#phantom fics

"Maybe I should ask Percy for a j"

"What're you doing?" Angelina leans on the desk.

John doesn't even finish writing the word 'job' before slamming the book shut in a panic. He looks up at her, in all her beauty, and he can feel his cheeks burning up ever so slightly, "I'm not doing anything."

She crosses her arms and hums, "uhuh, and I just won a million pounds."

"Aren't you technically a millionaire?" John pushes his chair away from the desk, turning it around so he's facing Angelina. He tries not to swivel too hard, but it's difficult with his advanced strength - he ends up doing at least nine spins, he may have lost count at one point. He silently curses himself.

Angelina purses her lips, "billionaire, actually." She inhales through her nose, "but that's not the point, are you going to tell me what you were writing? Or am I going to have to find out for myself?"

"It's.." he fiddles with the cover, "it's embarrassing."

Angelina obviously doesn't take that as an answer as she attempts to grab the notebook. John's enhancements, thankfully, allow him to be just a little bit quicker, and he pulls it out her reach.

She groans, "come on, just tell me!"

John stands up and puts the book into his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, "nope."

"You're no fun at all," Angelina said, gently punching his arm. He winced as her knuckles clashed with a spot that was still bruised from a fight last night.

"I'm plenty fun!"

She laughed, "sure you are."

They walk out of their shared office (which, in reality, is really just Angelina's office, as she's one of the Bugle's best journalists, and he's just a mere freelance photographer who doesn't really need an office) and into the lobby of the Daily Bugle. John catches a glimpse of the TV and pauses to watch it.

Angelina's still talking ("I hope you're all ready for tonight..") but he can't pay her any attention. Another news outlet, the New York Bulletin (one that doesn't drag his name through the mud), is on the TV, and, even silent, it's obvious a villain is out by the way the presenter is panicking.

He sighs and silently backs back into the office. He slides the window open.

-

"Charlie! Long time no see, man!"

In the mask, John does his best to drop his accent - anything to help him become less recognisable.

The creature in the road snarls and throws a car at him. Rude. "Bird."

He swings out of the way and lands a fair distance away from the Raptor. John shoots webs at him to distract him, and yes, he knows that he should've picked a spider-inspired alias, but he was months into the job when somebody pointed it out. He figured it was just too late to change from Pheasant-Man.

"How was your time in the Raft? You're out a bit early, not enjoying it?" John swung by the villain.

He got a lamp post to the gut as a response.

"I'll take that as a no," John wheezed, trying to recompose himself.

Charlie Fitzgibbons, now more better known as The Raptor, was one of RoCorp's top scientists. He went missing one day, and the next time anybody saw him, he was more reptile than man. He became one Pheasant-Man's more prominent villains, being fuelled by rage and-

"Why do you have a gun- two? Two guns? Really? Why?" John was baffled, to say the least, "why do you need two guns? You barely even need one!"

He was so thankful for his sixth sense which alerts him when Raptor shoots at him. He flips out of the way.

"Seriously- why? What's the point?" He jumps onto the side of a building, attempting to get a vantage point to assess his action plan, "you have super strength, so what is the need for two - really big - guns! How'd you even get Raptor-sized ones anyway?"

The Raptor shoots at him yet again, John decides he's getting quite bored of the one-sided conversation. Their shadows get longer as the sunsets, he noticed. Listen, he knows that he shouldn't pay attention to their shadows, but he's a photographer! It's not his fault he has an eye for the finer details.

John webs at the Raptor's leg, pulling it and tripping him over. He drops a gun (thank god), which John webs away, far from the Raptor's reach.

The Raptor snarls again as he stands and John gets closer.

"Okay then, since you don't seem interested in answering any of my questions, how 'bout we wrap this up then? You go back to the Raft, I go home and get a full eight hours," he swivels out the way of yet another bullet, "it seems like a win for everyone!"

"I'm not going back there-"

"Oh good! I was beginning to think you had lost your ability to speak!"

"-and even if you do send me back, I'll just get out again."

Another shot, John rolled out the way this time.

"Let's talk about that, how do you keep getting out, exactly?" John webs both the Raptor's left leg and arm, causing the beast to fall onto his side. John didn't pay any mind to the dent in the road.

And of course the Raptor doesn't answer - why would he? He just gets up and decides to throw a large piece of concrete at him. John dodges it with ease. But then his senses alert him of another piece of concrete hurtling towards him, he barely has the time to move.

It skims his upper arm, making him inhale in pain. It's not the worst injury he's ever gotten, but it still stung. These types of cuts always do.

The Raptor decides he wants to start using his gun again, much to John's chagrin, and began to shoot at him. John dodged all the bullets with ease and, seriously, how many could that gun possibly hold? He hasn't noticed the Raptor reload at all, so he was surely running out.. right?

John sincerely hoped he was.

He heard the helicopter whirring above, finally, it was time to wrap this up. His job was to distract, disarm and incapacitate. The officials had the tranquillisers - that he did help make, by the way, he just wasn't allowed to use them after he accidentally tranquillised a civilian. It wasn't his fault that his sense was going haywire for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

"Sounds like your rides here, Charlie," he said as he rolled closer. All John needed to do was get close enough to take the gun away and to web him to any surface so the officials could sedate him. "I really enjoyed catching up," he kicked the creature and webbed one arm to the side of the nearest building, "I would ask 'same time next week?'," another web that managed to encase both legs (score!), "but I don't really want-"

John's senses began to blare in his ear, badly. A constant ringing that wouldn't stop. Something is going to happen, he knows this, and he belatedly releases that the Raptor's claw that was free was unfortunately the same one that had been clutching his gun.

The world around him began to move in slow motion. A gunshot echoed around him.

Before he could do anything, a pain erupted in the right of his stomach. He brought a hand to it, apply pressure.

John winced, "ow, yeah. That has an exit wound." He mustered his strength, and shot another web at the gun, pulling it away. One last web went to the Raptor's hand, making him fully incapacitated.

"Pheasant-Man!" The officials shouted, which meant he can finally leave.

"Sorry, can't stand and chat," he managed to spit through gritted teeth, "because I'm bleeding out and all that."

"Pheasant-Man, we can help you-"

"Byeeee," he said, all too cheery, and swung away into the night sky.

It was daylight, when he started fighting the Raptor. John supposes that time sure does fly by when you're fighting an ex-scientist turned dinosaur.

-

John scales his apartments side, he lived on the 12th floor, which meant too much climbing in his very humble opinion. Oh, also the stairs are a nightmare, but he barely uses them, so he counts himself lucky in that regard.

He always leaves his bedroom window open for when he needs to quickly get in and out; like right now. He's 79% sure he's left a trail of blood up the building and he's entirely thankful to whatever entity is watching over him that he hasn't passed out from blood loss.

He slides his window open just wide enough for him to slip in. As soon as he's in the safety of his bedroom, he takes his mask off gasping for fresh air and collapses, using the wall to steady himself.

He reaches for his aid kit, and just as he's about to grab it, he hears a thud from behind him.

