"He blinked and glanced around as if the room itself could answer the questions his brain was too sleepy and muddled to ask. It was when he spied the blurry image of Shea at the kitchen table, her cheek pressed sleepily against one hand, reading a book splayed out on the table by the glow of the other, that he started to piece together what must have happened. At least some of it."

Drew couldn't remember if the sun had already set before they'd sat down to eat, or if they'd been staring at each other for so long that it had gotten dark while they remained seemingly frozen in time. All he knew for sure was that - between the tick-tick-tock...ing of his watch and the thrumming of his heartbeat in his ears - the silence between them was too loud. There was an awkward clearing of a throat - his throat, maybe - and his eyes dropped away from her face to the hood of his sweatshirt still bunched up around her neck.

He also knew it was his voice that yelped, "We should get a turtle!" although he didn't feel his mouth move. Wrapping his fingers underneath the sides of his chair, he held on for dear life, sure that if there was ever a perfect moment for him to topple over and die of embarrassment, it would be that moment. To make matters worse, he continued to blabber, even as Shea shifted her blank stare to her bowl, forming a pit of dread inside his chest. "I– I like turtles. They're adorable! And we're… I'm… We can have—"

Shea's dark mutter interrupted him. "She probably deserved it anyway." She sounded like she might be sick. The scrape of her bowl against the table as she pushed it away from her was too loud too. "I'm not hungry, anymore."

"I… I'll save it for you," he offered, the pit of dread burrowing down deeper inside of him, mingling with shame and guilt he didn't want to acknowledge.

What was wrong with him? What kind of so-called genius would blurt out something like 'we should get a turtle' after someone confessed to… to what? Accidental murder? Could it be murder at all, if she didn't mean to do it? How did that—? And there he went again, having too many thoughts in his head to stop and consider how stupid they were!

"Are you okay?" he asked, unsure if he should be asking.

"I don't know," she murmured, pausing with her chair pushed halfway away from the table. He was glad, now, that she wasn't looking at him. He wasn't sure if he could handle it if she did. "They… they weren't good people. But I don't know if– does killing her make me worse than them? Even if I didn't know… didn't mean to do it?"

He shrugged, if just for something to do. "I don't think it does. I don't… I don't know who these people are or what they did but… Even if they were good people you didn't try to hurt anyone on purpose."

"But I have hurt people on purpose!" she shouted at him, slamming her hands down on the table so hard he was almost - almost - distracted from the tears pooling up in her eyes. "I'm– I'm the reason why people who don't deserve it are in jail! They needed help not… Not us. Not me!"

"Shea—"

"Just don't," she nearly begged, the momentary fight in her gone.

Insistently, he tried again. "But it wasn't your fault!"

"Really?" she scoffed incredulously. "It wasn't my fault?"

"You didn't know—"

"I knew that I didn't need to hit that guy as hard as I did tonight," she spat. "I knew that and I did it anyway. I knew that Magnus didn't need us to fight him from day one, but I did it just because I was told to." Scoffing again, a sound of disgust he could only assume was directed at herself. "And when I don't hurt people…"

Her voice trailed off and she fell silent for one sudden moment, right before launching out of her chair. The next thing Drew heard was the bathroom door slam shut.

Staring between the two still-full bowls of chili mac, he went to war with himself, wondering if it was better to let her be or to follow her. He hadn't actually made a decision when he felt his knuckles rap against the door.

"Are you okay?" he asked, though he was even more sure it was a stupid question than the last time he tried to ask less than five minutes before. It took a moment before he heard her mumble a reply, pleading with him to go away. "Please, come out of there," he begged in turn.

He waited, and waited, and waited. She didn't respond to him.

"For what it's worth… I don't think you're a bad person, Shea," he said, feeling strange talking to a door for the second time in one day. "I know we don't really know each other very well, so what I think is unrelevant but I still think—"

"Irrelevant."

Being interrupted never made him smile so much in his life.

"What?" he asked, trying to stifle a laugh.

The door opened and she brushed past him, strands of hair clinging to her face the only indication he saw that she'd splashed water on her face. He wondered if that was just a normal way to calm down, or if it had something to do with her glow. Though she said she didn't feel hot when she used her strange powers, he still wondered if… well, it was hot, so maybe cooling herself down helped to stop the flames from creeping into existence when she didn't want them. Maybe that was why she ran from the table.

