fandomismylife lololololololol

Dampish Loving the love for Thur, she is wonderful. And hmm, that... is a good idea... hmm... will think about it. Thanks! And yeah, fuck Brandon.

Shoutout, once again, to fandomismylife, for being a much better writer than me, and helping me organise this chapter into something readable. Always grateful!

Excuse how this took a minute; despite quarantine my landlord decided to sell and I, partner, and pooch have had to move out last minute. Good times. Might start selling commissioned smutty one-shots in order to afford food. Any takers? Kidding, unless... Anyway, here's another chapter because how else do you expect me to cope, honestly?

Sweaty palms as I walk down this empty road
I got a mom, but we ain't spoke in — I don't know
I got a heart that don't speak to me anymore
And life gets hard but these last days been meanin' more
I'm just tryna get my bands up
Why you runnin' through the banners
I don't understand this
You should find your way home...

Everyone in Aaron's group were extremely keen to avoid contact with Negan at all costs, so Oliver, through the negative association of being his guard, was more or less ostracised from the main group, too. Eventually the two of them were sent off to double check an area that had been cleared already, as one group member admitted they'd not done their section patrol thoroughly enough. Even Enid didn't volunteer to accompany them.

Begrudgingly, Oliver and Negan circled back to check it out. The sun was setting. Sure enough, there was a small isolated clearing that had several lurkers unaccounted for; stragglers of the section of herd they'd previously been picking off. The two of them put down bodies easily enough. After, while catching his breath, Oliver wiped off his combat knife on a nearby, neglected, tractor tire.

"Oh, lookie here..." Negan said from behind him.

Glancing round, Oliver watched the old man set his broomless broomstick aside and instead raise a rusty black crowbar out from under the tractor hood. After twirling it for several seconds in his hands, Negan looked at him.

"What?"

Oliver shrugged, sheathing his knife.

"Look, kid," Negan grovelled, "we both know that this broomstick ain't cutting it."

Another shrug from Oliver, and a yawn, too. "Go ahead," he said.

Negan huffed a small chuckle, surprised, then narrowed his eyes. "You do know that security is usually a lot less lax when it comes to me, don't you?"

Without answering, Oliver leaned against the tractor door to let off some pressure on his leg. It was beginning to ache slightly which was usually a sign to tell him that it was about time he treated it a little more kindly for a while.

"Wait," Negan added, "as I live and breathe, all those years ago, after all that chatting heart to heart down in my cell before you went and left me without saying goodbye... does a part of you actually trust me? Because if so, I am surprised, as you would be the first to come to that revelation."

Oliver narrowed his eyes. "I don't trust you."

"Then what is it about me that makes you so... comfortable?"

Oliver faked a smile to mimic Negan's false suave attitude. "Don't worry about it," he replied, resting his head against the tractor side and shutting his heavy eyes. "Just keep the crowbar."

Negan made a small amused sound. "Oh, right, yeah... because 'you don't care', right? And 'you're tired'... poor you."

Oliver opened his eyes, but didn't look at him.

"Come on," Negan insisted. "Be honest with me."

Oliver sighed, and stood up properly. He expected to feel angrier than this. After all, the last several years' worth of hatred for this man was finally being reckoned with, to the man who had directly caused it all, no less. Only there was nothing. Oliver felt nothing. Calmly, he answered, "Worst you could do is run, or try to kill me, but I don't think you will. I don't think you could. And I think you know it, too. Because I know you know I'm not just some 'kid' like you remember me."

"You know that, huh?"

Oliver nodded. "I know you're a sad, too, and weak, and lonely, and old."

Negan gave an offended huff, but like always the smugness returned as he said, "I wouldn't try to kill you, by the way. But I would be inclined to try to run. Bet you'd let me do it, too. Bet you'd just let me walk away from here, huh?"

"Sure."

"And I bet you wouldn't give one damn about me, either. Even if it landed you in trouble back home."

"Nope."

"Then how about I do it?"

Oliver looked him in the eyes. "Do it."

And then out of nowhere Negan's eyes grew wet.

He looked at the ground and sighed. "I really am trying to make things better, you know. I am not that guy you remember me as, either."

Oliver grimaced, disappointed, and something else, like ashamed. He cleared his throat. Something rustled nearby and they both turned to watch three walkers emerge from the treeline. Instantly, Negan marched over and took the two nearest to him, crowbar swinging.

"Oh, damn. Hold up!"

"Why?" Oliver asked, facing the last walker as it approached him.