John turns around slowly, his eyes widens as he notices, "Angelina?"

She's stood there, in the middle of his bedroom, mouth agape and her notebooks on the floor. She points at him, "what-"

"What are you doing in my apartment?"

"Your uncle let me in," she shakes herself, "you're Pheasant-Man."

"No I'm not."

"John, you're Pheasant-Man," she says, matter-of-factly.

"Why are you here?" He tries so desperately to change the topic. John momentarily forgets about the wound, it was a moment of bliss that was ruined by a burst of pain. He winces.

"Holy shit, John," Angelina said as she rushes towards him, grabs his aid kit and gently pushes him onto his bed, "I was coming to shout at you for standing me up at our picnic date, maybe even break up with you, again. I wasn't expecting to have to patch up a.. what is that? A bullet wound?"

"That was tonight?" He hisses as Angelina removes his hand from the wound and quickly replaces it with a blanket, "oh, Angel, I'm so sorry."

"I won't forgive you until you answer all my questions and take me on another picnic date," she presses the blanket a little more than necessary, "oh, also you have to let me help you from now on. That's fair, I think. I don't want to even imagine how you fixed up all your injuries before. I've seen how bad they get, I do work for a news outlet after all."

John knows this is a battle he's going to lose, it always is when it comes to Angelina. He may be able to hold his own against rageful monsters, but when it comes to his on-and-off girlfriend? Yeah, he has no chance.

"Whatever you say, my guardian Angel."

-

"Fitzgibbons has been sent back to the Raft, sir."

"That's a shame, truly."

"Would you like me to begin planning his next escape?"

The man paused, "no, not right now. We've got everything we need for now."

He holds up a small tube, half filled with a red, thick liquid.

"Run this through an analysis, would you?" He hands her the tube. She nods. "Oh, but be careful, there's no other blood quite like it, so handle it gently. Thank you, Mrs. Daltrey."

She was fine with that, definitely. It was a genuine mistake, and she wouldn't have to travel alone on the flight back; they had triple checked and they were all definitely on the same flight.

Clarissa and Mark would hopefully get here in the next two hours, so, for that time, she had the airbnb to herself. She got first dibs on bedroom - and she was definitely getting the biggest room.

Amanda cheered for no-one but herself when she finally reached the top of the stairs. She wiped the sweat that had formed on her forehead, and looked up at where she would be staying.

The listing didn't lie - it was for sure a fortress. 

The key had been left on a hook beside the door, which Amanda thought wasn't the safest place. She took it, and unlocked the door. It opened with a loud creek.

The place was made of stone - it looked like it was plucked straight out of a history textbook that focused on the medieval era. She checked each room as she walked down the corridor; a kitchen, a dining room, a main living area. Every single room seemed to have a different purpose.

But Amanda wanted the bedrooms, which she assumed would be upstairs. She groaned at the thought of going up more stairs, unsure if her legs could do it. She approached the grand staircase, sucked in her breath, and ascended.

By the time she reached the top, she thought she might collapse. She held onto the rail, trying to regain her breath. After a moment or two, she continued.

The corridor was long, a red rug gave some colour to the grey floors. She opened the first door she saw, still panting from the stairs, and had to take a moment to register the sight.

It was pretty much empty, the lights were set to the lowest setting, and the middle of the room were two chairs, one empty and the other had somebody slumped on it.

Amanda suddenly felt a little bashful, she didn't know she would be sharing the airbnb with anyone but Clarissa and Mark, "oh, uh, sorry.. I didn't-"

She cut herself on when the figure didn't move an inch. Possibilities started to run through her mind; were they asleep? Did they just have earphones in and couldn't hear her? Were they dead?

And that one startled her, so she tentatively creeped towards the figure, and nudged their elbow slightly. When they didn't react, Amanda was in panic mode.

She walked around the chair so she could see the figure properly, and when she could finally see them, "oh my god."

The body - a woman of indeterminable age, her skin a pale white, her dress as red as the reddest ruby which went nicely with her necklace, the prettiest emerald Amanda had ever laid eyes on - had a piece of wood directly through her chest, in exactly where her heart should be.

"Oh, fuck," Amanda breathed, the woman wasn't bleeding under the wood. Amanda didn't know if that was a good thing or not, she wasn't a doctor.

A doctor! She should ring for an ambulance, she dialled 911 into her phone but stopped herself before she pressed the ring button.

She didn't know Romania's emergency number. Shit. She went onto her phone to search it up, but she had no internet. Shit. The signal here was terrible, which was really not the best for her situation.

She guessed she would have to take this into her own hands.

It was a shame her hands had no idea what they were doing. She was totally lost and out of her depth, but it was worth a try, right?

Amanda just hoped the woman wasn't dead.

She needed to get the wood out of the woman, but she needed to figure out how to keep the blood in. She had read somewhere to keep pressure on an open wound, so she needed some sort of cloth to press onto it.

Fortunately, she was wearing an over-shirt. Unfortunately, it was her favourite green one. She sighed deeply and took it off, her white vest solely covered her torso now.

She tucked the shirt under her armpit, and wrapped both hands around the wooden piece, wincing when she felt a splinter, and pulled.

She fell backwards from the force she had used, and had to push herself off the stone flooring with haste - the woman was probably bleeding out and was now more dead than she already was.

Amanda kneeled in front of the woman with speed she didn't even know she could go at, about to place the shirt onto the gaping wound, but she noticed it.

It wasn't a 'gaping wound' anymore. She watched as the hole stitched itself together, muscle connecting like opposite ends of two magnets. She stared at it, fixated, a strange mixture of horror and fascination warped her feelings.

The woman's eyes snapped open, she looked around without blinking once, she looked confused to be alive, but her eyes stopped on Amanda.

She blinked, but after a moment she quickly stood up from her chair, "what- who are you?"

Amanda was stunned at her defensive demeanour, "I, uh, I'm Amanda," she should probably provide more information, "I rented this place out for the week.. uh-"

"It's autumn? Me and Ybbob rent our home out in the autumn.." the woman looked lost in thought.

"Yeah, it's fall, what season did you think it was?"

"Spring," she said without thought, but before Amanda could question it, "your accent.. it's American." That was less of a question, more of a statement, really.

Amanda hummed, "and yours is Romanian, I'm guessing."

"You'd be correct," there was an awkward silence for a few moments, "you saved me?"

"I think I did? Your body just.. stitched itself back together, I didn't really do anything," Amanda shrugged.

"You did do something, you removed the stake," she pulled at where her dress now had a hole in it, "you saved my life, Amanda," she paused, "Esmeralda."

"That's your name?"

The woman reached her hand out, "its an anagram, but it's fine, you don't have to figure it out, you won't anyway."

Amanda took the hand, and it was so soft, she thought some things that she probably shouldn't think ever, and blushed. She blurted, "it's very nice to meet you, Esmeralda," she tried to retract her hand, but Esmeralda brought it up to her lips to kiss it.

Amanda would be impressed at herself if she wasn't as red as Esmeralda's dress.

