Jamie closed the door behind him and leaned against it. It took him a second before he remembered to turn the light on.

"I'm ho-ome," he called. "Did you miss me, Antigone?"

The cat didn't respond. She was probably hanging out under the bed and couldn't hear him or something.

Jamie glanced out the window. He couldn't see Garnet. She must have leapt away to go save Steven right away.

He stood and wandered toward the bathroom. He'd have to take a long, hot shower—being stuck inside a giant alien's body for a full day and then getting tossed into the ocean hadn't exactly done good things for his aroma. He grimaced. Geez, had he really walked all the way home smelling like this next to Garnet?

No, Garnet didn't care what he smelled like. She just cared about…

What did Garnet care about?

Jamie shook his head and turned on the shower, testing the water with his hand. Man, he really didn't know anything about Garnet, even now. He really had been pretty stupid to have gotten such an intense crush so quickly. But of course, he was older and wiser and more mature now. He was perfectly capable of having a completely platonic acquaintanceship with a still-pretty-attractive-but-whatever defender-of-the-city from outer space without getting flustered and awkward all the time.

As soon as the water seemed to be a reasonable temperature, Jamie undressed and stepped into the stream, closing the curtain beside him. His hair flopped over his eyes, and he didn't bother to push it up until he had a palmful of shampoo. Lather, scrub, rinse, repeat, get out all the sweat and saltwater and make his hair nice again. He did have nice hair, after all.

Absentmindedly, he cupped one hand around the back of his head. It didn't cover much, even with his fingers spread as wide as they would go. He couldn't even reach either ear without moving his hand to the side. Were his hands really that small? Or was his head just big? Or maybe it was just that everyone's hands were that small, especially compared to—

Especially compared to the other hand that had been on his head that day. Just a couple hours ago.

"Our orders were to bring back these six humans—I'm just not sure...did they specify, 'alive'?"

That hand was big. That hand covered the whole back of his head and more. That hand put the heel on the base of his neck and the fingers all the way around to dig into his face. That hand—

"You know, I don't think they did!"

That hand almost killed him.

Jamie slid his own hand down to his mouth, clawing at his cheeks in a vain attempt to stop shaking. Oh, God, he almost died today. He almost died. He almost got his head crushed in a giant fist, by a giant alien who wouldn't have thought twice about doing it. He almost got killed in a terrible, terrible way. He'd always wanted his death to be peacefully in bed after a long career, or maybe dramatically and poetically on stage while valiantly fighting for the show to go on—what poetry would there be in your skull imploding under uncaring fingers? He almost died with no warning, no show, no heroism, no way to possibly explain to his family—

His knees wobbled, and he slowly sank to the shower floor.

He almost died. He almost died. And it would have been sudden and gruesome and ugly and painful and the only reason he survived was because Steven, happy chubby optimistic fourteen-year-old Steven, stopped them by giving himself up.

And then again, once the hand was removed—he almost got taken into flipping outer space, never to return home, who knows where they were going who knows what would have happened to him there—and again, Steven saved them by sacrificing himself.

After a moment Jamie realized he was sitting in the shower without doing anything. He turned off the water, but didn't get up.

He sat for a while, shaking.

I almost died. I almost died.

Tears began to flow. He buried his hands in his wet hair.

And Steven saved me—he saved all of us. And now he's in danger and there's nothing I can do to help and if—if he fails whatever he's doing and those people come back—

"Maow."

Jamie looked up.

He wiped his eye and pulled open the curtain. His little brown cat was sitting in the middle of the bathroom floor, head cocked a little to the side.

"Oh," Jamie croaked. "Th-there you are."

Antigone lifted off her haunches and padded over to the edge of the tub, stretching her head up for him to scratch. He complied mostly on instinct.

Her fur was really soft. He'd noticed that at the shelter when he decided to adopt her—she had the softest fur there. Somehow he forgot exactly how soft that was every time he petted her.

"You've been doing okay today, right?" he asked.

"Mrrp," Antigone replied, pushing her head a little harder against his fingers.

"No, you can't get in the tub. You'll get all wet." He sniffed. "But...I guess I can finish cleaning up in the morning." A little smirk. "Barb'll probably understand if I come in a bit late, right?"

Antigone didn't respond, but she didn't need to. Jamie stood carefully and grabbed a towel.

Once he was all dry and clad in his bathrobe, Antigone followed him into the bedroom. He poured some food into her empty dish, made sure she had a good amount of water, checked her litter box—eh, that one was another thing he could do in the morning.

"We can't all have it together all the time," he mused to himself.

Antigone rubbed her side against his leg and purred in agreement.

He crawled into bed, lying on his side, and AntIgone curled up against his stomach. Her mass was warm and comforting; the arch of her spine lined right up along the curve of his belly. He bent his neck a little to touch the tip of his nose to the top of her head.

I almost died today.

He bit his tongue, eyes stinging.

Steven saved us. And now he might die.

He closed his eyes.

For a few minutes he lay in his bed and quietly cried. His little brown cat stayed close, warm and soft and sure, and didn't leave his arms for the rest of the night.