"—HELLOOO, go for Charlie. 'Sorry I missed your call, drop a message and I might call you back. Bye!" Beep.

"Shit, Charlie." She'd laughed as she had said it, though it had come out more strangled than expected, hoarser and uglier in an almost-groan. "Why don't you ever answer your fucking phone?"

Her mouth was near pressed into the receiver, occasionally leaving blotched and faded red lipstick marks on the speaker when she fumbled it. Her hands clutched the handle, the landline wire, fingers coming absentmindedly to twist it round and round. "You probably have like, thirty voicemails sitting there. Probably not even going to listen to this either."

She bit her nails then, black like always, chipped already, casting her gaze on the innards of the empty apartment over her shoulder with some wariness.

"I think I really fucked up this time, Charlie," she said, giggling until she covered her mouth with her hand in some surprise, only dropping it to say, "I think I really fucked up."

Her teeth were chattering.

She was dressed in her clothes from last night, skirt and tights and sweater all haphazardly pulled on as she stumbled out of the bedroom, tripping on her fallen heels in the doorway. It was still cold. She was shaking. "I think I drank too much — way, way too much," she said weakly. "I think I have alcohol poisoning or something. I, um, vomited six times already. And I'm really cold and... I don't know, I don't know where I am or where my phone is… but, uh, no drugs, so that's good, I guess."

She grazed her lips with her fingers and they came away red. She had reapplied lipstick after each emptying of her stomach, as was her ritual usually, but at some point, she had forgone it, had realized it was in her best interest to call Charlie. Always Charlie. She wouldn't be able to afford an ambulance this time. Not that it mattered.

The apartment was silent. All of its curtains were drawn, the only morning light peeking in showing the dust floating in the air, golden light in a faded blue apartment. She had called out for someone, anyone, with no thoughts of a name or a face that she could remember, but there had been no response. It had to have been the guy with the forearm tattoo and the dark eyes, the nice smile. A motorcycle, a jacket, a cigarette. Likely.

She scratched at the crook of her elbow. Notches, notches, notches. Something creaked in the apartment.

"I think I have to go to the hospital again," she said softly. "And, um, I'm scared. Not of that, but…"

She looked behind her again. Nobody was there.

The lights flickered in the kitchen, white and blue; fluorescent like a club bathroom. She was still slumped on her knees on the cold linoleum floor, and feeling another chill, she pressed herself against the corner of the wall and the counter, turning slightly to face the room. Her view was still obscured a little by the kitchen island, but she was able to take another breath seeing the living-room on the left, knowing the door was on the right.

"I know I haven't called recently." Her head ached, throbbing dully. Guilt settled into her stomach. Obligation had found her again. "I've been having dreams. Bad ones, or nightmares. And just… 'don't know. Bad thoughts. And they all…"

She winced. "They all… end… um, sorry, I know I don't sound like myself," she clutched the phone a little harder, drew her knees up closer to her chest. She had never said sorry so much in her life. She hated it. "They all end in this apartment."

It was just another man's apartment. A nice television. A beaten sofa and mismatched recliner, gray sheets on the bed and only one blanket. An empty glass bowl on the table by the door to put keys and a wallet maybe, neither there at the moment. She recognized this apartment though. She knew it. This everyman's apartment, from its empty beer bottle on the teak coffee table to the open closet in the bedroom with its dark shirts and straight jeans, left slightly ajar even now. She remembered it.

"Isn't that weird?" she murmured, maybe still in a dream. "The curtains are always drawn."

Bad, bad, bad. "There's always an empty pizza box on the counter."

Run now. "The landline is always cream-yellow."

"I'm always alone."

Hastily, she dropped the landline to stand and throw up in the kitchen sink.

When she grabbed it again, the light was still blinking on the machine, the message still going. Yes, still going. Not much time left though, not much at all. "Sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. I think it's the alcohol. 've just been really paranoid lately. I don't mean to worry or whatever, so don't."

There was a sound at the front door and for a moment, her heart jumped into her throat. But the faint sound of keys rattling against each other, the scuffing of shoes outside the door calmed her, reminded her of something: It was just another man's apartment. It was just another man. It was just another morning.

"I think the guy I came home with is back. Maybe he'll take me to the hospital or something and I can call you from there."

Beep.

