Broken Bird

by wolverine_mate

Summary:

She felt scared, but for this one instant, she didn’t feel alone. She didn’t feel like the sole remnant of an alien race walking among humans, missing her twisted home planet.

Chapter 1: Anniversary of a Rebirth

Notes:

this is the playlist I made while writing this : https://youtube.com/playlist?list=PLckxSYmdgybIXHsKoBpKYwjb303RGsuMW
if you need music while you read, feel free to listen to it!! It's not in any particular order, so you can shuffle it

Meg was staring at the calendar on the wall. It had been a year. Well, when the clock struck midnight it would have been a year. Since she heard that noise, saw that tear and walked through. On the other side, the world was awaiting her. 

Her return was not how she envisioned it. In the darkest moments in the Entity’s realm, she entertained herself with visions of future freedom and joy. But it felt like part of her had dimmed, like she had been scarred beyond repair. 

She returned to her task of absentmindedly scrubbing the counter. If she stopped working for too long, she’d start thinking. Thinking about her friends, and whether they were still in pain, thinking about her mom. Her mom who she wasn’t there to say goodbye to. 

When she walked through the rip in between worlds, she had ended up not too far from where she was taken. Her muscle memory led her straight to her house, running faster and faster, afraid that the fog would pull her back in before she could lay eyes on it. But when she had arrived, lungs burning, the state of the home told her all she needed to know. The world had aged without her. 

Grief. She felt nothing, an all consuming nothingness that ate her heart and crushed her lungs. Silent screams kneeling on the floor. The Entity had taken everything she loved from her and she had no way of taking her revenge; no payback was coming. So for hours, for days, she stayed by her mom’s bed, roaming in a forclosed house like a wounded animal, with no one but the thick dust and the chipping paint to keep her company.

One night she got up with the embers of determination simmering deep in her spirit. Giving up was unlike her, and she wasn’t going to start now, when she finally got what she had hoped for for years. After days of exploring every corner of her old home she had found her birth certificate and her old dusty portable CD player. She pocketed them and a few old pictures of a life gone by, then she walked out, never turning back to look behind her. 

She moved to the middle of nowhere, in deep rural America. Though she had not aged in the Realm, stuck in stasis permanently in her early twenties, she legally was in her thirties in this world. She found a job in a village bar, finding that the daytime was too overwhelming for her. It was easier to feel at ease in dim light, surrounded by the smell of smoke, booze, and other miserable people. 

Most nights of the week she would be there behind the grimy bar, with its strangely pleasing decoration of metal, wood, and taxidermied animals. It was the only place she felt somewhat at ease in. The rest of the time she spent drinking, running, and sleeping. Meg knew her coworkers talked in hushed tones about her behind her back, about her cold attitude, her short responses, and her overall refusal to socialize outside of work. But she couldn’t care less. She worked, paid rent, and went on hikes deep in the forest to get drunk alone under the moonlight. 

When she laid back on the grassy floor next to a campfire, she could imagine that her friends were by her side and they were free too. That they again got to go as they pleased, that they got to eat and age. And tears would roll down her cheeks, never daring to look to the side, to face the fact that she was alone. 

While her colleagues didn’t care much for her attitude, she found it got her good tips all the same from people wanting to be the ones to make the mysterious, gloomy waitress smile. So her boss kept her around; she completed the aura of the bar and kept people intrigued. 

On this particular night, her service was, however, particularly lackluster. She usually did a good job of compartmentalizing, but her thoughts kept drifting to her friends hanging on metal hooks like pieces of bleeding meat. And that didn’t make her very amicable. 

Her boss had taken her into the office to ask her if everything was okay after she had bitten off a customer’s head for asking her for her number. Meg had shrugged and told the older woman that tomorrow was the anniversary of her mom’s death. It was somewhat true, after all, she wasn’t sure when she died and wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. One horrible day a year was enough. 

Amelia, her boss, told her to keep it together if she could, before letting her go back to work. Amelia was a nice boss to work for; she stood by her employees and was understanding of the fact that most people that choose to live at night have a reason to. 

She was the only person that Meg cared even a little for. Meg wasn’t interested in getting attached to others again, because she knew she could never explain what had happened to her without being institutionalized, and so she could never truly be close to anyone in any way that mattered. But Amelia was strong, warm, and didn’t try to break the silence with small talk. That made her enjoyable to be around, at the very least.

Trying to be an adequate employee, Meg did not roll her eyes as the large shadow of a customer was cast over her. He sat at the bar right in front of where she was wiping. She wasn’t going to look up to meet his eyes, as ready to snap at the smallest perceived offense as she was. 

“What will it be?” she asked in the most neutral voice she could muster. 

“Bourbon. Double. Neat.” The man’s voice was rough and hoarse, as if he wasn’t used to talking. She liked the way it sounded, but mostly, she liked how direct his order was. No useless banter or friendly greetings. Good. She got his order ready, but something deep inside her was unnerved. Something about his smell, the way he exhaled, made her breath hitch and her heart beat right out of her ribcage. 

She set the glass down in front of his arms, which were crossed on top of the damp counter. She slowly looked up, taking in the shape of his arms, his strong shoulders, to finally land on his face. She knew him. She knew the shape of him. Last time she saw him he was taller, made impossibly taller by the Entity who had turned a tall man into a towering monster. He was probably still 6’7” but she couldn’t properly tell with him sitting down. 

Meg’s feet were nailed to the ground. Her muscles were no longer responding to the urge to run away and save herself. She felt scared, but for this one instant, she didn’t feel alone. She didn’t feel like the sole remnant of an alien race walking among humans, missing her twisted home planet. 

So she kept her eyes fixed on his. His face felt unfamiliar, foreign, but she knew his eyes. His expression was unreadable, as if he still had a mask. She wanted to explore his face, to notice the features of it, but her vision felt like a tunnel focused on the hazel of his eyes. 

She was gripping the bar so tight her knuckles turned white. After what felt like an eternity, she finally found the strength to let out a half whisper. 

“Trapper?”

[wonderful art from @Picosk1 on twitter, this is so incredible ty]

 

Notes:

I will try to post the next chapters soon enough, my head is overwhelmed with creative thoughts at the moment (also working on a MegMillan smut comic rn)

Chapter 2: The Death of a Monster

Summary:

Evan reminisces on the last year. He's not good at feelings but he has a lot of them.

He felt the urge to wince, but he had more self-control. A perceptive person would have noticed an air of discomfort in his eyes. 

“I go by… Evan here,” he enunciated slowly. It felt like words were foreign to him. 

It had been a year, but he hadn't socialized much. He’d gone back to his old estate. He had found it derelict and overrun with wild thorns. It might have been for the better. He should have felt sad seeing the ruins of what he once considered an empire he would inherit, but instead felt something strangely bittersweet. This place, his father, his ‘friends’, they had molded him into the worst of what he could become. They unknowingly sent him to a hell in which he had to play the role of butcher. He hoped they were burning too. 

He had tried to find something to do, but his specialty was killing. He was barely even a person. Everything was so alien to him. It had been almost 150 years, and coming back made him feel like a strange man in a strange land. 

He knew he needed money, he needed to survive. When he came back, he could barely form complex thoughts, but he knew enough to follow someone at night and take their money. He didn't kill them, not that the thought didn't cross his mind. It would have been so easy, but that one time he thought Why , rather than Why Not.  

So he did that for a while. Corner stores were confusing. Beeping sounds and light everywhere assaulted his senses. Everything was overwhelming, indoors and outdoors. Too many sounds, too many colors, too many people. He felt rage, surrounded by maggots. He felt small, dwarfed by a world that had grown so much without him.

One day, at a store, he was approached. He was intimidating, would he consider being a security guard ? All he would have to do was stand at the entrance and look menacing. So he accepted. Months passed by, he would stand there and turn off his mind, an almost meditative state. Time would pass him by, and he would not notice or care. He felt neither alive nor dead, but at least he had no more hooks piercing through his flesh, courtesy of the Entity.

He still has scars from shrapnel, self-inflicted, of course. His body was littered by it, but he no longer had to feel metal pieces grinding against his bones and muscles as he took a single step, and that was enough to enjoy. 

He usually would buy himself some liquor and drink alone in the dusty, small house he rented. Old glass bottles and dirty clothes littered the floor, decorating the dark environment he surrounded himself with. On the back of a receipt, he had sketched what little he remembered of his mother's face and pinned that to the wall by the couch he slept on. 

But tonight, he had miscalculated. He thought he still had drinks, yet no matter where he searched, not one bottle had a drop left. It figured that tonight would be the night, nearly a year after he had slammed and sliced at the weakness he had found in the fog, until it gave in and he slipped out. 

He could choose not to drink, but he'd be alone with his undiluted thoughts, and he wasn't willing to do that. So he went to the bar he had never entered yet, only a mile away from him. 

As soon as he walked in, he saw her. It was unmistakable; it was her. She was just cleaning, the red of her hair dimming everything else around her. He didn't know why he was happy to see her, but he also wasn't letting himself feel shame. He walked with purpose and sat down in front of her. He knew the weight of her, the grunts of pain she uttered, and what she looked like when she faced death head-on. Right now, he was entranced by what she looked like, hard at work, unbothered by the threat of imminent harm. 

He had ordered his favorite thing, tingling with excitement. Or was it fear? He wanted her to recognize him. For once, he wanted to talk to someone; for the first time in forever, he craved to be human. He couldn’t hold back his loud, grunted exhale, so similar to the ones he would let out when he was chasing her in the dark realm they had both escaped.   

