Loud. Bright. Hot. A fat slab of dry tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Ringing in his ears, high pitched and just out of reality, like a dog whistle. It strung through his thoughts, prevented him from registering anything. His chin was on his chest, head flopped forward like an ill-placed doll, and at his back, a support pole. There might have been another voice, but it was behind a thick wall of near-unconsciousness. Something elbow-sharp brushed his back. He opened his mouth, tried to swallow. Then there was vomit all over his lap. Great.

The air was thick and strained his breath. Hot sticky liquid trickled down his cheek. With watery eyes he struggled to figure out where he was. Something important was happening. He didn't remember falling asleep. This felt like the hangover from hell. Whatever it was that he drank, he was never doing it again.

Brushing at his back again. He jerked his head to look as best he could over his shoulder.

"Would you stop doing that?"

He lost the reply in a roaring sea of blood as the movement caught up with his massive headache. Pushing down a groan, he tried to think. Sock. Something with Sock. Five messages. Panic. Someone was missing. Jojo with a pipe. The dance club burned down. Sock.

"Sock." His voice cracked.

The grin and the laugh and the red, red wall and the fire in his veins and the scar and the knife, the need to stab and rip and make him pay.

Loud banging in another room. His name. He grunted. The muscles in his neck wouldn't work, and he was stuck watching his legs go from four to two and back again.

"...than. Jonathan!"

"Whaaat..." Just talking was like breathing water.

"Oh thank god you're not dead."

"I wish I was." He blinked at a cracked wall, torn pieces of tape on the floor beyond his feet. Sock squatting, a soft smile.

"Jonathan!"

"What?!" he snapped.

"I've said your name a hundred times."

He swung his head, catching a glimpse of purple hair over his shoulder. "Lil?"

"Who did you think I was?"

"Things aren't very clear right now." Pounding on his temples, like blunt nails in his brain. He shook his head and instantly regretted it. He tried to shift his arms, they were sore and stiff and wouldn't move, and it felt like his hands had ceased to exist altogether. "Where are my hands?"

Lil made a distressed noise. "You must be concussed. Dammit."

"Lil, where are my hands?!"

"Don't panic, they're behind your back. They tied us up pretty tight."

Jonathan was quiet, letting the implications set in. Tied up. They were caught. He stared at the dirty knees of his jeans, brow furrowed. He knew what was going on. It was somewhere in his head. But fuck if he could see through the cotton.

"...and I can't believe it. Jonathan, are you listening?"

"Uh huh."

"Your boyfriend is a psycho murderer!"

"That should probably bother me more than it does."

A series of explosions rocked the walls. The noise shot through his head like a bullet and forced his eyes shut tight. He tried to hiss through the pain, but the air fought his lungs and choked him, crawling up his nose as thick and smothering as cloth.

"What's happening?"

There were a few ominous seconds before Lil replied quietly, like she was scared to hear it said out loud. "They lit the building on fire." She shifted against the pole. They were back to back, her fingers brushed his wrist. "How much do you remember?"

"There was..." he winced. Even thinking hurt. "Uh. You were missing. Sock." Blood, eyes in the shadows. Red without stars. "Sock?"

There was a long pause. "He hasn't moved."

He knew what had happened. It was right there. Right next to him. At the base of the wall. He just had to look. Instead he shook his head despite the pain and searched his brain harder. There had to be something else. There had to be a memory past the broken body on the floor.

Lil stiffened against the pole at the behemoth crack of something outside their room collapsing. Fire rumbled into a new area of the building. The air was hazy with smoke, and Jonathan's vision finally began to line up. He blinked, then looked at the wall. An arrow of red pointed to Sock in the dust, limbs splayed at awkward angles, hat half-off a head stained dark, crusty knife at his feet. He saw double again, two Socks on the ground, too much blood. Denial electrified his muscles into spasms against the binds and warmth dripped from his wrists as he struggled to free himself.

"It's no use," Lil said. "They're zip ties."

Zip ties. Plastic.

"Lil. Reach into my pocket. Get my lighter."

This lighter was a cheap gas station thing, his name scrawled across one side in permanent marker. Just Jonathan, since he wasn't a Combs. Luckily his jacket was already unzipped. He wiggled his hips and shoulders, trying to position the pocket near Lil's hand. The support pole wasn't more than a few inches thick and their hands were bound in zip tie cuffs pulled taut to the pole with another tie. His fingers were probably against Lil's butt, because hers were against his. There was time to be embarrassed later. It worked to their advantage now.

"I'm not going to light you a cigarette."

"No, you can melt the cuffs."

He was ready to resort to name calling, but the jerk at his pocket as fingers strained to reach calmed his tongue. All of his focus was on her hand, he looked straight at the wall, he even forgot to breathe, because focus anywhere else would be on the arrow. And Sock. And his dwindling sanity.

Fog descended over the wall and he drifted through a spike of pain as she jostled his busted hand. He came back to Lil's panicked voice.

"Jonathan?! Oh my god, I'm sorry."

"It's okay," he panted. The vomit on his lap might be getting some company. "Do you have the lighter?"

A clatter of plastic. "Yeah." She felt around, judging the best place. "I can only reach your wrists."

Even though she couldn't see, he nodded. Okay. He could do this. "Lil, no matter what, keep burning. Don't let the flame stop. Okay?" Through the plastic of the ties he felt her shaking. "Just get them off and I can get the knife and we'll be out of here."

She didn't verbally reply, and she didn't stop shaking, but he heard the snap and low hiss of the lighter catching fire. The terrible angle of her wrist bent it in a C shape to reach the ties on his wrist, and she took a sharp breath when the flame brushed her skin. He made a soothing sound and she eventually positioned it right. At first it was just a bit of warmth against his wrists. His fingers were probably purple, the circulation cut entirely. He focused on the wall. Slowly, the warmth increased, spread along the plastic. It was sunburn, friction against rough carpet. The sort that left skin peeling and burning. Chewing on his lip, he heaved a breath as the first drop of melted plastic tore a line down his skin.

The flame drew away.

"Jonathan, I can't do this, I can't burn you―"

"Do you want to die?" He shook water from his eyes. Everything depended on Lil's nerve. "What about college? Just do it. Quick, like a Band-Aid. I'll be okay. It's not very thick."

She made a strangled noise. The heat returned, metal pressed into his skin, splitting canyons to his bones and melting. He chomped on the sting and let his chin fall to his chest again. Out the corner of his eye he saw red, thought about sweet kisses and that goddamned smile, sizzling fat and the cap of a salt shaker. A wire of white fire crawled up his neck, the world wavered out of existence. He growled. It couldn't be over yet. Angry now, he jerked his hand, there was a snap, and his arms were free.

The skin was red-white and leaking and corroded, but he only had eyes for Sock. Hauling his body across the few feet separating them, he fell against a scarf and a hat and put a hand on his cheek. It was cold, and though the next logical step would be checking for a pulse, he couldn't bring himself to do it. Where there was no confirmation or denial there was hope. Schrödinger stuff. So he scooped up the blade near Sock's matted hair and dragged himself back to Lil.

She babbled at him, asking if he was okay and shit. He ignored it, focused on slipping the blade between her skin and the zip ties. The first try missed, instead slicing a red line in her knuckles, but with no time for apologies he just sucked a labored breath and tried again. Ties fell away and she lurched from the pole with the whites of her eyes stark circles on her sooty face. She put a clumsy hand on his shoulder and he collapsed in another pool of barf, vision wobbling her feet. The room spun until it focused on the red again. All that red.

He heard the door's violent opening, he noticed the ground fly away from his chin as someone lifted him. He didn't care until Sock's body began to recede. They were taking him away.

"Stop." He wiggled in the grip. "Sock."

Lil's guilty face flashed across his vision, then a familiar, late voice.

"Do you really want to save the guy that tried to kill you?"

Jojo. Fucking Jojo. Where had she been? So much for teamwork. Probably left him to die alone and come picking through the carnage to get Lil once he'd done her dirty work. Trust an Angel to be a backstabber. Jostled against the doorway, pain shot through his head, and he didn't think anymore.