"Shit." Her time was up. She wanted to say she was sorry for calling again. Sorry if she made him worry again. Say love you, bye, like always, even if she didn't mean it sometimes. Gross, gross, gross. She hated Charlie. She pressed the redial button.

It was ringing.

She could hear the key turning in the lock.

It was still ringing. She hoped he'd pick up.

The door opened.

"Hello?" she called out.

Strange. Her dreams always ended here, too.

"The mailbox is full and is not accepting any messages at this time. Goodbye!"

Betty Summers' left hand was missing a finger.

Fingers, really, since she came to find that having half of one didn't count as much as you thought it did. Her little finger, half of her ring one, gone. It was never a problem because she wouldn't make it a problem.

She had recovered easily enough from losing them. Only a hand brace and a year of physical therapy, and then several more years to grow used to the absence, the aches when it was about to rain, the stares when she took orders. She could almost forget the sight of her hand drenched in red, afternoon sunshower just outside of the open windows, the face of the classmate who had blown them off in the first place.

No, never a problem.

She still used it, that left hand of hers, still preferred it, never switched or swapped, never complained or copped out of it. She'd use it, with her missing fingers, because she could and she would and she hadn't faltered or twitched or fumbled and she would never falter or twitch or fumble.

She smoked with her left, served with her left, and lived with her left.

But tonight of all nights, in this little diner at midnight, where the seats were worn red and ripped and the lights were dull and yellow, Charlie Castillo had taken a seat at the counter with little more than a large menu in front of him and a Cheshire's grin on his face when he had lowered it. A single moment, a single face, and she had lost a battle she'd been waging for a little more than a decade.

She had gasped. And that grip, that tight left grip of hers on the pot handle, loosened all at once and she could feel it slip from three fingers, left hand curling.

Betty reached out reflexively, instinctively, before she could think and the silver and black coffee pot froze in its place an inch above the ground, unmoving in perfect stasis, a singularity in empty air that shouldn't have existed. "Shit," she cursed, frantically bending down to grab the handle with her right hand this time, ignoring the building heat in her cheeks, the unexpected nausea in her stomach.

Her head snapped over her shoulder, fear gripping her heart before his voice cut through her like a butter knife. "Nobody noticed," he said, sounding a little amused.

A trucker was leaning on the soft-sounding jukebox reading the paper, eyes cast downward beneath his hat. Three stoned teenagers were taking pictures with a digital camera in a corner booth. Quentin was still at the stove with his back turned, flipping pancakes. Nobody noticed.

She let out an exhale. She hadn't disclosed she was a mutant when she was hired and while she didn't know if it'd be a problem if she were found out, she'd rather not find out.

When she looked back, Charlie Castillo was grinning that same smile he'd had a decade ago, like he'd just told a naughty joke about the headmistresses. He had leaned a little over the counter, chin on hand with a slow smile and lidded eyes, and ugh, what an asshole. He was the same, she realized. His hair was a little longer, dark curls reaching the nape of his neck now, and it looked like he'd broken his nose once since she last saw him, but he still fidgeted in his seat the same way, still stared at her with the same glinting dark eyes. How long had it been since she'd seen his face?

An uncomfortable wave of nostalgia and anxiousness washed over her at the sight, like she was watching through the eyes of a teenage girl with all of her fingers still. Years, it had been years. A decade. An entire lifetime ago. She felt like an entirely different person. He must be an entirely different person and—

"It's nice to see you're still good ol' Betty Butterfingers after all these years," he said.

Oh, fuck him.

"Fuck you," she hissed, perhaps more naturally than she had expected, slamming the pot on the counter in a way that made both Charlie and the trucker in her peripheral jump slightly. Still the goddamn same. "What are you doing here?"

She tucked her left hand into her apron as discreetly as possible. It had started to tremble for some reason, aching in a way that it hadn't since she healed, and she clenched it into a fist as tightly as she could. She hoped it wasn't about to rain. She knew it wasn't going to.

"When does your shift end?" he asked, ignoring her in that way of his, eyes avoiding hers, lingering on the giggling teenagers in the corner booth. "Midnight? Or… now? Has midnight passed already? I can't tell. Now?"

Betty pinched the bridge of her nose. He had always been awful to talk to, she remembered now, just like all the rest of them.

"Are you kidding me?"