She didn't know his voice, but he could tell something inside her had recognized a part of him without looking. He felt something strange, maybe pride, maybe satisfaction. She remembered him; he still existed to someone in this world, he wasn't alone. It felt like his skin was on fire, all-consuming and the sounds in the background got quieter by the second when she slowly looked up at him. He could hear his own heart beating like a drum in his ears. 

So why did it hurt when she called him by the only name she knew him by? It was all he had ever been to her, not a person, just a monster sentenced to kill her. A cold feeling of shame was running down his spine, and he didn't like that one bit.

Notes:

I wrote this while tipsy, so let's thank beer and cider for all the insights I got ! Alcohol is bad for you though, don't drink it (also I found a Beta reader!!! Ty Bobbi <333)

Chapter 3: A Hunter & His Doe

Summary:

He felt like a hunter, lucky enough to observe the graceful beauty of an overly trusting doe. He didn’t want to kill her, but the fear of it was looming over him. He was a monster after all, a tormentor and an executioner.

Someone needed to speak. Something needed to happen to break the tension, the stare felt like it mattered too much to be dropped, like they were alone together. Her lips were parted ever so slightly, shaky breaths coming out, only he could hear.

“Meg, is this fella bothering you ?” the question made her jump, taking her out of the trance she had found herself caught in, to look at the newcomer.

Evan felt murderous. The voice had come from a regular of Meg’s, one of the ones who thought he could win her over, Deputy Scott Martin. The smug air on his face, the way he stood there trying to intimidate with his uniform’s paltry influence would have made Evan chuckle internally any other time, but Meg –for that was her name, he remembered now– was no longer looking at him. That instant had mattered more to him than anything else in a long time, and he wanted it back. He had gotten good at turning his feeling of neediness into ones of greed, and like all he felt, it often devolved into anger. 

The other man approached to counter, getting closer to Meg. He eyed up Evan, who was not moving an inch, as the redhead was better to look at than a pompous prick. 

“No Scott, it’s fine he’s just… an old acquaintance,” her hand still rested on the counter, tense but not strained, close to the last glass she had poured. She looked uneasy and Evan found himself hoping it was because of the Deputy, not himself. He grabbed his drink, close enough to feel the warmth of her hand, but not quite touching her. His eyes followed the goosebumps forming on her arm all the way up to the back of her neck. 

“Are you sure little Miss? No need to toughen up for me, the boys and I are always there to get you out of trouble,” he loudly said, gesturing at other deputies sitting at a table behind him. This time Evan couldn’t hold back the low chuckle that resonated in his glass, nor the mocking smirk on his face. It figures, a peacock like this deputy wouldn’t be brave enough to try to start a tussle without back up.  

This time, when Evan felt the glare of Deputy Martin, he decided to turn his head ever so slightly to look at him, grin still decorating his face as he sat up straight, his stature becoming evident to the man to his left. Everything about his face, his position, was a silent challenge. He had been the one stepped on by those with authority in the past, but he could still beat a village cop into the ground if provoked. 

In this instant he felt once again as if the claws of the Entity were squeezing his brain, playing it like a fiddle, make him crave violence and suffering to better serve Her. He wanted to be provoked, to have a way to prove his superiority. But there was no Entity here, only the scars shaped like anger and suffering She had left inside him.

“Something funny?” The deputy was trying to regain the upper hand. His ears looked flushed, and his goading came from a place of misplaced pride, still wanting to impress the barmaid. Sweat was starting to roll down his temples, but he was not lowering his eyes. 

“A few things,” Evan looked him up and down slowly as he said that, his voice a low rumble, his face a mask of disdain. The anticipation of the altercation was exhilarating, the anger was palpable, and– 

“Cut it the fuck out, both of you. I’ll kick you out, I don’t need tips that badly.” Meg looked annoyed. She had other things to deal with; a pissing contest was not worth her time. She continued, “Will you order Scott, or do you two want to go work it out in the men’s bathroom ?”

The deputy looked down, seemingly apologetic, and ran his hand through his hair. “I’m sorry,  Meg, I just… I thought you looked uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to intrude. We’ll have a round of beers.”

She got the bottles ready with speed and precision, her cold annoyance taking over the earlier shock that had shaken her to the core. Once the deputy had left to go rejoin his table, she glanced at the empty glass in front of Evan on the counter. She grabbed it silently, rinsing it, and pulled out a second identical one. 

Evan was intrigued, but he wasn’t going to question her. He had been absorbing all that he had the pleasure of discovering about her tonight. He remembered her sharp tongue from the trials. When he would knock her down with his cleaver, she never failed to curse. And when he carried her on his shoulder, to mercilessly pierce her shoulder with a butcher hook, she would scream obscenities in his ear. On those days, he was grateful for the mask he wore so no one would see the amused smile on his face. 

She was kneeling below the counter, fiddling loudly with bottles, until she eventually found the one she wanted. It was a clear liquid, in a bottle with a half-ripped label. It had clearly been repurposed, although he wasn’t sure what the original contents of it were. She was carefully filling the two glasses, and he barely dared move, afraid to disturb the scene happening in front of him. She slammed one in front of him, spilling some on his forearm. 

“Smell this,” her demeanor had changed; she stood tall, proud. 

Sharp, spicy, it stung his nostrils. How strong was this stuff? But behind it all, he could smell the complexity of the herbs and a slight fruity afternote. He knew what it was: moonshine. The men at the mine would make some with the local roots and berries, to mask the pain of the rot and black lung with the burn of liquor instead. He cocked his head ever so slightly. 

“I make it myself, I would suggest sipping it, though if anyone can handle it, I’m sure it’d be you,” she sounded neutral, but he still wondered if it could have been a compliment. Maybe it was simply because they had been through hell and back… together. 

She gave him a little nod of encouragement. But he waited for her to go first, the glass reaching her lips, her half-closed eyes, the slight wince when it hit her tongue. He felt like a hunter, lucky enough to observe the graceful beauty of an overly trusting doe. He didn’t want to kill her, but the fear of it was looming over him. He was a monster after all, a tormentor and an executioner. She was being far too trusting, and he found himself wanting to reprimand her. 

Instead, he brought the glass to his lips and chose not to think. He felt the heat burn across his tongue, run down his throat, and explode within every vein in his lungs. In the aftermath of the fire, the sweetest taste of blackberry and pine remained. 

Though by far the warmest thing in the room was what she wore on her face, directed at him, ever so slightly resting on the edges of her lips. A smile.

Notes:

Bobbi was busy at ren faire today so they only helped me with typos, I apologize if some of the wording is awkward <3 I hope y'all have been enjoying this so far

Chapter 4: The Enemy of my Enemy

Summary:

As she turned around, she lost her balance just enough for her back to bounce against his chest. He stilled himself and breathed in sharply. How dare she be so carefree around him, he could snap her neck in a swift gesture, or crush it in one hand.

Meg kept serving him, and he kept drinking the glasses that were put in front of him, mostly silently, except for his grunts of appreciation. The heat of her home brew had settled nicely in her core and dimmed her worries, relegated deep in the back of her mind. 

His skin was decorated with scars, some small and white, others deep, jagged, and red. One was particularly dark, and it ran across his lower lip all the way to his jaw. Dark stubble covered the lower half of his face, matching the brown of his hair. It looked like he had combed it back, though some strands had fallen to the front of his forehead. His nose looked like it had been broken, maybe more than once, and a piece of his ear was missing. She found his traits quite harmonious, albeit rough. But mostly, she found herself pitying him, as strange as it felt to her; she realized his face was a map of brutalization. 

How bizarre was it that this face had been hiding behind a bony mask that had terrorized her for years. Meg never quite thought of him as human, just a grim puppet used by the Entity in Her games of suffering. For an instant, she let herself wonder what his face looked like when he killed her, what expression decorated it, if any.  

After the third glass, she paused. She knew she couldn’t out-drink him; he was twice her size and looked like he could handle a glass or two. Evan was still looking back at her, his face an unnervingly blank mask. 

She squinted at him, “How are you here?”

“I walked. My diggings are fairly close by,” he had misunderstood her question, but she was struck by his antiquated speech. He hadn’t spoken more than a few words until now; they had just sat in these silent moments of strange normalcy. She realized how long it had been for him. While the world had changed for her, everything was familiar. Thirteen years, thirteen years is not so much in the span of humanity. But how long had he been kept hostage in that vile realm? It had to have been over a hundred years, perhaps even closer to two hundred.

“That’s not what I meant. How are you here, on this plane of existence and not… There,” Meg wouldn’t say it, wouldn’t mention Her name, wouldn’t let Her be anything more than a shadow on her heart. 

He lifted the half-empty glass to his lips, finishing it in one hasty sip. He kept the glass there after he was done, hiding part of his face. “I tore through the fog and left,” he felt bitter. Could he have done it earlier? Had there been other moments of weakness through the years that he hadn’t noticed?  

He heard her gasp at that revelation and took his eyes off the glass to once again look upon her. Her eyes were wide open, incredulous. She slammed both her hands down on the counter, “It was you ?!” She sounded almost childlike in her excitement, unbridled energy at the discovery, “I thought I saw someone slip out, but when I noticed the tear, I didn’t stop to think, I simply ran through and ended up in my town,” Meg slowed down for a second, looking intense, “Thank you.”

He wished he could have told her that he hated killing her, that he didn’t want to, that he was forced, but those would have been lies. So he hoped she wasn’t forgiving him, that he wasn’t absolved and that she hated him deeply behind her acceptance of his presence near her. 

