunkered down in a distant part of the trench somewhere for a long time. It at least gave him something to read. Pulling out the pages he said, “Look, right here O’Brien writes ‘and Lady Mary may act like she’s not worried, but Anna says she keeps a photo of Mr. Matthew under her pillow.’ I know O’Brien, she wouldn’t be making this up.” Thomas tucked the letter back into his pocket and exhaled the smoke from his cigarette.

“I still don’t think I should believe it,” said Matthew. “But I do believe that’s what you were told.”

Thomas shrugged. “That’s all I can go off out here.” Taking a drag of his cigarette he added, “But I wouldn’t put it past Lady Mary. She likes to act like she doesn’t care, but she does.”

“It’s no use thinking about it,” said Matthew. “Lady Mary and I is one thing even this war can’t change.”

“That’s probably true enough,” said Thomas. “The only thing this war seems to change is the average life expectancy of English men.”

Lt. Crawley gave a mirthless laugh. “Let’s hope you and I are not added to that number anytime soon.” Finishing his brandy, Lt. Crawley put aside his cup. “Will you come back in an hour or two and give Speckled Jim one last look over?”

Thomas finished his own cup, the liquor leaving a slightly warm sensation in his throat as he swallowed it. Dropping his cigarette on the ground he stood up. “Of course, sir.”

Lt. Crawley also stood up. Whist their camaraderie had to fade into the background once more, the invisible bond of Downton still pulled them together. Thomas saluted and gathered his medic’s bag, and departed the officer’s dugout. The bombardment was still every bit as loud as it had been all day and half the night. Thomas hoped that the pigeon would actually do the job and they’d get the guns off them before the end of the day.

Coming back to his own dugout, Thomas sat down and tried to complete his letter. I’ve been speaking to Mr. Matthew, he’s alive and well as of this letter. I think he’s still quite in love with Lady Mary. Thomas wasn’t actually sure on this point, but it was sure to cause a bit of fuss in O’Brien’s hands. He says he thinks of her and of Downton as home. That would be sure to cause a stir, he just wished he’d be home to see it play out. You’ll never believe the surgery I just performed. If the patient lives I may have a future as a veterinarian. He knew O’Brien would either assume he was talking about an officer or a horse. He would wait to reveal it was a pigeon. I hope you and all the others are well. Do keep me updated on all goings on. It’s the only thing keeping me sane right now.

Thomas sat back and reread the letter. It was painfully short, but he had nothing else he wanted to write about. He never put to pen the things he saw every day and there had been little to break the monotony of the Somme offensive for months now. The mail from England didn’t exactly come with amazing speed, but he hoped to read a reply soon enough. Signing his name he scrounged up and envelope and tucked the precious packet into his breast pocket. It would probably be some days before this could be sent out, and only if the bombardment could be brought to an end. Still, he’d be ready when the time came.