Negan pointed to the corpses he'd just killed. "Hogweed's growing on 'em, see?"

Oliver could see — a tall hairy plant with clusters of tiny white flowers was wound around the walkers' chests and faces, weaving in their ears and out their eyes, wet sap oozing. Negan raised his forearm to show Oliver, too, an angry swelling of blisters forming.

"Nasty stuff," Negan said, standing back. He prodded at his blister and hissed. "Bad for the eyes, the skin, and no good for you if the pollen gets in your lungs..."

Again Oliver took several steps back from his oncoming walker. With careful aim he threw his combat knife hard between its eyebrows. It slumped to the ground with a weak shriek and after the pollen settled, Oliver held his breath and retrieved his knife, wiping the blade on a clump of long grass. He returned to Negan, took a canteen from his bag, and gestured for Negan to hold out his arm, pouring water slowly over the blisters.

Negan thanked him.

Oliver shrugged. "We should go home. You need to see Siddiq."

"Ah, well, I appreciate the concern, kid," Negan said, smiling through a pained grimace.

"Not a kid anymore, remember?"

"Ah, yeah. The beard." Negan squinted at him similarly to how a physician might've glared at a blackboard. "Whereabouts are you now then, early-twenties?"

"Twenty-four."

"Wow. Time sure moves super-duper slow when you're locked up in a cell."

Oliver huffed. "Whatever. Let's go. Come on."

"Wait, wait, wait. Are you serious? What is wrong with you?" Negan demanded, his laugh strained. "I am all blistered up here, and on top of that, I've been puttin' my neck on a block for you people all Goddamn day! And you can't even manage a 'thank you'?"

"Thank — you?" Oliver argued. "After everything you've—! You bastardo! If you were looking out for us, you'd fuck off, now. That's what we all need!"

Negan watched him for several seconds until, very gently —too gently for a man who used to beat people to death with a barbed baseball bat— he said, "Hey, man... I get it. Carl was a good kid, but you have to know, it wasn't my fault that he died."

Oliver shook his head, amazed.

"You have to know that," Negan insisted. "I protected him!"

Oliver grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"Now, I didn't protect much for you people, I know that," Negan admitted, "but I did protect him."

"You beat him," Oliver said through gritted teeth, filled out of nowhere with all that anger he thought he didn't have anymore and it was there and it was building and he couldn't stop it for anything. "I saw you do it. I was there! Sure, you didn't get him bit, but Carl still died bruised... and burned… and in pain... BECAUSE OF YOU!"

Negan opened his mouth, then closed it. He rubbed his forehead.

"I remember what he said to me," Oliver went on, his voice thick and shaking now, eyes stinging, "after we got away from you, when I realised he was bit — we were trying to get to the others, in the sewers, and he was standing there in the grey-water and I didn't want to keep going. I wanted to give up. And he said to me, 'I'm not strong enough on my own...' That's what Carl told me. He was so afraid... and in so much pain. And... and that feeling? It never went away. Non è mai andato via..."

He looked at Negan's face. It was all arched and sad.

"I hate you for that," Oliver told him. "I hate you for making that his last night alive."

"I..." Negan shook his head. He swallowed. As he spoke he kept his eyes on the ground. "I am... sorry."

"No, you aren't," Oliver muttered. "Because you'd do it again if you had to."

Negan hunched his shoulders. It wasn't an action quite like a shrug but rather as if he was trying to look smaller. "That was the world I lived in — the world you're still living in," he explained, his voice gravelly now like his throat was hurting. "If you don't protect what belongs to you, then sooner or later it belongs to someone else. That goes for your land, your wallet, your home, your—"

"Yeah, yeah," Oliver hissed, "you're either the butcher or the cattle. I've heard it all before. Before you. And they got what they deserved, too. You're no different. And you're no different to what's going to come to that Alpha bitch, either!"

Oliver had said it before he'd given his brain permission to and a rush of adrenaline hit his heart. He had to grip the tractor hood as not to let the panic attack get him. He blinked a few times and turn away from Negan, not wanting him to see him like this.

"Bet you still want to kill me then, huh," Negan asked. He wasn't challenging him. He wasn't even smiling. Not even at the sight of Oliver's struggle. He was just asking, like he had all those years ago, and Oliver glared at him, shaking his head.

"What good would it do?" he asked. "You'd only get what you wanted. And I'd be left to remember."

