#every other *cuddling and talking about feelings* fic was dignified and okay

[ieattaperecorders]

May You Find Your Rest

Somewhere else. Two men who were not born in this reality lie in bed together, hold one another and unpack a few things. (Just 4k of cuddling and talking about feelings, really.)

Read on Ao3

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It's dark in the small, quiet room where they sleep. Not completely, neither of them feels entirely safe in the dark anymore, so the curtain is always parted to let a sliver of light in.

Curled against Martin, Jon is warm and still and finally thinking of nothing. He's just starting to drift off when he feels him reach over and plant light, careful kisses on his cheek, on his temple, on the top of his brow. He sighs with pleasure. It would be so easy to keep drifting, to let himself sink into sleep as the one he loves kisses him softly and sweetly. But instead he opens his eyes, not really knowing why he does it.

Maybe it's the way Martin moves, slow and deliberate. Maybe there's a subtle a hitch in his breathing, something Jon senses without seeing or understanding. Something that tells him he shouldn't go to sleep. Not yet.

So he lies listening to the silence as Martin's hand moves over his side, outlining him. It nudges itself under the hem of his nightshirt, tracing the softness of his waist. Then, as if this hadn't been its destination all along, it brushes the wide, ragged scar over his stomach. A twinge (not sharp, not much more than a tingle) runs through his body. His breathing barely changes – it's not a gasp, just a slightly deeper inhalation. But Martin notices, hand hesitating, drawing back.

"Does it hurt?" he asks, and he sounds so horribly solemn.

"Not really," Jon says quietly. "Just a little sensitive. Scar tissue."

Gently, he places a hand over Martin's and presses it down into his abdomen, until it's covering the center of the scar. Jon has scars that are sensitive in other ways. Martin has learned to be careful around the thin line that cuts across his throat. Knows there are days when the chewed circles that pockmark his body itch uncontrollably, when he'll scratch himself bloody if he isn't thinking.

(In the safehouse, Martin had pulled the hand from his face and whispered don't. Had kissed his scars over and over, until he couldn't feel the itch, could only feel the gentle pressure of his lips and his kindness and love.)

He wants to say, it doesn't hurt when you touch me here. To show Martin that his body won't flinch from his touch. It wouldn't be his fault if it did. It wouldn't be either of their faults. But it doesn't, and he needs him to know that.

The hand relaxes against him. It moves in a slow arc, finding the edges of the wound, mapping and knowing it. Jon keeps his own hand in place, letting it move with his.

"I'm sorry," Martin says.

Jon brings a hand to his cheek. "So am I."

He wonders what Martin is apologizing for. For cutting the tether, letting them out? For the wound that could only be made by his hands? For not being able to let him go? No . . . Jon doubts he would be sorry for that.

Maybe it isn't an apology at all . . . maybe he's just sorry. Sorry he had to be hurt again.

"So am I," he repeats. "But it's done. We're here, now. Together, and alive. Despite it all."

Martin's head rests on the pillow, gaze turned to the side. He's subdued in a way that feels meaningful but that Jon can't identify. So he says nothing, lies still and lets his hand trail up the side of Martin's face, over his temple, around his ear. Affectionate touch, easier and less confusing than the jumble of words and questions swarming in his brain.

After a long silence, Martin says, "I wish you had trusted me."

" . . . What do you mean?"

"In the Panopticon. I just wish you'd trusted me enough to go along with the plan."

Jon frowns. "I . . . don't know if that was about trust."

"Wasn't it, though?"

"I didn't do what I did –" he pauses, rephrases. "I didn't kill Jonah because I thought you were lying, or going to betray me, or – or controlled by spiders. I didn't think your intentions were anything other than what you said. But I couldn't bear the thought of what we were doing . . . or I thought I couldn't. Clearly I could. In the end."

"Yeah. Well. Turns out both of us did things we didn't think we could," Martin says bitterly, thumb still tracing the scar.

"Funny how often that happens."

"You could have trusted that I knew what I was doing."

"But you didn't. None of us did . . . no one could in that situation."