"It's a pleasure to meet you too, Amanda," Esmeralda smiled, her teeth looked sharper than the usual person's, "and thank you."

"Don't mention it," Amanda needed to say something else, and she said the first thing that came to mind, "did you know that Esmeralda means emerald?"

The woman laughed, the sound rang beautifully in Amanda's ears, "I did," she reached up to feel her necklace, "that's why I wear this, my mamă gave it to me."

Esmeralda stared at the stone with a fondness that only somebody holding a lot of sorrow could hold, but Amanda thought it best not to ask.

"You like etymology?" Esmeralda asked, finally tearing her eyes away from her necklace.

Amanda felt herself blush again, this time out of bashfulness, "uh, just the etymology of names.. some names. I got bored one day and-"

"Do you know what Amanda means? I'm assuming it was the first one you looked up."

"Ah, uh, no," Amanda pinched her pants, slightly embarrassed, "the first one was Clarissa, which means bright, by the way. But, uh, Amanda means 'worthy of love'.. which I don't entirely think I am."

Esmeralda's face flashed shock, just for a moment, before it became determination, "you are worthy of a lot of things, Amanda, including- no, especially love."

Amanda didn't say anything to her, but when Esmeralda's hands came to envelope her own, she let out a surprised gasp.

"Amanda, darling, you are worthy of love, I may have just met you a couple minutes ago, but you saved my life! I was a stranger to you-"

"I was just doing what anyone would do.." Amanda bit her lip, refusing to make eye contact with Esmeralda.

"Trust me, dear, most people would ignore me, or kill me as the last girl I talked to did," her smile wavered slightly, "but you took one look at me and decided to help me."

Amanda finally had the courage to look her in the eye, "I just did the right thing."

"And doing the right thing means that you are worthy of love, okay?"

Amanda felt her chest loosen up, "okay."

"I want to hear you say you're worthy of love."

She felt like a child, "I am worthy of love."

"Good," Esmeralda kissed her cheek, "you are definitely worthy of love, including mine."

Butch stared wide-eyed at the Girl, who raised her hand to her mouth, a silent 'sorry' escaped her lips. Butch shook their head, and continued toward the rope they called theirs.

As soon as they grabbed it, the lasso glowed a vibrant gold. They shot it towards the Girl, who squealed when it made contact, and it wrapped around her. They pulled the lasso back, and the Girl was suddenly just a few inches in front of them.

Her defensive demeanour dropped, immediately, and she wriggled her eyebrows, she lowered her voice so the hostages couldn't hear, "I don't know 'bout you, hun, but I think I like this."

"You shot me!" Butch whisper-shouted, ignoring the Girl's previous statement because if they even entertained that idea-

The Girl bit her lip, "and I didn't mean for you to actually get hit! I was just shooting randomly, and you didn't move! I truly am sorry, love."

Butch couldn't not forgive that face, despite the fact that they couldn't see the majority of it. They sighed, "fine, okay," they paused, and a smile made it's way onto their bandana-covered mouth, "are you still okay for tomorrow?"

"Yes!" The Girl screamed, but calmed herself down when Butch startled, "I mean, 'course I am, sweetheart. We're meeting at the normal place, right?"

"Obviously," Butch winked, and they watched how the Girl stared with adoration in her eyes. However, it didn't last long until a sudden annoyance overtook her features.

"Oh, must you call him my partner? It's gone to his head, he thinks that I like him," she groaned.

"Well, what do ya want me to call 'im?"

"A prick, dear, a prick."

"He sure is one of those," Butch laughed, but was cut short.

The Officer had come into the room now, a sack that was presumably full of gold bars slung over his shoulder. He grimaced at the sight of the Girl trapped in Butch's lasso. He dropped the sack, and in one fluid movement, he was dual wielding his guns, pointing them at Butch.

"Oi, you let 'er go, you-"

Before he could finish his sentence, they let the Girl go. But, without warning, they ensnared the Officer, who shouted in surprise. The robber let go both of his guns, a mistake that benefited Butch a ton.

He looked to the Girl, a silent plea for help, but she feigned bewilderment - not that he would know of course, she was a brilliant actress.

Butch heard the sheriff dismount his horse outside, and the Officer rolled his eyes but deflated in defeat. They turned to where the Girl once was, but she was gone - she had ran, but had left the sack.

The sheriff swung open the batwing doors, and tipped his hat towards the hero, "ah, Butch, you caught him, again."

"Yes sir, I did," they bowed, "no need to thank me, just doin' what I can to help out our town."

"By catching half a pair?" The sheriff placed his hands on his hips. His intern-deputy walked into the doors, but instead of swinging, they didn't budge. He ricocheted off the doors, looking confused.

The intern-deputy did not know how doors worked, either that or he was cursed. Poor kid.

"Sorry to have to go so soon, sheriff, but my stomach is a lil' empty," Butch headed towards the door, pulling their lasso back as the sheriff approached Officer with his handcuffs, "I'll catch you boys later," they tipped their hat, "sheriff, Jimmy, Henry."

"It's Officer to you, Butch! Don't call me-"

His shouts grew muffled as they walked out the batwing doors, and onto the sandy dirt outside. They sighed, but trekked around the back of the bank, where they hid a spare change of clothes. They got changed, and they were Butch no more.

They wandered off down the town, towards their desolate farm.

-+-+-+-

Annabelle leaned against the wood of the building, she had taken off her hat and was now glaring at it intently. Her two braids hung loose on her shoulder. She looked nothing short of stunning, and Butch wished they could paint, but then again, they could never encapsulate her beauty.

And yet, she chose them. And they never understood why.

"Heya, Josie!" She said when she finally saw them. She waved, and they flinched slightly at the name. It was their real civilian name, why did it not feel right?

Despite this, Josie put on their best smile, and said, "heya darlin'."

"Sorry for the disappearin' act yesterday," she said as she hugged them.

"It's alright," they sighed as they leaned into the hug, they were much taller than she was, so it looked quite odd, "well, I had a passive aggressive comment said to me by the sheriff, but apart from that.."

"Damn sheriff, I hate that man, and his bald, bald head," she tutted, "I had to see 'im when I broke Henry outta the cell.. he was asleep."

"Hah! 'Course he was," Josie laughed, "and I'm guessing the intern was-"

"In the cell, too? Yep!" Annabelle laughed, her laughter sounded like a beautiful fall sunset, it made Josie feel warm, "poor kid got 'imself stuck again, I let 'im out and in return he wouldn't turn me in."

"Like always?"

"Like always," Annabelle smiled a smile that shone brighter than a million stars, she grabbed Josie's arm and tugged them forward, "come on, darlin', me an' yous got a date to go to!"

Josie made a surprised noise, "hey, wait-"

But Annabelle kept on pulling, and Josie let themselves be pulled. Within more than a few moments, the two had made it to their spot; a cliff-side that overlook their small town, with a lonely dried out tree (which had J+A carved on it).

