A/N: Please I know this first part is so unrealistic but it's a fanfiction and I miss my dog and I'm projecting okay let me have a few filler episodes if Naruto can do it I can too

Also omg I know I say this a lot but I am so fucking excited to get back to the angst

For some reason I am really on a roll with the fluffy stuff but that's just to lull you into a false sense of security don't worry

Also I have woefully misjudged myself and my imagination and you know how I said it was going to be around 300-400k HAHAHAHA WOW WHAT A FUCKING IDIOT I WAS because well we're about 65k away from 300k and I am quite literally, and this is not an exaggeration, just getting started. As in. We have not hit the actual PLOT yet, okay? This is all exposition and rising action. Like. I hope you stick around for the whole thing, but I anticipate this being at least 800k and taking several years to finish, so…yeah. I hope you stay. Hehe. Enjoy!

The aftermath of Christmas involved a lot of cleaning, but it was done in spurts over the next couple days, so it wasn't very overwhelming. The families stayed for the 26th, traveling back to our flat from their respective hotels, but departed soon after, with the exception of Bear's dad. Tiger's parents left the night of the 26th, and Lion's left the morning of the 27th, to go see Jacob's family in South Carolina, in America. Bear's dad would be staying a few more days, and Tom would be staying through the new year, as well.

On the 27th, Tom and I donned a ton of winter gear and went sightseeing around Cookham. I'd been here for a few months, but I much preferred to stay within the safety of the flat, so I hadn't gone to many attractions around here. We went to the shopping center with the sports store I'd gotten his present from, and milled around for a little while. I was well and truly broke after Christmas and sneaking some bills into Lion's wallet to pay for at least some my share of the rent and food, so Tom bought me a jersey on sale for the game we'd attend tomorrow—turned out L-Unit had bought the fifth ticket for Tom.

I wouldn't have accepted it, but he labeled it a late Christmas present, then proceeded to try to fake-sob in the middle of the store when I still wouldn't take it. I felt like a mother trying to keep their child from having a meltdown, and eventually gave in.

The fake tears dried rather quickly, in my opinion.

We got lunch at a Cuban place off the main street, then wandered around, eventually making our way towards the river.

I walked slowly, and Tom matched my pace, talking rapid fire about something in his Italian Renaissance class. I listened with half an ear and looked intently down the street, slowing to a stop at the mouth of the alley where I'd killed that assassin, realizing slowly exactly where I was.

"—and there was apparently a huge painting that nobody ever found that's s'posed to detail life or something—Al? You okay?"

"Mm-hm," I said absently, walking to the mouth of the alley and peering inside.

There'd been a lot of blood. There was nothing now. Not even in the gritty crevices between the cobblestones. I wondered if they'd repainted, or pressure-washed the area, or something.

The picturesque nature of it kind of made me sick.

I turned back to see a worried Tom and, in the distance, Cookham Bridge.

"…can we go the other way?" I asked eventually.

"Course, mate," Tom said quickly, taking my elbow and instantly turning us around, back towards where we came. He didn't let go for a long few minutes. "So…what's wrong with that way? If you're cool talking about it."

I debated not telling him. We were having a good day, and I didn't want to ruin it, but…well, I was here. Alive, and everything, and Tom was with me. And besides, it was Tom. "That's the bridge. I almost, uh. Yeah."

We kept our pace, and I could tell Tom didn't get it for a minute, eyes pinched in confusion. His brain was working a mile a minute. "Where you almost…?"

Eventually, I rolled my eyes. I almost made a hand motion synonymous with jumping off a bridge, whistling for extra theatric effect, but I figured that was a little bit too dark. "Where I almost unalived myself."

Tom had been forcing pop culture references down my throat for weeks, so I figured it was only fair I use some of them. Even if it was a little mean.

His eyes widened, and his mouth formed a silent, perfect o.

He took a firmer hold on my elbow and sped up. "Cool, other way we go, then, other way is by far the best option for us. No bridges here. Let's see, um—oh, look, a puppy! You like puppies, come on, let's ask if we can pet it. Excuse me! Can we—"

I elbowed in the ribs before he could finish. "It's a service dog, Tom, and it's working."

He wheezed once, flipping me off when words failed him, and whipped out his phone. "Well, lucky for you, there's an adoption center…oh good! Half a mile from here. Let's go pet some dogs."

I blinked, tripping over myself in an attempt to keep up with him, trying to spot his dark hair as he kept disappearing, ducking around people on the street with all the speed and stealth of a very skilled football striker. "Wait, Tom—Tom, I can't just adopt a dog! And slow the hell down, mate, I—" I dodged a bystander with a rushed apology. "You're too short for this, I can't see you when you weave like that!" I huffed as I caught up, grabbing his elbow, but he didn't slow.

He cast me an affronted look. "I'm part of the rainbow alphabet, of course I walk fast. You've known this, it's your fault for not keeping up."

"I was shot in the leg a month ago."

Tom looked at my leg, then looked up at me, quirking an eyebrow. "I've seen you play footie with broken ribs. You're fine."

And then I was being dragged again.