"That includes you, you know," Martin frowns. "You kept going on about all you knew, but even you said you weren't unbiased. You don't think maybe the idea that the only way out was global euthanasia had anything to do with your own baggage?"

Another twinge, sharper this time. Without realizing, he'd pressed Martin's palm down harder than he should have, in where the nerves were still healing. He eases off.

". . . Maybe," he says eventually. "Probably. I doubt any of us were unbiased. How could we be?"

"But it was your biased plan you decided to go with. Like you always do. You always think you know better than everyone else--"

"I don't think that's entirely fair."

"It's not entirely unfair either."

He feels something stirring defensively in him. Then he stops. Assesses. "No," he says eventually. "I suppose it's not."

The hand is warm against his stomach, and he can feel the dampness of sweat just forming between their skins. It's not pleasant or unpleasant, just something he can feel, and he focuses on it for a while.

"You didn't trust me either, you know," he senses an objection coming, and he heads it off. "You were right not to. I wasn't trustworthy. You thought that I would go behind your back, and I did."

The tension that was rising deflates a little at the admission, and Martin's voice is gentle when he says, "you did."

"But I don't think you were lying when you said you trusted me." Jon adds. ". . . Do you?"

" . . . Fine, I get it. Trust is complicated and all that," Martin sighs, "it just. It hurts."

". . . I'm sorry."

Martin nods, is still for a moment, then leans forward and kisses him once. He kisses back.

"Do you regret it?"

"Which part?"

"Killing Jonah. Not waiting for us. Trying to go the other way."

Jon thinks of the hours before it happened. Of whimpering into Martin's chest, almost pleading, begging him to see. Horribly aware that Martin was as deeply set in his feelings as Jon, that there would be no budging for either of them.

He thinks of the moment he spent watching Martin's sleeping form, just before he climbed those stairs. Seeing his brow creased with unquiet dreams, and knowing that he was about to hurt him. He thinks of the terror, the dawning horror that fell over him as he saw what it all had been leading to.

"I don't know," he finally says. "I regret the pain you went through . . . I regret making you feel that."

There's a curved line trailing over Martin's forehead, just above his eye, which Jon follows with the edge of his thumb. The one on his shoulder is larger, took ages to heal, and there are more that travel down his back and arms. Places where the rubble struck him, before they both unraveled.

The scars aren't really what Jon is referring to when he talks about pain. But he supposes they're a part of it too.

". . . Do you?" he asks.

"Do I what?"

"Regret any of it?"

"I'm not sorry that I didn't let you stay in that tower and kill the entire world, if that's what you mean," he says firmly. "I'm sorry, but I'm never going to regret that."

"No . . . I wouldn't expect you to."

"I wouldn't have told the others to start if I'd known you'd already done it. But if I'd known that . . . that would've been it, right? We'd be stuck there."

"Unless the others went behind both our backs."

"What, you think Melanie wanted to stick a knife in you that badly?"

"I don't know about wanted. But I think Basira could have done it."

"Yeah . . . maybe."

". . . I'm sorry that I went behind yours."

Martin breathes into the space between their bodies, a long and expressive exhale. "I know. . . And I know you were hurting. And scared. I do know that."

"We both were."

"Yeah. Yeah . . ." he sighs. "I forgive you for it. I do. I don't want to hold onto that."

Jon finds Martin's hand in the dim light, pulls it closer to himself and kisses it. He hesitates – not sure if he should say this, should even acknowledge it – before linking their fingers together and pulling the hand back to his stomach, over the place where the knife went in.

"I don't need to forgive you for this. That is – I, I don't believe there's anything to forgive? It was what you had to do, and it was what I asked for. But . . ." he pauses, hesitates. "I know guilt can be an insidious emotion--"

"Oh, do you?" the lilt of sarcasm does not go unnoticed. Jon ignores it.

"–And I want you to know . . . if you feel like you need to be forgiven for it, you are. Entirely and unconditionally."

Martin nods, moving his hand off the scar and over around Jon's side. As he leans in for another kiss he grips him a little more firmly, his touch seems less hesitant and Jon is glad that he said something after all.