They were in the main room, the lead pipe at the base of a cracked wall, smoke plucking sunrays out of the air. His heels dragged through dirt and stones, Lil hauling one arm and Jojo the other. Halfway out the door he convulsed, gaining the freedom to get real close and personal with the ground. Swaying to his feet, squinting in the sun, he glared. Glared at walls, glared at rocks. Eventually he figured out where Jojo and Lil stood, and he aimed his acid in their general direction.

"You can't just leave him to burn!"

The fuzzy shape of Lil retreated behind Jojo in the vast lot outside the warehouse.

"Of course we can," she said. "He tried to kill Lil."

Jonathan just shook his head. It didn't matter, Sock was still Sock. Covered in blood and smiling when ripping things up and unsettlingly charming and sugar sweet and warm and breathing and very much his.

He stumbled back through the door into a wall of smoke and heat.

The fire had spread into the main room. There wasn't much to burn, all the products cleared out when it had first been abandoned. Flame licked across the roof and walls of the far side, snipping in quick steps across piles of crisp leaves and patches of weeds in the cracks of the cement. His hand throbbed, and he couldn't get it to work the sizzling door handle, so he threw his entire body against the barrier with all the frustration and anger he had. Angels, Demons, Blacksheep, who fucking cared. Jojo or Lil. His sister or his parents. Nothing mattered. Give him a night holding Sock. The dumbass that couldn't bring himself to tell Jonathan that he was getting lonely.

His vision wouldn't focus. He reached the wall, bent, forced the broken burned hand around a stiff shoulder, heaved and huffed in the thick air. Out the door, through the fire, coughing and wheezing in the sunlight. On his knees in the dust, cradling Sock's head. His brain wobbled in sympathy when his hand came away dripping red. The building was inches away, a vortex of dry air buffeting his eyeballs, and swollen tears carved lines down the soot on his face. He fell to the ground, wrapped around Sock like a bandage.

"I'm sorry."

There wasn't a reply.

He awoke to the sky. Big and blue and bright and cold. A balled up piece of cloth supported his head, and the mangled hand pulsed beneath a mess of cloth. Two lines of indistinct faces encroached on the sides of his vision, and he turned his head both ways to see better. To his right, Zack at the head of the Blacksheep, and a crowd of Demons on his left. Neither group made any noise, but he felt their eyes on him. A cough tickled his throat. There was something he was forgetting. Again. If only his head would stop hurting.

"Jonathan!" Zack stepped forward a bit, leaning at the waist. "What happened?"

"What, not going to ask me if I'm okay?"

Zack frowned, eyes distrustful. "These Demons think you were being initiated."

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Of course not."

Jonathan looked to the Demons. If something burned, they were there lickety split. Splitter than lickety, even. The fire department was constantly ashamed. They watched him carefully, calculating his worth.

Zack's mouth tightened. He toed something on the ground near Jonathan's shoulder. His lighter. "This was next to you. The fire wasn't accidental. You're burned. And..." Eyes to the back of the opposing crowd. "You were with a Demon."

It all came back like punches to the gut. Lil on the radio. Searching. Jojo a shadow in the moonlight. Scar's smile in the dark. Two bodies, the flash of a knife, relief, then a smear of precious red.

He struggled to rise. "Sock, oh my god, Sock."

A rough hand on his shoulder, voice heavy like a guillotine. "Jonathan, is it true?"

On his feet he denied it. No, he would never join the Demons. No no no. But he was walking down a corridor of burn scars and triumphant smirks and kneeling by a silly hat the wrong shade of red and the Blacksheep were so far away. No no no. Not Sock.

The shouting came first. Anger and betrayal, boasting and abuse. Someone unsheathed. Metal erupted like a wave, flashing in the sunlight. Knives and guns and brass knuckles and bats. Laughter, because the poor little sheep were outgunned and outnumbered. Everything was so loud, the sky screamed the sound of revving bikes and cocking hammers, the ground rumbled. Blacksheep advanced, Demons gave in good fun. Taunting, playing. Suddenly he was in the open, marking the stark division between the warring sides. He didn't look up, expecting crossfire, busy bending over Sock, hand in his stiff hair. There wasn't much time left now.

Broken hand on Sock's chest, he lowered his ear, eyelids squeezed tight. Roaring blood, but that was his. He took a breath. Calmed down. Just give him this last thing. Please.

A few moments of silence. Then.

Ba-dump.

And again, faint. Ba-dump.

Breath ruffled his hair.

He sighed, limp against the chest. Sock's living, breathing chest. Thank whichever Almighty cared.

A shadow eclipsed his light. He rolled his head, squinting. Certain he had finally cracked, he smiled softly.

"Hey, Providence. Funny place to see you."

His boss reciprocated the smile, eyes dark with worry. The shouting had silenced, and a murmur rippled through the crowds in its place. Grumbling and awe. It's Providence. The Providence.

His head hung. Of course it was the Providence. Head honcho of the Angels. In this city, in his life, running an inconspicuous little diner, there was no way it could have been a coincidence. Man was he stupid.

"Jojo brought me here."

Jojo glared at the ground, halfway hiding behind Providence. She was covered in soot, face nearly black, and if her clothes had been a mess before they were beyond salvation now. Providence, on the other hand, was as pristine as when she'd been in the office. A huge metal tube covered with switches and handles was strapped to her back.

There was a lewd shout from the Demons. Jonathan saw where Jojo learned to glare. Providence messed with the strap across her chest and addressed him with deadly calm.

"Did anyone ever tell you the Angels' specialty? Black market tech, and under that umbrella," she heaved the pipe off her back and onto a shoulder, flipping an ominous switch, "illegal firearms."

Frantic scrambling from the Demons as the front lines tripped over themselves backing away. The empty space between the two sides widened, leaving Jonathan over Sock and Providence over them both. An uncomfortable shuffle traveled through the Blacksheep. Providence wasn't any friend of theirs, but she was neither an ally to the Demons. The business end of her weapon was aimed at the opposing crowd. The enemy of the enemy is a friend. Zack remained on top of suspicions anyway.

"What are you here for, Providence? This is a Demon and Blacksheep fight. The Angels can stay far away."

She glanced over her shoulder, brow drawn. "Jonathan is my employee. The Angels have nothing to do with this. This is personal. Besides, it's been awhile since I last saw Chief Butthead and I know how much he digs the big guns. He loves it when shit blows up in his face."

She spread her legs in an anchored stance. Jonathan gripped Sock's shoulders tighter. Blacksheep took reluctant steps back and Demons milled about with readied guns and blades. Just a sneeze would tip the balance into total chaos.

"With a flick of my finger you'll all be unmade. So tell me, boys," she hefted the weapon with a mechanical clank, "are you ready to test your maker?"

Rocks clattered as the ground rumbled. Jonathan looked back, thinking it was the bikes this Blacksheep were so famous for, but none of them were engaged in anything more than an idle purr. Confusion. A few of the Blacksheep glanced down at their bikes. But it wasn't them, it wasn't the Demons, and it wasn't Providence. Her stance didn't falter as a troop of armored police cars squeezed between the narrow alleys of the surrounding ruins. Both gangs backed away this time. Jonathan found himself at the center of a three-way frontier.

"Why is this happening to me?" he groaned.

A uniform stepped out of the leading car. A tallish guy, real pasty pale, massive ginger sideburns. The officer pulled out a megaphone. "Everyone lower your weapons!"

Providence's lips parted in a slow, deprecating smile. "Well, if it isn't Mr. Redhead himself. Dressed up with a shiny badge like he's a legitimate son of a bitch."

"Providence, we have warrants for your arrest!"

She took aim. "You'll have to catch me first, Chief." A pull of the trigger and each group backed away from what was left of the burning warehouse. It went up in a roaring ball of flame that shattered eardrums. Jonathan crouched a little more over Sock. They needed to get out of here.

