"HAVE some tea."

Charlie glanced down at the cup that had been placed in front of him. The tea inside was a pale brown and wisps of sweet, syrupy white steam wafted from it steadily, having maybe been mixed with a little milk and honey. Petals of lavender, pretty and purple, floated rather serenely on the sea of earl-grey, or maybe chamomile - he couldn't tell - which anyone else but him might have thought was a nice touch.

He stared. "I don't like tea," he said glumly.

Greer Feuerbach stared back.

Charlie picked up his cup.

The heat warmed his hands, reminded him of when he was young — two hands sliding around a mug of hot chocolate that his mother made him each and every day before school. He waited for the memory to come. But it didn't.

Greer picked up his own cup. Then, he pursed his lips and said, "I don't either."

Well, that sounded about right.

Without anything else to say and without anything else to do, they both sipped from their bone china.

Chamomile.

It was awful, of course.

But Andy was still dead, so everything was awful, really.

He'd brought him in with one arm first, pushing him into his chest with a hand on his back and then, after a moment, letting his palm find its place on the nape of Charlie's neck. Greer was cold, as always, with that chill that could be felt even through clothes, but he was steady and firm and unwavering. He wrapped his other arm around him then and Charlie felt all his tendons and muscles unsnarl themselves, felt the sinews of his flesh unravel, felt his bones sigh, deep in their marrow. It felt, somewhat, like being embraced by a statue.

He half-heartedly returned it. He chose, just for the moment, to stand there and allow himself to wallow in hollow, horrible vulnerability.

His friend said nothing and he was glad for it. There was nothing he could say.

He never comforted. He never soothed. But he always did something.

His friend did nothing, nothing but hug him and he was devastated by it. It was the only thing he could do.

Andy was really dead then, and there was nothing his dear friend could do about it.

His glasses were new.

They rested on his face now, rimmed with silver wireframe that gleamed when it caught the light, the lenses dark and tinted. He wore them even now, indoors, as he always had, as he always would. Charlie never minded that though, unlike others. Nosy as he was, there were some things you didn't need to know and at times, it felt like he already knew too much.

His face was angular, plainly symmetrical, all sharp ridges and carved features that Charlie always found sad and boring. Pale and sallow, tall and serious. He recalled sitting next to someone years ago, Sloane, it had been Sloane who once said to him, while smiling that smile of hers, that he looked rather like an unfriendly birch tree. He had to agree. There was some things Charlie had always liked though; the deep scar in his left brow, the small crook in the corner of his mouth, the attractive hook to the bridge of his nose and all the piercings that studded him in their entirety. He had taken out his snakebites, Charlie noticed, and was back to that dusty blond, but nothing else had really changed in the two years since. Not even his hair had grown much, though his cowlick at the front seemed a bit more apparent now.

Greer didn't seem to mind the obvious, blatant inspection of him, and instead moved about his kitchen with a subtle tranquility, as if Charlie wasn't even there. He had rolled up the sleeves of his dark sweater and that, with his sweats and slippers, made him look uncomfortably domestic. Charlie turned away from the sight. He missed the tracksuit.

His friend's apartment was very sleek, very clean, very new. All slick, glass surfaces and silvery steels and dark woods. It smelled nice, like clean laundry and fabric softener. He even had a potted fern. It was all very adult-like.

Eerie, was probably more apt. Unsettling, even more so. The lack of a television anywhere in sight and the presence of a home treadmill in his living-room was harrowingly Patrick Bateman-esque. He desperately hoped to see evidence of some disarray; a stray shirt on the floor, an empty can of beer, a stack of smutty magazines perhaps splayed open on the countertop, but there was nothing to be found.

Charlie ambled around in his corner of the kitchen, moving wordlessly when Greer drifted by to grab something from the nearby cabinets, and shuffled over to said countertop that was lacking any riveting smutty magazines. A few photos had been leaned against the concrete pillar, hidden by accounting notebooks and boring business receipts.

"You hate pictures," he announced.

No response. Charlie returned to perusing.