He winced at her tone, but attempted another smile regardless. "I just need to talk to you. Figured it'd be best off-the-clock."

"You have some guts," she scoffed. "Showing up at my work like this after how long? What makes you think I want to talk to you?"

"C'mon, not even for me?" Charlie said half-jokingly, but his smile had already dropped. "It's serious, Bets, please."

"I don't know you, Charlie. We aren't friends," she said.

He inhaled, twitched, fingers fumbling with each other. He probably wanted a cigarette. "We used to be though, right?"

No, she wanted to answer. He had been her friend and she had been his sometimes-friend when there weren't Raphs around, not a one to drape himself over or bum a cig from. Clearly, this was what was happening now.

Charlie Castillo was used to a booth seat, to pressing himself into the corner of one so that five other people could fit, one on top of the other just so they'd all be able to sit at the same table. Although it'd been years since she had even thought of him, she suddenly could so clearly remember how he was when they were kids. He had the mannerisms of someone that assumed everything would come naturally to him but would never believe they'd stay. It had greatly annoyed her when she used to know him, surrounded by all the other kids from St. Raphael's who had made him seem like he was part of something.

Now, on this counter stool by himself, he looked smaller than she remembered.

Her hand ached. She really didn't want to talk to him.

She closed her eyes and sighed. It was August 31st today.

"It's serious?"

"Would I be here otherwise?"

He clearly regretted saying it from the twitch on his face when she opened her eyes, but she found she didn't care much. It was true.

She frowned.

"Fine— twenty minutes," she relented. "But I'm sure as hell not serving you."

He grinned and he almost looked fifteen again.

Charlie waited out front for Betty to finish her shift, sipping the coffee that she poured in a takeaway cup so that he'd leave as soon as possible. It was a quiet night. Nobody was out on the street from what he could see dimly illuminated by streetlights.

He leaned against his car, closing his eyes for just a moment. It'd been a long ride. It was going to be an even longer one, he felt.

Betty Summers came out soon after in a large faux fur coat over her blue diner uniform, waving over her shoulder to someone still inside. She had looked better than he had expected after so long, though tired, eyes still sharp and mouth still poised to frown at any moment. He was a bit sad to see her hair straightened now, red and long, sadder to see she had exchanged black liner for brown pencil, silver jewelry for gold.

He was a little surprised she had agreed to talk to him, but she was always a little softer than she came across, like any other St. Michael's kid. All big hearts and plain faces, they always were.

"How'd you find me?" she asked. She rifled in her purse for a second.

"Phonebook."

"Phonebook?"

She brought out a pack of Menthol Blue's and a beaten lighter that looked like the Statue of Liberty. Kindly, she offered him a cigarette that he shook his head at.

"Quit three months ago," he said, though his mouth went dry, "And yeah, you know, found your hometown white pages, looked up your last name… called your house… talked to your mom…"

Betty looked up, eyes wide. "You what? You…"

Charlie resisted the urge to grin. "Well, I told her I went to school with you and was trying to catch up and then she told me all about your job and your place in the city and the fact that she always has to be the one to call you and not the other way around," he rubbed his chin and jaw with one hand in feigned thought, nodding slowly. "And that she thinks you have a girlfriend you're not telling her about."

He let his hand drop, crushed the empty cup in his other and threw it into the trash with a swallowed snicker. "Anyways, I'm invited to Thanksgiving."

Betty blinked.

"I… I hate her," she groaned, squeezing her eyes shut. "God, that woman. I can't believe she just told you my entire life story. You could have been a serial killer or something for Christ's sake." Her eyes opened. "You're not coming to Thanksgiving."

He shrugged knowingly as she glared and then mumbled something about desperately needing a smoke now, bringing the unlit cigarette and lighter to blotted pink lips. Her left hand trembled as it held it, her right not quite able to light it.

He watched for a few seconds before saying, "Need help?"

She glowered at him, readjusted her fingers, and flicked the lighter. An ember glow ignited in the dark of the night.

"Blow me," she said, tucking away the lighter into her coat.

He laughed in spite of himself. It was more comforting than he'd admit that Betty was pretty much the same after all this time.

"So?"

"So?" he repeated, unable to resist testing her patience.

It was also just nice standing there with Betty under the streetlight, feeling the wind and the summer air that was just about bleeding into autumn. He could breathe a little easier than he had in a while.

