Adrien was nearly translucent the day he finally saw his father again.

Summer heat wafted through the wall of glass on the far side of his bedroom and all he could think about was wilted flowers and spoiled fruit. It was light outside all the time. The sun was a relentless camera flash, searing through his eyelids and yanking him back into focus. Adrien hid under his covers like an animal ducking into its artificial cave at the zoo. A modicum of privacy in exchange for mass disappointment.

He was letting everybody down, he knew that. It was there in the homework that lay in unfinished piles around his room. The tutors who had stopped bothering to come. Adrien couldn’t remember his last photoshoot, the last time he’d picked up his fencing sabre or sat down at the piano. Adrien had given up on the world, and it gave up on him back. The sadness was all there was to him. He didn’t have anything else.

So it came as a small, distant sort of surprise when Nathalie knocked on his door and roused him from his not-asleep-not-awake spiral of doom under the covers. It would’ve been almost silly, the way she spoke to him like he was a business associate and not a pathetic kid with crust in his eyes. But as it was, Adrien couldn’t really laugh anymore, and he wasn’t sure he’d ever find anything funny again.

So he just took the starchy black suit Nathalie handed him and put it on. And he followed her through the halls to the drawing room like a dusk shadow, barely there.

Someone had hung up a big, velvety black curtain across the back wall. Adrien’s feet crunched on a dark plastic tarp spread out across the floor. The whole room was dark and void, like the complete inverse of the sunbright insanity of Adrien’s bedroom. In the middle of the room was an easel with a massive black canvas—like, big enough to nearly touch the ceiling—and a man wearing an apron with pockets full of paintbrushes. He looked familiar.

Oh.

The man smiled kindly at Adrien and said something. When Adrien didn’t move, he put a gentle hand on his shoulder and guided him toward the center of the black curtain, right in front of the easel. Nathalie said something to the man and then left.

The man—he was a painter, Adrien remembered, his name started with a J—said something else to Adrien that he didn’t process at all. Adrien just smiled and nodded, hoping that was enough. His mind was still catching up to what was happening.

The painter—Jerome? Jacquet?—opened his mouth to say something else, and Adrien really tried to listen this time. But before he could speak, Adrien’s father walked into the room.

He was wearing an all-black suit, and his hair had gone completely silver. Father didn’t talk to the painter at all; he just stalked right past the easel with a dead look on his face. And then it finally clicked.

If Adrien had been thinking straight, he might’ve remembered. They always had a new family portrait painted in June.

Your house was small and fairly open, giving you a perfect view of almost everything from your front door. You can see bloody footprints, along with dark red drips and splatters, starting from outside - a stark contract against the white of the snow - and trailing to the right, disappearing into the rest of your living room. You reach for a kunai in your thigh holster and call out, voice hard and vicious.

“Who the hell are you?”

It’s quiet for a moment and you try to feel for something - a chakra signature, some sort of presence - and come up empty. There’s a chance that whoever broken in had left but your gut was telling you otherwise. You take a step forward, the old wood of your floorboard creaking loudly, and freeze again when a distinctly male voice calls out to you.

“I mean you no harm.”

Of course they hadn’t left. That would make everything too easy.

You want to laugh, a man breaking into your house, no doubt covered in blood, meant you know harm? You pluck a couple of senbon from your waist pouch that were covered in a paralytic poison, grateful that your extremely paranoid partner made sure you kept yourself stocked, no matter what you were doing.

Bless that skinny bespectacled bastard.

“I may have been born at night, but not last night. Answer my question, asshole.”

There’s a cough that could have been a chuckle and then you hear a wet rasp. Whoever was in your living room seemed to be having trouble breathing and your eyes trail back to the blood on your floors. You had assumed your unwanted house guest was covered in blood but now - now you think he might be injured.

That … changed things.

You can practically feel your partner rolling his eyes at your gentler nature but at your core you weren’t a killer; unless the situation called for it.

And this situation was still … currently developing.

“I promise, I’m not here to hurt you.”

You snort and take another step forward, mind reeling to come up with a plan. You were running out of wall to hide behind and so far all you had come up with was … well, nothing. You truly didn’t know if the motherfucker currently bleeding out in your living room was a threat or not - but you weren’t stupid. You didn’t want to kill anyone needlessly but you still needed to treat him like a threat, and be ready to move on him if needed.

“You don’t have to believe me when I say that.” There’s another cough and you grit your teeth, white knuckling the kunai in your hand. “But believe me when I say this - if you make a move against me, I will kill you.”

Ah. There it is.

And you were going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

You straighten at his pointed threat, jaw working in agitation.

“You seem to be at a disadvantage here, sir. I’m not the one bleeding out all over the place.”

You’re met with a charged silence and you feel your stomach twist with knots. You were decent in a fight, but you didn’t have any real shinobi training - and the only person you knew you could call for backup was currently on a month long mission. If he was a rogue nin you’d probably be fine, but if he was a major player with village training - well.

In a word, you’d be fucked.

The next word out of the stranger’s mouth makes your spine go rigid.

“Please.”

Um.

What?

Since when were shinobi polite?

His plea is soft, and something twists in your chest when you realize he’s pleading for you to not make him kill you. You blink, suddenly furious at this stranger’s arrogance, furious that you’re becoming a victim in your own home, and furious that there’s blood drying on your carpet.

Breathe.

In and out.

Think.

Two options, then.

Option one - charge at the injured stranger in your living room and hope he’s bluffing. All you needed to do was prick him with one of your senbon and he’d be paralyzed in seconds.

Option two - continue talking to him while you come up with option three; which would hopefully have less risk than option one.

You snarl and take another step forward, deciding to just say fuck it.

“I’‘m coming in. I won’t make a move towards you, but I’m not putting away my weapons.”

There’s a beat of silence, before you hear him speak again - this time his voice sounds watery; like there’s liquid in his mouth.

“Alright.”

You swallow and come around the corner, kunai ready to strike. You find your stranger sitting in your armchair, and blink owlishly at the sight of him. He was younger than you expected, more than likely your age, and he looked like he was one more hit away from dying where he sat. His grey shirt was torn to ribbons, blood coating every tear. There was more blood dripping from his right eye and out of the corner of his mouth. He had a large gash down the side of his face, and you can tell he had a larger wound on his side - no doubt where all the blood on your floor is coming from. You can see the fishnets underneath his shirt are in no better shape, and you whistle softly, keeping your kunai up.

“You don’t look so hot.”

Your comment has one of his eyebrows arching, and dark eyes stare back at you - bottomless and void of any emotion. You might see irritation there but it was hard to tell from your distance.

“Why are you here?” You ask, and you watch as he draws in a breath with difficulty. You can hear the rattling in his lungs and you work your jaw, not exactly enjoying watching this man actively die in front of you.

“I needed a place to recover.” He answers, voice growing hoarse, and you snort.

“I hate to break it to you - but I don’t think you’re recovering from all of that without some serious help.”

He offers you a self deprecating smirk before coughing, and you watch in muted horror as blood spurts from his mouth. Unconsciously, you take a step forward but reel yourself back when his eyes flash to you.

“Easy.” You start, as if you’re talking to a wounded animal. It was obvious to you that he wasn’t going anywhere and you weren’t keen on letting a man die in your home. He obviously wasn’t going anywhere and you could technically help him. You weren’t a real medic but your views aligned with them.

Why let someone suffer needlessly when you could help them?

Besides, dealing with dead bodies was something you did not do.

“You clearly need help. I’m in a position to offer it. You gonna let me, or do you want to just continue to bleed out everywhere?”

The man narrows his eyes at you, chest starting to heave with effort, and you steel yourself.

“Look, buddy, I know trust isn’t something people like us do. But trust me when I say this - you’re going to die without help. You’re here because there’s no healer in town and this was the easiest house to get to that’s far enough away from everyone, right?”

He blinks at you slowly, confirming your words, and you continue on while slowly lowering your kunai.

“Okay. Now, I don’t care who you are or why you’re torn to shreds. I don’t like death and really don’t want you bleeding out all over my floor. If I come over there to at least assess you, are you going to let me?”

There’s a charged pause between you two and you watch him carefully, eyeing the way he continues to bleed. The man looks at you, assessing you, eyeing your weapons pouch, before giving you a sharp nod.

You jerk your head towards your open back door, and start to move towards it, never taking your eye off of the man sitting in front of you. Your house is cold from the winter chill and you shudder, closing and locking it with one hard. You drop your kunai into your thigh holster and push your senbon back into your pouch, hands coming up and displaying your palms to him in surrender. He watches your movements carefully, but makes no move to stop you, and you inch forward slowly.

You stop when you’re directly in front of him and crouch down, eyes flicking over his many injuries - trying to pick a place just to start. You knew minimal healing technique, that was more your partner’s forte - you were a poison expert; plants and venom and antidotes were your area of expertise.

But still. Your help was better than nothing.

“I need to cut off your shirt.” You say gingerly, knowing that if you just reached for him without warning, especially with a kunai, he’d take it as an act of aggression. There’s a pause and he nods, giving you silent permission.

You slowly reach back for your kunai and carefully cut his shirt along with his fishnets, peeling the bloodied fabric from his skin. His chest stutters, no doubt from pain, and you murmur an apology as you finish stripping him as best as you could.

The site that meets you makes you stomach churn.

There were small lacerations that littered his chest and sides, not very deep and could easily be closed. It’s the larger wound on his side that worries you, along with the black spider webbing surrounding most of his wounds.

He’d been poisoned.

There’s three different kinds of poison that cause black marks like that and none of them are easy fixes. The first one you think of is pretty deadly upon impact and you turn your head up, meeting his gaze.

“When did you get these?”

He swallows, no doubt struggling to talk, and answers you with a rasp.

“Less than half a day ago.”

Okay. One poison down.

“Talk me through your symptoms.” You say, standing and turning to walk into your kitchen. Slowness was quickly forgotten, you needed to work fast if you wanted to save his life. Stop the bleeding, start creating the antidote.

Easy.

Right?

There’s a wet cough behind you and you flinch, not liking the way his chest was rattling with each breath.

“Shortness of breath. Drowsiness. Muscle spasms. Blocked chakra.”

You nod along, mouthing along with him as he speaks and start rifling through your cabinets. Bandages are found quickly and you rush back to him to start packing his larger wound. You don’t notice the way he tenses as you touch him, too busy mulling over everything you’d need to make him an antidote. There was also the matter of extracting the poison, at least some of it, but you’d break that news to him once you could stop him from bleeding.

Once you’ve stopped his side from bleeding you turn to face him, eyeing the way he seemed to struggling even more to breathe. You press your ear to his chest, needing to listen, politeness thrown out the window. His breathing sounds stunted and wet, and you feel anxiety grip you when you realize what you have to do. The poison was no doubt causing his airway to swell but the fluid filling his lungs would kill him first. At least, you’re pretty sure that’s what you hear.

Only one way to find out.

“I need to tap your chest.” You breathe, moving away from him to stand to get utensils from your kitchen. You think you hear him make a frustrated noise and you laugh humorlessly as you rifle through your drawers.

“Trust me, I don’t like it anymore than you do.”

There’s another wet rasp, further worsening your anxiety, before he speaks.

“You’ve done this before?”

Ha.

“Sure.” You reply diplomatically, finding a small tube along with a sharp enough scalpel. There’s a disbelieving grunting sound coming from your living room and you smile in a way you hope is comforting as you turn to face the man currently dying in your favorite arm chair.

