#dcu peacemaker

The woods felt alive after last night’s rain. The air carried that earthy dampness, the smell of moss and wet bark, the sound of droplets still sliding off high branches.

Fallen branches snap beneath your steps as you crouch now and then, fingers parting moss, flipping over stones in search of something worth keeping. Teeth, mostly. The odd jaw fragment if you’re lucky. A frog you won’t actually touch but want to look at, anyway. 

Every time you kneel down, the small off-white charm of your necklace sways against your chest. Your wisdom tooth. 

You use the stick in your hands to peel back a sheet of moss, and there it is; the delicate, paper-thin jawbone of a shrew. You tucked it carefully into a small tin you kept in your pocket, the tiny teeth a perfect, miniature marvel.

It was then you saw him.

In the clearing, where the thick brush and ferns thin out by manmade paths wearing the vegetation down. A man sitting on a rotted log in a patch of clearing, slumped forward like a discarded scarecrow. Behind him, on a blanket of leaves, lay an impressive lineup of objects—an old toaster with its guts spilling out, a microwave with scorch marks, a blender missing its lid. He had a gun resting across his knees. He’s muttering to himself, shoulders hunched, like someone trying to will a good time into existence.

It’s weirdly… lonely.

He's dressed head to toe in dark tactical gear, accented with teal, and a helmet covering his head and face. 

You stop short, a twig crunching under your boot. His head snaps up. Slowly, he twists, and you’re struck by how startled his eyes look behind the strange red V-shaped visor. He’s masked, dressed in black and teal, like a superhero but… thriftier. Definitely not licensed.

He’s surprised. You’re surprised. A little standoff of two weirdos who had absolutely not accounted for the possibility of another human intruding on whatever this moment was supposed to be. 

He could've shot you with the big ass gun in his lap. For a second you see him twitch, like he might if he perceived you as a threat in any way. You gulp, stepping a few paces closer to him, hesitantly.

“…What are you doing?” you ask finally, because someone has to.

“Uh—shooting this toaster with a gun,” he blurted, as if that were the most reasonable answer in the world. He stands up and gestures out to the graveyard of air fryers, food processors, blenders and slow cookers. 

Then, almost accusingly: “What are you doing?”

The clearing felt like a place you weren’t supposed to see, like stumbling onto a secret someone thought the world had forgotten. His mask gleamed faintly in the damp daylight, and you caught how tightly he gripped the gun across his knees when you spoke, like he wasn’t sure if you were going to end up being a problem.

When he asked what you were doing, a bit too sharp, you shifted, brushing your fingers over the tin in your pocket. 

“Collecting bones,” you answer him with the same honesty he granted you.

His head tilted. “Like… human bones?”

Your brows pinched, you shake your head profusely. You could be strange, but not on the level of grave robbing strange.

“No. That’d be a crime, I think.” You tugged at the necklace resting against your collarbone, the chain slipping between your fingers in a nervous habit. 

“Teeth. Animal bones. Things like this.” To demonstrate, you reach into your tin and carefully pulled out your latest find, holding the tiny shrew jaw in your open palm.

“Found this a minute ago.”

He took a hesitant step closer, then another, until he was looming over your hand. You expected a recoil, a comment about it being gross, but instead, he crouched down for a better look, his masked head getting surprisingly close to your palm.

“Whoa,” he breathed, the sound muffled. 

“Is that… a baby squirrel?”

“A shrew, I think,” you corrected gently. 

“See how sharp the teeth are? For eating insects.”

“Cool.” He stayed leaned in close, mesmerized by the minuscule artifact. His head tilted toward you, his red visor meeting your eyes. 

“My best friend was supposed to be here. He has a whole truck full of stuff to blow up. But he's really important...and busy.” and definitely didn't blow him off for the third time. There was a palpable wave of disappointment in his voice. A childish pout was sitting just beneath his disguise.

You aren’t good at talking, especially to strangers wrapped in tactical armor, but something in his slumped shoulders keeps you rooted. His helmet hides most of his face, though you can still feel the weight of his disappointment radiating out like cold mist.

“I’m sorry,” you said, and you meant it. The image of this strange man, all geared up for a day of therapeutic appliance destruction only to be stood up, was oddly endearing.

He straightened up abruptly. “It’s fine. He’s probably doing something really important. Like… peace stuff.” 

He didn't sound convinced. He kicked at a patch of dirt. 

“Hey. Quiz me on manta rays.”

The request was so out of left field you blinked. “What?”

“Manta rays. Quiz me. I know everything about them.”

You nodded gently, a small tilt of your chin more than anything. Your fingers flexed against your thigh before you let out a short breath, racking your brain for the limited scraps of marine-life knowledge you possessed.

“…Okay,” you said slowly, adjusting the tin in your pocket. Your gaze flicked back to him. His eyes were fixed on the ground, but one heel rocked restlessly against the dirt.

“What do manta rays eat?”

Without hesitation, he stood taller, shoulders thrown back like a soldier reciting a pledge. “Seaweed!”

You blinked, shaking your head slightly. 

“Plankton.” You correct.

He made a muffled noise under the helmet, somewhere between an exaggerated groan and a curse.

“aw, come on.” His gloved hand comes up to touch his neck nervously. The movement was quick, nervous, sheepish in its hesitation.

“Plankton, right. That’s—yeah—what I meant.”

You can’t help but smile, tucking the tiny jawbone back into your tin before closing it with a quiet snap. “Sure.”

There’s a silence then. Not exactly comfortable, but not hostile either. The kind of pause two people fall into when they’re trying to decide if this is the part where they both awkwardly retreat to their own corners of the woods, or if they’re curious enough to keep going.

“What’s your name?” you ask, titling your head slightly to peer up at him.

He hesitates. Looking you over, then looking over to all the awaiting appliances he had set up. The silence is long enough that you think he won’t answer. But then: 

“Vigilante.”

He says it quietly—it's clearly not his actual name, but the one he goes by when doing his woodland activities. The word hangs between you, faintly echoing in the crisp, damp air.

You arched a brow, weight leaning subtly onto one leg. The damp air clung to your jacket, and you squinted at him like you just expected him to give out his secret identity. 

“That… can’t be your real name.” 

“It is,” he insists, his voice hardening, but there's a flicker of discomfort buried under the bravado. His chest puffs out, a show of confidence, his chin lifting like a badge of honor, one he's clearly worn often.

You stand there, your arms folding across your chest, your fingers brushing against the rough, weathered fabric of your jacket. You observe him with the calm patience of someone who's spent more time watching the world in motion than talking to it. The same focus you used to comb the forest floor for treasures— no rush, no expectations. Just waiting.

“Fine,” you say, lightly. You don't want to push it— push him too hard, pry for information he obviously isn't comfortable sharing. You already know when someone’s ready to share, they will. Until then, it’s just a game of cat and mouse.

“Vigilante, then.”

There’s a brief, stiff moment where his posture doesn’t change, but you can feel it— his shoulders tense like a wire pulled taut. Then, in a practiced movement, his shoulders ease, the tension draining away in one small, barely noticeable release. Like he’s been bracing himself for you to call him out harder. Instead, you let him off the hook with nothing more than a flick of your wrist and the lightest of acknowledgments.

“That still doesn’t sound like something your mom put on a birth certificate.” You retort.

Behind the gleaming visor, he snorts at you, like you had just said the dumbest thing he had ever heard.

“Moms don’t put names on birth certificates. The government does.” He corrects you, then he crosses his arms and rocks back on his heels, like he’s pleased with himself.

His visor tilted, proud of having educated you. He shifted his weight again, fidgety but trying very hard not to look it, and then finally asked:

“…What’s your name?”

Your fingers brushed unconsciously against the tooth hanging from your necklace before giving him an answer. You told him simply, voice soft in the damp air.

He says it back immediately, slow, careful, like he didn’t want to mess it up. Then, he looked at you for confirmation that he did it right. You nod in approval.

A crow called somewhere deeper in the trees, and his head snapped toward the sound like he was ready for a fight. Then, remembering himself, he relaxed again, letting his arms fall back to his sides.

“So…uh.” He shifted his boot into the dirt. 

“Do you wanna…shoot something?”

You blink. “Shoot…something?”

“Yeah!” he gushes— too quickly, eager that finally, someone was paying him some mind. 

“Like, an appliance. I’ve got, like, six microwaves, a dishwasher, and uh—” He turned, gesturing toward the clearing where a small junkyard of discarded machines waited like abandoned monuments.

"Couple blenders." He finishes, turning his head back to you. He sounded strangely nervous, his voice muffled but eager, like someone offering to share their most prized action figures. And, there's a feeling that, if you were to see him underneath the helmet, he would be looking at you expectantly; like a puppy that needs you to throw a stick for him.

You tilt your head, fingers brushing against the tooth at your necklace again. Normally, the thought of holding a gun would’ve sent you retreating back into your section of the woods, but there was something about the way he rocked on his heels, waiting, that made you want to stay. His excitement was awkward but genuine, circling him like static.

You can’t see his face, but you can feel it— there’s that weird, nervous buzz to him, like a kid desperate for someone to play along. And maybe, you recognize it in yourself.

“I’ve never shot anything before,” you admit, your weight shifts awkwardly from side to side. You look out, the forest smelled of wet pine, decomposing leaves, and rusted metal, and all around you were the corpses of appliances.

His head tilts in slight disbelief as he absorbs your answer. 

“Nothing? Like, not even a BB gun at tin cans?”

You shake your head at him, you grew up scraping your knees climbing trees, looking at cool bugs and wondering a lot of 'Why?' questions; not shooting cans with pellet rifles. 

“Nothing.” You confirm.

His gloved hand was already hovering near the weapon had leaned against him. Not threatening, but almost giddy, like someone about to offer you the first taste of cotton candy at a fair. He’s quiet for a beat, and then he replies: 

“I can fix that.”