The first picture was of Greer and someone that Charlie didn't recognize to his disappointment, somewhere in a dingy bar, back when Greer was still scrawny and mall-goth. The woman in it was striking, sure, her skin dark and rich, her hair even darker where it curled into natural twist outs. She had fox-like eyes and full lips and her face was even painted in that way Charlie knew Greer liked. She was sat on his lap, legs crossed. A girlfriend, maybe.

He wanted to laugh at the thought. Yeah, right.

After that, there were a few old pictures of his mother, or his mother and him, or him and his cousin. A newer one with the latter had them in suits in front of old, warped wrought-iron cemetery gates, Scout with their hand on Greer's shoulder so they almost appeared taller than him despite their height. Greer still had lilac hair here too. They looked like human gargoyles.

"How's Scout?"

"Still taken."

Damn.

And then, there it was.

The original Raph picture. This was a picture they had retaken several times, one of many. Not their picture, the picture, not Charlie's favorite, but this was the original one. This was when Danny was still there, before Jack had transferred, before they had befriended anyone from St. Michael's at all. Before it all got horribly, horribly big and complicated. Before it all got fun, if Charlie had to say it. Even if he was the only one to say it.

They were so young then.

There was something almost sad about the way it felt like there were people missing from the picture, even though it had felt so complete at the time.

Greer stood behind the common room couch they were all on, hands in his pockets. That's when his hair was kept buzzed short, his eyes wrapped in dark cloth. Birdie was on the far-left side of the couch, dimples winking as she smiled dazzlingly into the camera. Danny was on the far-right side, already trying to get up and leave, his energy radiating through the picture. Charlie was next to him, hand on his forearm just trying to get him to sit still for a second while he grinned a mile wide.

On his other side, with her head on Birdie's shoulder and her eyes staring into the camera, was Andy.

"Andy's dead," Charlie said. "I saw her body."

Greer hadn't seen it, but he'd seen one before, Charlie knew. He wished he didn't know that. Was he acting normal for someone who's just seen a body? He didn't know. There was a difference between seeing one of your classmates with welts and bruises and seeing one dead. No good response for either, maybe.

"You did," Greer said.

The tea left a bitter taste in his mouth. "I left her alone," he said. Alone in that apartment.

"You did the right thing calling me, Charlie," Greer said softly, though softly was not so-much the truth as it should have been. It was not a tone that was soft or soothing, but one that was a gentle deliverance of what could only be utterly and absolutely true.

And maybe it was. Lightning could strike in more time than the pause Greer had given after Charlie explained the situation, for it had been no time at all. He had inhaled only once, a short stutter of breath, and then after that one-two, he had said calmly and surely through the phone, "Okay. Here's what we're going to do."

"She should—," he started and stopped immediately. He wanted to talk no more of it. Forget it, if he could, even though he knew he couldn't.

Greer set his cup down. "Maybe," he said. "But she never would have called me."

"No," he sighed, "no, she wouldn't have."

"And in the end," he paused and looked down, "what could I have done?"

Answered the phone, for one.

He didn't look sad, though maybe Charlie had never really seen him sad before. Had he? Surely he had. Surely he was. He'd seen all the Raphs sad before, seen lots of Saints sad, whether they were willing to be seen or not. Maybe Charlie would be the only one sad about Andy. His poor Andy.

"How long was it? Since you last saw her?"

"Three years," Greer answered, tilting his head to return the question.

"About a year," he admitted. That was about normal. They didn't live near each other after all and Andy hated being tied down or obligated to anyone or anything. It had always been better to let her seek you out as opposed to the other way around. "We were supposed to meet each other a month or two ago, but things just… got in the way."

"Mm," was all Greer said and Charlie sucked in a breath, tempering the flicker of annoyance within him. Nothing to be angry about. It was just his stupid socially-stunted friend. And "mm," was about right anyway, wasn't it?

Instead of looking at him, he stared at Dion's box sitting on the table which he had brought up with him in a daze.

"You get into contact with Miranda yet? Or Nat, even? About Dion, I mean."

"No. Both are surprisingly hard to get a hold of," Greer said, pressing his fingers into the piercing on his brow out of habit. "Found out one's in LA and the other is in New York though. There's a few Saints up there, actually."

Charlie considered the beginning of his statement. "Are you lying?"

Greer's pale mouth twitched. "No. You're the liar out of the two of us, Charlie."