"Anyway, I was right, wasn't I?" Martin says after a moment. "We're here. We're in another world, and things are fine. It's normal. Maybe the fears are here, but it's not an apocalypse. Maybe it never will be."

That makes Jon frown. "You don't know that."

"Neither do you."

"And we never will," he says firmly. "We won't ever know the cost of what we did. Maybe it balances out. Maybe it doesn't. Either way, you and I won't have to feel it."

"At least it's normal here. You're not even an avatar," Martin says, and Jon nips back the impulse to quibble about the nature of that term. "You haven't been having the dreams, and you haven't needed a statement since we got here."

". . . I'm still feeding the Eye." It isn't until he sees the look of confusion on Martin's face that it occurs to Jon he didn't already know. "I don't have the power I once had, or the same needs," he explains. "But I feel it sometimes, using me as a conduit. It's as if the signal's fainter, but the receiver is so much more sensitive."

"Do you know it's happening, though, or are you just guessing?"

"I'm not sure how it happens, exactly. Maybe it just grazes off the fear I witness when I see something terrible on the news, or pass by someone in distress. Maybe in time it'll push me to seek out more, to force myself into other peoples' tragedies in service of the Beholding. Or maybe it never will, and I'll stay this way for the rest of my life."

Martin's brow furrows, and his voice is insistent, pushing back with some need Jon can't quite understand. "Okay, but it's not like you're actually hurting people--"

"No . . . I am," he says firmly. "And I am certain of that. It might be more subtle now . . . a lingering feeling of invasion, or paranoia. Or a trauma that would have otherwise passed leaving a decades-deep mark." He stares thoughtfully at his own thumb. "It feeds through me, and I give it strength. On some level, my existence still depends on the suffering of others. That's one consequence we can't avoid."

Martin is quiet for a long while. ". . . Guess it doesn't matter, right?" he finally says. "It's done. Can't undo it."

"No. Not any of it." He shakes his head. "It's funny, really. All my paranoia and suspicion, all my worry that the Web would slip an agent in under our nose, and the whole time I was looking in the wrong place. Seeing and seeing and never understanding."

"What do you mean?" Martin fidgets, and Jon wonders if he's said something he shouldn't have, though he can't guess what. "Looking in the wrong place?"

"I mean myself. The mark when I was a child. The lighter I could never remember. Even the tapes they sent to press on my wounds, keeping that anger fresh. All of it leading to that moment."

". . . Oh." Martin sighs. "Yeah, Jon. They manipulated you, that's what they do. They manipulated all of us."

"They did. And I was more theirs than I ever realized."

He feels Martin's fingers tapping against his side, thoughtful. After a moment, he speaks. ". . . She said that about me, too. Annabelle. That I was suited to the Web, or something."

"I imagine she'd say anything she knew would rile you up."

"She was right, though. At least a little bit . . . ." he takes the edge of Jon's sleeve between his fingers, twisting and fidgeting with it. "When we were down there, waiting, I could feel you coming through the web. The vibrations just spoke to me, I knew Basira was with you even before I saw her."

That surprises Jon. Startles him, even. He feels Martin fidget again, and in his mind he plays back what do you mean, looking in the wrong place. Notices the quiet nervousness in his voice. Considers how deep and old Martin knows his hatred of the Mother of Puppets to be.

"I always knew," he says, voice light and casual, "that there had to be a reason you'd defend anything as vile and repugnant as the common house spider."

Hearing Martin laugh, feeling that tension release in a sudden startled lungful – it's beautiful, it's a victory, and he smiles as Martin nudges into his shoulder. Halfway between a gesture of affection and a headbutt.

"Arsehole," he mutters. "It's not just that. I know I'm . . . well, I'm not always great at being direct. And maybe I can sometimes be passive-aggressive . . . ."

"Well—"

"You don't have to agree with me."

". . . Right."

"But that's sort of Web stuff, isn't it? And I – I was always good at telling Peter what he wanted to hear. I know why she said what she did."

"Mmm." Jon lifts Martins' fingers from where they're worrying at his sleeve, rolls them between his own. "You've learned that it's safer to nudge and suggest than to be direct. To make yourself look smaller than you are. I can see the . . . thematic overlap, I suppose. Imagine it drawing the attention of the Spider."

