Disclaimer: I don't own Sluggy Freelance or any of its characters.

AN: This was based on the end of That Which Redeems, from Sluggy Freelance. Forgive the confusion... and special thanks to Kya, who didn't get it but read it anyway. I was seriously taken aback by the image posted December 9, 2004. Yeah, it struck me. This is narrated by Zoe, during those panels.


War and Peace. I don't know what compelled me to read that just then—I think it was because everything was so… I don't know. Too hectic to be ordinary, too calm to be normal, I guess.

It had actually been a project of mine for a while, and I'd gotten to a pretty good part, about halfway through (it was still slow, but… well, what isn't?). That's why I was up late that night. I just wanted to get to the end of the chapter, I swear. I wasn't waiting up for him. I hadn't been waiting up for him every night since he disappeared. Because that would be stupid and crazy, and anyway he liked Angela, right? Her or Oasis or some other floozy, and even if he didn't I had plenty of other guys to turn to, and…

Okay. I missed him. That much I'll admit. But for once that stupid book had finally gotten interesting enough to get my mind off of him, and then the room was blasted with a blinding flash of light. Experience should have told me to hide, or grab a gun, or do anything except for getting up and peeking into the empty room that had once belonged to Torg.

It wasn't empty anymore.

It was him. Actually him, even though his clothes were weird and he was holding on to a backpack and sword like it was for dear life, and there was an ugly bruise still fading under one eye. Even though there was something strange about his eyes that I didn't recognize just then. He wasn't some other Torg from some other dimension. He was ours. I don't know how I could tell; I just could.

He just stood there for a couple of seconds, looking dazed and wary. I didn't think. I was just happy—ecstatic that he was alive and safe and home, and I rushed up and just about tackled the guy. The bag and sword fell to the floor, and I was grinning, about to laugh my head off, hugging him so hard it hurt to breathe.

Hugging him so hard I could feel him shaking. Not with laughter or dread, but shaking like he was in pain. His arms were stiff. His head was bowed. I could feel something warm and wet on my shoulder. I opened my mouth to say something—I had to say something—but I felt his legs begin to give out under him. Slowly he sank to his knees, and I followed him like a lifeline he didn't have the strength to hold on to.

I was lost. The entire time he was silent; not a word, not a moan, not a whimper. I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing at all. I just held him tighter and let him cry into my shoulder. His arms lifted almost woodenly, arched around me as though he wanted to return my hug or just pull me close, but he stopped. Just froze in place, encircling the air around my back, too frightened to let himself touch me, too sure that whatever was wrong would never, ever be okay. I squeezed him tighter until the trembling stopped and my nightshirt was too soaked to notice any more tears. And even if I never said it out loud, I promised that I would stay there and hold him as long as he needed me.

I promised him.