Judging by the way he’s grimacing, it’s not working.

“Okay, let’s lay you down.”

He closes his eyes, no doubt mentally preparing for what’s coming next, and you help him gingerly onto the floor. His skin is molten lava against yours and you add fever on your list of things to worry about and address quickly.

Once he’s laying down on his back, you hover over him, quickly disinfecting your utensils with the alcohol solution you snagged from under your sink.

“This is going to hurt, but you can’t move. Usually I’d have someone hold you down but it seems we’re both short on friends here.”

There’s another raspy chuckle at your pathetic joke and you swallow thickly.

“Okay stranger. This is going to help you breathe better so I have time to extract some of the poison in you. Then we’ll work on your fever, then we’ll close your wounds. Okay?”

The man beneath you nods, and to your surprise, closes his eyes. The trust he was giving you in that moment, however fleeting, was breathtaking and you shake your head to clear your thoughts.

You grip your scalpel and place a hand on his chest, mainly to steady you, but to also feel for his heart and breath sounds.

“On three.” You murmur, tightening your grip on your scalpel.

“One -”

You slice into him without warning, quickly removing the scalpel to replace it with the tube. To your shock and pleasant surprise, murky liquid starts to leak out and his eyes fly open as he takes a large breath, wincing in pain - but breathing.

“Hell yes.” You whisper, meeting his eyes with a grin. He closes his eyes again and takes another deep breath. You wait until the liquid starts to thin before removing the tube and packing the small hole with bandages.

On to step two.

“I’m going to remove some of the poison now. I can’t take all of it, some of it’s already too broken down in your system, but I can stop it from spreading further. Everything else is going to need time to flush out.”

He nods again, and you stand, running to your bathroom to find medical fluid to help you. You rush into your kitchen for bowls and come back, nausea once again churning in your gut.

“Have you ever had poison extracted from you before?”

Your stranger nods and you swallow thickly, cracking your knuckles nervously.

“I’m going to do this in tiny increments - to help with the pain. Again, you can’t move and we’re short on friends so ...”

You trail off and bite your lip, knowing that the man laying in front of you was tougher than anyone you’d met based on his condition and the fact that he was still talking - but still. Extracting poison was painful, excruciatingly so, and the last time your partner had to perform this procedure on you it took two people to hold you down.

You start with the darkest laceration on his chest, making a small cut on either side of the wound. You pick up a small portion of the medical fluid, chakra gathering in your hands, and hover it over the tiny cut, chewing the inside of your cheek.

“Ready?”

The man inhales sharply, signalling you to start, and you push the fluid through, pulling it through his system and then from the other small cut - whispering apology after apology as you watch him struggle against the pain. You feel a lump form in your throat - you don’t even know this guy - but seeing someone suffer like this made your insides turn.

Your partner did always say you were soft.

You keep going, the black murky poison lifting from his body with every push of fluid, and find yourself babbling - hoping to at least keep his mind off of it.

You weren’t sure why you cared so much.

“I know this hurts, I’m sorry. Deep breaths, okay? Slow, nice and easy - I need to know your lungs are still clear. I’ve got you, you’re gonna be back on your feet in no time - killing and stealing and breaking into girl’s houses - or whatever it is you do.”

You’re so focused on the task at hand you don’t notice the amused lilt on your stranger’s lips before he’s grimacing and hissing in pain, a choked groan coming from him that reminds you of a dying animal.

Gods, you hated that sound.

“Just a little more, I promise. Finish this, get your fever down, close your wounds. Keep breathing for me, deep ones. I’ve got you.”

You’re on your last pull, the black spider webbing around his cuts having faded tremendously, and you release what’s left into the bowl next to you, letting out a relieved sigh. The man beneath you lolls his head to the side, panting in pain, and you place a hand on his chest.

“I’m done, hard part’s over. You did great, it’s going to be easy from here.”

He glances at you, and your eyes meet for a beat before you’re looking away - gathering up the bowls to place in the kitchen. You don’t notice how his gaze trails you now, not to track your movements like a threat, but to just watch you curiously.

You’d already mentally complied a list of plants you’d need to create an antidote - but his raging fever had to come first. You’re gathering ice from your freezer into rags, trying to come up with a way to talk the man into getting into your shower - half so you could get the blood off of him before you stitch him up, half so you could bring down his temperature.

Based on how things were going - you’d say you had about fifty fifty odds of getting him agree to get naked in front of you.

How the fuck did this turn into your day?

No, wait. His chest.

Shit, you need to repair the hole you made - and make sure there aren’t anymore tears in his lungs. And then the fever. Then the wounds, then the antidote.

You’re about to head back to him when his voice freezes you, raspy and hoarse, your heart jumping in your chest like it’s been electrocuted.

“Thank you.”

Um.

Either he’s delirious or this is the politest shinobi you’ve ever met.

You turn slowly, blinking as you watch him struggle to sit up before making a disgruntled noise.

Idiot.

“Hey - no. No moving, no anything.”

You hurry to him, unable to keep the bite out of your tone as you attempt to boss him, placing your ice filled rags on the floor next to him. The man huffs at you, clearly not liking being told what to do, but you’re already gearing up for a rant.

“You have any idea what I just did to you? No moving without assistance or my say so, or so help me I will strap you down. Which I think will severely effect our fragile friendship. And you can thank me once we’re done here - which we’re a long way from.”

You push him down gently and to your surprise he goes back to lying on his back, brow furrowed as he watched you. You roll your eyes and start placing your makeshift ice packs around his neck and chest - careful to avoid any open wounds.

“See? That’s not so hard. Now ... this next part you’re not going to like, but I feel like we’ve grown close these past few minutes, so you’ll excuse my forwardness.”

His brow, which was honestly quite elegant, arched in confusion. You scrunch your nose and nod toward your bathroom.

“I’m going to do my best to repair your lungs now. Easy part. The part you’re not going to like is what comes after. We need to break your fever and I need all of that blood off of you so I can see what I’m doing. There’s also a possibility of your skin being coated in more poison - long story short, you need to rinse off. Which means ...”

You trail off, glancing down at his pants, and sigh when his expression falls flat, obviously not on board with your plan.

Ugh.

Fucking shinobi.

You hold your hands up in surrender, meeting his eyes with the most serious look you can muster.

“Look - we don’t have options here. Okay? I won’t look - just need to get you in there and hang out to make sure you don’t pass out and hurt yourself. Not to brag, but I’ve seen my fair share. You don’t have anything I’ve never seen before.”

Your stranger blinks and looks up at your ceiling, and you’re reminded of your partner looking at the sky to gather patience anytime he’d be faced with a very annoying situation. Which more often than not happened to involve you.

At least your life was consistent.

“Alright, I’m going to take your silence as understanding. Keep taking slow, deep breaths for me.”

You spread your hands over his chest, swallowing at how hot and clammy his skin was, and close your eyes - forcing your chakra into his body to feel for damage. The process is slow and long - you’re not an expert with this kind of healing and it takes you way longer than it should; to feel for the hole in his chest you created along with any other damage. He keeps steadily breathing through all of it and unbeknownst to you, keeps his eyes on your face the entire time. Curious girl, taking care of a strange man who broke into her home. The way you spoke was contradicting to the way you handled him, always so gentle and apologetic.Your dry humor was meant to be comforting, distracting, and while he doesn’t find himself comfortable or distracted he’s ... not as on edge as he was before.

Honestly, he isn’t sure what to make of you.

Time ticks along slowly and after awhile you’re withdrawing your chakra, happy to report his lungs were ... in a word, fine. The poison hadn’t quite reached them, the damage was replaced to the best of your ability, and he was breathing a lot easier now - the wet rattling sound now gone.

Not the best work that’s ever been done, but it was your best and that’s what mattered.

You sigh and remove your hands from his chest to rest on your thighs and turn your head, chewing on the inside of your cheek. You could feel your muscles start to get heavy but push it to the side - there wasn’t time to be tired. Not yet.

“Okay stranger. Shower time.”

The man on your floor stares at you blankly and something about it makes you want to laugh. He then turns his head back to the ceiling and closes his eyes again, no doubt preparing himself for the mortifying ordeal of being stripped by someone he didn’t know. You give him a beat before you tap his arm gently.

“It’s now or never. I don’t think there’s a specific prayer for this kind of situation.”

You’re pleased by the stunted snort you’re awarded with and you move to crouch above his head, carefully pushing him up by his shoulders. Soon you’ve got him on his feet, mildly impressed that he can kind of function on his own, and throw one of his arms over your shoulder. Careful to avoid the blood soaked bandages on his side, you lead him to your bathroom. You rest him on the edge of your tub against the wall and turn your water on to room temperature. You’d ease the water colder as he got used to it - you didn’t want him going into shock in your bathtub.

You turn to face him and gather your courage.

Alright ... here goes nothing.

“Can you take off your pants or do you need help?”

Your stranger gives you a look that you’re sure could wilt flowers if he was at full strength and you can’t help but fight a smile.

“You’re honestly a little scary, you know that?”

Your dry comment gets no reaction and you snort.

“Got it, no help. Gotta say, you’re the first guy to not take me up on that offer.”

You turn your back and make a show of even covering your face, once again missing the amused quirk of his lips.

“Alright, strip. I’m gonna grab you a towel to cover yourself, and then I’ll slowly lower the water’s temperature.”

You stand and move to your sink, blindly opening your cabinet to reach for a clean towel. You can hear him moving behind you and turn to face him, eyes still closed and face covered by your hand, when you hear clothing fall onto your tile. You extend your arm out with your towel in your hand, letting him take it from you. You wait a moment, listening as he slowly eased himself into your bathtub, before speaking.

“All good?”

There’s an affirmative grunt and you peek through your fingers, nodding when you see him sitting under the spray of water, towel hiding his ... parts successfully. You move to once again sit on the edge of your tub and watch his chest carefully, noting how he still seemed to struggle a little when he inhaled. The dried blood on his chest, arms, and thighs was start to break apart and drip away, giving you a better view of all of his cuts and bruises.

He was seriously beat to hell.

“I’d ask what happened to you but ... I know you’d lie. Or just ignore me.”

There’s a huff from your stranger - you think it might be a laugh - and you continue to ramble, twisting your body to drop the temperature of the water a notch. He stiffens under the change before relaxing against your tile again and you keep your eye on his chest and the soaked bandages on his side.

“I’m also tempted to ask for your name, but again, I know you’ll just lie. Or ignore me. It’s hurtful, honestly - I think we’re becoming fast friends. I’d like to be able to call you something and I’m terrible with nicknames.”

Your sarcasm and cheeky grin earn you an amused look and you feel your shoulders start to sag with exhaustion. You’re tired, the adrenaline from the whole situation was wearing off and your chakra was extremely depleted. You can’t believe that only hours ago you’d come home to find this man bleeding out in your living room.

You did want to know his name at least, but you knew you weren’t going to get it. There’s a pause and you turn, wanting to drop the temperature down again, when his voice surprises you.

“Shisui.”

Your fingertips pause on your shower handle and you cock your head back to look at him, unable to fight your bemused smile.

“Liar.” You challenge and he snorts, shoulder lifting in a pathetic attempt at a shrug.

Well, at least it was something. Maybe it was a nickname, or a shortened version of his real name.

Or maybe he was just full of shit.