Providence watched the scrambling police with a level expression, considering the worth of their sorry souls. When she spoke, he froze, unsure if it was to him.

"M72 Light Anti-Tank Weapon. A rocket launcher, or as Hollywood will tell you, a bazooka. The Big Bang in a bottle. We like to call them class-A Seraphim."

The policeman with the megaphone hadn't moved. His ridiculous hair wavered in the aftershock of the explosion, but he stood firm and unafraid near the flame. They glared at each other across the no-man's land, Jonathan stuck in the heat at her feet. Trapped between two forces bigger than him. Smoke from the smoldering building traced shadows of the police crouched behind the vehicular barricade and early morning sun reflected off their light armor. One of them called to the Chief, asking for advance, but he just shook his head.

Wait a second.

"Isn't that the Demon boss?"

"Jonathan dear, your test scores tell me you're a very bright boy. I'm surprised it took you so long. But then again..." She shrugged the bazooka onto her back and gripped his face before he had a chance to push her off, prying an eye wide open. "It doesn't look like you're in the right sorts at the moment. Jesus, what hit you so hard?"

He leaned away once she let go, gripping Sock tighter. "A Demon."

"Causing trouble as usual."

"It is their thing, yeah."

She met the Chief with a level glare. The line of peeping police faces were grim and tense as he approached, no doubt waiting for an excuse to shoot someone. He wore a cap with a pair of sunglasses perched on the brim and something nondescript under a bulletproof vest. One orange eyebrow raised in delicate curiosity when she pointed the barrel at his head.

"That's a LAW, there's only one shot."

"You got me." She tossed the weapon onto her back again. "You're making a mess again."

"I was called out here because there's gang activity and property damage. I haven't ordered anything."

"Then the Demons I caught nearby are lying?"

Jonathan broke in. "Did one of them have a big scar on his face?"

Providence glanced at him. "Yes."

Something acid turned his voice strong. "I need to kill him."

"Whoa!" Mephistopheles gave him an appraising once over full of amusement. "You're a feisty little sootsprite."

Jonathan coughed in reply. It triggered something in his chest and he was wheezing again. By the time it was under control they were snapping at each other. Over what, he couldn't tell. Mephistopheles flicked a discreet hand in the direction of the Demons.

Bang!

A police officer fell with a wet smack.

He spoke into the walkie talkie on his shoulder. "Will not negotiate. Lethal force authorized. Over."

"You're pretty testy today," Providence said.

Mephistopheles gripped her shoulder and spared a languid grin for her laser glare. "And you're pretty."

Her fist felled him like a wrecking ball. All chaos broke out. The police might be ignorant, but even they could tell that the Blacksheep at a good distance were unwilling to get between them and the Demons. While notorious lovers of violence, a majority of the crowd mysteriously disappeared as the police advanced. They were also notorious cowards.

Providence stalked off as Mephistopheles recovered on the ground, holding his face.

"Wow, she hasn't lost it."

A scream pierced the din. Nothing stopped, of course. Shots were fired and Jonathan watched a flank of Demons fall. They were subdued faster than he thought they could be. The police might always be late, but they were effective when they wanted to be.

"You're destroying your own gang."

Mephistopheles crouched now, a blemish forming near his mouth. "They won't be destroyed. There are always more, whether I want them or not." His partial-smile vanished for a moment. "So this is where Sock went. What happened?"

"Demons."

"You're going to have to be more specific."

Jonathan's eyes fell closed for a second. They opened again when Mephistopheles shook his shoulder. It wasn't a second, it was minutes. There were shapes on the ground in the distance. Uniforms strolled between them with cuffs and notepads. The scuffle was over.

"So are you going to tell me or are you going to die?"

"The scar guy I want to kill," Jonathan finally said. There was a name. The other Demon called him something. "Cal."

"Cal, huh?" Mephistopheles got to his feet, an early bruise on his face. "You probably won't get your revenge, then."

He wanted to say something to that. Something angry and questioning. But the man was gone, a spot in the distance with the police. Jonathan couldn't move. Then there was someone in front of him again. Someone outraged. He grabbed the collar of Jonathan's jacket.

"I got you in," Zack growled. "Nobody wanted a suburbs pansy like you, but I stood up for you. I let you keep this." He pulled the collar of the jacket back and forth, sending Jonathan's head spinning. "I pulled out all the stops for this search. I gave you a place to stay, I kept you in the loop. And this is how you repay me? How long have you been hanging out with this guy? Were you ever really a Blacksheep? Were you making tortillas with him too?"

Jonathan tried not to wince. Zack saw the struggle on his face, dropped his collar, and backed away in disgust.

"If I see you in our territory, I'll kill you, Jon."

"Don't call me Jon," Jonathan said quietly.

"You're right, the only name for you is traitor." Zack leaned into Jonathan's space, stooped so he felt each hot angry breath. "I can't believe I ever saw anything in you."

Jonathan kept his gaze on Sock, limbs draped around his upper body. Zack kicked something. The lot had mostly cleared out. When Jonathan looked up again he was gone. There was only one person left, and she bared her teeth at him. His lips felt charred and peeling. They parted as she approached, because she knew what had just happened. And he had to know too.

He meant to ask her a question, but the smoky air hissed across the torn surface of his throat and he curled over himself in a coughing fit instead. When he got ahold of himself she stood a foot away. By her stone cold expression, he guessed getting any help from her would be difficult. He blinked as she went out of focus again. It was hard to think.

"Lil's safe," she began. "Far away from you and that crazy."

"Good," he said. "Good, good..." He didn't need to worry about her. Jojo was crude, but she wouldn't be unfaithful to Lil.

She squatted to his level. "What's wrong with you?"

"What isn't?" A light tickle at the base of his throat made its best effort to heave his lungs out his mouth. He wheezed for air as the coughing stopped. There was only one thing he could seem to think of now.

"Jojo, you seem to know Providence well. What just happened?"

She shrugged, lax with nonchalance. "The stupid thing they do all the time. They glare at each other a bunch and blow some stuff up and disappear together." Then she added under her breath: "Prov's always complaining about how he likes to destroy stuff. I'm not sure she's noticed she likes it just as much."

"Don't they hate each other?"

"Yeah."

Jonathan's lost expression didn't earn him much sympathy, but if Jojo could do anything, it was air her gripes.

"It's like a really expensive hate-date, I think. And it's so annoying. There're like a million other things she could be doing and she's always complaining about him to everyone, including me, but they still do this thing."

Angry air hissed through her teeth and she took a few aggressive steps towards where Jonathan knelt on the ground. He didn't lean away. A little girl wasn't going to scare him. But when she made a fist, eyes trained on Sock's head, Jonathan leaned into her line of sight with a warning glare. Jojo stomped a foot, sending pebbles into skittering panic.

"I want to punch him in the dick! Because he's a dick!"

"Don't punch him, he's wounded!"

Her knuckles cracked loudly. "You think I give a fuck?"

"You act like he pissed on your spliff."

"If he had just 'pissed on my spliff' I could have beat him good and be done with it, but he had to be worse than that. As usual."

"Well you can't touch him." Jonathan pulled Sock closer to his body, freeing his good fist, which he clenched in promise.

Jojo scoffed. He was too pathetic to do anything. "Why, do you like that dick?"

"Yes. I do like that dick."

He ignored the exaggerated gagging noises when she realized the joke in favor of gently rearranging Sock's dirty scarf. He didn't notice she had stopped until she inched closer to his side. She spared sidelong glance at the body in his arms, firelight playing for shimmers in the watery film across her eyes.

"Is he okay?"

Jonathan gripped the mangled front of Sock's shirt. A pukey-yellow bruise blossomed across his left cheek and brown crust crept through his hairline. Brushing hair back into place, he pulled Sock's hat on tighter, resolutely ignored the stiff crunching, and settled further onto his knees, trying to keep his head propped in the hopes it was something a first responder would do.

"I don't think so."

Jojo's nose scrunched like she'd come across a real gory piece of roadkill. "Well whatever he gets, he deserves worse."