I protested all the way to the shelter that I couldn't buy a dog, I really couldn't buy a dog, because I didn't have anyone to care for it when we were away, and I couldn't pay for it, and besides Lion and Tiger and Bear probably wouldn't like it, and there were so many factors that made it literally impossible for me to buy a dog, but Tom didn't even respond until we were right in front of the shelter.

"Oh, for the love of God, we don't have to buy a dog, mate!" Tom finally said when we stumbled to a stop in front of the shelter nine minutes later. I was embarrassed to say I was almost out of breath. "We can just play with them! It's a Christmas special! Give me grace, you neurotic arse, trust me when I say I have a good plan! If this is what it takes to shove serotonin down your throat, then by God, we're going to pet some dogs!"

All I could do was blink as he stormed inside, and follow.

Well, that was…certainly something Tom would do, yeah, but it was jarring, nonetheless.

"You're a neurotic arse," I muttered as I followed him inside, a little disappointed that he didn't hear me.

I pushed the door open, and the bustling on the street was almost nothing compared to the chaotic noise inside. It wasn't crowded, or anything, but there was just—noise. Barking came from every direction, even though the dogs weren't on display out front; I could tell this place was packed, even after all the adoptions over the holidays. There was a sleek black desk to one side, and a waiting area with a lone man and his terrier, who looked sick. I supposed this place doubled as a hospital, as well; I hoped the dog felt better soon.

Tom was already talking to the woman at the desk when I walked up behind him, flashing a dazzling smile. "So, yeah, my friend over here needs some holiday spirit in him, and I was wondering if that special was still going on?"

I rolled my eyes. Tom stepped on my foot. The woman laughed.

"Sure, it's going on through the sixth," she said with a pleasant smile, typing in something on her computer. "So the program is basically that you can rent a dog for a few hours, but you can't leave the premises. We do have a pretty large fenced area out back with some smaller training areas adjacent to those; you can take the dog out and play fetch, or walk them around the fencing, or anything, really. You can give them a bath, too, as long as there's an employee present in the room. We'll walk you through some harness and leashing rules before then. Have you been here before, or is there a dog you have in mind? If not, you can always walk through the kennel area and see if one likes you. A lot of our dogs are out back right now, but you can still take a look."

"We'll take a look around, if that's okay," Tom chose. "See what doggos I can grace with my presence."

It was my turn to step on his foot. He shot me a look.

We filled out some paperwork (it was a chore remembering all my false information, but I managed with the hope that they wouldn't check it too thoroughly, as I wasn't doing any actual adopting) and had another employee lead us back to the kennel area. She wasn't lying; a lot of kennels were empty, so I guessed most of the barking was coming from the back lawn.

I was skeptical of Tom's idea at first (as I often was). We passed a lot of dogs; some were frantically yipping at the cage's bars, tongues lolling in obvious excitement, while others were sitting placid and uninterested in the corner, watching with suspicious eyes. Still, the employee let us pet a lot of them, and some were definitely very affectionate. It made something in my chest ease—we definitely didn't deserve dogs.

Tom was chatting up the employee, a young twenty-something guy who was definitely Tom's type (I wasn't worried, because he'd never cheat on Rhea, or anyone for that matter, but he wasn't above flirting with anything that moved), but I stopped at a kennel with a dog named Dylan.

Dylan was cowering in the corner. Cowering wasn't the best word, I supposed, but he was curled in on himself and trembling slightly, eyes sallow and downcast. Something thudded in my chest as I looked at him and he wouldn't look at me. Intrigued, a little troubled, I looked at his description on the door.

There was a laminated photo of him in much the same position, sitting up slightly and glancing suspiciously at the camera, plus a lengthy description of his personality and where he'd been found. He was a cross breed, one year old, who was born with Romania but never properly socialized, leaving him "absolutely terrified of everyone and everything." Well, that sucked.

I moved on to the description of the type of owner they were looking for, for Dylan.

The shelter was looking for "extra special homes, with people who are willing to look past his traumas and are willing to put in the time and dedication they need to progress."

I smiled, small and a little surprised. Dylan and I seemed a lot alike.

I crouched at the door of the cage, trying to make myself a little smaller. I was under no impression that I was going to be able to cure him, but…Tom was always so jealous of me whenever we saw a dog, because they seemed to like me. Jack used to tell me I was always calm, and that's why dogs felt calm around me. I hadn't had the heart to tell her that that was because the turmoil was all on the inside, and accepted the compliment.

I whistled, low and slow, and stuck a couple fingers through the cage. Dylan didn't uncurl, didn't walk up to me, but he did stop trembling for a moment. His eyes lifted, and we stared at each other for a long minute.

"Oi, Alex," Tom called, poking his head around the bend, eyes sliding to the kennel. "What, is that the one you want to rent?"

I took another second, Dylan and I sizing each other up, and shook my head. Dylan probably wanted a little peace and quiet, anyways.

Tom settled on a two-year-old cocker spaniel named Rufus, and the employee walked us through leashing rules and etiquette outside, then let us play with him in one of the training areas outside. It was cold, so we couldn't stay out for more than an hour, but we made the most of it.