You stepped toward him, squinting through the visor. Not trying to see into it, not trying to decipher his appearance particularly. just...taking a really good, long look at him.

“Alright,” you agree

“Show me.”

For a second, he went utterly still. Then his whole body jolted in place, like someone had just flipped on a light switch inside him. You can see the excitement, it nearly seeps through the threads of his costume as he vibrates with anticipation.

He jumps into action, putting the gun down gingerly against the log and racing to the other end. He sets up a toaster on top of an old washing machine for you. When he returns, he places a gloved hand on your shoulder gently. His throat clears as he puts you in place, adjusting your posture wordlessly. He has you stand behind him as he lines up a shot, then he offers you the gun, and you take its weight into your arms. 

The gun feels heavier than you expected, your palms just starting to sweat against the grip. His eyes, through the visor, are trained on you closely— too closely, but not in a way that feels sinister. It’s more like he’s trying to memorize everything about the way you’re holding it. Maybe so he can jump in before you do something disastrously wrong.

“Okay,” he says, a little too upbeat, like a camp counselor about to explain how to make a paper lantern. 

“So, you just—uh—line up the sights with the toaster. Breathe in. And then…BAM! Totally easy.”

You line the gun up, your arms trembling faintly, finger hovering nervously over the trigger. He stands just off to your side, knees bent slightly as if he’s ready to snatch the weapon from you if anything goes wrong.

“Breathe out when you shoot,” he advises you, his eyes are trained on the gun. He speaks softly. 

“Makes it steadier.”

You do. Exhaling deeply as you feel your finger pulling back. The shot explodes louder than you expect, knocking you back a little, but the bullet hits the metal casing. A sharp hole punches through the toaster’s side.

Your heart leaps. “I did it!”

He lets out a whoop, throwing his hands skyward like you just scored a touchdown. “Yes! Perfect shot. Nailed it. You’re a natural. Do another one.”

You find yourself laughing, the sound bubbling up without resistance. The woods echo faintly with his cheers, your laughter, and the ringing hum of the shot. 

You lower the gun, ears still ringing and chest buzzing with adrenaline, though you’re not sure if it’s from the actual shot or from the way he’s practically bouncing next to you, radiating pride, you can't help but giggle with satisfaction. You glance down at the toaster, smoke curling lazily from the bullet hole, and something hot and giddy tickles up inside your chest. The smell of gunpowder twists through the air. He’s practically bouncing in place beside you, the sound of his joy spilling out in little whoops that make it hard not to grin back.

“You’re smiling,” he points out suddenly, leaning toward you. You can feel his grin even if you can’t see it.

“Maybe,” you admit.

His hands clap together with a loud smack before he spins on his heel and jogs back toward the pile of discarded appliances. He returns with a blender tucked under one arm, like it’s some kind of prize turkey. He plops it down on top of the dishwasher and gestures broadly. 

“Next target!”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re really into this, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” he says, almost defensively, but then his voice softens to something more earnest. 

“It’s fun. And you—” He cuts himself off, hesitating. The toe of his boot digs into the dirt. 

“You’re fun too. Like…no one else besides Peacemaker ever wants to do this with me.”

You glance at him for a long moment, the admission hanging between you. There’s something more tucked inside it, something laces around the edges that tells you he’s half afraid you’ll vanish the second you realize how odd he is. But you don’t feel that way— if anything, you recognize the same lonely streak in him that has you combing the forest floor for bones to put in your little tin.

The second shot goes smoother. You brace better this time, focus on your breathing, just like he told you. The bang still startles, but you stay solid on your feet. When glass shatters and the blender’s lid flies off into the dirt, He explodes into sheers and laughter— the sound bouncing in a strangely beautiful way against the quiet forest.

He takes the weapon before placing it back on the fallen log gently. But when he looks back at you, his posture shifts. There’s a pause, a rare moment where he doesn’t seem to know what to say right away, and that silence hums thicker than the gunshot still vibrating in your chest.

Your fingers drift back to the necklace at your collar, pinching the smooth tooth strung there. You can feel his gaze dip toward the gesture, the red visor angled like a curious tilt of his head.

“So…” His voice lifts a little at the end, unsteady and maybe a bit anxious.

“Do I…uh…get to try your thing now?”

You blink. “My thing?”

“Yeah! You know, the bones, the teeth, the…uhhh…” He snaps his fingers a few times, trying to remember. 

“That tiny monster jaw you showed me? Super cool, by the way. 

You giggle at his description of the shrew you'd shown off earlier. A slow smile tugs at your lips. “You want to help me collect things?”

“Uh, yeah!” He replies, a slight snort at the end, like it's the most obvious thing in the world. like who wouldn't want to help you collect bones. 

“Like, big time. I’d be, uh— like, the best bone-collector’s assistant you could ever ask for.”

You give him a soft laugh as he hypes himself up. You'd never actually let anybody into your space in this way before, nobody had ever asked to join you. Sometimes, you'd show off the pieces in your collection; people would either nod along indifferently, or look at you like you just told them you partake in casual cannibalism.

“Alright,” you say softly. “Then let’s look.”

The transition from the makeshift firing range into the underbrush is quiet. He follows close behind you, boots crunching against pine needles, occasionally catching his boots on long roots. You could feel his gaze, not primarily on the ground like yours, but sweeping the trees and the path ahead, a silent, watchful perimeter. It was a strange mix – him letting you guide, yet still inherently guarding.

Every time he crouches, it’s sudden and dramatic, like he just discovered treasure that could solve all the world’s problems—only for him to stand up holding a pinecone or a stick.

“This!” he declares, brandishing a twisted root inches from your face. 

“Possible bone?"

You can’t help the small laugh that escapes, and gently push his hand down. “That’s… a stick.”

His shoulders droop, though only for a second before he straightens up again, determination practically buzzing off him. 

“Right. Right. Got it. Only bones. I know the difference.”

You step further into the woods, the space around you thick with trees and the gentle rustle of leaves. Every so often, you glance back at Vigilante, who’s clumsily trying to keep up while pretending that he knows what he’s doing.

You hum noncommittally, crouching to peel back a layer of leaf litter with the stick in your hand. A beetle scuttles away from the sudden light.

“You'll get the hang of it,” you say, brushing dirt from something small and ivory; a vertebra, tiny and smooth. Could be from a snake. Maybe a bird. You hold it up between your fingers like treasure, the curve of it catching a sliver of wet light filtering through the canopy.

Vigilante crouches next to you, visor tipped downward, peering in like he's afraid to breathe too hard and mess up the moment.

“Is that… part of a spine?” he whispers, like you're in a museum and this is a fossil behind glass.

“Probably,” you say with a small smile, turning it delicately in your hand before placing it gently into the tin. It clinks lightly against the shrew jaw.

Vigilante makes a sound behind the mask— kind of a reverent “Woah.”

You straighten up and keep moving, and he mirrors your motion a beat later, like he’s syncing his movements to yours. You wonder if he even notices he's doing it.

He knells in the dirt suddenly; the excitement bubbling up again, like before with the toaster. Sifting through the soft soil with his gloved hand.

“Can I…keep one if we find another? Like…start a collection? Adr— uh, I mean, Vigilante’s Bone Collection” He asks suddenly, as if he needed permission 

“Has a ring to it, right?"

You glance over your shoulder, giving him a look that’s half skeptical, half amused. He’s still crouched, one glove caked in mud, visor tilted toward the forest floor like he could will the bones to the surface if he stares hard enough.

You shift your weight and watch him, head tilted, the mud on his gloves, the desperate hope in his posture—like a kid at a beach convinced every shell is secretly a pearl. He’s impossible. You like that about him.

“Yeah,” you say, the corner of your mouth tugging up. 

“You can keep one.”

He looks up at you, beaming under the helmet— you can’t see it, but you feel it. The way his shoulders go all squared and proud again, the bounce in his posture returning like you’d just knighted him on the spot.

His head dips once, a sharp nod like he’s just been given a mission. Then, with the serious concentration of a soldier defusing a bomb, he goes back to sifting through pine needles and clumps of moss.

You let him have his moment. After all, you’ve had your own moments like that, crouched down with your face inches from the ground, holding your breath because maybe, just maybe, you’ve found something special.

You brush a stray strand of hair from your forehead, then guide your hand to the edge of your jeans, pulling them up slightly to get a better angle. 

“Just keep looking,” you murmur, your focus returning to the damp earth. He’s still beside you.

As Adrian continued his diligent search, a small, rustling sound caught your ear from a nearby patch of ferns. It was a quick, furtive movement. You moved towards it, Adrian’s attention momentarily forgotten. You carefully parted the fronds, and there, nestled amongst the greenery, was a small, damp, and very much alive toad. Its golden eyes blinked up at you, unbothered by your intrusion.

You freeze, a thrill shooting through you. It’s alive. It always felt special to find. Most living creatures you encounter out here scatter at your approach. You wave your hand, beckoning your bone collecting assistant forward.

“Vigilante,” you whisper, carefully extending a finger. The toad doesn’t flinch. 

Vigilante crouched slowly, eyes locked on the toad, the red visor catching the sunlight in flickers. His gloved finger reached out, trembling just a little— like he was trying not to break the magic of the moment.

The toad blinked again, unbothered, its golden eyes seeming almost ancient, like it carried secrets of the forest in its stillness.

“Look.”

“Can I touch it?” he whispers, the words hopeful, reverent.

You shake your head, voice low and gentle. “Don’t. Just look.”

He nods, obedient. Quiet.

For a long moment, you both stay still, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves and distant birdsong. The toad remains unmoved, its tiny chest rising and falling with slow, steady breaths. You fiddle with the wisdom tooth on your necklace, and like before, his visor follows the movement.