“Hana.” You lie smoothly, turning back to the task at hand. The water cools even further and you wince when you hear him hiss.

“Hana.” He repeats, his tone one of disbelief and you turn, tongue poking out between your teeth.

“Mhmm.”

The air around you two is light now, both of you clearly lying about your names, and both of you finding it funny. It went with the line of work - shinobi’s secrets had secrets and only the stupid ones that trusted easily ended up dead.

You take this time to give yourself a moment to really look at “Shisui” and can’t help but find him ... handsome. Honestly, he was pretty. He had delicate features that were no doubt hardened by his line of work. His long black hair was tied in a loose band, strands falling over his face. His eyes were dark, almost bottomless, and his face seemed like it was permanently set in a serious expression. He had to have been around your age, and you trail your eyes down - taking in the way he was breathing again. There are faded scars littering his body, the marks of a shinobi, and the necklace he wore was ... attractive. His chest moved with very little difficulty but you noted he still seemed uncomfortable - no doubt due to inflammation from the poison slowly working through his insides. You had time though, and you wanted to clean and sew up his wounds - not wanting to have to fight off an infection on top of the poison.

“I’m going to feel your skin now, to see if the water’s been helping.”

You wait for a moment for some kind of objection and smile softly when there is none. You lean forward to place the back of your hand against his forehead, humming at the coolness you felt there. The water was cooling his skin but there was still some heat behind it - which was to be expected. The water had done it’s job of clearing away most of the grime and blood - and you eye his injuries carefully. You notice that he closes his eyes at the contact and it’s ... strange, the trust he’s showing you. It’s strange the trust you’re showing him.

This whole thing was just ... strange.

You remove your hand slowly and clear your throat.

“Couple more minutes and then we’ll close those wounds, okay?”

“Shisui” nods and you crack your neck before stretching and popping your back. Your muscles were starting to stiffen and you were feeling a little light headed from how tired you were. More than likely heaven compared to how the man across from you felt, but you knew you didn’t have much left in you before you needed to sleep.

Close the wounds. Make the antidote. Sleep. No, eat. No ... make sure the stranger eats. Where would he sleep? He definitely needed sleep. And healing sessions. Multiple doses of the antidote you’d need to make. After closing his wounds.

Fuck, your head hurt.

After another minute of you trying to collect your thoughts, and failing, you shut the water off and stand to grab a dry towel. Your head swims, just barely, making you inhale sharply - but it was over in less than a second and you’re sure “Shisui” wouldn’t notice.

“Are you alright?”

Ah. Observant little shit. And so polite. Gods, who was this guy?

“I’m fine.” you reply, handing him a dry towel. He needed new clothes, and you let him know you’ll be right back - needing to look for something that might fit him. He says nothing, eyeing you with a stern look that you ignore, and soon you’re back outside of the bathroom.

“Hey, I’ve got some pants for you. I’m gonna put them on the floor and close the door. I’ll wait here if you need help.”

There’s no answer and honestly, you weren’t expecting one. You toss the pair of sweats you found that belonged to your partner onto the tile and click your door shut, leaning against it and closing your eyes.

Close his wounds.

Make the antidote.

Easy.

It takes a moment for him to dry off and change but he does successfully and you open the door to him leaning against the counter, breathing hard. You don’t give him a chance to argue or glare at you before you’re sliding his arm over your shoulder again to escort him back to your living room. You ease him onto your couch, an old but comfortable thing, and lay him on his back. You pointedly look away from the blood all over your favorite arm chair and floor, deciding that all of that was a problem for future you. Who was hopefully less tired.

“I’m going to check on your wound that I packed earlier before stitching up the smaller ones. How are you feeling?”

Your question is met with silence and you sigh loudly, carefully peeling back the wet bandage on his side. “Shisui” grits his teeth as the cotton catches against his open skin and you immediately place a hand on his chest to steady him.

"Sorry - I’m out of pain meds. I can get you some tomorrow.” You pause and chew anxiously on your lips at the size of the laceration.

Gods, it was nasty.

“If you tell me how you’re feeling, I’ll get you the really good stuff.”

You’re met with a huff, something you’re coming to associate with a laugh, and can’t help but smile in response.

“Hand to the gods. It’ll knock you right out after making you feel like you’re floating.”

You’re inspecting the wound now, happy to note that it didn’t seem like it was infected. You’re still met with silence and bite your tongue, deciding not to push it. Admitting weakness was difficult for anyone, and impossible for a shinobi. You go to stand, needing stitches and a needle - and are visibly shocked when you hear him speak.

“Tired.”

You jerk back to his side, eyes darting from his face to his chest. Tired. Okay. That’s a start.

“Tired how?” you ask and he shifts his shoulders uncomfortably.

“Lightheaded. Drowsy, almost. Everything’s ... heavy.”

Very likely side effects from the poison along with chakra depletion. You nod along, categorizing his symptoms in your head, and move away to grab what you need to close his wounds.

“Okay, all of that is to be expected. Did you hit your head at all - any sharp pain or confusion?”

There’s a noise from behind you that you assume is a negative and you roll your eyes, coming back with stitches and a needle.

“You are extremely monosyllabic. Is that just with me or all of your friends?”

Another noise, this one lighter - he’s laughing again. It pulls a small smile from you as you bend over him, sanitizing your needle. “Shisui” watches your soft smile as intelligent eyes roved over his chest, soft and warm hands brushing against him. The needle piercing his skin around the gaping wound on his side is nothing compared to the way he felt hours ago and he’s able to distract himself from it as he watches you. Curious girl, potentially very stupid girl - healing and exposing herself to a stranger. There were so many times you had exposed your neck, turned your back, left yourself open for attack - and it’s stunning, the trust you’ve both built. He’s ready, if need be, to fight you - to disarm you and kill you if you made a cross move, but there’s no maliciousness coming from you. No intent to harm, you only wanted to help - and isn’t he lucky he broke into your house. He’d be close to passing out, close to dying, and you saved him.

The pressure in his chest is a feeling he doesn’t feel often.

He’s grateful.

Grateful for the curious girl stitching up his side while she murmurs softly - no doubt rambling again to distract him from the pain. Curious, stupid, kind girl - more worried about his comfort than her own safety. He closes his eyes for a beat, the exhaustion in his bones catching up with him, and idly thinks of his partner. He had tried to wait for him, to find him - but his own wounds proved to be more than what he could handle and he had to move on to find shelter. It had been hours and there was no sign of his teammate, which begged the question ...

Where the hell did he go?

Kisame was fucking pissed.

Wrathful.

Livid.

The rage he felt was all consuming and boiled just under his skin, making his fingers twitch with the need to kill. To main, to do harm - fuck, he was close to getting out of control.

Samehada was gone.

The fire burning through him was almost enough to distract him from the sheer exhaustion and pain he felt from the brutal fight he just escaped from. He was drenched too - and the snow slowly falling from the sky was making him colder than normal.

He couldn’t sense anything around him and his chakra levels were low, lower than they’d been in a long time. He’d lost track of Itachi during the fight - it was an ambush from hell. Teams of higher ups, black ops - Kisame remembers seeing different headbands; which meant villages coming together to try and take them both out.

Honestly, their efforts were valiant and the teamwork was almost heartwarming.

But still futile.

And now ... now, Samehada was gone and Itachi was missing and Kisame was in a bad way. An extremely bad way. He wasn’t healing like normal - no doubt due to the weird black spider webbing he saw pulsing from the wound on his arm.

Poison was such a bitch.

Gods, Kisame was so pissed off. He was bleeding, actively bleeding out, and his vision was blurring. He couldn’t track down Samehada like this, he needed to find shelter. Or Itachi. Where the fuck had his partner disappeared to? Fuck, his levels were low. When was the last time he was in this bad of shape?

Kisame trudged on, footsteps heavy in the snow. He doesn’t have a destination in mind, he just needed somewhere to rest. Somewhere safe - he was pretty sure him and the Uchiha had taken care of everyone from the ambush but an operation like that required planning. Back ups. Surely there would be more shinobi and Kisame was in no condition to meet them.

He walks for awhile, mind groggy, when his eyes widen in shock.

That smell ...

Itachi.

His partner’s blood swirled in his nose, the scent catching his attention immediately. It was old, but close, and Kisame turns - following the scent until he can see the trail of blood with his own two eyes, Itachi’s footsteps right next to them. Kisame walks along, covering their tracks, and trying to keep his vision straight.

Keep going. Keep going.

He followed in Itachi’s footsteps, stomach churning at how easy it was to track his partner’s trail. To be this obvious, for him to not cover his footsteps...

Fuck, what kind of condition was Itachi in?

He stumbles along, struggling to remain upright while covering up their footsteps and the blood. It takes longer than it should and Kisame knows he needs to find a flat surface to black out on - like now. His vision was swimming and delirious thoughts were taking a hold of him when he finds a small house. He can feel Itachi’s faint chakra signature inside, gods his partner was practically running on empty - right next to another faint, warm signature. Kisame isn’t thinking straight enough to care about the obvious stranger danger and stutters to a stop right outside of the house, head throbbing and body going limp. He laughs out loud and thinks about knocking - isn’t that the polite thing to do? - before his eyes roll and he rocks forward, blacking out before he can even hit the ground.

When he wakes his head hurts so badly he decides opening his eyes is a terrible idea. There’s noise around him; movement, voices - Itachi. And someone else, someone raspier. A woman, maybe. He turns his head and tries to focus, but fuck - the drums in his eardrums are deafening. They’re pounding up a storm behind his skull and he thinks he might vomit.

“Holy shit, he’s awake. Gods, you two are resilient.”

Okay, yeah, that was definitely not his partner’s voice. Definitely a woman.

What the fuck was Itachi doing with a woman?

He feels something cool on his forehead and for a second it feels like heaven. In that second, he thinks he could marry whoever the woman pressing cold nirvana against his skin was - and he wants to open his eyes but the cold rag against his skin moves down to cover the upper half of his face. Fuck, it feels so good - so good that he forgets in that second that he’s a shinobi in a comprising position with an unnamed person.

“Hey there big guy. I need you to listen to me, okay? You’re about as bad off as your, uh, partner over here - and I don’t have enough stuff here for both of you. Um, Shisui tells me that you heal faster than most and that you’ll be okay if I leave but you’re gonna hurt in the meantime. I’ve got your wounds closed to the best of my abilities right now, but you cannot move. I’ll be back in an hour or two. Can you tap your thigh if you understand?”

What the fuck was going on?

Kisame thinks he might still be delirious but ...

Gods, your voice - raspy, sweet; there was a kindness to it that’s foreign to him and Kisame has to really wonder if this was real or not. You were floating on the edge of his awareness and he reaches out with what’s left of his senses, moving past your chakra signature to feel Itachi’s. His partner was there, alive, and didn’t seen agitated. Shisui, huh? What a shitty cover name. It’s almost funny.

There was no fight or flight response that he could feel - Itachi seemed ... calm. Drained. There was a silent acceptance that surrounded him, something Kisame knew wouldn’t be there if they were in any kind of danger.

So Kisame would accept this. For now.

He taps his fingers against his thighs, the burn from his wounds shooting up his arm. There’s more talking, more sound coming from that sweet rasp but the dark is calling to him again and he finds that he’s still too tired to resist it.