"I made us a picnic," Annabelle says, "as a congratulations to you for defeating me and Henry yesterday," she pulls out a woven basket from behind a rock, "I made some dried beef sandwiches and some muffins.. my daddy helped with the muffins."

Josie chuckled, "he just didn't want a repeat of what happened last time you made any sort of cake."

"Oh, shut up you, I don't have to share!" Annabelle feigned anger, she slapped Josie's un-badaged arm.

"But you just said they were for me!"

"I lied!"

"Wow, okay, I see how it is," Josie tutted, and swiped a sandwich anyway.

"Hey!" Annabelle chuckled, and took a bite out of her own food. She grew serious, "I'm.. sorry about your arm."

"It's alright, I know you didn't mean it," Josie absent-mindedly rubbed at the bandages.

"But I still did it!" She melted.

Josie grabbed her hand, and held it in theirs, "darlin' I know that you would never actually shoot me on purpose, please don't worry about it."

"If you say so.." Annabelle didn't look entirely convinced. After a moment of companionable silence, "uh, Henry wants me and him to do another hit on the bank tomorrow."

"Already?" Josie groaned, "you normally leave it for a week!"

"I know! But Henry really wants to, he says that you won't be expecting it and we'll get the upper-hand."

"As if," Josie rolled her eyes.

"Yeah, I just wanted to let you know," Annabelle sighed, "but he says it's gonna be a blast."

-+-+-+-

Butch stood around the back of the bank, waiting for the two soon-to-be robbers to arrive. Annabelle had said that it would be around noon, and if the sun's position were to be believed, then it was.

They waited, patiently. But Butch never had the best patience, so after a few moments they grew bored, and walked into the bank from the back door - maybe they had just sneaked into the bank?

But they knew that Annabelle, or the Girl, would make as much noise as she possibly could without Henry getting suspicious. The fact that there was no sound at all made them worried.

The bank was empty. There were no clients, no workers and no potential robbers. Butch was confused, the bank was usually open everyday at noon. This worried them even more.

However, what raised their worry to the highest amount, was seeing Henry and Annabelle through the window, they were outside and unmasked.

Henry waved at them, and Annabelle looked terrified - which was not a good look for her. It twisted Butch's guts, well, just looking at Annabelle made their guts twist with love, but this.. this was worrisome, to say the least.

Butch hurried to the batwing doors, but before they could they heard something. And it was a sound that sent a wave of terror through them.

BOOM!

And the ground erupted.

-+-+-+-

Butch's head hurt. Too much. They opened their eyes, but the entire world was spinning. Or maybe it was just sideways.

Oh, their face was on the ground. The world was sideways. They closed their eyes, they felt too dizzy, seeing didn't help.

Butch then registered the screeching in their ears. Tinnitus, they recognised it as, and god did it always hurt.

A sudden flash echoed in their mind. They were in an explosion, a bad one at that, and.. shouldn't they be hurting more than they were? They didn't feel anything and-

Butch screamed, there was the pain. Every part of them ached and ached, and they tried to push themselves off the ground and they couldn't open their eyes.

And they collapsed, and screamed from the pain again.

"Josie?" A voice managed to cut through the constant ringing, "Josie, darlin', where are you?"

The groaned, and they were half delirious and the word they said came out a bit slurred but they had no strength left to care, "Butch."

The owner of the voice used their voice to pinpoint where they were, "oh god, oh Josie, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't know. I didn't know, Josie, please. Oh, please, darlin', please say somethin'.." the woman picked them up.

They coughed, "Butch." And pointed to themselves, "'m Butch."

"I know you are, sweetheart, I know," Annabelle said, she was holding them, so tightly but it didn't hurt, they felt warm. They opened their eyes, they were blurred but they could make out Annabelle's masked face, clear as day. A ring of sunlight haloed her, as if she was an angel ready to take them to the next life.

They lifted their hand up to her face, "Ann'belle, I love you," they slurred. They wanted her to know, in case they couldn't tell her again.

"Don't say that," Annabelle sobbed, "don't say it. Don't make it sound like a goodbye."

Before Butch could open their mouth to say another word, there was a shout from somewhere else, "hey! Girl! Ya found 'em yet?"

Annabelle flinched, "uh-"

Butch twisted their head towards the shouts, Henry was stood just a few metres away from them, just out of earshot.

Henry laughed, "yes! Oh good you did! Are they dead?"

Annabelle sighed, "no, they ain't."

"Oh good," Henry cheered, and suddenly his posture became serious, "shoot 'em."

"What?" Annabelle screamed at him. Butch didn't have any energy to react.

Henry growled, "shoot them, through the head. The main point of this was for them to die, right? We can't have them survive."

"But-"

"Oh, don't be such a pussy, Girl," he scowled, "you shot them the other day, did you not?"

Butch felt Annabelle's breathing grow more and more erratic, "I.. did."

"Exactly," he said, "now c'mon, we don't have long 'til the sheriff arrives, he would for sure have had word that the bank blew up by now."

Annabelle turned her attention back to Butch, "I don't-"

"Do it, my beloved," everything was clearer now, in a moment of clarity, the pain was almost non-existent, "I either die here in your arms, or I die on the way to the doctor. I'd much prefer the former."

"Josie-"

"Butch."

"What?"

"That's who I am, it's who I like to be."

"Okay, Butch. I can't- I can't shoot you."

"Please, darlin'," they wiped their thumb across her face.

Annabelle shook her head as tears fell from her face, "no-"

"Yes."

"What will I do without you?"

"Fight crime?" Butch winced at the sudden pain, "fight him, for me?"

"I can't do that, you know-"

"Hurry it up, woman!" Henry shouted, and Butch wanted nothing more than to punch him there and then.

But Butch kept their eyes focused on their love, "it'll be okay, I know."

"Butch, please."

"Just, do me one favour."

"Yes, anything.. please don't make me do this."

"Look after my cows? They get quite lonely, and they want cuddles all the time."

Annabelle's laugh was wet, "of course, hun."

"Are you ready?"

"I really don't want to do this," Annabelle wiped her cheeks, "and, no, I'm not."

She stood up from her kneeling position, and Butch's hand fell limp. Annabelle pointed the gun at their head.

"Just stay still, Butch," she said, making a show of it. She was brilliant actress. A silent 'sorry' escaped her lips. She was nothing short of beautiful and Butch wished they could paint, but then again, they could never encapsulate her beauty.

Butch closed their eyes, and smiled.

"John?" Mary sighed from behind him, "what are you doing?"

Watson turned around, his wife cradled their six-month old daughter in her arms. Rosie lay asleep on her mother's chest and Watson could barely hear the sounds of her quite snores.

"Finding Sherlock," was the simple answer that Watson gave, before turning back to face the papers sprawled all over the floor.

Mary's eyes bored into the back of his skull. "John," she sounded too tired, "he's gone."

"No," Watson shook his head with a little to much vigour, he made himself dizzy, "no, no. He was there. He was! I heard him.. I saw him! He was there, Mary, I swear."