“That a tooth?” he finally let himself ask about it, speaking softly.

You look up at him, then down at your necklace again before nodding.

“Yeah, it's mine.” You reply, holding it between two fingers. 

"Wisdom tooth, had it pulled a while back.” You shrug, tugging the twine idly. “I really wanted to keep it.”

Vigilante's gloved hand twitches, as though he wants to reach out and touch the necklace, but he holds back, the tension between curiosity and restraint almost palpable. His head tilts, visor gleaming under the filtered sunlight.

“Cool,” he murmurs.

The toad croaked suddenly, as if sensing the silence was growing too thick, too still. It hopped forward a few inches, and then, with surprising speed, bounded away through the ferns, vanishing into the underbrush as quickly as it had appeared.

You and Vigilante stand there for a moment, both of you caught in the remaining buzz of the encounter, the hum of the forest slowly filling the silence.

Vigilante’s voice breaks the stillness.

“Do you think… it’s gonna come back?” he asks hopefully, like he wants to believe the moment isn’t over yet.

You shake your head, almost apologetically. 

“No. Once they go, they go.”

He stands still for a moment, staring at the empty patch of ferns where the toad had been. His shoulders sag slightly, but then, with a small sigh, he pushes himself upright, brushing dirt from his knees.

“Right,” he mutters, more to himself than to you, then glances around the clearing. 

"Well, the toad's gone, but we can still... keep looking for bones and things, right?"

You nod, pulling your tin from your pocket again. It's an easy thing collecting what the forest offers. You don’t need to be told twice.

“Yeah," You agree, straightening yourself up and leading the way. Vigilante watches you for a second, and then with a slight shuffle of his boots, he follows your lead deeper into the underbrush.

The rustling of leaves and the crunching of twigs underfoot were the only sounds. You move like you’ve been here a thousand times, but for Vigilante, it's a strange new rhythm. You glance over your shoulder to see him again, trying to act casual but clearly focused on every little thing that crosses his path—every twig, every rock, every clump of moss.

“Hey.”

His voice is low, urgent, and you look over your shoulder. He’s frozen, kneeling in a patch of ferns, his body perfectly still.

“What is it?” you ask, keeping your voice low.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just slowly raises one gloved finger and points. 

“Is that… one?” he whispers, the reverence back in his voice, the same tone he used for the toad.

You move closer, crouching beside him to see what he’s found. Poking out from beneath a thick root, half-buried in the rich, dark soil, is a pale curve of white. It's larger than anything you’ve found today. Carefully, you use your fingers to brush away the dirt and loose leaves around it. As more of it becomes visible, you see the distinct shape of a jawbone, complete with a row of yellowed, flattened teeth. You dislodge it with care, holding it between the two of you.

“It’s a deer jaw.” You breathe, a genuine thrill in your own voice. 

Vigilante’s eyes go wide under the helmet as he stares at the bone in your hand. His breath catches, and for a second, you can almost hear his heart hammering against his chest. His fingers twitch at his sides like he's resisting the urge to grab it from you immediately.

There’s a moment where neither of you speaks. You just stare at the bone, the story of its past playing out in your mind. How long had this deer roamed these woods? How long had it wandered here, just like you, only to meet its end in this very spot?

You look over at him, and hold the mandible out for him to take. 

“Go ahead,” you say softly. 

“It’s yours, if you want it.”

He hesitates, a gloved hand hovering above the jawbone as if he’s unsure whether to touch it or leave it be. For a moment, you wonder if he’s unsure about the whole bone-collecting idea— that, maybe he thought it would be more of a joke than something worth actually doing. Then you remember the way he’d looked at the shrew jaw, the pure, unadulterated awe in his voice when he’d called it “Cool” He wasn’t joking. He was just… as captivated by the quiet wonders of the forest floor as you were.

He pulls his hand back, the hesitation clear.

“You… you really want me to have it?” he asks, his tone laced with surprise and a hint of disbelief.

You nod insistently. “You found it. It’s yours.” 

You gently place the jawbone into his outstretched, gloved hand.

Finally, his fingers flex, and he accepts the jawbone. He cradles it carefully, his movements surprisingly delicate for someone who’d just been handling guns. He turns it over, examining the teeth with a quiet intensity. You feel a strange warmth in knowing that someone else is so taken by the forest; like you so often are.

His gaze flickers from the bone to your face, trying to decipher your expression through his helmet. He doesn’t know what to say, and the silence stretches, punctuated only by the distant chirping of unseen birds. You can see his chest rise and fall beneath the tactical gear, a little faster than it should.

Then, "thank you."

It’s quiet, and he’s not entirely sure what he’s thanking you for— the bone? The time spent together? The fact that, for a moment, he didn’t feel so alone? He’d been sitting in silence, wrapped up in his own thoughts, when you appeared like a quiet lifeline. You hadn’t judged anything he said or did, hadn’t looked at him with the usual distance people did. Your laughter wasn't causing him to feel mocked; instead, it felt like an invitation to share in something. It wasn’t just the bone, it was the way you made him feel seen, the way your presence eased the loneliness that had been sitting heavy in his chest.

He was just so unlike anyone you’d ever met, and yet, beneath the costume, there was a vulnerability that resonated deep within you.

You start to notice the shadows growing longer, the air cooling just a little as the sun inches lower in the sky. Vigilante stands beside you, still turning the deer jawbone over in his hands, his face unreadable behind the helmet. But there’s something about the way he glances at the fading light, a quiet understanding that’s beginning to settle between you two.

“Hey, I should probably start heading back soon,” you tell him quietly, though you don't want to say it. The thought of leaving makes something inside of you pull. 

“It’ll be dark soon.”

He stills, and you can feel his gaze lock onto you. “Oh. Right. Yeah. Of course.” He fumbles slightly with the deer jaw, tucking it carefully into a pouch on his belt. 

“It’s… getting late.”

You sigh deeply, heels sinking into the dirt as you lean down to brush stray leaves and dirt from your pants. 

“It was good meeting you.” You murmur softly, not even knowing if he heard you.

He stands motionless, and you can feel the tension in the air, like he’s processing. His posture shifts, not stiff but not quite relaxed either. Finally, he speaks, and his voice comes out softer than usual, almost uncertain.

“Yeah… it was, uh, really good,” he says, testing the words on his tongue.

He hesitates for a beat, looking up at you; then, he clears his throat, his voice gaining a slightly frantic edge. 

“Look, I just… I got this thing where I… sometimes I end up in the same places as people. It’s just a coincidence, usually. Like, if you happen to be at the grocery store, and I’m there too? Purely by chance. Or if you’re at the library, and I just happen to be browsing the same section.”

He took a deep breath, eyes boring into the forest bed, not daring to look up at you; before he continued in a panic.

"It’s not stalking. Not at all. Because, definitionally, stalking involves intent, right? And I’m not intending to see you. It just… happens. Because we’re in the same town. And I live here. And you live here. So, statistically speaking, it’s not that improbable. Right?”

His brain was tripping over itself to try and justify his words. You could tell. It all tumbled out in a nervous torrent, a manic sort of energy that just filled him. It was both endearing and a little concerning.

"Hey," you say reassuringly, taking a few steps closer to him. You extend your arm, trying to ground him a little as you reach for his arm.

You can feel the flex of muscle beneath your fingers, the warmth that seeps through the material of his suit. It’s a solid presence, despite the almost crazed energy radiating from him.

“Hey,” you repeat, your voice a soft counterpoint to his agitated rambling. 

“It’s okay.”

He looks at your hand on his arm, then back at your face. 

You glance up at him, and a thought strikes you. It’s stupid, really, but you can’t help it. Maybe it’s the way he’s been so interested in everything you've done today, or how enthusiastically he participated in everything. Or maybe it’s just the way he makes you feel seen, in a way no one else has for a long time. You kick at the dirt.

"Or...you could just, like, put my number in your phone? And text me?"

You feel your heart in your chest, pounding a little louder than usual, and you try not to make eye contact, feeling the heat of a flush creeping up your neck. You’re really not the type to do this, to just… offer your number out of nowhere. You dig your toe into the dirt, wedging it back and forth into the soil.

“You… you want me to have your number?” he asks, his voice barely a whisper.

You bring yourself to look at him again, trying to appear unbothered as you shrug, and nod.

"Only...like, if you want it." 

Your hand flexes by your side, itching to pull out your phone and offer it, but you wait, letting him process the offer.

"Yeah, okay, yeah." He agrees, nodding. His voice is excited, but not panicked and as intense as it was getting earlier. He pulls his phone out of a tactical pocket with fumbling fingers, opening it and almost throwing it at you in eagerness.

“Here,” you say, taking his phone gently. You quickly input your name and number, then hand it back to him. 

“There. Done.”

He snatches the phone back, his gaze fixed on the screen as he saves your contact. He nods, a little too vigorously, and stows his phone back in his gear. He’s practically vibrating with contained excitement now.

"I'll text you." He promises.

You nod, a gentle smile gracing your lips.

"I hope so."

Death—an all-consuming cyst in the human body. The lingering inevitable: one day we will all die—some in their sleep, others tragically, and the rest more violently.

​You never feared death. It was a comforting familiarity you grew to accept, taking every passing with a grain of salt and somehow immortalizing it. That's why you'd become a mortician—to immortalize death once the cyst had popped and taken the very essence of life with it. Perhaps it was also a way to satiate the festering morbid curiosity that had always set you apart from everyone else.

​An eerie silence settled over the old building—a feeling you'd grown fond of over the years. You'd memorized the way the old structure shook and the pattern of the floorboards creaking as if someone was walking on the top floor. The top floor was a makeshift storage area, used after the basement had been remodeled years ago, though you'd become convinced that it was more than the supplies that inhabited it. The air was thick with the faint, sterile scent of formaldehyde and the metallic tang of blood, a smell so common it no longer registered as unpleasant.