Ouch.

He deserved that, yeah.

"They must have all fallen out with each other," he said, moving on. Like us, he wanted to add on. But he didn't.

Who would care about Andy? Was he the only one? She didn't have friends, just fixtures to be replaced and removed at any moment. Who would care from back then? He wanted to ask Greer then if he cared, really cared. He felt it on the tip of his tongue. It was scary, not knowing. It had always been scary not knowing. No, he knew he did, right? He cared. Charlie being Charlie again, God, he was sick of it.

When he looked at him again, he was staring right back. He could feel it through the lenses.

He thought of the box. And then he thought of the bathtub.

A prickle of unease then, like something was resting beneath his skin, crawling somewhere. Cicadas again.

He took a breath. Another one.

inandoutinandoutinandoutinandout. He grasped the arms of his chair, swallowing dry.

He thought of that red room.

"Someone killed her," he said.

The words cut and tore as he said them, little shards of glass that ripped into his mouth. Panic swelled within him, jaw clenched, teeth grinding, like he was falling through his chair and

— she was murdered, "she was murdered," she was murdered.

He was going to die. He was going to die. He was going to die. They were all going to die. He was dead. He was dead. Dead.

inandoutinandoutinandoutinandoutinandout

and Greer raised a hand.

"Tomorrow, Charlie. We'll deal with that… tomorrow."

He took off his glasses then and tiredly rubbed his closed but bare eyes with his hand in a way that was so unexpectedly vulnerable that Charlie was left staring at his face, stricken into silence. He sat down, fear dying at the sight. He hadn't even realized he had stood up.

He had thought he was going to throw up and maybe piss his pants a moment ago and yet now, sitting down and watching Greer put his glasses back on, adjusting them after they grated against his nose bridge piercings, it was as if he had imagined the whole thing. Had he?

Charlie took a deep breath. Normal this time.

He was okay. It was normal. He was—

"Okay," Charlie said. Tomorrow. Tomorrow felt like ten years from now, he thought. He could deal with that.

"For now," and this time, Greer stood up, "finish your tea. Have something to eat. Take a shower."

"Okay."

And then he walked past Charlie and for a moment, he waited for something like the feeling of a hand on his shoulder or a pat on the back.

But there was nothing and he felt silly for waiting.

He finished his awful, horrible, no-good tea.

He stared at Dion's box.

He sat there alone.

His abuela once said, when he was very, very young, that it was possible to read coffee grounds to divine the future. He had asked, "Can you read mine?" and she had smiled and said, "You're too young for me to read, ask again when you're older," and he had whined and complained until she had laughed, "What do you even want to know, mijito?" and he had asked her, "Will I be okay?" and she had looked at him then and had no answer to give and no smile to follow.

And now, staring into the drowned, dead tea leaves in the dregs of his cup, he wondered the same thing.

The moon was gone, but the stars were out tonight.

Charlie sighed as he leaned on the railing, closing his eyes as the breeze tickled his face. Wet droplets dripped from his curls, making him absent-mindedly ruffle his hair with his towel before leaving it around his shoulders.

The shower had been nice, he supposed, and the clothes Greer had lent, orphaned by previous owners, were warm and straight from the dryer, albeit suspiciously too small for him. While usually he would delight in the idea of parading about in skimpy pajamas, the fact that the skimpy pajamas in question were someone's forgotten and left-behind ratty Nickelback shirt and LA Lakers shorts immediately took the fun out of it.

At the very least, it reminded him that his friend was not entirely put-together, no matter how much he feigned it. Although, he wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing.

Behind him, the sliding door opened gently, and he patiently waited for the sounds of Greer's footsteps to stop beside him before he opened his eyes and offered him a sideways glance. He looked like an asshole with his sunglasses on at night. When he told him so, he only received a snort in return.

"Thanks for picking me up," Charlie said finally. "For all of it."

A pause. He watched as Greer lit himself a cigarette and his own fingers twitched a bit at the sight. "Mm. How's your power?"