"Every night, for the last six months, you've been like this, chasing a ghost," she gently placed Rosie onto the armchair, "I'm tired of it." She knelt down in front of Watson.

"He's alive, Mary, I know he is."

"You're not well."

Watson was taken aback by that small comment, "I'm the most fine I've been in a while, Mary."

Mary's face portrayed no emotion (maybe it showed a tidbit of resentment, but Watson would rather look over that), "I've had to look after Rosie by myself."

"That's not true."

"How am I going to tell her, when she's old enough, that her own father chose a dead man over her?"

"He's not dead."

"He is. He's gone, John. And if you can't see that, well, I guess you will lose us too." She stood up, and immediately turned her back on him.

"I'm sorry?"

Mary picked up Rosie again, "I'm taking a carriage back to London first thing tomorrow. Me and Rosie will be staying with a friend of mine."

Watson stood up with speed, and the dizziness returned, "you made your insane choice, John. Now it's my time to make mine."

She retreated to the master bedroom, locking the door behind her.

Watson stared at the door for a little while longer, a small twinge of guilt nagging at his heart. He reached his arm out, about to knock on the door and ask his wife to reconsider-

"Amen-mentary, my dear Watson."

His arm fell, he had much bigger priorities to worry about.

Mary and Rosie were just a small price to pay to get Sherlock back. A giggle slipped out of his lips.

-

Two months later, Watson found himself back in the streets of London. Somebody had told him they knew of Sherlock's whereabouts, but they wanted something for the knowledge; the keys to the cottage. So, reasonably, Watson gave up his home. It was a trick, of course, what else would it have been?

He was also released of his job at the hospital. And Watson had no idea as to why exactly. He overheard his supervisor say something about "illness" and "insanity", but he figured it must've been about a patient.

So now, he was finding shelter wherever he could. He found a hotel, just a few roads from Baker Street. The staff didn't have to know of his presence, did they?

He whistled as he walked down the stone road of Baker Street, his hands in his pockets. He had come down this way everyday for the past month, stopping in front of the now very vandalised 10 Baker Street.

It was a sore sight for Watson, but he knew that once he found Sherlock, they would be able to fix it together.

He was brought out of his fantasy when he heard the smash of glass. A group of four dirtied boys stepped out of one of Sherlock's windows, the one they had just broke, and began to hurry down a nearby alley.

Watson didn't give himself time to think, before he chased after them. They hadn't noticed him, until he grabbed the one closest to him by the arm, and pulling him backwards. The other three still hadn't noticed, and they continued running down the alley.

"What are you-"

The criminal didn't get chance to finish his sentence before Watson punched him with enough force to knock him to the ground. Watson didn't hesitate to straddle the hoodlum.

Watson punched him.

And punched him.

And punched him.

And punched him.

And again. And again. And again-

Watson realised he wasn't breathing anymore.

Watson stood up from the bloodied body.

(The kid barely looked over eighteen, he was so young. So, so young. And Watson stopped him from growing up. He broke the Hippocratic Oath. He was a monster. Monster. Monster.)

The recognisable tune of Entry Of The Gladiators began to play down Baker Street.

Watson figured that a circus was in town. He thought he might go, he is rather fond of clowns.

-

Watson did his daily walk down Baker Street, humming to the tune of one of those fun circus-esque songs.

He stopped at his usual place - just across the road from Sherlock's place. He imagined Sherlock and him playing chess by one of the windows, they wouldn't be boarded up so the whole world could see them. Sherlock would always call checkmate first, of course, it was his thing.

He registered a presence next to him, but he didn't let it drag him out of his fantasy.

However Watson's company's voice did force him back to reality, with rather a lot of force. "Ah, hello there, could you help me?"

Watson turned and there he was. He looked slightly older, more frail. He was confused, too, which was never a good look for Sherlock Holmes. Watson's mouth fell agape.

"Sherlock?" Watson breathed out, the other man barely acknowledged it.

"I feel as though I should be here, it feels right. And so does speaking to you, for some strange reason," Sherlock shook his head, "you see, I've got a small problem, I don't remember much as to who I am."

Watson's heart sank a little.

"I think it may be from an accident I was in quite a while ago, not that I can recall much of it. I was hoping you could help me? You feel.. familiar to me."

"Of course I can," Watson plastered a smile onto his face, one that bordered between joyous (Sherlock was alive!) and between despair (Sherlock doesn't even know who Sherlock is), "I'm John Watson. Your name is Sherlock Holmes, you are the best detective London has ever seen..."

Yes, Sherlock Holmes was a real life miracle worker. But for every good thing, there must also be a bad thing - there always needs to be balance.

You can't create miracles without consequences.

The wild west was nothing like they had imagined it to be. Sure, they imagined the deserts and the baron lands, but where were the cowboys? They had wanted to visit a salon, but instead their time machine had dumped them in the middle of nowhere surrounded by nothing but sand and cacti.

3 years and Butch still didn't know how the machine worked. Or maybe it was broken, which would make sense, seeing as though they had taken it from BeetCo's bins. They considered stealing another the next time they visited home, but they had gotten way too attached to the damn thing.

They groaned. They've been walking for what felt like hours (it had only been 23 minutes) and they were tired. The sun shone way too brightly, and Butch collapsed into the sand. The granules stuck to their neck due to the almost impossible amount of sweat they were producing.

The sun continued it's relentless attack on them as they brought a hand up to cover their eyes. With nothing left to do, Butch began to listen to the burning sands, the wind and the approaching hoof steps.

They sat up.

They were finally going to see a cowboy and Butch didn't care whether they were the 'steal all your gold' kind or not. They just wanted to cross another thing off of their time travel bucket list.

Yes, they have both 'visit the wild west' and 'meet a cowboy' on their bucket list - wouldn't you?

The steps grew louder as a silhouette grew closer. Their features began to become visible and.. my, wasn't she just the most beautiful girl Butch had ever laid eyes on. Her brown eyes as bright as the sky above her, her hair braided together over her shoulder as golden as the sand below and her smile as calm and as gentle as the winds.

The sun circled her head, she was an angel on horseback.

"Heya darl'," she began as she pulled on the reigns of her horse, slowing it to a stop, "didn't expect to see you aroun' these parts, you're lucky I decided to go for a ride!"

Butch, too flustered to form any sort of coherent sentence, began to stutter as the girl jumped off her horse in one smooth movement. She approached, and if Butch was already as helpless as a child stuck in a well then you might as well call them a goner now.

The girl leaned over Butch as they kept themselves somewhat upright on wobbly elbows. Her eyebrow raised and her head tilted, "why, are you alright? You look as red as a rose," her eyes went wide, "you ain't got heat stroke have you? Bein' out here in the sun isn't good for you, or anyone, Butch!"

Butch's wild thoughts halted, which would have been bliss, if not for the one question that had taken over, "how do you, er, know my name?"

The girl's wide eyes narrowed in confusion, her face twisted into an unreadable emotion as she looked Butch over. She reached her hand out, and Butch took it. She pulled them up to their feet, "do I really look that different?" She smiled, soft, "it's me, darl', Annabelle."

