#guess whose back..back again..tom's back..tell a friend..

***

2.6. Home

A few hours ahead of Friday night family dinner, Sonic tells Tom and Maddie that he has a surprise for everyone before the meal that he promises to prepare— an offer which sounds some alarms, but either out of piqued interest or genuine appreciation, no one argues otherwise. He isn’t the best cook, but tonight he plans to make his specialty— spaghetti and meatballs with a side of garlic bread— which is relatively hard to mess up; even for Sonic, whose diet primarily consists of microwaveable goods for that exact reason.

Besides, it’s easier than explaining why he needs to prepare a seventh serving.

The plan is to butter them up (pun intended) with promises of a home-cooked meal before dropping the bomb of Shadow’s resurrection, which they probably won’t believe at first. Then Shadow will walk in as proof, and with Sonic’s support, he’ll sit with them and dine on spaghetti for their first family meal together in the Wachowski home.

In an ideal world, that is.

Out of concern for the many different ways tonight can go wrong, Sonic, who’s been deliberating since his conversation with Amy whether or not to involve her, finally decides that he’d feel better if she would also back him up about Shadow, since she already knows about him.

So once he has a moment alone with her in the kitchen, Sonic pulls Amy out of earshot of everyone else (hopefully) to ask her for help.

“Amy! So, um, regarding that secret of ours…” Sonic starts in a hushed voice, eyes shifting around to ensure they are truly alone. “From, y’know, a few nights ago, when we were outside…?”

Amy blushes and kicks at the ground out of nervous habit, chuckling dreamily, “Hehe, yes, I remember.”

From the way she’s acting, Sonic has to guess that her enthusiasm towards Shadow is likely due to her inevitable attraction to him, since he could certainly understand the appeal. All the more helpful for his case, surely.

“Well, I kinda need your um, support, telling everybody else, ‘cus I wanted to hold a family meeting about it tonight. But…” He pauses to glance around again, lowering his voice a little more just in case. “They might not take it too well. So, it would help a lot if you could back me up.”

Amy’s eyes widen as she takes this in, and coupled with her mental image of him crying alone outside, an understanding washes over her. Of course he’d come to her; given his hesitation to tell his family, it’s possible she was the first person to welcome his vulnerability with open arms. His first safe space, if you will.

She giggles in spite of herself, then muffles them down to answer seriously. “Oh, wow… of course, Sonic. I’ll support you no matter what!”

Sonic visibly melts in relief, a smile growing along his muzzle that seizes her heart in a way that confirms how much she really means that. And after months of trying to get his attention, here they are— smiling together in a huddle, sharing secrets, growing closer by the second.

Little did they know they both have very different ideas of what the same secret is.

“Phew… thanks, Amy. You’re a good friend.” Sonic squeezes her shoulder with one hand, noticing for the first time just how sturdy she is, how toned her arms are. The wandering thought brings a heat to his cheeks and he pulls away quickly to check on the pasta.

Amy doesn’t miss the pink tinge spreading like wildfire across his muzzle, and soon her complexion mirrors his as she plays with the ends of her quills shyly. “Heh… shucks, it’s nothin’…”

After finishing food prep and setting up the table arrangement, Sonic’s eyes flit to the kitchen analog clock to see it blinking 6:24 — meaning he had about six minutes before the time he’d told Shadow to show up. And it’s too late to whisper anything else to Amy, as Tails and Knuckles pile in demanding food, followed by Tom and lastly Maddie. (Ozzie’s been begging for hot water on the stove for the last twelve minutes, if you were wondering where he is during all of this.)

As everyone is taking a seat, there’s some background chatter about the confusion behind the seventh setting, as well as idle speculation as to who they might be expecting, whoever it is Sonic surely invited.

Sonic glances at the time once more — 6:29 now — and thrums his fingers on the back of the chair at the head of the dining table, his anxious percussion drowned out by the casual conversation and laughter bubbling in the room.

Amy meets his eyes, and it’s just enough for him to snag her attention from it all and indirectly ask her to meet him at the edge of the room with some not-so-subtle hand signs.

In the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room somewhat away from the cacophony of family dinner night, Sonic leans in to Amy and asks in a hushed voice, “Amy! Have you seen him yet?”

Understandably confused, Amy cocks her head. “Seen who?”

Sonic peers behind her to check one more time. Yep, his seat is still empty.

“You know…” He nods at the seat. “Our guest.”

“Am I supposed to know who we’re waiting for…?” Amy’s even more confused than before, especially now that Sonic is doubling down.

Sonic sighs, or more accurately groans, as he palms his face. Because sheesh, does he have to spell out everything around here?

“Obviously I’m talking about—”

A sudden flash that erupts into something solid followed by a buzzing in the atmosphere interrupts everything else, and everyone’s reactions are instant.

“Shadow??!” Sonic finishes, in sync with everyone else in the room, all with the same exact inflection of shocked horror. Everyone save for Amy, who finds herself gawking at someone who appears to be a hotter, edgier version of Sonic, with dark grey fur accentuated by fiery red highlights across his body, and a fluffy patch of white chest fur.

“Who??” Amy’s voice stands out amongst the chorus of surprised exclamations, her eyes scanning the faces in the room around her for answers, because why didn’t anyone tell her this guy existed?!

Knuckles is the first to break past the initial shock, as he grabs and cracks one fist at a time with a smirk. “Finally, a worthy opponent.”

“Shadow, what the hell?” Sonic chides, pushing aside both Amy and her question as he zips over to the other hedgehog’s side in a blink. “Haven’t you ever heard of using the front door?”

The dazzling black and red hedgehog, the one they keep calling Shadow, folds his arms with a certain petulance Amy can’t quite name. “You asked me to be here. I’m here. I don’t see the issue.”

“Yeah, but you can’t just teleport into peoples’ living rooms, have you no decorum—”

“Sonic,” Tails interjects, eyes wide as the plates on the table, irises tiny and sharp, “how can he be here?”

Amy notices the fox’s fur is puffed up and wiry as he points at Shadow in what is clearly fear. Knuckles is still cracking other miscellaneous joints on his body, as if preparing for battle; even Tom and Maddie look apprehensive and a little shaken.

Whoever this fake Sonic guy is… everyone else seems afraid of him.

Everyone except for Sonic, who ran right to his side as soon as made his appearance, and even now it almost seems like he wants to reach out and touch the other. He only recently got that close with her, like within the week, and she’s been trying for seven months.

Whoever he is, he has something with Sonic. Something special, something beyond platonic, even if Sonic himself doesn’t realize it.

And instead of making her heart pulse with envy or jealousy… the thought of them together excites her in a way unlike anything she’s ever felt with Sonic.

Oh, how she loves family dinner nights at the Wachowski’s.

Your parents were never home, working day and night for coloured pieces of paper that barely bought enough food for the four of you. Tom, your brother, would stay home with you, take care of you as they stayed away for longer and longer. You barely knew them, and now that they’re dead you know them less, quickly forgetting how they sounded or how they smelled. Forgetting which way your mom parted her hair, whether or not your dad was losing his.

Will the same thing happen with Tom? Will you wake up one morning and not remember the way his hugs felt? Will you try and remember the timbre of his voice, the way he’d push you along and tell you to “get going, kid” whenever you got distracted and find that you can’t? Will you close your eyes to picture his face and see a stranger looking back at you?

At least when you were grieving your parents—the small amount that you did— you had him to talk to, to help you through it. Grief wasn’t lonely that time.

But now Tom is the one gone, and for the first time in your life, you find that you feel alone. He had spoiled you so much with his existence; and now it’s like he never did.

Maybe that’s why you latched onto Ellie, scrambled after her as she led you further and further away from your brother, from where he lay still in that building. Maybe that’s why you woke up at dawn that morning, so unbelievably tired and sore but ready to follow.

You guess you aren’t truly alone, then— not physically at least.

You’ve spent a week on the road with Ellie. Ellie whose been kind enough to lend you some clothes and share her food. Understanding enough to not bring up the fact that you cry in your sleep, or the fact that you rarely do.

You’re just missing the companionship you had with your bother. How easy it was to talk to him, the fact that you felt like you could. You keep turning to him, to fill that need for conversation-- but then you remember and it’s like the wound widens just a bit more.

Once again, Ellie is kind, but you don’t know her.

Grieving is a difficult process at the best of times, but made even more so when the only other person in your life is a stranger who doesn’t trust you enough to change that.

You reached Dallas shortly after you joined Ellie, a day and a half of walking with a few breaks in between. You knew that if it were just Ellie that she probably could have made the trip in a single day, but despite your own travels, you haven’t built up the kind of stamina she has hidden away inside her lanky frame.

It makes you wonder who she is, where she gets it from. You’ve had time to observe, to simply watch her as she marches on ahead of you, and you can’t seem to come up with an answer that feels right.

The way she handles her rifle, how dutifully she keeps watch, that indiscernible look in her eyes, the toned muscles of her arms; it all reminds you of the soldiers you’ve seen. It would make sense too, her ability to sneak around so quietly, the smoothness in her movements as she takes down infected with nothing but her blade.

But she doesn’t look like a soldier. Ripped jeans and converse that are on the verge of falling apart, auburn hair that hangs in her face, delicate tattoo that wraps around her forearm, a moth and some ferns that feel much too personal to be anything military.

But if she’s not a solider, then who is she?

The two of you walk up a quiet street, a shopping district in one of the many suburbs of Dallas. You’ve been trying to avoid the city’s heart, working your way around in a wide circle, stopping in and resupplying whenever possible. You’ve been able to slowly build back up the things you had lost—more ammunition for your pistol, a gas mask, new boots.

The one thing you’re lacking in is clothes. It seemed like every place you found was either ransacked to shit, or everything inside had been destroyed by the weather. You felt bad about dirtying the clothes Ellie had lent you, but you weren’t about to resort to putting musty, mouldering fabric on your body.

That’s why when you spot a clothing store, one with its windows still intact, you stop in your tracks.

“Ellie, look.” You nod to your left, gesturing to the store tucked between some kind of restaurant and what looks like a small bank. “Signature Stitches,” you read, looking over the modest storefront.

White paint has curled and peeled away, revealing the red bricks underneath. The windows are foggy and covered in years of grime, making it difficult to see inside the dark building. It’s rare to see one practically untouched, the only thing daring to being time itself.

You turn to Ellie when she stops, looking over the store with you. “Can we check it out? Just for a second.”

Ellie dutifully scans the street, eyes running over the surrounding stores, the abandoned cars lining the road, the side streets hidden away in shadows. She nods, just the once, hair falling from its spot behind her ear.

“Yeah, if we’re quick. We’re losing light.”

You perk up a little bit, a small bubble of excitement stirring within you. “Really?”

