#if there's a typo. shh. im typing this on my phone and i have the fattest sausage fingers ever

[leeeeeeef]

im still thinking abt 3-1's impact on phoenix as a character. because in 3-1 he's so trusting and open and unabashedly friendly until he realizes the truth abt dahlia. and just before dahlia is apprehended, she says this to him:

and after that he.. just doesnt tell anyone anything??? he never did get to tell mia about larry and miles and why he became a lawyer. and he doesn't tell maya either until she literally stops him and forces him to tell her. and he didn't tell maya about miles's disappearance. and he didn't say anything about his involvement with iris at the beginning of 3-5.

and in aa4, that secretiveness is only exacerbated after not only his client but the entire legal system suddenly turned on him. right out of the gate in 4-1, phoenix is very selective with the information he discloses, like when he chooses to plead the fifth and refuses to elaborate on his game with shadi, or when he lies to the judge about his locket (through omission, but a lie nonetheless). and even throughout the game, he never tells anyone about his work on the mason system and he doesn't tell apollo and trucy about their mother.

and not only that, but he works as a poker player!! the entire point of poker is to be secretive and misleading!!! and he keeps up this facade throughout the game, projecting this character of a sleazy, shady poker player, even leaning into the rumors of him forging evidence. all when he's trying to enact generally positive legal reforms!! it's as if he's keeping up this poker face throughout the game, and it only makes him even more secretive and cryptic.

my point is, there's such a stark contrast between the bubbly, emotional, and forthcoming college student phoenix wright and the mysterious, closed-off poker player phoenix wright. and even lawyer phoenix is secretive to a degree!!

and i can't help but think that dahlia's last words to phoenix before she was arrested contributed to that change at least partially. do you think dahlia would have never resorted to murder if phoenix didnt tell anyone abt the necklace? do you think he blames himself for doug swallow's death? he was just innocently gushing about his girlfriend!!! how could he have known it would lead to something like this!?? and if this much harm could have been caused just by telling people about a little necklace, i'd understand why phoenix wouldnt want to talk about his life at all!!

but as much as he's been betrayed or weathered down, no matter how many walls he builds or how he changes, there's one thing that has stayed constant throughout his life as we've seen it, and that's especially apparent with his beanie and locket. his beanie, likely a gift from trucy with the word "papa" stitched onto it, and the locket with a picture of his daughter. both symbols of his love for trucy, just like how he wore the bottle necklace and the sweater made by iris as a sign of his love for her. and if there's anything to glean from these parallels, it's that there's a part of phoenix that never faded away after all those years, that still cares for people so ardently and so strongly and with all his heart. and that's something that will probably never change.

[justabunchofdragons]

hi this is theo my phone died so i’m using my gfs phone (shh she doesn’t know lol) but girl. (gn) they (my friends) named my gfs dads car theo. wat. lmao i was just sitting there like 😕 gksndjjw (also side note megan’s phone is so much bigger than mine and also an iphone (i have a pixel) and typing this is. a struggle lol i have had so many typos it’s wild)

:0 fjkhjgfjhgjf that's. kinda funny ,, also ya my aunt has an iphone and whenever i use it im like ????

[knight-of-heart-and-art]

==>

SO, I have written 5,556 words of Homestuck fanfic, from an AU where there's no Sburb, Cal is human and Dave's (probably-younger) brother. I suck so bad at summaries so just have a few warnings...child abuse is mentioned, Cal gets hurt pretty badly in this one, it does end well I promise. Forgive me any typos (or tell me about them; I hate typos.) This might be bad, I have no clue. I really enjoyed writing it and I hope you like reading it.

 CAL: dave  CAL: do you think bro hates us

  You stare at the message for a minute before even trying to think of an answer. He's not wrong, no; your older brother is an asshole and even though you never really actually formed the thought all the way before, you think that yeah, he probably hates both you and Cal. Not that you'd ever say that. But then again, you wouldn't have guessed that Cal would ever say it either, but here it is glowing orange on your laptop's screen.

  Something's up. Knowing Bro, something very not-good. But you still think for another minute and type out an answer to your brother.