She laid on her side staring at the guitar that was propped up in the corner of the room with a thin layer of dust on its polished surface. The walnut finish called and beckoned to her like a sirens song and she found herself holding the neglected instrument in her lap as she carefully oiled the fretboard and restrung it, plucking at the strings as she tuned it before just lazily strumming on them as her mind began to drift and wander. How long had it been since she had sang? She used to love singing. What happened? She used to spend hours and hours in that silly little closet before she stopped. Was it when her former roommate pitched a fit about it even though she knew for a fact they couldn’t hear a single noise coming from the closet unless they were right outside the door? Or was it when everything just became too much to do and all she could bring herself to do was to shower at least once a week and make attempts to eat? She had only recently started tapping Keyes keys again and honestly she felt that picking the guitar up again might be just…too much for her. But here she was, lightly strumming a familiar tune and humming along with it as she stared glossily at the wall ahead of her, vaguely aware of the bedroom objects watching and listening to her. Even Bathsheba, Jean Loo, Barry, and Sinclaire were piled in the doorway of the bathroom as they listened to her. Her humming and strumming drifted through Hector’s vents and filled the house with the faintest playing of her guitar. 

~~~

She used to spend hours in this closet, singing, writing, playing her guitar until her fingers bled onto the strings, infusing herself more into the instrument. But now it sat empty. The toolbox back on the floor as the foam pads that helped to keep the noise from bouncing half peeled from the walls thanks to the cheap adhesive slowly losing its stickiness with age and neglect. But she hadn’t touched her guitar in months. Hadn’t sat in that closet for almost a year to sing. She only went in to do some regular maintenance on the old thing or to grab her toolbox. That didn’t change even when she got the Dateviators. She had been to the Breaker Box all of two times and was about ready to decide that it just wasn’t her scene. Sure the drinks were good, the owners were nice to look at, but that’s where it ended. One was so obviously putting on a show all the time and the other was making himself as unappealing as possible. Both were defense tactics, she knew that. But those two trips and the interactions she had with Volt and Eddie were enough to turn her off of visiting again. 

After doing this for a few minutes she stopped and set the guitar down on her bed before grabbing the Dateviators from the nightstand and putting them on. And immediately was face to face with almost everyone in her bedroom and even some of the upstairs bathroom folk. Betty came up behind her and wrapped her arms around her torso and pulled her back into her warm and soft hold. “Such pretty music, baby…I had almost forgotten what it sounded like.” she hummed as she ran her fingers through Avory’s hair, working out the tangles as her fingers came across them. “You should do the open mic tonight at the Breaker Box.”

Avory closed her eyes as she let her body melt into Betty’s arms, sinking into the softness of her body but shaking her head a little at the suggestion. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Betty.”

“And why’s that, honeybun?” Betty asked softly as she began to massage Avory’s scalp, a content smile on her face as she felt the tension bleed from her stiff body.

Avory was quiet for a minute, her eyes still closed as she felt Betty’s nail lightly scrape across her scalp. “Would they even like the type of music I play?” she asked curiously, tilting her head back and resting on Betty’s shoulder as she opened her eyes, momentarily losing herself in the dark warmth of Betty’s eyes.

“I think they’ll like any music you play.” Betty smiled as she pressed a kiss to Avory’s forehead. 

And that’s how she found herself outside the Breaker Box just a few minutes after it opened. She had left her guitar in the closet when she pulled on the Dateviators just in case she was told to pound sand which frankly she wouldn’t be surprised if she was. She had only been by twice, dropped off the face of the earth as far as they were concerned, and was now showing up to ask if there was a slot open for the night's open mic night.

No sooner had she pushed open the door there was a very loud and excited greeting being tossed her way.

“Livewire!” Volt beamed as he walked away from where he was leaning on the counter. No one was in the club yet. Cam would be coming in soon to take his usual seat and heckle Johnny when the poor singer took the stage. “I was starting to worry that I may have made you feel unwanted or uncomfortable.” he said as he came to a stop in front of her, holding his hand out for hers which she supplied. He pressed a kiss to her knuckles and a smile curled on his lips as the small zap of static passed between his lips and her chilled flesh. With her hand in his he was able to feel the slight warmth radiating from her finger tips but didn’t comment on it as he led her to her unofficial stool at the bar. “To what do we owe the honor of a surprise visit?” he asked curiously as he stepped around the back of the bar and began to mix together a drink for her. Eddie was sitting at the complete opposite end of the bar, his own half finished drink in front of him as he watched Volt and Avory out of the corner of his eye. 