". . . Does that bother you?"

"Well I'm not worried you're some spider-controlled double agent," he says, then adds something under his breath.

". . . What was that last bit?" Martin lifts his head.

"Nothing."

"Did you just mutter ‘anymore?!"' he asks incredulously.

"My point is, we call to them in countless ways, often without knowing or wanting to," he sighs. "Besides . . . I'd hardly be in a position to judge. They had their strings on me from the start."

"That makes you a victim of them. Not an agent or an avatar."

"Martin . . . ."

"Don't ‘Martin' me, I'm right."

"Do you really think the two are incompatible? Being a victim of a power, and being a channel through which it feeds on others? After all you've seen?" his voice softens. "After all you've been through . . . after the Lonely?"

Martin goes quiet. Jon runs his fingers over his shoulder, absently stroking.

"In the end, I chose to be theirs. With it all falling down around us, I saw what they'd known I would do from the very beginning. I witnessed my fate laid out for me and instead of defying it, I ran towards it."

". . . You still regret it, don't you? Letting them out."

"I don't know, Martin. Truly, I don't," he says. A smile starts, then dies on his lips. "There's so much I regret nowadays, it's honestly hard to keep steady how I feel about most things."

A vague, hmm sound, an expression of some emotion that Jon can't guess at, though he suspects that wasn't what he'd wanted to hear. He brings both his hands up, cupping the sides of Martin's face between his palms. Martin startles, but says nothing.

"Most," Jon says, looking back at him seriously. "But I know how I feel about you. That doesn't change. And I don't regret staying with you."

The beginnings of tears form in Martin's eyes, and there is quiet in the room as Jon brings his face to his. Brushing a soft kiss over his mouth, the trails on his cheeks, the space above each closed eye. He doesn't stop until Martin shudders, swallows, and speaks again.

"I love you," he whispers.

"I love you too," Jon says. "And I'm glad that I'm here. I'm glad we're together and alive . . . whatever else comes with that."

Martin shudders again, a weak and pained sound coming out of him. It's all Jon can do not to pull Martin's face into his chest and let out a thousand desperate apologies, to self-flagellate, to beg forgiveness for ever allowing any pain to come to him. He sensibly quiets that urge, because he knows it's the last thing Martin needs. It's the last thing either of them need.

"Do you promise?" Martin whispers.

"Promise what? That I love you?" Silence follows, and Jon frowns, confused. ". . . I do promise that, if that's what you mean."

Instead of answering, Martin silently reaches between them, fumbling for Jon's hand and squeezing it tightly.

"Some nights I pretend to sleep," he says after a pause. "Or, well. Pretend's too strong a word . . . I just lie quietly in bed. But I'm waiting for you to fall asleep first."

Jon's fairly sure he lost the thread of this conversation, and he doesn't know where or how. ". . . Why?"

"Because I'm scared I'll wake up and find you gone."

"Oh. Oh, Martin . . . ."

"I don't-- it's not that I really think--" he shakes his head, "just sometimes can't let go of the thought of it, and it scares me." A wry smile crosses his face. "Which power feeds on that, you think?"

"I mean –"

"Not actually looking for an answer, Jon," he sighs, a mixture of affection and irritation. "Anyway, I think we both know which one it'd be."

He nods. Holds Martin's hand, rubbing the knuckle of his thumb. "I don't know what I can say . . . I can tell you that I won't leave, that I'll be here when you wake up. But I don't suppose that helps unless you can--" he hesitates, not wanting to say trust. It's starting to feel like a deeply troublesome word, both imprecise and emotionally weighted, the sort Jon tends to despise. ". . . believe me?"

"I don't actually think you're going to just vanish in the night someday. It's hard to explain."

"It's unlikely that we'll live to see another ritual for me to be the apocalyptic tipping point of."

"There's still more . . . ordinary things."

"Don't tell me you think I'm going to run off with one of the locals?" He raises his eyebrows, smiling, lets a teasing superiority into his voice. As if he considers the people of this reality to be below their station.

