Chapter Text
February 1st
The courtroom wasn’t grand, not like the kind you saw in legal dramas. No wood-paneled walls or soaring windows, no dramatic lighting—just dull beige paint, fluorescent lights, and the low murmur of tired voices. But it felt monumental. Like everything hinged on what would be said in the next few minutes.
Bobby sat at the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, staring at the live stream on the television. The morning sun bled through the penthouse windows, sharp and gold, catching on the rim of his mug—untouched coffee gone cold. John sat beside him, legs tucked underneath himself, one arm looped through Bobby’s like a tether.
The camera zoomed in on William Drake’s face as the court officer removed his handcuffs. His father looked smaller than Bobby remembered—thinner, more disheveled. His hair, usually styled and gelled within an inch of its life, looked like he’d slept on it wrong and hadn’t fixed it. Or maybe he hadn’t been allowed to.
The judge read through the charges—embezzlement, fraud, grand larceny—and John reached for Bobby’s hand, squeezing tight as the list grew longer.
William didn’t react. He just stood there, pale and still, like he was waiting for the whole thing to be called off.
“…due to concerns of flight risk, the court is denying bail…”
John’s fingers twitched. Bobby didn’t move.
“…records show multiple offshore accounts, and significant attempts to mislead investigators regarding recent financial transfers. Given this, the court has no confidence that Mr. Drake would appear for trial if released…”
William’s lawyer tried to object. Something about community standing, about family ties, about the integrity of the Drake name.
The judge didn’t budge. “Bail is denied. The defendant will be remanded to custody until trial.”
There was a pause. A flat, awful kind of silence. Onscreen, William flinched—just slightly—as the officer stepped behind him to replace the cuffs.
John turned his face into Bobby’s shoulder. Bobby still hadn’t moved. His eyes stayed on the screen, tracking the slow turn of his father’s body as he was led away.
The camera cut to the crowd outside the courthouse—reporters, camera crews, strangers holding up signs. One of them read CORRUPT FAMILIES CAN’T HIDE in thick red paint.
John reached for the remote, but Bobby beat him to it. The screen went black.
He exhaled slowly, deliberately, setting the remote down on the coffee table.
“It’s started,” he said, voice even.
John looked up at him. “Are you okay?”
“No.”
There wasn’t a follow-up to that. No speech, no promise. Just the hard, clean honesty of it.
And somehow, it felt more comforting than any lie could’ve been.
**********
“Joining us now from her home in Manhattan is Madeline Drake, wife of embattled executive William Drake Jr., CEO of Drake International, arrested earlier this morning on charges of fraud, embezzlement, and grand larceny…”
John had been folding laundry in the living room, trying to stay busy. He hadn’t meant to watch it. The television had been on mute—some talk show looping between updates—but the second Madeline’s face appeared on screen, the volume seemed to turn itself up in his head.
She was camera ready. Always was. Immaculate makeup, impeccable lighting, pearls resting just so on the high neckline of her black blouse. The living room behind her looked like a catalog photo—tastefully staged, aggressively pristine.
“I want to be very clear,” she began, with a composed breath. “My husband is not a criminal. He is a brilliant businessman. A dedicated leader. A loving father.”
John glanced toward the kitchen. Bobby sat at the counter with his laptop open, fingers motionless on the keys, eyes locked on the screen. He didn’t blink.
“What we are witnessing is a systemic failure,” Madeline continued, her voice smooth. “This overzealous prosecution is politically motivated. William is being punished for an alleged paper trail that leads back to one man—our former estate attorney, Bolivar Trask. If mistakes were made, they were made by him.”
Bobby exhaled softly through his nose. “There it is.”
“She’s not even subtle about it,” John said, voice quiet.
“She never is.”
Madeline pressed on. “My sons are under an enormous amount of pressure. They’ve suffered the loss of their grandfather, the upheaval of the estate, and the misguided influence of outside parties who, I believe, have manipulated them.”
John’s spine went rigid. His throat closed slightly.
The anchor nodded solemnly. “There are rumors of a family rift—can you speak to that?”
“I love my sons,” Madeline said, gaze steady. “But I believe they’ve been misled. I believe they’ve been pulled away from the truth, and from what their father and I worked so hard to build. William needs his family. Not their betrayal.”
John gripped the towel in his hand until his knuckles whitened. His heart kicked up into a full gallop. “Turn it off,” he said.
“She’s baiting us,” Bobby murmured.