She huffs, a short sound. “I can say no—”

You’re already cutting across the street, careful of the crumbling pavement beneath your feet.

“Hey, stick close,” Ellie calls out, reaching down for her revolver as she follows you over. She mumbles something under her breath, but you’re not close enough to hear it.

The windows are hard to see through, a thick layer of grime clinging to the surface. You roll down the extra long sleeves of your borrowed shirt to cover your palm, scrubbing away at the glass of the door to try and get a better look in.

It’s still somewhat dark, and more than a little bit dusty, but otherwise the place is perfect. Clothing racks stand tall, creating aisles and aisles of tops, dresses, and pants. There’s a whole section just for denim—jeans, jackets, skirts. A display dedicated solely to hats and scarves sits in one of the corners.

This entire place is like a time capsule of the year 2013.

You pull back, finding the handle of the door and pushing—

It doesn’t budge.

You frown, looking down. You wrap your fingers around the cool metal, tensing your muscles and pulling—

It still doesn’t budge.

“Shit,” you mumble, jostling the door. Push pull push pull push—

Sighing, you let go of the handle. “It’s locked.”

Ellie sidles up beside you, using her shoulder to nudge you out of the way. “Step back.”

She reaches into her back pocket, pulling out her switchblade. It’s beautifully crafted, and though you’re sure it’s years old; she takes amazing care of it. You’ve watched her a few times now take the time to clean it, using a cloth to wipe off all the gore from her kills that day.

And while normally you wouldn’t question her use of the blade, you can’t help but pipe up now, confused.

“How is that going to—”

She adjusts the grip in her palm, sliding it so that the butt of the switchblade juts out of her closed fist. With a fluid motion she brings both of her arms up, one to cover her face, the other to slam against the corner of the window.

The glass shatters, a deafeningly beautiful sound. A hollow crack followed by the almost delicate tinkles of the shards hitting the floor below.

Ellie steps closer to the door, glass crunching under her feet as she reaches her arm in through the window, leaning over and fiddling with the handle on the inside. Something clicks and she pulls back, shoving her switchblade back in her pocket.

“There. Try it again.” She steps back.

You blink, lips slightly parted as you look at her, watching her scarred and calloused hands swipe away glass from her forearms as if it were dirt.

She pauses, looking over at you when you don’t make a move to open the door. “You good?”

Eyes meet her own, hazy green and crinkled in confusion.

“Yeah,” you breathe, wetting your lips. “Just wasn’t expecting that.” You turn away, pushing past her to take back your spot at the door. “You do that often, or…?”

Ellie shrugs, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not like I’m going to get arrested.”

“I guess,” you mumble, grabbing the handle once more and pushing against the door, careful not to touch any of the jagged glass still sticking out from the frame.

The door swings open, glass scratching against the tiled floor as the bottom of the door sweeps it all to the side. Your lips twitch, a ghost of a smile as you turn your head to look back at Ellie, a thank you right on the tip of your tongue—

A screech. Echoed from distance, but loud enough to hear.

Ellie crouches, hand reaching for her revolver, head on a swivel as she listens. You duck down with her, pressing your body against the little alcove that makes the store doorway, watching Ellie as she works.

Another cry, this time slightly louder. Whatever it is, it’s getting closer.

Ellie looks to you, glancing behind you and into the store. “You have your gun?”

Nodding, you unholster it from your thigh, holding it the way your brother taught you.

“Good. Go in, get what you need but keep quiet.” She looks back down the road, craning her head as she unholsters her revolver, unlatching the cylinder and doing a quick count. “I’ll deal with this out here.”

“Okay. I’ll be quick.”

You go to shuffle into the store, but a hand on your forearm stops you.

“You yell if you need help, got it?” Ellie looks at you, eyes serious and boring into your own.

You can’t help the small shudder that runs through you, the flinch as you snatch your arm free from her grip. “Got it.”

She nods, just the once and moves back, pressing herself to a nearby car as she surveys whatever is happening down the road.

You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding, a shaky thing out of pursed lips, and enter the store proper

The air is stale, the afternoon light streaming in from the open door catching the dust particles that cling to the air. You reach back, hand hesitating over the gas mask that’s clipped to your pack as you watch the air, just until you’re certain that it’s actually dust and not spores.

It’s almost overwhelming how many clothes there are. You’re used to seeing shops ransacked, clothes crumpled on the floor, trampled on as people rushed through the aisles taking all that they can. You’d be lucky to find anything in your size that wasn’t either ruined, stank like death, or covered in impractically hideous patterns.

But here? You’ve hit the jackpot.

After a quick sweep of the store and finding it empty, you let yourself shop around. Normally there’s no room to be picky, but with so many different styles and types of clothing, you figured you could get away with putting back anything you scrunch your nose at. There’s no need to be impress anyone with what you wear anymore, but if these are the clothes you’ll one day die in, you’d rather not be wearing a t-shirt with a unicorn on it.

Your pack begins to fill out as you drift around the store, carefully folding in a change of pants, a couple of shirts, underwear and thick socks, a sturdy but comfortable bra. It’s not a lot, just the necessities, but it feels good to have clothes of your own again.

You’re over at the coats and jackets, trying to find something thick enough for the cold nights, but thin enough to fit comfortably in your pack. Metal hangers screech along the rack as you riffle through, pack sat at your feet.

The crunch of glass underfoot sounds from the front of the store.

You drop down into a crouch behind the clothing rack, hand fumbling at your thigh for your pistol, turning the safety off and gripping it tightly.

A low cry, almost a wail of pain. Grunting. Snarling.

Infected.

You clamp your lips shut, muffling the involuntary gasp that leaves you. You need to stay calm, keep it together. Keep quiet; just like Ellie said.

You inch your way around the clothing rack, one foot in front of the other as you reach the end of the aisle. Peeking your head out, you sweep your eyes across the front of the store, catching sight of the infected.

It stands in the doorway, your way out. Dark red that dries into brown soaks the front of its shirt. A deep, jagged wound in its throat, the root of the blue veins and boils that fester along its skin. It—he, a man—stutters in the doorway, swaying side to side as he hunches, head twitching and jerking as it looks around.

You press back, taking a deep, silent breath as you think.

You can’t call for Ellie; the infected is passive right now. He doesn’t know you’re here, and you’d like to keep it that way.

The store isn’t huge, but it’s big enough that you could possibly loop around, stay out of sight or reach of the infected. You could lure it from the doorway, slip out when it’s not looking and then book it, run and find Ellie-- or wait for Ellie to find you.

The gun in your hands feel heavy, the metal warming in your grip.

You’re okay. You can do this. You’ve done this plenty of times--

The footsteps start again, glass crunching and scraping against the tiles under the creature’s shuffling feet.

Shit. It sounds like it’s coming this way.

You retreat, shuffling backwards as the footsteps get closer, careful not to take your eyes off the end of the aisle just in case it rounds the corner. Your pistol is held out in front of you, finger hovering next to the trigger, ready to fire.

You’re so focused on what’s in front of you that you forget to look behind. Your pack, the one that you had laid at your feet as you were shuffling through the rack catches up to you, a foot getting tangled in the straps.

A swear leaves you lips as you trip, stumbling over the mound and falling back onto your ass. A hand reaches out, desperate to catch yourself, clinging onto and ripping a coat off the rack next to you. The metal of the hanger screeches angrily as the coat is pulled free, and as the thick fabric settles across your prone body, the entire store is blanketed in silence.

The blood freezes in your veins, ice cold fear zipping through you and making your teeth chatter. A hand comes up to clamp over your mouth, muffling the ragged pants that leave your lips as adrenaline lights up inside you.

A snarl, wretched and gurgling through a torn throat echoes throughout the store, just a few aisles over from where you lay. The footsteps start again but heavier now, hurried, shuffling and slipping on the dust covered tiles beneath it.

You scramble, pushing the coat off of you and kicking to unhook the strap of the bag from your ankle, nearly removing your boot in the process. You head snaps up as the infected rounds the corner, swivelling its head to stare you down in the middle of the aisle.

You free yourself, legs trembling as you push yourself up to stand, knuckles whitening from how hard you’re gripping the pistol.

There’s a second of pause, a brief stand off as the infected registers what it’s seeing.

And then all hell breaks loose.

It breaks into a sprint, running full tilt towards you as you fire, the shot ringing out impossibly loud in the store. It hits the infected in the shoulder, making it spin, stumble, and gives you some time to run away.

You turn away from the aisle, pushing to put a few more in between you and the creature. You don’t slow down until you’re on the other side of the store, standing in the middle of an aisle with your gun trained over the top of the rack.

The infected is back on its feet, whipping around until it spots you. It cries, low and croaking as it runs towards you, body crashing into clothing racks and displays on its desperate path to get to you. Its arms are winding, lashing out in front of itself, jagged nails yellowed and waiting to rip into your skin.

You fire again, and despite the trembling of your hands you get much closer this time, the bullet grazing its cheek. A line of brown and black oozes from its face, skin splitting as the bullet lodges somewhere in the brick behind it.

A howl of agony rips through the air, but still it persists, scrambling to reach the same aisle as you.

A devastating feeling of déjà vu strikes you, like a punch to the gut that makes all the air leave your bruised lungs. The way the infected is stumbling towards you, his arms outstretched, teeth gnashing and spitting black blood out from between his lips—it reminds you of Tom. Your brother in those final, gut-wrenching moments, the ones that won’t leave you alone when you close your eyes at night.

A rattling wheeze leaves your throat, vision blurring as tears collect and fall from your lashes. You miss another shot, hands too unstable to aim for anywhere other than the wall behind him.

“I’m sorry—I didn’t have a choice,” you whisper to him, body locked in place as he gets closer and closer.

Hands brush your shoulders, fingers dig into your skin as the creature drags you in, muzzle of the gun pressed tight against his throat. A sick squelching sounds over the gurgling snarls, the skin of its throat giving way under the hot metal as it leans towards your face, desperately biting at the air.

Your arms are trapped between the two of you, but your wrists are still free to move, dragging the gun to press up under its chin.

“Tom—I’m so s-sorry. I love you—”

The gunshot is loud, the bright flash blinding your momentarily as the infected stills, before collapsing at your feet.

You don’t know how long you stand there, tears dripping off the tip of your nose and onto the body beneath you. Your hands have long stopped trembling, a long smear of brown and red up the line of your forearm from where you wiped the gore from your face.

As the sharp whine fades from somewhere inside your head, the sound of your name being called replace it. You turn, just your head, looking over your shoulder to the doorway.

Ellie stands amongst the glass, the afternoon light silhouetting her from behind just like it did the first time you met her. She holds her rifle against her chest, strong hands clasped around it as she watches you, too far away to be able to discern what she’s thinking.