 TG: dunno if i can disagree on that one man  TG: whats making you bring it up though

  He doesn't answer for a couple seconds, long enough for you to hope that this is something little and stupid.

  Nope.

 CAL: um  CAL: he threw me off the roof dave

  Goddamnit to fucking hell...you can't think for a moment for fury and fear. This is bad, so bad, worse than Bro's usual brand of fuckery, and you don't know what the hell to do. Other than ask a stupid question.

 TG: holy fuck cal  TG: are you okay

 CAL: no  CAL: no im not  CAL: i think i broke some things...

  "Fuck." You whisper it this time, trying to keep your hands steady as you type.    TG: ill be right there man

 CAL: please  CAL: dave i think im going to die

  That almost locks you up. You can't even think about that possibility, it doesn't exist, it can't...so you shake your head, typing four more words before shoving your laptop back and heading for the door.

 TG: you wont. i swear.

  Cal's outside on the ground; it's obvious that he tried to pull himself a little out of the way, managed to get over to the wall and half-lean against it, curling up on himself. Even before you get close enough to really see, you can tell that it's bad.

  He raises his head when you kneel down next to him and try to smile, but winces as soon as he moves, making a softly pained noise. There's blood and makeup smeared across his face, and oh god but he looks scared. "Hey, Dave," he says quietly.

  You're scared too. You can't let him see that. "Hey, Cal." You almost ask if he's all right, not because you think there's any chance that the answer will be yes but simply because you need to say something. Thankfully, you have enough sense to bite those words back and say something marginally less idiotic and more helpful. "How bad is it?"

  "I—" Cal shifts a little, blue eyes filling with tears that he blinks back. "...bad. My leg's not right, my ribs—Dave, it hurts..."

  "Yeah. I'm—" going to cry, but don't say that, don't think that. "Cal, I'm going to pick you up, alright? I'll try not to hurt you, but..." But you will. And you can see he knows that.

  "Dave, it's okay, just." He holds his arms up to you, gasping in pain. "C'mon. Please."

  This is so fucking bad.

  It's hard to find a way to hold him that doesn't seem to make anything worse. You end up cradling him awkardly, trying to move slow and even and not let his obviously-broken left leg move, trying not to put any pressure on his chest at all. He gasps when you lift him, clutching at your arm before shuddering and forcing himself to lie limply in your arms, squeezing his eyes shut as you carry him back into the house.

  He doesn't move at all until you set him down carefully on the couch. When you start to pull away he whimpers, opening his eyes to look up at you and grabbing at your arms.

  "Shh, Cal. It's okay." Oh god that's a lie. Such a lie. "It's going to be okay." That one isn't. You hope it's not. You blink behind your shades, pushing them up on top of your head with one hand before reaching to unbutton his shirt. "I need to look, okay? I'm not going to touch it yet, I swear."

  He starts to nod, but winces at his own motion and goes still again. "O-okay." Cal's still holding onto your forearms, panic-tight, and it's hard to fumble the buttons undone, but you're not going to ask him to let go.

  It takes you a minute to get his shirt open. When you do, you wish you weren't seeing this. There's bruising across most of his chest, deep ugly marks the color of plums and streaked with brighter red from where his skin's split open over ribs that don't line up right anymore.

  "I—" God, you can't fix this. And your voice wants to crack, break, stop altogether as you force your eyes up from Cal's torso to his terrified face. You swallow hard, reaching up to wipe some of the mess off his face before pushing him gently to lie down on the couch. "Cal, I'm calling 911, alright? They'll send an ambulance, come get you."

  "Us, Dave—they can't leave you here, he'll—" His eyes go wide at the thought, and he tries to sit back up, but you shush him gently, holding him down.

  "Yeah, man. I'm not leaving you. Promise." You slip your hand into his pocket, getting his phone and stepping out of the living room to the bedroom as you dial.

  Funny. They really do say, "911, what is your emergency?" just like on TV. Not that you let the lady on the other end finish her sentence. As soon as the dial tone stops, you're talking, keeping your voice low enough that Cal won't hear and reeling out the words faster and smoother than any rap you've ever done.