He shrugged, “The Entity deserves to rot,” there was anger in his voice, “but I reckon She wasn’t too sad to see me go,” he would never forget the torture She reserved for him whenever he didn’t meet Her expectations, whenever he defied Her. When he collected charcoal to draw on the walls of his shack, new burns that never quite seemed to heal would appear on his arms. New hooks, new shards of metal would pierce through his flesh if he failed to kill enough, he was a bull being stabbed by a toreador that couldn’t be gored by his horns. 

Meg held her hand out, a silent gesture for his glass so that she could refill it. Afterwards, she crossed her arms and leaned on the counter, “We all used to think the killers and the Entity were working together against us. But I’m gathering this wasn’t the case…”

He tried to focus on what she had just said, but part of his mind was preoccupied by trying not to lower his eyes. He had known that women’s fashion had changed drastically as survivors came and… went. It wasn’t too much of an issue when his goal was to end them, and saw them only as prey. But he was no longer a caged beast in a realm of suffering, he was human, he was a man; and the redhead in front of him had angled herself in a way that let him see far too much, considering the loose tank top she was wearing. 

He shifted ever so slightly in his seat and cleared his throat, “I’m sure some of us enjoyed the endless hunting grounds,” he was sure she could notice his tension, but hoped she thought it was the conversation, “but Hell is Hell no matter the role you are dealt.”

She looked perplexed, but there was something else there, something much more insidious: sadness. It angered him that she felt compassion for him; she should have cursed him for daring to complain about his lot when hers had been so much worse. She should have craved revenge against him. 

Her wristwatch beeped, it was midnight. A loud sigh escaped her lips, and she let her head fall forward, resting on her forearms. It only lasted a few seconds before she straightened up, and held her glass up for a toast, “Happy Anniversary, and fuck Her!”

Evan chuckled, hearing her curse so loudly after looking so dejected. He clinked his glass against hers, careful to keep his eyes in hers, “to freedom and whisky.” 

When she tilted her head back to swallow her glass in one swig, he couldn’t stop his eyes from going down her stretched throat, and maybe even lower. He closed his eyes and downed his own glass, willing her to move so he wouldn’t feel this predatory. 

“Hey, uh, E-Evan?” She was hesitant when saying his name; it felt fake to her. For a decade she had known him, and he had been the Trapper to her, a force of Evil. She had not forgotten the pain of stepping on a bear trap and feeling her ankle shatter, her tendons rip. She remembered the cleaver breaking her spine, opening her flesh to the cold air of the night. She couldn’t quite trust him yet; he had to have done something to end up there, but he seemed like he hated the Entity as well, and that was all she needed right now: a common enemy. “When were you born?”

He hummed lowly for an instant. He had spent much longer in the Entity’s realm than he ever had been alive in this world. “I was born on the 8th of September, 1864,” he scratched the stubble on his jaw with one hand, “and I was taken in the spring of 1893.”

“Damn, you’re old!” She had blurted that out before she realized how rude it sounded. “I mean not old, just from old times. You’re only 29, that’s not so old. Actually…” she started counting on her fingers, under the amused eyes of Evan, “You’re going to turn 29 in a few weeks! Any birthday plans?”

He had celebrated his birthday a few times when his mom was still alive. After her death, they had just become an opportunity for his father to make grand speeches about how Evan had to be better than the rest, or face the consequences of failure. Oh, what a beating he would receive if his dad knew he was a lowly security guard now, not a proud mining magnate. A sadistic grin flashed on his face when he thought of his dad, who had been left to rot, tied in the basement of their estate when Evan was taken.

“No, probably drinking alone,” what else could he do? He had nothing to celebrate, and no one to celebrate with. He was fine with ignoring life and emotions until the day he eventually passed away. 

“Well, if you come around here then, I’ll give you free drinks so you don’t have to drink alone,” she was looking down at her hands on the counter as she said that, and Evan wondered why she looked embarrassed. Maybe he did have someone to celebrate with after all. 

He stayed until after the bar closed, answering her every question about life in his time, about the post-Civil War Era, and what people were like then. She kept the questions lighthearted or about historical events, and he was happy to stay far away from anything about the murderer he was before the Entity. She seemed to relax in his presence, inebriation and fun making her smile more than she had in the past year entirely. She never got good grades in school, but she might have if learning history were that exciting then.

She kept talking to him as she was cleaning, and once she was done, she found herself regretting how efficient she had been. She hadn’t talked to anyone this deeply in a year, hadn’t been herself in much longer than that. But now it was time to go home, and she was the drunkest she’d ever been. 

She had driven home after a few drinks before, but it was raining and the road, being rural, was ill-lit. Getting into an accident that would endanger her life wasn’t all that scary to her, she had died a thousand times over, but she did not want to kill someone else. A couple-miles-long hike was nothing, but she was terrified of walking alone in the dark on this very day. She was terrified that the fog would take her again. So, she stood silently staring at the door. 

“What seems to be the problem?” Evan could tell her demeanor had shifted, but he couldn’t see anything threatening through the windows. The battering rain meant he would probably be soaked by the time he got home, not that he cared much. 

“I… I don’t think I can drive home in the dark tonight,” she muttered, looking away. He thought that was strange. Cars drove by him quite often while he was walking in the dark, but maybe her car lacked lights. He looked down at her and noticed how small she truly was, around 5’4”, more than a foot shorter than him. He couldn’t let her walk at night alone; that would have upset his mother had she still been here today. 

“How far do you live?” It didn’t matter much to him, and if he remembered correctly, it wouldn’t matter much to her either. She was always the best runner, with seemingly endless endurance and adrenaline. 

“Just a couple of miles west of here, I can walk there, I’m just…” She let her voice trail off, uncomfortable with admitting her fear in front of him.

“Let’s depart then, my home is in the same direction,” he lied. He lived directly east of here, but he didn’t want to argue back and forth. 

Meg looked up at him. She was flushed from all the liquor she had drunk; she had had as much as him, which was a lot even for a practiced drinker like her. She swayed a little when she moved, unstable on her feet, “I should grab an umbrella then…” As she turned around, she lost her balance just enough for her back to bounce against his chest. He stilled himself and breathed in sharply. How dare she be so carefree around him, he could snap her neck in a swift gesture, or crush it in one hand. She came back, an instant later, large umbrella in hand, and handed it to him. 

On the walk to her home, he made a mental note of every landmark, making sure he could make his way back there without her guidance. The walk was mostly silent, but he was unnerved; she kept staggering, and when she did, she would catch herself by grabbing onto the arm he used to hold up the umbrella. Still she said nothing, nothing about the scars she could feel under her touch, not sorry, not thank you. And that made it that much more intimate. 

After about an hour, they arrived at the front door of small home. He could see bags of trash and cardboard boxes piled up next to a broken chair on the front porch, and thorns in the garden. He didn’t dare step on the porch. This was her den and he was an intruder, he shouldn’t even had been that close.  

She turned to him after unlocking the door, tucking her hair behind her ear with one hand, “Thank you for seeing me home,” she shivered in the night air, “don’t forget to bring back the umbrella okay ?”

“I will not forget. I’ll be seeing you around, Meg .” He had said her name slowly, enjoying the way it felt on his tongue, sharp and explosive. She shot him one last smile before heading inside. He stayed in front of her house for few more minutes looking through the backlit windows, unaware she could see him standing there. 

As he walked away, he could still feel the ghost of her touch on his forearm every time the wind blew. 

Notes:

This chapter was a bit longuer than the last ones, I'm going to try to keep them between 1000-2500 words per chapter. I had it ready much earlier today but forgot to post bc I was playing DbD. I hope everyone is enjoying the story so far, I know I am!!! [Evan is the pro of having 2 emotions : Anger & Apathy] <333

Chapter 5: Everything is Red

Summary:

He almost thought of denying her, but that would have been hypocritical, so he simply complied and handed Meg his lit cigarette. She took a slow, long drag, closing her eyes to enjoy it. The light hum she made as she held the smoke in her lungs sounded like music to Evan. When she handed it back to him, the filter was crimson and slightly damp. It was probably the best cigarette he ever had. And when it was fully consumed, he made sure to pocket the filter. 

Evan had brought the umbrella back a week later and had stayed for drinks again. Meg hadn’t given him any of her moonshine this time, but she had stayed close to where he was sitting the whole evening. 

She had offered to drive him home after closing, but he had refused, not wanting her to discover he had lied about where he lived. He had tried his hardest not to go back every night, not wanting to overwhelm her, but he had never felt as lonely alone. It was like the taste of being human had left him thirsty, a thirst he could not seem to quench. 

Soon, three weeks had passed, it was his birthday. He had been back to see her two times since bringing back the umbrella. He figured once a week seemed nonchalant enough, so he would come in every Friday night at 7 PM, like clockwork. 

It was half past six, and his palms were getting sweaty. He had donned his best shirt, white linen, and finest grey slacks. He found his leather suspenders quite dashing, but he knew he was out of fashion. Pants were worn lower nowadays, and, to his dismay, men wore jeans everywhere. He simply couldn’t understand why people would choose to wear work pants as a fashion statement. 

Regardless, only for tonight, he disliked the idea of not fitting in. It was out of pride, of course, it had to be. That’s what he told himself as he combed his hair back, cursing at the curl that kept forming on his forehead while puffing on a cigarette. He was wearing cologne and his only non-muddy pair of shoes. He hadn’t celebrated his birthday in over a century, and the notion of it felt outlandish to him. But Meg had talked about it every time he had come by, so he knew it mattered to her. He wanted to show her that he cared. 