It makes you feel sick.

It makes you feel weak.

“You good?”

You look away, back down at the man—the creature laying at your feet. “Yeah.”

Footsteps, light and careful step into the store, not walking towards you but to the other side.

“We need to go. All that gunfire—” Ellie leans down, shoving the coat on the floor into your pack and zipping it up. She hauls it over her shoulder, one of the straps dangling down and grazing her thigh. “Everything in town will be looking for us. Let’s move.”

You blink, sparing the infected one last glance before ripping yourself away, turning to follow Ellie out of the store.

She stands in the doorway, watching you closely as you slip past her, pistol covered in gore and tilted at the floor.

Neither of you say anything until you’re back out on the open roads, the tall buildings of the town long behind you. The sun hangs low in the sky; you’ll have to stop somewhere soon before it gets too dark.

Ellie, who has been marching on ahead, slows her pace down until she’s fallen into step with you. She doesn’t spare you a glance, keeps her gaze focused ahead as she clears her throat.

“Back there,” she starts, pausing for a moment to gauge your reaction. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

You breath, sharp out from your nose, fingers twitching as you fight the need to wrap your arms around yourself. To find comfort where you can get it. “I’m fine.”

She knows you’re lying. You know she knows you’re lying. But nobody mentions it, keeps it unspoken in the air between you.

“Okay.”

⸙

Hands clawing at her forearms, gouging out strips of flesh from her muscles. A swollen face gasping under water. Salt stinging her wounds. Fingers crushed and gushing blood into the dark water. Screaming, sobs ripped from her throat.

The sound of a boat engine.

Joel.

Ellie wakes with a start, hands clasping at her chest as she lurches up from the ground. She falls back with a thud, heavy breaths panting from between chapped, parted lips, eyes wide and staring up at the sky. Pinks and oranges dance through the shifting clouds, diffusing the early morning light.

A presence next to her, a form she can just make out from the corner of her eyes makes her heart race, pulse beating hard and fast against the thin skin of her wrist. She rolls her head to the side, looking, hand clasping the handle of her switchblade kept by her bedside.

You sit with your back to Ellie, knees drawn up to your chest, pistol resting loosely in your hand as you stare out into the trees. Keeping watch, Ellie realises, recognising that sweeping gaze as her own.

This is the closest you two have ever been, usually keeping a couple of feet between you while you walk, silently diving the camp each night into her side and yours. But here you are, inches away from where she sleeps, watching over her.

Ellie doesn’t like it.

“How long was I out?”

You don’t stir, not even a flinch as her voice breaks the early morning silence, louder than the shuffling of leaves and the occasional creaking of large branches against their trunks.

“A few hours.” You clear your throat, rough from disuse. “You were asleep when I woke up.”

Ellie rolls her head back to face the sky, grip relaxing on her switchblade. “Should have woken me up.”

“I haven’t seen you sleep for more than a few hours in the weeks we’ve been out here,” you say, breaking your gaze with the trees to look Ellie over. The bags under your eyes are deep, but no where near as bad as the ones Ellie tries her best to ignore on her own face. “I know you don’t trust me, but I can help.”

You’re right-- Ellie doesn’t trust you. Not in the way that you would like her to. Not in the way that she would like to.

It has nothing to do with survival, with your ability to fight for your life or hers. You’ve proven time and time again how capable you are, despite the couple of close calls that neither you nor Ellie bring up.

She doesn’t trust you because she doesn’t trust herself.

There’s a part of her that feels guilty about being so blunt, keeping you at arm’s length while you’re grieving—but she can’t do this all over again. She can’t be the reason another person’s life is irrevocably changed because of her.

So yeah, Ellie doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t trust that you won’t get attached to her, think of her or her company kindly, just as she doesn’t trust herself the same. Massachusetts is so far away, and she’s not dumb enough to think that walking halfway across the country with someone won’t change things between them.

She’s lived this story once before.

Ellie sighs, bites back a response and sits up, crossing her legs under her as she scratches at the back of her head. She’ll need to find somewhere to wash up soon, a river or something will do.

She rubs the sleep from her eyes as she yawns, picking at the corners where it’s crusted. Her pinkie and ring finger on her left-hand ache, a lingering feeling from her dream. She drops her hands into her lap and massages at the short appendages, hanging her head down to hide her wince.

A heat along the back of her neck makes the short hairs rise, the goosebumps that come with being stared at rippling over the skin of her forearms. A huff leaves her lips, molars coming to chew on the inside of her cheek.

“I had to cut them off.”

“What?” You answer is immediate, surprised. She doesn’t have to look at you to see that face you make, the one where your eyebrows draw up high on your forehead, lips parting as if to say, ‘no I wasn’t staring’, or ‘no I wasn’t thinking that’.

“My fingers.” Ellie replies blandly, as if talking about the clouds in the sky. She tilts her head, peering at you through the strands of hair that hang in her face. “You were staring.”

A noise leaves you, a stutter as you look away and back to your post. She can see the tips of your ears and how they grow pink, giving away your embarrassment.

“I didn’t want to be rude and bring it up.”

Ellie can’t help the scoff that leaves her, the small sound passing between her lips. “And staring is better?”

Your ears grow darker, shoulders drawing up to cover them. Ellie has to bite back the twitch of a smirk.

“I didn’t—” You huff, frustrated. “Whatever.”

Theres a brief silence, nature reclaiming its spot to fill it.

“Why’d you cut them off?” It’s a quiet question, but one Ellie hears, nonetheless.

“Thought it’d look badass,” Ellie jokes, or at least attempts to. She forgets for just a moment where she is, who she’s with, until she’s met with awkward silence and not a playful ‘shut up, stupid’ like she’d get from Dina.

She clears her throat, looking back down at her lap. Her fingers flex, all five of them, curling in and out. she can still feel them, the tips of her missing fingers. It’s weird.

“They got crushed. Started to turn all gross and black so…” She shrugs, figuring you can put together the rest.

“How long ago did you do it?” You slowly turn back to look at her, eyes drifting down her arm and back to her hand. “Did it take long to get used to?”

“Just over a year ago.” She grips her fingers, wrapping her hand over what’s left of them. “And yeah. Had to relearn a lot.”

Your look lingers, just for a few more moments before you shift back to the trees, shrugging. “Wouldn’t have been able to tell.”

Ellie ignores whatever that was, choosing to get up and ready for the day. She hauls herself form the hard ground, dusting off the backs of her thighs and shaking out her shirt as she crouches down by her pack she was using as a pillow.

“We should eat then get going,” she says, unzipping her pack and rummaging around to pull out two cans of ravioli. “Think we can finish cutting through Oklahoma today. Finally make it to Arkansas.”

She loses her can opener deep in her bag, and she’s pulling out clothes to find it. She eventually finds it, sure enough not in the pocket where it should have been, and she huffs as she packs everything back where it belongs before sitting back, dropping the cans in her lap.

“What were you doing up anyway?”

You don’t look to her, even when she shoves a cold tin of ravioli against your arm, fork sticking out of the top. She could build a fire and warm it up, but she wants to be packed up and on the road as soon as possible.

You take the can from her grip, placing your pistol gently on the ground next to you to eat your cold breakfast.

“Had a nightmare,” you mumble, shoving a forkful of nearly 30-year-old ravioli in your mouth. “Woke up and you were passed out, so I took over.” You stab your fork into the can, the metal scraping along the inside. “It’s stupid.”

Ellie shakes her head, words leaving her mouth before she can stop herself. “S’not. I have them all the time.”

Why the fuck would she say that?

You turn, ravioli sauce stuck to the corner of your mouth as you look at her. “You do?”

Ellie shrugs, not looking up from her own can as she unlatches the can opener, throwing it back onto her back. “Not a big deal. Everyone has them these days.”

She shoves a piece of pasta in her mouth, physically stopping herself from saying more.

“I dreamt about my brother.”

Ellie chooses not to reply, to let that hang in the air between you. Telling you that she’s sorry is the last thing you want to hear. You’re not in the mood for pity—never have been. So, she leaves it.

You eat in silence.

𖧧

It turns out you’re pretty good with navigation.

It took a lot of convincing on your end to let Ellie give you the map— multiple days of broaching the topic, dropping it before she got too frustrated with your incessant asking. But finally, she relented, muttering something about being ‘tired of fumbling with it’ and ‘not wanting the distraction while she’s on lookout’ before shoving it your way.

Reading the map came quickly to you, as did the ability to survey your surroundings, finding quick routes around blockages and towns that look like they’d be bad news to enter. You spend nights by the campfire planning the day ahead, map laid out with rocks or tins of food on the corners to hold it down, taking notes on scrap pieces of paper Ellie would hand you from somewhere within her pack.

You don’t know why you couldn’t just mark your path on the map itself, but Ellie was insistent that you don’t. It was one of the rare times that Ellie let her emotions peak through, eyes glazed as she stared down at the map, a trembling hand pressed distractedly to her stomach.

You stopped asking why after that.

You’ve been following the 79 for the past couple of days. You’ve passed through a few small towns, stopped by the occasional gas station to freshen up in their bathrooms and scavenge what you can. Ellie takes time at each one to test the abandoned cars, hoping at least one of them will be in good enough condition to fuel up and get on the road.

No such luck so far.

So, you continue to walk, following the route up through Arkansas.

It’s beautiful out here, the lush green of the oaks that line the majority of the highway, the overgrown grass that ripples in the winds. Sure, the abandoned cars and occasional roadside corpses kind of ruined the atmosphere, but it wasn’t like this was your first time coming across them. You think it’d be almost weirder to not see them, at this point. Like a bad omen.

You fold the map up against your chest as you walk, tucking the thick square back into your pack. You’d both keep following the road until the sun started to set or you found someplace to crash for the night—whichever came first. But sundown is hours away, and you’re beginning to grow tired of the same bird calls, the same trees, the same road that doesn’t seem to end.

A rock rolls under your foot, the jagged shape stabbing through your boots enough that you can feel it-- like the princess and the pea. It’s more of a piece of the crumbling road than a rock you realise, but it works all the same as you kick it in front of you with the side of your boot. It gets smaller and smaller the longer you keep it with you, pieces of asphalt chipping off each time it bounces down the road.

Eventually the two of you part ways, a particularly hard kick sending it flying off into a ditch, never to be seen again.

You sigh, boredom setting in much sooner than you’d like. You cast your eyes back up at the road ahead of you where Ellie marches ahead, a good couple of feet between you.

“So,” You clear your throat, wetting your cracked lips. “Why Boston?”