"Got napped while working a case I didn't tell Alex or Jody about. Almost died. Now, nobody will let me out of their goddamned sight," Claire summarizes poorly, shrugging her shoulders as if it's not a very big deal. Her hands are tucked behind her back to make sure that they don't shake. Magda frowns.

"Is there an insinuation here that we have comparable situations? Is that why you brought it up? Because-" she starts, but Claire shakes her head, hands whipped out to be held up, placating.

"No, dude!" she exclaims, then continues, "You went through a lot of shit. I'm not trying to- like- compare anything, or play Trauma Olympics with you or anything, it's just that sometimes it's easier to talk to people about your own shit if you already know some of theirs. Equal exchange, you know? Not that you have to say anything, so we're clear. Free rights kinda house around here, Peterson," Claire jokes, catching the way that Magda flinches at the sound of her own surname. Okay, noted. Never fucking calling her that again. Abusive fuckheads.

"My Mama- I killed two people with my mind. But even before that, my Mama thought I was the devil. Because I can do things. Hurt her with my mind on accident, and it's like- she never looked at me the same. Decided all at once I wasn't her daughter anymore. One accident, and I was done. I still can't really control it. That's why I don't want anyone in here. So if you don't mind," Magda says, very clearly dismissing Claire in her quiet Iowan accent. Claire sits down on top of Magda's clear-topped dresser, sure that it'll hold her weight. Magda has a mom that's nothing like Claire's- stayed around and lost her mind confronted with power, tried to lock it (lock her daughter) away so that she would never have to confront it again, didn't run away from responsibility like Claire's own mother, but tried to take the bull by the horns and make it into beef herself. She forgot that the beast was her daughter. Even having just met Magda, Claire'd be willing to break into her cell to remind her.

"Way it was told to me, you killed that social worker and that stock boy without them being in the room at all. If being alone now and just being safe is helping you, you're more than welcome to your alone time, but Magda, nobody is afraid of you just for having something you can't control. We've all been there," she says, her head dipped forward and her knees splayed apart. Her Mama never liked it when she left that space between her legs- Claire Elizabeth, you better keep an aspirin between your knees!- like Claire had even been old enough to have an interest in anybody by the time Mama took off. It's just how she's comfortable. Magda looks at her again, still real brief, but a wrinkle between her brows like she just can't help it, given her curiosity.

"What do you mean?" she asks, rubbing her fingertips along her wrist, and Claire's heels knock against the dresser. She came in here to help. That means talking about her shit too.

"The- uh- the hunt that Dean and Co picked me up from. Werewolf hunt. Got bitten. For most American hunters, it's pretty much a death sentence, if another hunter with you is willing to put you down. It was fucking scary is what it was," she says, not able to stop herself from being honest, words spilling out of her like water before she shores it up. Nothing like trying to help someone else that'll make you unpack your recently acquired trauma, or whatever the fuck. When she looks up, Magda is looking clean at her, no bullshit, no looking away, those big brown eyes deadlocked on Claire's. Claire clears her throat and makes herself continue. "Every day, nothing left in me anything but human, I still feel out of fuckin' control, Magda. Being that, I would rather have been put down. Every day, you are stronger for being alive. Don't let anybody take that from you."

Jesus Christ and all the apostles, somebody should put a muzzle on her. Who in God's good graces let her try and befriend the traumatized girl living in their house?

"You're very kind," Magda says, snapping Claire out of her head so fast she feels like she should get whiplash just from the emotional effect of it. Kind? That's sure as fuck a first. Claire takes a moment to process what Magda said, but then gives her a grin just a bit crooked, just a bit sardonic.

"I'm really not," she says, because she really isn't, and she doesn't really know how she made Magda think so. No one has ever made the misjudgement of character necessary to call her that, and never at such a short window of judgement that Claire feels she's barely had time to earn it at all. Magda, doing as Magda seems to tend to do when Claire says much at all, frowns.

"Alex has told me that you're a very guarded person, and yet you're in here telling me about something that seems to be very hard for you, in such a way that it seems to be because you believe it will help me. That is a very kind thing to do for a stranger, Claire," Magda says, her voice small and soft, but as level as it has been the entire time; it's the most Claire thinks anyone has heard her speak her entire stay. It hadn't occurred to her, however, that with Magda not speaking much, the others would be filling in the gaps.

"Alex told you about me?" she asks, the question coming out of her mouth before she can hold it back, a bit more impulsive than she means to be.

"Did you think no one spoke to me til you came back?" Magda asks, and there's a little bit of a teasing lilt to her voice, her eyebrow raised, and oh no. Jesus alive. Does she have to be pretty too? Superpowers wasn't enough. Jesus alive. Claire rolls her eyes, reminding herself to recover, to roll with the punches, as it were. As if. She's better in a fight than she is alone in a room with a pretty girl, isn't she?

"Well, all I've heard about is that you haven't said much, how was I supposed to know that it's because Alex has been running her mouth about me the whole damn time?" she says, rolling her eyes. Magda's wrinkled brow comes back something fierce.

"They told you I haven't talked much?" Magda asks, the curl of her curiosity trailing around her words. Claire raises an eyebrow at her, turning her exact expression from a moment ago back upon her.

"Did you think no one told me anything about the girl that moved in while I was gone?" she teases back, though she watches carefully as Magda's expression falls back into something carefully curated, something almost watched to it.

"How much I talk was relevant?" Magda asks, her voice back to that flatness she had when Claire first came in. Claire slides off the dresser, moving so that she can lean against the wall next to Magda's bed. Knowing that the animal (the girl, anything else, she won't be another person who takes humanity away from Magda Peterson) she's coming upon isn't entirely re-accustomed to people, she leaves a bit of distance between them, crossing her arms across her chest.

"Well, yeah, Mags," she says, her eyebrows creased as she tries to come up with a way to explain the dynamic that Jody has fostered in this house, the way that everyone just fucking cares all the time. "We care about how you're doing, you know- even me. You're not alone here. No one is gonna tell you what to do or how to do it, but someone is gonna care if you aren't talking or eating or even if you just need somebody to sit with you for a while, somebody around here is always gonna care about that. Jody, Alex, hell, come to me. If you need somebody or whatever. You don't have to stay in your room if you wanna come out," she says, and she tries not to stutter over her wording. It's always fucking coming out isn't it. She stops herself from adding anything else, yearning for her typical reticence where Magda's very existence seems to pull words out of her by the dozen.

Magda's face is turned down when Claire looks at her, and for a second she's a little worried. No need. "Mags," the other girl says to herself softly, and Claire's blush comes in hot across her nose.

"I give you an entire speech and you catch the part where I call you something that isn't your name? I can cut it out if you want," she says, eyes alright averted from Magda when Magda's hand darts out to grab her wrist, her fingertips gentle but cold.

"No! You. You can call me that. If you want," Magda says, her feet off the edge of the bed like she would have gotten up just to stop Claire from- from not calling her Mags anymore? And Claire can't stop the smile that spreads across her face.

"Sure, Mags. Whatever you want."

From there, Magda takes her at her word. This is the truth with Magda often, but it is especially true when Magda is in need of a person to talk to, in need of a hand to hold, in need of anything at all, because when she needs that, it is most often Claire that she finds. She comes out of her room with more and more regularity, til seeing her little dark hard peak down the hallway is more of a marker of breakfast being ready than an oddity in need of being investigated. The fact that Claire happens to follow where she goes is more a matter of her own embarrassment than a show of concern.

"Feel like you and Magda can detach for a bit so I can drag you to a store, or do I have to go by myself?" Alex asks, throwing herself onto the couch beside Claire completely without grace and additionally, completely without care. Claire doesn't know that she's ever met someone who was raised less like she was than Alex, knowing that this girl, her sister, basically functioned as a vampire juice box for her formative years makes Claire feel like she's got no room to complain about the bullshit she's muddled through. Between her and Magda, a girl could develop a complex. Speaking of Magda.

"Okay, first of all, Magda and me aren't attached, so detachment wouldn't be unnecessary anyway. But... why can't Magda come with us?" she asks, not at all because she hasn't left the house much since she came home from her werewolf hunt and met Magda, and most definitely not because she doesn't want Magda to need anything while she's gone. She doesn't even know if Mags has a phone! Alex rolls her eyes, but then her smile slips and she's just frowning at Claire like she's being a bit obtuse.

"Magda hasn't exactly left the house since she got here, Claire. I don't think she's gonna come to the store with us just because we ask," she says, her frown coming down even further until her mouth looks pursed, like how Claire's mom's would look sometimes when she was still around enough to worry about Claire. It makes her act quickly, wanting to take that look off of her sister's face.

"Hey Mags!" she calls to the other room, knowing Magda will be lingering in the library. That's where she said she would be anyway. Magda peaks her head out. Alex mouths Mags to herself silently. Everybody has something to say about what she calls Magda. Who cares? Magda likes it.

"Yes, Claire?" the girl herself asks, both of her hands on one side of the doorway of the library as she leans on it. She's so goddamn cute. Fuck.

"Wanna come to the store with us?" she asks, even though she doesn't even know why Alex wants to go to the store or what they're going for, and she hadn't even decided if she herself had wanted to go in the first place. Just the idea that Magda hasn't left the house since she got here is making her want to take the other girl on a drive that never ends, makes her want Magda on the wide open road, makes her want to see Magda in the sunshine. She doesn't know how it never occurred to her that she never had. Magda gives her a small smile.

"Yeah, okay. Let me get dressed?" she asks, tilting her head in the direction of her room. Claire grins.

"Sure, yeah," she says, and Magda nods, walking off. She's barely cleared the turn in the hallway before Alex grabs Claire's arm, startling her. She hadn't realized she had zoned in on Magda that hard. She turns to Alex.

"Dude, when did you guys get all buddy-buddy? I swear to God, do I work too much? Everybody else in this house needs a real job. I refuse to miss things," Alex says, her expression set in a deep frown, and Claire laughs. It's an ugly, giggle-snort sort of affair, half choked by Claire not wanting very much to laugh at all, but Alex is just so- the FOMO on some girls, you know? Sometimes, Alex is just so normal. It's the coolest thing about her.

"I talked to her as soon as I got home. You know we've been following each other around ever since. She's fun to have around," Claire says about Magda, though even she's not quite sure what she means by it. She's not really sure what's fun about Magda, except that it's every single thing about her- it's her scrunched up nose when she eats something with a texture she doesn't like, it's her twinkling-bell laughter when Claire says something that catches her off guard, it's the way she slips her hand into Claire's when they're watching movies together, like she just doesn't wanna go two hours not being able to touch her. It's not that anything that Magda does is particularly fun, but maybe rather that everything is more fun when it's done with her.

That's neither here nor there.

"Fuck, put shoes on, Magda is getting dressed. Can't still be sitting here when we're the ones who asked her to go somewhere," Alex says after a beat of silence, pushing Claire up off of the couch as if she can't move herself off it under her own steam. Man, they really don't tell you the risks, trials and tribulations related to acquiring an older sister in your late teens! Claire shoves Alex as they’re crossing the living room, just for fun.

"I'm gonna fucking kill you," Alex mutters under her breath. Claire grins.

"Ooooooh, I'm telling Jody, she said you're not allowed to threaten to kill me anymore. She's gonna give you that fucking face and you're gonna feel sooo bad about it," Claire says, thinking honestly about shoving Alex again, her laughter kept behind her teeth by the skin of them, when she's stopped short.