The main yard was big—huge, in fact, way bigger than the other dog parks I'd been to. It was probably at least eight thousand meters, with most of the area in the middle open and free for dogs to roam. The dogs in question were actually being herded inside, playtime apparently over so they could bring out the next group. On either side of the expanse was six gated off areas, three on each side, with hoops and bars and other obstacle-course-esque structures used for training. Tom and I made our way to the second on the left, the first on the left and all three on the right were occupied. There was one younger couple and a few families, plus an older man on his own. None of them looked suspicious.

Rufus was definitely an energetic boy. Tom threw a slobbery tennis ball with all his might and Rufus took off like a bullet, positively zooming over the yellowing grass until he flipped over his own head in his attempt to stop and grab the ball. I laughed under my breath, watching Tom crouch at Rufus' return approach. Unfortunately, Tom had accounted for Rufus stopping, which he did not, and the two went sprawling as Rufus slammed into his chest. Tom's 162 centimeter self (shit, it was 164, now, wasn't it?) was flattened like a sad pancake.

"That was your own fault," I said, laughing at Rufus licked at Tom's face, ball forgotten, as he tried to get his breath back.

Tom flipped me off.

I was about to respond, but I was distracted by shouting from the entrance of the main yard, where it connected to the building. There were two employees looking harried and a single dog running full speed away from them, tearing across the yard in a desperate attempt to escape them.

Oh. That was Dylan. The dog from earlier.

I watched, somehow detached, as a couple trainers chased the terrified dog around. They were obviously trying to catch him without hurting him, but they weren't having a lot of luck, and eventually the other dogs started barking in sympathetic panic, the families and other patrons watching with concern.

An employee was going around and speaking through the cages, and he got to us last. "Hey, just do us a favor and stay inside, as soon as the dog's caught you can come out. He's not dangerous, it's just for liability purposes, but please stay inside until we tell you to come out."

"Yeah, course," Tom assured, hand buried in Rufus' fur as he panted, glancing at the scene without much interest, instead nuzzling at the ball on the ground. "Is he okay?"

"This dog just hasn't been trained," the employee rushed, glancing back. I looked with him—still no luck. "Just—stay inside, thank you for your cooperation," he said quickly, hustling away and trying to box the dog in. They were cornering it, slowly but surely, but this dog was lithe and quick, and above all, desperate.

I knew desperation was stronger than most superpowers out there.

He was darting around like a madman, and the trainers were just making it worse. It wasn't like I was trained like them, or anything, but it didn't look like the dog was responding very well to being chased and cornered. Could they not see that? Were they not trained to read dogs' behavior? I understood if there were people out here and there was a risk of them being bitten, but all the non-employees were safely contained in adjacent areas, and there were no other dogs to endanger, either. Besides, Dylan wasn't attacking. They could've tried a softer approach first.

I wanted to say I didn't know why I was so up in arms about a bunch of trainers doing their job, but I did—because I felt just like Dylan, most days, and if someone did that to me, I'd run too, and I had before. Luckily I had people now willing to put in the time and care for me, so far, but Dylan didn't have that yet.

And from what I saw from the cursing and impatience of the trainers trying to corner him, that wasn't being given here, either.

"Aleeeeeex," Tom said slowly, warningly, as I moved towards the gate. "You've got the look. Stand down."

"No," I said simply, approaching the door and slipping out, ignoring the shouts of the employees and of Tom, asking me what the bloody hell was on my mind now.

I slipped past stupefied trainers and ignored them when they shouted for me to stop, and crouched a few feet from where the dog was now huddled against the bars, shaking much more violently than it was in its kennel. I wondered how it had gotten out in the first place.

The other day I'd seen an article about a woman who'd said she formed a "connection" with a polar bear after staring into its eyes for a few minutes, and assured zookeepers that the bear wouldn't hurt her. When the zookeepers told her professionally that she was bloody mental, and rightly so, she waited until their backs were turned and snuck into the exhibit—unsurprisingly, she ended up mauled so badly she barely survived, and the trainers had to shoot the polar bear to save her.

Now she was a bloody idiot. I'd never say she wasn't. However, I felt much the same as I imagine she did—not to say that Dylan and I had a connection, because we didn't, but dogs were astute animals, and I was sharp, I thought.

Besides. The broken could sense brokenness. Even animals. Maybe especially animals.

Dylan stopped running as I crouched, slowing to a quick, frantic pace, but he wasn't bolting like before. The barking had subsided to frantic growls that sounded a lot more like whines, whimpers of absolute terror. I wondered what the hell this dog had been through to be so afraid, because it seemed like this was more than an issue of too little socialization.

I whistled, low and slow like I had inside, and Dylan seemed to contemplate coming my way before snuffing at the ground, barking once. It was sharp and desperate.

"Sir, you need to get back, you need to let the trained professionals handle this—" One of the employees said with a heeling stick, stepping forward and putting a hand on my shoulder. I'd heard him walk up, so I didn't jerk like my body wanted to, but I did flinch. I felt his fist curl, I assumed to grab my jacket and try to pull me back, but the dog cowered back sharply at the approach, nearly backing into the fence.