Jonathan sighed. "Can you find a Blacksheep? Get some help?"

"Why don't you help yourself," she sneered. "I'm nobody's messenger."

"I don't think I can."

"Nobody will help you. Or him. You've ignored loyalties. You're not a Blacksheep anymore, and there's no way the Demons would let him back in. If he lives."

She had a point. Everybody knew about him and Sock now. There wasn't a way to convince the Blacksheep otherwise. They had been suspicious since the dance club's demise, and finding him burned next to an immolated building with a Demon sure wouldn't make their suspicions a stretch. It had been too kind of Zack to even ask him. Anybody else would have been run over and left to die. He breathed through a stretch of the world spinning, gut clenched like iron. Something had to be done. For Sock, at least.

"Jojo, do you still have Lil's phone?"

She cocked her head and said nothing.

"I know you hate us, I'll do whatever you want. I'll never talk to Lil again, I'll quit the diner." His throat constricted. For a moment his head bobbed like an untethered balloon. He felt he might float away. "I'll move. Please, Jojo."

Gravel snapped under her sneakers. The phone was warm from her body heat and dropped into his hand like a lead brick. She chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes flat, and spun on her heel. He didn't watch her walk away, too busy groping through the contents of his pocket for a crumpled slip of paper. It came out sliced and bleeding, the paper blinged out with shards of glass. His lungs vacuumed flat. He tried his best to ignore the remnants of the shot glass, shuffled Sock around to hold the phone in his good hand (well, better hand), got the thing ringing, then stared blankly at the ground. Sock's light breath pressed against his jeans. Sunlight drew shadows across the ground, gleaming black and white between spots of oil and water. One of the long shapes on the ground groaned and shifted, but it was very far away. It rung ten times. Then her voice.

"Hello?"

He cleared his throat with a gravelly cough. "Hey, sis."

"Jonathan! Oh my god, you sound terrible. Are you okay?"

Yes was on the tip of his tongue. He swallowed it, decided to not answer. "I need some help."

She didn't pose very many questions aside from asking to help him stand and a quizzical look when he barked a blatant no to the hospital. She had always been like that. Accepting things and working around it. She found solutions while he ran away. He hated her for that. For being better.

The car was silent. It was broad daylight outside. Traffic from the city exterior was nil since it was a weekday. She had a little blue hatchback that had seen one too many years, but like his bike seemed to ride the thermals of trust. Sock was strapped into the back seat, laying on his back, brow scrunched with every harsh break. They puttered into another neighborhood not much different from Lil's, one that he recognized as Flagway. A mile to the West was a blurry Angel-Blacksheep border. He had been here before.

"How long have you been here?"

"A couple months." She didn't look away from the road.

"Doesn't college take longer than a few years?"

She pursed her lips and was quiet. Jonathan glanced over the seat's shoulder. Sock looked alright.

"We really should bring him to a hospital," she said at last. "And you."

"No." Nobody had come looking for him, but there must be paperwork somewhere listing him as runaway. Sock was wanted for other reasons. Worse reasons. He wasn't going to risk it.

Her house was squished up against the back of a dilapidated convenience store. A huge wrinkled tree dominated the tiny square of grass that served as the front yard, branches hooked like claws across the front face and roof. She parked on the street and carefully took Sock out of the back, then inside.

She made him sit down on the faded armchair across from the couch once she set Sock in it. The living room smelled like dust and copious amounts of Lysol. He drew his legs against his chest and trapped his pounding head between the knees. He must have zoned out for a bit, because he when he looked up again the sun was gone and there was a bandage around Sock's head. His sister sat on the floor, strands of hair out of her bun, looking hard at an assortment of bloody utensils on a bed sheet before her.

"You both need stitches."

Jonathan kept a hand on his head, glad it had settled to a dull roar. "I'll be fine, just help him."

She looked like she wanted to contest his words, but chose another line of thought.

"When did you leave home?"

Jonathan stared at the sheet. There were brown hairs glued to a pair of precise scissors dark with blood.

"Jonathan."

"I don't have to talk to you."

"You called me."

He met her eyes for a second, then looked at Sock. "There wasn't anyone else."

She rolled up the sheet with crisp movements. Jonathan scratched at some dried blood on his cheek. He'd made her angry.

"Be glad your last resort is pursuing a medical degree or you'd be screwed in a bombed out lot with a concussion the size of Russia and half dead kid on your conscience."

She stomped out of the room. Water hissed through the pipes and she returned a few minutes later with clean utensils and a calmer expression. Jonathan squinted at the dark carpet near her feet. He was too dizzy and sick of everything to deal with her now. The expected bitching never came, however. Instead, she handed him a cup with a cloud of sharp fragrance and spread warm fingers across his cheek, supporting his head, which he hadn't realized was lolled against the back of the chair.

"Why do you do stupid things?"

"It wasn't my fault." The cup slipped in his hands. Before he did himself the indignity of dropping it he tipped it back and relished the line of heat down his throat.

She mopped around his face with a warm cloth. "Don't fall asleep."

"I know."

"I'll talk to you."

"Okay."

The cloth ran across his hairline. The fiery drink helped, but he still winced.

"To find you in that nasty little place I had to ask a lot of sketchy people, you know."

"That's nothing new for you, Caitie," Jonathan mumbled. "Still addicted to your Altoids tin?"

She scrubbed at a caked spot on his forehead harder than necessary. "I've been clean for a year now. I've got a job at the police station―autopsy assistant―and that's got me a car and this place and a chance for more money for school."

Jonathan closed his eyes. He had never really wanted to scream with frustration, but he felt the need now. She worked at the police headquarters. The Chief of Police was Sock's boss.

"Hey." Light tapping on his cheek. "You said you wouldn't fall asleep."

"You really shouldn't work there."

"I have to. Besides, I pick up some on the job stuff too. It's a pretty good deal."

He could tell she wouldn't back down and was too tired to try to make her understand. "Just... don't stick your nose in anything."

She made an amused noise. Plastic crinkled and snapped as a bag opened and he felt something sharp press into the gash near his hairline. "I'm not going to take advice from a dropout, little brother or not."

Snipping noises. Hair fell across his face and tickled his nose. He opened his eyes again, groggy but angry.

"Are you cutting my hair?"

"Well I can't stitch it in."

She battled off his good hand with a quick elbow. He didn't give up until a big clump that looked like an entire bang got in his eye. Then he tried to merge with the chair, face burning. She said something to comfort him, teasing like always about his mop of wild hair. How it needed to be cut anyway. His hand tried to shelter his embarrassment. A horrible little twitch of the lips became a little grin. She was so annoying.

Between his fingers he checked the sofa. Sock lay on his side, eyes gleaming in the living room's golden light. Jonathan's smile dropped and his lips stumbled to form questions. To offer relief and worry. But Sock glanced at his sister, then the ground. His eyes closed and he turned away, one arm covering the bandage on his head.

His sister hadn't released him with anything less than six bandages slapped to his skin, a neat row of stitches across his newly-cut hairline, and a homemade cast weighing down his arm. She had fussed over an old scar above his left elbow. Cut himself against the edge of a counter almost two years ago, not that big of a deal. She put some cream on it and left to try to make cinnamon rolls. By the smoke that forced her to open the windows a few minutes later, it hadn't gone well.

The knocking came sometime around one in the morning. Jonathan was worried he might need to get the door. He was wearing an old pair of jeans splattered with paint and his sister's most bearable T-shirt, something clingy and light blue that said "trust me, I'm practically a doctor". There was a blue phone booth on it, he was pretty sure it was one of her nerdy things and just left it at that. The armchair was very comfortable and the loud door very far away. He breathed a sigh of relief when she finally answered the polite pounding. It wasn't helping his head at all.

He hadn't had the courage to cross the room yet. Sock stayed curled up on the couch despite his sister trying to make him lie flat every hour. He hadn't said anything or moved much, just kept his knees and forehead pinned against the back of the couch. Jonathan's mind summoned distressing images of brain damage and shock, but his fear of conflict was greater than his fear for Sock.