Butch gulped, "I'm.. sorry, I don't know any Annabelles."

She nodded, her eyes now understanding, "I was just thinkin' you're the youngest I've ever seen you."

"What does that mean-"

Annabelle smirked, "my, isn't that a loaded question? I'm afraid I can't tell you, that would go against the rules you set."

Butch blinked, "me?"

The girl laughed, what a beautiful sound, "You are just adorable when you're confused, d'you know that?"

And then the whole world turned to static, Butch couldn't take their eyes off of this girl; who claims to know them and just called them adorable and they were certain this was love at first sight.

"I haven't really been called that by anyone before, so no, I don't really," they kicked at the sand, they were so nervous.

Butch felt a delicate hand on their cheek, somehow cold despite the torturously burning sun, "well, hun, you are the most adorable individual I have ever met, and you better trust me when I say I've met a whole lot of people."

Butch could feel their cheeks get impossibly warmer as they stared into her eyes. Annabelle giggled as she reached for Butch's waist with her spare hand, never taking her eyes and hand off of Butch's face.

Butch had to close their eyes, the girl was too overwhelming, but it felt so right to know her. They had never really been in love before, sure they had crushes in the past, but they have never felt like this before. They were sure that this is what true love felt like.

They had never been a big believer in fate, but maybe it truly did exist, and maybe Butch was always meant to come across Annabelle in this desert. Who was to say, really?

Then they felt weight disappear off their waist, their eyes snapped open. Annabelle stood just a mere foot in front of them, analysing their time machine.

Butch's eyes grew wide, they reached for it but their feet refused to move, Annabelle simply twisted her waist and the machine was out of Butch's waist.

"Wha- hey! Give that back-" they didn't know her, not really, and how blind could they have been? Of course she was working for BeetCo, of course they finally realised that Butch's number one weakness was super pretty women. Of course she didn't really know them, and it was all pretend, to lure them into a false sense of security and take their machine and take them home and arrest them and-

"So how long have you been time travelling up to this point?" Annabelle's voice cut through Butch's spiralling thoughts.

"I- er, what?"

"How long have you been a time traveller for? You ain't met me yet, so probably not long.. a couple a' months maybe?"

"3 years," they said, "are you another time traveller?"

Totally ignoring their question - which, rude - she threw her arms in the air, eyes wide with an unreadable emotion, "three years? Three? Years? And not once did you run into me? What happened to fate, huh?"

But her last question wasn't aimed at Butch, per se, but Butch's machine, which was still in her hands. Her grip so strong, Butch was terrified that the metal would dent.

"Are you a time traveller?" Butch tried again.

Annabelle's attention drifted from the machine to Butch, a faint smile on her lips, "oh heavens no, I could never. I don't even know what this thingymajig does."

"Thingymajig?" Butch let out a disbelieving laugh.

Annabelle had the gall to look offended, "hey now! Not everybody comes from the fancy future with it's movin' pictures and the horseless carts. Your technolgy confuses me, darl', I just can't understan' it."

"I guess that's fair."

"You'll soon learn that I'm always right, hun," she chuckled, the sound as warm as the air around her, "it was you that told me that, right before you promised me forever."

"I did?"

"Mhm," Annabelle hummed, "I wish I could tell you more, darl', but like I said, I'd be goin' against your rules, and you would be so mad at me."

"So you know a future version of me?"

"Rules, hun!" Annabelle gently slapped at Butch's arm.

"Okay! Okay!" They laughed, "I'll stop."

"Good!"

"But I will definitely see you again?" Hope swelled in their chest, a feeling they hadn't felt for a long time.

"Definitely, darl'."

"So I'll come back to the wild west soon?"

Annabelle paused. Her face scrunched up in the most adorable way ever - Butch felt their heart skip enough beats for it to be unhealthy. And then her face returned to normal, her eyes looked up at them, "not necessarily."

"What does that even mean?"

"We may not meet in this specific time, but trust me we will meet again."

"What if I stayed here? With you? I don't have anything to go back to-"

Annabelle grabbed Butch's arm, which shut them up immediately. "Butch, as much as I want you to, you know you can't. They're lookin' for you, you can't stay in the same place." Her voice was too soft, as if this was a final goodbye.

But it wasn't. Butch knew it wasn't. They had only known Annabelle for a few moments but Annabelle seemed to know them better then themselves. Annabelle knew a version of Butch that they them-self had yet to meet.

"What if I brought you with me? I mean, it's not creepy if you technically already know me, right? I just need to get to know you- which i really want to do-"

"That wouldn't end well for anyone, trust me on that."

"But you said I promised you forever? This is how I'm going to fulfil that promise," Butch was now spiralling, they knew that but they didn't want to leave Annabelle here, not when she could be with them.

"You don't know what that means yet! Oh, darl', how I wish I could tell you everything but I can't. You're meant to find out yourself and-"

And then there were shouts. It had just been them in the desert, not another soul in sight, but people were shouting. And one sounded awfully familiar, as a familiar name echoed through the empty air.

"Josie!"

Butch panicked, they found them.

"Sounds like you should take you leave, darl'," Annabelle reached for their hands, gently holding them in hers, "I know you don't want to leave me, I can tell you don't. I'll be fine. Trust me, from this point on, you ain't ever gettin' rid of me."

Butch's panicking eased as her thumbs brushed over their knuckles. A sudden wave of protectiveness rushed over them, which was strange, considering that they had met Annabelle literally 5 minutes ago.

What was it about this woman that made them fall head over heals immediately?

"Promise?"

"Forever," her smile was brighter than a million exploding stars, but gentler than a butterfly landing on a delicate leaf. Her face twisted into panic as the shouting got louder. She groaned, "it's Henry today, ain't it?"

They decided against asking Annabelle how she knew him and instead rolled their eyes half-heartedly, "unfortunately, it always is. He has something against me in particular. He could be going after any rogue time traveller, but for some awful reason he has it out for me!"

Annabelle laughed, but turned her attention back to Henry's direction, "my, he's a slow fella."

"Yup," Butch fumbled at the buttons of their machine, "just makes it all the more easier for me to get away."

"Where are you off t' this time?" She leaned over Butch's shoulders - they didn't miss the way she had to tip toe - to see the machine.

"My original destination-"

"You didn't mean to come 'ere?" She rocked back onto her heels, grabbing at the reigns of her horse.

"Well, no not really."

"Ouch, you wound me," Annabelle mocked as she hoisted herself up to sit on the saddle.

"I'm going to the UNICEF Concert a hundred years from now," Butch shrugged.

Annabelle nodded along, but it was very clear on her face she didn't understand anything, "right, you enjoy that, darl', I'll do my darn best to distract Henry for a while."

"Absolutely not! That's too dangerous-"

Annabelle chuckled, "I'll be fine, we promised, remember? Now, go!"

Butch inhaled. Going against everything that their mind was telling them (stay! Don't leave her!), they pressed the machine.