"Ummmmmmmmm," Tom hummed with enough emphasis to startle a deaf man, approaching hesitantly from behind us, "hey, mate, please don't grab him, he really hates that. And he's pretty good with dogs, and the dog was kind of stopping for him, so just maybe, give him a second—"

I didn't wait, twisting out of his hold sharply enough to dislodge him, but fluidly enough that I didn't further startle Dylan. "Dylan," I said quietly, wondering if the dog even recognized its name. I whistled again, lower this time.

It took a few seconds, and I could feel the trainers pressing in on me, but even though their presence was obviously making him nervous, he slowed to a stop, panting against the fence.

"Can you back up?" I asked unceremoniously, fully aware that Jack would have my head for my tone if she were here, but the dog was scared. "You're scaring him. I think he'd do better with just one or two people besides me." Instead of the whole bloody staff.

The same man from earlier started to protest, but someone else, I assumed the manager on duty or something, ordered everyone to back up. She crouched behind me, looking about ready to lecture my ear off herself. That was fine. She could lecture me all she wanted after we were done.

I lowered myself quietly into the grass, sitting with my legs crossed, and hunched my shoulders. I held out my hand, palm up, and tried to keep as still as I could.

It took several minutes of unbearably thick silence, peppered with more than one comment from the trainers, but eventually, Dylan stopped cowering. He stopped huddling himself so desperately against the fence. There were only about five meters of space between us, and slowly, like time had turned to syrup, he closed the distance. It was mere centimeters at a time, a short snuffle in the grass every once in a while and a short pause to recalibrate, but eventually, his snout was just centimeters from my hand.

I felt the trainer tense next to me and saw Dylan shrink back the slightest bit, so without moving, I bit out, "Don't move."

She didn't.

Dylan stilled, gauging the situation, and pretty soon, there was a wet snout sniffing at my hand.

I whistled again, low and quiet, and Dylan licked tentatively at my palm.

I gave him a few seconds, then slowly brought up my other hand. Dylan tensed, and I paused until he relaxed again, then settled it on his head, scratching lightly behind his ears. His ears were pressed back flat against his head, his stubby tail between his legs which were shaking so hard I was surprised he was standing, but he let me touch him.

I moved glacially to cup his face, my thumbs rubbing gentle circles along the sides of his snout. Pretty soon, he sat on his hind legs in front of me, head ducked. I scratched under his chin and started moving my hands down to his body, trying to get him a little calmer, and he let me pet his sides, and up and down his back.

"…we need to get him back into his kennel," the trainer beside me whispered carefully, still crouched with her heeling stick over her bent knees.

"Not yet," I denied. The dog was barely calm. Her moving now would just spook it.

With each second, Dylan seemed to be calming down, his frantic breathing slowing to wet pants, most of them directly in my face. He looked more like an exhausted dog now, instead of a terrified one, which was definitely an improvement.

He scooted just a centimeter or two closer to me, my knees maybe a quarter of a meter from his front paws, and I took it as a sign that I could close the distance. I took his snout back in my hands again, gentle as I could, and pressed my forehead against his with slow movements.

Jack did that for me at Ian's funeral. I couldn't get out of the car at first. My hand was frozen, wrapped around the door handle, trembling like a leaf in a windstorm and absolutely unable to tense enough to force the door open. The funeral director was waiting at the door, looking a little worried, but I could not make the door open.

If I did, if I walked in, if I saw the casket…

And then Jack, beautiful, glorious Jack who always somehow knew what to do, put a hand on my back and dragged nails gently along my scalp until I turned to her and she pressed her forehead against mine until I could breathe without wheezing and open the door by myself. While she did, she whispered, low and steady, soft reassurances that I couldn't remember now and wished I could. I knew they'd be lost on the dog anyway, though, so I just stayed there until the dog stopped shaking completely.

Dylan licked my nose once, and I almost laughed. It tickled.

Then, he surprised me—and everyone—by slumping into my lap, his head on my thigh, and panted like he was on his last breath. I tentatively ran a hand over his ears, slow and repetitive, until his breathing was mellowed out.

"Not a single trainer has been able to get near him like that," the trainer beside me said, eyebrow raised in something like reluctant admiration as I turned to her. "How did you do that?"

I looked away, and shrugged. "…I don't mean to be rude, or anything, but do you have any trainers or volunteers that are…uh…" I tilted my head, thinking, and she could probably see the embarrassment on my face as I failed to come up with a better word and simply settled on, "…traumatized?"

She blinked, face very blank. "I beg your pardon?"

"I think my ever-so-eloquent mate is asking if you have any trainers or volunteers at the shelter who've been through something traumatic or maybe need a service dog, or something," Tom joined in after a second of silence when I truly couldn't think of what to say. He looked at me to make sure he was interpreting right, and I nodded. "Or like…someone who can…understand the dog? You know, like, trauma buddies or something." Tom's face twisted. "That came out wrong."

"No, I understand what you're saying," the trainer said, and I actually kind of believed her.

"Yeah. Like…they could help each other out," I ventured. "I don't know how much training he'd need, but Dylan could be an emotional support animal or something. I think he just needs someone who's a little more like him. And to not be chased around when he gets out."