"The word is irrelevant," she reiterated, as she marched past him. Then she paused, frozen between the kitchen table and her room as if she couldn't decide where to go. "And you're wrong. A good person would regret killing someone. I don't."

"I think you're lying."

"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know that if you were a bad person it wouldn't even occur to you to worry about being a bad person. I know that a good person recognizes when they went too far, even if going too far was out of their control. A bad person wouldn't care, or they would lie... Or make jokes," he added, bitter memories surfacing before he could shove them out of his mind. "A good person asks if doing something bad to a bad person makes them worse."

Shaking her head, she stuffed her hands in her pockets. "I think you're letting the hero label fool you."

"I'm not." At least, he didn't think he was. She didn't respond, but she didn't budge either. "Fine!" he finally gave in, choking under the pressure of silence again. "You're a bad person! Is that what you want me to say? Do you want me to say that– that you should go? That I'm scared and don't want you—"

"You are scared, aren't you?" she choked, and he stepped toward her as she wiped a hand across her face. Putting his hand on her shoulder was a mistake, he realized when she whirled around to face him. "You're right," she managed through tears she was obviously trying to suppress. "I should—"

"If you say you should go, I swear, Shea," he snipped, finally his turn to interrupt. He took a breath, trying to calm the tumult of emotions… tumulting around inside of him. "At least just… eat your dinner. Sleep on it. I don't want you to go. I was only…"

"I know what you were doing. It doesn't change the fact that you're right. It's selfish of me to be here."

"Well, it– it would be more selfish of you to leave now!"

She raised an eyebrow suspiciously at him. "How?"

"Um… Be-because I made dinner? And… and you haven't checked my work enough to pay back the clothes I bought? So… you owe it to me to stay because we made a deal?"

He knew he'd won the argument when her face flushed. Maybe he should have joined the debate team, back in high school.

"I'm still not hungry," she grumbled. "But… fine. I won't leave. Yet." She didn't sound quite so sincere in her threats anymore. And her claim to not be hungry didn't sound so sincere anymore when her stomach growled. She didn't fight him when he slipped past her to snatch up and shove her abandoned bowl back into her hands.

"Eat," he commanded, and with a roll of her eyes, she popped the spoon into her mouth. A low chuckle escaped him as she turned away from him as if that would keep him from noticing her shovel in an even bigger bite. He sat back down in his seat, gesturing for her to do the same and slowly she drifted over and sat back down.

They finished their dinners in silence, at least until Shea murmured, "Are you afraid of me?"

He glanced up and immediately regretted it. Her stare caught his, freezing him in place like a terrified Medusa. It was Medusa, right? That turned people to stone?

"No," he answered, maybe a little too quickly. "Well…"

"I knew it." She sounded disappointed, in a way. Unsurprised. But disappointed.

"I'm not scared of you."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means– I don't know. I'm not scared of you but… I don't want you to have to go back," he confessed. "Not if it means going back to… Sorry, I don't want to call your parents horrible or anything but…" He shrugged, trying to break some of the tension coiling up in his muscles.

She nibbled her bottom lip, scraping her spoon against her empty bowl. "They never used to be. Before, I mean. After the comet and all this," she emphasized her words with a brief display of flames, "they didn't think we were the same people anymore. Or people at all."

"I'm scared of you having to go back to that. It can't be… good for you."

"Oh," was all she could seem to muster.

Nodding, Drew stood. "I have work to do," he announced, hoping she wouldn't assume he was just trying to get out of the awkward conversation. Not that that wasn't part of it. She barely acknowledged him with a nod of her own, though she cleared both bowls before he could bother to ask, which he took as permission to retreat into the living room.

He did sit down on the couch with the intention of starting on the work his professors had assigned, at least.

When he woke up, not remembering having fallen asleep, the room was almost completely dark, save for the blue-ish glow of the television. Blearily, he propped himself up on one arm, tugging the blanket that he was certain he'd thrown over the chair, up with him. And he was even more certain that he hadn't turned Mighty Martian on or put his glasses on the coffee table. Let alone taken them off in the first place.

He blinked and glanced around as if the room itself could answer the questions his brain was too sleepy and muddled to ask. It was when he spied the blurry image of Shea at the kitchen table, her cheek pressed sleepily against one hand, reading a book splayed out on the table by the glow of the other, that he started to piece together what must have happened. At least some of it.

