It's been a rough day for all of them.

Harry's covered with scrapes, bruises, rips and tears in places that shouldn't be possible. It's a miracle he didn't get bitten by those goddamn crabs – at least James has that to be thankful for. Finally reaching the inside of the Cathedral, James drops Harry out of the fireman's hold he has on him.

"Thanks."

Frown still firmly plastered on his face, the taller man pokes lightly at Harry's chest. "Don't thank me. You nearly got yourself killed, Harry." The other man averts his eyes, choosing not to reply, and James has to stifle something like a growl. "Damn it, Harry, pay more goddamn attention!"

"Fuck off."

The words are angry, sour, and almost seem out of place in Harry's mouth. This is not what James is looking to hear. The blonde lets out a frustrated bellow before reaching forward and grabbing the fabric of Harry's shirt. "What the fuck, Harry? Are you just… giving up? Are you going to throw away any chance of surviving, of find-" His tirade is cut off rather abruptly through the angry collision of lips, and James makes no hesitation in tightening his grip on Harry's shirt as he returns the kiss.

This is almost a standard procedure by now, after all. One of them will go and do something fucked up, something suicidal to the point of idiocy, and after the ensuing fight they'll just waste their time making out like two idiotic little schoolchildren. It's only natural – James is looking for a substitute for Mary, and Harry's so desperate for human contact that even a slightly pudgy, surly manchild will do.

James doesn't really pay attention to any of those thoughts, instead choosing to stop the already-awkward kiss and help Harry stand up and limp to the bedroom area.

By the time they reach the bed, James is ready to continue what was started earlier. Harry doesn't seem to object, and the session begins anew.

A sudden, sharp knock at the door throws James out of whack, and he immediately breaks away from his position on the bed to glance at the clock. It's 1:30. In the damn morning. What the hell…?

"I had a bad dream." The voice is muffled through the Cathedral's archaic door, but it is still unmistakably Walter's. James prepares to yell at him, to shoo him away so he can get what he came here for, when Harry's low baritone cuts across the room.

"Are you okay, Walter? Do you want to talk?"

Harry finally notices James's incredulous gaze, his dropped mouth. You can't be serious. You're joking with me. This is a fucking joke. Shaking his head sternly, Harry frowns at James as the other man – a thirty-four year old in a twenty-year-old's body, Walter Sullivan – enters the room, clutching a pillow to himself.

"Come on, Walter. Sit down." Harry's scooted away from James and his half unbuttoned shirt. James would protest, but he's too busy just staring in shock at Harry, who's patting the area next to him for the socially inept serial killer to come sit down and talk.

Absently, James waits, staring at the wall in an attempt to hide just how painfully awkward this whole ordeal is, when he hears Walter say, in a quiet, sad voice,

"Do I have to go back out there?"

Frantically, James's head begins shaking back and forth. NonononoNO. No fucking way. Sure enough, Harry turns back to Walter, and for one fleeting moment he's satisfied that Harry is going to kick the freeloader out of the room.

Instead, Harry scoots over and begins to part the blankets for Walter.

That night, Walter and Harry sleep like logs. James, on the other hand, chooses to stare up at the ceiling.

The wife-killer, the single-father-author, and the mass murderer, all one big, happy family. The father, mother, and son. The American Dream, brought to you by Silent Hill. The thought hits James hard, and he can barely keep the snorted laughter silent.

Harry – Mom – is going to get hell for this.

Based off of Project Daisychain, a Cloverfield multi-fandom RP. That's why Walter acts so weird, James is so grouchy, and Harry's... Harry.