Negan sighed. Oliver couldn't tell if he was relieved or disappointed. He didn't like realising that Negan might've even felt sorry for him.

"I get it," Negan said. "When my wife died, she—"

"I don't care about Lucille," Oliver growled. "I'm not fucking listening to you anymore. I've heard it before. You've told it all to me before!"

Negan had a horrible look of surrender on his face then. Oliver just stood there burning up with all that terrible pent-up anger searing inside his bones.

A small cluster of walkers emerged from the trees.

Glad for a distraction, Oliver marched forward, knife drawn.

"Oliver, wait, look!"

He stopped. Negan was pointing. Vines of hogweed were growing in and out of them. Oliver staggered back, tripped over the tractor tire and landed in the dirt on his bad leg. He yelped in pain. Another cluster was coming through the trees on the other side of them, and suddenly Negan was there, towering over him. Out of reflex Oliver almost sunk his knife into the old man's calf but instead was yanked to his feet by the collar.

"Get up and run, you damned cripple!" Negan barked. "Don't make me throw your twink ass over my shoulder!"

Oliver had little time or thought to express his distaste beyond an angry growl before he turned and ran as fast as his bad leg could carry him, clutched under Negan's arm.

"The farmhouse," Oliver grunted, spotting a broken fence and a small building beyond. "Go on, I'll catch up!"

Negan ignored him, instead pulling him along in his stride and causing a series of painful squishy crunches to pang inside Oliver's ankle.

"Go, man! I'm faster than them!"

"Barely!"

Oliver shoved him off. Negan sprinted ahead and was at the house in moments, pulling the door open with a loud crash. A horribly wider space was left between them than Oliver had expected. He hurried up. Walkers were coming from every direction now, all their attention on him. Had he been shouting that loudly? Was he really this slow?

"Negan!"

Negan watched, the door handle gripped in his fist, an impatient frown on his face.

"Wait!" Oliver begged, running for his life. "Negan, wait!"

And against all expectation, Negan did wait, a hand outstretched at the last moment and when Oliver grabbed it he was hauled inside the house — the front door was slammed closed behind him as he collapsed against the staircase opposite. He twisted around onto his back, sprawled and panting as Negan blocked the door with a large cabinet. Ornaments inside clattered and fell out, smashing at Oliver's boots. The growling outside got louder. Dark, dead hands banged against the windows.

After several breathless moments, Negan sighed, then sauntered off in search for any loot inside the kitchen cupboards. When he found nothing but a dusty rag to wrap around his blisters, he went and sat on an armchair opposite a smashed television, pressing buttons on a dusty remote controller.

"Ah, this feels good," he sighed. "Like the old days... with a bit of imagination."

Oliver rose slowly from the bottom stair. Quietly, he made sure the house was secure. The back door and all the windows were already boarded, curtains drawn. Oliver peered outside through a narrow gap between boards at a wide, snarling, rotten mouth.

"There's only ten or twenty of them," he whispered, "they'll move on soon enough."

"I suggest you shut up, then," Negan replied, "and come sit down."

Oliver waited several moments, just to establish the decision was his own, before walking over and sitting rigidly on the couch across from Negan, frowning as the old man continued to play with the remote controller.

"Were you going to lock me out?" Oliver asked.

Negan turned in his seat, scowling. "What— How— I cannot believe you."

"It wouldn't be the worst thing you've ever done."

"Oh," Negan chuckled, turning back to the dead television, "I know that."

Over the next few hours, the sunlight outside faded to black. Oliver and Negan couldn't see each other in the darkness, and didn't speak beyond alerting each other of any changes outside. They spent the rest of their time listening and waiting. Negan continued to click uselessly at the remote buttons every once in a while until finally, as Oliver was dozing off into a restless exhaust-sleep, Negan spoke.

"Speaking of, what is the worst thing you've ever done?"

Oliver startled awake, grimacing and yawning. "What?"

"The worst thing you did, ever, come on?"

Oliver sighed. "Look, just fuck off, okay? That was hours ago."

He could hear Negan smile. "Do you use that word so much because of me? I mean, I'm not saying I invented it or anything but I like to think of myself as somewhat of an influence."

He sighed in Oliver's silence.

"Come on, I'm just trying to kill time — humour me?"

Oliver didn't, pointedly keeping the base of his skull firmly rested against the couch headrest, to which Negan huffed and clicked away at his remote.

"Well, if you won't humour me, then I'll humour myself." He released a long, self-indulging sigh. "The worst thing I ever did was leave my wife to rot."