Avory watched Volt’s arms and hands as he skillfully and masterfully mixed her drink together, her shoulders rising and falling in a small shrug. “Betty suggested I ask about your open mic night. I was wondering if it was possible for me to snag a spot.” she said honestly as she picked at the cuticle on her right pinky. Mentally preparing for rejection, planning a quick verbal backtrack. Preparing for literally everything but what was said.

“Why not? It’s been a while since we’ve had any fresh voices up on that stage.” Eddie shrugged from where he was sitting at the other end of the bar. “Can’t be any worse than Johnny.”

“What he means to say, Livewire is that we’d love to have you on stage tonight. Do you need anything special set up? Lights, music?” Volt was quick to swoop in with a much nicer acceptance of her question. There was a small almost nervous laugh from the human in front of him as she shook her head no.

“No. I’ll be all set. I have a guitar I can use.” she reassured, taking the drink when he set the glass onto the top of the bar. “I guess I’ll just need two mics. One for me and one for the guitar.”

She glanced over at Eddie as he got up and walked over to the door that led backstage, her eyes following him until the door shut behind him. She then looked over at Volt, who was still giving her a bright smile.

“We’ll have everything prepared for you. Open mic is first come first serve, and you my dear are today’s first.” Volt said as he leaned on the bar, silver eyes studying and watching her as she took a drink of the vanilla whiskey sour he had made for her.

“I beat Johnny?” she asked with a playful smile, licking the foam off her top lip without a single thought. Her eyebrows raised slightly when she physically saw Volt’s Adams apple bob from how hard he swallowed but she didn’t comment on it.

“You did. He usually comes in with Jean Loo. Those two will be showing up in roughly twenty minutes.” Volt confirmed, his eyes looking over her shoulder as Eddie got the stage prepared. “Do you want a stool to sit on while you play? I hear it helps people play comfortably.”

“If it isn’t too much of a bother.” Avory nodded as she took another drink of her whiskey sour. “I’ll be right back. I’m going to grab my guitar before everyone starts to pour in.” she said as she slid out of her stool and walked to the entrance of the club, unaware that the two co-owners had stopped whatever it was they were doing and watched her leave before they looked over at each other. 

“Told you she wasn’t scared off.” Eddie muttered as he grabbed a stool from the backroom and set it down on the stage where everything was set up for Livewire Avory.

“She only came back because Betty suggested it to her.” Volt pointed out as he finished wiping down and cleaning the shaker. “I don’t think she would have come back otherwise.”

“Then the next time Betty shows up, give her a round of drinks on the house.” Eddie grumbled, ignoring the shocked look this got from Volt before letting the conversation die down as the door opened once more. This time it was their regular group of objects walking in. And soon they fell back into pattern and routine. Volt being the ever gracious host and Eddie manning the bar as more and more folk poured in. It was unusually busy for a Thursday, but neither of them were going to complain. 

Avory stood outside the closed breaker box, the pink shades in one hand and her guitar in the other. She knew Betty was standing right behind her. She could practically feel her body draped over her back and shoulders. With a deep breath she put the glasses on and looked over at Betty.

“Ready, pumpkin?” Betty asked gently, rubbing small circles into Avory’s shoulder.

“Yeah.” she nodded. And in they went. The club was a lot more lively than it typically was. It looked more like a Friday or Saturday than it did a Thursday. But regardless the two walked through the crowd and towards the bar. Avory could see her drink safely behind the counter but the lack of ice in it told her that as soon as Volt or Eddie spotted her, it’d be dumped and remade. She was surprised Eddie hadn’t already tossed it. But the line at the bar seemed to be her answer. She opened her mouth to offer Eddie some help when Bev darted behind the counter to give the grumpy man some help, even if he didn’t want it. For a split second green met tungsten before tungsten went back to work and green sought out silver. 

She found Volt before he found her which was a first for her in all honesty. She had never once been able to sneak up on him or go undetected by him for more than a few seconds after entering the bar and to be honest it gave her a small bit of pride to see a small fraction of his true self under that perfect mask he had created for himself. The genuine shock that flashed in his eyes and the way his lips parted ever so slightly made him look far more human and comfortable to be around. But just as quick as it was there, it was gone. “Ah! Livewire! There you are! I was starting to worry you had gotten cold feet on us!” he beamed, silver eyes soaking up her wardrobe change.

She had forgone her comfortable pull over sweater, sneakers, and jeans opting for a navy blue sleeveless drop waist dress and a pair of heels. It made the two of them almost eye level. Almost. Her hair was down loose around her shoulders, the ends curling ever so slightly while the rest held depths of waves. “I would never dream of it.” she said with a warm smile. Her guitar was hanging at her side, a soothing and comfortable weight on her shoulder and against her hip. She pretended to not notice the sensation of eyes on her as Volt led her onto the stage, the house lights dimming as the stage lights brightened to illuminate the two standing on it. 