She sighed, but didn't glare at him like he expected. Maybe the nostalgia was softening her up a little. He wondered if she thought it was strange too, seeing each other again. Surely she hadn't seen much anyone else from the schools since then. He certainly hadn't. For the most part, anyway.

"So," she began again, stopping only to exhale, "where's the rest of the Mystery Gang? Not used to seeing you without someone else from that crowd."

"What do you mean?" he said innocently. He glanced at her and she was already looking at him, pursing her lips as if she were going to chew him out if he dragged this out anymore so he set his shoulders back, let his eyes flit to the empty street. "Ah, that crowd. Well, they're all in the wind, I'm afraid."

There was a pause.

Betty's loud and sudden cackle made him jolt. "No way," she said. Then, she laughed, shaking her head. "No way. You all used to run round around like you'd be married and buried together and now, wow, oh, that's just too good."

She laughed a little more, all straight teeth. No more snorts or chortles. His gut twisted. Charlie shifted on his feet, frowning a little.

"I think I'd like that cigarette now."

He should probably feel more guilty, but he didn't, and in fact already felt more relaxed saying so. She'd have to understand.

Betty smirked. She held up her cigarette and then removed her hand, the lit cigarette remaining completely frozen as she dug in her purse with both hands and said, "What about you and, ugh, I forget. 'Things ever work out?"

"No-pe."

"Figured," she said, offering a Marlboro Blue. He grabbed one of the three left and lit it with the bud of her floating cigarette, glancing at her curiously. She only shrugged. "'Was always way out of your league."

Ouch.

He couldn't really deny that, but he still wanted to throw up a little.

Charlie eyed her to see if she would look at him with a sly smile like she used to, when she'd say something mean and then shove him to let him know she was only joking. Back when they were fifteen and sharing cigarettes she'd smuggled in her skirt and she had all her fingers and braces and he had an unbroken nose and acne... and they were just kids.

She didn't, though. Instead, she flicked away some ash and said, "Alright, I'll cut the catch-up then. What are you doing here, Charlie?"

He took a drag, wrinkled his nose. "Menthols of all things…"

"I don't want to hear it from someone who probably still smokes Camels."

Guilty.

"I need help."

"'Hope it's not money help you need. I'm not exactly rolling in the dough," she said, but he just shook his head.

"I need to talk to your sister," he said coolly.

Betty's eyes sharpened slightly, but her brows knitted in slightly confusion. "Molly? What would you want with her? You don't even—"

"Andy is missing, I think," he interrupted. "I need Molly's help to find her."

"Andy? Andy Henderson?"

"Harrison," he corrected. "Andromeda Harrison; black hair, pretty, had that birthmark on her face."

"Oh, yeah." Betty's face contorted. "I remember her. She started Braceface and Butterfingers and Bitching Betty. Told everyone I was trailer park trash." She exhaled smoke from the corner of her mouth in a sneer, "Told Esmeralda I liked her, even."

Shit, what? Charlie almost slapped his hand to his forehead. He had forgotten how horrible Andy used to be, could be, even now. No, he didn't forget. Never forgot, just ignored it. He could hear her giggle in the back of his mind at the sound of either of those nicknames. Still causing herself grief even now. She was the worst, damn it.

"I was out by then, but still," she shrugged, though her mouth was still set in a firm line, "what a bitch."

"Yeah, I'm sorry, Bets, I had no idea," he said, wincing. And he hadn't, though now he could think of a few reasons as to why she had acted that way at the time. Far be it for him to tell Betty that Andy had been living in a trailer - she was so predictable sometimes. "She's different now, y'know. She was just messed up like we all were. Not that it excuses it or whatever, but…"

Her eyes flicked to his suddenly and he trailed off, taking another drag awkwardly at her heavy green gaze. "Ten years and you're still running around cleaning up the Raph's messes, huh, Charlie?" She didn't give him time to respond, not that he'd be able to, and continued with, "It's not your fault in any event, so don't apologize. 'Could have been worse, right? 'Could have done this." She wiggled her fingers and snorted to herself in amusement.

Some of the tension in his shoulders released and he gave her an awkward smile back.

"Anyway, she's missing? 'ave you gone to the police?"