​Music played in the background, a hauntingly beautiful opera that would occasionally crackle and skip from how overused the vinyl record was.

​“Lascia ch'io pianga,” you sang, the words echoing softly in the cavernous room. “Mia cruda sorte.” Each word was punctuated by the cracking and snap of a rib as you opened up the cadaver.

​A younger male, no older than you, lay on the cold metal table. His chest was cut open and spread like the wings of a grotesque butterfly. You had carefully removed the ribs of his left side, allowing partial access to his body. It was hauntingly beautiful how much he looked like your boyfriend, Adrian Chase—the dirty blonde hair, the piercing eyes, the similar lips. He was skinnier than Adrian, but nonetheless still hauntingly similar.

​“E che sospiri,” the final rib snapped off, “La libertà.” Your voice faded out.

​You stepped back, placing the final rib into the metal dish beside you. You wiped your cheek, smearing the blood from your glove onto your face, staining your skin and the light stubble you'd forgotten to shave.

​Your eyes unfocused, your vision blurring. For a split second, you could've sworn it was Adrian's face staring back at you. A prickle of unease you rarely felt crawled up your spine, a tiny fissure in the comforting routine of your work.

​Death had never bothered you; you'd seen so much of it that even the death of family didn't faze you. But there was always something different when it came to Adrian or Chris.

​The record skipped, the lyrics repeating over and over again, and the sound brought you back to reality. It wasn't Adrian, it was some dumb college kid who got too drunk and threw himself off the roof of the frat house. The familiar, detached feeling returned, and you felt foolish for the momentary lapse.

​You turned, walking towards the old record player and using your gloved pinkie to lift the needle from where it had gotten stuck just moments before.

​The stairs creaked and groaned from the hallway. You thought it was either your boss or a police officer coming to check on you. Both possibilities were quickly shot down when you saw the familiar bright red, blue, and white of Peacemaker's uniform as he entered through the double doors backwards, followed by the even more familiar black and turquoise of Vigilante. The silence was shattered, replaced by the heavy thud of their boots. The two men stopped in the middle of the floor, dropping the body where they stood to turn and face you.

You stood there, lips pressed into a thin line, the metallic scent of your work mixing with the gunpowder and sweat that clung to your two unwelcome guests. You knew that look on their faces—the sheepish grins that couldn't quite hide the frantic energy beneath. They were screwed, and you were their only way out. That usually meant a late-night bonfire and a few more names on the list of bodies you'd helped make "disappear."

​Adrian was the first to break the silence, his overly enthusiastic smile fixed in place as he approached. His hands were already reaching out, his touch gentle as he cupped your blood-smeared cheeks. He leaned in, pressing a quick, soft kiss to your lips. "Hi, baby," he whispered, his voice uncharacteristically shy. He pulled back, his eyes scanning your face with an almost reverent gaze. "You look... so hot covered in all this blood."

​Chris was next, mirroring Adrian's actions with an almost eerie precision. He took your face in his hands, kissed your lips, and then stepped back, offering a solemn nod of approval. He held up a thumb in a silent gesture of agreement. "What he said," Chris grunted, his eyes flicking to the mangled body at their feet before returning to you. He let out a sigh, the sound heavy with exhaustion and a hint of desperation. "We kinda messed up, and we need your help."

​You let out a long, slow breath, a puff of air that seemed to clear the tension in the room. You closed your eyes for a moment, the image of Adrian's smiling face and Chris's worried expression flashing behind your eyelids. You opened them again, your gaze falling on the grotesque remains of the college kid on the table, then on the even more horrific mess that Peacemaker and Vigilante had brought in.

​"Just tell me where to start," you said, your voice flat and devoid of emotion, the words a resigned acceptance of your fate.

Chris and Adrian worked in tandem, their movements a strange blend of practiced efficiency and panicked clumsiness. They dragged the body onto a clear metal table next to the one you had been working on. The cadaver made a heavy, sickening thud as it landed, and you tried to ignore the sound, focusing instead on the task at hand. You moved with a quiet purpose, pulling out a tray of sterilized scalpels, clamps, and forceps, the cold steel clinking softly against the metal.

​"Look, man, it was a total accident, I swear," Chris said, his voice laced with a nervous energy that made him sound even more sincere than usual. He gestured toward the body, a frantic sweep of his hand. "He had some intel we needed, but he literally ate the flash drive before he, you know, shot himself."

​You paused, your hand hovering over a pair of surgical scissors. The lie was so ludicrous it was almost offensive. You glanced at the body, its face a pulpy, unrecognizable mess. It wasn't just "shot," it was obliterated. There was no clean exit wound, no sign of a self-inflicted gunshot. The damage was too extensive, too brutal. This wasn't a suicide; it was a desperate, messy execution.

​You took off your glasses, pinching the bridge of your nose and letting out a long, weary groan. "You guys are lucky my boss doesn't care what I do down here, as long as the bodies get returned to their rightful owners," you muttered, your voice a low, tired whisper. You put your glasses back on, your expression a mixture of exasperation and resignation. "Just tell me what you need, and let's get this over with.”

Adrian's nervous energy seemed to fill the room, a stark contrast to your calm, methodical movements. "We need that flash drive," he explained, his voice hushed but urgent. "It has everything we need to prove... a lot of things. And we're not exactly equipped to go spelunking for it." He gestured vaguely to their uniforms, a look of frustration crossing his face.

​You didn't respond, your focus already shifting from the conversation to the grim task ahead. With a practiced tug, you ripped the man’s shirt open, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the quiet room. You exposed his bare chest and abdomen, a roadmap of fresh bruises and older scars. A complete dissection for a flash drive wasn't how you’d planned to spend your night, but if they were coming to you, the most discreet and dangerous option they had, it had to be important.

​You picked up a scalpel, its polished surface reflecting the dim overhead light. The cold steel felt familiar in your hand as you made a precise, vertical cut from the man’s Adam’s apple to just past his navel. The incision was deep and clean, and a dark crimson line immediately welled up, coating the tips of your gloves and pooling onto the sterile metal table below. The coppery smell of blood mingled with the formaldehyde, a scent you had long since grown accustomed to.

​"Don't touch that," you said, your voice a low whisper that cut through the silence. You didn't even have to look up. You’d caught Chris out of the corner of your eye as he neared the cadaver you had been working on previously, his curiosity getting the better of him. "This one's a masterpiece, and I don't want you messing it up.”

Chris pointed a gloved finger at the thin cloth covering the college kid's groin, his eyebrow raised in a mixture of morbid curiosity and a lack of a better way to phrase his question. "Is it normal to get an erection after death?" he asked, his voice low and a little confused.

​Before you could even form a coherent response, Adrian cut in, a lazy, flirtatious grin spreading across his face. "If your hands were inside me like that, I'd get a boner, too," he said, winking.

​The absurdity of the situation—your best friend and boyfriend bantering over the post-mortem state of a cadaver’s genitals—was almost enough to make you laugh, but the exhaustion and frustration won out. You paused, the scalpel still in your hand, its sharp point aimed loosely in their direction. You turned around slowly, your expression a flat, unamused stare.

​"You're both going to end up in a body bag if you don't knock it off," you grunted, your voice a low, gravelly warning.

​You turned back to your work, pushing Adrian and Chris's words out of your mind. "Yes, it’s actually called a death erection or terminal erection," you explained, your tone now calm and professional as you focused on the body. You made a shallow incision just below the navel, carefully cutting through layers of fat and muscle. "It's caused by a blood flow irregularity. The blood pools in the lower half of the body as it settles, and the muscles around the penis relax. It's a pretty common occurrence, especially in cases of death by hanging, strangulation, or even gunshot wounds to the brain or chest."

​You continued your work, your movements precise and efficient. "The brain stem controls a lot of our involuntary responses, and when it dies, a lot of those signals get scrambled. It can cause spasms, movements, and, yes, even an erection. The brain can still send signals to the spinal cord for a bit after death, and those signals can get jumbled up on the way to the rest of the body."

​You looked at the two of them over your shoulder, a wry smile touching your lips. "And just so we're clear," you added, your voice a little softer now, "given the line of work you two are in, it could definitely happen to either of you. Just an interesting little factoid to think about the next time you're on a mission.”

Your focus narrowed, the world outside of the body on the table fading into a distant hum. Your hands, steady and precise, moved with a grace born of countless dissections. You carefully cut into the stomach lining, the scalpel gliding through the tissue with a soft, tearing sound. You peeled it back, revealing the murky, partially digested contents within. A quick search with the tweezers yielded nothing. You groaned internally, a new wave of frustration washing over you.

​"No way he just ate it," Chris grumbled from behind you.

​"It's a flash drive, not a meatball," you muttered, your voice flat. You went deeper, your hands digging through the body cavity. You were beginning to lose hope when a small, dark shape caught your eye. You carefully fished it out with a pair of long tweezers. It was small, black, and had a small red light blinking on its surface—a flash drive. You haphazardly set the stomach back inside the body, knowing it didn't matter now that he was dead.

​You held up the flash drive, and Chris carefully took it from you. You sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "You two owe me big time," you said, your voice low and tired. "Now I have to incinerate another body for you."

​Chris nodded solemnly, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "We know, man. We owe you." He turned and left, the flash drive clutched tightly in his hand, leaving you alone with Adrian and the two bodies.

​Adrian had actually stayed behind, his usual boisterous energy replaced by a quiet thoughtfulness. He grabbed a mop and a bucket, filling it with water and a strong cleaning solution. "I can help clean up," he offered, his voice soft. "The body and the blood."

​You weren't going to say no. A new wave of tenderness washed over you. The man, a superhero who had faced down villains and monsters, was quietly mopping up a puddle of blood for you. He looked up, a small, sad smile on his face.