He ducked back down before she could spot him, realizing he probably shouldn't try to get attention to ask why Mighty Martian was on until he could get the dumb smile off his face. Which would take as long as it would take for him to get the thought of how cute she looked, even as little more than an indistinct blob, out of his head. Bringing the blanket up to his face and thinking about how sweet it was of her to put it over him - for the second night in a row, no less - did not help the matter. Bad person, his ass. There was no way she was a bad person, no matter what she said.

He realized that his thoughts were having the opposite effect, only cementing the dumb smile on his face. Trying to distract himself with the thought that her hand looked like a lava lamp brought a different kind of smile to his face. It was still too dumb for him to be willing to disturb her, but at least the heat coiling low in his abdomen started to disperse.

"I know you're awake, you know," she said, and he almost fell right off the couch, she startled him so badly, despite how soft her voice was. He was glad he didn't. Doing that once had been embarrassing enough. He pulled the blanket tighter around himself, debating whether or not he should sit up and confirm for her that he was awake. Her quiet laugh brought all the awful thoughts right back to his addled brain and even before she giggled, "Fine then, I guess you're not," he'd already decided there was no way he could sit up and risk looking at her again.

"Why's the TV on?" he croaked, glad to think she couldn't guess his thoughts from his voice.

He didn't hear her get up, and the yelp that escaped him when she sat down on the chair was far more embarrassing than falling off the couch would have been. Maybe. He snatched up his glasses, jamming them onto his face as if to hide behind them.

Unphased, she announced, "You were having a nightmare."

"I was?"

"Well, you sure were crying a lot for someone who wasn't having a nightmare. The screaming was a pretty big hint too." Was she joking? He was too tired to be sure of anything except the fact that being so tired around her was probably not the best idea. Especially not when his gaze settled on her lips. He probably shouldn't have put his glasses back on.

Maybe, "I'm sorry," wasn't a normal response to someone mentioning you were screaming in your sleep, but it sure was the only thing he could think to say. He just hoped he wasn't talking. There were plenty of conversations he wasn't sure he was ready to have yet. Certainly not without plenty of alcohol. "But um… why's the TV on?" he asked again.

"Well," Shea began, shifting almost uncomfortably. "I tried to wake you up when you started crying, but as soon as I touched you, you started screaming. My brother still falls asleep to reruns of his favorite dumb kids' show when he has nightmares, so I thought maybe it would help." He didn't miss her added mutter of, "At least he said he did in an interview once," though he figured it was best left unaddressed.

"Did it?"

"What?"

"Did it help?"

"Oh. Yeah, seemed to. You stopped crying, at least."

He wasn't sure if he was just tired or if her speech was a little slurred. Given the way his, "Well, thank you then, I guess," sounded a little slurred too, he figured it was just him. Either that or she was just as tired as him.

How blank his mind went when he turned his focus to the nostalgic cartoon, the way his body started to get that floaty half-asleep feeling to it, should have been all the warning he needed to just let himself fall asleep. Instead, he had to be a moron and let the desire to stay up and talk to her beat out common sense.

"What were you reading?" he asked, between yawns.

"Nothing," she blurted so quickly he couldn't help but glance at her. She blinked, green glowing blush creeping onto her cheeks. He didn't want to think about what she might be reading that would cause such a reaction. Not that he could help it. She quickly turned away from him, throwing her legs over the arm of the chair. He wasn't convinced she was actually watching the show, despite how intently she stared at the screen.

"You took my glasses off," was the last… okay thing he said.

"I didn't, actually," she corrected. "You threw them at me. Woulda busted my lip if you actually had any strength behind it." She glanced back at him as she spoke, and unsurprisingly his gaze settled on her lips. Again.

His stupid brain. Why couldn't it just let things go sometimes? And why did he have to be stupid enough to stay awake even when he could practically feel his social intelligence turning off?

Forget saying something stupid about turtles. If he could have up and died over anything he said it would have been just then when he blurted out a question that had been playing on his mind earlier. "Would it hurt to kiss you?"

"What?"

"Earlier you said—" He didn't even notice that his speech was garbled by another yawn. "And I just wondered if kissing you would burn cause of your glow. Or would it taste like plasma?" At least he saved himself just a bit by chuckling, "For scientific purposes."

"You want me… to kiss you?" Shea asked slowly, turning to sit up in the chair, leaning his direction.

He had the presence of mind to blush and lie, "Just… curious."

He didn't, however, have the presence of mind to realize that it still sounded like he was asking her to kiss him. Maybe if he'd been looking at her he would have realized it.

