"Oh dear," the unicorn thought. "I must've really mucked up the story beyond compare! The Red Bull Luo Binghe is protecting the last unicorn scum?! Unconscionable! He should have driven me off the cliff by now!!"
god i know i said i was tired of making eveerything sad but just imagine timber those first few months of reconnecting and they're both drunk on tim's boat, laying on the deck staring up at the stars and bear turns over to look at tim, his eyes are sad and wet, and he reaches out to touch tim's face as if to make sure tim is really there and not an illusion and tim whispers, "bear?" and bernard smiles a little brokenly and goes, "so how long do i have you for this time?"
“The raven is death, obviously. When I die, I want a good tombstone—something right spooky. LT’s got something against the underground, though you’d think that would be just his kind of place. That’s alright. He needs to, he can cremate me. It’s not exactly Catholic, and Mam would turn in her grave, but God is a unicorn and no one is pure anymore, so. What’s all that got to do with me?”
Johnny “Soap” McTavish has a journal. Had. It is his no longer.
Simon “Ghost” Riley had dreams—awful ones, the kind that sank claws into his lungs, dragged him into sleep, and then sent him careening out of it. He still has dreams, but they’re different, now. Better. Johnny’s pages have folded themselves under his eyes and gotten into his head, brighter and more infectious than anything else has ever been. It’s more than the past, that rotting carcass behind him, and more than now. Now is nothing. Now is ash. It’s like, it’s like—blinding, is what it is. He’s a blind man.
It is biblical now. Ghost has read it backward and forward and sideways and inside out. When he runs out of things to read, he reads them again, and when that is not enough, he reads between the lines.
I wouldn't even be able to finish dinner with him looking at me like that. Either we leave immediately, or I get on my knees in the dining hall. It's up to him.