Charlie went, "pah," which might have been a laugh or just a loud exhale. A lick of irritation started in his stomach, but the fondness suffocated it. "Fine. I think. 'Hasn't acted up or anything. I used it on Betty and Molly just fine. 'Haven't even looked at a memory since," he mumbled, wiping his clammy hands on his stupid, slutty second-hand shorts and swallowed the guilt at the mention of the Summers sisters. "Is that a good or a bad thing?"

Feuerbach leaned on the railing with him. "Depends, I guess," he exhaled smoke out of one side of his mouth. "Your mind's probably safeguarding you for now. We'll see how long it lasts."

He had expected something seeing Greer again. And then again when he was bringing up Dion's box, which should have reminded him of Dion, which should have reminded him of Miranda, which should have reminded him of Nat. And then again, when he looked at that old picture from their Raph days, which should have reminded him of any number of things. But there was nothing.

Not a whisper of a memory, not a shout. His mind was completely quiet without him even doing anything to silence it. Maybe this was how normal people thought, with the past dead and buried, their ghosts long-gone.

A house just a house, a picture just a picture.

He had forgotten how to forget, and he wasn't sure he liked that.

Half-heartedly, though maybe it had been whole-heartedly, he asked, "Anything you can do to help with that?"

"Who says I'm not already?"

Charlie glanced over and all Greer did was raise a pierced blond brow at him, the corner of his pale, crooked mouth upturned and he, well, in a silly, boyish stupor, awkwardly half-chuckled back. Maybe his friend had learned to warm up to conversation more quickly in the last year or so. Funny then, that he couldn't tell if he was really joking or not. It was somehow more comfortable. It was somehow less.

"I forgot that you had a sense of humor underneath those glasses of yours," Charlie muttered, hoping that his momentary slip-up hadn't been noticed and trying to pivot, gestured to his borrowed clothes and said, "I also forgot that you are a weak, weak man with bad taste and worse habits."

"And here I thought you never forgot anything," Greer said knowingly with a shadow of a smile, damn.

His friend offered the pack still in his hands. His nails, neatly trimmed, were painted an opaque black which matched both the matte carton and the cigarettes. Djarum Blacks. Even worse than Betty's menthols.

"I quit."

"You can quit tomorrow," Greer said, as if there was no room for argument, and Charlie supposed there really wasn't with him, damn again. He relented, as he always did, and picked one out to fiddle with between his fingers as he contemplated.

There it remained, that delicate imbalance in their friendship. Always unequal, give and take, not just with him, but with everyone. He shouldn't complain, he knew, it'd be hypocritical. A Raph kept their cards to their chest, even when they were bleeding and bruising. He had seen too much of Greer before, had seen too much of everyone, but it was different now when it was him.

He had been a beetle on his back. A bug under a magnifying glass. A breeze blew by and he swayed in it.

"Y'know," he started, "I'm hurt that you don't think I deserve your cigarettes rolled with love anymore."

Greer chuckled. "Ran out. Girlfriend, ex? - took them all when she left." He offered his lighter, a tin of plain steel. "Back to cloves for now." He made a sound that might have been a sigh and flicked the lighter for him. "She doesn't even smoke."

Charlie hummed as he placed the cigarette in his mouth, feeling a spark of amusement, something like deep berry-rich temptation like he was seventeen again. With two fingers supporting it, he leaned in, obligingly lighting his cigarette in the flame that had burst forth. He let his eyes drift upwards as he did so to meet the cold reflection of his friend's dark glasses, making sure to look through his eyelashes like he knew someone else used to, purse his lips just-like-so; like someone more desperate, someone more daring.

A mean trick that didn't belong to him. A reference to something that he wasn't even doing right. A moment that he wasn't even a part of, stolen from a memory he wasn't supposed to see, where he had known Greer had inhaled ever-so-slightly, eyes caught and mouth dry.

If he wanted, he could do it perfectly. But well, he had to resist from committing too much. Otherwise, he might actually have to face the consequences. And tonight was not the night for that.

He pulled away and exhaled easily, blowing smoke into the night through a bad grin. Sick, smug satisfaction was almost as good as nicotine, even if it was followed by shame. "Right," he said. "Girlfriend."

Greer snapped his lighter shut and went back inside without a word.

"You want the lights on or off?"