Light from the front hall spilled into the room and he threw an arm over his eyes. He was pretty fucking useless.

Someone entered with his sister. Much to Jonathan's dismay, the voice was familiar. It asked for Sock. He tried to send Caitie telepathic signals telling her to lie, but alas his psychic powers were about as useless as his ability to emote.

She shook his shoulder gently, assuming him asleep. "Jonathan, you should meet my boss, the Chief of Police."

The springs of the couch squealed as the visitor sat. "We're acquainted."

"Oh?" Jonathan felt the cushion bow as she perched on the edge of his armchair. He gripped at his ear. This man had better make something up or he was in major shit.

"He and my Sock are practically inseparable."

"I'm glad Jonathan has a friend. He's always been shy."

"Well, it's very hard to resist Sock."

Nobody even needed to lie about that.

"It smells like smoke."

Caitie chuckled awkwardly, embarrassed to be such a mess. "It's just the nasty old oven that came with this place. It's okay."

"I'll get you a new one."

"Wha... No, I said it's okay. You really don't have to do that, sir."

"It'll be good for you. Wouldn't want people thinking you're a part of something you shouldn't be."

Caitie pursed her lips when she realized she wouldn't win this. "Alright. Thank you, sir."

He waved her off, smile teasing the physical bounds of his face. "It's no problem. I take care of my employees. It'll come this weekend." The Chief patted Sock's shoulder and guided him into a sitting position. "Come on, kid. We should be going."

Jonathan hid his eyes again. He didn't want to watch them leave. In the front hall his sister entreated the Chief to bring Sock to a hospital. There was agreement. What idiot wouldn't do such a thing? Jonathan melted further into the chair.

He was pretty sure days passed. A week. Two. It could have been years. He came to know the chair most intimately, each missing spring and extra lump of stuffing. Some places were worn so that he could push a hand inside and feel its wooden bones, draw blood with splinters and protruding nails. It was such an old chair. Made to support, yet just barely doing its job. So tired. His sister said it came with the house, that she didn't know much about it. If he pressed hard enough on each arm from the inside he felt the entire thing groan and fight splitting into pieces.

Sometimes he tried to force its demise. Laid his feet against the left arm and lower back against the right. Tensed and pushed and imagined his joints were forged of metal. Imagined the wood splitting and fracturing around nails and staples, tearing the stuffing and fabric apart. He could do it. It would break.

But he stopped. Fell against it again. It was all that held him up.

The cast pinched his flesh. He felt the bone harden and knob beneath his skin. The huge living room window was bare and no one was there.

Why did it break so easy?

He hated it.

He wanted to hold Sock again.

He heard her come into the living room before she announced her presence, but didn't acknowledge her until she cleared her throat. She looked only slightly annoyed with him. He didn't care. The cast weighed a concave into his chest, muting his heartbeat.

"What?" He hadn't been in the mood for human interaction since she found and discarded his cigs. There hadn't been anger quite so fierce on her face since he'd last seen her with their parents.

"I cleaned," she shook out his jacket with a violent thwack, face scrunched up, "this."

He grunted, closing his eyes again. The offending piece of clothing landed over his face. A cloud of lilac crawled up his nose. It muffled his sneeze. A faint smoky fragrance clung to the fibers and bathed his tongue in an odd mixture of artificial meadows and fire. This would set Sock's allergies off like crazy.

He forced his lungs to work again. Caitie was talking.

"...and I emptied out your pockets, which were really gross. Also dangerous. Why was there glass in there?"

Jonathan shot straight up. "You didn't throw it away."

She raised an eyebrow. "I did?"

"That was important! Where's the trash?"

"I put it on the curb this morning."

He crumpled the jacket with his good hand, air like knives. "Oh my god."

"I'm sorry, Jonathan." Mouth downturned and hands clasped she did her best impression of a kicked puppy. "I didn't know."

"It's… fine. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't care."

He fell into the chair again, spine hunched into the back, doing his best to pretend he fit it perfectly. A jigsaw piece that finally found home. The hand on his shoulder eventually left. It really didn't matter anymore. All this time he'd been hoping that maybe if he sat up and looked out the window Sock would be there. Persistent as always. Bouncy and bloody. Wondering when he'd skim his ass off the furniture and listen to him ramble on about livers. But Sock wasn't there. He checked less often. He hadn't bothered looking outside in a few days.

He knew what he should do. He should go out and look. Dodge around Blacksheep and police alike. Do what he'd done before. Bridge the chasm with Sock. That's what smart people did. Work things out.

But it was different now. Things had gone awry. He wanted to hear Lil too, ask if she was okay. He'd last seen only her vague shape. There hadn't been any time for saccharine sentiments or anything. She'd been shaky and injured because of Sock. And Sock had done it because of him.

Jonathan curled closer around his head. He'd promised Jojo he wouldn't go back anyway. He needed a smoke to help him think.

There was an analog clock on the wall nearest the kitchen door. It ticked away each wasted second. The sound was familiar, almost soothing. Snick snick.

Not anymore.

The darkness fell silently as always. It didn't care that his life was over. Everything was so big, the bigness squashed his brain and filled his lungs. He was better off here, a stain his sister's armchair with neither the love of his life nor the friend he'd finally made, where he'd only inconvenience himself with his misery.

Caitie was gone that night, probably doing some autopsy thing late. He awoke to the phone ringing, disoriented, expecting the garage, which had no phone, just his radio. The chair supported his head as he made a glum face at the receiver until he reached over and plucked it from its cradle on the coffee table.

"Hello?"

"Jonathan! I need you to come by tonight."

He wrapped the cord around his pointer finger, hoping his incredulous expression could be heard in his reply. "What? How did you get this number?"

"I've got a finger in every pie, but that's not important. What is important is that you show your face."

"Listen, Providence, Miss, whatever your name is, Gertrude." He put the cast on his forehead, squinting past some phantom pain. "I've quit. I'm not working at the diner anymore. Or ever again."

"You need to collect your last paycheck, then. You've racked up an impressive amount of hours. You shouldn't put them to waste."

"I don't give a fuck about money. You can keep it. Give it to Jojo or something."

"Jonathan." She sighed and he heard the scribbling of pen on paper. "It would be wise to come by the diner tonight."

The phone buzzed in his ear as the connection died. Light from a street lamp outside threw the little popcorn mountains of the ceiling into stark relief. What he really wanted right now was to get bubbly and lose a huge chunk of memory. But he knew that wouldn't be happening. He knew that he'd always do stupid things. His sister was right.

He rolled off the chair, fished his lambskin out of the shadows, and locked the door behind him.

The streets became progressively darker as the houses gave way to abandoned businesses and unlit alleyways. A quick suggestion of smoke reminded him of what had happened nearby. The diner was shiny and bright like a new electronic toy accidentally left in the trash. Why Providence had chosen this place, this dump, rather than a nicer and busier portion of the city to solicit her business, Jonathan didn't know. But he had begun to suspect that like everything he'd stumbled into, it had more meaning than he first thought.

Jojo sat on the counter. The sign on the door said Closed, but someone was in the kitchen behind her and all the lights were on. He stopped at the door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, watching his breath fog the glass. She fiddled with a length of rope, struggling to knot it in a peculiar way. A familiar way.

The Angels, like the Demons, had a preferred method of execution. It wasn't quite so destructive. More quiet and slow. They liked to hang people, a death with no spectacle and no beacon for the authorities. Sometimes they stuck around, pulled up chairs. The Demons ran because flame was indiscriminate and quick to turn on its instigator. Angels had a formula. They liked to watch when it came to fruition.

He wasn't sure which would be more comforting. Attentive eyes or a backside.

Jojo, it seemed, had not experienced the pleasure yet. By the way she tangled her little fingers in the rope, he guessed she'd be a baby gangster for a good amount of time. She didn't look up when the door slammed behind him. Once he seated himself at the counter nearby she met his eyes, glanced behind him, and then threw it around his neck. It fell apart as she tugged.