Martin doesn't laugh or smile. He gives him a look, like he's being stupid on purpose. Jon half wants to tell him it's completely involuntary.

"You don't need a bottomless coffin or an all-seeing eye to run off and martyr yourself. People do it with their own hands every day."

And now he understands. Now the thread comes back, winding itself directly around his throat.

". . . Come here," he says, though there are scant inches between them. Martin does so anyway, fitting himself into the space between Jon's arms, head tucked into his collar, legs twining with his. Jon's hands run over his shoulders, through his hair, down his back. He kisses the crown of his head over and over, pouring it all into touch and action until he can find the strength for words again.

"I love you," he whispers. "I'm not going to leave. Not that way . . . not in any way I have control over."

"Seeing his body there next to you . . . it felt like when I was coming back from the shop, and the sky went dark, and the ground started reaching and –" he swallows. "E-everything had gotten so horrible but we finally had a way out, a chance to start over. And then it was just gone again."

And Jon's heart is breaking, and he's afraid if he speaks he's going to start crying, but he can't be silent after that. So he tries.

"I'm so sorry . . . ."

"I know . . . I know." Martin sniffs. "It's not . . . I'm not looking for that. Honest. I just . . . ."

He goes quiet for a while.

"I know you were in pain," he continues. "The night before it all happened. I know – I knew that it was killing you, what we were about to do. It wasn't that I didn't care. But I told myself that someday – even if it wasn't right away, someday you'd be glad we'd done this. Because there'd be a someday."

". . . Maybe I would have been."

"And maybe you wouldn't have. I didn't know. I don't know. We'll never know. But I know you were hurting, and that's just it. Because I also know it . . . s-still hurts."

"I couldn't do that to you."

"We've both done things we thought we couldn't do," Martin says humorlessly.

"Right . . . I take your point."

"I know you feel guilty," Martin whispers, "and you – you just said that while you're alive others are suffering –"

". . . Yes."

"I know how tempting it can be. To just give in to it."

"I know you do."

"So . . . ."

Martin trails off, helpless. Jon feels helpless too. He clumsily feels for Martin's hands and brings them up against his own chest.

"Whatever else I feel, I promise you that I'm glad I'm alive," he says, holding their hands over the place where his heart still beats, steady and warm and living. "Even when it's difficult to bear it all, I'm glad that I'm alive and with you. I want to build a life together, here and now, more than anything. To take whatever chance we've got."

He wonders what Martin is looking for as his eyes trace over his face. Whatever it is he seems to find it, or maybe just trusts that it's there, because he takes a shuddering breath and nods.

". . . I believe you," he says.

"Thank you," Jon breathes deep, feeling the sharp heat behind his eyes fade as he blinks his own tears away. "And . . . I can hope that we made the right choice. Really it's all either of us can do, anymore."

"True."

They lie together in the silence. Martin slides his arms around Jon's sides, resting his head against his chest, and Jon feels the rhythm of his pulse next to his ear. His body is heavy and real, meat and bone, tangled up together with one that he loves. He feels the heat of Martin's breath as he sighs, the gentle weight, the tickle of hair, the hard ridge of skull beneath it. Abject, bloody systems of life.

". . . Martin?"

"Hmm?"

"Thank you . . . for coming back."

In the dark he feels a smile against his body. ". . . Which time?"

"Any. All."

"I always will," he whispers. ". . . Thank you for staying."

"That's the deal."

"Yeah. . . yeah." Martin lets out a long, steady sigh. "That's the deal"

Jon feels Martin's limbs relax around him, grip loosening as eyes tiredly close. He twines his fingers through Martin's hair, stoking softly and sweetly as his beloved drifts. Jon doesn't close his eyes just yet, instead watches the face that rests against him slowly go slack in the moonlight. Thinking that maybe tonight, Martin will fall asleep first.