"What's Alex going to feel bad about?" Magda asks, her fingers wrapped around the polished amethyst hanging from her throat. The color purple suits her so well that it makes something stick in Claire's throat, some desperate kind of yearning that makes her feel stumbling and stupid, longing and lingering. She swallows past the effect of it, giving Magda her best smile.

"Just threatening to kill me, Mags, nothing major," she says, laughter wrapped around her teeth. Magda's eyebrows scrunch.

"I think that counts as major," she replies, concerned, and Alex groans.

"I'm not actually gonna kill her, Mags, it's like- a figure of speech, you know? 'Cause she's my little sister and she's annoying as hell? It's not an actual threat," Alex assures, not noticing as Magda's nose wrinkles when her nickname drops from Alex's mouth. Claire only notices because she looks at her so damn much, but she's not about to say anything about it. What's she supposed to say? You can't call her that? That's my nickname for her? She puts on her shoes quietly, almost missing when Magda next speaks.

"That's what Claire calls me, but I don't know if I'm comfortable with other people calling me that yet. That's okay, right?" Magda says, her words coming slow, difficult, and Claire wants to wrap herself around her, hold her in close. She knows that Magda can handle her own, can move shit with her mind, can do whatever the fuck she wants, but goddamn it, she shouldn't always have to look out for herself. Alex smiles at Magda with one of her exceptionally patient smiles, one of those ones she typically has on when she's in the Emergency Room, and she gives Magda a nod.

"Totally okay, Magda. You can be called whatever you want," she says, just the right mix of caring and encouraging, and Claire wishes she could fucking do that. She wishes she could just make people feel safe like Alex does, just slip into that persona that Alex has where people feel cared for, she wishes she knew what set of skills Alex developed to get that effect on people. Claire was never going to be a nurse- even if she had ended up normal, in her mother's dream hetero marriage with a couple of kids and if she had gotten to know her Dad instead of the Eldritch horror that wears his skin, working directly with people was never a part of her journey. When she was really little, she wanted to be a firefighter. An astronaut. Now, it doesn't feel like she would be able to do anything but exactly what she's doing right up until the gas runs out.

"To the store, shall we?" she asks her companions, yanking herself out of her head with great force. Magda gives her a small smile and nods, reaching out for Claire's hand. Claire gives it to her without any thought to the contrary, slipping her fingers between Magda's and dragging her out the door.

Magda and Alex's relationship continues to develop, though not as closely as Claire's own relationship with the younger girl; Magda still sticks to her like a burr on her worse days, more comfortable under Claire's arm than she seems to be anywhere else. Today is not one of Magda's worse days but Claire's, which, for some reason, makes Magda typically stick to her even more if Claire doesn't actually ask for alone time. Honestly, she doesn't even really want alone time right now. On days like today, when the guilt is rushing over and she's a stone beneath a rushing river's unforgiving current, maybe she doesn't have to be alone. Maybe laying on her bed with Magda is doable. Maybe.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Magda asks her when the sun is a bit too bright in the room, probably a little bit into the afternoon, and when they've been laying there for perhaps a little too long. It shouldn't bother her that Magda might not want to do exactly what they've been doing for the past two hours. It shouldn't make her chest hurt a little that Magda might want to go do something else; Magda spends more than half of her time in here, or wherever Claire is. It's cool if she wants to go when they're not even doing anything. "Just if you want to, Claire. We can just lay here," Magda says, contradicting every thought buzzing through Claire's head, and then she's grabbing Claire's hand on top of it, the weight of her fingers reassuring between her own.

Claire clears her throat, and yeah. Yeah, maybe she does want to talk about it. Can talk about it. With Magda.

"When Castiel-" she pauses, remembering that his name isn't carved into the internal dialogue of every girl with religious trauma from here to Texas, "the Winchesters' angel, I don't know if he was with them when they got you- when he came to Earth, he needed a vessel. A human strong enough to hold an angel, with strong enough faith to allow them in and allow them to stay." That's what the Winchester Gospels said about them anyway. Castiel just said that they needed to believe. They were special. Believers. Bullshit. "When Castiel came to Earth, he took my father. And then, when my father told him he couldn't stay anymore, Castiel approached me. Being a vessel, it's passed down in the family line. The blood. The body. All they need is the body. And I was a kid. He might as well have been God. So I said yes. And my father took him back. If you think about it, it's my fault that my dad is dead."

"You were a kid, Claire," Magda says, the words out of her mouth just after Claire is done with her own. She says it like it matters more than anything that damns Claire, like it is a virtue unalienable, like she shouldn't have known better. Claire doesn't catch herself before she squeezes Magda's hand, fingers tightening before nearly letting go entirely, embarrassed of the accident. She's not normally so skittish of Magda. Right now, it just feels like everybody is gonna fucking leave.

"I should have known better. What angel is gonna take a kid as a vessel? Of course he was trying to get my dad back. But I just fucking believed." It comes out nearly a sob, her free hand pulling at her hair trying to make her come back to her senses, and she's turning toward Magda before she knows what she's doing and Magda is pulling her over, pulling her in. Claire ends up mostly on top of the other girl, but she's not thinking much about it, her vision blurred with tears she hasn't let out since she was ten years old and moving in with her grandmother with little to no explanation from her mother. She never had a body to bury despite losing both her parents at once. There never was a funeral. There always was a mourner.

"It's okay, Claire. Whatever you need, baby. Whatever you need," Magda murmurs into her hair, and Claire shivers, because Jody cares for her but Claire nearly never lets her, and Alex loves her but it's not like they really hug, but Magda is holding her like she's worth the tear stains and Claire thinks she might crack apart if she lets her. She called her baby. A sob wracks Claire's chest.

"Magda," she says like it's ripped out of her, and Magda runs her hand along her back, her other hand buried in Claire's hair.

"Yeah, Claire, I'm here, it's okay," Magda whispers, pulling Claire even closer, close enough it feels like she could climb inside Magda's skin. Claire's face is pressed against Magda's shoulder and collarbone while Magda reaches behind her to fiddle around with something. It's only a second before Claire finds out what the other girl was doing, because the gray blanket she keeps laid out on her bed (which is the softest material she's ever felt and Jody bought it for her as soon as she showed she might actually like something) is coming down over her shoulders and spreading over her and Magda. All at once she feels warm all over, safe, like she and Magda are in a world all their own in a little blanket fort in room made only of the blanket and their bodies. She feels like a little girl. She feels a thousand years old.

"Mags, I'm so tired," she says, her eyelashes pressing against Magda's skin and making her eyes itch. She doesn't move them. Magda's fingers run through her hair.

"Go to sleep, Claire."

When Jody wakes them up a few hours later for dinner, she's very tactful in that she doesn't ask either of them any questions about the position that she found them in, but doing that thing Moms sometimes do when their kid has a prom date that they're not sure if that date is an actual date or not, sending Claire significant looks over the dining table and giving Magda little conversational nudges as if to ask any question resembling whether they were sleeping in the same bed in a platonic way without actually reaching that exact question. As if Magda is particularly good at inferring indirect questions. She typically guesses so incorrectly as to what people mean by being indirect that Claire usually tells her what people are talking around later. She can always tell that the talking around is happening, it's just that she so thoroughly doesn't understand the point of not being direct that it's hard for her to get what someone is trying to obscure. It's nice. Claire doesn't know that she's ever been around someone who bullshits as little as Magda.

She doesn't know that she's going to tell Magda about this particular instance, though. She really can't afford to make her uncomfortable. Not when she's gone and let herself get this attached. In fact, she should think about going and getting herself unattached, if she's smart about it.

Even if Magda's nothing like her mother, even if she's the sweetest girl Claire has ever met, and even if she has actual superpowers, there's no telling as to whether she'd be even accepting of somebody like Claire. Lesbians. Hell, queer people as a whole. She wouldn't be the first homophobe Claire's ever met, nor the first to ever earn her trust, and fuck, she wouldn't be the first one to hurt her feelings. She knows her Mama would never have- even her Daddy- fuck.

She's gotta stop feeling like this with Magda. She's probably gotta leave again. Something. Despite the fact that she told herself she was taking a break after the werewolf case, she starts looking for cases whenever Magda is doing her time in the library, reading every book she can get her hands on like somebody's gonna take them away. Well. That's probably a bit too apt. She cannot be thinking about Magda's past right now. She can leave for a week. Two, even. This girl has not made her so desperate to stay in such a relatively short time that the idea of going on a case makes her feel a little sick. That's not what is happening right now.

She's never gonna get any higher education, but if there was any degree in lying to yourself, she'd probably have a masters degree in denial by now.

The house is quieter when she's trying not to stick to Magda as much, being as avoiding Magda damn near means avoiding everyone in the house. Jody has her whenever she gets a day off at least for a few hours, always leaving room in her schedule for Magda and the thing that they do where they've been trying to make each other better at cooking by muddling through it together. Alex takes her shopping whenever she wants to leave the house, books bought on her Daddy's estate money seeing as no one had been living on the farm anymore, and Claire isn't supposed to be hearing about Magda's excursions while she's trying to separate herself from this. Donna, now that she's moved in, goes on nature walks with Magda.

She's not sure why she knows when and how and why everyone spends time with Magda, but the idea that other people are spending more time with her than she is doesn't feel great.

Despite the fact that she's trying to pull away, she just can't fucking help it sometimes, you know? It's like, Magda Peterson is not a girl that is meant to look sad, if you've got any bit of soul left in you. Any bit of heart. Too much heart. Anyway. When Magda is upset, there's just something wrong about it, like Claire can't be happy if she isn't, like Claire can't focus on anything else until she knows what's going on in that pretty little head of hers. Jesus alive, she needs a case. Instead, she's sitting next to Magda in the low lamplight of Magda's bedroom, listening to the quiet of her fucking piano version of the first Green Day album playing from the computer, the notes coming out slightly tinny. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, she's got big dyke feelings for a girl who listens to piano covers of punk bands. Isn't that the worst thing you've ever heard?

"You wanna talk about it?" Claire asks, being as that's how all of their conversations lately seem to begin. On bad days, anyway. Magda doesn't quite look at her yet.

"Something has been wrong with you too, lately," she says, just loud enough to be heard over the music. Her tone is one that brokers no argument, and Claire doesn't know anybody who does as little bullshit as Magda, but Jesus. She never will sugarcoat anything. It's always gonna be a bitter pill.

"Maybe, but this isn't about me," Claire replies, frowning. Magda finally looks up at her, her expression mostly flat, except for barely a flick of a smile.

"I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours," she says, so close to flirtation that Claire feels like she's spinning on a knife's edge, a ballerina on a point. She clears her throat. Tell the truth? To know what's bothering Magda? It's not like Claire is closeted. Magda is going to know eventually. It's a question of whether she's going to know because Claire told her, and because Claire told her all of her worries about it, or because it was sprung on her out of nowhere. Suddenly, and with a rush of bravery that she's not sure she should feel, Claire chooses the fate she keeps in her own hands.

"Sometimes, because of my mom,  I guess, I feel like I'm bad. Evil. Because I like girls." She doesn't mention how it makes her scared in every single friendship, in every single relationship, every single day, but still the admission takes everything out of Claire that she has in her, more than she might have had in the first place. She tries not to think about how that fear might also be related to her father, his faith so unshakeable when he took Castiel on that he stuck his hand in a pot of boiling water- she had read that in the Winchester Gospels, awful fucking books they are- and she doesn't know that losing faith in God would have taken the small town boy out of her Daddy. She refuses to be grateful for Castiel. She refuses to be grateful for not living a normal life. Her eyes are clenched shut, but she feels it when Magda's fingers lace with her own.