At least she didn't hit him.

Not that the fact that she stooped toward him, catching him completely by surprise, and pressed her lips to his with one hand fluttering on his cheek, was much better for him. It was like an electric shock coursed through his entire body, and he hated that he couldn't just blame nerves for the heat pooling in his stomach. But the shock didn't come from her lips - not in the sense of burning him, at least.

The kiss didn't last very long, whether she pulled away or he pushed her he wasn't entirely sure. In the brief second their lips were connected he did notice that she tasted good. Good in a particularly familiar way. A caramel apple way.

He really shouldn't have been surprised that she'd gotten into the last of the alcohol. Still, "Have you been drinking?" left his lips, though he knew the answer already.

"No." She paused. "Maybe."

"That's… that's okay. Just um… You shouldn't do… that again," he stammered, gesturing vaguely between them.

Her face glowed.

"Right. Sorry. Um… I think maybe I should go to bed," she practically squeaked, and before he knew it, she was gone, her door clicking quietly shut behind him. He hoped she wouldn't hate him in the morning. And he hoped that, eventually, his lips would stop tingling.

No matter how hard he tried to focus on the episode of Mighty Martian playing quietly on the TV, or how many different ways he tried to list the elements of the periodic table, his mind kept going back to the feeling of her lips on his. And the thought that he would give anything for her to do that again.

Every muscle in his body felt tense and agitated and– and that was his first kiss, he realized. The most beautiful human being he had ever laid his eyes on just kissed him. And he pushed her away. He told her not to do it again. He knew it was the right thing to do - it was what he'd always been taught anyway. That didn't exactly stop him from regretting it.

He all but threw his glasses away from him and grabbed for the remote she'd generously left within his reach. Going back to sleep was just about the only thing he could think would get the thoughts off his mind. At least, he hoped.

He debated getting up and retreating to his own room. The comfort of the couch, with his warmest blanket already wrapped around him, and the knowledge that if he stood up at all he'd head straight for what little alcohol he hadn't already used for his caramel apple specialty - which surely would not help the way he was feeling - kept him from budging.

Ignoring the way his pants felt tighter than usual was easier said - well, thought, in this case - than done. Suddenly he was far more glad than he had any right to be that she was the only one with any alcohol in her bloodstream at the moment. He was starting to doubt the likelihood that he would have been able to push her away if he'd been drunk on top of being exhausted. At least not before he tried to take a stupid little curiosity-satisfying kiss too far.

As it was he was still looking too deeply into it. Wasn't he? She– She didn't actually want to kiss him, had she?

Groaning he pulled the blanket over his head. While he was wondering if his stupid inability to just shut up had just ruined any chance at a decent friendship, he managed to fall back to sleep.

He didn't know how much later it was that he woke up again. The light had been turned on and Shea was standing over him, a glass of water in her hand, shaking his shoulder as she quietly called his name.

"Drew," she repeated. "Wake up." When he blinked at her, latching onto the blanket, she explained, "You were having a nightmare again."

He most certainly had not been having a nightmare.

"Right, thanks," he squeaked, more appreciative than ever of the fact that she'd dropped the blanket on top of him.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

He most certainly was not alright. He nodded anyway. He just hoped she would walk away soon, an all too familiar chill in the front of his pants sending heat flooding his face, almost bringing tears to his eyes with how humiliated he was. Even if she didn't know. Dear God, he hoped she didn't know.

Evidently, sleeping didn't do jack to take his mind off of her.

And, evidently, she was more inclined to watch him with a concerned look crossing her face than she was to walk away. He managed some awkward stammering - a vague "goodnight" mixed in somewhere - before he wrapped the blanket as tightly around himself as he could and all but bolted into his room, locking the door behind him.

He couldn't strip his shame-soaked clothing off of himself any faster. And he certainly didn't dare risk sneaking back out to try and wash the mess off.

The only other time he'd cried after a wet dream had been when he'd had his first and had assumed he'd started wetting the bed - one of the only childhood failings that he'd never faced before. A very different type of tears slipped down his cheeks as he cleaned himself off the best he could with spare tissue, collapsing onto his bed after pulling a new pair of boxers on, out of habit.

He'd been sure it was just a stupid little crush. At most. He thought she was cute, not someone he would ever have any real sexual desire towards. Conscious or otherwise.

Maybe… Maybe if he couldn't get himself under control she really would be better off finding somewhere else to live.