This isn’t the first time you’ve asked this question, and you don’t doubt it’ll be the last. If there’s one thing you know about Ellie—and to be frank, it’s one of the only things you know about her— it’s that she has a natural talent for avoiding conversations she’d really rather not be having.

Which seems like almost all of them.

“Because I want to.”

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, even if she can’t actually see you. “I gathered that. But what’s in Boston for you to want to go?”

Ellie doesn’t miss a beat. “Stuff. Things.”

A frustrated groan bubbles to the surface, a hand coming up to scrub at your forehead.

“Whatever,” you mutter, looking back down at your feet. “You make it impossible to like you.” You think you say it quietly, far away enough for it to fall deaf on Ellie’s ears. But you aren’t so lucky.

“No one’s stopping you from leaving, if I’m that dislikable,” she calls over her shoulder.

A frown tugs at your lips as you look at her back, the hair that clings to her neck under the sun, pack sitting across her sturdy shoulders.

“I just want to talk. These roads are long and boring as hell; God forbid I want to make some conversation.” Your arms come up to cross over your chest, frustrations rising. “Besides, I told you why I was going.”

She shrugs, rifle clattering as it bumps against the frame of her bow. “Didn’t ask you to.”

You stop walking, boots grinding the asphalt underneath you. “Ellie.”

She hesitates, slowing to an eventual stop before turning around, that unreadable expression on her face; almost blank.

“I get it. I’m a stranger, and you probably didn’t plan to have anyone tag along—”

“No, I didn’t.”

You huff a sharp breath through your nose, feeling the heat of anger slowly creeping up the back of your neck. “But like it or not, I’m here now. We don’t have to be best friends, we don’t have to pretend like you’ll be sorry to see me go— but Massachusetts is months away, and if I have to go this entire trip dealing with your shitty attitude, I might end up peeling off my own skin.”

You stare at Ellie. Ellie stares right back.

“I don’t understand why you won’t trust me. I’m not some idiot kid that’s tagging along for fun. I can take care of myself and pull my own weight. I can keep watch. I can navigate. I can shoot—"

A scoff leaves her lips, eyes rolling in their sockets. “Barely,” she mutters, loud enough for you to hear.

“What?” You give her a chance to take it back, to amend what she said or possibly even apologise— however unlikely that last option was.

Ellie doubles down instead. “Sorry if I don’t one hundred percent trust the girl who locked herself in a closet to—”

“Oh, fuck you,” you hiss, shame and embarrassment fuelling the fire of your anger, stoking the coals and making them burn red hot.

You stalk forwards, shoulder checking Ellie as you shove past her. “I had to kill my own fucking brother, you dick.”

You don’t check to make sure she’s following you. You don’t care.

You’re the one with the map.

⸙

Camp is tense that night.

Ellie tends to the fire like normal, poking and adjusting as a small pot of water boils over it, your drinking water for the day ahead. Her eyes flick over to you, all the way on your side of the camp.

Your food sits by your feet, untouched and cold. Your arms are wrapped around your knees, tucking them tightly to your chest, a wall between Ellie and yourself. You refuse to look in her direction, gaze roaming the expanse of trees that block your camp from the highway.

Neither of you have spoken a word since your argument, the fight you had on the road.

Was it a fight if she barely said anything at all?

No, that’s unfair. She may have hardly said anything, but the things she did—

Guilt sits heavy in her stomach, like a lead weight that keeps dragging her down. She can practically hear Joel’s voice telling her to be nice, to express that southern hospitality that came so naturally to the Miller boys.

And though she knows that he would think differently in this situation, that he would share her caution and tell her she’s doing the smart thing— she can’t help but dwell.

There’s a difference between holding someone at arm’s length, being cautious and safe, and deliberately going out of your way to harm them.

When the lines blurred for Ellie, she doesn’t know, and she’s admittedly too frightened to find out the answer to want to look.

Ellie sits back, carefully moving the pot of bubbling water to rest on a flat stone, set aside to cool in the night air. Her eyes find you once more, body still drawn up as you rest against a tree, food congealing in its tin.

“I wasn’t fair to you, before,” Ellie starts, unsure where she’s even going with this. “What I said… it wasn’t okay.”

“No,” you reply, voice quiet and exhausted. “It wasn’t.”

She nods, waiting for you to continue, to say anything else, but you don’t. Ellie realises that the ball is in her court now— but she has no idea whether she’s playing basketball or tennis.

She clears her throat, using it as a way to buy a few more seconds, to let you know she intends to keep going. She just doesn’t know how.

“I’m going to Massachusetts to find a friend.”

You shift, the arms around your legs loosening, your head tilting to look at her. You wait, listening.

Ellie takes a breath, a hesitant pause. “The last time I saw her she was there-- in Boston. That’s why I’m going.”

“How are you so sure she’ll be there?”

It’s a genuine question, a valid one too.

“She just will be.”

You draw your bottom lip between your teeth, chewing on the flaky skin you find there as you visibly think. You’re too expressive, Ellie thinks. She can tell exactly what’s going on in that head of yours before you even open your mouth.

“Is she still… alive?”

Ellie tenses.

Maybe she can’t tell exactly what you’re thinking.

She doesn’t reply, letting the silence of the night answer for her.

A sharp sigh leaves you, your head dropping down to rest you chin on your knees. “I feel like a dick, now.”

Ellie can’t help the way the corner of her mouth ticks up, the hint of a smirk. “You’re the one who wanted to know so badly.”

“Yeah, but—” You huff, looking up at Ellie for the first time tonight. “I thought you were just being a bitch.”

She offers you a shrug. “I was. But I also didn’t want to talk about— about my friend.”

Tess.

She wanted to say Tess, but saying her name out loud feels like too much, upsets her in a way she’s too exhausted to analyse. All she knows is that it felt worse than calling her a friend, when in reality they were barely acquaintances.

She was a smuggler and Ellie was her cargo. She was being handed over for guns, currency in an exchange.

But sometimes Ellie likes to think that they could have been friends, if things were different. If she lived just as long as Joel, maybe even longer. Tess was badass. Strong and in charge. Scary.

Ellie wishes she had more time.

The soft chirp of crickets fills the night air, a nostalgic and comforting noise that blankets the dark.

“I’m sorry,” Ellie says, quieter than she means to. “For before, for… shit,” she breathes, scratching at the back of her neck. “For my shitty attitude.”

Your ears darken in colour, Ellie can see it all the way from over here.

“Thanks.” You swallow, throat clicking as you think. “I meant what I said. All of it.”

“Yeah, I could tell.”

“So?” You ask, watching Ellie closely.

Her skin prickles at the feeling, hairs raising. She rubs her hands over the bumpy skin, smoothing everything back into place. “I’m not gonna promise you anything. I can’t promise you anything.” Ellie’s eyes catch yours. “But I’ll try to… I don’t know, tone it down, I guess.”

She can tell its not exactly what you’re looking for, that you expected something a bit more concrete, a bit more genuine. But you also know this is as good as you’re going to get from her, and Ellie can’t tell whether that makes her feel triumphant or guilty.

“Good.” You nod, breaking eye contact and reaching for your food, shuffling closer to the fire between you so you can nestle the tin next to the flames.

The air between you, though still tense and filled with uncertainty, feels a little bit easier to breathe, now.

Ellie finds that she’s relieved.

«« previous ꩜ next »»

⁺˚⋆｡°✩ 𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 ✩°｡⋆˚⁺

“Peter?”

You blinked repeatedly, as if you couldn’t believe your own eyes.

The sight of your best friend perched on the windowsill of your college dorm, without his suit, taking the foolish risk of being seen and discovered, was something you were convinced you would never get to see again.

Peter waved awkwardly, his big puppy eyes betraying a certain insecurity, something he was certain he’d never get to experience when talking to you. You were his safe harbour, the person whose presence he felt comfortable enough with to let all his masks dissolve.

He could let go of Spider-Man, of the orphan, of the young man who carried so much onto his shoulders, of the brave, cheerful façade he sometimes forced himself to put on not to worry his aunt and friends… until all that was left was Peter Parker sound asleep in your arms.

Now though, that same Peter Parker was scared. Scared that you would turn your back to him just like you had stopped talking to him all at once, through a dry text on how you needed to spend some time alone, isolated from everything and everyone.

He had jokingly pointed out that it would’ve been kinda hard while bouncing between classes and your part-time job. No answer had come from you.

So, after an entire week of complete radio silence from your part, Peter had decided to take matters into his own hands.

“Mind if I come in?”, he finally found the courage to ask.

You knew you should’ve told him to go away, that now that he was trying to get a girlfriend, sneaking into your room at night wasn’t exactly the best way to proceed about it, but your stupid body unconsciously betrayed you, stepping aside and nodding like you had done so many times before, effectively inviting him inside.

Force of habit, you told yourself, and you were also doing it to protect his secret identity. Wallowing in that stupid lie was way more reassuring and less scary than admitting that Peter’s absence affected you as if a vital organ had been brutally ripped away from under your flesh.

Not that you really needed to admit that, to be honest, considering that you were not so metaphorically dying because of unrequited love… but still, it was one last stubborn fight to preserve what little was left of your dignity.

“W-what are you doing here?”, you babbled, unable to keep your hands from fidgeting and already starting to feel a strange movement in your chest, the threatening, delicate caress of a soft petal unfolding in your left lung. Right next to your heart, how pathetically cliché.

“Just checking on my best friend.” Peter deadpanned, allowing his gaze to wander around your room, looking for any sign that could tell him what was going on with you. But it all looked the same and his spider sense kept buzzing in the back of his mind without any alteration, a white noise he had reluctantly gotten used to it when it came to you.

“Who’s been avoiding me for some reason”, he added when his eyes landed on the picture frame lying face down on your desk.

“I haven’t”, you objected weakly, caught in your lie like a deer in headlights.

His lips pressed into a hard line, in a frown that tasted likr both anger and pain, and he took a step closer, picking the frame up to examine it. He didn’t really need any other clue, but your bright, smiley childish faces staring back at him felt like a stab through his heart.

It was the first pic the two of you had taken together, something you had always described as your most prized possession. And now you didn’t want to see it, just like you didn’t want to see him.

“You have”, Peter insisted, starting to feel tears burning in his throat. He clenched his jaw, trying to hold them back and – before he could break it – put the pic back in its place.

“Fine, I can’t stand you. Happy now?”, you scoffed, hoping this coldness could pacify the sensation in your chest. In a desperate attempt to save yourself that wouldn’t involve a surgery and a definitive memory loss. You wanted to trick the invisible monster, so that it would eventually lead your heart to believe that there was not an ounce of love left in you that could be given to your best friend.

Better to keep him in your life shielded behind a veil of denial and poorly fabricated indifference, than to lose him to darkness forever.