[danyka-fendyr]

Remind Me: Part 4

Yes, that’s right everyone. I actually put some effort into this one. Is it still ridiculously early in the morning? Well...yes. But you know what, art comes at the cost of sleep. I’m hoping to continue this pattern of releasing chapters I have uhh....not thrown together last minute. As always, you should all know that this fic is based off of @dreamwritesimagines fic Once a Year, and I HIGHLY recommend reading it.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @rhabakoli

Wordcount: 2623

You woke up slowly, comfortable where you were. Your brain was momentarily confused by the sensation of someone tangled up with you, but your body was very familiar with it. Billy had his arms wrapped around you so tight you couldn’t have moved even if you wanted to, his face buried in the back of your neck, sleepily nuzzling into you when you stirred. You smiled to yourself a little. This was the nicest deja vu you had experienced so far.

As much as you loved this moment though, you really had to pee.

“Bill,” You said softly, squirming.

He hummed, his breath fluttering the hair on the back of your neck and sending a trail of goosebumps down your spine. Was it hot in here? Yeah, it was super hot in here.

”Billy!” Take two involved you elbowing him in the ribs a little.

He rolled over, groaning. “What, Skittles?”

He was only half-awake, and there was something slightly familiar to you about this too. It was starting to get irritating, this feeling that you knew him but didn’t really.

His eyes opened briefly, but they didn’t focus, and that was when you knew he was still asleep. You smiled slightly, giggling to yourself. He was talking in his sleep. Well, at least you had gotten him to roll over and move off of you.

“The prettiest girl you know has to make a brief trip to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

He grunted. “So pretty.”

You shook your head, trying to ignore the way your cheeks heated up as you crawled out from under the covers and padded into your freezing bathroom. You took care of your business, then brushed your teeth because to be frank, the inside of your mouth tasted nasty. You blamed it on the garlic involved in dinner last night. 

You fumbled your toothbrush, dropping it on the white and black flecked quartz counters of your master bathroom, and sighed as you picked it up. You winced when you saw yourself in the mirror. You weren’t exactly looking your best, but you supposed that didn’t really matter at this time in the morning.

You were still exhausted, which probably had something to do with your recent release from the hospital, so you decided to see if you could get more sleep. By the time you walked back out into your bedroom, you were mostly asleep again. Billy was sprawled out on the bed now, but you were too tired to care, crawling on top of him and cuddling into him, your face pressed into his neck as you went back to sleep.

“It’s a really good thing you’re rich,” was the first thing you heard when you woke up again.

“What?” You rolled over, your heavy black comforter slipping down your shoulders.

Billy was sitting at the end of your bed, fiddling with a switchblade. You should have found it terrifying, but it seemed pretty commonplace. Maybe it was just the casual way he did it, like it was the easiest thing in the world. Maybe it was because you had found one of your own in your purse. You were starting to wonder if you were a very good person before this.

He smiled, putting the knife away. “You’re missing work. But you don’t really have to go into work, because you’re loaded. Not to mention the fact that I took the liberty of calling in sick for you for the next week. Your assistant should be able to stay on top of everything.”

“My assistant? Please tell me I don’t work for some bigshot corporation with a desk almost as boring as this house.” You groaned, sitting up.

“You do not work for some bigshot corporation, although you do have a fairly boring desk. You own an art gallery.”

“Wait, really?” You smiled, incredulous. “That’s such a cool job!”

He chuckled. “Yeah. You have a degree and everything. The whole 9 yards.”

“That’s the best news I’ve heard since I fell down several flights of stairs.”

He frowned, sitting back on his palms.

“I’m going to figure out who did this to you, Skittles. I promise.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t an accident? I mean...how do we know? Everyone said-”

He stopped you. “Skittles, I’ve seen a lot of guys get hurt. I know when someone falls and when someone has been pushed. You were pushed. Very hard.”

“You’re positive?”

“I am. I would never lie to you Skittles.” He leaned forward, putting a hand on your knee.

“I really shouldn’t believe you as much as I do,” You breathed.

“If you knew our history, it would make sense. Right now though I guess I should just be glad that you’re not going to fall for any lies some other jerk tells you.”

You sat up all the way, swinging your legs off the bed. “You seem very possessive. I’m not sure that’s healthy.”

“Nothing about us is healthy, Skittles. We’re like junk food. We’re not particularly good for each other, but we just can’t get enough.”

“I do love a good cheeseburger.”