“Turn it off,” John said again, louder.
Bobby didn’t wait for a third ask. He reached for the remote and clicked the screen to black.
Silence swept in like a wave.
John stood in the middle of the room, staring at the blank television. His fingers were clenched around the towel like it was the only thing tethering him to gravity. His chest heaved, the beginning edges of panic curling inward. “She’s blaming you,” he managed. “And me. She’s rewriting all of it.”
Bobby walked over slowly, reaching out, not rushing. “I know.”
“She’s saying you’re not thinking for yourself. That I turned you against them.”
“I know,” Bobby said again. “But she doesn’t matter here.”
John shook his head, panic flickering behind his eyes. “This is what everyone’s going to see. That version.”
“And then they’ll see ours.”
“She’s—she’s making it so that you can’t win, Bobby. So that if you stay quiet, it looks like guilt. If you speak up, it looks like conflict.”
“I know.”
John swallowed hard. “Why aren’t you panicking?”
“Because I expected this,” Bobby said simply. “And because I know the truth.”
John opened his mouth, but Bobby was already guiding him back toward the couch, gently pulling the towel from his grip and folding it neatly across the armrest.
“We’re going to stay calm,” Bobby said, sitting beside him, “because she wants chaos. That’s the only language she speaks.”
John let out a shaky breath and leaned into him. “I hate that I care.”
“I don’t care about her opinion anymore,” Bobby said. “But I care that it’s hurting you.”
That shut John up for a moment. Then he nodded.
And the two of them just sat there, side by side on the couch, and not a single word was spoken about what came next.
Because first, they had to breathe.
**********
The television stayed off.
The late afternoon light had dimmed, casting long shadows across the penthouse. The sky outside was a soft blue-gray, the kind that made the city feel like it was holding its breath. Snow flurries had started again—just barely. They kissed the windows and melted on contact.
John had pulled his knees up under himself on the couch, wrapped in the same blanket he’d carried from their bedroom that morning. He wasn’t shivering, exactly, but his body hadn’t relaxed since the broadcast. His spine felt like it was still bracing for a hit.
Bobby returned from the kitchen with two mugs. Steam rose from the dark herbal blend John liked before bed, even though it was nowhere near bedtime. He passed one of the mugs to John and eased down beside him, exhaling through his nose like he’d been holding that breath since the interview ended.
John took the mug with both hands. It was warm enough to anchor him. “Thank you,” he murmured.
They sat in silence.
The tea was strong and bitter, grounding in a way that made John feel like he was really in his body again. The walls didn’t seem to be pressing in anymore. He could feel the fabric of the blanket beneath his fingertips. The ridges of the ceramic mug. The solid, steady presence of Bobby beside him.
It wasn’t fixed, but it was quiet.
Bobby spoke without looking away from the skyline. “This isn’t our fault.”
John nodded slowly, eyes still on the dark liquid in his mug. “She made it sound like you were weak. Like you couldn’t think for yourself.”
“I’ve spent my whole life being what she wanted,” Bobby said. “When I stopped, it felt like a betrayal to her. But that doesn’t make it one.”
John let that sit for a second.
“She makes it look so… elegant,” John said eventually. “Her lies. Like they’re polished.”
“They are.” Bobby took a small sip from his own mug. “She’s been practicing them for years.”
The heater kicked on with a soft hum. Somewhere far below, a car horn honked, then faded. The city moved on, the way it always did.
Bobby reached over and placed his free hand on John’s knee, just under the blanket. The pressure was light but steady. “We’re not alone in this,” he said.
“I know,” John whispered.
They didn’t say anything else for a while.
**********
The lights in the penthouse office were dimmed, casting the space in golden shadows. One corner lamp, Bobby’s favorite, glowed amber over the deep green leather armchair behind the desk. The floor-to-ceiling windows reflected a city that hadn’t stopped moving all day, even as Sunday bled into Monday.
Rogue sat sideways in the chair across from Bobby, one leg slung over the armrest, blazer thrown over the back, tablet in hand. Her reading glasses perched low on her nose—not because she needed them, but because they made her look serious. Professional. Less like the girl Bobby had met his first week of college and more like the woman who now ran his entire public life with terrifying precision.
Remy lounged against the bookshelf, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable, save for the slow, subtle twitch of his jaw whenever Madeline’s name came up.
Bobby stood at the window, sleeves rolled to the elbows, coffee untouched on the desk behind him. His voice was low. Controlled.