Of course, it didn’t work in the slightest: you simply couldn’t lie to yourself. And that love was no longer yours to give: it belonged to Peter and Peter alone, whether he wanted it or not.

Clearly not amused by your joke, Peter turned around, actually taking you in for the first time after so many days. And it felt like a punch in his gut.

You shrunk under his incandescent gaze, crossing your arms over your chest. “What?”, you spat defensively.

“You look…”, he trailed off, at complete loss for words.

“Like shit, you can say it.”

And felt like it, too. Isolating yourself and being away from him had turned out to be useless because, even while basically having entered your Rapunzel era, Peter was still all you could think about.

Even now that he was standing in the middle of your tiny bedroom, physically within reach yet miles away from you, you couldn’t bring yourself to believe his presence there was wrong, that that wasn’t where he was supposed to be.

Which didn’t exactly help with the whole Hanahaki situation going on.

“… annihilated.”

“That’s a big word, did MJ teach you that?”, you sneered, trying to move past him to go and sit on your bed. Your legs were starting to feel like jelly, you couldn’t collapse right in front of him or you wouldn’t have heard the end of it.

“Don’t change the subject”, Peter hissed, grabbing your elbow, not harshly enough to hurt you, but firmly enough to stop you and keep you in place. “You’re sick.”

You froze, the sudden proximity and contact spreading fire under your skin and at the same time constricting your lungs. “It’s nothing”, you forced out as naturally as you could.

“Doesn’t look like nothing to me”, he pointed out, an unusual and new scent of flowers coming from your body not going unnoticed by him. He couldn’t explain it to himself: it wasn’t bad, but it didn't smell like any of the perfumes you would use on a daily basis… and yet, it was so… you.

“You’d be surprised how many things can look like nothing”, you instinctively retorted, pulling your arm from his grip, and you had to bite your tongue not to add a couple more words that you were aware would’ve ruined everything beyond repair.

To you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”, Peter inquired, narrowing his eyes at you.

“Dunno”, you shrugged, dismissing the whole thing. “It sounded like a cool thing to say.”

“y/n…”, he sighed tiredly, trying to resonate with you. “What is going on?”

No response came from you and he gulped when he heard your heartbeat slow down almost imperceptibly. Almost, because Peter had made that rhythm his own, and he had come to know it like the back of his hand. He had regulated his life onto it, his peace nestled in those brief little fragments of seconds inside your ribcage.

“I missed you…”, he confessed. “I miss my y/n.” And he missed the way your heart spoke to him, that sweet, comforting sound that never failed to let him know that everything was okay. But now it spoke a foreign language, so alien that he couldn’t even try to learn it, let alone comprehend it.

“I missed you, too”, you admitted in a thin voice.

“Then why are you avoiding me? What happened?”

“Nothing, Peter”, you repeated softly, with a light shake of your head, letting your lips indulge on the beloved syllables of his name. “I promise it’s nothing.”

“Stop lying to me!”, Peter yelled, the unexpected change in his tone making you jump in surprise. Not in fear. Never in fear.

He immediately regretted raising his voice – and especially raising it at you – but he was mad, worried, and hurt, and your lack of answer did nothing to ease his feelings. If anything, it drove him even madder.

What he had told you was the truth: he did miss you. He missed you like air, he understood he had done something wrong, and he wanted to make it better, he wanted you to feel better… but you weren’t giving him the chance to do that – whatever that was.

For fuck’s sake, he would’ve given you a litre of his own blood, had you told him it was the solution you needed, but you were denying yourself to be helped… and he couldn’t have it that way. He wouldn’t.

“I’m sorry”, he added quickly, reaching out for your hands and taking them in his. He winced at how cold they were.

You let him do that, not putting up any resistance when he took another step in your direction. You just wanted him to hold you tight and never let go of you, was it too much to ask?

Apparently it was, because your name wasn’t MJ Watson.

“It’s okay”, you breathed out, and your voice was so thin that, hadn’t it been for his enhanced hearing, your best friend wouldn’t have heard it.

God every part of you was beginning to hurt so much from his proximity… but it was so nice to have him that close and touching you so tenderly… you would’ve gladly prolonged that pain for eternity. You would’ve died for it.

You realised how stupid you had been to avoid him, all the time you could’ve spent next to him was now lost forever and it was a blasphemy of the worst kind.

Peter placed your palms onto his chest and kept them there in hope his super-human warmth would bring you any comfort, then let go of them and cupped your cheeks, gently tilting your face up so that you would look at him.

He saw your eyes glistening with tears, and it tore him apart to notice how similar they looked to when they were filled with joy. It dawned upon him now, how sad your happiness truly was, like something obscure wouldn’t allow you to experience anything good ever again.

He couldn’t exactly pinpoint when, but the light in your smile had gradually begun to fade, consumed by a slow, but inexorable melancholy that was weakening not only your soul, but your body as well.

“You’re… you’re…”, Peter stuttered, then went quiet, his voice failing him. He couldn’t bring himself to vocalise them, but the words loomed above your heads like a menacing dark fog. What he wanted to say was cruelly obvious and the fact that you didn’t deny it did nothing but prove his theory right.

It wasn’t a simple illness… you were dying.

“No…”

The ground crumbled under his feet, the air turning to dust in his lungs. How could you have hidden that from him? How could he have been so blind not to see it?

“No, it can’t be.”

Your figure became blurred in his eyes, getting reduced to a splash of colours that barely resembled you on the other side of a thick barrier of tears. But he was too scared to wipe them away, filled with the horrible suspicion that you would vanish from his sight if he only dared to try.

“L-let me help you”, he begged with a broken voice. “Please, y/n, let me help you.”

“Peter…”

“Please…”

You shook your head, taking a deep breath despite the piercing pain spreading in your torso. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Frustration bubbled up in his stomach at those words, a mess of emotions clashing in his mind and heart. No, he refused to believe it. “Don’t say it.”

“It’s true.”

“Shut up”, Peter hissed, clenching his jaw. How could you be so stubbornly calm and almost resigned about it?

He was your best friend, you were one of the most important people in his life, he cared about you more than he cared about anyone else, more that he cared about himself, he couldn’t imagine his existence without you… there was no way in the World he couldn’t do anything to help you.

“Peter, there’s no point–”

“I said shut up.”

Like there was some kind of specific correlation between what he was doing and showing you that he could do something to help you, Peter yanked you forward, crashing his lips onto yours as your chests collided with an audible thud.

He kissed you with the ferocious passion of a desperate man, his arms wrapping themselves around you like ivy, caging you in a suffocating, yet freeing embrace, his hands exploring the mysteries of a body he had criminally taken for granted for too long.

Your incredulity didn’t have a long life, the pain long forgotten as your fingers got lost in his hair, wearing the soft locks like the most precious jewellery. You kissed him back as if you were engaging in the fight of your life, effortlessly following his lead like you had been created to do just that in your existence.

Never breaking the contact, Peter hastily backed you up towards your small bed and unceremoniously pushed you down onto the mattress, wasting no time in covering your body with his and getting between your thighs, immediately starting to grind his core against yours.

Just as eagerly, you wrapped your legs around his hips and gripped his shoulders pulling him in and breathlessly whimpering his name as soon as your hungry mouths parted, like that could’ve drawn him even closer.

You had dreamed of this moment for so long, you weren’t going to complain, no matter how unexpected all of it was.

“Peter…”

“That’s…” Peter threw his head back, licking his lips, still savouring your taste, an obscenely blissed out expression on his face as his grunts mixed with your soft moans. “That’s the only thing I wanna hear from you.”

The sight was nothing short of divine. Almost as divine as the feeling of knowing that, hadn’t it been for the layers of clothing separating your bodies, he would’ve been making you his, ruining you for anyone else… after all, he had already done that to your heart.

You gasped when, without warning, he grabbed the collar of your shirt and pulled, tearing it down the middle, his eyes going round and shining bright when your bare breasts came into view.

“Beautiful…”, he purred in contemplation, letting his thumb circle one of your nipples. The whine that simple touch elicited from you emboldened him and, with a devilish grin, he attached his mouth to your skin.

“Peter!”, you yelped, a hand tangling itself through his soft messy curls and the other one fisting his shirt and yanking the fabric. You needed the damn thing off, you wanted to touch him. Feel him.

“Shh”, he cooed, kissing your sternum as a particularly sharp thrust dragged another moan out of your lips. “I got you, petal”

Petal.

It was just a word, yet it was all it took you to remember how things really were, to understand what was truly going on in that precise moment.

And what was going on was that your best friend – whom you loved more than words could convey – was trying to fuck you and that you were letting him. And what was worse, was that he probably – no, he definitely – just wanted to practice, so that he could be ready for when he would do those things with his true love. MJ.

That was all you had become to him, you painfully realised. What remained of his best friend, was now nothing more than a chance to test himself and his abilities.

“P-Peter…”

Your fingers wrapped themselves around his wrist, barely encircling it, and the original intention was to remove his hand from you, but you only ended up keeping it there, even arching your back to give him better access to your body.

“No.”

Yes.

It was so fucking wrong it almost became right. Almost.

“Stop…”

He didn’t hear you, too absorbed by how amazingly right you felt in his arms, on his lips, against him…

Peter discovered that the more he took from you, the more he wanted to give you. He discovered that he needed to be inside of you, that he longed to have you under him, praising how good he was making you feel, telling him how much you cared about him, repeating his name until it would no longer make sense to his ears.

That night, Peter discovered that he wanted to make love to you. Not MJ, you. His y/nn.

“Stop…”

No, he didn’t just want to make love to you.

He wanted to hold your hand, tickle you so much you would cry-laugh, then kiss those tears away as his lips traced every inch of your face. He wanted to fall asleep with his head in your lap and your fingers in his hair as you read for him, he wanted to wake up next to you, whisper cute silly compliments in your ear, he wanted to make you smile and pinch your cheeks.

He wanted to yell to the whole World how lucky he was to have you by his side. And that would’ve meant murmuring in your ear while you were cuddled up against each other, because he wanted you to be his World.

Peter Benjamin Parker discovered that he was in love with you.

“I SAID STOP!”, you screamed with what little remained of your breath, the strangled shattered sound that left your throat dragging him out of that inexplicable delight and turning his blood to ice.

He had heard you this time.

Panic washed over him, the suspect that he might have made you uncomfortable, or worse, hurt you, slithering up his spine and sinking its fangs into the back of his neck, poisoning the ecstasy that had descended upon him. “y/n, what–”

He didn’t get to finish the sentence because you shoved him off of you – more like, he let you – and turned to your side, hunching over yourself as you coughed uncontrollably, blood and petals spilling between the fingers covering your mouth.