And within the next moment, they were in a crowd of people, clapping along to Rod Stewart.

~

The second time Butch came across her was in a bar on the 20th of July, 1969.

Butch had entered a random bar in New York City, one that had advertised they were showing the moon landing. They sat on a barstool, and had ordered themselves a beer, when;

"Well, hiya, darl'!"

Butch must've imagined it, because there is no way that she was here. Not 90 years in the future. Unless, she was a time traveller and she had just lied-

And, yes, Butch had met her once, and for five minutes at that, but they had memorised her voice. It was easy, the sound was practically unforgettable.

"I didn't expect to find you 'ere of all places," Annabelle sat on the stool next to them, "I mean, this is my favourite bar! I come 'ere every weekend."

She caught the attention of the barkeep, and flashed him a smile. He returned it, and nodded, reaching for a glass.

"Wait a darn second, did I tell you that? Is that why you came? Oh gosh, Butchie, you really know how to spoil me."

And Butch practically short-circuited. And, despite it being 6 months Butch-time, Annabelle looked the exact same, the only noticeable difference being her hair; which was cut to her shoulders.

Annabelle's warm smile faded (no, come back) and worry overtook her expression, "darl'? You okay? You look like you've, not to sound cliché, seen a ghost." She giggled, mostly to herself, like she had referenced an inside joke that only she was in on.

"I'm.. fine, I think?" Butch cringed at the voice crack, "it's just- how on earth are you here?"

Annabelle blinked, and then again. And then what could have possibly been a hundred times, before a small smile formed, "ah, hun, when was the last time you saw me?"

"Back in 1879," they whispered, "which was 90 years ago, so, uh, forgive me.. for being more than a bit confused."

"I promise you, I ain't a time traveller, if that's what you're thinkin'."

"So?"

"So what, darl'?" She thanked the barkeep as he placed a colourful cocktail in front of her.

"How?" They gestured vaguely in her direction.

She inhaled and traced the rim of her wide glass with her finger, decidedly not looking at Butch. She sighed, and almost too quite for Butch to hear, "I'm immortal."

Butch couldn't help the disbelieving laugh, "what?"

Annabelle, still not looking at them, narrowed their eyes as if willing her glass to explode, "I'm immortal, I can't die."

"Yeah, sure-"

"I should've known I would have to explain it to you eventually, and I definitely should've known you wouldn't believe me," she forced her gaze away from the glass and it finally fell on Butch, who suddenly felt warm, "I died, once. And now I'm immortal."

"Right, okay," Butch rubbed at their temple, "that would explain how you're.. here. How did it all.. y'know.."

"That would go against your rules, darlin'," she smiled, trying to hide all the pain her eyes were clearly showing.

And then silence fell between them, a small quite bubble as the rest of the bar-goers counted down from 10. The entire reason Butch had came to this date in particular was happening this very moment, but they couldn't bring themselves to care.

Oh well, they could always come back.

"So when we promised each other forever-"

"We meant it."

~

After that, it felt like wherever Butch travelled too, Annabelle wasn't far.

They were meeting out of order; Butch essentially lived outside of time, while Annabelle couldn't do anything else but follow it.

Butch couldn't stay in the same place for a long time thanks to BeetCo, so all their meetings were rudely and abruptly cut short. They always ended with them promising each other forever, and Butch was only just starting to believe it.

Annabelle was staying.

Nobody had ever stayed.

Not even Butch's parents, who didn't waste anytime kicking them out of the house as soon as the words "I'm not a girl" had left their mouth. That's the whole reason they dug the time machine out of BeetCo's waste, anyway. If they were going to be homeless they might as well sight see, right?

But Annabelle, for some reason Butch didn't understand but was so incredibly grateful for, did. She stayed in a way that wasn't very conventional, but she stayed nonetheless.

There was one day, about 8 years Butch-time after they first met Annabelle for the first time (they still hadn't found the day that Annabelle had met them for the first time), where Annabelle said, "sometimes I forget you aren't like me."

They were a top the Eiffel Tower, they both leaned on the railing. Annabelle didn't look at them as she spoke.

She had once mentioned that her favourite accent yet was the one she had when Butch had found her for the first time, so that's the one she still used. But, there was some moments, usually the more quite and personal ones, another accent would slip. Butch assumed it was her original one, the one she had when she was mortal.

This was one of those moments.

"What do you mean?"

"Immortal," her gaze flickered to the ground, hundreds of metres below them, "I see you, all throughout time, so I just think, 'gosh, it's so nice to have someone out there who can relate to me' and then I take a real good look at you, and I notice that you're older. That unlike me, you age, and it's noticeable. And I realise that one day, I will see you and that will be it. You'll be old and grey, and then maybe you'll stop messing around with that machine of yours, and I might not even be there.. when you-"

Annabelle's shoulders began to shake. She covered her eyes with her palm, trying to hide the tears as they formed.

"That wouldn't matter though, right? Because, if you do see me for what might be my last trip it wouldn't be long before you'd see a younger me?" Butch was trying, okay? They were never too good at comforting people.

"It would matter to me," She reached into her pocket, and retrieved a small slip of paper, "it does matter to me." She stared at the paper with a fondness Butch had never seen before, "when I first met you, way back then, you were older, not old enough to grey, but older than you are now. You gave me this," she handed them the picture, "that's when you first promised me forever."

The picture was of the two of them, Butch and Annabelle. They were both smiling, but Annabelle's face was red and tear stained, and it didn't take Butch long to realise that the picture was taken in that exact moment, with the top of the Eiffel Tower behind them.

And, woah, wasn't that a bit trippy?

"I soon realised that that promise was bullshit."

"What? But you were the one to promise-"

"Because I can keep it. All I have is forever. You can't."

And Butch stared at the picture again, and picture Annabelle had something akin to hope in her eyes. Which means that they would figure out a way for Butch to keep that promise and-

An idea popped into their head, a stupid and strange one, but an idea nonetheless.

She had always felt a little.. off about being called 'he' or 'him' and had always chalked it up to being a priest, as if she was being compared to God. Which was the most unreasonable thing ever, they were basic pronouns that could belong to anyone.

She was just being stupid about it.

She hadn't told anyone else, anyway, there was no one to tell but one individual. She didn't mind being called 'Father' at church either, it was her job and title. That was just who she was, and she was always going to be proud of that.

And yet, she couldn't help but feel like she had turned away from God by choosing herself. She's lived a long time, and she's witnessed how people treat others like her.

She's even seen them be killed.

And they always use religion as an excuse, and it hurts her. She's always been accepting of everyone, even if they were different to what societal norms.

And then she found out she was different, too, and it changed everything, but yet everything stayed the same. The only difference was-

"You've been stood by the mirror for ages," Begruvia laid on their shared bed behind her, taking a bite of its chicken wing, "and I'm bored.

If anything were to turn her away from God, it was the fact that she had fallen in love with a phantom.

Phantoms are servants of hell, heaven's sworn enemies. And priests were followers of heaven, they were made to be enemies. And they were, for a while.