"We have protocols," Arse 1 said behind me, muttered like a teenager in the school hallway. He was the one who'd grabbed me.

"Well, your protocols nearly sent this dog into a heart attack, so read the situation next time," I said, clipped and short.

He scoffed, scrubbing a hand through his hair and stomping back towards the building.

"He's charming," Tom muttered as the other employees started to wander back as well, obviously recognizing that they were no longer needed.

I scratched Dylan's ears again, the dog snuffling against me. His eyes were wide open, watching everything, but the rest of him was relaxing slowly.

"He likes you," the trainer murmured.

I shrugged, scratching his ears like Jack ran nails over my scalp, soothing and slow. I didn't have much nail left since I bit them all the time, but it seemed to work okay. "He was just scared. You can't just chase a scared dog. It's only going to want to run more."

The trainer hesitated, then nodded. "Okay."

Dylan and I sat together in the grass for a long time, and maybe it was just me, but the brokenness in both of us seemed to mend just the slightest bit.

…

"Dog Whisperer Extraordinaire," Tom said as we walked back to the flat, creating an imaginary banner with his hands for added flair. We'd stayed for another hour or so, Tom keeping Rufus company while I sat with Dylan until he was calm enough to be led back to his kennel. I sat outside the kennel for a long time, too, a couple fingers scratching his ears through the bars. "No, or, or—uh—oh my God I got it. Canine Clairvoyant. Shit, I'm brilliant."

I laughed at Tom's enthusiasm. "I don't think I'm any of those things."

"You definitely are. It's one of your superpowers."

He continued to chatter on about some of the other dogs in the shelter, and my thoughts drifted a little. I wondered if I could squeeze in time to go back to the shelter every once in a while, at least until someone adopted Dylan. I wondered if I was stretching myself thin, between that and the youth center, and I wondered how often I'd be able to go back, when we went back on active duty. I also knew I was probably drawing too much attention to myself, fake name or not.

I didn't know how to fix that, though, and I wasn't sure I wanted to, though I knew I probably needed to.

It felt, every day, like I was putting down roots in Cookham. Like Matthew Smith—and unwittingly, Alex Rider—was becoming more real. More present here in Cookham. I hadn't planned this at all. This was one of the worst things I could do as someone undercover and hiding.

I couldn't bring myself to stop, or do anything to fix it.

"Alex. Aaaaaleeeeex. Hello?"

I realized Tom was saying my name, and glanced at him, simultaneously realizing how late it had gotten. "Yeah?"

"You spaced out." His eyes narrowed, and he jumped in front of me, walking backwards so he could stare at me. Luckily, the crowds had thinned, so he only stumbled once or twice. "What're you thinking about? And don't lie."

I smiled to myself. "You're going to think I'm mental."

"I already do. That's so lame. You've been mental forever."

I didn't know what I'd done to deserve Tom, but God, was I grateful. "I was just thinking…I feel real."

Tom's backward walk slowed to a stop almost in time with the way his face twisted in confusion. It was comically in sync, actually. "You've always been real. You were never Pinocchio or some shit. You're a real boy, and all that."

I laughed, quiet and thoughtful, and nudged his shoulder in an effort to encourage him to keep walking instead of parting foot traffic like the Red Sea. "No, I mean I'm kind of…I dunno. Making a life here. Which is really, really stupid after everything, but I dunno if I can avoid it. I mean…in London I had that parttime job, and I had school, and Ian and the neighbors and everyone knew us, and I know that was a lot more permanent…but here? I've got this youth center I go to, with Bear. Remember Jessie? And now, this dog shelter that I kind of want to go back to. And there's these employees at the coffee shop Tiger and I frequent that know me now, as a regular. And now there's the families of L-Unit that know me. I just—I feel properly present here, and I know that shouldn't be odd because I've been present for most of my life, but after a year of…of not being present, I dunno. I just feel real, and I…I wasn't meant to. I wasn't supposed to be."

Tom listened quietly, walking beside me as I admitted all this to him, eyes slightly creased as he listened to the illiterate stew coming out of my mouth. Even I didn't really know what I was saying—only that it was what I felt, and while it scared me, it also gave me so much relief, because even though I knew it was so stupid, I'd really thought when I left the Pleasures that that was it. That that awkward, failed piece of faux family was the last taste of normalcy I'd ever have, because I'd be hiding until someone found me and took me or killed me. And if I lived long enough—well, after everything, all my issues, how could I hope to build a family of my own?

"…I get what you mean," Tom said slowly, tilting his head as he struggled to find words. "But…well, I dunno, mate. I dunno what goes on in your head. But…I know this person Matthew is new, and he's not really present, like you say, but Alex has always been real. I thought about you every day, mate. The slightest things reminded me of you. For the first few weeks, once I realized something was really wrong and you and Jack weren't picking up your cells, I thought I saw you everywhere. Every blond guy our age could've been you. Every footie practice I wondered why you weren't there, every time I watched one of our favorite movies, every time I saw a bottle of Coke…I know it might've been hard to feel real with everything going on. But you've always been real, and at least to me, you never stopped."