Peter smelled it before he saw it, but there was something unusual about it, a note to that scent that shouldn’t have been there.

Hyacinths.

It made no sense, but you were coughing hyacinths.

The dreadful discovery, and all that followed in its wake, hit him like a fucking high-speed train.

No…

What had he done?

When he touched your shoulder, you tried to get away from that bed, from him, and you didn’t know if that was helping you or just hurting you more. It was all pointless, tough, because as soon as your feet touched the floor, you fell like a marionette that’d just got its strings cut off.

“Y/N!!!”

Peter rushed crawled off the bed in a hurry, not giving a damn about his hands touching the bloody sheets, and took you in his arms as he sat on the floor, scorching tears once again clouding his eyes, terror and guilt doing the same to his brain, the spider sense going off like crazy.

You were dying. And now it was because he was killing you.

“Nonononono…”

Red and purple were filling his vision. They were painting your mouth, your throat, your chest, and now his own clothes. But he couldn’t let go of you. He couldn’t let go of his love.

“y/n!”

“Y-your shirt…”, you shivered, coughing more blood and petals “I’m sorr–”

“No, love, no”, Peter shushed you, caressing your face in hope that could bring you some relief. He began to stand up, but you winced at the slightest movement, so he was forced to stop and resume his previous position, cradling you like he was afraid to break you. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, you’re gonna be okay, you hear me? Y-you’re gonna be okay because we have to go on a date.”

He was rambling now, imprisoned in a merciless fight against time, death and all sorts of regrets he never thought he would get up until that moment.

He regretted every single time he looked at you without seeing you and every single time he did see you, but decided not to.

“We have to, get it? A-and we have to because I have to kiss you, because I have to spend the entire time telling you how much I love you, okay? Did you hear that? I love you, I love you, I love you…”

You pressed the side of your face against his chest, trying to focus on the beating of his heart so that it would block everything out. Everything that wasn’t the two of you in that moment.

If that was going to be your end, you wanted it to be with Peter.

“I love you, too”, you exhaled, as all your strength slowly started to abandon you. So that was it, then. Only a few instants of love for a life spent wishing it from afar. But that love came from Peter, your Peter, and that made it worth it.

You looked up and a pained smile appeared on your lips as Peter cupped your cheek. You reached out to push his hair out of his face, only sparing the rebel lock you adored so much.

Peter sniffed, crying uncontrollably, the tiny little drops falling onto your skin, mixing with your own.

“I’d love to go on that date.”

“W-we will…”

You were about to nod when your body stiffened all at once, then went inert in his arms, your hand falling limp by your side as you fell into the dark.

“y/n!!!”

Waking up felt like a fist colliding with your chest, forcing air back into your lungs as a striking white light blinded you. Out of pure instinct, you threw an arm over your eyes to protect them.

“Oh, you’re awake”, someone stated, causing you to look to your left and raise your arm, focusing on the silhouette of a female figure. A doctor was standing next to your bed, hands tucked in the pockets of her immaculate coat and an indecipherable expression on her face. “How are you feeling?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but then you realised what you were about to say. Good. You were feeling good.

More puzzled than ever, you pushed yourself up on your elbows until you were in a sitting position, the fatigue and ache you were expecting to feel while doing so, were nowhere to be found in that hospital room.

You pressed a hand against your sternum and felt nothing but a regular, perfectly healthy pulse. “W-what happened?”, you wondered, looking back at the doctor, who was still observing you in silence.

“Hanahaki disease”, the woman explained, not that you really needed to know. “And in a pretty advanced stage, too, judging by the quantity of blood and fully grown flowers”, she added. “But don’t worry: you’re good now, everything’s okay.”

Judging from her face, maybe she was expecting some sort of reaction, but you just stared at her in complete silence, pure confusion written all over your features.

“Spider-Man found you and brought you here.”

Your jaw dropped, your eyebrows shooting up to your hairline and your confusion transitioning to disbelief. “He has… are you serious?”

So that meant everything that happened wasn’t just a dream…

The doctor nodded, looking a bit perplexed by your question. That didn’t last long, though. “You must’ve scared the life out of him”, she went on, smiling to herself as she got lost in the memory of meeting a superhero. Not the most professional behaviour to adopt with a patient who had just dodged death lying right there… but you couldn’t really blame her, after all.

“I’ve spent like half an hour reassuring him that you were fine”, she recalled, tucking her hair behind her ear, and you had to fight the urge to roll your eyes.

But as it usually happened, your little brain needed to be triggered by words and that was exactly how things went, making you come to the realisation that all that talk about Peter bringing you to the hospital had taken your attention away from a quite important topic.

In all fairness, you weren’t always this slow – your constant anxiety and overthinking wouldn’t allow it –, but you had nearly died: you figured you could cut yourself some slack for needing a bit more time to put two and two together.

At first the doctor had told you that you were good, now that you were fine. Subtle variations to communicate the same message.

“But to be honest, I understand where he came from: you were covered in blood… one of the interns actually fainted as soon as he saw you. We all thought there was nothing that could be done to–”

“Wait, what did you just say?”, you interrupted her, and that startled her a little. Maybe you were coming off as rude, too, but you didn’t really have time to worry about that.

“That you made an intern faint?”, she repeated, arching an eyebrow. “It was his first round, poor guy–”

“No, the ‘me being fine’ part”, you specified, cutting her off again. It was urgent, manners could wait. “What do you mean?”

“You healed”, the doctor said as if it was the most obvious thing ever. “You’re safe now.”

You were not quite sure why she would feel the need to repeat it, and the suspect that she probably thought your confusion was nothing but mere dumbness did cross your mind, but you chose not to question it.

“In fact, you were already safe when you got here. All we had to do was remove the last flowers you couldn’t spit out when you fainted.”

Your jaw dropped dramatically, your eyes nearly popping out of their sockets, the loudest “What?” blocked in your throat, between your vocal cords, without a chance of getting out.

When it became clear that you wouldn’t be able to emit another sound, your gaze fell into your lap, focusing entirely on your folded hands, on the skin you had relentlessly tormented during those last three months and a half. It was a habit you had made yours really quickly, the cuts and scratches on your fingers requiring the excuse of a new cooking course to cover their origin.

Peter had been the hardest to convince, and part of you wanted to believe that it was because of some sort of special connection the two of you shared, a bond that made it impossible for one to lie to the other, or some hopelessly romantic shit like that.

And as you stared at what you had done to yourself in the name of your unrequited love for him you couldn’t force things to make sense for the life of you.

The previous doctor you had talked to had been clear about it, stating that you had only two options to save yourself: an extremely dangerous surgery with very little chance of success, or doing your best to fall out of love with Peter.

But you still remembered Peter. You still loved him… and yet somehow you were no longer ill. So how…

“I feel like I gave you too much information altogether…”, the doctor commented, giving you a weird look you didn’t even notice. “I’m gonna leave you now, so you can rest a bit more, okay? You’re still weak.”

With that, she left the room, without bothering to wait for an answer that wasn’t going to come anyway.

You didn’t move a muscle, staring into the void with your head hung low, the terrifying, sublime sensation of something both worse and better than despair weighting on your shoulders. It was the faintest spark of hope, and you would’ve gladly let it flare up and burn you to the ground.

A little noise dragged you out of your thoughts, and it took you nothing to recognize it: it was the sound of scratching on glass, and that could only mean one thing.

You turned towards the window, finding Spider-Man cautiously peaking his head in. “Peter?”, you exhaled, releasing a breath you had no idea you were holding.

“Uhm… hey…” You could perceive the insecurity in his voice, and even with his face being completely covered, you just knew that a soft baby pink was dusting his cheeks and ears. “I know it’s past visit-time, but… mind if I come in?”

For a few seconds, seeing him there, hearing him asking you that brought you back to your room, with flowers growing in your lungs, a shirt he hadn’t torn, lips he hadn’t claimed and a body he hadn’t touched nor tried to make his. A love he hadn’t poured on you.

“Y-yes…”

Peter carefully stepped inside the room, shutting the window behind him and taking off his mask – him being so comfortable doing it had to have something to do with Karen hacking the security cameras, you were more than positive about that.

“H-hey”, he waved nervously, taking a look around, the thought of you having to stay there on your own making him uncomfortable. Yes, he knew you were no longer in danger, but how could they leave you alone like that after what just happened?

“Hey.”

“Uhm…” He scratched the nape of his neck, chewing on his lips. “I wanted to bring you flowers”, he finally managed to say something coherent, immediately cursing himself for it. “B-but then I thought… you know…”

“It’s okay.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes”, you confirmed, patting the mattress and scooting over a bit in a silent invitation. “They say I’m good now.”

“And what do you say?”, Peter insisted, sitting right next to you, maybe closer than needed. “Are you feeling good?”

You nodded, letting him take your hands in his, your past lies blatantly clear in every small wound his eyes were able to find. Guilt washed over him as he gently brushed his fingertips over them, wishing he could kiss the pain away, wishing that you would let him.

“I should’ve known”, he muttered.

“I’m a better liar than you think”, you joked, lightly bumping your forehead against his, causing him to let out a bitter chuckle. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“You’re sorry?”, Peter echoed you in shock, barely dropping your hands. “You are apologising to me?”

“… for scaring you”, you repeated quietly, hanging your head low. “And lying to you.”

“You’re…” Frustrated and at loss for words, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come here, you idiot” , he said then, opening his arms in resignation.

The simple gesture felt like a miraculous ointment on your soul and you let yourself fall into his tight embrace, nostalgia washing over you like a tsunami. Hiding your face into the crook of his neck, you inhaled the fresh scent of his soap, discovering that even the coarse material of his suit rubbing onto your cheek and irritating your skin was something that you had deeply missed.

“You’re incredible, I swear”, Peter broke the silence, caressing your back in an improvised massage. “You’re lucky that I’m in love with you, or I would swing out of this room right after a sentence like that.”

You tensed up and he perceived that, but he didn’t let go of you.

“I don’t love MJ.”

“What?”, you hummed, keeping your face buried in his chest. It seemed so real, but you weren’t sure you could actually believe it. It would mean having to be vulnerable, coming out of your emotional trenches end exposing yourself to the wonderfully frightening possibility of being worthy of love.

Of Peter Parker’s love.

“I do not love her. I thought I did. I don’t.” He was speaking about it so calmly, like she truly represented nothing but a simple friend in his eyes.

It sounded to good to be true.

“Peter, you’re just saying this because–”

“Oh no, don’t you dare”, Peter stopped you with the most adorable pout. This time, it was him who squeezed your shoulders and pushed you back just enough to look into your eyes, forcing you to listen to him.

“I love you”, he declared firmly, leaving no space for misinterpretation.