"Do you think I'm evil, Claire?" she asks, her voice calm and small, level like Magda, and Claire clears her throat to speak.

"No," she says, and it comes out as a croak. Magda squeezes her fingers, a silent benediction. An offer of comfort, clear and freely given. Jesus.

"Thanks," Magda says, which is admittedly a little funny when one is getting thanks for not thinking one's friend is evil, and then she says, "Not even because I like girls?" and Claire blinks.

"Oh, you- you too?" she asks, feigned casualty completely useless with Magda laying close enough for their shoulders to brush, to feel when she stops breathing at a typical rate. She gets a nod in return.

"I think so. Maybe always. It's not like my mom knew, not like that's what she was- she didn't know to be mad about that. She would have, though. She would have hated it. She'd hate it still," Magda says, her eyes cast off in the great big somewhere she goes off to sometimes when her eyes aren't on Claire, and Claire is off of her back before she even thinks of it, her weight moving to her elbow and her other hand cupping Magda's face.

"Hey, fuck your mom, man. You're perfect, Mags. Just the way you are. She'd be fucking lucky to get to know you," Claire assures her friend, Magda fucking Peterson, Magda who rarely has a mean word to say about anyone, even if she has a hell of a verbal right hook coming along, if Claire has anything to do with it. The point! The point is that there's no reason to hate Magda. And even if there fucking was. Nobody deserves what Magda got. Claire realizes, suddenly, that she's cupping Magda's face, leaning over her on Magda's bed in the mostly-darkness that Magda tends to prefer, but Magda's hand, placed quietly and carefully on top of Claire's own, stops her from taking it back.

"Your mom would be lucky too, Claire. Really... really fucking lucky," Magda says, dropping the curse word awkwardly, and Claire grins at her, wants to kiss her. She wants to kiss her so bad it aches in her chest, wants to kiss Magda like the coming of the tide, an ocean in her belly overwhelming her with want for this girl. She's pretty like stained glass windows of the Virgin Mary, pretty like pictures of Mary Magdalene in picture book Bibles, pretty like Magda, smiling up at Claire from her back, her hand holding Claire's hand to her face. Claire wants to kiss her. Ask her on a date. Ask her to dance. She makes herself brave.

"Could I-" she starts. Magda's hand moves to Claire's jaw.

"Please," she says, and Claire thinks she might melt. Instead, she meets Magda in the middle where the other girl is straining up against her, leans down and brings their lips together and lets herself have this. Magda's mouth is soft and warm, and the sparks where their lips meet make her feel like she's going to spring into light, make her feel as close as she's been to Heaven since she was a vessel. She swings her hips over Magda's just so that she can free the hand holding her up, lace those fingers with Magda's, hold her hand and kiss her too, old comfort and new intimacy.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, Magda," she says, kissing Magda again as soon as she separates their lips, desperate for a touch she never ever guessed that she could have. She can finally taste Magda's smile.

"This is even better than I thought it would be," the other girl says, quiet like Claire maybe isn't supposed to hear, but she tilts Magda's head up, thumb under her chin.

"What were you thinking about?" she asks, wondering wildly if Magda had wanted to kiss her too, if Magda had wanted more, if Magda wants to hold her hands all the time and cook meals together and come on hunts with Claire someday, maybe, or when Claire is ready to stop hunting, settle down and be someone together. She's not sure what she wants. She's just pretty sure that she wants it with Magda. She'd like to figure it out with Magda.

"Kissing girls. Kissing you. Being with you," Madga says, everything that Claire wants and yet the bare version of it, simple and safe. Jesus alive, she's so easy to want to kiss. It's never been so easy to want. Claire bumps her nose against Magda's, knowing well enough she's looking at Magda like she hung the goddamn moon, but not knowing well enough to stop. How can she stop? She kisses Magda again just to be safe.

"I want that too," she whispers, tells it like a secret she's hiding in the apple of Magda's cheek, her knees coming down on Magda's sides as she settles into her straddling her. The move only flusters her more as she considers the consequences of her actions (which she never really considers before doing anything), but Magda's hands come up around the backs of her thighs before she can get too embarrassed. She moves her face from where she had hidden herself in Magda's shoulder length hair.

"You want to be with me?" Magda asks, smiling up at Claire so prettily she thinks she might burst into flames, and she should have stayed hiding her face. It's hard to think that when Magda looks at her like that, though. Claire nods, and then she thinks again where this conversation started, brushing her nose against Magda's cheek.

"What was... what's on your mind? Or what was before this, I mean," she asks, nudging her nose against Magda's face again as she says this, because it feels like this is gonna make her burst into a thousand little confetti pieces of herself. Magda's hands squeeze her for a second, reflexive, as Magda frowns, her eyebrows wrinkling.

"You haven't been yourself lately," Magda says, and she tilts her face up so that their foreheads rest against each other for a moment, fleeting, before leaving space between them again. "I got scared. Thought I scared you. Didn't know what was going on," she continues, her expression back to that insecure place, and Claire rests her head against Magda's once again. It burns in her chest to think that she hurt Magda with her own fucked up fear, the things that were sowed into her that only she could reap. But she doesn't have to linger here, and she has to fucking remember that. You can't fix anything from under the ground. Jody told her something like that once. Can't fix anything trying to dig yourself down.

"I'm sorry, Mags. Got caught up in my head. You didn't scare me at all, okay? Never scared of you. Not once," she says, and she kisses Magda again, soft and careful and clear in her intentions. She never wants Magda to think she's scared of her. Magda kisses her back with no small amount of intention herself, one of her hands moving to Claire's face to cup her jaw, Magda's sure fingertips sweeping over Claire's face. Her hands are so careful that Claire's going to lose her mind. She dives into the kiss, deepening it. Magda hums, a noise that makes Claire want more of it immediately, more of all of this, more of Magda.

Jesus on the Cross, this is going to be a problem, isn't it?

And it is.

She likes Magda so much it makes her look stupid, but it helps that Magda likes her at least as much. As much as Mags hung off her before, she only feels more entitled to it now, now mostly forgoing holding her hand for her new move of jumping onto Claire's back in the hallway, knowing that Claire will catch her. As uncomfortable as she is with her powers, she'll move something from across the room if it means that Claire won't have to get off of her lap. All of the tiny things that make her Magda fascinate Claire endlessly, like studying veins in flowers or grooves in tree bark, details that make a beautiful thing whole. She sounds terribly infatuated. It's maybe the youngest she's ever felt.

Claire smiles where she sits cross legged on the floor. They're supposed to be straightening up Magda's room- or rather, Magda had planned to be cleaning up her room, and had abandoned the plan immediately when Claire had come in, flopping onto her bed with her bag of books (still not unpacked from their recent trip to a book sale). It's mostly clean anyway, only two of the bookcases still somewhat cluttered, and that's okay. It looks fine. It looks lived in. Magda just looks pretty from where she stares over at Claire with that usual steady stare of hers, her face all round and upside down and sweet looking. Claire is so fucking fond of her that she looks stupid.

"I think I need another bookcase," Magda says, hand resting on the bag of books idly. Claire snorts.

"You could probably do with a couple, Mags. I doubt you're fitting them in here, though," she says, looking at the two bookcases on the far side and then to the still two more on either side of Magda's bed, all four a bit overstacked with books. Between Magda's room and the library, you'd think she would have enough books, or at the very least, enough room for them. But, you know, whatever makes her happy. "You can put a couple in my room if you want. It's not like I use the space for much," she suggests, thinking about the empty wall on the far side of her room. Once upon a time, she was going to put a desk there. Now, knowing that she doesn't really have any love of anything you might use a desk for, she can't think of a better use for the space than more of Magda's books.

"A couple books?" Magda asks, her voice a bit smaller. Claire raises an eyebrow. How the hell would only a couple of books be at all useful? She shakes her head.

"No, babe, a couple of bookcases. Really, I've got the space," she repeats. She looks back to Magda to find the other girl closer than she left her, so close that Claire catches her hands before she even thinks about it. Magda holds her fingers and slides up to kiss her, upside down and so sweet, Claire feels like she's got hearts coming off her goddamn head. It's an awkward angle, so it's only a quick little kiss, but God. Kissing Magda. Yeah.

"Thank you, Claire. You're- thank you," Magda says, stumbling over her words when she pulls back. She's nearly halfway off the bed, her chest on the corner, and Claire could pull her off if she was feeling a little mean. She hardly ever is where Magda is concerned. Alex calls her whipped when Magda isn't listening- well, it better be when Magda isn't listening. Otherwise, Alex is about to catch her hands.

//

 Kamukura likes to wander.

This is a fact about him Servant knows. Understands. He leaves at the oddest of times, and always comes back to him. He knows to expect this.

But it’s cold out there. Tonight is  especially  cold. It’s something he’s hyper aware of, two blankets wrapped around his shoulders, tucked away under the kotatsu, electric kettle on a near constant warm. Even with the space heater on.

“Coldest day of the year,” Kamukura had told him, as though considering it.

“Rotten luck, on today of all days,” He says, and reaches over to grab his hand. Kamukura continues to look out the window, despite this.

There’s a blizzard you see. A real nasty thing. Even Servant wasn’t stubborn enough o try and brave it, which is quite a shame. There was suppose to be a festival in town, today. They were suppose to go together. 

“You’re not even going to put on a jacket?” Servant couldn’t help but express his concern, despite knowing better than that.

“I will be fine,” Kamukura had assured, blankly. Servant wants to dig for more information. Wants to know what he could mean. But Kamukura never gives enough information, and Servant is unwilling to prod.

So Kamukura leaves in a blizzard. And Servant allows it.

 //

 Kamukura has made a christmas cake for him.

A traditional sort. White frosting, strawberry short cake. He’s not sure where or when Kamukura got the strawberry’s, considering they’re fresh. He appreciates it all the more for the effort.He went out of his way to make it pretty. They don’t have any decorations to go on top of it, but they do have dye for their icing. 

Flour in his hair, dusted across his cheek and shirt. If Servant did not already have the idea of Kamukura as a  more , he might be fooled into thinking it was amusing.

Maybe he still see’s it as somewhat amusing.

"There are some things even I cannot cook without getting dirtied," he seems bemused as Servant reaches up to brush off the line of flour dotting his cheek with his thumb. 

“No ones ever gotten me one before,” Servant tells him, like an admittance, “Not even my own mother!”

“Ah. I have never had one” Kamukura tells him, considers it, “Within my memory.”

And something clicks into place.

Servant eyes him, “Oh,” is what he says, “Well. We can share it. I know I didn’t make you one-”

“Do not make me one,”

Servant’s lips fall into a smile.

And the interaction is easy. Peaceful like that.

 //

It’s around the one hour mark Servant starts to worry. The two hour mark he starts staring at the door. Two and a half hours, and he’s finding his own jacket to go searching.

It’s not that he doesn’t trust Kamukura. He’s able to reason with himself, on that. It’s just that it’s a holiday. He hadn’t even eaten yet. That it’s particularly cold out. It shouldn’t be hard to find him, he reasons. Follow his footsteps in the snow, convince him to come back with him.

He just wants to spend the night with Kamukura. That’s all. Concern be damned, he just wants to see Kamukura. And as his servant, it’s his job to make sure he’s safe.