He said it conversationally. Casually. Tom wasn't one to have serious talks every day—in fact, that just wasn't our dynamic most of the time. There were exceptions, or course—especially lately—but he had a way of phrasing the most serious things as if he were discussing the weather. I always found so much comfort in that, because it made bad things seem just slightly better than they were.

It was almost surreal, the way he took the shit show that was my life and my mind and reduced it to just a few comforting sentences.

It felt like for a while, I'd stopped being real. That I was a ghost, or I was in some kind of purgatory—stuck between heaven and hell in terms of the family I'd left and the inevitable future I'd thought was going to take me no matter what I did. I wondered if that future was still coming, but—

Well, at least I'd gotten to experience something good before then. Something I couldn't let go of, and something worth living for. I got to not become real again, but continue being real.

I laughed, eventually, after thinking about his words. "You should be a motivational speaker. You and all your inspirational quotes."

"Don't talk to me about inspirational quotes, you arse, I'm getting flashbacks to that God-awful website," he hissed, gesticulating with the force of a mime to back up his words. "It was so bloody awful! I'm going to learn how to hack just so when you get a computer I can pin that to your taskbar or make it come up every time you log in, so you'll have to suffer like I did. Bloody hell, the nightmares. Vanilla sex for me, all the way."

He continued on, ranting like a madman, though I shouldn't have expected anything less.

I smiled all the way back to the flat, feeling present and real and like a couple of the cracks of myself had been filled.

…

When Tom and I got back to the flat, it was startlingly empty after being so loud for so long. Bear and his dad were watching the tellie on the couch, and Tiger was napping, pretty tired after so much commotion while he was still healing from his concussion. Lion was cleaning up, staring forlornly at the fridge when I entered, Tom going to Elliot's room to fetch some sweatpants.

"Why do you look so sad?" I asked with a bit of a laugh as I entered, Lion glancing at me with a smile.

"I can't fit it all," Lion muttered. I noticed then a container of leftover pork in his hand and a container of orange juice in the other. "I've tried every which way I can think of, but it's well and truly stuffed."

"Hm," I said thoughtfully, coming up behind him to examine the fridge. It was…yeah, pretty full. "I mean, can't you freeze some of it?"

"That ruins it," he said, face creased in the picture of extreme concentration.

"…okay," I conceded. "Is there anything you can package together? Or any small containers of stuff I can eat, because I'm actually kind of hungry." Tom and I had stayed out later than we'd meant to—it was nearly nine and I hadn't had much at lunch.

Lion blinked, then glanced at me. Something in his eyes reminded me of a cartoon character who'd just come up with an idea to circumvent whatever disaster was imminent. "You? Hungry? Shit, I'll unload the entire fridge, just give me a second."

"Wait, did I just hear Jaguar say he was hungry?" Bear shouted from the living room, pausing the tellie to do so. Mr. Johnson laughed lightly, but Bear was dead serious. "Lion! Quick!"

I laughed, turning to the pantry until I heard aluminium foil crinkling and realized he wasn't joking. (A/N: Hey British besties I know you SAY aluminium but is it spelled that way? I figured yes because it's a wholeass extra syllable but Google is telling me I'm wrong, so…yeah). "Oh, Lion, God no I don't want that much—"

"I'm taking advantage. Here. You're doing me a favor," he said seriously, handing me one of the meal prep containers we'd resorted to when we ran out of regular Tupperware, full of pan-seared potatoes and garlic green beans. "Hang on, I'll grab a plate and you can get some protein too; good thing I left the pork out, you liked that, right? There's corn in the back somewhere—"

"Lion, seriously, this is good, I just wanted a snack—"

"Oh bloody hell, you're not eating without me," Tom said emphatically, appearing in the entryway looking much more comfortable. "I'm starved." He plucked a green bean off my plate and ate it cold to emphasize his point.

"Excellent," Lion said earnestly, eyes lighting up at the prospect of being able to actually fit what remained in the fridge. "Hang on, I'll pull everything out and you can make a plate."

"Wait, make me something too," Bear shouted.

This was closely followed by Tiger's door slamming open, punctuated with, "The walls are made of plywood and bloody prayers, you barmies, I'm trying to sleep."

Tom's jaw dropped, and he stuck his head out into the hallway so he could respond to Tiger within his sight. "Barmy? Are you bloody ninety, mate? I haven't heard my grandmother say that in years!"

I snorted, choking on the glass of orange juice Lion had just shoved into my hand, leaning against the counter as I tried not to inhale while I laughed.

I couldn't see Tiger's face, but God, I would've paid money to be able to.

"It's not my fault Jaguar's friends with a bloody infant," Tiger shot back, voice rising as he became defensive. "Expand your insult repertoire!"

"Oh my God this is the most ridiculous thing I've ever seen," I heard Bear mutter to his dad, both of whom had migrated closer to the hallway to watch with better seats. I met Lion's eyes and died laughing all over again, because Lion was trying so hard not to cackle, but he was choking snorts into his hand almost a loudly as I was, and it was obvious we were both about to fail.

"I'll have you know that I'm a scrawny twig, so my fighting is all mental, thank you! I verbally demolish anyone who picks a fight and since that's all I can bloody well do, I'm excellent at it. A—Matthew, aren't I excellent at it?"