  "I need an ambulance, right fucking now, my—my Bro just pushed Cal, my brother, pushed him off the roof and he's hurt so fucking bad, I can't fix it this time and you need to come and get him, get us before Bro comes home—" You reel off the address, some part of you aware that you're not giving her an opportunity to ask the important-ass questions she must have, that you haven't taken a breath since you hit the call button, but you can't stop. Can't even slow down. "This isn't a joke, okay, Cal's hurt and I'm so fucking afraid that Bro'll come back and hurt him again, fucking kill him, please, just—just—"

  You're out of breath, close to tears and even closer to losing it. You need to get back to Cal, now. The line's still open and the operator's talking, but you drop the phone, biting down on your lip and taking a few breaths before you think you can look calm enough to not scare him worse before going back into the main room, kneeling down next to the couch, and reaching for his hand.

  "They're coming, man." You hope they are. No—if there's a God, he's got to hear you praying that the woman on the other end of the line took you seriously.

  He nods, and his fingers close around yours as he looks up at you, but other than that he doesn't move. You cant to just pull him him into your arms, hold him and sit and wait for someone to come and pull both of you out of this little piece of hell, but there's other things you still need to think about.

  "We, uh..." You have to swallow because your voice wants to crack; this isn't what you want to think about, even if you've considered leaving for years. "We're not coming back here, Cal. I told the 911 lady what happened, that—that Bro did this, they're not...is there anything you want to take with you? Tell me and I'll grab it for you, alright?"

  He nods again, very slightly, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth for a moment before he answers. "My—my makeup bag, please, my gold necklace, the...bear you got me forever ago, he's on my bed...I'm sorry, Dave." The words all come out in one rush, broken by quick hesitations, and you're halfway to your feet before the last one registers.

  "Hey, no." You stop, kneeling back down and taking his hands again. "This isn't your deal, okay? You did nothing wrong, he's a fucking bastard for doing this to you and you don't have anything to apologise for, this isn't your fault, Cal, I swear."

  "It is m-my fault," he says, and oh god his eyes are full of tears, if he cries now you don't know if you can keep faking that you're not scared for him. "I could have—should have caught the edge, fought back better—"

  "Shh." You say it as firmly as you can, laying one finger across his lips until he quiets. "No, man. You know Bro. He doesn't stop, just...puts shit off. If it hadn't happened now, it would've tomorrow. Or next week, a couple months from now, maybe to me or maybe to you. It could've been even worse. This is his fault, not yours, and this is the last time he's gonna get to do this to either of us."

  When you bring up the possibility that it could have been you that went off the roof—maybe should have been, although you don't say that—Cal's eyes go wider and he shakes his head, wincing in pain at the movement. He doesn't protest your logic, though, and when you pull your hands away to get to your feet he lets you go.

  In the bedroom, you grab your backpack, stuffing some of Cal's clothes and some of your own into it before adding Cal's makeup and necklace from the dresser, putting them carefully in the side pocket. The bear isn't going to fit, you can see that immediately; you'll carry it.

  Is there anything else? Anything you want to take out of this hellhole?

  Your laptop. Take that, and the charger and shit. Get your crochet hooks, at least one ball of yarn—Bro's always hated that you're better with yarn than soft fabric, that you can't or won't help him with the smuppets, and that alone is reason enough to bring the hobby along with you. Your shades—but they're already on you, always are, just pushed up on top of your hair at the moment.

  There isn't anything else. Just the few items you already chose, and Cal. That's all you want or need.

  You scoop up the bear, shoulder the bag, and go back to him. "You sure that's all?" If he says no, you have a little room, you can carry more.

  But Cal nods, and—to your horror—shoves himself up to a sitting position, face twisting and going dead white as the movement does something worse to already-fucked-up ribs. "I—Dave it hurts, it hurts, I'm going to die, I don't—"

  "Fuck, Cal!" Does he hear your voice crack on his name as you grab his shoulders and push him down as gently as you can? "Shh, okay, f-fuck, lie still, they're coming, I s-swear they are—" And that's not a wishful hope or a comforting lie; you can hear a siren from somewhere outside. "You're not going to die, just—l-lie still."