Part of you wanted to look away in shame, but you didn’t. Appealing to all your courage, you held his golden-brown gaze, the mesmerizing warmth hitting you like it was the first time. Could you accept that light in your life?

“I've been an idiot not to realise it sooner”, Peter reprimanded his stupid past self. “And I know I showed it in a terrible way – probably the worst way possible –, a-and I hate that I almost had to lose you to understand it, but, I love you. I’m in love with you. You and only you, y/n.”

His eyebrows knit together, determination dripping from his tone. “And I don’t care what you say, I’m gonna repeat it to exhaustion if that’s what it takes to get it in that head of yours.”

He chocked on his own breath, his heart skipping a beat at the thought of you considering him an asshole. “Wait, no, I do care about what you have to say”, he tried to clarify. “Please do tell me what you have to say, that was just me being dramatic, please don’t think I don’t care, because I do, I care so much–”

“Peter.” You calling his name, combined with your fingertips touching his lips, effectively silenced him, and the poor guy stared back at you like a lost puppy, waiting for your verdict.

His hands descended onto your waist, toying with the hem of your shirt. You melted into his touch, dragging the pads your fingers along his chapped bottom lip. He mindlessly kissed them, making warmth spread along your cheeks and ears.

“… if it’s not you saying that you love me, I don’t wanna hear it.”

It took Peter a while to fully process what you just told him, the rejection he was expecting only worsening his discomfort, but when he did… oh Lord, his smile would’ve put the sun to shame.

There was nothing more beautiful in the whole universe than Peter’s joy, a mesmerizing spectacle you were incredibly grateful to be witnessing. It was like welcoming an entire sunrise in your being, a thousand little sparks blooming inside of your chest. What was once filled with deadly petals carrying your sorrow, was now blessed with the light of his love.

And there was no need to accept that light: it was already filling your heart and you had no intention of letting it go.

“Not even if it’s me saying how much I love you?”, he teased you, his breath tickling your fingertips, the hypnotizing movement of his mouth when those three last words left it a sight that would forever be engraved in your memory.

You pretended to ponder it. “I guess we can make an exception.”

Usually, words tended to lose their meaning when pronounced one too many times. But that didn’t happen to Peter Parker.

Because there could never be one too many times when the topic was his love for you.

A/n: Thank you so much for reading this! Let me know what you think, if you feel like it, I’d love to hear your thoughts 💜

Taglist: @thollandsdarling @hunnybunimdun @namoreno @nocturnalms @vendettaparker @wildxwidow @mn-jun @thisisparadisemylove @belovedholland @blankspaceblankday @inthegetawaycarwithtaylah @mrparkerwillseeyounow @indouloureux @hemlockhearts @obsessed-with-a-fictional-man @melodicheauxxo @seolaseoul @peteprker @peetahpahkah @marajillana @yeetzel @brooklynscherry-z @liltimmys @jahayla-parker @moniffazictress11 @spideysbae @vibesdontlie @raajali3 @lnmp89 @sherlockstrangewolf

Peter Parker taglist: @omegadumb42069 @spideyspeaches

Emily has terrible situp form. Is she even exercising her abs. She’s also making the terrible choice to do them the morning of the meet

I’m concerned Emily doesn’t have any friends on the swim team to discuss training regimens with :/ 

You know who I bet knows things about training regimens? Paige.

Hanna fussing over Emily’s overtraining is cute. Less cute is Emily witnessing Tom and Ashley’s morning after, this is the most family drama she’s experienced outside of her own coming out

In my notes I wrote “Wren is gross” and it doesn’t even matter what scene this is about

Mike’s friend who bothers him in school...I think he’s genuinely concerned about Mike, it’s just filtered through terrible teenage bro levels of self-expression (asking Mike if he’s going to be a crackhead next)

Aria lies to Ezra about the confrontation she had with Jenna in ceramics class and never told him about the Mike burglary shenanigans

On one hand, she doesn’t want to mention Jason to Ezra, on the other hand she is the most secretive of the liars

As a naturally secretive person myself I’m inclined to defend this behaviour

Emily’s so stressed she gives herself an ulcer. Her little “when can I swim again” :( :( :( 

Fun fact: Ulcers aren’t really caused by stress but by bacteria, though of course stress is not great for the immune system overall

Spencer is so cute when she’s defensive of Emily who has an ulcer, Do Not Scare Her Hanna! I love that when Aria shows up with a coffee Emily silently looks at Spencer to give the explanation.

Thus we can conclude the other three’s reactions to learning about Emily

Hanna: Stopped by her Mom’s workplace to borrow her car to go to the hospital, googled ulcers out of mild curiosity and went WAIT IT’S A HOLE IN YOUR STOMACH? THAT’S WHAT AN ULCER IS? A HOLE?  SPENCER A HOLE??? 

Spencer: Already knew what an ulcer is but re-reviewed to know what Emily can or cannot consume and to provide Reassuring Facts on ulcer healing.

Aria: Does not know what an ulcer is and does not care to find out, does know Emily’s favorite coffee order and wants to give her a nice treat. Foiled by biology :/ 

Spencer is so funny when she interrogates Hanna on her Caleb sitch while they’re in the elevator. “Where else are you gonna go?” Guess Hanna has to answer her.

Ashley telling Tom to fuck off. Hell yeah!! Maybe tell him to talk to Hanna first

We see more of Jenna & Garrett Evilly Plotting than I remember, I’ll want to compare this to later Evil Plotting scenes from other characters 

Emily gets hit with the second punch of steroid use. She is so scared and stressed about this :/ It is well-crafted emotional torture by A - to have first made Emily a liar and then a cheater, when Emily is the girl who cares most about fair play, whose mom stated back in S1 that her daughter was raised to earn everything she’s gotten

And all of it is in circumstances where no one would believe Emily telling the truth

Did the ulcer save Emily from getting kicked off the swimming team...

Mike seems to be actually doing his homework when Ella knocks on his door, which is a note I like

OK when Haleb is in Spencer’s family cabin, why is Caleb the one making the fire and Hanna the one to not know what kindling is? The camping scene last season had Hanna be the one with outdoor survival skills and Caleb clueless, I don’t like this arbitrary swap

All of Caleb’s shady shit happened in Allentown. I have memories of a fic where the backstory was Caleb & Paige being absolute disasters in Allentown and I wonder if the author chose that location because of this mention or just because, you know, it’s a place in PA

Was this whole plot so Haleb could get laid? Maybe a little bit

Wayne Fields is the one good father, he does not want Emily to stress about college and paying for it. Well sir please investigate your finances and military benefits

Emily wants to bail to Texas, Spencer appeals to her sense of justice in finding Ali’s killer. The limit to Spencer’s desire to protect her people, perhaps - she doesn’t want to be left alone

Hanna is really upset at Ashley saying she doesn’t want to get back with Tom, because that makes Hanna the sucker that is the only Marin who wants things back the way they were

2x08 is six weeks before the wedding. Enjoy fitting that into the timeline. 

While Emily is alone and depressed in her hospital bed in her very shitty situation, Spencer pops up to go “Hey Em, wanna read through our dead friend’s autopsy report with me? Look at this X-ray of blunt force trauma to her skull.”

Emily does look at it, I ponder if Emily and Spencer were partners in bio class and they realize page 5 is missing. Oh no! 

I have literally no memory of this plot point, would simply like to note that when Hanna asks “How can one page just disappear” I went yeah PLL I have that question too

Suddenly, everything gets quiet. Well, actually it doesn’t. But it feels like it. Like they’re in the eye of a tornado right now. All around the group of friends – and the lawyer from New York, apparently – the people keep celebrating and drinking. Glasses are clinking, their friends – male and female – are singing along and chatting. There’s yelling, screeching, stumbling, and more. And yet, here in their bubble everything is calm.

Not everything maybe. Beth can not only feel her heartbeat in her chest but hears it in her ears as well. She’s afraid to take her eyes off the stranger with the big, very big news, but she knows that if she looked around now, she’d see the same look of confusion, the same dazed expression on Liesa’s, Steph’s, Daniel’s and Will’s faces. She’s not too sure about Tom, but since he’s just accused her of not signing the divorce papers herself, she guesses this information is just as new to him as it is to her and their friends.

“What?”

Yes, just as she thought. At Tom’s mumbled words, she looks at him for the first time in what feels like minutes. It’s possibly just been seconds. He looks pale and red and sweating at the same time, and Beth can see his hands are shaking.

“You haven’t signed the papers, Tom,” the not-paparazzo repeats. “But I have them with me, you can do it right here.”

Beth looks around. Julia is right by the jukebox, her group of girlfriends surrounding her. She doesn’t look like she’s aware of the situation or that there even is one. Good. She’s probably not in the right state for problem solving. Beth shudders just imagining the screechy yelling sound she’d make if she knew what was happening here now. The other people in the room don’t seem to care either.

“I—”

It’s Daniel, who interrupts Tom’s stuttering answer. “I don’t think that this is the right place to do it. I guess you’d want to do it right this time.” He pointedly looks at Tom and Beth each. What the hell did she do? She’s certainly not to blame for this. Not this time. She signed.

Just as she’s about to comment on that, Steph speaks up. “Maybe you can get the papers to Tom’s?” she asks the lawyer whose name Beth has already forgotten. “Make sure nobody sees that they’re not signed?”

The others nod, and Beth finds herself agreeing as well. “Sounds like a good idea,” she says, and immediately feels Tom’s gaze on her. She looks back at him and shrugs. “No need to lose them, get them dirty, or let Julia see you haven’t signed them. You’ll sign them in the morning, and she’ll be none the wiser.”

Tom looks back at the guy in the suit, who doesn’t fit in at all, but the other guests don’t seem to care. “Yeah,” he mumbles. “Yeah, you can get them to the flat, the key is… I…”

“I’ll go with you,” Will offers as he steps closer. “I know where Tom’s keys are, and I’ll make sure he’ll find the papers in the morning.” Then he claps Tom on the shoulder. “You don’t have to worry about that tonight. Got to step up as the best man, huh?”

Beth looks between them in surprise. She didn’t know Will’s the best man. She figured it would be someone from the new group of friends. But then again, Tom never mentioned anything, and she didn’t ask. Didn’t want to know, really. But the others don’t seem to be surprised in the least, so she guesses it’s not new to anyone.

Tom only nods. “Yeah.” Then he shrugs. “Not yeah to the stepping up thing. Sorry. No need to step up. But yeah, good idea. Thank you.”

***

He’s never been so nervous in his life. Never. Hell, not even when he auditioned for Loki, when he asked Libby to marry him or even the second time around, when he asked Julia. But Tom shouldn’t think about that. Because that only makes his nerves worse.