"Off is fine. I'm not twelve," Charlie said, smiling a bit. Greer responded by tossing the pillow at his face and that made him laugh a little too. It also made him want to cry for some reason. He thought about when he was twelve and it felt so long ago that it hurt. Wasn't it unbelievable that Greer had known him then and knew him now? That hurt too. Everything hurt. His heart was bruised and pulpy and he tenderly put it aside for the night.

Charlie tucked the pillow under his head. Greer's couch was surprisingly comfortable, plush and leather, and he was so exhausted that he was practically sinking into it. "Fine. Let me know if you need anything, but try and get some rest," Greer said somewhere in the dark. The moonlight dimly shining through the balcony doors illuminated his tall and dark silhouette, but Charlie's eyes were already unfocusing.

His mind drifted to any number of cheesy replies to say that might have made him more himself again. Anything? Is sharing the bed off the table? I can think of some other things to do instead. Well, you could tuck me in? But he didn't.

Instead, he asked, "What are you going to do?"

"Nothing. Just make some calls, check a few things. Don't worry about it right now, okay?"

"Okay." Charlie smiled a little more, bemused, but already closing his eyes. "Really playing up the older brother role, huh? Birdie always said you were a bit of a softie." Andy had said that too. She had hated it.

Greer laughed then. "Yeah, well," his voice grew quieter as his footsteps padded away. "I'm not your fucking older brother." And then Charlie was asleep, thinking that he rather missed his older brothers and that he had missed Greer and Andy and everyone else, too.

"How was the visit?" she asked, and then as if thinking it not thorough enough, added on, "How is he?"

Birdie Alastair smiled at her darling little sister and said, "Good. He's good."

"Did he like the flowers?"

"He loved them," Birdie said fondly.

She liked to let Indie put together the flowers for the bouquets each week, which was only fair considering she grew them all, cared for them and nurtured them, and offered them to Birdie happily. It had been daffodils this week, beautifully grown and sweetly smelling, tied with a soft and satin blush pink and baby blue ribbon like always, but it was tulips the week prior, camellias the week before that, carnations often and roses more-so than anything else. He liked them all, but he was a true romantic at heart, Birdie knew, and so roses were often what she chose the most. "Thank you again for growing them, sweets."

"You're welcome," Indie said lightly and ever-so-politely and she couldn't help but smile as the young girl disappeared behind her, what was it? Magnolia tree? Starry magnolia, right, behind the starry magnolia that was beginning to bloom more than any potted tree should be able to.

She seemed so different from her sometimes, she thought. But that was a good thing.

Birdie stood there and let herself breathe in the life that she lived.

She had come home to her sister singing and it had almost made her tear up again. She had just visited him, but she missed him more than ever today. She had work in the morning.

There was something sad and saccharine about it all, in these moments in-between, though she never knew what. But, well, there was no time to think about it and no space for that in her mind.

She went about putting away the rest of the groceries that she had left neglected on the counter, turning down Indie's offer to help before saying, "I rented a few movies from Blockbuster if you want to go through my purse and pick one out and then… I can order pizza? Another movie night? What do 'ya think, kiddo?"

Indie's brown, tawny face peeked out from behind the shrubbery which had, quite simply, overtaken their entire living space. "Okay!" she chirped. "I finished my homework already if you were wondering."

"Oh, right, great," Birdie blinked. She hadn't been, if only because she had honestly accidentally forgotten, not that she would ever really worry about Indie not doing her homework anyway. Despite that, she winced a bit. She should probably be more on top of it, but there were about a million things to remember all the time and a million things to do all the time. God, she was proud though. Birdie couldn't have cared less about homework when she was that age, it had all been boys and booze and bruises. "Did you… want me to look anything over?"

"No, it was pretty easy. Thanks though," Indie said, already looking through the flicks Birdie had picked out. "But, um, I have a science project coming up that I have to start soon if you can help me with that sometime this week."

Birdie brightened. "Oh, say no more, I'm all over it."

Indie laughed. "You're only supposed to help, not do it for me."

She grinned easily, but it lasted for only as long as she lingered before she was already thinking about other things, other problems, other concerns. Casually, she tried to ask, "Speaking of, everything's good at school?"