Oliver lifted his head and frowned through the darkness. "You didn't bury her?" he asked, not catching the curious zeal in his voice until he'd already spoken.

"Didn't even put her down, for Christ's sake," Negan answered, groaning a weak chuckle. "Someone else did for me. She died... hating me."

Oliver didn't like this; he didn't like thinking Negan might start crying or something. So, not because he was interested in rescuing Negan's feelings, but simply to keep the conversation going, Oliver told him, "I didn't bury my parents. Not right away."

"Really?"

"My brother and I left them in their bedroom after they turned. Don't ask me how we managed it without killing ourselves. It wasn't until a couple years later that I finally got to go back and put them down myself. Carol helped me bury them. My mom was pregnant." Oliver rested his chin on his thumb, winding his fingers through the hair he'd grown there. He grimaced across the room, searched for Negan's form through the blackness, but saw nothing but a vague shadow. "You ever seen a walker foetus? Like, not fully developed yet, but still, you know… grown enough to... move?"

"Jesus..." Negan groaned, as if he'd never heard of something worse — Oliver felt a sick sense of vindictive pleasure at managing this feat. "You never told me about that."

Oliver shrugged. "Neither did you, about Lucille."

Negan sounded like he might've been chewing his fingernails. "Your turn," he said finally, "unless that was your turn."

In spite of himself, Oliver thought for a long minute. He thought of the people he'd killed, all nine of them —Mikey, 'Chelle, Merope, the two Junkyard people, two Saviours, and just recently those two Whisperers — and that was only if he didn't count the deaths he'd indirectly caused way back at Terminus. He thought, too, of how Carl had been bitten all those years ago, how, if Oliver hadn't had a broken leg, he could have been there to help him and Siddiq. The pain in his leg was there forever as a reminder of what he could have done, and what he couldn't, and its cost. Then he remembered the grove, and how distracted he'd been when he was supposed to be babysitting the girls while Carol and Tyreese were out fetching water. How, if he'd just paid a little more attention, Mika and Lizzie might still be alive today. He even cast a shameful thought at the Claimers, and the things he didn't have the power to stop them from doing to him, until he reminded himself, like he sometimes had to, that none of that had been his fault. And then over all of that, always, was something before any of it entirely that truly stuck in his mind the most, after all this time.

"My brother," he answered, "he got sick with this pig flu. It spread around where we were living—"

"The prison, right? I heard about that."

"Pat was the first to get sick," Oliver said. "The night before he caught it, Carl and I went to the pig pen. A pig, Violet, gave birth. We were in there with her and all her piglets. I guess we were asymptomatic or something, but we were carriers. The worst part though is that my brother left our cell in the night, 'to cool down,' he told me... and I didn't go with him... so, yeah... the worst thing I ever did was let my brother die alone."

Sighing, Oliver rubbed his hairline with his stump.

Negan sucked his teeth.

"You were a child," he said consolingly.

Oliver rubbed his knees and got up quickly. He'd had enough of this, of Negan being consoling, of all things, so he checked the gap in the boarded windows. Through the darkness, he made out a few bodies still milling about, but the majority had gone.

"They thinned out," he whispered. "We could take the ones left, then get going home?"

Negan groaned. "I'm parched," he said, "and hungry. You got any food?"

Oliver sighed. "You don't want to go home."

"What, back to my cosy little cell? Can't wait."

Oliver didn't care enough for Negan's sarcasm to argue with it. He knew it was probably safer to leave in the morning anyway so he went to his bag and brought out a stuffed BLT he'd made at Alexandria. He nudged Negan's shoulder with the sandwich half, his share, then passed over his water canteen. They ate in darkness. When they were finished, Negan stood up and went to the door.

"Where are you going?" Oliver asked, wiping crumbs from his mouth.

"I'm gonna keep watch."

Oliver watched his silhouette as it cut through some dim moonlight. "If you're trying to escape, I already told you: I won't stop you."

Negan's footsteps shifted on the wood floor. "Then why are you bringing it up? Why not just let me come up with some dog-shit excuse and disappear while you're asleep?"

"Because I don't want to think someone's keeping watch when they aren't," Oliver answered. "If you're going, go, but if you aren't, I want to sleep without worrying about my security."

"Oh, I'm your security now? Look, I heard your mom was some queen now but I didn't peg you to be so cocky as to see yourself as a prince."

Oliver shrugged disinterestedly. "You were the one saying you'd keep watch."

