The knocking seemed to start in Anthony's dreams before dragging him into consciousness as it got louder. Someone was banging on the door of his apartment, and they were still at it.

He blinked a few times, trying to shake off sleep, and checked his watch. 7am. Great. He couldn't have got in much earlier than five and after the night he'd had, spent getting shot at trying to protect some asshole's drug shipment, two hours sleep just wasn't gonna cut it. There was a very limited number of people who even knew where he lived, just Bruce, who was out of state at college, and maybe the two guys who'd dropped him off a few blocks away after work a few hours back, and they'd been just as worn out as he was. He'd told his landlady not to come round till at least noon after he'd started working nights, but he was running late this month with rent so maybe she'd 'forgotten' on purpose. Yeah, that'd make sense.

For a few seconds, he considered ignoring it; he'd been so tired he'd not even made it to bed, just passed out on the sofa still in his leather jacket, one shoe still on and the other on the floor, but the knocking went on. He sat up slowly, running a hand over his face and shrugging off his jacket.

"I told you, I ain't got your rent yet! You'll get it Thursday!"

There was no response, so Anthony dragged himself off the sofa, slipped his other shoe back on and ran a hand through his hair. Looked like they weren't gonna stop.

"I get paid Thursday," he snapped as he yanked the door open. "Then I can get you two fucking months-"

It wasn't his landlady.

Anthony almost didn't recognise the figure stood at his door until he stepped further out of the shadows and into the light of the bare bulb hanging in the corridor. It had been three years but recognition dawned quickly. God, he wasn't the sort of guy to freeze, in his line of work guys who froze didn't last very long, but he suddenly couldn't move, could barely even breathe, like he was paralysed where he stood.

Carl Elias, just stood there looking like the day they'd finally fallen apart. He looked like a lost puppy; desperate and scared, but when he finally seemed to realise it was Anthony stood in front of him, relief flooded onto his features. He was swaying where he stood, but even with all that must have changed in the last three years, Anthony didn't think Carl would have turned into the kind of guy who turned up drunk on his ex's doorstep.

"I, uh, I didn't know where else to go," he stuttered. Anthony still couldn't reply, just looked at him, and Carl finally met his eyes, raising his hands, palms up.

Not drunk. Definitely not drunk.

"Jesus…" Anthony's eyes flitted between the deep wounds across Carl's palms, bleeding steadily onto his doormat, and the hunted-animal look in his eyes. Nothing woke a man up like finding an old friend bleeding out at his front door. "Get in here."

He grabbed Carl by the shoulder and dragged him through the apartment to the bathroom. Carl didn't protest or try to shrug him off, allowing himself to be led and half-collapsing into the edge of the bath with his hands bleeding into his jeans when Anthony turned to find the first aid kit from his cupboard.

The only time Anthony ever remembered him being even close to a state like this had been more than ten years ago at the home when a couple of the staff had been even more brutal than usual in their 'correction', of Carl's behaviour. He'd taken the blame for something stupid Anthony had done, he barely remembered what, but Anthony hadn't known if he'd survive the night, and he'd seen and heard enough people die in juvie to know, a lot of the time. They'd slept in the same bed that night, narrow and uncomfortable as it was, Anthony playing it off like it was just so he could keep an eye on him but both of them knowing different. That had just been a beating, not… whatever this was. It was nothing short of a miracle Carl had even found his way here, to a place he'd probably come to a grand total of twice before. Anthony had moved in about a week before they'd broken up.

Somewhere inside him, he'd known this would happen. It had been the reason he'd given up in the first place; Carl had started working for some asshole with connections to his father, and Anthony had known that it would probably end with Carl in a shallow grave somewhere nobody would ever find him. At best… well, this; turning up at his door covered in blood, even though they hadn't so much as spoken in three years. It hadn't taken long for those predictions and Carl's refusal to admit there was any truth in them to drive something between them.

Anthony didn't say any of that; the last thing you needed when you were hurt and desperate was an 'I told you so' or a lecture, and he knew that from experience. Those could come later.

"You always did know how to pick your moments," Anthony said instead, glancing down at him.

Carl smirked weakly. "What, did I interrupt something?"

"Just my beauty sleep," Anthony shot back. He knelt on the floor in front of Carl and started to clean the blood from one of his hands, trying not to feel too satisfied when he winced at the alcohol getting into the wound.

"Not like you ever needed it," Carl looked away. "But I'm surprised you even answered the door."

Anthony hesitated. "Maybe I wouldn't have if I knew who it was gonna be."

That was a lie. Even after everything, the arguments, the resentment, just setting eyes on Carl felt like he'd been underwater for three years and that was his first breath of fresh air. He didn't look too hurt by it, anyway, but Carl had always been too good at reading people.

That was just one of the thousands of things that could have been the final reason for the slashes across his palms. The one he'd just finished cleaning was deep, but just a flesh wound, thank god. Anthony was used to this kind of thing and he had no idea what kind of heat would be on Carl's back if he needed to go see a real doctor. As it was he just needed stitches, and Anthony knew how to do that; he couldn't afford to go to the hospital every time some punk pulled a weapon or hit him too hard.