He kept feeling like he had to bring her a present, which was ridiculous, since it was his birthday. But it was all for her, to show Meg there was a man beneath the monster, to show her he could be human if only she was patient. He wanted to learn, he wanted to remember. He would sit in the dark and see her leaving him behind, dooming him to be a creature sitting at the edge of life and death. His stomach would spout acid, turning his heart to heavy stone. Anger, it was anger, what else could it be? Anything else would be weak, and he couldn’t be weak. 

He had spent entirely too much time walking up and down the aisles of the store he worked at, wracking his brain to find an appropriate gift. He had ended up picking a nice enough looking box of assorted cookies, one of the fancy tin ones that touted their use of Belgian chocolate. Women used to like sweets, and he hoped that was still true.

He gave himself one last look before leaving, wondering if he should roll down his shirt sleeves to cover his scars. She didn’t seem to mind them when he walked her home, so he left it alone. If he left right now, he should make it there just a few minutes in advance. 

It dawned on him when he arrived before the bar that he had not wrapped her present, not even with a bow. He had a piece of twine in his pocket; he figured it would have to do. He wasn’t sure where one would go to buy ribbon, so he wrapped the twine around the box as best he could and tied it in a small bow. It looked a little crooked, a little awkward, but that was the best his calloused hands could do. 

His eyes scanned the room for her when he crossed the threshold, and his breath caught in his throat. Meg’s hair was loose, unlike the other times, and it looked curlier than usual. Her lips were painted crimson red, and she seemed to make the rest of the room disappear. She was a vision to behold, and he wondered if maybe that was his present. His stalking was soured when he noticed the expression on her face. She was annoyed. 

On the other side of the bar from her stood Deputy Martin. He was smiling, and he had a look in his eyes that Evan knew all too well: predatory. Scott looked hungry for her, but Evan didn’t share prey with anyone. He moved intently through the room, and everything was red.

“Come on! You’ll have fun, the whole town will be at the festival,” the Deputy’s invitation felt like a trap. “Go with me, as my date.”  

“I heard you the first time,” Meg sounded bothered, but there was a tinge of anxiety in there. “The answer is still no.”

Scott looked like he was about to respond, but the large hand landing on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks. 

“Buddy, the lady said no .” Evan’s tone was cold and dripping with threat. His hand was squeezing just enough to warn without bruising just yet. Whatever this was about, the deputy had overstepped by disrespecting Meg. 

“Why don’t you mind your own business, ‘buddy’ ?” Scott spat out, full of vitriol. He had turned around to face Evan. The hand on his shoulder tightened like a vise and he winced. 

“Don’t misunderstand,” Evan was talking through gritted teeth, his blood was pumping, his control slipping away, “this is my business.” 

He wasn’t thinking, couldn’t think. His grip was so tight that he risked breaking the other man’s clavicle if he kept going. The thoughts in his head had been replaced with a bloodlust he knew so well, and he was struggling to resist it. All the logic behind why he shouldn’t was faded by the knowledge of how good it would feel to inflict pain again, to be powerful once more. 

A small, warm hand grabbed his index and middle finger. The engine that had been sputtering and rearing up in his body slowed down to a low hum. She was looking up at him, pleading, scared. Scared. With his other hand, he let go of the other man he was holding. The deputy was inconsequential. All that existed was her, and her hand on his. 

“I think he’s got it, Evan.” She had said this so softly, so gently, as if he was the one who was afraid. He wanted to touch her too, reassure her that he wasn’t going to hurt her . But he was sure his touch would be frightening to her, and not certain that it would be the truth. It was so natural, so pleasing, to get angry. Who could say if she’d ever be the one in the path of his ire? And then all it would take would be one strike, a little lack of control, and she’d be gone for good.   

“Control your hound…” was what Scott muttered, rubbing his shoulder with one hand as he walked away, but neither of them paid him any mind.

For a few instants, they stared into each other’s eyes in silence. She rubbed her thumb along his index and then took her hand away. He wanted to howl in pain, to tell her to stay like this, to beg her to touch him once more. But instead he sat down. The box in the hand she had been holding was bent now. Could he still give it to her? It was the painful proof of the lack of control he still had to contend with. Unfortunately, she had already looked down. 

“Did you already get a present today?” She sounded shaky, but she was being brave. She shouldn’t have had to be brave. 

“No,” his tone was somber, “I bought these for you.” He thought maybe she wouldn’t want them now. But then she smiled up at him and held her hands out. 

“I don’t think you know how birthdays work!” Her tone was brighter now, and he wondered why the dingy present had been enough to cheer her up. But she gently untied the string, slipped it into her pocket, and opened the crooked box. Delight illuminated her eyes as she selected one and started eating it. Again he found himself devouring her with his eyes, not understanding what was happening inside of him, captivated by the sounds of delectation she was making. 

She offered him one, but he refused. They were for her to enjoy. 

She licked her lips to get rid of crumbs, “Hey, I got a present for you too,” grabbing something from below the counter, she continued, “it’s not much, but I hope you’ll enjoy it!” She handed him a rectangular package wrapped in newspaper. When he grabbed it, he realized they were books. In a split second, he had ripped the paper off. 

“The Lord of the Rings?” He had no idea what it could be. He did used to enjoy reading when he was young, but it was all mostly penny dreadfuls and other short sensational stories. 

“This is like, the biggest novel to have been published since you’ve been gone. I’m not a big reader myself, so it wasn’t too easy to read, but I think it’s going to be a bit easier for you. Because you’re old.” She giggled a bit to herself. “I mean think about it, you’re the oldest 29-year-old in the world right now!”

“That you know of.” His response made her let out a full-throated laugh. It had to happen again. He had to make Meg throw her head back and laugh that way again. 

“Well now, you get as many free drinks as you want! We’re only supposed to give away one, but you rescued me so…” She looked away as she said that. Rescued. He had rescued her. She didn’t despise him, she wasn’t terrified, she was… Thankful. After all he had done, she still had the grace to be thankful. 

“May I ask, Meg, what he was bothering you about?” He needed to know if he had done enough to the man. 

She sighed, “Scott is obsessed with the idea of winning me over. He’s been asking me out ever since I moved here. I honestly have no idea why he’s that interested. I think he just likes a challenge, but…” She stopped for a second and nervously played with her waves, “he’s just become so incessant, and he refuses to take no for an answer. He’s such a well-respected member of the community, I feel powerless. I can’t do anything.”

“I could kill him.” It had come out of his mouth before he could think of not saying it. It made sense why the other man was interested in Meg; she was beautiful, kind, and wild. But he couldn’t excuse the way he made her feel. He felt relief when she laughed again; she had thought he was joking, not knowing the truth behind his words. 

She had put down his regular drink in front of him. “I think what you did today might be enough to keep him away for a while, thanks!” 

More customers required her attention, so she left him alone to drink. Looking around the room, he noticed the deputy hadn’t left. He was glaring at Meg angrily from his table, obviously seething. Evan wondered if the man had the capacity to harm her out of hurt pride. 

What had they been talking about when he arrived? The ‘festival’? He suspected they were talking about the town’s fall festival. He had stood facing an informational pamphlet about it for a few days now at work. It promised stands with local drinks, food, and crafts. And by nighttime, a local band was going to play in the center square. Maybe she was simply afraid to go because of the piss-pot who bothered her. Maybe she would go if he went with her; it wouldn’t be a date, he would just be there to make sure nothing happened to her. 

After a few minutes, she made her way back to him. 

“Sophie’s just arrived for her shift, do you want to come with me while I take my break?” That was the first time she asked him that, and as far as he could remember, he hadn’t seen her take a break before. But he nodded and grabbed his glass. She led him to the back of the bar, where the workers’ cars were parked. She leaned back against the wall, and there, standing in front of her, he finally took notice of what she wore. She was wearing bootcut jeans with a large leather belt, and her short-sleeved shirt had been knotted in such a way that it left her midriff exposed. She looked striking in the dusk’s glow. Maybe jeans weren’t so bad. 

He tried to busy himself by grabbing a cigarette and lighting it. 

“You know smoking is bad for you, right?” It sounded like a genuine question, and to put her mind at ease, he simply pointed at where the pack in his hand read ‘ smoking kills ’ in capital letters. She shrugged, then continued, “Can I get a puff?”

He almost thought of denying her, but that would have been hypocritical, so he simply complied and handed Meg his lit cigarette. She took a slow, long drag, closing her eyes to enjoy it. The light hum she made as she held the smoke in her lungs sounded like music to Evan. When she handed it back to him, the filter was crimson and slightly damp. It was probably the best cigarette he ever had. And when it was fully consumed, he made sure to pocket the filter. 

He cleared his throat. “Would you care to attend the fall festival? I could…” He searched for words, feeling like his throat was closing up, “I could make sure no one troubles you.” 

The look she gave him was unreadable, and after a few long seconds she nodded. “It’ll be fun.” The knot in his throat came loose, and his chest swelled. Pride was filling him to the brim. He could’ve gotten drunk on the feeling of it; he was better than the other, she foolishly trusted him more. 

After closing the bar, she had wished him a happy birthday again, and he had left on foot. It was strange how he always refused to let her drive him home. But she assumed he just enjoyed walking, she could understand that much. 

There was a lot about him that confused her. The way he acted with her, he treated her halfway like a wild animal being tamed and the most fragile thing he’d ever seen. It was obvious he still had a lot of anger inside, and he was prone to violence. She sometimes wondered if it was right to be around him. She needed to find out more about his past, to know why the Entity had decided he could kill for over a century. 