Negan seemed to find this funny.

"Sleep, kid—" He sighed. "Oliver. I'll keep watch."

Oliver managed to have the rare experience of sleeping deeply and truly all night until he awoke naturally the next day from a nice dream he'd been having — something about pirates and Carl with an eyepatch and a parrot only the parrot was really Oliver's missing hand. It even squawked.

Yawning, he sat up and looked around the empty living area. After a satisfying stretch, he squinted through the boarded window and saw Negan sitting outside on the porch, crowbar against his knee.

Oliver went out, backpack on his shoulder and rubbing sleep from his eyes. "What time is it?"

"I don't know," Negan answered, his voice faint like he was emerging from a daydream. "Sun's been gone over our heads, so, maybe three, four p.m.?"

Oliver's eyes widened. "Merda! And you didn't wake me?"

"I didn't wake you."

Oliver didn't know what to say. He hadn't slept so peacefully since he and his crew were out to sea. Negan smiled knowingly, bags under his eyes. Oliver frowned back —not wanting Negan to think his actions had touched him— and without speaking left the farmhouse for Alexandria. Negan followed, tossing aside his crowbar.

A search party found them near Alexandria. Everyone had expected the worst out of Oliver and Negan's disappearance. Once they got back, Brandon, who looked disappointed about something, took Negan back to his cell. Aaron was distraught at the thought of Oliver being stranded with Negan all night under his command and Michonne was furious that Oliver was stupid enough to get stranded in the first place. Enid punched him in the chest, almost knocking him off his feet, then grabbed him into a rough hug that hurt almost as much as her fist. Oliver was glad to be back. When everyone finally seemed satisfied by Oliver's story, Aaron and Enid went home to Gracie while Michonne told Oliver that the walker waves had finally seemed to wane — no more than a few stragglers here and there now.

"Alright," Oliver said, "tell me the bad news."

Michonne seemed to forget how well Oliver knew her, even if there had been several years' worth of time missed together. She sighed and said, "Carol got injured."

"At the border?"

"No," Michonne said, "after that, while we were holed up at a school for the night. She cut her arm. She says it was an accident but — I don't know..."

"Is she okay?"

"Dante and Siddiq stitched her up, but... she's been acting strange," Michonne answered. "She's at mine now, with Daryl and the kids."

Oliver nodded gratefully, his full mind racing. As they headed to Michonne's he asked, "So, how did it go at the border with Alpha?"

Michonne gave him an uneasy sigh. "Too much to tell. I don't even know where to start."

Oliver frowned. "Did she know we crossed for the fire?"

Michonne nodded. "She knew about in the storm, too, and she claims that two of our people crossed just the other day, on horses."

Oliver's chest sank.

They were approaching the apartment now.

"It's three strikes," Michonne added, "so she's moving up the border as punishment."

"No," Oliver complained, then cleared his throat. "And... the too much to tell? What was that?"

Michonne's face twisted up uncomfortably. "Carol took a shot at her."

"At Alpha?"

Michonne nodded. "Daryl was able to stop her, but... Alpha, she wanted Carol to... lower her eyes, but she refused."

"And then what happened?"

"Nothing," Michonne said. "She said that she forgave her, 'mother to mother'."

Oliver could have spat.

Michonne pointed to him. "Yeah, Carol had that look on her face, too..."

Oliver tried to relax.

Michonne sighed. "She thinks she saw some Whisperers, too, at our camp. But we didn't find any sign."

Oliver shook his head. He felt terrible.

"What?" Michonne asked.

"The second strike was my fault," he confessed.

The accusing, confused glare on Michonne's face gave Oliver the sudden urge to take off running. He took a deep breath to sway it.

"It was me and Enid," he said, "we crossed the border."

Michonne looked like she might burst into flames. Oliver's urge to bolt increased. He could barely look her in the eyes. Then just when he expected her explosion, Michonne simply said, "Come inside," before turning and storming off inside the apartment.

Along the street, Daryl was sitting on his own porch with a lit cigarette, having witnessed their exchange and looking like he didn't want to be involved if an argument was brewing.

Oliver sighed. "Hey, man."

Daryl grunted in reply. "You fucked up."

"Yeah."

Daryl watched him. "Glad you're back."

Oliver only partially agreed, so just shrugged.

"Negan give you any trouble?" Daryl added.