"Police didn't care because of her track record, think she's just off on a binge or with some guy which maybe she is, but look, she's the only one I still talked to, kinda— or at least, we checked in on each other, y'know. She left this voicemail saying she was going to the hospital and that she'd call and then didn't and she hasn't answered since."

He'd only listened to the voicemail after calling her three times with no answer and he almost thought she was on something again, but... there was an awful feeling in his gut that hadn't gone away since.

"So, she's disappeared before?"

"Yeah, but, I don't know," he raked his fingers through his hair, grimacing. "You remember Dion? You know he died three months ago? I only found out a week ago. I don't think anyone else knew, or knows."

Betty's left hand, which was still holding her cigarette, had begun to tremble again.

He averted his eyes, instead looking at the way her eyes had widened again, making her look much younger than she was. "Dion? No way. How?"

"Inconclusive," he muttered.

"Fuck."

"Yeah," he agreed. But the sentiment paled in comparison to how grim and awful it was and felt. He hadn't spoken to Dion in eight years. He had no family, Charlie had found out. The aunt who'd been his guardian had died four years ago. He'd been cremated and forgotten about.

"You okay? He used to hang with you guys sometimes, didn't he?"

He used to wait for Charlie to tie his shoes, tutored him a bit, had a nice singing voice when he thought he was by himself, Charlie remembered.

"Yeah, fine." He threw his smoke to the ground and stomped it out. It'd been nice at first but now it just reminded him that he said he was going to quit with Andy. "I'm just paranoid and worried. It's probably nothing, but I've got a bad feeling about it." He snuck a glance at Betty, who was seriously staring into space. He cleared his throat, smiled a bit. "Favor for your first kiss?"

That got her to look at him with the same quirk of her lips. "You were nearly everyone's first kiss, Charlie," she said dryly.

"I have a lot of favors to collect."

She looked away again.

"Keep the favor. I'll do it," she said. "For a memory."

"A memory?" he repeated, but he didn't need to. He understood. A memory, of course, a memory. He wanted to smile then, did so with his eyes as she stomped out her own cigarette. "A memory, yeah, you got it."

"You see them, don't you? You're there too?"

"Yeah, sorry. 's that okay?"

She snorted, shrugged. "Well, it's not perfect, but it's better than nothing. It's like… it's like reliving it, right? Like it's happening all over again?"

He did smile then. "Like you're really there."

"Okay," she breathed. Another inhale and exhale. Another nod. "Okay, yeah, now. Let's do it now before I change my mind."

Charlie nodded too. "If you're sure."

"What do I need to do?"

He faced her more now, stepped closer to her and put his hand out for her to grab in front of him. "Just grab my hand, close your eyes, think of the memory… and breathe."

Betty looked scared then, almost, though perhaps not of his ability, even though she'd never been subject to it before. Maybe just of the memory itself, of what she was thinking of, of what she was going to feel all over again. Charlie could understand better than most.

She put her hand in his, her right, he noticed. It was calloused and a little clammy. Her nails were painted blue.

She closed her eyes. And she inhaled.

Blueberry pancakes.

Whipped cream on her nose.

A kiss on her cheek.

Her dad hummed.

Betty tore her hand away, flinching as if she'd been hit, eyes tearing up. She looked away.

It had been barely a minute.

But yeah. It was too much for some people. It was too much for Charlie, sometimes.

Don't linger, he wanted to say. He didn't. Or maybe he lingered too much. He tried not to. Memory to memory, moment to moment, thought to thought. Don't linger.

They sat in silence for a few more minutes, until Betty had calmed down, when her shoulders had stopped heaving under that big coat of hers.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"I'll still do it," she said.

Something painful gripped his heart as he looked at her. He missed his friends, he realized, and he had also missed Betty. She had been his only friend that wasn't a Raph at the time and there was something comforting in her, in the fact that he knew that she would have helped him in the end, which might not have happened if he had tracked down another Raph.

Most of them didn't want to be found anyway.

"Thank you."

"Mm."

"Betty," he said, "You were always an honorary Raph, you know that, right?"

Betty's eyes crinkled as she looked up then, green and blue.

"Yeah, maybe. But," she said, softly, "it's not the same, is it?"

He looked away into the night with a hum, feeling the weight of a thousand memories on his shoulders. "No, it isn't."