She wasn’t willing to be away from him; that was not going to happen. He made her feel alive. She was a real person around him, not a mask worn on a weeping wound. She was drifting away at sea, and he had unknowingly been her anchor. Simple pleasures, like chocolates, were not something she would think of getting for herself, yet he had brought them to her with no prompting. And he would sit there, his face unreadable, staring at her so deeply it would make her skin run hot. 

Most days, she could barely think, stuck in a haze of denial and avoidance. That much was obvious when she entered her home. The state in which it was, was pathetic. There were piles of clothing on the floor, dirty and clean. Garbage bags surrounded by flies, and various plastic wrappings throughout the house. The sink was filled to the brim, the water inside it looked like an opaque sludge made of rotten food, the smell of which was repulsive. She would never let anyone see this, the direct representation of her slowly wasting soul. 

The only days she found herself getting up without taking a shot still lying in bed were Fridays. She always hoped he would be there; wanting to feel seen in the embrace of his eyes. 

Today he had made her feel things she didn’t quite understand. He had looked so terrifying when he had attacked Scott, but why did it make her feel safe? He had smelled so good, like cologne and cigarettes, making her want to fall asleep surrounded in that scent. She would see him again in a week. And the next one, they had… plans. The fall festival. She should wear a dress.

Before falling asleep, still wearing her jeans, she pulled out the piece of twine he had tied around her present. She looked at it for a second, then wrapped it around her wrist. She had never really liked jewelry before, but the appeal was coming into sharper focus.  

Notes:

This is the longest chapter yet, I hope you all like it ! It took me a bit to write but I think I like this rythmh of publishing a chapter around every 3 days

Chapter 6: Embers in the Dark

Summary:

She thought of Nea, the one she missed most. They had connected instantly, creating moments of fun and love in a realm built for pain only. When she felt life violently taken away from her, she always knew that she’d have a warm embrace to reawaken her at the campfire. They used to listen to each other complain; they used to dream of escaping together. But Nea had been left behind; there would be no more stolen kisses, no more soft words, no more laughter.

Meg felt uneasy. She kept seeing sheriff department cars drive by her house late at night. She told herself it was paranoia, the same paranoia that made her see the fog in any shadow. Nobody was coming for her, she needed to calm down and breathe. Deputy Martin was a prideful man, but he would never try to intimidate her for rejecting him. Right? 

She had rejected him more times than she could count, after all. But she knew this time had been different; he had been shown up by Evan in front of the whole bar. Scott would usually come by and chat her up every night, but he had made a show of not talking to her the past two nights. Meg would have welcomed the silence if it wasn’t accompanied by cold, angry stares from him and his colleagues. 

Her night had been mostly sleepless, and on more than one occasion, she had found herself wishing that Evan had a phone she could call. Or that she knew where he lived. She never thought anything would scare her again after the Entity, and she felt silly for being so frightened of a few angry stares. However, it was now 8 AM, and the bags under her eyes would fool no one: she needed to sleep. 

Since that was not going to happen, she decided to brush her teeth and get dressed. Her hair was not even worth trying to fix, too tangled and poofy. As she walked through the door, she brought one of the many garbage bags that decorated her floor out onto the porch with her. Technically, that had to count as cleaning.

She wasn’t sure where she wanted to go when she got in her car, just knew that she needed to be away from here. Soon she found herself driving to the store Evan had told her he worked at. She needed coffee, beer and a few other things, that was why she was driving there. It wasn’t where she did her usual shopping, but she needed a change of scenery; that was why she was driving there.

Meg was pushing her cart through the sliding doors when she saw him. He was standing there, arms crossed, staring into the distance. His clothes were black from head to toe, but what she liked the most was his t-shirt that looked almost stretched on his chest. It was no wonder he had been hired, he looked impressive, towering over anyone that walked in or out. She was starstruck for a moment, just looking at him, his well-groomed hair and now-shaved face. 

As she stood there, a group of teenage girls walked past her, giggling. They were whispering to each other, all excited and dressed up. 

“Come on, it’s your turn this time!”

“No, no, Emily is the prettiest one, she should do it!”

“Okay guys we all say it at the same time !”

The girls walked up to where Evan was standing, their arms linked, and all together exclaimed, “Good morning, Sir!” 

He raised an eyebrow at them, but nodded and grunted a hello back at them. Shrieks and squeaks filled the entrance as the blushing girls sprinted away into the store, a laughing mess. Meg couldn’t stop herself from smiling at the interaction. She had once been a teenage girl herself, and she knew all about unattainable crushes her and her friends would get. And Evan looked both handsome and dangerous, a surefire combination to make girls fall in love. 

She resumed pushing her cart in his direction, and decided to tease him a little about what she had just witnessed.

“Good morning, Sir,” she greeted him cheekily. His reaction was instantaneous, body tensing up, and coughing as though he was choking on his saliva. She was almost sure she could see a tinge of red on his ears and cheek, but she didn’t understand why her simple greeting made him react in such a way. 

“Meg?!” His eyebrows were scrunched but he didn’t look angry, just incredulous. 

“Hey there! I see you have a few fangirls,” She gave him a sly smile. She was finding it incredibly fun to taunt him that way. He cocked his head slightly, lifting one hand to rub his jaw slightly. 

“Those kids? They just come by every few days, giggle then run away,” he shook his hand in the air before continuing, “I have no idea what it’s about.” He looked down at his own outfit as he said this, as if looking for something amusing on him. 

“Oh, Evan…” Meg found his innocence in the matter endearing. He had been a monster for so long he probably had no idea how he was perceived anymore, “They think you’re handsome.”

“But they’re kids ?” He replied, scrunching his brows at the revelation. 

“I was a girl once too, and trust me, they like you,” From how close she was, she had to look up to simply meet his gaze. She could feel the anxiety of the past two nights start to drift away. He simply shrugged his shoulders and let out a grunt of defeat, seemingly done with this topic. He did not, however, let go of her gaze. 

“You look tired,” He looked worried all of a sudden, scanning every inch of her face with his eyes, “Are you okay?”

She could have cried in that instant. To be read like this, to be known and understood. Having someone who cared about her wellbeing, it meant that she wasn’t alone. She didn’t know how to tell him what worried her without sounding paranoid and overly anxious. She was taking too long to answer, starting to feel unsure of what to do with her hands, and looking away from him. 

“It’s nothing, it’s…” She was pulling on her unkempt hair, very aware of how disheveled she must have looked, “I’ve been a bit scared at night lately.”

He leaned forward, putting his hand down next to hers on the handle of her cart. When she looked back up, his stare was so intense she forgot it wasn’t just the two of them.

“I’m just being paranoid,” she wanted to look away so she could lie more easily, but she felt held in place by his eyes, “police cars keep driving up and down all night.” She didn’t know what he could do to help; she just needed to tell someone, to make herself feel less scared. He lifted his hand like he wanted to hold her face, but let it drop to his side after a moment of hesitation. He looked deep in thought, lips squeezed together, trying to come up with a solution to her problem. She was half expecting him to tell her to stop being scared, to toughen up, but here he was: caring and trying. 

It felt overwhelming. He was her Trapper, the monster chasing her in her nightmares, so why was he protecting her? Why was he trying so hard to save her from her fears?  

“I promise nothing will happen to you,” his arm was so close to hers, she could feel the heat emanating from it, “I’ll make sure of that.”

She wanted to ask how he could promise that, but some part of her knew he was telling the truth. He didn’t seem like the type of man to make an empty promise. Her heart was hitting her ribcage with bruising force, calling for her to seek refuge in his arms. Instead, she smiled at him weakly. 

“It would still be better if you had a phone I could call you on, grandpa.” She half-joked. He had admitted to her that phones were confusing, overwhelming, and he had no idea how to use one or take care of it. One day, she would teach him. But today, she was just going to trust him, trust that he’d be here. After all, they had traveled through worlds and found each other, what were a few miles compared to that? 

She couldn’t linger all day; she had to pretend to be a functioning human. But before she headed into the store, she put her hand down on his forearm and squeezed gently. She wasn’t sure if he hated her touch, but she liked feeling his warmth under her touch. She also liked how firm his muscles were, and how irregular his skin felt. She could tell who he was even if she were to touch him in the dark or with her eyes closed. 

“Thank you, Evan,” she rubbed her thumb against his skin as she said this, “I’ll see you on the way out.”

Had she not turned around and walked away, she would have seen the shudder his whole body underwent, the way he squeezed his fists so hard his nails bit into his palms. She would have seen his reaction to her gentle touches. Touches he did not believe he deserved, making guilt blossom deep inside him, remembering the blows his own hands delivered on her body for thirteen years. 

Meg was busy trying to keep her cool. She hated stores, she hated being up in the morning. It wasn’t the morning itself she hated, but the people it brought. It wasn’t their fault, but she couldn’t stop comparing herself to the functioning, well-balanced people she saw, and it made her despise them. She despised them for showing her how badly she was failing, how she should just try harder, just be better. Why couldn’t she just wake up and be fine?

She felt like a stain, an obvious stand-out in a sea of humans. Sometimes, she wished she could be invisible, to not be perceived, to exist in the in-between. But instead she had to give fake smiles and pretend that the person she hated the most in here wasn’t herself. Just as the anxiety and stress were slowly building back up, filling her lungs with salted water, a finger poked her shoulder. 

“Hey Miss, is the guard your boyfriend?” It was one of the teenage girls from the entrance; the other two were standing behind, eyes wide open. 

“No, no, he’s just… my friend.” Meg wasn’t sure that ‘friend’ was the right word. They had been pawns on the opposite side of a chessboard for so long, and now they had found each other again. She had no idea why he treated her so warmly, maybe guilt, but surely they were more than acquaintances now. Whatever they were, they were the only ones capable of understanding each other’s reality. 