A sigh. Uh-oh. "Yes." Her little sister eyed her with a bit of a small frown in her mouth. "Everything's fine. You don't have to worry so much. I think you ask that about twenty times a day." Oh, a little bit of Alastair Attitude coming through, great. She had hoped to avoid that. Somehow, it was worse coming from little Indie.

"Okay, okay, sorry!" she put her hands up in defeat, and then when she didn't know what to do with them, left them fluffing up her hair while huffing, "But I'm always going to worry."

Indie softened out of the corner of her eye, shuffling a bit where she stood. "I know. And I know why. And I appreciate you looking out for me. Everything's okay, Didi."

"Okay, good. That's all I want to know, chickadee." That's all she cared about.

She made a point to show up at her school when she could, to see for herself, to be sure everything was okay.

But it looked nothing like Raph's. The teachers were all different and the kids were all different and it was all just so different. There was no horrible headmistress, no barred rooms, no terror in the air so thick that you could taste it on your tongue. There was something hollow there. Indie deserved everything and more. She was happy she was experiencing something different, something better, but there was something hollow there knowing she had to wait so long to do so and knowing that Birdie herself had long since lost that opportunity.

She sighed as she sat down. Enough. She was here now. She was here now, and she had work in the morning.

"Waughhh, the weekend is too short. How is it going to be Monday already? Boo," she dramatically complained. Really, there was nothing to complain about. Her job was great and she loved it, but God… it could be exhausting and at times, annoying.

"Are the men at work still bothering you?" Indie said, brows knitted.

Birdie startled at the question. Maybe she had been complaining more than she had thought without meaning to. "No," she said. "Well, yes, but it's no big deal so don't worry your cute little head about it. I am more than enough to handle it, sweets. Besides, most men are bothers."

"If you say so," Indie said placatingly and Birdie didn't quite like how her sister seemed to arch her eyebrow as she said that. She held up a DVD incredulously. "Also, I meant to ask, but did you really choose a movie about cowboys?"

"Yeah, why not? It's a culture expedition. Clint's cute, too," Birdie shrugged and then flipping her pink locks over one shoulder, said proudly, "Besides, I knew a cowboy once!"

"You're lying. They don't even exist anymore."

"Not true! And I would never lie to my darling little sister," Birdie said dramatically, hand over her heart and wrist over her eyes. When she peeked, Indie was ignoring her and putting down the stack she had been looking through. She pouted at the lack of reaction and leaned over the couch, "So, Fistful of Dollars or what, buttercup?"

Indie fidgeted with one of her braids thoughtfully. She had the tendency to tug on them when thinking, which made her dark hair frizz up cutely. "Um, actually, could we watch something else instead?"

"Like what?"

"How about Casablanca?"

Her heart dropped suddenly and awfully. "Casablanca?"

"Sorry, I know you went through the trouble of picking these up, but I've never watched it and I saw that we had it when I was going through the cabinets the other day." Right, she had left a few DVDs there. Right, of course she had kept it, with the others and the records and...

"Yeah," she said slowly, fiddling with her necklace. Enough. "I haven't watched it in forever." Get over it. Watch the movie with Indie.

"Alrighty! I'll put it in."

"I'll go… make popcorn and... order the pizza."

She walked to the kitchen in a daze.

Put the popcorn in the microwave.

Watched as it popped.

Felt her heart explode all over again. Then, she sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't be doing this. This was her life now. She had to move on. She was happy.

She had work in the morning.

The ringtone of her phone knocked her out of her thoughts, but when she picked up her bedazzled pink flip and moved to answer, the name on the caller-ID stops her, even though it shouldn't. Not out of fear, really. A bit of guilt, maybe.

It'd been years since they'd talked. Well, since she'd talked and he'd listened— that random, impulsive call that she had made at three in the morning— she still remembered his groggy, "Hello?" as he picked up, and the hours of her sobbing into the phone that followed until dawn came, when the rays of sunlight streaming in warmed the streaks of tears on her cheeks and made her finally realize, what are you doing?

He hadn't said much during the entire time, but then again, he never said much at all. She had come to her senses and said her goodbyes and that had been that.

She had meant to call again, to explain or maybe apologize, but hadn't. And he hadn't called her back either.

[GREER]

Indie turned in her seat. "You okay?"