"Dumb thing," she muttered.

"I'm not too upset."

"I was kind of hoping Sock would be with you. If anybody deserves a halo, it's him."

Jonathan averted his gaze to the marbled design of the linoleum counter and resisted the urge to rub his neck. It had been too weak to do anything.

There was no hissing from the grill, which meant it wasn't on. The Hobart brand dishwasher chugged away, sudsing, steaming, and rinsing dishes and cookware with industrial harshness. It made a grinding sound, then fell silent. The violent nature of the water jets that scoured the dishes inside often dislodged a few and clogged the components of the machine. To deal with their annoyance they made a game of it.

"What's in the Hobart this time?"

Jonathan put a hand on his face. It was him again.

"A cup," said Jojo without looking up from her work.

"Some forks." This from the office.

There was the sound of the door opening as he fished the offending thing out of the washer. Jonathan absently wondered why he hadn't announced what it was yet. He winced when the voice addressed him.

"Jonathan, what do you think?"

"I dunno. A spatula."

Mephistopheles came out of the kitchen spinning a sudsy spatula around a finger, smiling. "Correct."

He placed the utensil on the counter with the reverence of one presenting a ceremonial sword and then disappeared behind the wall separating the counter and kitchen. Jonathan stared at the spatula. At least he was good for something.

The apron pegs behind the counter were full. They all had name tags save one. Jonathan cleared his throat.

"Where's Lil?"

Jojo violently yanked her unpracticed knot, kicking the air, nose scrunched. "She's gone."

"What?"

"She quit because of you."

"Oh."

"Oh? That's all you have to say?"

He shrugged.

"But what can you expect from somebody that dates that dick," she grumbled to herself.

Mephistopheles came out of the kitchen loudly mourning his manicure despite lack of any sympathy. He wore a white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up, probably what was under his police ensemble. It was splattered with water and a few stains from cleaning. Jonathan didn't know how anyone could miss his ridiculous splash of hair. Despite the fact that the leaders of the Angels and Demons were notoriously hard to find, there were photos somewhere. He'd seen some.

"How has no one realized you're Mephistopheles?"

Said man looked up from his nails, mildly surprised Jonathan had chosen to address him. "A hat and the occasional sunglasses and suddenly no one knows who you are. Adults are dumb, kid."

"So you really are Sock's boss."

"No, I'm actually just a porn double."

Sock's eccentric descriptions were not far off. "Okay..."

"I've got to assign him and others sparingly or our department might stick out more than it already does. I am many things, but not a failure." Mephistopheles, tapped a pensive finger on his chin. "Anyway, Sock doesn't have many friends. So I've heard a lot bout you. More than I need to know outside your file."

Jonathan tensed. "So you do have a file on me?"

"'Course! You seem to be a below-average gangster and a missing child, but nobody knows that since it's been stuck in bureaucratic limbo since the beginning of time."

"What does that mean?"

"It's in a pile propping up my desk," he deadpanned. "Sock's is also in there somewhere. It's horrible when an investigation just poofs into nothing, huh?"

Jonathan gave an awkward grimace and shrugged. It was a more than a little disconcerting to find that he'd been on the radar of one of the most wanted men in the country for so long. And that Sock had been talking about him. The way he ran his mouth, Jonathan didn't really want to know what had been said.

"I've kept out of it so far, but I do have one thing to say." Mephistopheles leaned on the counter, smile constrained to something polite, kind of like when Sock closed his switchblade around civilian company. "Be careful."

He considered himself a rather smart kid. Jonathan nodded dutifully. He could promise this man whatever he wanted, but since he and Sock were on such tentative ground, it might be best if he planned on living in a nice basement for the rest of his life.

Sock's boss popped up like a spring. "Then my work here is done!"

"No it's not, you still need to wash the freezer shelves!"

Mephistopheles gestured towards the office with a splutter. "Why do you do this to me every time? This place is practically spotless."

Providence's unimpressed expression caught him through the crack between the door and frame. "If you hadn't tried to burn it down, then maybe I'd let you off the hook."

"That was years ago."

"Nobody's forgotten it, especially the diner. You need to regain its trust."

"It's a building."

"It's my favorite building, so get scrubbing."

Jonathan spared a look at Jojo as Mephistopheles groaned his way into the kitchen again. "These are two of the most dangerous people in the country?"

"Yep. Put it in the tabloids. They're actually human." Jojo forced a finger through a loop in her mangled knot, likely desensitized from years of the same exchange. "Annoying humans," she added under her breath.

"You mutter a lot."

"And you talk too much," she shot back. "Just like your boyfriend."

Jonathan had been feeling little regard for his life lately. His mouth was happy to demonstrate. "Why do you hate Sock so much?"

"Why?" She kicked the air harder, almost like she was trying to beat the shit out of it. The rope wrapped around her hand. "He's a dick."

"He said it's because he killed some of your pets."

"Really? And did he say anything else?"

"No."

"Of course not. He likes you. People who know what he's really like would have to be in a loony bin to get so close."

Jonathan scratched at the bandage on his forehead, aiming to comb at his bangs, but pawing at thin air instead. That's right. They were cut off. He picked at his cast instead. "So...?"

"So," she said. "He hurt me. And he's hurt everyone he's ever been close to. He killed his own parents. How can you swap spit with someone like that?"

"I don't care."

She made a grim face at the rope around her hand. "You're just as bad as him. All alone in your dark little garage with your sad cigarettes, not giving a shit about yourself or anyone. He doesn't have to kill you. You're already dead. He loves playing with corpses."

Jonathan stood, pushing against the counter for speed. "You can't say things like that."

"Can't I? Lil told me what he said when he had her all tied up. That she was just in the way. You're in a little bubble that only he's allowed to pop. Just a―"

The metal dug into the vulnerable skin of her throat, a dull utensil turned deadly in anger. He remembered briefly sliding it through the automatic knife sharpener to better scrape burnt bits off the grill with. Now, spatula still soapy from the Hobart, he felt her throat bob beneath the makeshift blade. She met the fire of his gaze with her own, disregarding the metal at her throat. The rope was taut around her hand, fingers purple.

"All alone," she whispered.

He pressed harder.

"You won't do it."

The spatula shook, then lowered. She looked back at the rope again as he fell onto a stool, breathing hard.

"Sock's not like that. He loves me."

She pursed her lips. The door to the office inched shut, trying for inconspicuous. A spot of orange retreated back to the Hobart. He didn't care about whatever spectacle he was making. Some aggressive spatula wielding and hyperventilation. He didn't care.

He didn't care.

Jojo slid him an envelope. "Your last paycheck."

He took it without really feeling the paper. When he pressed against the door and took off into the night he didn't look back. He didn't know anymore. He was confused and panting. Blacksheep might find him and skin him alive or the police might pick him up and force him back to his parents but there was only one thing he knew for sure. One thing he could rely on. He needed Sock. Always needed Sock. What Jojo said couldn't be true. It wasn't true in the collector's cup. It wasn't true in the sugary kisses. It wasn't true in the annoying chatter and nights spent together. It wasn't true when he wanted to dance. It wasn't true in his smile.

He bowled into something soft and warm, something that wrapped an arm around him and made worried noises. Jonathan tried to push away, tried to stumble off the curb and dash across the street in aimless panic, but he recognized the voice.

"You're going to kill me."

"No I won't."

"You said you would."

"I lied."

Jonathan gulped for air. "I kind of want to die, Zack."

The arm tightened. "You'll survive. You're strong."

Somehow they were on a neighborhood bench. Zack's bike gleamed in the dark, an expensive, well-oiled machine. Jonathan tugged at his jacket sleeve, shivering, but not with cold. "I haven't had a smoke for so long."

Zack rustled through one of the pockets of his jacket and produced a lighter. It said Jonathan on the side.

"You kept it?" Jonathan ran a shaky thumb across a scratch through his name, one it suffered from the scuffle with the burning warehouse.

"Yeah. Sorry I haven't got any cigs. Was never much a smoker myself."