"No," Oliver said, and sighed, and since he had nothing else to say he waved and went inside. He avoided Michonne's eyes as she prepared dinner a little too loudly in the kitchen, clanging pans and utensils against the counter. Upstairs, Oliver went to the spare room where Carol was asleep. Her forearm was bandaged. Beside her was a dusty pill bottle, empty. Oliver remembered Douglas offering them for the first few nights at sea while Carol was still getting used to sleeping on a swaying boat. But that was only for a few nights. Oliver had no idea she was still taking them.

Suddenly there was a particularly loud bang from a pan downstairs and Carol roused. Oliver set the pill bottle down quickly, then sat on the edge of her bed. Carol rolled onto her side to look at him, taking in how exhausted he must've looked.

"I leave you for one day..." Oliver joked.

Carol sobbed a chuckle. A tear welled in her eye and fell down her cheek towards her ear. She looked like she was in pain but the type that medicine could only half help. Oliver forced away the sting behind his own eyes.

"Michonne said you cut yourself, at the school."

"Yeah, I fell."

Oliver bit his lip.

Carol frowned at him. "What is it?"

Oliver bit his thumbnail and took several long moments to find the right words, until finally he said, "You remember how I used to hurt myself, when I was a kid—"

"Oliver, I don't want to hear about this right now."

"I know. I know, I'm sorry," he said. "I just don't want you to start falling into that sort of thing, too. It only helps for a time and then... the hurting comes back, worse."

Carol took his hand to stop him from chewing his thumbnail.

"I fell," she insisted. "I was in the gymnasium, there was a snare, and it pulled me up-side down. The Whisperers were there, I cut myself down, and when I got up my arm was bleeding and they were gone. It was an accident."

Oliver swatted a tear and nodded, relieved.

Carol squeezed his hand. Her fingers were so cold.

"I'm still holding on," she whispered. "Trying to..."

Oliver smiled. Eventually he helped her sit up and waited while she tied back her hair. Together they walked downstairs. Oliver went to the couch. Beside him, RJ was reading a picture book. Judith was drawing at the table. Carol went and stood across from Michonne at the kitchen island.

"Sorry if I woke you," Michonne said, setting her spatula down softly with a guilty expression on her face. "How is it?"

"Hurts," Carol answered, touching her bandage. She sighed. "Being back here hurts, too. And that's her fault. You shouldn't have stopped me."

"There were seven of us out there," Michonne said. "I had to think of them."

"I know. But I did see them."

"You hadn't slept. You had all those pills."

Oliver could see Carol's ears reddening. She turned her head slightly to see if he was listening and he tried to look busy with reading RJ's book. She turned back to Michonne and said again, "I saw them..."

Michonne sighed. "Only you did."

Carol tapped her leg frustratedly on the floor and then left quickly to go back upstairs.

"Dinner will be ready soon," Michonne called out after her.

"Just leave it outside my door — thanks."

When Carol was gone, Michonne swore under her breath. Judith and RJ both turned to her in horror, and their mom apologised. She exchanged a glance with Oliver, then turned back to the stove. Judith and RJ were still giggling at their mother's language together.

"I'm going to go and shave," Oliver announced.

"What's that mean?" RJ asked, ordering his crayons into a neat, colour-coordinated row.

Oliver pointed to the thick wiry hair on his jaw. "Getting rid of this mess."

"Ooh!" Judith cried, bounding across the room to tangle her fingers into it all. "Can me and RJ help?"

"No," Oliver said.

"Can we watch?"

He sighed and cast them both a smile, then gestured his head towards the stairs. "Sì... come upstairs with me."

Blowin' off my mom, I wanna go home
I'd rather be alone, I don't wanna go home
It's gettin' really late so I gotta go home
Mom's blowin' up my phone so I gotta go home

I love my mom
I hate my boyfriend
Do you love my mom?
Do you hate my boyfriend?
But I love my mom

Empty home
Empty, empty, empty home

I wanna be American
My family is gone, but I don't care because I love 'em...

Notes

Song was "Empty" by Kevin Abstract. Thought it was nice and angsty for this one and I thought it was appropriate to have the words "I love my mom, by I hate my boyfriend" somewhere in this shit show for reasons I can't quite put into words.

Heads up, since I rewrote all 4 previous books earlier this year, Oliver's only killed 9 people now and not over 20. If you want more details PM me and I can send you a list of the other changes :)

House scene was down-right plagiarised from issue 164 of the comics ngl lol but it was fun and weirdly fitting so I refuse any judgement.

Some more Quan in the next one ;)

As always,
Happy reading.