 //

 The town nearby has decorations up on the twenty-fifth.

Kamukura takes him late enough into the day that they can actually see the lights strung about, but not late enough into the night that the walk back will be  too  cold. The snow crunches under their feet while they walk, and his nose is numb on his face, but he’s hardly a care in the world while in the sea of neon blue’s and red’s that the light offers him.

“It’s  romantic !” Servant’s eyes go wide, as he looks about, holding Kamukura’s hand like a life line, “Don’t you think Kamukura-kun?”

“I did not think I would see sights like this in person,” Kamukura tells him, bemused.

They walk a little further down the path. Stop once to get food from a little stand set up to the side, and again to stop buy and get another scarf because it’s particularly cold tonight. He wraps it around himself, and however he did it must annoy Kamukura because he reaches over to correct whatever mistake he’s perceived. 

And it’s all normal. It  feels  normal now. 

There’s.. this little stone bridge along their path. It’s been decorated with just as many lights as the rest of the path, but he stop’s there to admire the way that these ones reflect on the ice beneath them. 

Which means Kamukura also stops. 

They stand there, silent. And because Servant does not want to ruin it, he lowers his voice when he speaks, “Sometimes I think,” He starts, stops. Like he’s about to say something forbidden, “Sometimes I think it’s a good thing, that we were forced to pull away,” He tells Kamukura, “That we were forced to abandon them.”

Kamukura tilts his head, “You are unsure?”

“Well. They were all we had,” He points out, and squeezes Kamukura’s hand tighter, “We’ll never be able to truly connect with anyone else. Not like this.”

“Perhaps not.”

Servant looks down, “I think it’s good. Because it allowed the world to flourish. It allowed hope to grow. But sometimes, I wish…” He trails off. 

He does not finish that thought.

 //

It doesn’t take him long to find Kamukura, is the thing.

The footprints are somewhat covered by the snow, but in the sort of way where the imprint is  just  there enough to see.

But that doesn’t matter, because in the end. Kamukura hasn’t wandered far at all.

When he finds him, Kamukura is standing knee deep in the pond behind their home.

“What are you doing?” Servant asks, not exactly stunned, not exactly amused. He’s not entirely sure how to feel. Confused, concerned, but not surprised. Kamukura could do anything, and he’d accept it for what it is.

“You followed me. You do not generally do that these days,” Kamukura tells him, dazed.

“It was cold out tonight. I was.. worried,” He says, more firmly and the snow snaps like bullets against his cheek, “What are you doing?” He repeats the question.

Kamukura does not answer him immediately. He looks forward to him,  at  him. Not through him, but at him.

The gaze burns him, somewhat.

“Go inside,” Kamukur orders him, instead.

“Not without you.”

His head tilts down. He’s been standing in there for quite a while, it seems. What of his hair isn’t in the water has clumped and frozen together, what of his hair is in the water has sunken to the bottom. A bit of snow has collected, a stark contrast to the dark brown strands he so dearly prides himself in.

“Kamukura-kun…” 

Kamukura blinks at him, “Do you think I am above death? Do you think something would save me, should I choose to stand here.” His shoulders fall, “I think I’m finally beginning to understand your luck. I do not know if I want to finish.”

Servant is quiet. Only the barest amount of moonlight breaks through the storm and clouds. Otherwise, it is dark, and it is cold.

“Kamukura-kun. Please come out of the water,” He requests, trying to keep his voice gentle. But it’s hard, when the dread in his stomach is beginning to quickly take over. It’s hard, when he’s staring Kamukura in the eye like this.

“Did you know that near death experiences can bring back repressed memories,” Kamukura tells him, and Servant almost doesn’t hear it with how quietly he says it, “It would be interesting to test that, more in depth. That’s all.”

He chokes on, “Kamukura. Come here.”

Kamukura looks down to the water around him. He closes his eyes.

 Servant isn’t sure what he’s thinking about, in that moment. Knowing Kamukura it could be anything. It could be about their existence, their relationship. He could be wondering about dinner. Servant doesn’t know, because Servant never knows what Kamukura is thinking about. Kamukura rarely tells him what he’s thinking about. He doesn’t realize how frustrating it is, until he’s standing knee deep in snow, watching him with an anxiety fueled gaze.

Kamukura answers the question for him.

“Drowning is supposedly painful. However, I’ve found it to be quite peaceful. Perhaps it is because I am unable to feel panicked at the prospect of death? Statistically, the worst of drowning comes from the panic and fear of it. I am unable to feel fear. Perhaps that is the flaw in my logic? An unforeseen oversight.”

“Kamukura. Stop,” He says it softly, voice cracking. The feeling of dread is similar to that of despair. It’s there. He knows it is. But it’s easy to ignore until it overtakes him, easy to forget about. 

“Generally, a human can survive in freezing water for thirty minutes, before freezing to death. I have been in here for forty-five. Not entirely, I suppose. I have been through worse. I have been through various methods of torture, you know. They knew I would be a high profile target, when the project was over. I had to be prepared, you see. Most were easy to withstand. Others were not.”

“ Stop ,” He says louder. Firmer. He feels his nails dig into the palm of his hand. He doesn’t think he’s shaking from the cold.

“I suppose in the end, it did prepare me for what was to come. Nothing she did would ever equate to the feeling of complete loss of agency. I did not know it at the time, of course. I still do not believe I entirely understand.”

He tastes blood on his tongue. He can’t breath, it’s so cold.

“ Kamukura stop  ! Stop. I don’t want to hear about it right  now . We can talk about it- You can tel me about it. Just come back inside with me.” 

“Is that an order,” He counters, narrows his eyes.

“ Izuru  ,” He tries, desperately, “I am  requesting . Please come back inside with me.”

Kamukura’s eyes snap open. 

There must be a pitiful sort of look on his face, because Kamukura is giving him the kind of gaze over he does when he’s piecing him apart and putting him back together. When he’s trying, very hard, to understand the emotion behind his intent. Servant waits for something, anything. A cue that Kamukura is going to come out on his own. A cue to come fetch him.

Slowly. Carefully. He steps closer to Servant. Servant takes this as confirmation, snaps forward to him. He wades carefully into the water, doesn’t even register the way that it seeps into his pants until he has Kamukura wrapped up in his blanket with him, cold and shivering. The edges of the blanket soak cold. But there’s still a bit of warmth there, just enough to share.

The water is cold enough to sting his skin. That he’s numb from the waste down, near immediately. It doesn’t just feel like wading through fire. It feels like walking through knives. 

Kamukura is normally warm. Kamukura is normally a furnace, compared to himself. It reminds Servant that he’s alive. That he’s breathing, that when he goes so still and stares at the wall for hours and gets that glassy eyed look on his face, that he’s still there with him.

He feels like a corpse, right now.

He’s only human, he thinks. 

Only human. 

Only human.

Kamukura Izuru is only human.

“... I did not mean for you to come in as well,” Kamukura relaxes into him despite this. Buckles into him, really. All dead weight, and Servant manages to hold him through force of will alone.

And then.

“Ah. You are warm.”

“Lets go inside,” Servant tells him, a final time.

And. Despite his words they don’t move.

 //

 Kamukura also cooks dinner for them, that night. Like he always does. 

Only it’s just a bit more intricate then normal. He cooks some kind of meat Servant hadn’t realized they’d had, they’d stopped by the library to rent out a movie that neither of them have seen, and there’s wine and candles, of all things. The wine is red. The candles are black.

“An early gift from Future Foundation,” Kamukura mentions, as Servant turns it around in his hand curiously.

It’s almost romantic. More romantic then the walk, if he was dared say it. 

(He makes sure to take a picture of it all, because they start eating. It humors Kamukura, if nothing else.)

“I know traditions by technicality,” Kamukura mentions, off hand, “However I would not know if I have experienced any.”

“Unless you count the tradition of going out and hunting down couples on Christmas. I know Tsumiki-san was particularly fond of that one. She always got particularly bitter, around this time of year.”

Kamukura does not find his joke as amusing as he does. 

“Is that something you’ve want?” Servant asks him, more sincerely, “I could show you some, come New Year?”

Kamukura thinks about it. He knows this, because he tilts his head down as he does so, “Perhaps. I do not know if there would be anything I would not expect, however.”

“Isn’t the point of tradition predictability?” Servant asks, “The same thing every year. There’s comfort in looking forward to that. It’s even a little exciting!” 

Kamukura pushes a bit of his food about his plate.

 //

 They curl up in a bath together, after Kamukura has warmed by the Kotatsu long enough to no longer risk frostbite. At his own recommendation, of course. Servant had been quick to try and usher him into the bath immediately. Servant would have ruined him, in his panic.

They hadn’t said much. Kamukura allows him the time to fuss and check over him (running fingers over his cheeks, brushing his hair back, tilting his head about. There’s ice in the strands, and his skin feels stiff, and Kamkura had been dead to the world throughout it all, a dazed look about him. Nothing behind his gaze. Truly nothing. Not the mask of apathy he normally hides behind, but the sort of emptiness that Servant has not seen since they first met. It scares him.)

What time he hadn’t spent fussing he’d spent intertwined with him. Clinging to him. Attempting not to sob. It’s easier than he expects it to be. He misses when he no longer cried. He hates the looks Kamukura gives him when he does.

He thinks back to laying under the Kotatsu with Kamukura, to considering their deaths. He’d never considered what he’d do if Kamukura died first. He never imagined it as a possibility.

Only human, he thinks. Only human. He could lose him. Only human.

Kamukura doesn’t even shiver.

//

 Servant has always been a little bit of a lightweight. 

Even before the tragedy. He wasn’t  technically  old enough to drink back then. But enough money and luck will get you just about anything, and he’d gotten a good grasp on his limits long before he should.

Kamukura, on the other hand, is not a light weight.

He knows this, because Kamukura’s impulse control has always been particularly horrid, and there were times in the tragedy where they were just lucky enough to find a full thing of vodka, or pills in a pharmacy, or something that that should have otherwise gotten destroyed in the tragedy. And Kamukura would without fail, take them, drink, at least once. Because he was curious. Because it changed his perception on the world, and that interested him.

Regardless, wine is somehow a lot for Servant, and Not a lot for Kamukura. Which means Servant is careful to pace himself, and Kamukura is not.

“I miss our class, sometimes,” Servant admits, when over half the bottle is gone. He’s spending time tracing little lines into the table, despite the fact that he still has half a cake left, and the fact that Kamukura is right there.

“Your class,” Kamukura corrects, and tilts his head. His eyes are bigger than normal. Thats the only way he can describe it. Wider, watching him with a unique sort of interest that he’s only ever seen in  Kamukura .

“My class,” He corrects, “Is it pathetic? That I miss them so heartily? They were quite horrible to me sometimes.” 

“I do not think it is wrong, to wonder how they are.”

“But I  miss  them Kamukura. I wish that they weren’t..” He hesitates, “They weren’t always like that, you know. Well- Saonji-san was always quite cruel. But it was different,” He sighs, long, “It was always different.”

“I am aware,” Kamukura says it softer, this time.

And despite the topic. Despite his thoughts. He finds that he does not actually feel sad right now. He feels nostalgic, for a time he did not belong in to begin with. For people that were never actually his.

Servant rests his head on the table, “I’m sorry,” He tells him, “Today is suppose to be about us. I figured that- Well. Ah. I don’t know, actually. I must have gotten lost in thought.”