And even Tom's near slip couldn't rid me of the pure humor, the amusement at the utter ridiculousness of their fight and my euphoria that I got to be here and be part of this. "You do have a way with words. But Tiger, you do too," I was quick to assure.

"You're still a traitor, Jaguar!" Tiger yelled, obviously unaffected.

"That's the best you can do? Have you ever properly insulted someone? You sound like you recycle Olivia Rodrigo for all your insults, mate!"

Tiger paused. "Who the fuck is that?"

Tom slapped his own forehead dramatically, eyes cast to the heavens as if seeking a divine explanation for the lack of culture surrounding him. "Oh. Pitiful. No wonder you said barmy, you're quite the elder if you don't know who she is."

"Especially considering I played you her entire bloody album the other day," Bear jumped in, obviously incensed by Tiger's lack of memory.

I peeked out into the hallway, Lion not far behind, in time to see Tiger blink, then say with the straightest face I've ever seen, "I am concussed, you bloody idiot. All I knew was that I had a headache and some girl was screaming about brutality while you danced around like a bloody epileptic and tried to sing with the voice of a TONE-DEAF FUCKING HUSKY!"

Lion and I positively died. Mr. Johnson was trying to be calm, trying to be polite, but he couldn't hold it in either, and soon I was on the floor of the foyer positively fighting tears from the laughter and Lion wasn't far behind me. The food was forgotten as the fight became a three-way battle between Tom, Bear, and Tiger, who really did just want to go to sleep, but I didn't ever want this to end. It was too ridiculous, too absurd for grown men and almost grown men, but it was so domestic and stupid and silly and so funny, and it made me feel real. Witnessing this moment, knowing that it was from the inside instead of through glass, made me feel so real.

Being real was dangerous, but this was the hardest I'd laughed in forever, even after Tom and I on Christmas, and I knew it was dangerous, but I couldn't feel like it was wrong when it was the first time in forever that I felt truly, wholly, wonderfully alive.

…

I couldn't sleep that night, but it wasn't for any particular reason. Some nights were just better spent awake.

Grateful that Mr. Johnson was on an air mattress in Bear's room and not the living room, I crept out of bed, careful not to jostle a snoring Tom, and into the living room with one of my paperbacks I hadn't gotten around to reading yet—a science fiction that I was actually looking forward to.

I turned on one of the lamps and curled up in the corner of the couch under a blanket, staunchly denying myself coffee because I knew that would just make my insomnia worse. I made it through fifty pages before I heard sudden feet shuffling in the hallway, making me jump.

I relaxed when I saw a half-asleep Lion, squinting at me in the dim light. "Why're you up so late?" He murmured, words slurred together.

"Couldn't sleep," I said, dog-earing my book page and setting it on the glass coffee table. "You okay?"

"Yeah, just…got up to go to the bathroom and saw the lights on," Lion said, dragging a hand over his face and sinking into the recliner to my left, looking exhausted. "Couldn't sleep either. Any nightmares?"

"No," I admitted truthfully, stretching my arms above my head, the movement nice after so long curled up. "Just couldn't sleep. You?"

Lion smiled quietly, looking a little more awake. "Yeah. Elliot. He liked Christmas."

I paused, then hummed in thoughtful acknowledgement. "I'm sorry."

Lion waved a hand, shifting and rubbing his eyes once more, finally looking more or less human. "It's okay. This year was a lot easier than last year. I wish his family had been able to come by, though. He has the funniest mum."

I smiled a little. I wondered what Elliot's family was like. Then I was selfishly so grateful that I hadn't had to face them, because—well, I didn't want to say I'd taken his place, but I was with his former unit, in his room…it felt like I had, and I didn't know if I could face his family, even though I'd never known him.

"Thanks for…for bringing Tom out," I said after a second of silence, shifting under the blanket. "It's been awesome having him here."

"'m glad, squirt," Lion said. "You had a good holiday?"

I paused, hesitant, and nodded thoughtfully. "I think…I think so. Yeah, I did." I shrugged, smiling at the dead tellie, tapping the armrest with thoughtful fingers. I wondered what Jessie had done today. "I think…part of the reason I was so out of it at K-Unit's, it was…Jack loved Christmas. I mean, absolutely loved it. And this would be my first one since…"

I trailed off, and Lion listened considerately, eyes much more awake than before. His face was thoughtful in consternation, mouth flat and eyes narrowed not in suspicion, but in attention. "…that sounds pretty bad. Our first without Elliot was bad, too."

"Yeah, I just…I couldn't reconcile Christmas without her, you know? I spent her birthday alone, and then there were so many people here…it was just really different, but I had a really good time, especially with Tom here. Is that…that's bad, isn't it?"

"Not at all," Lion was quick to assure, shaking his head. "From what you've told me, you were close, and she really cared about you. She'd want you to have fun, just like Elliot would want us to move on," he said carefully, his own sight drifting somewhere far away.

I smiled a little. "You…your religion, you believe in Heaven, right?" He hummed in confirmation. "Think they know each other, wherever they are?"