“So cheeseburgers for breakfast?”

You stood up, laughing. “Ew, no! I can’t believe I’m friends with you. How could you even suggest that?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers, Skittles.”

“Well then I guess it’s like you said. It’s a good thing I’m rich.”

“Sometimes.” Billy picked his shirt up from the floor where he had tossed it last night, putting it back on.

“So, what’s the plan for the day?” You stretched, reaching for the ceiling.

“I was thinking we could grab some breakfast, then swing by my place and pick up some of my stuff since you have made it very non-negotiable that we are now roomies. Which was very rude of you, by the way. You didn’t even let me have a say.”

“Just pretend you’re in special forces again. Only this time I’m your drill sergeant or whatever.” You shrugged.

“Damn, I wish you were my drill sergeant. Would have followed every order, no complaints.”

“Isn’t that what you did anyway?” You raised an eyebrow, half a smile on your face.

Billy bit his lip, eyes drifting off in a way that told you for half a second, he wasn’t here. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what I did anyway. Like a good little soldier.”

You felt something in your chest shift seeing him this way, and you had the sudden urge to hug him, and then go rip his commanding officer’s heart out. Only one of those was an option at the moment though, so you took it. You draped your body over him, the hug lazy, still sleepy.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s okay, Skittles. You shouldn’t be worrying your pretty little head about any of that stuff, okay?”

You just nodded, unable to lie to him and tell him you wouldn’t worry. You had a feeling he knew and that you’d had this argument a few times before. You always had been stubborn. Even you knew that.

“So, breakfast. What do you want?”

“I already told you Skittles. Cheeseburgers.” He grinned, arrogant.

“Second choice.”

“Steak.”

You rolled your eyes. “Pick a breakfast food, Russo.”

He squinted at you, thinking. “French toast.”

“Thank you. That is an acceptable option.”

“With mayonnaise on it.”

You pulled away from him, reeling back onto the bed.“Oh my gosh I think I just puked in my mouth a little. No, scratch that, it was a lot. That is...by far the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of in my life. Maggots would be less gross than that. Please tell me you’ve never actually put that in your mouth.”

He was laughing like a mad man, rolling around on your bed while you stood over him, watching him screw up the sheets and practically chuck the comforter on the floor.

“No, Skittles. I have never eaten that, and I don’t intend to. It’s good to know I can still get a rise out of you though.”

“Jerk.”

“You love it.”

You scoffed, refusing to dignify that comment with an answer.

Billy wouldn’t let you drive to his apartment, much to your chagrin. Apparently, he hadn’t liked the look in your eye when you two had driven past a construction site earlier. Said it reminded him of a bad memory involving a ramp. You decided to let him have his way since he made breakfast. You were kind of a sucker for anyone who fed you. It was comforting to see that at least some things hadn’t changed.

Billy parallel parked outside of his apartment, hopping out while you sat and stared for a moment.

“Are you coming?” he asked.

“You live here?”

“Yes.” He set his hands on his hips, impatient.

“I thought you said it wasn’t that bad.”

“It’s not.”

“Don’t lie to my face like that Billy.” You climbed out of the car, stepping directly into a puddle of an unknown substance that you prayed would remain unknown.

You picked your way through the back alley over to the entrance of Billy’s apartment complex, trying not to further damage your shoes. You were grateful you had picked the boots and not one of the many pairs of heels available. Billy lead you inside, opening the door to his apartment and gesturing for you to go first.

His apartment was...remarkably bare. You didn’t realize it was possible for a human to live somewhere and leave so little evidence. There were a couple packs of Ramen in the open cabinets, some dirty sheets crumpled up on the futon pushed against the wall, and in the far corner, a duffle bag with laundry in varying states of cleanliness peaking out haphazardly.

“So this is where you stay?” You turned slowly, staring at the chilly apartment.

“Sometimes. Usually I pay the heating bill when I stay here though. Doesn’t matter what time of year, it’s always freezing in this corner of the building. No idea why. Some of the people here seem to think it’s haunted.”

Billy swung the duffle bag over his shoulder, not even bothering to look at the rest of the room. He was headed for the door before you could even ask any more questions. How could he live like this?