“Ugh, I know what it means when adults say that,” the sharp voice of the girl snapped her out of her overthinking, “he is her boyfriend! Lame.” 

Meg didn’t have time to correct them before the girls had run away again, probably to curse her name for being the lucky one they thought she was. At least they hadn’t made fun of her hair; that had to be a win. 

When she left the store, with a cart full of alcohol and instant foods, Evan was talking to his boss. She felt sad she couldn’t say goodbye as she wouldn’t see him for a few days yet, but she waved at him. Even from that distance, she felt hooked to him when he stared straight into her eyes and gave her an imperceptible smile. It was barely there, but it felt so warm she didn’t want to look away. She did anyway. 

Scott was at the bar again that night, with his posse, staring daggers at her. She wanted him to leave her alone; she wanted everyone to stay out of her business. This felt like high school drama and she had died too many times to deal with that. 

She thought of Nea, the one she missed most. They had connected instantly, creating moments of fun and love in a realm built for pain only. When she felt life violently taken away from her, she always knew that she’d have a warm embrace to reawaken her at the campfire. They used to listen to each other complain; they used to dream of escaping together. But Nea had been left behind; there would be no more stolen kisses, no more soft words, no more laughter.

She couldn’t think about Nea too much, couldn’t imagine the advice she would give to her. If she did, Nea’s face would become distorted, bloody, beaten, crying out, ‘why did you leave me ? Why do you deserve to be happy while I suffer ?’ 

Meg knew she shouldn’t torture herself; she had done what she could to escape. Her punishment would be to carry the guilt of being the sole survivor for the rest of her life. She couldn’t hope that Nea would escape; she couldn’t hope to see her again. Meg didn’t want to remember, she didn’t want to forget. She just wanted to get so drunk time itself stopped existing, and emotions would be erased. 

Yet Scott would stare on, so she couldn’t get too drunk unless she wanted a ticket as she drove home. She wished she could have yelled at him all the horrors she had been through, to let him know the deep cruelty of his actions. She wished he would stop being a self-centered asshole. But her backbone felt the smallest it had ever been, shrunk by fear and loneliness. Instead, she spent the rest of the night doing as little as she could, trying to breathe, trying to ignore the cold taking root inside her bones. She was a robot, performing mechanical actions, no thinking, no being. If she had to exist, then she would do the bare minimum. If she had to exist, she still had the power to turn off her thoughts and forget who she was. 

She only felt like she was back in her body as she parked her car in her cluttered driveway. She knew she needed to be more careful on her drives home; she had no recollection of any of it. But here she was, in one piece. As she crossed her threshold, she knew sleep would elude her again. Everything was frightening, too silent, too empty. Loneliness filled every dark, dirty corner of her home. 

Blue and red lights flashed up and down the street as she was getting undressed. Maybe she had driven too recklessly, maybe she would get arrested, or worse. But they never pulled in. They just drove by a few times during the next hour, bringing by the same anxiety each time. Her bones still felt like cold metal embedded in her flesh; she was craving a warm drink, something to make her feel whole. Hot whiskey is what she decided on, not quite a fine tea, but it would warm her faster. 

As she took small sips, looking at her window, resigning herself to another sleepless night, she saw something. On her porch, a small circular light was lighting up intermittently. A cigarette was being smoked. She could hardly make out his shape with the very small amount of light bleeding from her house, but it was him, it was Evan. He was sitting on the half-broken chair decorating her porch. He was the dragon guarding her tower. She thought of going out there and inviting him in, but he hadn’t knocked. This was simply his way of keeping the promise he had made, and she would respect that. 

Instead of laying down in her bed, she decided to rest her body on the couch in her living room. From there she could see the ember light up, and she felt like she could hear him breathe. She imagined being against him, rocked by his chest moving up and down, his smell surrounding her until nothing else was real. Sleep reached her fast, dreams filled with warm embraces. 

Evan could see her on the couch from the window. She looked so vulnerable, so small and limp while she slept. He was content watching her from here, observing her from a distance, stalking her from the darkness. He didn’t want her to know he was here, didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. He just wanted her to rest, to be safe. And if anyone did arrive, then he would do what he did best. 

For now, he would sit alone in a damp and broken chair, if that meant he could watch her breathe all night through. One day, maybe, he would get to hold her as he did. 

 

[everybody thank @picosk1 AGAIN for the amazing art, it's insanely beautiful]

Notes:

Sorry it took so long to write this, I hit a big hump in the middle of chapter and felt stuck!
Bisexual Meg representation in this chapter <33
ty so much for all the love I got for this and TY SO MUCH FOR THE AMAZING ART PICOS <333 you make me want to write more and more <3

Chapter 7: The Fog Wanderers

Summary:

She was rubbing her thumb up and down on his arm, making the thoughts he had been trying to shove away emerge once again. He was so careful not to touch her, not wanting to scare her, but what if she wanted him to? She had only touched his arm so far; maybe he could too. So he covered her hand with his own, making it entirely disappear under his much larger one. She was warm, and her skin was unbearably soft, like a feather caressing his palm.

Notes:

[Bobbi is busy gaming right now so this chapter is NOT beta read yet, I will update when it is]

Five nights had come and gone. On the eve of the second one, Meg had cleaned up her porch a little. Cleaning might be overstating it, but she had moved the bags of trash to her driveway and pushed the broken chair to the side. In its place she had put down an old lounge chair, one you’d see poolside, made of old crumbling plastic. On it she had placed a frayed cushion and a moth-eaten blanket. It looked like trash, but it was by design. She wanted it to look like it belonged with the rest of the garbage littering her porch, not like it was there for a different reason. Thankfully she had a lot of damaged belongings to create this inconspicuous sitting area. 

She was hoping Evan would come back, but she felt bad he had spent the whole night in a barely standing chair. She knew there was no way he had gotten any sleep. If she was going to be protected by him, the least she could do was provide a semi-comfortable place to rest. She had debated putting down an ashtray, but that would have given it away. He didn’t have to know she knew. 

Every single night he appeared in the dark, and every morning he was gone by the time she woke up. He had come by the bar on Thursday night, to inform her of the hour at which he would pick her up the next day. They had decided he would join her at her house at 5 PM, and she would drive them there. Meg would have been okay with walking, but just this time, she wanted to wear heels. She wanted to dress up and do her hair, and she wasn’t intending on walking two miles in uncomfortable shoes.  

Thankfully, she didn’t have to take a day off. Amelia had shut down the bar for the day, wanting to give her employees the opportunity to partake in the celebration. Meg thus had the whole day to agonize over her hair, her skin, and what she would wear. She felt uncomfortable. How long had it been since she cared that much? These days she was just happy for her clothes not to be caked in blood and ash, but today everything felt awkward. She couldn’t feel satisfied with her reflection in the mirror. Why did a woman in her mid-twenties still have pimples anyway? 

She felt like she was pretending to be a grown woman, and every dress looked like a costume on her. Sweat was pearling on her skin from trying so many clothes on, and frustration made it hard not to give up. For a minute, or maybe fifteen, she sat on the ground in her panties, hair in rollers, surrounded by discarded dresses, wondering how the hell she was going to live up to the expectation she had for herself tonight. She stretched her arm to her bedside table to reach for her CD player. For a song, she stayed sitting there, unmoved. For the next one, she tapped her foot and shook her head. And for the third, she stood up and watched herself dance in her mirror. 

It would make her sweatier, but she didn’t care. She wanted to feel joy, adrenaline. She wanted to feel a rush, to pick herself up. Her old, scratched CDs filled with the playlists she used to make for herself were filled with teenage happiness and headbangers. It felt warmer than liqueur, better than a run. Soon, her song had ended, a couple of her rollers had fallen out, and her face was flushed pink. She smiled at her reflection. It was her. A glimpse of the person she could still be. She put the rollers back in and started looking over her dresses with renewed enthusiasm. 

She ended up picking a burgundy wrap-over dress. She had bought it because it was made of stretchy, comfortable fabric, letting her get away with wearing comfy clothing even while looking somewhat fancy. The bottom of it reached mid-thigh and the plunging v-neck was flattering on her modest chest. Picking shoes was easier, as she only owned one pair of heels. They were black; she figured that would go with any outfit when she purchased them. She had only worn them a handful of times, mostly in her own room while trying on outfits. She liked the way they made her look, but there was rarely ever anything important enough to make her give up the comfort of tennis shoes. 

Doing her makeup and hair was not something she was particularly adept at, but she applied herself carefully. This wasn’t a date, but she hadn’t gone out in a while, and she wanted to make sure she looked her best. Crimson lips and eye pencil would be enough, loose curls framing her face, and a bit of perfume to top it all off. The syrupy scent of jasmine and honeysuckle was the one her mother had worn on special occasions. She had bought herself a bottle of it when she had recognized it in a store, sometimes spraying some on her pillow before she slept. But at the moment, she imagined her mom giving her the bottle, a stamp of approval of who she was meeting this evening. 

Unfortunately, she had gotten ready a bit too fast, and now she had to wait for twenty minutes, nervously pacing her living room. She didn’t want to start drinking yet; she wanted to be fully herself when he came to pick her up. She turned on her TV to distract herself, but the anxiety was building up, and nothing was distracting. She found herself zapping through channels faster than she could see what was on, trying to drown out the buzzing in her brain with mindless noise. The news, crappy movie, animated show, more news, romcom, 90’s show, kids show, old movie. She ended up stopping on John Carpenter’s ‘The Thing’. She had arrived at the halfway point of the movie, but having seen it already, it wasn’t much of an issue. 