  Goddamn your stammer. Your own voice is betraying you; how can you calm him down when you can't pass for calm yourself?

  He's sobbing now, shaking and clinging to your hands, mascara making darker trails down his pale face. Even as you try to calm him, he's running a half-hysterical litany of panic, pain, and fear, telling you that he's hurting, he's scared, and he doesn't want to die, and you can't even tell him you don't want him to die either, you just have to keep promising him you won't even when you're terrified that he will.

  God, you're so scared.

  You can't help but cringe when the door bangs open behind you—you know it's probably people coming to help, but if it is Bro then you're dead. You might be able to slow him down a little, shield Cal for a minute, but there's no way that you won't both pay for it—but the hands that come down on your shoulders and pull you back from Cal are so fucking gentle, and the voice attatched to them is quiet and unthreatening.

  It's still hard to force your own rising panic down enough to listen. But you manage to do it, as two more men—paramedics, they'll fix Cal, they have to—push past the two of you and lean over Cal.

  "He's going to be all right, son, you just need to come over here and give them a little room to—"

  Cal screams, though, as you let yourself be pulled away, a high sound of almost pure fear, and suddenly your ability to think is totally gone. You lunge back towards him, ready to fight to keep him safe, and you probably would have tackled one of the paramedics if the man who's trying to calm you down didn't grab your wrist, hauling you back and wrapping his arms around you to contain you as you struggle.

  He's strong. Maybe as strong as Bro, definitely strong enough to hold you, but he doesn't use it to hurt you. Just holds onto you, waiting for you to stop fighting. And after a minute you do, going limp and listening to him again, not taking your eyes off the men who are currently trying to give Cal a shot.

  "It's all right, calm down...they won't hurt him. What's your name, son? And his. That'll make it easier for us to help you, you know. We are going to help you, that's why we're here—"

  "D-Dave." Your voice sounds wrong to your own ears. Shaky, and hoarse. "I'm Dave, h-he's Cal, fuckin' let me go..." Your eyes are blurry. So blurry. You think you might be crying.

  The man holding you loosens his grip, letting you slip away and bend down to retrieve the bear from where it fell, dragging one sleeve across your eyes to deal with some of the tears there. Yeah, definitely crying.

  "Okay, Dave. You need to come to the hospital with us, all right? Is there anyone else here with you?" His voice is still soft and calming, but you want to scream.

  "F-fucking Bro. He doesn't count, fuck h-him." You look back to Cal, and the two men putting him on a stretcher. He's still crying, trying to jerk away, but whatever they gave him is making him quieter and slower. "He—he did this, fucking left, I don't—I'm not leaving Cal, okay, you can't make me." They're carrying him out. You need to follow him, but the soft-voiced man catches your shoulder and holds you back for another minute.

  "Dave, calm down. It's all right, your brother will be fine. No one's going to try to make you leave him." He meets your eyes for a good five seconds before letting you go and pushing you gently towards the door. "Go on. Get up in the back with him. He'll feel safer with you."

  You want to thank him, you really do. But your voice is, for now, gone. So you nod, and you run after Cal, following the paramedics' path out the door and climbing up into the ambulance next to him.   If anything, he looks worse, makeup smeared across his face as he sobs weakly, but he quiets a little as you slip your hand into his and lean over him. It's hard to find a reassuring smile, but you force it onto your face for him.

  "Gonna be all right, Cal." It's easier to keep your voice steady when you're quiet. "I promise, man, you're gonna be okay. I love you."

  Whatever they gave him is strong enough to knock him out; his eyes are already glazed and half-shut. But he tightens his grip on your hand, and he whispers back to you before he goes all the way limp. "...love you, Dave."

  He doesn't let go of your hand. And you cling to him, tuning out everything else from the soft fur of the bear in your arm to the paramedics doing god knows what around you. None of it matters, except Cal.

  You lose a little time, maybe. Or the hospital's closer than you thought it was. Either way, all of a sudden the ambulence door is open again and someone is trying to get you to let go of Cal's hand.     And of course, they're talking. About how you need to let him go because you can't go into the operating room with him, how it's going to be okay and nothing else is going to happen, how you're both safe, and god you don't want to let him go but if you don't they can't fix him. And if you don't, they'll never stop talking. So you reluctantly release his hand, turning to the person who's talking to you.