He feels sick, and he didn’t sleep at all. And that’s not because of his stag do. He didn’t touch another glass and tried to leave as quickly as possible as soon as the stupid – Tom knows it’s not his fault, but he needs to blame someone, damn it – lawyer was gone.

Tom looks down at the papers in his hands. They should have been easy to sign, and yet… and yet he didn’t. Hasn’t signed yet. He walks quicker now, he can already see Libby’s house. It’s not even 8am, and she had still been at the pub when Tom left last night. He hopes she’s not hungover.

Not like Julia. Or at least, that’s what Tom suspects. He didn’t stay to find out, too afraid she’d find the unsigned papers at home. He’s quite sure she didn’t see them last night. She was home long after him and looked like a sickly panda this morning in bed. She was still sleeping, and Tom hopes that’ll be the case for a bit longer. He needs to talk to Libby first.

Oh, he wishes that he didn’t have to.

When he gets ready to knock, he stops for a moment, then laughs out loud. He can’t help it. This is where this started too. Tom in front of Libby’s house, with divorce papers in his hands. Just that this time they’re signed by her, the black ink screaming at him from the bottom of the page. He knows there are more signatures inside the documents, little blue and yellow markers telling him where he should scribble his name – and where Libby has already done that. He still doesn’t know whether he should add his.

He knocks. And wishes he’d have more time, but it’s just seconds before Libby opens the door. The most embarrassing thing – and maybe Tom should even be offended by this – is that Libby doesn’t look surprised at all when she sees him standing there.

“Come on in,” she says. Another thing so different from the first time he’s done this just a few short months ago. This time, she’s wearing comfy clothes and her hair is wet, probably from a morning shower. “I’ve just made some fresh coffee. Do you want some breakfast as well?” she asks, though her voice betrays her. Libby might have suspected him to be here, but that doesn’t mean she’s comfortable with it.

And somehow this grounds him. It feels like he’s right to be nervous about this. For whatever reason. But it feels big. Bigger than he cares to admit. Which is definitely something he shouldn’t tell her. And yet …

“No, thanks,” Tom answers as he enters. Just when Libby closes the door behind him and leads him into her kitchen, he speaks up again – which he really shouldn’t do, damn it. “I’m too nervous, and I think you’re, too. I also think we both know why, and I definitely don’t want to talk about it, and still I’m here, and—”

“—and you haven’t signed the papers,” Libby finishes for him, now leaning against the counter, her back to him, before she pours him a coffee and offers him a seat. He can only nod as he sits down at the table, waiting for her to join him, accepting the mug with a soft ‘thanks’. “So, why?” she asks as she’s sitting down at the other side of the table.

“I wish I knew.”

“You don’t want to marry her?” Before Tom knows what he’s doing, he feels himself shaking his head. He only realises when he looks up from his coffee mug to find Libby staring at him. He frowns. She does, too. “You don’t?”

“I—” “Tom—”, they say at the same time. He lets her go on, because really, he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t even know what he wants. “What is this? Where does this come from? This whole going back here, making me sign the papers, hell, manipulating me, luring me in. This was all about us getting divorced, so you can marry. And now… and now you tell me you don’t want to?”

“If I didn’t want to marry her, would you still have signed?”

Now it’s Libby who seems lost for words. Then she sighs. “I think it was time for us to do this anyway, wasn’t it?”

The thing is, Tom’s not so sure about it anymore. It feels like him not signing was deliberate (it wasn’t), and that some higher power made him forget about weddings, feelings and all of it. Which seems kind of crazy, since that’s all he’s been here for and all that anyone ever talked to him about. Well, everyone except for Libby and his parents.

“Was it?” he asks, and when Libby just stares at him like he’s crazy (maybe he is, probably), he adds, “or maybe this isn’t the time to sign but time to talk?”

***

So, that’s what they do. They talk. Moving from the kitchen to the living room, back to the kitchen – Tom does want some breakfast after all – and then back to the living room. At some point they’re out in the garden, slip out of the back of the house and through the fields and to that little barn, where they’d already hid from those paparazzi months ago – which brings back a whole different set of memories. But there they stay. Tom had called Julia to tell her he won’t be home anytime soon, some meeting or the other, which she understood. She’s feeling that hangover anyway. Beth suspects Tom feels a bit bad about that and about lying, but he does it anyway.

They brought some sandwiches with them, and also some drinks, nothing heavy, just beer. They keep talking, and yet they don’t. Because they’re still very good at avoiding the elephant in the room. So, by the end of their second bottle of beer which also marks the end of the afternoon and reaches the beginning of the evening, and even the night, the both of them have shared everything they’d done in the past six years; their career choices, their old and new friends, their families. But it isn’t until Beth finally finds some courage – maybe the drink helps – and asks, “So, why don’t you want to marry Julia?” that Tom stares at her, and they finally reach the conversation they were meant to have for months.

She’s scared of the answer, and when Tom finally speaks, she knows why. They’re sitting next to each other on a small picknick blanket, their shoulders touching, and Beth feels rather than sees Tom taking a big breath and looking at her.

“Maybe it’s not about me not wanting to marry her, but about me wanting to stay married to you.”

She swallows heavily, gulping down the remains of her beer, and stares at a spot on the floor in front of her. “That’s not fair, and you know that. We haven’t been together for six years, and you got engaged. You can’t do that do her, and you can’t do it to me, either.”

“So, you don’t want to stay married to me?”

Beth shakes her head, still not looking at him. “This isn’t about what I want, Tom. And this isn’t something you can change your mind about every couple of weeks. I signed the papers. I thought you did, too. And it doesn’t matter what I want. This is totally on you, don’t put it on me. If you want to sign, do it. If you want to get married, do it, too. If you sign and don’t marry, do that! And if you don’t sign, and we stay married on the paper, there you go. You know what I did, you know I signed, you’ve got your answer.” Now she’s looking at him, sees him staring at her. “Do what you want, for fuck’s sake.”

“But we’ve been there. Before,” he mumbles.

“Huh?”

“I did what I wanted. I left you, I moved, I stayed. Didn’t ask, just decided. Moved on, made you sign, and now I don’t know what to do. Because suddenly I feel like I’m throwing this away. Like I did before, and then it made you unhappy. It’s okay that I’m not happy, that I’m trapped in this new me. But I can’t make that decision for both of us again. I don’t trust myself to do it.”

“But—,” she starts, “you’re miserable like that. You can’t still feel guilty about this.”

“I can.”

And he does. Beth realises this now. After all these years he feels guilty. And maybe he didn’t fully notice it before, but coming here, seeing the what-ifs and the what-could-have-beens, he’s feeling all those things again. He punishes himself. “You think you deserve this.”

Tom nods, and now he’s the one looking away. “I left despite loving you. And if I do this, I’m leaving you again, despite loving you.”

“You’re not in love with me. Don’t say that.”

“Maybe not in love. Maybe not in the moment. But I do love you. And I think you love me, too. And I think I could go back there. With time, see where it’s going.”

Beth rises a brow. She didn’t expect this. Her heart is beating fast, she doesn’t know what’s happening here. “But you love Julia. You’re in love with her. And I’m sure she loves you, too.”

Tom shakes his head. He looks at her, his shoulder bumping hers and his blue eyes so piercing that they stare right into her soul. He wants her to believe him, and at this point he could probably tell her everything. She’d think he was right.

“She does love the new me. This hurt, closed off, success driven version of myself. The version that went through heartbreak when he left you, the one that was heartbroken that it was so easy to leave you.” It hurts her. To hear that it was easy for him to leave her. She was sitting in her flat for months, maybe years, and he can freely admit that it was easy? Beth opens her mouth to speak, but Tom beats her to it. “Why did you make it so easy for me to just leave you like that? Why didn’t you come, why didn’t you fight? Why didn’t you change my mind? I could have been happy on a London stage, why didn’t you tell me to come back?”

That… isn’t what Beth expected. She stares at him, moving away, so they don’t touch anymore. She can’t be so close to him right now. What is he saying? He didn’t want to leave? He wanted her to bring him back? But…

“I wanted you to be happy, Tom. You were happy. You told me that those opportunities made you happy. I was your wife. And I knew you weren’t happy with me. You would have resented me for making you stay with me. That wasn’t going to be on me, Tom. I didn’t care about how I felt. You were happy, and no matter what you think, you deserve to be happy now, too.”

“It wasn’t just about being happy. I didn’t feel like you loved me anymore. It was so easy to leave, because you didn’t hold me back.”

“You were loved, though,” she whispers. And she means it. Of course, she does. “You deserved to be loved, you are. Julia loves you.”

“I told you. She loves the Tom now. She would have never loved the Tom you knew. And just as she couldn’t have been in love with me then, I know that you probably couldn’t fall back in love with me now, huh?”

“What?”

“I told you I could go back there, but honestly, I don’t think you could. I’m not the sunny, bright, sunshine person anymore.”

“Maybe not. Doesn’t mean you’re a bad person. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t fall for you again. In fact, I’m pretty sure I could. I am. Which is why it’s not me who should make this decision. I signed the papers. I let you go. Did it once, can do it again. I want you to be happy, I wanted you to be happy then, and I thought you were. Until I recently saw that maybe you aren’t. But I do still know you. And I know that you can be happy, because I know the person you can be, I know who you’ve been, and I know who you will be. We both didn’t fight hard enough, because it was easier to pretend. I could have been in love with you then, but I sure as hell didn’t want you to look at me like I destroyed your dreams.”

There it is. They’re both breathing heavily now. It’s like they don’t come up for air until it’s all said and done. Until they get six – and even more – years of poor communication off their chests. But Beth isn’t finished, yet. “But I can’t let you do it this way around. I can’t be this person who comes between you and your fiancée. Not until you don’t know what you want for yourself.”

Just when Tom looks like he’s got a speech prepared for this, and just when Beth finally feels the tears that must have been streaming down her face for minutes, and when she sees the tears in Tom’s eyes as well, she gets up. More space, she needs more space. And she needs this to not be about her.

“I won’t be the one holding you back, or not holding you back again. We won’t test each other like that again. I love you, I hear it when you say you love me, but it won’t be me calling it.” She doesn’t let him speak, she just grabs her bag and gets ready to leave. “You sign the papers, or you don’t. I’ve done my part, you know where I stand. You go talk to Julia. You get this out of the way with her. Marry her, don’t marry her, stay married to me, or be single for you. You know where to find me, I’ve made my peace. This is my peace, I’ll survive. You go and make yours. And when, or if, you stop feeling guilty, you be the man I know you are, Tom Hiddleston.”

And with that, she turns. Tears streaming, a smile on her face, and her heart as light as heavy as it hasn’t felt in six years.

Now, it’s Tom’s turn.

***

***

***

***