He threaded the needle he kept in the first aid kit, glancing up to see Carl watching him intently. "You think you could just put a bandaid on this mess?"

"Guess not," he said quietly, trying not to wince too hard when Anthony pushed the needle through his skin in the first stitch, but still watching, whether out of morbid fascination or intellectual curiosity.

"You'll be alright."

"Yeah? Think it'll scar?" He sounded hopeful, but Anthony couldn't tell which way. He remembered the old Carl, the kid he'd known before it started to go wrong, and half of him guessed that boy would have wanted the scars as a reminder knot to be so stupid or of who he owed a painful debt. Now… Anthony didn't know, but there was no point lying.

"Definitely."

Carl didn't offer any reaction, just a quiet, emotionless "Oh."

Anthony didn't stop to look up, to comfort him and to try and get some more details on what had happened, not while Carl was still bleeding, as much as he wanted to. Instead he tied off the stitches on the hand he'd been working on and started on the other.

Neither of them spoke again while he was working, not even when he finished and started to clean up, in fact Carl barely moved, just staring at his freshly stitched injuries, studying Anthony's handiwork. He kept that up until Anthony knelt down again in front of him and took one of his hands again, more gently now there was no more bleeding to stop, and started to wind a roll of gauze around it. If his thumb brushed the back of Carl's knuckles a couple of times and held on a second too long after he'd done, he tried not to show it, even though Anthony knew Carl was looking at him now, not his hands.

He looked up now, pretending to misinterpret the look and the questions in those eyes. "To stop you moving too much. Don't want you tearing those stitches.

"That's not what I-" Carl hesitated, then just nodded, looking back down. "Yeah, okay, that makes sense I guess."

"They do anything else?" Anthony said, trying to keep his voice level, even though he kept Carl's hand in his and Carl didn't try to pull away.

He shook his head. "Just this."

When Anthony spoke again, his voice was softer. "What happened?"

"Went out into the woods. We were supposed to be meeting someone out there but…" he hesitated. "It didn't go down that way."

"What about them?"

Carl went quiet for what felt like a long time then, carefully, said "They're not gonna be bothering anybody else."

Anthony didn't answer, starting to bandage his other hand. There was a time to offer comfort or opinions, and a time to shut up and listen.

"I never killed anyone before tonight," he said quietly, avoiding Anthony's eyes. "Always thought it would feel like some big victory or some big sin but it doesn't. I just feel numb."

Anthony thought back to the first man he'd killed; his father, life pouring out of the slash across his throat. Even stood there above the body, knife still gripped tight in hands, blood pouring down his face from the wound that had scarred him for life, he'd felt anything but numb. The satisfaction of watching that monster die by his hand, of feeling it, had been all that kept him going through the trial and his first few years of juvie. It was different for Carl, the guys he'd killed had tried to kill him first, it was a crime of necessity not years of anger and powerlessness finally boiling over. Self-defence felt different to retribution.

"That'll wear off when the shock's gone. Pretty soon you're probably gonna feel like crap."

"And you'd know?"

He nodded.

"How many?"

"Enough." Anthony shrugged. He tried not dwell on it. If any of them had got to him at first, they didn't now. Truth was, he didn't even know the exact number. There were the ones who were targets, the ones he'd killed in self defence, the ones who got caught in the crossfire. "It's pretty hard to get a real job when everyone knows you killed a guy before you were ten."

Carl didn't look scared or sympathetic, he'd never look down on Anthony enough for anything like that. That was one of the things he'd always loved, how he could have said anything and not gotten any judgement from those eyes. Anthony couldn't help but keep stealing glances back at him as he started to clean up, trying to take in every little quirk his mind had almost forgotten in their three years apart.

"You got anywhere to stay till the heat dies down?"

Carl shrugged. "I can find somewhere."

"There's a sofa here you can crash on for the rest of the day."

"Really?" He looked so hopeful for that second that Anthony couldn't look away.

He hesitated. It was too late for second thoughts at this point, after he'd already brought him in and offered. "Yeah, why not?"

Carl stood stiffly, shaking like he was struggling to stay upright. "Thanks."

Anthony shrugged and gestured back into the main part of the apartment, trying to hide himself softening to the idea of Carl being there. He had to have fucked up somewhere, this couldn't be happening again. Carl nodded, walking slowly as if his legs were suddenly heavy, wincing when he tried to grab the door frame for support as he staggered through. Anthony reached for him, letting Carl lean against him as he led him to the sofa. Whatever had kept him going until now had worn off and the blood loss was catching up with him. Anthony had been there, he knew when the adrenaline was gone it was hard to even keep your eyes open, never mind stay upright. Still, the contact was almost too much, reminding him of better times with his arm around Carl's waist, not just for support.

Carl collapsed onto the sofa as soon as they got close enough, lying down on his side so they could still face each other.

"Anything that could lead em here?"

"The car I got here in."

"Stolen?"

"From the guys… the guys I killed."