A loud knock on her door snapped her out of her focus on the film. She shut her TV down and gave herself a quick look in the small mirror that hung on the wall next to her door. Her hand was shaking as she opened her door, not fear, anticipation. He was standing there, holding a few wildflowers when the door opened. He didn’t hand them to her right away, frozen, staring at her face, lips ever so slightly agape. Meg could feel the silence lasting too long and, trying to break it, curtsied clumsily. She could feel the heat of her cheeks as soon as she did, berating herself silently for being so awkward. 

“Meg, you…” He was breathing out heavily, “This is for you.” He handed her the cream-colored flowers. 

“Thank you, it’s lovely!” Her fingertips grazed his palm as she took his gift, trying to think of how to wear them. She would have stuck them in her hair, but she was afraid they would fall, so she tied them to the twine that was still around her wrist. 

After she locked her door, he held out his arm for her silently. Grateful for the extra balance on her unsteady driveway, she took it, and let him lead her to her car. Once there, he opened the door for her before going to his own side. She knew it wasn’t a date, and she was thankful it wasn’t, because no other man she’d known could compare to the gentleman she was discovering Evan to be. She guessed it had to do with his upbringing, with being such an old-fashioned person. 

She didn’t know much of who he was before. He seemed to close up, give one-word answers, when she would ask him questions of his past. She was curious, of course, he was her friend now. But she wanted to give him time; she didn’t want to pry. He was obviously a much more complex person than the animalistic killer she had once thought him to be, and that meant he deserved her respect, maybe even her forgiveness. 

Evan grunted as he got in the car. Whatever model it was, it was much smaller than some of the ones he’d seen in town. His legs were cramped there uncomfortably, and he could feel the top of his head reach the roof of the car. He’d have much rather walked, but once he’d seen how Meg was dressed, he understood why she did not want to. And he would have been willing to be in the world’s smallest car if only to see her as tempting as she was tonight. Her sweet, flowery scent filled the car, and Evan was doing his best not to let his mind go to its deepest corners, not to let it think of all the things he’d want to do. 

The fact that her hand grazed his thigh every time she grabbed the gear shift made it hard for him to focus. 

“I’m sorry,” she spoke very softly, “my car is pretty small, I didn’t think about how uncomfortable it could be for you.”

“It’s fine.” His voice sounded strained. There were many things he wanted to do in this instant and none of them were appropriate. His fists were clenched, but he was trying to relax, not wanting to scare her. He focused on the flowers he’d gotten from the woods for her. He’d looked around for some that were special, and when he’d seen those bushes he had chuckled a little. Trapper’s tea. He knew what it was, he’d drunk a nasty concoction made of its leaves to alleviate a bad cold he’d had once before. The name was ironic, but the clusters of small white flowers looked beautiful. They should not have been blooming this late; it felt like they had just been waiting there for him, a bittersweet reminder of who he had been. 

He had gone and looked for them before getting ready, not wanting to mud up his outfit. He’d chosen the same white shirt as on his birthday, but was wearing muted green slacks instead of his grey ones. He hadn’t been to an event of any kind since escaping the Entity’s realm, but even before that, he had never really gone out much. Sure, he’d gone to dinners and salons hosted by other influential businessmen his dad frequented, but he remembered those as bleak affairs, filled with thinly veiled threats and flattery. 

His mom had taken him to the theater once, before her untimely demise. He was still a young teen, so excited to go to the city with his mother. He had dressed up and treated her like the fine lady she was. She was happy, smiling and laughing when he held his arm out for her to step out of their vehicle, complimenting his manners when he curtsied. She was happy then, and that was how he tried to remember her face in his memories. Her tied-up blonde hair and blue eyes, always smiling, not bruised and afraid. The play itself, Hazel Kirke, was a love story, telling the tale of a kind young girl breaking her engagement to marry a man who she’d nursed back to health and who later on saved her from ending her own life for the pain of being disowned by her father. That evening was one of the only fond memories from his past, and he kept it well hidden within himself, to be looked upon in rare moments of tenderness. He was so focused on it he didn’t notice the car coast to a stop. 

“Evan,” she put her hand on his arm, “We’re here. Sorry you looked lost in thought, I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“It’s okay,” he shouldn’t have sat in silence this whole time; he was supposed to show her a good time, “I’m… sorry. I was thinking of my mother.” He wasn’t sure why he offered up the truth, but he liked thinking of his mother and Meg conversing. He thought they would have made quite the pair, and he was certain his mom would have enjoyed Meg’s sharp sense of humor. The thought of it made him smile. 

“Fond memories?” She was rubbing her thumb up and down on his arm, making the thoughts he had been trying to shove away emerge once again. He was so careful not to touch her, not wanting to scare her, but what if she wanted him to? She had only touched his arm so far; maybe he could too. So he covered her hand with his own, making it entirely disappear under his much larger one. She was warm, and her skin was unbearably soft, like a feather caressing his palm. He squeezed it slightly, not wanting to bruise her. 

“Very much so,” he whispered, never letting go of her hand or her gaze. Her eyes were a soft blue, the same as his mom’s had been. He wondered how they looked in the sunlight, or beneath the grey of a storm. She wasn’t moving, just softly smiling up at him, cheeks rosy and painted lips. He didn’t dare move himself, not wanting to disturb this moment of peace. This was the closest he’d been held in over a century, and greed was slowly creeping up his spine, whispering in his ear, telling him to grab her, to hold her, squeeze her against him and not let her go. Instead, he just squeezed her hand a bit tighter before letting it go and clearing his throat. 

“Stay seated, I’ll get the door.” He talked softly, but it was clear that wasn’t a request. He felt satisfied to see her comply, greed replaced by smugness. He squeezed his large body out of the small car before opening her door and helping her out. She had grabbed his arm again, seemingly not wanting to let go of it. It probably was a pain to walk with the shoes she had on, and it had to be for balance rather than anything else, but it fueled his pride nonetheless.

There was a respectable crowd present, the sound of laughter and conversations filling the air. Colorful triangular bunting were hanging from tree to tree, accompanied by fairy lights that had not yet been turned on. The air smelled of warm food and spiced drinks, warming the spirit of any passersby. He let her lead the way, walking between stalls, until she found one that caught her eye. The table was covered in little animal figurines made of carved wood. 

The artisan, a scruffy-looking old man, was smoking a wooden pipe and didn’t look up when Meg started picking up figurines for Evan to look at. 

She seemed particularly interested in two of them; one shaped like a bear, the other one a doe. She was holding one in each hand, making them walk side by side in the air. 

“Look, it’s us!” she exclaimed, laughing. He felt a pang in his chest as she said that. To him, the bear had been his father, a murderous, violent predator that had taken his mother from him. He knew she didn’t mean it like that, he knew it was a joke about their past life, a reminder of the bear traps he had caught her in so many times. He did see her as a doe, his sweet, soft prey, all too ready to see the good that might be in him. Standing behind Meg, he reached his arm around her to grab the doe carving from her hand. 

“How about you get the bear,” he said, pulling his wallet out of his pocket, “and I get the doe.”

She didn’t step away, trapped between the table and Evan, only lifting her head to look at him, eyes wide open. She looked surprised but didn’t have time to respond; the old vendor had already gotten out of his seat at the slightest mention of a sale. 

“That’ll be twenty for the two of them,” the grey-haired man announced in a raspy voice. 

Meg tried to pull money out of her purse, but Evan was quicker and had taken a twenty-dollar note from his wallet and handed it to the other man before she could stop him. After they had walked away from the stall, she started berating him. 

“Evan, you really didn’t have to…” she was trying to pout, but the corners of her mouth were betraying her true feelings. She was still holding the bear with both hands, occasionally rubbing its snout with her thumb. 

“I know,” he had slipped the doe in his pocket, keeping it safe, “I wanted to, though.” 

“Well, I probably make more money than you… I could have at least paid half, old man.” She had grabbed his arm again as she said that, and the way she squeezed it felt like a thank you. 

As the afternoon went on, they visited other stalls, Meg proceeding to buy herself a few other trinkets as well as a cookbook from a self-published local woman. He was content to walk by her side and observe her as she did her shopping until he heard her stomach growl loudly. They had been here for over an hour, his watch indicating 6:34 PM. The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but the light had begun to turn a warmer shade of orange. Meg, however, was turning a darker shade of red. 

“I’m sorry,” she looked away as she said this, “I completely forgot to eat today.” 

He felt the urge to reprimand her, but she was clearly embarassed, and he didn’t want to ruin her fun day. 

“Come on, there’s plenty of food around. Lady’s choice.”

Meg ended up picking a stall with a few chairs that sold hot sandwiches and spiced wine. She had gotten a sandwich covered in melted aged cheese, meat, and pickles, smiling from ear to ear as she bit into it, still being careful not to stain herself. He himself had gotten a pulled pork sandwich, something he had found to be quite tasty since being back. He’d always been an enjoyer of meat, and modern barbecue sauce had taken a hold of his heart. Meg had also ordered multiple glasses of the mulled wine, claiming it was to warm herself despite the mild weather. Her lipstick was mostly gone, but the drinks had stained her lips a dark purple, which looked even better than her makeup had. 

“Oooh, I feel better,” she rubbed her slightly swollen belly through her dress, “and so warm inside!”

“I think that’s the alcohol, Meg.” He’d had a glass himself, but Meg had had at least three. She poked her tongue at him when he called her out, and he noticed it was also stained purple. 

“Next time you do that, I’ll grab it.” He leaned forward, bringing their faces closer to each other. He could smell the alcohol on her breath from here. 