“I thought you owned a company.”

“I do.” He popped the trunk, throwing the duffle in.

“So then why…?”

You both got into the car, Billy starting up the engine. The low purr of it was nice, relaxing.

“Have you ever heard those stories of the rich people who get depressed, and then everyone wonders why they were so sad when they had everything?”

You nodded. Those kinds of stories were hard to avoid. They were usually plastered all over the tabloids since rich was practically synonymous with famous. Walk down a grocery aisle and you were sure to see at least one death glaring you in the face, right next to how to lose 10 pounds in a week. The only thing more depressing was the news.

“Well, psychology says that they feel like that because they break habit. Everything that was routine and familiar to them is stripped away, all in one blow. They have everything, but they have nothing of what they used to have or who they used to be. It screws with your head, messes you up. So, I come here when I want to remember where I came from. Lately, that’s been a lot, so I just kind of moved in full-time.”

“You were worse than me, weren’t you?”

He didn’t have to ask what you meant.

“Yeah. I got picked up by CPS a little later, so I was on my own for a few years. I made it though. I’m a survivor. A fighter. Just like you, Skittles.” He smiled at you.

“Yeah. Just like me.” You frowned slightly, thinking about what you had recently survived. “Billy?”

“Yeah?”

“Who would want to hurt me? Did I make a lot of enemies? I mean, be honest. Was I a total witch?”

Billy laughed a little bit at that. “No. You were pretty popular in high school, actually. But now you’re...I guess disillusioned would be the best way to put it. You hate society life. Or at least, you did before the accident.”

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that hasn’t changed either. Eating snails with a bunch of snobs who pretend they’re better than you doesn’t sound like fun to me.”

“Oh, c’mon Skittles. You’re being too harsh. They eat fish eggs, not snails.”

“Ew!” You covered your ears, squirming while he laughed at you.

You waited a moment before deciding it was worth pressing. It was your life after all.

“Really though Billy. Who would hate me so much they would try to kill me?”

“Well, that’s the troubling part Skittles. I don’t exactly know.”

There was something about the way he said it though that, of all the things that had happened so far, made you not trust him. For the first time, he wouldn’t look at you, eyes shifting back and forth over the road nervously, like he was watching for something, some imagined threat powerful enough to hurt you in broad daylight in the middle of New York. For the first time since you had met Billy, you felt unsafe.

“You’re lying.”

He glanced at you now, just for a second out of the corner of his eye, then sighed. “Skittles, it’s complicated.”

“Yeah? Well so am I. And this is my life, so complicated only makes sense. Tell me,” You demanded, turning your body fully to face him in the car seat.

“You...came to me, one night. You were upset, crying. At first, I just thought you got into a fight with your fiance, Carter. You guys weren’t really very compatible if you ask me. I mean, I guess he was nice, but not for you. I knew you didn’t really love him, and I’d been pressuring you to tell him as much, or at least admit it to yourself. I thought maybe you’d done both and he’d taken it poorly or something like that.”

You listened, watching the way he glanced between you and the road, as though trying to gauge how you would react to his next words.

“Then you told me you wanted to hurt somebody.”

You pulled back, like some invisible string was attached to one of the notches in your spine, tethering you to the back of the car seat, and someone had just tugged. You stared at him, confused and scared but not...not horrified. There was something vaguely familiar to it, like there was to a lot of things Billy said to you, and that was the part that really scared you. Not the threat of violence, but the familiarity of it.

Billy continued. “I didn’t ask what happened. Whatever it was, it had to be bad, the way you were panicking. The way you had been acting in general, really. You had been off ever since I’d gotten back into town. At first, I thought maybe it was something I did, maybe you were mad about something, but it only took me about a day to realize that it was something that happened while I was gone.”

“What are you saying, Billy?” You couldn’t say the words out loud, couldn’t make yourself reach higher than a whisper as Billy pulled into the parking lot of your apartment complex again.

“I’m saying that you didn’t want to hurt just anyone. You wanted to hurt someone who had hurt you before. Someone who would hurt you again. And I think they got to you first.”