But Begruvia had figured out how to cover their scent so hell couldn't watch over them anymore. And they were free to do whatever it wanted to do, and

Lysandra loved to see it happy. They also helped her figure out who she really was, and she was always going to be thankful.

She locked eyes with them through the mirror, and smiled, "I know, I'll be over in a minute."

"I want to watch Emily In Paris," they frowned.

Lysandra laughed, "oh, come on," she made her way to the bed, "aren't you on your seventh re-watch?"

"Not relevant," they huffed, "but we could watch the Good Place if you don't want to watch Emily In Paris again.."

"You're on your tenth re-watch of that," she jokingly rolled her eyes, "but I don't mind Emily In Paris today."

Begruvia looked at her, its expression surveyed understanding, and reached for the remote, "I don't still know how the humans figured out how to trap tinier humans in the television."

Lysandra kissed the top of their head, "I don't know either, darling."

-+-+-+-

"Lysandra?"

Begruvia stood just metres away from the church altar, their claw reached out to Lysandra.

She stepped away from it, her heart stung as she turned, "I thought you said that they wouldn't be coming back! That they wouldn't find you!"

"I thought that they-"

"I trusted you," she almost sobbed, "I can't believe I did."

"Lysandra, please you've got to believe me-"

"No, I've trusted you enough," she wasn't looking at them, she couldn't bring herself to, "I should've known better than to trust a phantom."

From her peripheral vision she saw that her words hurt, they curled into itself and its voice wavered, "I love you."

"I loved you, that was my first mistake," she wiped her eye, "you said you were safe from them, that we were safe," she finally had the courage to turn back and face them, "you helped me find my true self, or maybe that was a lie to, maybe I'm not a-" she couldn't finish the sentence, she didn't want to lie.

"You really believe that I would lie to you?"

"That's all you phantoms do, is it not?" Her heart stung, she knew she was being harsh but they needed to hear it.

Begruvia didn't answer for some time, and the two stood in the church while a tense silence blanketed them. Lysandra had to force herself to believe that the moments the two had shared together were all lies.

They were just being a spy for hell this entire time, and Lysandra Andrews was too love-struck to realise. She felt so stupid.

Begruvia sniffed, "so.. is this it? Are we done?"

Lysandra didn't answer she just walked out the church, alone. She walked away from Begruvia and didn't look back.

She pushed open the large church doors open, and was hit with the cold winter air. She watched as her shadow grew larger as she stood in the doorway, and a red light illuminated the floor.

She knew that hell had come to reclaim what was theirs this entire time, and she tried not to care.

Frankie visited his brother's "grave" (it was a pebble he had hidden in a graveyard, they wouldn't bury him, Frankie had tried) every single day.

Every single day, he would mutter the word sorry, over and over and over - until he started to cry. It was his fault Donnie was dead, after all. All his fault.

The detective, that god-damn detective, was buried in the same place. He was allowed a funeral, a proper goodbye. Donnie was burnt, and Frankie didn't get a say in it.

Not like Frankie could say anything; he was on the run. He knew he should leave New York, but he couldn't bring himself to. If he left New York, he would leave Donnie and all the memories of his little brother, and Frankie couldn't turn away from what little was left of him. He couldn't, and he wouldn't.

It was.. hard, keeping out of sight, especially when his face was practically plastered on every corner. He couldn't risk getting a job either, which made surviving excruciatingly difficult.

So, he turned to stealing. Back into a life of crime, the same lifestyle that ended up with his brother's limp and burnt body in his arms. There was no longer a brother to risk.

He stole flowers, quite often, from florists. They were the idiots for leaving their goods outside, unsupervised.

Today, he placed down a small handful of chrysanthemums, leaving one in his grasp for now.

It had been exactly a year. Frankie made sure to tell Donnie how much his life had changed since he had left.

It worried Frankie, that he could only vaguely remember Donnie's voice.

"Excuse me?" A voice came from behind Frankie, causing him to practically jump out of his skin, "are you alright, sir?"

Frankie didn't dare turn around in fear that the kid (the voice definitely belonged to a kid) would recognise him, "Uh, yeah," he made his voice deeper, he didn't mean to, it was just instict, "all good."

"Are you sure?" The kid asked, "because I could hear you from all the way over there."

"Mhm," he hummed.

"You were saying sorry a whole lot and- woah, there's no grave here."

"Yes there is; my brother's, so if you could-"

"Why is your brother's gravestone a pebble?"

"Why are you asking so many questions?"

"I'm just curious," the kid's voice got a whole lot quieter, "I was bored, all my family are here visiting my dad, he died a year ago, and it was just so boring! We have been here for at least four hours now, I'm hungry."

"My brother also died a year ago."

"Woah, death twins!"

This earned a chuckle from Frankie, "death twins."

"My dad died in an explosion."

This gave Frankie whiplash, he wasn't expecting this kid, who he didn't know, to just-

Oh, dear god.

"An.. explosion?"

"Yeah! It was on the news and everything! He was that detective that was tryin' to bring in the Christmas Tree Bandits!"

Frankie breaths became shaky. Not only was Frankie responsible for Donnie's death, he was also the reason why this kid - Rupert, if he remembered correctly - was without a dad.

"The strange thing is, I'm not mad at them."

"Mad at who?" Rupert's voice brought Frankie back from his thoughts.

"The Bandits," Rupert said, rather casually, "I mean, you never know what they were going through. One of them died, y'know, in the same explosion. So the other was left alone, without a broth- ohhh."

Frankie swallowed thickly.

"I'm sorry, for your loss," Rupert said.

Frankie nodded, "thanks, kid." He turned around, to finally face the ginger kid, "are you gonna turn me in?"

Rupert shot him a quizzical look, "no! I meant what I said, that I'm not mad at you, I'm really not. Neither is mom.. she never really holds grudges."

"You should be."

"But I'm not, you lost someone too, that day."

Frankie chuckled again, "you're quite smart for your age."

"No, I'm just repeating what I overheard my mom say to Jerry," the kid grinned.

Frankie clicked his tongue, "ah."

Suddenly, the kid's eyes widened, "can you show me how to build a bomb?"

"What?"

"Can you show me how to build a bomb? I wanna be a super-epic-secret spy and I'm pretty sure you need to learn how to build and disarm a bomb to be one, at least that's what my brother said. So can you? Pretty please?"

Frankie didn't know what to say - this kid's dad had died because of a bomb that Frankie had built, and now he wants Frankie to show him how to build one himself? Rupert was a strange, strange kid.

But, nonetheless, Frankie was endeared by the kid's enthusiasm.

"Alright, kid," he ruffled the boy's hair, "as long as you don't go and blow yourself up."

The kid giggled, and Frankie was transported back to a much simpler time, back when he and Donnie were young and innocent.

Donnie could never be replaced, Frankie knew that, nobody could ever replace Frankie's little brother.

But this kid, Rupert, reminded Frankie of Donnie so much.

Donnie was gone, but maybe Frankie couldn't be without a little brother for long.