  This one's a woman, tall and dark-haired and a hell of a lot less threatening than anyone else you've seen today. Her eyes are very green when you force yourself to look at her face, which reminds you that your shades are still on top of your head instead of over your own eyes where they belong.

  You could pull them down. Or you can just clutch Cal's bear protectively and keep looking at her, waiting for her to either mention your fucked-up eyes or look away.

  You choose the latter.

  She doesn't do either thing you expected, anyway. After a moment, she puts one hand on your shoulder, gently leading you a different way than they took Cal, into the building. "He's going to be all right, Dave," she reassures you, and her gentle tone makes you want to cry again.

  You won't do that.

  "He fucking b-better be," you answer her grimly, squeezing the bear harder. "You people—you n-need to keep Bro away from him, us, I-I'll kill him if I ever see him again..." Some threat—your skinny self against the man who's spent years proving he can beat the shit out of you, but you'll damn well try.

  "He won't come near either of you," the woman says soothingly. "You're both safe now. Can you come talk to a police officer? Tell him what happened? It's all right if you can't yet—"

  "Fuck yes I can." Bro would have knocked you across the room for interrupting. Doesn't matter. If you don't talk now, you don't know if you're going to be able to. "So long as it means that fucker goes somewhere I never have to see him again, I'll tell you anything you need to know."

  She blinks. You don't know what sent that quick wave of surprised pity across her face, unless it's your swearing. Maybe you should apologise for that...but she doesn't seem angry, and she doesn't wait for you to, just nods and guides you down the hall to a room with a man in a uniform that's supposed to mean safety but just kind of fills you with unease.

  But you still talk. He asks questions occasionally, writing shit down even though there's a digital recorder running on the table between the two of you, but mostly both he and the woman just sit and listen to you tell everything you can think of about what Bro's been doing to you and Cal for as long as you can remember. About ten minutes in, you're overcome by a choking, suffocating knowlege that they don't believe you, though. That Bro was right, all those times he told you no one would believe a kid like you. And you have to stop, despite yourself.

  The cop frowns at you—in confusion or anger, you can't even tell—and you struggle to get your breathing enough under control to get out another sentence.

  "I'm n-not lying." He thinks you are. He has to. Bro's the worst fucking person in the world, but he's never wrong about people. "I'm not, h-he—I—"

  You can't prove any of this. There's no reason anyone will ever believe you. You don't have proof.

  Except you do. You have yourself.

  You let go of Cal's bear for a second, tucking it to one side in the chair with you, and pull up the hem of your shirt enough to show the scarred lacework that Bro's made of your torso. There's nothing all that new, nothing fresh—he's been almost better than usual lately, at least with the physical shit, at least until this shit with Cal—but the marks are something tangible, something more than your words about katanas and puppets and other bad things.

  In the chair next to you, the woman makes a soft sound, but you don't take your eyes off the officer.

  His eyes went wide when you pulled your shirt up, but you can't really read what emotion is on his face—you're beginning to realize that while it's always been hard to read the microexpressions that are all that slips through Bro's mask of stoicism, it's just as hard to read other people's faces when they're not trying to hide anything.

  You're going to cry.

  You want Cal.

  You don't even realize that you're completely frozen there, breathing panic-fast and holding your shirt up helplessly, until the cop leans forward to reach for something under the table. You can't help but flinch at the movement, but all he does is extricate a box of tissues from somewhere and slide it across the table for you.

  "No one's questioning your story, son—"

  "D-Dave." You pull out a tissue and wipe at your eyes with it, not so much because you're actually crying as because you don't want to see them looking at you. "My n-name's Dave, please fuckin' use it..."

  God, you probably shouldn't swear at a cop.

  "...Dave. All right." There's a definite pause there, but he doesn't sound angry. You don't think. "No one thinks you're lying. Your brother—"

  "Cal." You keep worrying at your eyes with one hand, reaching down to pull the bear closer with the other.