The dark hid his face. Jonathan could still see his downturned head and heavy shoulders. There wasn't any of his regular posse around. The arm around his shoulder came with none of his usual strength. It almost seemed to be resting there, draped like he had been over the armchair.

"Where is everyone?"

The hand flopped a bit. "Here and there. I'm nobody important anymore, since I helped a traitor."

"I'm sorry."

Zack shook his head. "Whatever. You shouldn't be out here."

"I need to find Sock." Jonathan began to breathe harder again, hand clenched around the lighter in a death grip. "I need to talk to him. I need―"

"You could do better. You deserve so much better." Zack's hand was at the bandage on his forehead, gentle and kind as it moved in rough but soothing motions. Jonathan could hear the frown, the disapproval. Just like everyone else.

"Don't tell me to leave him."

There was silence. The motions helped. Air was easy again.

"I won't," Zack said finally. Quietly. "I want to but... It's what you want. I wish..."

The motions slowed to a stop and he withdrew his hands completely. Jonathan watched his shadow, having a hard time reconciling the football-huge personality with the mild person on the bench with him. When he had run away, he ran to Zack. He begged to get in. No one wanted him on board. They considered him a soft little suburbs boy. But Zack saw something in him. Jonathan refused steal, but he stole for Zack. Stole to get in, stole to get away. It almost felt good, the grudging grunt of approval. Zack believed in him, Jonathan didn't let him down.

He remembered holding the stolen lambskin jacket out to Zack.

"Look, I did it!"

Four of them had seen him shuffle in the store and waltz out with an item. He'd completed the task, they had to let him in. It was customary that the item be given to the leader overseeing the initiation, but Zack held the jacket, examined the stitching and material, and gave Jonathan a funny look. He handed it back.

"You'll need this," he said. "Out here your skin has to be thick."

On the bench, Jonathan found shadows of the funny look cast by far away streetlamps. Suddenly he understood the awkward conversation and free cigs and frequent bike checkups. The envelope was still in his hand. He crumpled it, eyes wide. Zack cast him a nervous glance.

"I want you to be happy more than I want to be the one that makes you happy." He offered a hand, jaw set like a stone. "I'll bring you to Sock."

The jacket tried to pull him to the ground as he stood. He grabbed the hand, let it help him up. The ride was unmemorable, a flash of streetlights. He didn't need to ask why he knew where Sock was. Didn't need to say anything.

The diner was a dark blemish next door, they were back at the garage. There was a light on inside. The side door was open. Sock sat on the step, back alight with the glaring industrial light installed in the garage, cut down the middle with gray and white like some film noir. There was no bandage on his head. He watched them approach with dead eyes and made no reaction when Zack gave a little warning glare. Jonathan slid onto the pavement.

He fumbled with the zipper and slipped out of the jacket. The tanned hide was soft and supple, scuffed and shiny at the cuffs and elbows. It frayed near some seams. He'd never had to patch it or worry much at all. It was strong. Armor, almost. He folded it up neatly as he could with one hand and pushed it toward Zack.

"Here."

Zack's knuckles whitened on the handlebars. "It's yours."

"I'm not Blacksheep anymore. You should take it." Jonathan nudged it forward. Zack shook his head. "Zack."

"Fine." Zack prised his claws off the bars and clutched the jacket to his stomach. "Fine..."

Jonathan expected him to leave, to motor off on a cloud of sore resentment. He clenched a hand, licked his lips, waited. The bike stayed stationary. A mount still sturdy under the weight of a silent rider. Zack hunched over the jacket like it pierced him.

"I'm sorry," Jonathan offered.

"No. I'm sorry." Zack straightened, kicked up his stand. The bike started with an uncanny purr. Zack took with him the break in eye contact between him and Sock.

Sock searched Jonathan's face. "I hear you've talked to Jojo."

Jonathan approached slowly, fought with himself, and then sat on the diner's back step, facing Sock. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

Sock held up a small plastic baggie. Some crushed leaves stuck to the insides. He shook his head at Jonathan's expression. "It's catnip, actually. She knows where I've been now: in her backyard. She's toying with me."

The bag fluttered through the air in a scuppered throw and landed at the edges of the overflow from the dumpster. True to its function it attracted a pair of gleaming eyes from the depths of the alley, but they didn't stay long. Sock stared at his shoes like he was awaiting harsh words. Jonathan wasn't sure where to begin, but it wasn't going to be there.

"You tried to kill Lil."

"Yeah."

"And you almost got killed doing it. I almost got killed." Jonathan put a steadying hand on his forehead. "Indirectly, dozens of people almost got killed."

"Mephistopheles and Providence can get a bit drastic."

A smile tugged at his lip, quickly killed. "Why, Sock?"

He clutched at his ear flaps, tugging them down, trying to hide his face. "I don't know, Jonathan. Why did you leave?"

"I didn't know I was leaving. You didn't tell me." Jonathan rubbed at the back of his head, looking at the ground too. "I thought maybe you'd like some time away from me. And I was making money to pay you back."

"I've already told you, I don't want you to pay me back."

"I know. It just feels like... stealing."

Sock made a sad, almost amused noise. "What is it with you and stealing? Why do you feel like you owe everyone something?"

"I don't feel like that, I just know when I need to return a favor."

A frustrated release of breath. "You're so good..."

Jonathan stared at Sock's bowed head. That was unexpected. But they were getting off track.

"Jojo said―"

"'Jojo said,'" Sock growled. "Why are you listening to her? She just wants to get to you because it'll hurt me."

"I didn't listen to her. I stood up for you, I shut her up." Ignoring the part where he ran away crying. "I've just been thinking. Some of the stuff she said was kinda close to home."

"Yeah, about what? She said I'm a horrible person and you're nuts for sticking around? I've heard everything she's had to say a hundred times before. Why are you so upset now? Nothing ever bothered you before."

"You didn't try to kill my friends before."

"You didn't have any friends before!"

You're all alone. Just like Jojo said. Jonathan winced at the asphalt. When he looked up Sock's hands pulled at the ears of his hat and he spared quick glances from his shoes to try to make out Jonathan's expression. He knew he had said the wrong thing. Jonathan ground his teeth.

"Really, Sock, why do you do these things?"

"I don't know..."

"How can you not know?"

Sock tried to merge with the step, but the concrete stayed unfortunately whole. "I try not to think about it."

"Well think about it," Jonathan demanded, "and try to convince me that I should still try for you."

Sock's eyes widened and he leaned away. "Are you saying you want to... break up?"

Jonathan just watched Sock's face, allowed his silence to do all the talking. He clutched at the cuffs of his hoodie again. There wasn't going to be any more skirting around things. If Sock wanted them to continue, he had to say something. Anything, for fuck's sake. Because almost killing his only friend was a pretty huge fuckup. One that Jonathan wasn't just going to let slide. His stomach dropped as he realized: this was something people who cared did.

Who was he kidding? Nobody but himself.

He did care. About Sock, at least. Then Lil and his job. His sister, always. He absently fingered his pocket, found the edge of the check and brushed it between his fingers. Last but not least, it seemed like he was stuck caring about himself.

"You're not coming back, are you?"

There would be no smiles tonight. "I told Jojo I would move. And the Blacksheep have it out for me. It's best that I go anyway. There's nothing left for me here." He pretended not to see Sock's face. "What were you doing in the garage?"

Sock bit his lip and scurried inside. He returned with the blanket Jonathan had bought with his first paycheck. It made a staticky crinkling sound as he shook it out once he was seated again. His cheeks reddened.

"I, um... We never got to use it. I was just sitting." He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders and sighed a heavy cloud. "Waiting."

"What? For how long?" Funny, they'd both done the same thing.

Sock shrugged, chin hiding in the blanket, staring at the ground.

"I remember I couldn't get rid of you at first."

"I lost you sometimes. You always came back here. I just had to wait and I'd see you again. But you aren't coming back anymore." His face sunk deeper into the cloth. "Everything ends eventually."