Birdie smiled and nodded.

She answered the phone. "Hello?"

Standing there, thinking about the bills that he had to go through once he got home and the leaking fridge he promised he'd look at first before they called anyone else, and oh right, he also said he'd pick up some eggs on the way home too, Lesley Hale realized that he used to make fun of people that lived like this.

The days had been passing him by, all-too slow and yet all-too quick, melting into one another in the monotony of it all like sticky molasses. He'd turned twenty-seven weeks ago in the comfort of his home, with a cake that was actually a stack of homemade doughnuts, tacky with strawberry filling, made with love by the kids and Cam, though it was mostly Cam. And then they had let him indulge in Star Trek reruns before they all turned in for the night because he had work in the morning and the kids had school and it was just all so—

Boring? Awful? Quaint and lovely?

The bookstore was as quiet as it ever was in the evenings. He'd organized the sections three times over by now, fixed the computer that had been glitching near the entrance, and even perused through an extraordinarily bad smutty book with some dull amusement, and then a motorcycle magazine, which had admittedly been better than the porn, but just as short-lived.

Les was going insane.

He had a laundry list of things to do once he got home and it was already late. Mechanic work was slow lately. He still couldn't fucking sleep more than three hours at a time. Cam… Cam was great, he couldn't deny that. She let him get away with far too much. He was… very fond of her and the kids. They were more than he deserved. It was all more than he deserved.

But God, he was going insane.

It was kind of pathetic.

This was his life now, he thought. He used to make fun of people like this.

There was a temptation, as always, to just get up and leave and never come back. It would be all-too easy. He wouldn't, not again, but it was there, and it was horrible. Something squeezed his heart faintly and he swallowed the feeling. His limbs ached again. What was wrong with him? What wasn't wrong with him?

His eyes flitted towards a petite, mousy woman who had crossed his path three times in the last five minutes. After meeting her gaze, he gave a lazy smile through half-lidded eyes and she perked up, ears reddening before she awkwardly pivoted and pretended she hadn't seen him. Cute in that little puppy way, but boring and predictable. She was also preventing him from closing the goddamn store. He looked away.

After a few minutes, she came to the counter, sliding her selection across the way and then nervously tucking her hair behind her ears, exchanging small pleasantries in the meanwhile. A few Agatha Christie novels and Dune. Hm, he had pegged her for a horror fan.

"Have you read them?" she asked, watching as they began scanning, noticing their eyes lingering on the titles and covers.

"Yep. Mysteries aren't really my thing, though. I usually always figure out the twist in the end," they said dryly and perhaps a little tiredly. They were about all through with small talk, even though Gwen had given them several lectures on at least tolerating it. "Dune's good, though." Not the best sci-fi out there, but serviceable.

"Oh, that's impressive! Though I guess it makes for some unsatisfying reads," she said lightly, before beginning to ramble a bit. "I'm actually more of a horror person, but I've already read the latest King and I'm trying to branch out a bit, though I guess mystery isn't too far from horror at times, is it?" Right again, as per usual.

"They 'ave a high comorbidity, sure."

She giggled at their unintentional pun and then her eyes drifted towards the stack of papers near the register just as Les had finished packing the books into a bag. "Oh! I didn't realize you guys had newspapers too, I wasn't able to read mine today." She grabbed one and added it, only skimming the front page which if Les recalled correctly, was running something on mutant registration being proposed in Congress again. "That mutant stuff is crazy, huh?"

"Absolutely unbelievable," Les drawled. What was truly absolutely unbelievable was that they were stuck in this boring conversation again. Every once in a while, someone would walk up and go, "Crazy about those mutants, hm?", or "What do you think about all that mutant stuff?", or "Isn't the world just wild nowadays?" in an attempt to start a conversation.

"My niece goes to school with one in an unregulated district and it's a scary thing not knowing if they'll blow someone up or something, y'know?"

Les rolled their eyes. Normies always thought mutants could blow shit up as if they were all like Vega. Now, wouldn't that be inconvenient? Or maybe it'd be more convenient that Lesley's own power, actually. Briefly, they contemplated doing something to really freak her out, but the threat of arrest and the combination of both Gwen and Cam yelling at him again wasn't worth it. They handed her the bag of books. "Nope. 'ave a nice day."