"I'll deal with it." If there was one thing Anthony had learned over the last few years, it was how to get rid of the evidence.

"Thanks," Carl whispered, eyes drooping.

"It's been three years, there's gotta be somebody else you coulda turned to with all this."

"Maybe," he shrugged. "But I didn't want them. I wanted you."

"Carl-"

"I know, it's been a long couple years. Things change," he looked away, rolling onto his back. "But when we were out there last night, I told them I get my strength from being alone, and I lied. All I could think about was you."

Anthony was silent for a second. Carl's eyes were shut now, he was barely awake and that vulnerability had to have come from exhaustion. He'd regret saying that later, if he even remembered it.

"Get some sleep."

"'Kay," Carl whispered, curling up and cradling his hands to his chest. Anthony didn't think he'd ever seen him look so innocent. He watched him sleep, not for long, but long enough to remember what he'd been missing the last few years, then straightened again, pulled his jacket back on and walked out of the door.

He had worked to do, and with any luck it would be enough to keep his mind off all this.

Anthony drove the car out to an empty lot he knew, far enough away that nothing would get pinned on him even if they might suspect it, but why would they?

There were a packet of cigarettes in the glove compartment which he pocketed, and a wallet in the door, which he took the cash out of, and made sure everything inside was soaked in enough gas to burn beyond recognition, but not before he checked the ID. The photo inside told him that the cops suspecting he'd had anything to do with the owner's death would be the least of his worries; it was one of Don Moretti's favourite goons, an all-round scumbag known for doing the worst of his boss's dirty work. He was glad he'd already decided it wasn't worth the risk taking the car out to a chop shop or trying to sell it, because otherwise he would've been disappointed. Anthony wasn't important, just some freelance thug, and even though that meant he probably wasn't important enough to even get recognised, never mind for anyone to think he was behind something like this, it also meant that they wouldn't hesitate to hurt him if they thought it was necessary, and the risk someone was going to realise who it was stolen from and ask some questions he couldn't answer was too much.

The whole way there and on the all-too-long subway journey back, all Anthony could think about was Carl, and what he'd said, no matter how hard he tried to focus on literally anything else. He couldn't even force himself to be pissed about the dead owner of the car working for Moretti, about that son of a bitch not even having the nerve to off his own kid, his mind still straying back to Carl still trusting him over everyone else after three long years and everything they'd said.

It had taken him a long time, too long, to get over all this the first time, and a few words were all it had taken to get him to fall back into old habits like a pining highschooler.

By the time he got back in, Carl was awake again, still on the sofa but sat up, staring at the wall. The blankness of shock and trauma was gone, and Anthony knew the expression that replaced them all too well; he was planning something, already deep in thought about it. He barely even seemed to realise Anthony was there until he'd finished cleaning up all the blood in the bathroom and stood opposite him.

"We gotta talk."

Carl blinked hard and looked up. "You're back?"

"Yeah." Anthony didn't move, staying stood and looking down at him.

"What do you wanna talk about?" Carl would know the answer to that already, of course he would, but he always stalled, always waited for other people to lay their cards out on the table before he'd reveal his own, and to be fair, Anthony already knew the answer to what he was going to ask, had even before he'd found the driver's licence in the car, but he had to ask, even if only to see if Carl would lie or even still defend his bastard of a father, even after everything he'd done.

"I wanna know who you pissed off."

"S'not important."

Anthony looked at him sharply. "Then it won't matter if you tell me."

Carl took a deep breath. "It was Moretti."

Anthony frowned, not even trying to hide his disapproval at finally hearing that admission, but glad he'd told the truth all the same.

"Go on, say it. Tell me you told me to stay away. You always knew this was the way it was going to turn out."

"That was a long time ago," Anthony said quietly, struggling to keep his voice even. Carl had said it like what he'd said had been an accusation, like Anthony hadn't been a scared kid, terrified that the one person in the world he loved was determined to head down a path that was going to get him killed. It might have taken three years for Moretti to prove him right, but it wasn't a victory. "But if it makes you feel any better, I told you so. What the fuck did you think he was gonna do?"

"I had to know," Carl shrugged weakly, then sneered. "Doesn't matter now anyway. Moretti's a coward and the others are worse. Someone needs to deal with them."

Anthony snorted, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, who?"

He didn't need an answer. One look at that steely resolve in Carl's eyes and the smirk that tugged at one corner of his lips was enough.

Anthony frowned. "You're an idiot."

"Yeah."

"You're gonna get yourself killed."

"Probably."

"You need a hand?"

Carl's eyes lit up, although he tried to hide it. "Thought you'd never ask."

For the first time that morning, Anthony grinned, half at the future, half at the light in Carl's eyes. He should have known Carl couldn't keep bowing to those assholes forever, it just wasn't his nature. It didn't make things right between them, not yet, but maybe, just maybe, there was hope. He crouched down in front of Carl, looking up at him..

"There's one thing you got wrong," Anthony whispered, reaching for his hands and taking them as gently as he could. "It does matter that he hurt you. It means when it gets to that day, no matter when it is, I ain't gonna go easy on him."