  "Cal. His injuries speak fairly well for what happened. We just needed you to confirm what happened, all right? No one's blaming you."

  He believes you. And you didn't even know how scared you were that no one would until he told you he did—suddenly, you can breathe.

  And of course, the first breath is a sob, no matter how how hard you try to choke it back. At least you're already holding a tissue.

  One of them—you don't know whether it's the cop or the dark-haired woman—puts a hand on your shoulder, but takes it away when you twitch away and wordlessly shake your head. That isn't what you need right now, no, you don't want comforting touches unless they're from Cal, but he isn't here and you're not with him right now. His bear will have to be enough for this moment.

  And it is. But it's still a good few minutes before you can crumple the tissue into a wad and look up. "...s-sorry."

  He sighs, shaking his head. "It's all right. You did fine, Dave...I think we have enough here."

  It isn't until the woman comes over to offer you a hand up that you realize what he's saying. Yes, you can go. And no, you didn't fuck this up.

  You exhale shakily, snag another tissue, and let her lead you out.

  There are more people who want to talk to you, but at this point you can't really particpate in any of these conversations. You nod at their questions and you manage to look at most of them (and somehow, miraculously, no one says anything about the fact that your eyes are the color of blood, you couldn't handle explaining that right now), and maybe you soak up what they're saying even if you're not exactly listening—but really, this is just noise.

  Again, you lose track of time, because you have no idea how long it's been since this whole thing started. You just know that you're so fucking tired by the time that a second officer—a different one from the one who you told about Bro—leads you into an actual hospital room, this one with a bed.

  And Cal in the bed. He's unconscious, bandaged up and hooked to about a dozen contraptions and monitors, and they've washed all the makeup off his face, but it's him. And you can see the slow rise and fall of his breath even from across the room.

  He's okay. Or he will be, definitely. The man who brought you in is saying something, but you turn to him to ask a question that probably has nothing to do with whatever he's talking about.

  "You're not going to break us up, right?" Cal will ask that, as soon as he does wake up, and you need to be able to tell him that you can stay with him and not be lying or unsure. "He's gonna be okay, you're not going to make me leave him?"

  There's enough panic and fear in your voice that the man pats your shoulder comfortingly and looks at you with an expression that's probably also supposed to be comforting but, to you, speaks of a godawful fucking pity. "Don't worry," he says quickly, quite obviously trying to soothe you, "you two won't get split up. And you don't have to worry about your brother—"

  "Bro." You're pretty sure that's what he means. Not Cal.

  "Yes, your—uh—Bro. We already have a warrant out for his arrest, and just to be safe we're putting a guard on this toom." His hand is still on your shoulder; he gives it a reassuring squeeze. "Do you want someone to come sit with you two?"

   ...good question, but you find yourself shaking your head without even really considering it. "We're okay. I—thank you." Don't cry again. Cal's right there. You're okay.

  The man smiles at you, pats your shoulder one more time, and leaves, closing the door quietly behind himself.

  You take a good minute and a half to just stand over Cal, reassuring yourself that he's there. Yes, he's banged up; yes, he's unconscious and still looks so fucking tired without the mask of his makeup; but he's alive. And he's here. And Bro's not. And that's so fucking good.

  There's a chair in the room, a surprisingly comfortable one, but it's too far away from the bed and weighs probably more than you do. It takes you another couple of minutes of shoving and whispered cussing to shift it the few feet over (and it's not until you have it where you need it that it occurs to you that you could've just stepped outside and asked for help. Goddamnit.) The backpack of stuff from the apartment goes under the bed, you curl up in the chair and take Cal's hand and pull the bear close, and you close your eyes.

  He's still out, will be for awhile. And you're so fucking tired that it's only a few minutes before you are too.

  Usually you have enough bad dreams to wake you up or at least make sleeping a less than desireable experience, but today you get nothing but deep blackness. Maybe it's the quiet of this room, maybe it's because right now there's no reason to be afraid of shit, maybe it's because you've reached the limit of your availiable emotional expenditure for the day. Whatever it is, you needed that sleep, and you're thankful for it.