She blinked in confusion, but took her receipt and after frowning hesitantly, quickly walked out. Fucking idiot. They moved to lock the doors behind her and they quietly sighed in the silence that followed. Boring again. Just as they began shutting down their register, their phone rang, and they picked it up with a dull exhaustion that they masked as dryness. "Yeah?"

"Hi," Cam's voice came through the phone bright and clear, though the tiredness came through when she followed with, "Is this a bad time?"

"You're good. What's up? Need me to pick something else up on the way home?

"No, no. Everything's fine. I just wanted to let you know that someone called the house just now for you?" Dread boiled in his stomach. "Someone from the Trinity? They said they went to the schools with you, Greer? 've never heard you mention a Greer, so I didn't say anything or give away that you really lived here, but is he… is this bad? Is he someone you know? Should we call Danny?"

Greer Feuerbach. Holy shit, that fucking took him back. Les leaned back against the counter and scoffed a little, the dread simmering down. Last time he'd heard about him was through Danny complaining about something work-related a while back, which Les hadn't really listened to on account of Danny having to be painfully vague, but huh, the last time he'd actually seen the guy...

"I know him, yeah, you don't 'afta worry. I think, anyway, unless he's really held a grudge," Les said. "And no, what are 'ya thinking of calling Danny for? It's not like he threatened you or anything, yeah?"

"That's not exactly reassuring, Les," she sighed, and he could already imagine his sister pinching her nose in annoyance. "And no, but I mean, how does he even know you live here?"

Les shrugged even though he knew she couldn't see it. "Fuck if I know. I mean, I haven't spoken to the guy in forever, but you don't have to be scared." Les hoped. If he remembered correctly, he wasn't really someone to fuck around with, but it's not like Les was particularly worried if it came down to it. He had just been a quiet, scrawny goth kid back then. Although, Les had also just been a scrawny kid at the time. "Did he say anything else?"

"It just sounded… urgent? He wouldn't tell me anything else. I have his number though," she said.

Urgent? "Alright, look, I'll deal with it when I get home, 'kay?"

A deep sigh. He knew she was too tired to argue over the phone. "Alright... if you say so... I'm going to put the kids to bed. Drive safe, okay? Bye."

"Bye."

Les snapped his phone shut and stared at it, heart pounding. There was no conceivable reason he could imagine as to what or why Feuerbach wanted anything to do with him after all this time, but he couldn't help but grinning like a greedy kid. After all, didn't things just get a lot more interesting?

From what he knew, Kyra was dead, and Dion was dead, and Andromeda was... dead.

The last one hurt far, far more than the others, but he tried not to dwell on it.

There were no cameras in the building and the gate had been broken and the front door had been unlocked. Charlie had found her body easily and yet, nobody else had. And she had been slaughtered.

On the couch, Charlie was sweating and squirming in his sleep.

Greer moved to stand over him then and watched as he twitched a little more. He still scrunched his nose like he did when he was thirteen. It was less cute now that his nose was broken and crooked. He pocketed his glasses, leaned down, and pressed his palm onto Charlie's clammy forehead.

Fear.

He ignored it. Go away, he said.

Charlie shot up, hands gripping Greer's arm, eyes wide and pupils staring directly into Greer's own. He had reflexively braced himself for the barrage of memories he had come to expect, but there was nothing except for the warm, golden feeling he had come to associate with Charlie. There was a glossy film over his eyes.

He said to his friend and his mind, "Get some rest."

His body tensed again all at once and then, Charlie lied back down and fell asleep. A shuddering breath. He watched as the familiar scrunch in his nose relaxed, as the tightness in his fists and shoulders and back unwound. The door to his mind was unlocked. He could walk in if he wanted. It could have only been more open if Charlie was still looking him in the eyes. There was something behind it, he knew. Something waiting behind the door there.

Charlie turned into his palm more and sighed in his sleep.

He left the door closed. And then with a bit of a sigh, removed his hand. He was a troublemaking bastard for the naughty trick he pulled earlier, but he was still Charlie and he loved him.

Greer wished he could do more for him. He could tell that he wasn't going to be the same when he woke up.