“You can try, but I’m faster than you, grandpa!” She quickly poked her tongue out again to taunt him, but he was too slow to react, distracted by the sight of it so close to his face, and poked her nose with his finger instead. As he did, the fairy lights blinked to life, casting their soft glow on them. 

The sun was now fully setting, and the crafts stalls were slowly being shut down. The ones serving food and drinks seemed to be staying open; there were still hungry and thirsty customers all around. The wooden stage at the center of the plaza was starting to come alive, microphone and stools being set up for the band that was soon to come. There were a few rows of chairs set up in front of it, slowly being filled by expectant folks. Meg and Evan, however, could see the stage completely fine from the stools they were on and elected to stay so Meg could keep ordering more spiced wine. 

Absentmindedly looking around at the crowd, Evan brought a cigarette to his mouth. Before he could light it, Meg had snatched it from his lips and put it between her own. She stared at him, a cocky smile on her face. 

“C’mon, soldier, light me up.” She mumbled around the cigarette. 

Out of all the things he wanted to do to her in the moment, lighting her cigarette was not at the top of the list. Yet, he obliged, never dropping her gaze as she took a long inhale before blowing the smoke out of her nose. He grabbed it out of her lips to take a drag himself, but then brought it back to her mouth. He didn’t let go of it this time, holding it steady as she breathed in again, staring straight into his soul. His index and middle fingers were brushing against her lips, almost tickling him with how light the contact was. He wanted to push them further against her face, wanted to feel the texture of her lips on his fingertips. This time when he removed the cigarette to put it back in his own lips, she blew the smoke directly in his face. 

He had no idea if she was toying with him on purpose, if she knew of the black tendrils that were wrapping around his brain, squeezing the reason out of it. He readjusted in his seat, sitting a bit straighter, anything to bring himself to reason. 

“That’s it,” he said, smirking, “You’re cut off.” 

She let out an indignant snort, face twisted in theatrical outrage, dramatically putting her hand on her own chest.

“I did nothing wrong, sir!”

“Oh, I think you know very well what you did, woman.” His voice was low, gravelly, secretly wanting her to confess that, yes, she had done it on purpose. Instead, she offered him a mischievous smile, leaving him not much more sure of where he stood. The microphone hummed and buzzed, diverting both their attention. The singer was sporting a long salt and pepper beard, holding an acoustic guitar. Behind him were four other band members, all clad in various flannel and denim.

“Hey folks, we hope you’ve had a good day at the fall festival today!” As the singer paused his speaking into the crackling microphone, the crowd gave a light cheer. “We’re the Fog Wanderers, born and raised here in Galena, we’re going to play a few songs for you tonight, enjoy!”

Meg was looking at the stage, tapping her foot against Evan’s stool. Her neck was stretched to the side, her front facing him, but her face positioned towards the stage. For a few songs she stayed sitting like this, only moving to clap and holler at the end of songs. For a few songs, he did not take his eyes off her. 

She had ordered another cup and was drinking it slowly, enjoying its warmth all the more now that the sun had set. The crowd had fully come alive, people standing all around the stage, clapping and stomping along to songs they did not know. The few children still present at this hour were dancing around the chairs, holding hands in a circle, their laughter piercing the air. 

After a particularly lively song came to an end, the singer spoke to the crowd again. 

“If you brought someone special, this is your sign to get up and grab ‘em, this next one is a slow song!” As he said that, couples of all ages started getting up, holding each other close. Meg in particular seemed to focus on a dad that held out his hand to his young daughter, formally asking her for her hand. The small girl stood on his feet, beaming smile, readily awaiting the dance that was to come. What struck Evan was the sadness in Meg’s eyes despite the smile on her face. He wanted to know why, but mostly, he wanted to rip the sadness away and bring back the joy she felt earlier. 

Evan did not like feeling scared; it meant being weak. And being weak was the worst crime a man could commit, it meant not being deserving of respect. Though, in this instant, he could not deny it, he was afraid. Yet he only had a few short moments to decide what he was more scared of: being rejected by her, or missing the chance to hold her in his arms. As the first note of harmonica rang in the air, he decided he was done with remorse and regret. He wanted something, he would get it. 

He got up, and looking in her eyes, offered his hand. She looked hesitant for a second, letting Evan’s heart beat loudly on his eardrums. After what felt like an eternity, she softly put her hand in his and let him guide her up from her stool. He had not danced in over a hundred years; he had learned as every educated boy from a well-to-do family should, but he was rusty. 

Her other hand was resting on his chest, right below his shoulder, while his rested on her waist. He felt like his blood was rushing to the places their bodies met, burning where his skin touched her. He felt hungry for more, wanting to grab her close like some of the other couples, and pull her flush against him. But he was only here to repay her for what he’d done to her, to bring joy where he’d inflicted suffering. So he guided her through a slow dance, careful not to step on her feet. He felt imprisoned by her gaze, unable to understand what her eyes meant, her face expressing something he hadn’t seen there before. 

Halfway through the song, she slid her hand that was on his chest under his arm, to rest it on his back instead. Doing that let her get closer to him, closing her eyes and resting her ear on his heart. She was close enough that he could encircle her whole waist with his arm, making his earlier wish come true. He could feel her chest flush against his midriff, and the warmth of her hand drawing circles on his back. He felt bare, knowing she could hear his heart beating wildly against his ribs. He felt her hum against him, her fingers digging a little deeper in his muscles, a slight shiver coursing through her whole body. He wondered how she could be cold, when she felt like a burning ember to him. 

In his mind, they were alone, no one to see them, no one to interrupt. His body ended where hers began, and he never wanted to let go, never wanted the song to end. Where the Entity had been his hell, this could have been his salvation. To dance with her for eternity, he could hardly think of anything better. So when the melody faded, he didn’t let go, neither did she. They had stopped dancing and had settled on holding each other, unmoving. She lifted her head, resting her chin against him instead of her cheek, looking in his eyes once more, eyelids heavy. 

“I’m sleepy… I think I had too much wine.” She was mumbling, proving her own words to be true. Without a second thought, he bent down, putting one arm behind her knees, lifting her off her feet. He remembered the weight of her, but he had never carried her that way, like a new bride. She had instinctually wrapped her arms around his neck to keep her balance. That left him with a free hand; with it, he put some money down on the counter to pay for the food and copious amount of alcohol they had consumed.

“What are you doing?!” She didn’t look angry, but she was tense, a little ball of nerves in his arms. He was worried he had scared her, taken it too far. The last time he had carried her, it had ended with her shoulder ripped open on a butcher hook. 

“I thought… I thought I’d take you home.” He didn’t want her to drive while this tired, and he figured he could walk to her house again. She was light enough that it would barely be more tiring than being empty-handed. He was expecting her to protest, ask to be put down. Instead, she rested her head against his chest and closed her eyes again. He barely heard her whisper. 

“This is better than being thrown on your shoulder.” It would take an eternity to be deserving of her forgiveness, and he would give his whole existence to make sure he was. 

By the time they reached her house, she was breathing slowly, soundly asleep in his arms. He sat on the old lounge chair, careful not to wake her, and stared at her. He looked at her chest rising slowly, then falling back down. He looked at her limp hands lying on her own belly, and at her slightly parted lips. He knew he had to wake her up to get her keys to the house, but he wanted to enjoy this stolen moment of peace. He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, matching the speed of her breathing. After enough time had passed for him to memorize everything about the way she looked when she slept in his arms, he straightened his back and softly ran his hand against her cheek. 

“Meg, you’re home.” His voice sounded hoarser than he wished it had. 

Her eyes slowly blinked open, and she stretched her limbs like a cat that had just awoken from a nap. She hummed and licked her lips, eyes still half asleep. She ruffled through her purse and pulled out her keychain and handed it to him. 

“I don’t wanna walk to bed, please.” Her eyes were closed again, head lulled to the side. Evan fumbled a little with the key, struggling to see the lock past the body of the woman in his arms. Now that he was inside, he realized how much worse it was than he had thought. He couldn’t imagine how miserable she had to be to let her home get in such a state. He followed her mumbled directions and carefully walked around the discarded clothes on the floor of her bedroom, before carefully letting her down on her bed. It felt like the world had gone cold, away from her touch. Just as he was about to walk away, her hand shot up to grab his. 

“Stay, I don’t want to be alone again…” He squeezed her hand as she said that. As much as he wanted to climb in bed next to her and hold her as she slept, he couldn’t do that. He didn’t trust himself to do that and then go back to his empty bed for the rest of his life. 

“I’ll stay on the couch, okay?” She grimaced at his reponse but did not protest. She gave a small nod and opened her eyes long enough to return his gaze. 

“Thank you for taking me home.”

“Anytime.” He was massaging her fingers between his own as he spoke, “Goodnight, Meg.”

She mumbled a sound that sounded vaguely like a goodnight, then yawned and stilled. Evan laid her hand softly by her side before taking off her shoes and covering her with the blanket. He had always fancied himself a strong man, but every step that took him further from her embrace made him feel like he walked against a raging current. Tomorrow, he’d leave before she woke up. Yet he knew he could never wait till next Friday to talk to her again, and he didn’t know how long he would survive without being held by her once more. She had become the only thing that mattered, the only thing that made sense. She gave the future meaning, and for her, he would become more than he was; one way or another, he would find redemption.

Notes:

I wanna thank every MegMillan shipper for having been so kind to me, all of the great people I've met through this fic, it's incredible ! All the fanart, all the love, it really really means a lot to me <33

I will be travelling to America so it might take me a bit longer to write next chapter as I deal with jetlag, but do not worry I am not abandoning this :3 <3