“Ladies, gentlemen, and all things in between! It is my greatest pleasure to welcome a very special guest to the stage!” Volt beamed as his arm swept over towards Avory, a light turning on and revealing her to the crowd. There was a wave of claps, cheers, hoots and hollers as she smiled and bowed her head slightly in response to the warm welcome she had received from the various objects gathered in the crowd. Her eyes soon found Betty, Amir, Barry, and Bathsheba in a table close to the stage, her shoulders relaxing ever so slightly as the group gave her smiles and Barry gave an overly enthusiastic cheer which turned into a wince when Bathsheba elbowed him. Avory chuckled softly as she sat on the stool, lightly strumming her guitar to get a feel for the volume of the speaker that was providing feedback for her instrument before adjusting it slightly.

She continued to strum on her strings for a few minutes as the crowd settled down. “The cheers and claps should go to Betty. She’s the one who told me about the open mic and encouraged me to do this.” she said in a soft, honey like tone as she started to slowly strum the opening notes of her song slowly, repeating it in a loop as a soft ripple of laughter and claps went through the crowd. Betty gave everyone a proud little smile as she sat with Barry nestled into her side. Avory adjusted on the stool again while taking a deep breath through her nose and began her song. 

”I had a thought dear, however scary about that night the bugs and the dirt. Why were you digging? What did you bury before those hands pulled me from the earth?” she sang soothingly into the mic as a hush fell upon the crowd. Her eyes were closed as she felt the soothing peace of playing wash over her, a smile finding itself on her lips as she continued. ”I will not ask you where you came from. I will not ask and neither should you. Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips we should just kiss like real people do…”

Eddie stood frozen at the bar as he stared at the human on stage, rag clutched tightly in his fist as a familiar feeling washed over him. The feeling of peace. Of relaxation. Of safety. His breathing became heavy without him realizing it, tunnel vision allowing him to only see the human on stage and didn’t let him see Volt coming over and standing next to him.

“Eddie, dear. Are you alright?” Volt whispered to his partner, a hand finding its on his hip as he watched Eddie stare at the stage as if it just told him the meaning to life.

“Shut up and listen.” Eddie snapped in a whisper that was a smidge too harsh, but Volt simply nodded as he listened to the singing of the human on stage. 

Eddie’s throat constricted and Volt’s hand tightened as Avory’s eyes slowly opened once more, her green eyes latching onto their silver and tungsten ones. There was no judgement in those lichen depths, only understanding and the warm light of passion and peace. ”I could not ask you where you came from. I could not ask you, neither could you. Honey, just put those sweet lips on my lips. We could just kiss like real people do.” Her words faded away as her strumming carried on for a few seconds before that too stopped, leaving the club in silence before she looked away from Volt and Eddie and gave a bright smile to the rest of the club. “Thank you for listening and for being such a lovely audience.” she said gently into the microphone before she stood up, her guitar resting at her side as she bowed slightly to those in attendance. Claps, cheers, and whistles were her response as she began to get off the stage. 

”I knew that look dear; eyes always seeking was there in someone that dug long ago? So I will not ask you why you are creeping, in some sad way I already know.” her voice continued to float through the club like the sweetest and gentlest of spring breezes. Her head was tilted back ever so slightly as her eyes opened just enough to look out at the crowd. Her eyes still appeared closed as she scanned everyone’s reactions. Betty was smiling proudly like a mother at her daughter's first recital, Barry had a hand over his mouth and blotted occasionally at his eyes with a napkin. Amir’s smile was subdued but proud as well, his fingers intertwined with Bathsheba’s as she watched with her full attention on her friend. Johnny was grinning ear to ear as he listened to her sing. Even though he had heard her voice countless times when she showered, he could never truly grow tired of it. There wasn’t even a single mid performance heckle from Cam as he watched her play on stage.

"I will not ask you where you came from. I will not ask and neither would you. Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips. We should just kiss like real people do.” Her eyes found Eddie and Volt at the end of the bar. Eddie behind the counter with Volt right next to him. The look in the shorter male's eyes almost made her stop mid strum as she hummed what should have been the vocalization of the song. Disbelief, longing, shock, and the turmoil of sorrow swirled through his eyes like a restless sea in the early hours of a storm. Volt was gazing at her with unfiltered admiration, his mouth slightly agape with the tranquility brought by the achingly familiar sound of her voice. 

Volt was over there in a heartbeat as he offered her his arm. “Here; please allow me to help you to your table, Livewire.” he said with the ever present charming smile. But there was a hint of sincerity in it now. He wasn’t as deeply in work mode as he had been a mere three minutes ago.

“Thank you, Volt.” she said with a warm smile as she took his arm. At her usual table there was a glass of cold water and a freshly made vanilla whiskey sour. She didn’t say anything about the raw emotions she saw on the two owners of the club as she sat down, setting her guitar on the empty chair next to her.