“She was too polished,” he said. “That wasn’t an impromptu appearance. It was planned.”
“She had hair and makeup,” Rogue said. “Even the lighting was clearly rehearsed.”
“She’s trying to shift the public narrative,” Remy added, “before it ever settles.”
“She blamed Trask for everything,” Bobby said. “He’s in jail, so he can’t fight back. And she’s counting on us being too stunned to react.”
Rogue tapped the side of her tablet. “You have three interview requests already. NY1, Spectrum, and one of the national morning shows. They want a rebuttal.”
Remy pushed off the shelf and came to stand closer to the desk. “The DA’s office is leaning into this case harder than expected. I talked to someone inside. They’re framing it as a test of elite immunity. If they can bring down William Drake, it sends a message.”
Bobby nodded. “Then we should send one too.”
Rogue raised a brow. “You want to go on the record?”
“I want to make it clear that this isn’t about revenge,” Bobby said. “It’s about truth. My mother is spinning this into a morality play. She’s selling the idea that loyalty is worth more than justice.”
Remy crossed his arms again. “And you’re going to say… what?”
“That loyalty without accountability isn’t love,” Bobby said. “That sometimes doing the right thing means doing the hard thing.”
Silence settled.
Rogue’s gaze flicked toward the hallway. “You’re sure John’s okay with you doing this?”
Bobby followed her glance. The living room was just beyond the door, lights dimmed, the soft edge of the couch barely visible. John had fallen asleep about an hour ago—exhausted, emotionally spent. The blanket was pulled to his chin, his face slack in sleep.
“I think he wants this over more than he wants peace,” Bobby said.
Remy gave a soft grunt. “Good man.”
Bobby looked back at them. “Set it up. I’ll do the interview with Ronny. One segment. Together. Then I want it done. No follow-up tours, no debates.”
Rogue nodded, already tapping into her calendar. “You’ll come off polished. Ronny will come off furious. Good contrast.”
“Use it,” Bobby said. “But don’t exploit it.”
“I never do,” Rogue said with a small smirk.
Remy poured himself half a mug of Bobby’s untouched coffee and raised it slightly in a toast. “Here’s to making your mother absolutely lose her mind.”
Bobby didn’t smile, but his voice had a cool kind of humor to it. “She already has.”
**********
The city was asleep. Or at least quieter than usual.
Somewhere forty stories below, a taxi honked and rolled away into the night. The rhythmic hum of building heat filled the room, steady and low. A few snowflakes clung to the outside edge of the windowpane, but most had melted long ago.
John lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The blanket was pulled halfway up his chest. His head rested on Bobby’s shoulder, but he wasn’t touching him otherwise. Not yet. His body felt like a chord strung too tight—tense, stretched, but not quite breaking.
Bobby shifted beside him, half-asleep already. He moved slowly, blindly, tucking his arm under John’s neck to draw him closer.
“You’re not sleeping,” Bobby mumbled, voice thick with drowsiness.
“Nope.”
A pause. “You want me to get you something?”
John shook his head.
Silence again.
Then, softly, John said, “Do you ever feel like we’re still catching up to everything that’s already happened?”
Bobby blinked into the dark, then turned slightly onto his side, one hand finding John’s wrist beneath the blanket. He traced along the edge of bone, a slow, familiar rhythm. “I feel like we’re still surviving it,” he murmured.
John swallowed. “Yeah.”
They stayed like that for a long time.
Bobby’s thumb brushed the inside of his wrist again, then moved to rest lightly over the steady pulse there. Not to check it—just to feel it. John tilted his head slightly, turning to face him. Their eyes met in the half-shadow of the room. Nothing dramatic. Nothing poetic. Just two people who had seen the worst of the people who were supposed to love them, and somehow found each other anyway.
John reached up slowly and cupped Bobby’s cheek with one hand, leaning in to kiss him. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t sharp or desperate or frantic. It was quiet.
It was the kind of kiss that meant We made it through another day. And the kind that said Maybe tomorrow will be better.
They held onto each other like they weren’t sure they could breathe if they let go. And eventually, the kiss deepened. Bobby pulled John on top of him, slow and steady, hand cradling the side of John’s neck like something precious. There was no music. No lights but the city’s faint glow seeping through the curtains. Only skin and breath and the kind of closeness that didn’t need words.
When they finally let the blanket fall over them, and the night took them in fully, it was the only time that day when neither of them was afraid.