​"Don't look at me like that," you whispered, the words catching in your throat. "Just... finish mopping.”

After you had placed the mangled cadaver in the incinerator and meticulously scrubbed the table clean, you returned to your previous work. The silence of the morgue settled back in, a comforting blanket. You hadn't even noticed Adrian behind you until his hands were on your waist, the tip of his nose brushing against your cheek. You were practically elbow-deep in the cadaver’s chest cavity, and your boyfriend was pressed so tightly against you that you were trapped between him and the cold metal table.

​"Is it bad I'm turned on right now?" he whispered, his breath fanning the dried blood on your cheek.

​You let out a low, exasperated sigh. Adrian was a lot of things, but subtle wasn't one of them, especially when his gloved hand slipped from your waist to the buckle of your belt. You could feel the firm press of his hips against you, the undeniable bulge in his pants just below the small of your back. His other hand slid off your hip, his fingers gently moving a stray strand of hair behind your ear before pushing your glasses back up your nose.

​"What is wrong with you?" you muttered, your voice a mix of resignation and genuine bewilderment.

​He just chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your back. "I'm not exactly normal, baby. And neither are you." His hands found your hips again, and he squeezed gently. "This is... you. This is what you do. And I've always found it so hot. The way you’re so focused on your work, so calm and confident, even when you're covered in blood and guts. It's... beautiful, in a sick way."

​You let your head rest back against his shoulder for a moment, the tension in your body slowly draining away. You didn't respond, but you didn't need to. You knew he meant it. He wasn't just being crass or trying to get a rise out of you. He genuinely found your macabre profession alluring. It was a bizarre kind of love, but it was yours.

Adrian's lips found the hollow of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. You felt your pulse thrumming against his mouth, a rapid, frantic beat that betrayed your outwardly calm demeanor. His hand, still gloved, fumbled with your belt buckle, slowly and teasingly undoing it before slipping the leather from around your waist.

​"Just keep working," he whispered against your skin, his voice a low, gravelly hum. "Don't worry about what I'm doing."

​You tried to heed his words, your scalpel moving with practiced ease, but your focus was shattered the second you saw his gloves on the floor beside your belt. You knew exactly what he was doing. One bare hand slid beneath the apron you wore and below your shirt, his fingers tracing the line of hair that trailed from below the waist of your jeans and up your abdomen. You shivered, the coldness of his fingers a stark contrast to the heat of your skin. His other hand slipped into your pants, his thumb circling the outline of your cock beneath your boxers.

​You couldn't help the small gasp that escaped your lips, your hand faltering for a moment before you forced yourself to resume your work. Adrian's hips pressed into your back, and you could feel the unmistakable hardness of his erection against your spine. He leaned his head against your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck.

​"You like that, baby?" he whispered, his voice a low, teasing taunt.

​You just grunted in response, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. You were an expert at dismembering bodies, at separating flesh from bone, but you were completely unprepared for this. It was a bizarre, fucked up dance, a strange blend of life and death, and you were caught right in the middle of it.

Adrian pressed a trail of kisses along your neck, his breath a hot, rhythmic pulse against your skin. You felt the cool, subtle scrape of the edge of his glasses against your skin with each movement. His hand, still under your shirt moved to your nipple, his finger brushing against it while his other thumb continued its teasingly slow circle around your cock. The contrast between the cold metal table, the sterile surgical equipment, and the intense, almost feral intimacy of his touch was dizzying.

​His eyes were no longer on your face but were fixed on your hands, watching with an intense focus as the cadaver's blood coated your gloves. You tried to maintain a neutral expression, to keep your hands steady, but your body betrayed you. A violent shiver wracked your frame, and your hands trembled, your careful movements becoming clumsy.

​"There it is," he murmured against your neck, his voice a low, triumphant purr. "I knew I could get a reaction out of you."

​You didn't answer, couldn't answer. You were trapped, a puppet on a string, and Adrian was pulling all the right ones. You forced your hands to be still, to stop trembling, but it was no use. The dam had broken. Your practiced detachment, your meticulous control, was gone. You had nothing left to hide behind.

You retracted your hands from the cadaver’s chest, the wet, slick sound of your gloves leaving the cavity echoing in the quiet room. Your eyes trailed from the gaping opening in his chest to his face. He still looked like Adrian, the same one standing behind you, turned on by the sight of you dissecting a human and covered in blood.

​You closed your eyes. God, the way your mind imagined both versions of Adrian. The one behind you was still there, his body pressed against your back, his hand inside your pants. And the other, Adrian, laying on the metal table, his chest opened like some kind of beautifully grotesque butterfly. In your mind, he was sitting up, his cold, dead fingers tracing the same paths on your skin as the living one behind you.

​"What fucked up thing are you thinking about right now?" he whispered, his breath warm against your ear. His thumb, which had stopped its circular motion, pressed down, and you felt your cock twitch under his hand. "Something to do with me, I can tell. Something to do with us."

​You shivered, a small gasp escaping your lips. You didn't answer him, couldn't. You just let your head fall back against his shoulder, letting him hold you, trapped between the dead and the living.

You stepped back, your hands finding Adrian's chest and pushing him gently away. He stumbled backward, a look of confusion on his face. You didn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on stripping off your soiled gloves, the wet, squelching sound a stark contrast to the sudden silence. Adrian's hands left your body for a moment, but came back up to help remove your apron and other soiled protective gear. Your body was still thrumming with a mixture of arousal and horror, the image of the Adrian on the table still fresh in your mind.

​Adrian didn't even give you a second before he was pushing you back against one of the empty metal tables, both of you nearly tripping on the discarded protective gear on the floor. His hands cupped your face, forcing your eyes to meet his. He leaned down, kissing the soft skin of your neck, his lips gently sucking on the skin over your Adam’s apple.

​"Tell me," he whispered, his voice a low, desperate plea. "Tell me what fucked up thing you were thinking of."

​You said nothing, a quiet panic rising in your chest. You could lie, make up some excuse, but you knew he wouldn't believe you. He could read you like a book, and he knew that your mind had gone somewhere dark, somewhere you didn't want him to be.

​He kissed you again, his mouth tracing the line of your jaw, his lips finding yours. "Please," he begged, the word a soft prayer against your lips. "Tell me what you were thinking about.”

You swallowed hard, the word "please" a razor-sharp whisper against your lips. You could feel Adrian's desperation, the raw need to understand the dark places your mind went to. But the words were stuck in your throat, a tangled knot of horror and arousal.

You pushed back against his hands, finally breaking his hold, and turned to face him fully. The sight of him, with his perfect hair and perfect lips, standing in this bloody, sterile room, made the bile rise in your throat. He looked so out of place, so clean, in a room full of death and mess.

"I-I can't," you stammered, your voice shaking. "It's... fucked up."

He stepped closer, his hands on your waist again, pulling you flush against him. "Baby, we do fucked-up things all the time. It's what we do. It's who we are. Just tell me what it was."

You finally broke, the words spilling out in a rush. "I was imagining you. Both of you. The one on the table, and the one here, touching me. I was imagining him getting up, reaching out and touching me the same way you were."

A strange silence settled between you, a heavy, tense quiet that made the skin on your arms prickle. You watched as a kaleidoscope of emotions crossed Adrian's face: confusion, then a flash of recognition, and finally, a slow, predatory smile.

"I like that," he whispered, his eyes dark with a kind of hunger you'd never seen before. "I like that a lot."

Adrian looked past you, his gaze settling on the cadaver on the table. He took in every detail: the dirty blonde hair, the pale skin, the open, lifeless eyes that so closely mirrored his own. A slow smile spread across his face, a genuine, unsettling expression that didn't quite reach his eyes. He didn't seem disgusted or repulsed by the sight, just… fascinated.

​"I can see it," he murmured, his voice a low, husky rumble. "It’s weird, but I can see it."

​His eyes flickered back to you, a glint of something dark and possessive in their depths. "In some fucked-up way, it’s romantic that you thought about it." He stepped closer, his body brushing against yours as he reached out, his hand gently tracing the jawline of the cadaver. "You were thinking about me, but not just me. You were thinking about all the messed-up parts of us, all the things that make us… us."

​He looked back at you, a half-smile on his face. "You see me, baby. All of me. The good, the bad, the bloody. And you love it."

​He didn't need to say anything else. You knew what he meant. He was acknowledging the dark, twisted part of your relationship, the part that thrived on danger and death and blood. And you, in turn, were acknowledging that you loved him for it.

You leaned back, the cold metal of the table seeping through your shirt as you braced yourself against the edge. You watched, mesmerized, as Adrian sank to his knees in front of you. The sight was a surreal, almost sacrilegious image—a man who was a living, breathing kneeling before you in a room filled with death and gore.

​He didn't hesitate, his fingers hooking into your belt loops. He rested his cheek against your thigh, his eyes fixed on yours. "It's such a turn on," he whispered, his hot breath fanning across your clothed cock, which had gotten harder, a direct contradiction to your mind's frantic attempts at self-control.

​You closed your eyes, a small moan escaping your lips. You had no words, no protests left. You were a marionette, and he was pulling your strings, your body responding to his touch with a desperate, animalistic hunger. He knew exactly what he was doing, what buttons to push, what dark corners of your mind to explore.

​He looked up at you, his eyes filled with a raw, unbridled desire. "Tell me you like it, baby. Tell me you like that I like this.”

"We're so fucked up," you breathed, your head rolling against your shoulder. Your eyes, wide and heavy with a mix of horror and desire, were locked on Adrian. He merely smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as he inched your pants down your hips and just past your knees. The cool air hit your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from his hands.

​His bare hands, a clear sign of his complete disregard for the sterile environment, gripped your thighs as he pressed a series of soft, open-mouthed kisses to the fabric of your boxers. There was something so profoundly wrong with you, so deeply twisted, that you were getting turned on by this. You knew that the second you turned your head to the left, you would see a dead body that hauntingly resembled the man who was currently kneeling before you.