“You’re quite welcome, Livewire. I am truly glad you played for us tonight.” he said softly, his eyes half lidded as his smile became something more…sincere. More personal.

Us. Not the club, not the house. Us.

His face was too close.

“I am too.” Avory whispered back before she slowly pulled her hand away from his forearm and leaned back, her heart leaping a little at the flash of disappointment that went through his eyes at the loss of contact. “It’s been a while since I’ve actually played. Thank you for letting me play for you tonight.” Her eyes drifted away from his as she looked over at the bar. Green met tungsten and held them.

For you. Not the club. Not her friends. For you.

For him.

“Of course, Livewire. I must take my leave of you now, but I do hope to see you here again.” Volt said as he stood up from the chair, pushing it back in after he stood up and vanishing into the crowd once more. Avory simply nodded at his words, not looking away from Eddie. Without really thinking about what she was doing she lightly patted the now empty seat next to her.

His eyes darted down to where she had patted before he looked around the club. The bar was dead and Bev was here…she’d jump back on if he really needed her help while he was away from the counter. After tossing the rag he had been clutching tightly into the dirty rag hamper and grabbing a water pitcher he walked over to Avory’s table, his eyes never once leaving hers. Not even as he sat down in the seat she had patted.

“I didn’t actually expect you to sit with me.” Avory said softly in an attempt to break the slowly growing tension.

“I can leave.” he retorted, but there was no fire behind his words. He didn’t mean it. She watched his hand as he topped her glass of water off, a murmur of thanks leaving her as she grabbed the glass and took another drink from it. Her whiskey sour was untouched. They sat in silence for the remainder of the night, Eddie only leaving to help Volt round up stragglers and it was during this time that Betty came over to Avory’s table.

“Hi, honey.” she said with a smile as she pressed a kiss to the top of Avory’s head. “Are you coming back with us?” she asked curiously, running a hand through her red hair.

Avory nodded silently as she stood up and made to grab her guitar but was stopped when Amir got to it first. “I’ll bring this back with me. I think our hosts want to say goodbye.” he said with a shockingly smug smile as he looked over at the bar where Volt and Eddie were staring at the small group. Avory looked over as well and nodded a little when she looked back at Amir. “Alright. Thank you, Amir.” she said with a smile as she pushed her chair in and stretched her back a little before getting pulled into a hug that smelled of spice and jasmine.

“Of course, Joonam. I will see you in a few minutes.” he smiled before leaving the club with her guitar.

“I’ll wait for you outside.” Betty promised as she pressed a kiss to the top of her head before following after Amir. What Avory didn’t see was the ‘don’t fuck with her’ look the typically passive and laid back woman gave Eddie and Volt before she left the club and waited just outside like she said she would.

Avory picked up her glasses and the pitcher and walked over to the bar, Volt and Eddie seemingly frozen in place until she got within three feet of the bar. It was then that Volt sprung to action and nimbly took the water pitcher from her. “You didn’t need to do that, Livewire.” he scolded playfully while setting the pitcher on the bar counter.

“I wanted to.” She said with a small shrug as she set the glasses on the bar as well. “I wanted to thank you guys again for letting me play tonight.” Her smile was soft. Tired. But it was real. Her eyes were soft with genuine passion and warmth for what she did. But also for the two in front of her.

“No no, thank you for allowing us the pleasure of hearing your voice.” Volt said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “If at any time you wish to take the stage again, simply let us know. No matter how late into the night it is. You are always welcome to sit up there and play your heart out.” he said with a smile. Avory glanced over at Eddie who she had spent most of the night sitting in silence with for his input.

“If Volt’s offering, I’ve already given my approval.” He grunted out, but the usual bite was still missing from his tone. 

“I’d be honored. Thank you. Truly.” Her smile was infectious, Volt soon smiling and even Eddie’s shoulders had relaxed slightly.

A bright smile was their response, her eyes lighting up like she had been told that she had won a million dollars. And in her mind, she had. In the course of a single night she had gone from being kept at arms length by them both to being offered a permanent spot on the stage that was hers whenever she wanted. She had seen snapshots of the true Eddie and Volt that laid below the masks and walls they both had.

“You’re welcome, Livewire. Now, off you go before Betty comes in here and tears us a new one for keeping you out too late.” Volt said with a shooing motion.

“I’m 24, not 16.” She laughed with a shake of her head but she took a step away from the bar and began to walk to the exit, stopping at the door and looking over at the two of them. “Goodnight, Volt. Night, Eddie.” she said with a gentle smile before pushing the door open and vanishing back into her house.

Eddie sank down onto the ground behind the bar as a deep shaky breath left him while Volt locked the door. The two made eye contact when Volt walked back over. Not a word was said between them, but the understanding was there. 

The voice that would sing and play for hours upon hours after the club closed had been her. It had always been her.