Kamukura gazes down at him, “I don’t mind.”

 In return, He smiles up at Kamukura.

“I love you,” Servant tells him, feeling stupid as he does, “I do. Thank you for staying with me.”

Kamukura nods, and lowers his head to match Servant on the table. He distinctly feels like he’s being  copied , especially when Kamukura raises his hand to match his position exactly, “I know.”

Servant feels himself smile wider, and notes to himself that Kamukura’s eyes are a particularly pretty shade tonight.

//

He’s combing out Kamukura’s hair in the warmth of the bathroom when he brings it up, quiet.

“Please,” Is how he starts it, because he still cannot bring himself to give Kamukura a direct order. Not while he’s thinking about it so directly, “Never do that again.”

“...” 

“I was scared, Kamukura-kun,” He stares down at the strands, gathered together like ink in the water, “You scared me.”

“Do you want to know the thing about fear, Komaeda?”

Servant’s eyes close. He doesn’t have a lot of good qualities, but he likes to think himself patient. It’s being tested, tonight, “I do,” He says, calm as can be.

“Fear is a human response. Ingrained in our very subconscious. Would you give me that much?” “I would,” He answers, hands unmoving.

“I was not scared to die. I did not intent to, but I was not scared to. I think that makes me inhumane,” Kamukura isn’t looking at him. He’s looking down to the water again, as though requesting it tell him something he does not already know.

Servant is still, “I’m not scared to die,” Servant says, “Do you think that makes me inhumane?”

“No,” “But your lack of nerves is taught. Mine is ingrained. Surely, at some point you feared death. Surely, at some point, you knew better than to test that boundary,” Kamukura stalls, “I did not. I was created without it. I don’t think I ever will know it, entirely. I don’t think I will know any emotion, so strongly. I think that is what makes me inhumane.”

There’s not tranquility, in the silence that follows. There is no understand in Servants touch. He tries for him. He tries to wrap his head around the logic, Kamukura has presented to him. He’s normally quite good at that. But he cannot. 

“Do you want to know what  I  think?” Servant offers, but his tone is sharp, and glare is heavy,

“... I do.”

“I think it makes you.” He starts, flushed, needs to force the words out of his throat, “I think it makes  you -” 

“... It makes me,” Kamukura eggs, curious.

“I think it makes you  damaged ,” Servant grips at the comb hard enough that his knucks turn white, “I think it makes you imperfect.”

Kamukura gaze snaps up to him, “I am not damaged,” He tells him. It’s too calm to stop him from continuing. Because Servant has always been a fool.

“Everything you’ve described about the project has been  deranged  . They didn’t need to do any of that to you. You didn’t need to go through that. It hurt you, didn’t it? What they  did  to you damaged you and-”

“I am not damaged.”

“The more you tell me about the project,” Servant begins, fervently, “The more I realize how  insidious  it was. They did not want to create  hope  . They wanted- They want. Something. I do not know what they wanted. But it wasn’t  hope . It was a corruption of hope. They created something beautiful, and then damaged it with their greed. They-”

“Do not call me damaged,” It's the first thing he’s said since coming back inside that does not sound empty. It’s sharp, and distant, but he hears the distaste in his voice, and Kamukura is glaring at him, of all things, and.

That shatters his will to continue his speech immediately.

And so, two of them are quiet.

A drop of water falls into the bath. 

He regrets his words immediately, “I’m sorry. Ah. I’m sorry Kamukura.”

“You’re.. Not incorrect. I have said it myself. The project failed it’s goal. In a way that would make me-”

“I’m still sorry,” He interrupts him, “That was rude. And I’m sorry,”

The water drips

“I understand,” Kamukura tells him.

And drips again.

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing, Kamukura-kun. I don’t think you have to be perfect,” Servant drags the stump of his arm through the water, watching the way it disrupts the stillness in it, “We talked about it the other night, didn’t we?”

“I recall it distinctly.”

“I’ve been thinking about it. Considering it. Just because you’re not perfect, doesn’t mean you’re not hope. Hope isn’t perfect, is it?” He says, softly, “If hope was perfect, despair wouldn’t have been able to flourish. It would have been razed under the light of it’s own imperfection. But hope is flawed. It needs flourished, and grown, and guided. Despair needs a place, because hope needs to overcome it. And when it takes despair, it’s all the more beautiful for it. Hope is a wondrous, beautiful thing. It is what is good. But good can be flawed, especially when it’s guidance was so  poisoned . You don’t have to be perfect.”

Kamukura closes his eyes at the feeling of his hand, leaning forward to rest his head on his shoulder. And despite the fact that he’s hiding his face, it’s just as much of a win as anything.

“You’re confused because your world view has been called into question,” Kamukura tells him, “And do not know how to express it. You do not want to change your feelings on me, even though I have contradicted what you believe.”

Then he goes quiet again. He does not move.

The water drips.

“No, Kamukura-kun. I’ve never been so certain of anything in my life.”

 //

 By the end of the night, they’re both just a little too drunk to  actually  clean up. Servant had gathered the dishes and taken them to the sink, and Kamukura had made an attempt to pull himself up to do them, only to falter and declare, “Ah. I will not be doing that.”

Servant makes it up to him by shutting off the television for the both of them and shuffling over to join him on the other side of the table, “It would be wrong to clean up tonight anyway,” Servant tells him, “Bad luck to clean on holidays, Kamukura-kun.”

Kamukura thinks  far  too hard about that statement. It’s particularly endearing, “You made that up.”

“Ah. Perhaps.”

So they lay there together, tipsy. Servant offers Kamukura a scattering of kisses across his face and neck and chest, the sloppy brush of his hand on the inside of his thigh, and Kamukura does a particularly good job at keeping the two of them steady as he does.

“We should drink water,” Kamukura informs him.

“It would be the smart thing to do, yes,” Servant agrees, his hands fumbling under Kamukura’s shirt instead. Neither of them feel particularly inclined to get up, and it’s not as though they’d do anything besides sleep tomorrow. 

 //

Despite everything, Servant still manages to coax Kamukura under the Kotatsu with him that night.

He cannot bring himself to feel bad about his outburst, despite all of this. He feels bad about lashing out. He feels bad about possibly hurting him. But he does not feel bad about the intent of it.

He wonders if thats a bad thing.

Servant does not let go of Kamukura’s hand now that he has it. He laces their fingers in and out, runs his fingertips across the back of his hand. Kamukura allows him to move it around like a ragdoll’s, limp and easy. 

Servant is once again heating the electric kettle, and has broken out their good matcha tea. But every time he rises, he’s shaking too horridly to make it himself, and in the end Kamukura needs to make it for the two of them one handed.

He does not feel bad about this. It’s hard to.

Kamukura sits more in his lap then otherwise. Not entirely. There’s not enough room under the Kotatsu for that. But their legs tangle together, and Kamukura’s rest on his, and Kamukura has leaned into him, Servant has  his  arms wrapped around Kamukura. Servant normally prefers the opposite, but right now finds that this is not a bad thing. He likes feeling like Kamukura is gathered up in his arms. He likes feeling like he has him, in his entirety. It’s comfortable. Knowing he has Kamukura, safe.

“You’re still upset,” Kamukura is watching the shake of his hands, when he mentions it.

“... I am.”

“I do not understand,” Kamukura looks down, “We have talked.”

“It’s not that simple,” Servant tells him, “Emotions aren’t that simple.”

“Explain it to me,” Kamukura requests.

“You told me you wouldn’t die before me,” Servant says, and it’s so blunt, he’s so tired, “You told me-” He takes a breath in. He doesn’t finish. Kamukura seems to fill in the blanks for him.

“Your luck will not kill me. I was not going to die,” Kamukura tells him, “My goal was not death. It was comprehension. It was retrieval. I had something stolen from me, and would prefer it back.”

“I don’t understand,” Servant says, “Kamukura. I..”

“I have experienced worse,” Kamukura tells him, “I do not understand why this has hurt you.”

“You did it to yourself,” Servant says, “You could have hurt yourself.”

“This is true,” Kamukura tells him, “But I would not have died. I would not have left you.”

Servant gazes over to Kamukura, and takes in the sight of him. His hair is still wet. Clumped together in strands. His hands are folded together. His gaze isn’t empty anymore. He’s realizing, suddenly, that it’s never really been empty. That he’s never seen it truly hollow before tonight.

He never wants to see it that empty again.

Everythings has gone back to normal. Everything is correct. And yet, he still feels the weight of inherent apprehension curse him.

Kamukura gazes up at him, “You have done worse to yourself.”

Servant can’t bring himself to smile, “I suppose that’s true.”

He reaches up to shift his cup of half finished tea forward on the table. Kamukura doesn’t move away from him to do so.

“Did it work, at least?” He finally asks, in a tone so dry and croaked even he mistakes it for a statement.

“..?”

“Did you remember anything?” He tries again, reaching up to touch the ends of his cup.

“... ” Kamukura looks down at his tea, “Nothing I did not already know.”

Servant holds him tighter.

 //

“Thank you,” He tells him again, whispers it lovingly, admires the man beside him. The room is dark enough to be relaxing, but light enough that he can still make out Kamukura’s face.

Kamukura doesn’t reply to that. Instead he says, “I.. enjoy your touch.”

“You’re allowed to enjoy that,” He laughs, and then more sincerely, when he realizes how serious Kamukura is, “You are allowed to want that.”

“I do not enjoy many things,” Kamukura tells him, as thought to clarify, “I enjoy your touch. Even if I predict it, I enjoy it.”

“Oh,” Servant laughs, “I always figured it was an annoyance.”

“It was, once. A while ago. A very long time ago,” Kamukura tells him, “It is not anymore. It has not been for a very long time.”

And tomorrow, they would wake up hungover together. They would spend the day  mostly  asleep. They would be awake long enough for Servant to maybe just vomit up his dinner from the night before, for Kamukura to gather up painkiller for the two of them. They would shower together, eat something small, and then fall right back asleep under the warmth of the Kotatsu.

The dishes would go dirty for the day, the lights would stay off throughout. It could snow especially hard, but it won’t matter. Because they’re warm, and they’re together.

… 

He realizes, as he trances along the edges of Kamukura’s face, that he does not feel like a servant anymore. He wonders why he does not feel guilty about this. 

(And figure that, for tonight, he can blame it on the alcohol.)

 //

 It’s not until after Kamukura finishes his tea, and the two of them have settled into bed, do they speak. One final time that night.

“You may continue to call me Izuru,” Kamukura mentions, to a room lit up only by the twinkling of colored lights. He’s looking up at the ceiling, watching the way they blink across the ceiling in different shapes. Because he likes to do that. And Servant knows that, “I do not think I mind that, either.”

“...” Servant closes his eyes. Tries to humor saying it more freely. He thinks that it’s almost funny, how easily he can imagine it coming to his lips, “You would want that?” He asks.

“I would.”

“...Maybe I could. Maybe I will,” Servant knows he will, really, “You can call me…  ah ,” He cannot, he realizes, get his own name out. It’s caught in his throat, like an ugly rat trapped in a cage.

“I understand,” Is how Kamukura saves him. 

“... Happy New Years, Izuru.”

“Happy New Years, Nagito.”

Servant turns over to take his turn in resting his head on Kamukura’s now very warm, still breathing chest, and closes his eyes.

Nagito . It’s been a while since he’s heard that name.