​Adrian's tongue lolled out, a single, deliberate lick over the fabric of your boxers, earning a deep, shuddering gasp from your body. You closed your eyes for a moment, the image of the other cadaver seared into your mind, but it did nothing to lessen the feeling of his touch.

​He looked up at you, his breath fogging up his glasses, the sight both arousing and absurd. "What's the harm when it feels this fucking good?" he whispered, his eyes dark with an unspoken understanding of the twisted dynamic between you.

Adrian's fingers hooked under the waistband of your boxers, pulling them down past your hips and knees. The cold air hit your half-hard cock, and a shudder wracked your body, your hands flexing against the cold metal of the table. His hand came up to rest on your hip, the other gripping your cock, slowly stroking it as he kissed your thighs, sucking and biting at the skin.

​You let your head fall back against the table, a low groan escaping your lips. You could feel Adrian's warm breath against your inner thigh, feel the wet heat of his mouth as he moved up your leg. He was taking his time, a slow, deliberate torture that was driving you insane. He wasn't just touching you; he was worshiping you.

​"You're so hot," he whispered against your skin. "All of you. Every single fucked-up piece."

​You didn't answer, couldn't. You were a mess of conflicting emotions, but a single thought rose above the chaos: this is what you get for being so fucked up. This was your penance, your punishment for a lifetime of death and gore. And you loved every second of it.

​He pressed his lips to the tip of your cock, his hand still stroking it as he took the head into his mouth, his tongue running over the slit. A low groan escaped your throat, a shuddering breath that was lost in the vastness of the room, yet so loud in your ears. He could taste the salty pre-cum, the flavor mingling with the faint, sterile scent of formaldehyde. The contrast was a visceral jolt, a jarring mix of life and death, of the clinical and the carnal.

​You felt your cock twitch and throb inside his mouth, a raw, instinctual response you had no control over. The heat of his mouth, the rough texture of his tongue, and the gentle friction of his lips were a slow, deliberate torture. Your hands, still trembling from the earlier encounter, came up to tangle in Adrian's dirty blonde hair. Your fingers curled around the soft strands, pulling him closer as a low string of groans finally escaped your lips, a sound you barely recognized as your own.

​He didn't stop, his mouth and hand working in a hypnotic rhythm. You could hear the wet, slick sounds he made, the sharp intake of his breath, a low, guttural hum that vibrated against your skin. You felt the subtle shift of his body, the way he adjusted to your movements, a silent understanding passing between you. He was focused, his eyes—half-lidded and dark with desire—glued to your body, a silent message of worship in their depths.

​You were a mess of conflicting emotions—the horror of the cadaver on the table, the unsettling pleasure of this intimate act, the raw vulnerability of being completely exposed, physically and emotionally. The image of the dead man's face, so similar to Adrian’s, flashed in your mind again. It was a bizarre, fucked-up kaleidoscope of sensations and thoughts, a strange dance between attraction and disgust. Yet, even as your mind recoiled, your body leaned into his touch, a desperate, silent plea for more. You were a marionette, and he was pulling your strings, your every reaction a testament to the power he held over you.​There was no turning back. You were trapped between the dead and the living, caught in a moment of sublime horror and exquisite pleasure. You were exactly where you belonged.

His nose bumped against your pubic bone, the sensation sending a jolt of pleasure up your spine. Adrian's hand tightened on your hip, his fingers digging into the flesh as he took you deeper, the tip of your cock hitting the back of his throat. You could feel every nerve ending in your body thrumming, your thighs quivering with the effort of holding back.

Adrian's eyes, dark and pleading, met yours. A string of saliva connected his lips to the head of your cock, glistening in the harsh light. His hand, still stroking, slowed its pace, focusing instead on the heavy balls that swung with each snap of your hips. The dual sensations were almost too much, the textured heat of his mouth and the gentle pressure of his fingers driving you closer to the edge with every thrust.

Through the haze of lust, you registered the sound of your own breathing, ragged and uneven. The scent of sweat and sex mingled with the sterile tang of the morgue, a heady aroma that only heightened your arousal. You watched, transfixed, as Adrian's face ducked down again, his tongue swirling around the sensitive underside of your cock before he took you back into the wet heat of his mouth.

Each deep, measured thrust was a testament to his control, his hunger for you evident in the way he angled his head, the sweet pressure of his lips, the subtle massage of his tongue. You were lost in the rhythm, the primal dance of offering and taking, surrendering to the exquisite tension building within you.

Adrian's gaze never wavered, his eyes locked on yours as if daring you to look away, to break the spell. But you were helpless, entranced by the raw, carnal beauty of this forbidden act. The sight of him on his knees, his suit rumpled, his tie loosened, his own desire evident in the strain of his collar, was a visual feast. You felt a surge of possessiveness, a primal urge to stake your claim, to mark him as yours.

Your movements grew more erratic, your thrusts less controlled. The low, throaty moans that escaped you sounded alien, yet utterly right in this moment. You could feel the pressure building, the familiar knot of pleasure tightening in your gut. Your grip on Adrian's hair tightened, your fingers tangling in the damp strands as you whispered his name, a hoarse prayer for release.

Suddenly, Adrian pulled back, his lips slipping free with a wet pop. He looked up at you, his cheeks flushed, his eyes glassy with desire. "Come for me," he urged, his voice husky. "I want to taste you."

The raw command, the unspoken promise behind it, was enough to send you careening over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, you erupted, your cock pulsing as thick ropes of cum shot from the tip, painting Adrian's face and chest with your release.

He didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. Instead, he leaned in, his tongue darting out to lap at the creamy trails, to taste the salty essence of your pleasure. The intensity of the moment, the sheer intimacy of this act, was overwhelming. You felt your knees buckle, your vision blurring as the aftershocks rippled through your spent body.

Adrian, ever the supportive partner, caught you, his strong arms wrapping around your waist as he guided you gently back to the table. You collapsed against the cold metal, your chest heaving, your mind reeling from the depths of pleasure and depravity you'd just stumbled into.

"So..." Adrian scooted a hair closer to Christopher on his buddy's couch, grinning, "What'd you two get up to?"

"She tickled me."

Adrian was still grinning, still nodding his head, tongue poking out like he was hearing some sick story about his best friend and teammate getting it on together, until, "Huh?"

"I know... I didn't know what was happening at first. And I just-- reacted! Then I shut down, she asked me about it, and pssh, I barely knew what the fuck I was feeling so I booked it out of there."

"Why'd you run away?"

"Because..." Christopher's mouth was fully ready to continue speaking, but his brain stopped him short. Why did he leave the situation so quickly? From what he'd heard about it, tickling wasn't too bad. But every part of his body wanted to flee the scene the moment it happened.

"Did Keith ever tickle you?"

In a rare moment of sincere clarity, Adrian hit the nail on the head with that unidentified trauma.

Of course. When the brothers would sneak around to avoid their father, the two would do anything they could to keep their spirits up. And that definitely included a tickle fight here or there, ones that young Christopher would lose more often than not. And if dad ever found them, he'd hurl the homophobic and incestual slurs. So, yeah, Chris never thought about that in a really, really long time. Until today. Until his fight or flight kicked in because of one stray touch along his ribs.

Christopher ended up nodding slowly after what he was sure was many moments of silence as he was taken back to decades ago. Adrian even let him have these moments, which was another big win for his character.

The realization dawned upon Adrian in a heartbeat later, and he was smiling wide, "You're ticklish?"

Chris felt an unfamiliar flush build in his cheeks and he glanced at his friend, "Yes, but don't get any ideas, Adrian, I swear to god."

"Wouldn't dream of it," not, "I just can't believe the Peacemaker is ticklish! Who would've guessed?" even Adrian let out a small, excited giggle.

"And you aren't? Why's it such a big deal? I bet you like it, too, you sick freak," even though Christopher came to Adrian to confess and get some advice about his predicament, he couldn't avoid hurling insults as his defense mechanism. Can't get too close now, remember.

"Oh, I do," Adrian thumbed his glasses again, nodding and possessing a very matter-of-fact look about him, "It's one of my favorite torture methods."

Chris made a face, knowing in that moment Adrian definitely meant to torture and to be tortured.

"What's there to like?" he asked more genuinely.

"It's so much fun, dude! The tingles, the nerve endings, the effortless laughter," Adrian was smiling just thinking about it, and Christopher was squirming at just the mention.

It was then, in basking in the beautiful memories of being involved in tickling, that Adrian reached out and pinched at Christopher's side without abandon. Chris shot off the couch completely, screaming a, "What the fuck!"

Adrian giggled with pure glee coursing through his body at the discovery his best friend laid out before him, "Stop fighting it!" he bolted off the couch and ran straight at Christopher.

They played a brief game of cat and mouse, Chris hurling every kind of insult at Adrian in his avoidance of the inevitable. The ever-determined Adrian wound up cornering Christopher in his bedroom, avoiding objects that were hurled at his head in the process.

"Go fuck yourself. Fuck you, fuck your mom, fuck your aunt--"

"What's Aunt Kathy got to do with this?"

"Well I know you don't have a sister, otherwise I would've banged her already, dipshit."

Adrian grinned disturbingly at the thought. He wouldn't want any part in that intimate affair, of course, but him being able to say that Peacemaker was his brother-in-law was too tempting to not daydream of.

Christopher was genuinely considering jumping out his window once he ran out of small throwable objects. That split second of decision cost him big, as Adrian roundhouse kicked him directly into his bed.

Knowing he had nowhere else to go, nothing else he could do to prevent this, Christopher threw up his hands, "Wait wait wait wait! Adrian, wait!"