Lion blinked, obviously thinking about the question, then laughed quietly, threading fingers through his tangled hair. "Maybe. Hell, probably. Maybe they're yelling at us for taking so long to move on."

I laughed with him, imagining Jack and the Elliot in the pictures doing just that. "That sounds right, yeah."

We fell into silence for a moment, and I yawned. "How'd you do today? With the smoking?"

"Good, actually. Only smoked two today. You up for a question?"

I felt warmth spark somewhere, so grateful that he'd had a good day. He'd admitted that he hadn't done well at all on the mission, smoking well over his limit almost every day—a combination of the stress of the mission, his worry for me, and I'm sure just being around other soldiers who smoked, as well. I was really glad he'd had a good day today; hopefully it would turn the trend around. I knew he was working really hard to quit.

I was also so, so grateful for his vulnerability—even though he always answered my questions and honestly informed me of both his victories and shortcomings without ever seeming vulnerable—made it so much easier for me to be honest with him about what I felt and thought and did, even the bad things I thought maybe should stay buried.

"Of course," I finally answered.

Lion fell silent, eyes thoughtful. "This is one that I'm curious about, but I don't know if you'll know the answer. It's okay if you don't."

I blinked, a little thrown off. He mostly just asked me about my favorite things, or memories I had that I wanted to share, or fears I was comfortable talking about. I usually knew the answers. "Um, okay."

"So…I know I don't know everything that's going on," he admitted, crossing one ankle over his other knee and stretching out, looking both more alert and more tired by the minute. "But let's say that you tell us, or not, and eventually, we help you fix it. Just for a hypothetical, let's say you don't have to run or hide anymore."

I felt my eyes narrow in suspicion the longer he talked, but he never wavered. That was both comforting and annoying as hell. "…hypothetically."

"Yeah. Hypothetically. What do you want to do when you grow up, you know? What do you want to do with your life when you can think about a future that you want to build?"

That was…an excellent question. One that I hadn't thought about in a long, long time.

Maybe Lion could see how it caught me off guard, even in the dim light. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to. I was just curious."

"No, it's not…I don't know," I admitted, wrapping my arms around my stomach as I thought, curling up a little more. "I never had time. I was…this all started when I was pretty young, before anyone expected a serious answer, you know? I always wanted to be a famous footie player, like on the national teams or something, but that's not very practical. And I've lost a lot of time, so there's no way I can catch up now. I haven't…I've just never thought seriously about it."

Lion nodded, like he'd expected the answer, and I wouldn't be surprised if he had. "Well, now you can."

I cut my eyes to him, feeling almost too real in the dim light in this flat that felt like home surrounded by people who felt like family, knowing that so many things prevented both the full realization of those feelings and the future Lion was hinting at. "Hypothetically."

He smiled, unfazed. "Hypothetically. But some things don't stay hypothetical forever."

I watched him a moment more, humming in reluctant acknowledgement. "Maybe."

"Maybe is okay for right now," he said, stretching as his eyes slipped close and he sank a little into the chair, obviously being pulled back towards sleep.

I decided to let him, reopening my book, but neither of us lasted long until we were both sleeping soundly, nightmares drowned out by the gentle silence of the breeze outside and the promise of a morning of comfort and safety.

A/N: Dylan is a real dog at Many Tears in Llanelli, Carmarthenshire. I think that's in Wales? If you live around here, are willing to work with a very special, very scared dog, and have the time, resources, and heart to do so, please consider visiting their website and taking a look at sweet Dylan! If I had more than an apartment (and lived in England) I totally would, but I can't, and he just seems like such a sweet boy. I took the description on his kennel directly from the website, too. It's manytearsrescue (.org) (I didn't link it because I didn't know if it would get me in trouble with fanfiction dot net). I don't know anything about the staff or the shelter, and everything in this story about those is totally made up.

PS This is a reminder to go hug your dog and remember that we don't deserve dogs, if you're a cat person a cat will suffice.

Reviews! Holy shit you guys I got so many thank you so so much!: BooBoo33, Psycloptic Furry, Fox, Cortanacordeliacarstairs, PuffandProud, Cakemania225, scarlettmeadows, taliaTMNTdrea, WanderingTheDreams, MistyToryRabiyah, MillieM04, Guest, DudeTrustTheCloak, AlexRiderFan, M-chanchen, Guest, storyspinner16, reginamare, hunterjk123, OnlyABookworm, DD, Em0Wolf, Eva Haller, NeleWW, Ell P, Moranemily36, Guest, Guest, Guest, Guest, Guest, Shadowfox452, otterpineapple06, Guest, Ava Simbelmyne, Guest, Coconutguuurl, Swirling Starlight, Guest, and ThisLittlePerson!

Fox: Thank you for reading! I appreciate that, thanks so much :) hahahaha I know Wolf is so dramatic lol. Im' glad you enjoyed it!

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Em0Wolf: Hehehehe you can be both! Thank you so much! Awww I know Mr. Sadek isn't super likeable, but he really is a good man, just a little standoffish. Tom and Jonah is everything lol. Thank you so much!

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…

You guys are so awesome and I love you! Happy summer (or winter depending on your hemisphere of choice) and I love you all!