  Anyway, the next thing you're conscious of is Cal's hand tightening down on yours. It takes you a second to pry your eyes open, but when you do, you see that he's turned his head enough to smile at you.

  "Hey, Dave."

  "Cal." You can feel the grin spreading across your face as you squeeze his hand, leaning forward to settle the bear next to him. "Welcome back, man."

  "'m glad I am." He blinks, and shakes his head a bit, this time without flinching in pain. "Wait, no. I'm glad you're here, honestly."

  "Both are good, man. Hey, you want some more good news?" Tell him now, before he gets worked up enough to ask.

  "Mhm." He gives you a slightly confused look, cuddling the bear with his free arm. "Any of that'd be appreciated, yeah."

  "Three things." You hold up three fingers, ticking one down with each point. "One, you're going to be okay. Two, they're not even going to try to split us up, I asked. Three, there's a fuckin' warrant out for Bro and he's going to jail for this shit, Cal, I swear."

  Cal's eyes get a little wider with each piece of info, and when you finish he actually laughs, looking up at you. "Heck yes—Dave, I'd hug you but I'm scared I'll set things off if I move—"

  "Shh." You grin, and lace your fingers through his instead of just holding onto his hand, squeezing gently. "Finger hug."

  That gets another relieved laugh. "Finger hug," he agrees, squeezing back. You don't know when the last time you saw him so happy and excited was. "We're never going to see him again, Dave, right? He's never going to touch you again, either of us, whatever else happens he's gone and that's, that's—" Cal runs out of breath, leaning his head back and gripping your hand tighter. His eyes are filling with tears again and he's shaking just a little, but he's laughing softly and breathlessly at the same time.

  You lean forward, pulling your sleeve down enough to wipe the tears away before they can get a chance to fall. "Yeah, man, you're done with him, I promise...I might have to, like, go point him out in court, tell 'em that he's the fucker who did this, but we're done. And I'm staying with you, promise."

  He blinks when you mention that, working his hand free of yours and carefully pushing himself up to lean against the pillows. "...yeah. I could do that, testify against him." Before you have a chance to tell him that there's no way in hell that you'd make him do that, he adds, "Besides, I've, uh...been collecting evidence." Cal turns the bear over, picking at the seam in its back until it unravels and reaching inside. There's a soft crinkle of plastic as he holds up a baggie with a few memory cards and a thin sheaf of photos in it.

  "Oh my god, man." You take the baggie, sliding the pics out and leafing through them. It's very hard not to wince; Cal somehow got pics of Bro at his very worst. You shake your head and put them back in the bag. "I can't believe you have these."

  "There's more on the cards." He holds out his hand for the bag, and you give it back. "I-I copied them all off of his cameras, I had to look up how to do it on your laptop but I learned and...I've been trying to figure out what to do with them for awhile now."

  He looks like he can't decide whether or not he's allowed to be proud of managing this, but you know that you're proud of him. "Holy fuck, Cal—you're a fucking genius, you're amazing—" And another thought occurs to you, this one almost enough to freeze the grin off your face. "And goddamn but I'm so glad he never caught you."

  "He almost did a couple times." Cal nods, tucking the bag back into the hole and giving the bear an affectionate pat. "But he didn't know I could sew this well, so he never looked in here...I can't sew him back up now, though."

  "He'll get sewn up, don't worry." You pat the bear, then lean over to kiss Cal's forehead. "By the best doctor here, if I have anything to say about it. And I'm going to crochet him a hat, and get both of you fuckin' medals."

  Cal smiles in delight when you pat the bear, and blows you an air kiss as you pull back from him. "Really? You'd do that for Sir Tabor?"

  "Hell fucking yes I will. Make him a whole new wardrobe, any colors you want just as soon as I can get more yarn." You touch the bear again, gently, and reach up to smooth Cal's hair back from his face. "He deserves it, you deserve it...so fucking proud of you, Cal. Love you so much, you know that?"

  He nods a bit, pressing against your hand. "I love you too, Dave...I'm. Still a little scared, maybe a lot scared, okay?"

  "I know. That's okay." This time you don't have to fake the smile. "We're gonna be alright, man. I promise."

  "I believe you."

  And that's the best thing in the world.