"Yeah, buddy?" Adrian straddled Chris and rested his own hands on his hips just waiting for whatever his idol and friend was going to say to him.

Christopher shut his eyes and took a few deep breaths before continuing his thought, "This is still new for me... I'd appreciate it if you, you know..." he swallowed, "took it easy."

Adrian couldn't believe his ears. Had he already converted Christopher into being okay with tickling? Not fighting back as much as his traumatized brain probably wanted him to? Adrian now felt he had a duty to uphold. To take a step in reversing whatever repressed, fucked up memories and feelings Christopher had towards tickling.

"Of course, dude," Adrian assured. He wiggled his fingers in quick anticipation and softly touched down on Christopher's belly. He could feel his friend tense beneath him and watched Christopher's hands land on his own face to cover up.

"No anti-torture techniques now, Mr. Military Man," Adrian chastised.

Adrian did take notice of Christopher making himself more vulnerable by lifting his hands like he did. And the Vigilante was not one to turn down the opportunity, so he clawed at Peacemaker's ribs, not pressing in too hard at the behest of his friend.

Christopher's arms immediately shot down and squeezed to his sides as laughs huffed their way through. When Adrian vibrated his fingers more quickly, that amped up Christopher's laughter, the much larger man rocking from side to side.

"Awesome," Adrian had a smile a mile wide at this discovery, at seeing his best friend and idol laughing this carefree.

Adrian tested out a few more spots on Chris's upper body, all earning him a variety of laughs. When he'd had his fill of exploiting his friend's weakness, he unhooked his legs from atop Christopher and knelt beside him on the bed. Chris took in deep breaths to recover and was rubbing his hands along the parts of his torso that still felt tingly.

"That was so much fun," Adrian decided to pitch in his two cents, smiling broadly.

Christopher was still processing what just transpired. He did think he should be feeling way more self-conscious after being so vulnerable like that, laid bare with all his emotions and his body. But no, he was actually feeling pretty good. Like the tickling was a stress-reliever. He would never admit any of this, however, of fucking course not.

"Economos is gonna die when he hears about this," Adrian seemed to be still in his own little fantasy world post-tickling, giggling at the idea of their teammates face when he tells him of Peacemaker's weakness.

"Oh, fuck no. You're not selling me out to Economos! I trusted you, man!" Christopher, fully on the rebound, saw the glint in Adrian's eyes behind the kid's glasses and the anticipatory smile on his stupid face, and, well... don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

Adrian was squealing and laughing before Christopher even laid a finger on him. And yeah, it was clear to Christopher just how much Adrian enjoyed being tickled. Which was actually kinda cute.

And as Christopher was getting his footing being the giver of tickles, not the receiver, he was quickly seeing how much more he preferred this side of it. Doing the tickles. Being a younger sibling first, then only child, he was only ever on the receiving end or receiving nothing at all. Adrian must have been used to this kind of treatment being Gut Chase's kid brother, so maybe that's why it grew like it did within him.

The night had long since ended, its last echoes faded into the quiet hum of the sleeping house. Of the crowd that had filled the backyard just hours before, only three remained: Chris, a dark silhouette snoring softly on the living room couch; Adrian, who had excused himself hours ago to wash away the sticky residue of spilled beer; and you, perched on the porch steps, watching the world through the quiet, hazy filter of a beer bottle.

​The backyard was a disaster, a silent testament to a good time. A lone speaker lay silent on the damp grass, a forgotten red Solo cup balanced precariously on its corner. Empty beer bottles and crumpled cans formed constellations across the lawn, their labels blurred by the first drops of rain.

​Rain began to pour, a soft, steady rhythm against the roof's overhang. It soaked the parched grass and slicked the sidewalk, but your bare feet, sticking out from the safety of the porch, welcomed the cold spray. You loved the smell—a clean, earthy scent that was a stark contrast to the metallic tang of blood and stale gunsmoke that clung to your memories. It was a reminder of the two lives you lived: one that smelled of fresh rain and witnessed friends enjoying themselves, and another that smelled of death and dealt with it with those same friends.

​You brought the beer bottle to your lips, the glass cool against your skin, your eyes still fixed on the starless sky. The rain speckled your glasses and soaked the cuffs of your pants, but you remained motionless, a sentinel in the storm.

​The sliding door behind you hissed open, breaking the spell of the rain. The faint patter of bare feet on the hardwood floor followed, then the clean, familiar scent of your shampoo. Adrian, having traded the mess for a shower, sat down beside you on the step. He was wearing your old gray sweatshirt and a pair of your sweatpants that were clearly a bit too short on him, the cuffs riding up to reveal his ankles.

​You didn't say a word, not even when he leaned his head against your shoulder. You could feel the warmth of his cheek through the thin fabric of your shirt and the soft brush of his freshly washed hair against your neck as he all but nuzzled into you.

The silence was broken by Adrian’s quiet voice. "Do you ever think about that scene in The Notebook?"

​You didn't answer right away. Instead, you slowly lifted your hand and gently leaned your cheek against the top of his head. His hair was still slightly damp and smelled of a cheap, generic shampoo, but it was a comfort you hadn't realized you were missing. You honestly couldn’t remember the last time you'd seen that movie, a distant memory of a rainy Saturday with your mom, a bowl of popcorn, and a story you’d found both sappy and painfully dull. The grand gestures felt hollow and alien, a world away from your own reality.

​You finished the last of your beer, the bitter taste a perfect counterpoint to the sweetness of his question. "No, not really," you muttered, the words almost lost in the steady patter of the rain.

​Adrian flinched, pulling back just enough to look at you. His eyes, wide and almost childlike in the dim light, were filled with a mixture of shock and betrayal, as if you had just admitted to a grave sin or told him you were never his friend to begin with. He sat up straight, the sudden movement nearly sending him slipping down the slick wooden steps. He regained his balance with a small, undignified stumble, but the look of hurt was already gone, replaced by a mischievous glint.

​"Well, I'm going to fix that," he declared, his voice filled with an almost manic enthusiasm. He leapt to his feet, a blur of your too-big sweatshirt and too-short sweatpants, and sprinted off the porch. He didn't bother to lift his head, letting the cold rain pour down on his face and plaster his dark hair to his forehead. He skidded to a stop in the middle of the lawn, arms outstretched, looking up at the sky. A loud, exaggerated sigh escaped his lips. "It wasn't over! It still isn't over!" he bellowed into the night, the line from the movie echoing in the empty darkness of the backyard.

​You chuckled, a low, quiet sound that was nearly swallowed by the rain. Leaning forward, you allowed the storm to break over your head, the cold water soaking your hair and shirt in an instant. Adrian was in the middle of the lawn, a soaked, shivering testament to dramatic movie moments. He'd started yelling lines from the movie—something about being a bird if she was a bird, his voice cracking with feigned emotion and genuine cold.

​A real smile, something warm and unfamiliar, spread across your lips. It wasn't the cynical, mocking smirk you wore in the other life. This was different, a genuine, unguarded curve of your mouth. Watching him, you were reminded of the sheer, unbridled joy you’d almost forgotten existed. The world he lived in, where a stolen kiss in the rain was the height of drama, was a world you could only visit. But watching him, so earnest and so entirely himself, made you want to stay in that world just a little while longer. You closed your eyes, letting the water run down your face, and let yourself just be for a moment.

When you finally opened your eyes, the world was a blurry mosaic of lights and rain. Adrian was no longer a soaked figure in the middle of the lawn. He was standing directly in front of you, a smile so wide and genuine it made your chest ache. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead, and his old, gray sweatshirt hung heavy and dark against his skin. He held out his hand, palm up, droplets of water glistening on his fingers.

​You cocked an eyebrow, a slight hum of confusion leaving your lips. You looked from his outstretched hand to his bright, expectant eyes, then to the silly, happy-go-lucky grin plastered on his face. You reached up, pushing your now-wet glasses up the bridge of your nose as if the simple act of adjusting them would give you the answer you were looking for. "What?" you hummed.

​Adrian's smile softened, but the unwavering look in his eyes remained. "Dance with me," he said, his voice a low, earnest sound carried on the rhythm of the rain. He took a small step closer, not a dancer's step, but the simple, direct motion of someone who knew exactly what they wanted. "Dance in the rain with me."

​Dance?

​The word tasted foreign on your tongue, a concept so far removed from your reality it felt like a joke. You didn't dance, not in this way. Not with a soundtrack of movie quotes and rain on the roof. Dancing for you was a different kind of choreography. It was the quick shuffle of a knife across a throat, a fluid, deadly ballet of bodies and blades. It was the way you moved in sync with Adrian and Chris, a grim waltz of death and survival in a dark alley. Fighting was dancing for you, an art form of violence and precision. There was no room for twirling or romantic gestures when the stakes were life and death.

​You just sat there, the dork standing in front of you so utterly sincere that the contrast was almost painful. He was offering you a moment of pure, cinematic romance, and all you could think about was that you don't dance.

"I don't dance, Adrian," you mumbled, your voice barely audible over the patter of the rain. It was a lie, of course, but not in the way he thought. You didn't dance, not to music and not with a partner in the way he was suggesting. You hoped the words would be enough, that he would let the matter go. But the look in his eyes told you he wasn't going to. He'd never been one to give up on a bit of romantic fantasy.

"Of course you do," he said, a casual shrug of his shoulders as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He knelt down in front of you on the wet step, his gaze unwavering. "Pretty boys always dance."

The words felt both teasing and sincere, a simple statement of a truth he saw but you refused to acknowledge. Before you could protest again, he reached out, his hand wrapping around yours. His skin was cold from the rain, but his touch was surprisingly warm and steady. A jolt, not of electricity but of pure, simple human contact, ran up your arm. It was so unlike the purposeful grip of a weapon or the quick, firm clasp of a handshake meant to seal a deal.