Jonathan made a few aborted movements to stand. Sock was so pathetic, dwarfed by the blanket with a downturned gaze. He took a breath, steeled himself, and flexed his fingers to try to regain some feeling after clutching his sleeves in the cold for so long. The cement beside Sock was freezing. Eyes peeped out of the blanket, then it opened in a tentative offer of warmth. Jonathan leaned in and took it.

"I guess I understand, if you leave," Sock said once they were both wrapped up. "I'm kinda hard to deal with sometimes. I know you're angry and this probably won't mean much, but I'm sorry."

Jonathan closed his eyes, because he couldn't say it was okay that Sock tried to off his first true friend in place of real communication, but he appreciated that Sock realized his error. They sat there quietly for a little while. Sock's fiddly hands jerked a few times and Jonathan entwined their fingers over his cast to still them. There were some sniffles, sneezes. Lilac and smoke clung to his clothes. The sky began to turn from black to gray. A night bus cruised by.

"Would you finish the job if I left?"

Sock shook his head. "I thought I would in the beginning, but now I don't want to. You wouldn't be fun to kill."

"Well that's a relief." Jonathan released a harsh puff of laughter. "There's a way to deal with things without killing, you know."

"I've never tried it before."

"I could try showing you."

He shrugged. "Nothing works. It's like your smoking. I love it, but it's probably not good for me."

Jonathan squeezed his hands and refrained from telling him that he hadn't smoked in a longer while than he would have liked. It didn't seem as bad as before, though. Maybe if he could help himself, he could work things out with Sock too.

"We're pretty messed up."

"Yeah."

"Promise me you'll say something next time?"

"Promise."

The package wasn't fancy, just brown paper and tape. This was his last paycheck. It was heavy, heavier than the glass had been. He hadn't known exactly what he wanted to buy, but the shopkeeper had been quiet and calm and led him to the right case and the right brand and the right type. It might have been because of Jonathan's filmy voice or the stark white bandage on his head or the way he occasionally stumbled and smacked his cast against a display. What a mess of a boy.

He didn't know where to find him. The police station would likely be an unwise place to bring it, seeing how Mephistopheles had an act to keep up. He couldn't think of anywhere. So when the clock struck five, he found himself at the dance club.

Ashes poofed up around his sneakers as he walked. It was a crazy thing to think. Who would linger here? A soft smile lead to a sigh when he saw a crooked purple tail and fluttering scarf. Who indeed...

Sock hopped into his space, wary, didn't dare touch. "Jonathan!"

"What are you doing here, Sock?"

He crossed his arms, finally sheltered from the fall cold with long sleeves. "I was gonna ask you the same thing."

"I have something."

"What?"

Jonathan held out the package, dropped it into Sock's outstretched hands. Careful. "It's for you."

The paper tore like, well, paper. With a few satisfying rips. Discarded in the wreckage. It was trapped inside an impossible plastic case, the kind that would draw blood before giving up its prize. Sock held it with no expression. Jonathan shuffled, nervous.

"I hope it's the right kind. You lost yours in the fire, right?"

"Why did you get this?"

"To pay you back," Jonathan said. "For the glass."

"Where is the glass?"

He looked at his shoes. "Broken. Gone. I couldn't get it back."

Slowly, Sock brought it to his chest, crossed his arms over it, and looked at his shoes too. A singed newspaper fluttered between them. Escalating gang violence, declared the front page.

"I wish we could go back," Sock admitted in the silence.

That would be nice, reliving the warm days, the good days. But that time was done. Their glory days were over. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, kind of literally.

"We can't. But we can start over."

"That'd be okay."

Jonathan steeled his spine, ground a heel into the newspaper and cinders as he crossed the space between them. He drew Sock into a hug, leaned into him and said it was more than okay. The sun set behind a wall of the ruins and cold descended down his back. Sock sneezed. He still wasn't dressed warm enough. Silly.

"You smell like flowers, but not smoke."

"I've quit." Jonathan answered the unsaid question with only a tiny tang of bitterness. Caitie was a health-fanatic and an older sister all in one. A deadly combination.

The body in his arms heaved and shook. Jonathan tightened his grip. His worried frown became a hard-pressed when he realized Sock was laughing. Heat ate up his cheeks.

"What's so funny?"

"If I knew you had a sister," Sock wheezed, "I would have looked for her a long time ago. Nobody can make Jonathan the Great do anything, not even me, but your sister has got you on a string. I guess I'll let her be in charge of pushing you around."

Jonathan tugged the ears of Sock's hat so that it nearly covered his face, unable to dispute what he'd said and seeking retribution for his blessed, cheeky grin. He really would put the sun out of business. That would be okay.

"I'm not so great."

"No, you're the greatest. You're good. You're my Jonathan and my Jonathan's great." Sock pushed into his chest, closer to his heart. He breathed a sigh, somber again. "Thank you for the knife. I'm sorry."

Jonathan merely hummed.

"So when do we start." Sock gazed up at him, eyes alight, radiating excitement like a potbelly stove. No wonder he never seemed cold.

"As soon as I do something for Lil. And for me."

The stop was situated at a crossroads in the neighborhood. It was empty when he got there. He stared straight ahead, fists clenching and unclenching. Once or twice a foot twitched with the urge to run. But he wasn't running anymore. Instead he tightened the strap across his chest, grim as a man on the frontlines.

She showed up mere minutes before the bus, eyes dull and headphones blasting. At first she didn't pay him any mind. Just popped her gum and looked straight ahead too. But as the bus approached she spared him a disinterested glance that quickly turned bug eyed and deadly when she choked on her gum.

He extended his arms to offer help. "Whoa. Are you okay?"

Lil got ahold of herself and swallowed it in a huge gulp. "Jonathan?!"

"Yeah."

"What are you doing here?"

He gestured to the bus just down the street. "Going to school. Like you."

"But you're a―"

"―a dropout? Not anymore."

His sister had been adamant. Not about him returning to school, but that he live with her. She wanted him "off the streets" and didn't listen when he told her he was never on the streets anyway, he had the garage. He didn't like the sad look she cast him, like he was missing something obvious. If he slept on a park bench that night, it wasn't to get at her. No way. He just wanted one last taste of freedom, of being a man on his own.

Showing up today had been his own decision. He was late in the semester, but the lady he'd talked with had some paperwork and a weird note from the Chief of Police that made her very willing to work something out.

"Oh!" Jonathan stuck a hand in his hoodie pocket and offered his find to Lil. "Your cellphone."

She took it, eyebrows raised. "So you had it. It looks like shit." Lil glanced behind him, suddenly jumpy. "That kid Sock isn't here is he?"

"No."

"He tried to kill me."

"I know. And he's sorry."

"Sorry's not enough."

Jonathan looked at the ground as the bus pulled to a halt. "We know."

Lil was quick to hop inside once the door was open. Jonathan took a minute. Looked hard the white stripes on the steps, the bits of candy wrappers strewn across the floor. The bus driver rose an eyebrow.

"Are you coming?"

Lil peered at him out one of the windows, face mashed against the glass like a kid at the zoo. Someone tugged her ponytail and she shushed them. He bit his lip. This was it.

Lil mouthed a small scream and he looked over his shoulder, offering a smile and a wave. Sock hopped out of the car on the street behind him and drew Jonathan a crushing hug. His boss leaned out the driver's window and gave a wink. Jonathan tugged on the ear flaps of Sock's hat and playfully pushed him away, making for the steps.

"I'll see you tonight, I promise," he called over his shoulder.

He took the seat in front of Lil, who was plastered against the window in some mixture of horror and awe.

"Isn't that the Chief of Police? What's he doing with a criminal?"

A sardonic grin. "The world's a strange place."

The bus's acceleration was loud, but he was accustomed to artificially amplified bike motors. His window was open. He watched Sock return to Mephistopheles's car and heard the Chief say something strange, even for them.

"Isn't he a little young for you?"


If you liked it, please leave a review or favorite it (or leave a Kudos or comment on AO3). It lends me encouragement to make more stuff. Thanks so much for the read, guys!