Adrian pulled, a gentle but firm tug that drew you from the safety of the porch and out into the deluge. The cold water instantly soaked through your pants, chilling you to the bone. You stumbled for a moment, your feet sinking into the soft, wet grass. He didn't let go, instead pulling you towards the one relatively clear spot on the lawn, where the beer bottles and cups were less dense.

You came to a stop in a small clearing beneath the fairy lights strung from a low-hanging branch, their soft, yellow glow a stark contrast to the darkness of the sky. The rain poured down heavier here, no longer a soft patter but a steady, drumming beat on your clothes and skin. The clouds had parted just enough for a pale sliver of moonlight to break through, illuminating the droplets of rain as they fell, making them look like a million tiny, glistening diamonds.

You stood there, a dazed statue in the rain, caught between the two lives you led. The feeling of his hand in yours, the softness of the light, the rhythmic sound of the downpour—it was all so real and so foreign. Adrian let go of your hand, only to slide his hands to your hips, a hopeful, goofy smile still on his face.

Adrian didn't start with a real dance. He simply shifted his weight from one foot to the other, a gentle, rocking sway that was more like a slow, patient motion than a waltz. He smiled, a soft, encouraging look in his eyes, and with his hands still resting on your hips, he began to guide you in the same simple rhythm.

The cold, wet fabric of your jeans stuck to your legs, and the grass beneath your bare feet was slick and soft. But with every gentle rock, the tension you had been holding onto all night began to slowly seep out of you. This wasn't the kind of dance you were used to. There was no pain, no purpose, no deadly intent. This was just Adrian, his warmth radiating through the cold, wet air, pulling you along in a rhythm so simple and pure it felt almost alien.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, letting the rain and the fairy lights blur into a shimmering haze. You could feel the soft thrum of his heartbeat against your chest and the even deeper comfort of his presence. Your arms, which had been hanging stiffly by your sides, slowly came up to wrap around his waist, your hands linking behind him. You could feel the cold, wet fabric of his sweatshirt and his skin beneath it, warm and firm.

This wasn't dancing. This was just standing in the rain with Adrian, the world a beautiful, quiet mess around you. It was a moment of peace you didn’t know you were capable of having.

Adrian's gentle sway became something more. He shifted his weight with a grace you didn't know he possessed, turning you slowly in the small, open space of the lawn. His hands slid from your hips to one of your hands, and he raised it between you, a silent invitation to a proper dance. The rain fell heavier now, a thick curtain of sound that muted everything else. A distant rumble of thunder echoed in the distance, a natural soundtrack to this ridiculous, wonderful moment.

Your surprise must have been written all over your face because Adrian's smile widened. He leaned in close, his mouth near your ear, his voice a shout over the din of the storm. "I knew you could dance!"

You didn't have time to respond before he was moving, a lightness in his step that you'd never seen before. He guided you in a simple waltz, a few fluid steps to the left, then to the right. It wasn't perfect, you stumbled over a patch of grass and he laughed, but it was real. This was the same guy who, at every party, would perform a silly little "butt dance" he'd invented, a ridiculously goofy jig meant to make everyone laugh. This was a different man entirely.

He twirled you away from his body, his grip light and confident, and for a brief, dizzying second, you were alone in the rain, the fairy lights a blurred ribbon of gold around you. Then, just as quickly, he pulled you back in, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest.

You looked up at him, your head tilted back, water running down your face. "I wasn't aware you even knew how to dance like this," you shouted back, the words a raw confession of your surprise. You had seen him fight, seen him angry, seen him laugh until he cried. But you had never seen this, this quiet, graceful part of him that felt as foreign and welcome as the soft glow of the fairy lights in the storm.

Adrian's smile softened, turning from goofy and charming to something far more intimate. He didn't answer right away. Instead, he pulled you in closer, until there was no space left between your bodies, the rain be damned. The rhythmic beat of the storm on the surrounding flora and the roof of the porch was all that could be heard.

He rested his forehead against yours, his nose bumping gently against the bridge of your glasses. "There's a lot you don't know about me," he murmured, his voice now a low, rumbling sound that was just for you. "But this is my favorite part of me, and I wanted to share it with you."

You didn't know what to say. The usual, sarcastic remarks were lost somewhere in the pounding rain, and your brain couldn't form the words. The only thing you could focus on was Adrian's closeness, the warmth of his skin, and the way his breath was misting on your lips.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes, dark and glistening with rain, searching yours for something. You found yourself unable to look away, as if you were drowning in his gaze. He traced your jaw with his thumb, his touch light and gentle. He was looking at you as if he had just discovered the last bit of treasure at the end of a treasure hunt.

The silence that fell between you was a language all its own, a quiet space filled with unspoken words and feelings. The fairy lights twinkled in your peripheral vision, and the rain washed everything away, leaving only the two of you in the middle of a perfect storm.

You didn't think about it. You just acted. You leaned in, closing the small distance between you and Adrian, and pressed your lips against his. The kiss was as soft and simple as the dance he’d just led you through, the perfect culmination of the rain, the fairy lights, and the quiet confessions between you. He kissed back immediately, his lips moving against yours with a gentle, surprised certainty. He tasted of the cold rain and something else entirely—something sweet and full of a hope you hadn't realized you were so desperate for.

He went to shift his weight, to take a step, and that's when it happened. His bare foot, cold and numb from the downpour, slipped against the slick, muddy grass. The graceful spell of the dance shattered in an instant. The kiss broke as Adrian’s arms went wide, his body flailing to find balance. It was no use. The two of you smacked against the cold, wet ground beneath, the impact jarring the breath from your lungs.

Adrian landed on top of you, his body a heavy, warm weight against your own. The cold, soggy grass squished against your back, soaking through the thin fabric of your shirt in an instant. The rain continued to pour down, a relentless rhythm against your face and hair.

"Oh my God," Adrian groaned, his voice filled with a mixture of embarrassment and panic. His elbows were pressed into the wet ground on either side of your head, holding himself up as he looked down at you. His eyes were wide with a sincere apology. "I'm so sorry! I'm so, so sorry! Are you okay? Did I hurt you?" He was muttering the apologies over and over, the words tumbling out in a frantic, panicked stream.

You just laid there, the cold ground beneath you, the rain on your face, and Adrian's warmth above you, your heart hammering against your ribs. You didn’t say anything, but a genuine smile, the same one from earlier, slowly spread across your lips.

You couldn't help but laugh, a genuine, breathless sound that bubbled up from deep in your chest. "I'm fine," you managed to gasp out, trying to push him up as you continued to giggle. "I'm okay, Adrian."

His panicked look was replaced with a shy, embarrassed grin. Before he could apologize again, he leaned down, his eyes still fixed on yours, and kissed you. This time it was deeper, more confident, a warm, soft pressure against your mouth that promised something more. You were just starting to kiss him back, losing yourself in the moment, when the world was split apart.

A blinding flash of lightning lit up the entire sky, turning the gray rain into a brilliant, stark white. It struck a few hundred feet away, a massive, brilliant tree-like branch of light that you could feel as much as see. A second later, a deafening crack of thunder shook the very ground beneath you, a sound so immense it made your eardrums ache.

The moment was shattered. Adrian scrambled back, his hands still on your hips, his eyes wide with a mix of shock and amusement. "Okay, that's our cue," he said, his voice a panicked but thrilled whisper.

You didn't need any more encouragement. You scrambled up, your movements clumsy and uncoordinated as you tried to find your footing in the slick grass. Adrian pulled you along, his hand still holding yours, and the two of you bolted for the house, trying not to trip over the scattered beer bottles and cans. You slipped once, but he caught you, his grip tight and reassuring. Your laughter mixed with his as you sprinted for the sliding glass door, a whirlwind of soaked clothes, cold rain, and shared adrenaline.

You burst through the door and slammed it shut, panting and out of breath. The cold air of the air-conditioned house hit your wet skin and made you shiver, but the feeling of the rain and mud was instantly replaced by the warmth of the living room. You leaned against the wall, watching the storm rage through the glass. Adrian, equally soaked, leaned beside you, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath. The sound of the thunder was now a low, distant grumble, and the frantic drumming of the rain on the glass was a soft, comforting background noise. You looked at him, and he looked at you, and for a moment, the world of wet clothes and messy hair and drunken parties and deadly violence all fell away. There was only the sound of your shared breaths, the storm outside, and the silent, unspoken promise of a second kiss.

You and Adrian stood there for a long moment, the silence broken only by the distant grumble of thunder. His eyes, still sparkling with rain and light, held a quiet question that you didn't need to ask. He reached out and gently took your hand, tugging you away from the door and toward the couch where Chris was still passed out.

"Let's get you warm," he murmured, his voice now low and calm, a stark contrast to his earlier panicked shouts.

He found a dry blanket draped over the armchair, a relic from someone else's comfortable night, and wrapped it around your shoulders. The thick wool was a welcome warmth against your shivering, wet skin. Adrian then peeled off his soaked sweatshirt, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. He shivered, but the look in his eyes never left yours.

"I'm sorry I dropped you," he said, the apology feeling small and insignificant after everything else.

You shook your head, a smile still playing on your lips. "I told you I was okay. It was the most perfect way to ruin a moment."

He laughed, a soft, fond sound. He sat down on the couch, pulling you down next to him, and pulled the blanket over your lap. You leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

"You know," he whispered, his voice a warm rumble against your ear. "It wasn't that long ago that Noah was telling Allie in the movie, 'We're going to have to do that again.' And I thought it was so cheesy. But I think I get it now."

He gently lifted your chin so you were looking up at him, and his thumb brushed against your wet cheek. The outside world could be a storm, a mess of blood and violence and impossible choices, but in this moment, there was just him, and you, and the warm, simple truth of his words.

"We have to do that again," he said, his smile full of a soft, endearing hope.