Chapter Text
Bishops.
The word— the idea of them, really, haunted him.
Faithful and loyal Torchbearer, tortured by the thoughts of The Bishops.
What a coward.
Any Bandito his age or younger saw them the same, the boogie men in red. Scaring them just as any horror story did for a child. Their legend was built up that way for a reason, if it scared them bad enough they’d never try and step out of line in camp, try and wander away back into the arms of the city. Banditos were in the business of getting people out of Dema and keeping them out. So over time, Bishops became another word of warning, a cautionary tale.
But once upon a time they were all Banditos, the same as him. He knew them, lived with them, worked and fought by their sides. Knew their names by heart, remembered their faces just as well. And now those same banditos had been gone for nearly nine months now, the winter snow having come and gone, spring pushing its way through and summer rolling in full force now.
Trench was in full bloom.
The seasonal change was a welcome one, the beauty of the nature surrounding them giving everyone in the tribe something to look forward to with joy.
For Torch, it was just another reminder of exactly how long it had been.
He sat, one of those summer nights, cool, with a light breeze blowing through camp, inside of his tent. His nighttime ritual of dinner, a round of camp watch, change of clothes, and finally sleep, interrupted with a hesitant call of his name. When he peeled back the front flap of his tent, he was met with the sight of Bean, one of his banditos. She was a teacher for the younger ones and the fresh faces from the city, he knew, and helped with supply count when needed. Primarily, she worked as a draftsman with Miilo, one of the camp cartographers. She was a good spirit to have around when they needed a friendly face around camp.
“Did you need something, Bean?” He smiles at her, but it's quickly wiped away when he catches sight of the chest behind her.
It was sizable, but light enough to still be carried by one person. Made of oak with a darker set of swinging handles on its sides, though when Bean turned to lift it she carried it from the bottom.
“Sorry, West was complaining about the chest again and I wasn’t sure where to move it to at such a late hour.”
He waves the younger bandito off, wanting to end this interaction, and minimize the conversation soon to follow about it as much as he could. “It’s fine, Bean, just leave it here.”
Bean moves further in, chest sat down in the middle of the open space to the right of his cot with an oof of air as she let go of its weight.
“You sure this is ok, Torch? I know you’d rather…” she trails off, not needing to finish the thought.
They both knew what she meant anyway.
He shook his head, “I’m just about to go to bed. It’ll be like it was never here.”
She smiles, and with a fine nod gives a, “well, good night to you then, chief,” and turns to show herself out of his tent. He follows close behind to redo the straps, ensuring the flap won’t come undone in the middle of the night. Then, very slowly, even already knowing it was there, he turns to face the chest now occupying his space.
Looking from the top down now at it, he can see the carvings on the lid. An intricate forest-inspired lattice design of leaves and branches that one of the camp's craftsmen had made years ago, probably. The talent and love is apparent. And then in its center, much newer in its craving, and marking its significance, was the name.
Clancy.
Only, he wasn’t Clancy anymore, Torch thought bitterly. Maybe that's why it suited that the box was under his name. They only did this when one of their own passed on.
Banditos didn’t bury their fallen siblings. Too risky with the city so close. Gonners were already enough of a problem there, it didn’t do them well to supply them with more personal ammunition. So the cremated remains of those they loved would go to the trees, buried down with their roots, while the rest of their personal possessions— the ones that could not be reused by the larger group of them, were put into boxes like this and handed off to next of kin.
Torch just happened to be Clancy’s.
Once upon a time Clancy was for him too. Now it was just Torch, and the memories.
And the stupid, fucking box with his name as clear as day.
He tried not to let his traitorous heart beat as fast as it was, but it was no use. He could feel himself shaking as he approached the box. It opened with ease, there was never a latch applied to it. He thought he was coming back, so there wasn’t a need to lock it all away so soon. It was just a precaution. Safety.
Torch stares down at it all, which is really very little. A diary, leather, filled with ripped-out pieces of paper fashioned into letters and stuffed between the pages. Handwriting in ink, with a long scroll. A mask… he didn’t like thinking about it too hard. Smaller, looser things, photos and scribblings he quickly tucked underneath and out of sight. His scroll of notes and map markings from that final day, the one he placed in here as soon as he came back to camp, locked it away with everything else.
And to the side, taking up most of the box, sat a black cloak. It was the portion that wrapped around the shoulders and the collar of the neck, with the dark animal pelt attached to the back, helping keep the warmth in. A faded white skeleton key emblazoned on the front collar, the fabric stretch enough to be pulled up over one's nose. He lifted that out of the box specifically, feeling the weight of the fabric in his hands.
How long had it been since he had found him wearing this? Faded pink hair tucked under a black beanie, just trying to stay warm as he made his way home.
Home… to you…
Torch had half a mind to bring it up to his nose and smell it, and the thought won out just a bit, as he lifted it in his hands, pressing his cheek to the fabric. It was still as soft as he remembered. He closed his eyes and tried to hold onto the memory of holding Clancy that first time they found each other again. In front of the raging fire, mask still gripped in his fist cause the other man had pulled him into a hug without regard to taking it. How warm he had been, living and breathing and real.
He could feel the burning behind his eyes start up again, the pain in his forehead as he pulled the fabric away from his face, swallowing down the pained feeling lodged in his throat.
No more, no more of that. He wasn't here now. He left you.
While the idea of Bishops did good to haunt him and everyone else in waking life, grief did just the same. He didn’t like to think of it as grief, even if he thought of the other man dead. He wasn’t really, it’s just a stupid coping mechanism. There was nothing really to cry over.
But the pain lingered in his chest, the ache of another's warm hand in his own. Hot breath tucked into the side of his neck as he held onto him. Quiet words exchanged while they were tucked up with one another in bed. When nothing else in the world existed but their naked bodies between sheets, laid across two cots they had pressed together all those years ago when Clancy first came to camp— he didn’t like sleeping alone.
Torch didn’t either anymore. That was the worst part. He had grown so accustomed to Clancy clinging to him like he was drowning.
He was, he remembered, as he whispered to Torch in a trembling voice that first night in camp.
His voice was full of knowing, as he told him of the city. By then, Torch hadn’t been back inside its walls in a very long time. Not since he was a teen. But the way Clancy spoke of it, like it wasn’t just a place, but something much more alive and waiting for one of them to misstep and drag them back… it didn’t matter. He was scared for him. So scared.
Clancy had wanted out so bad back then. Torch wanted it too. They were outside and safe in the wilds, in camp with the other banditos. Hidden away and still moving enough to throw anyone off their trail. But the fear didn’t leave Clancy so easy. He’d still wake, gasping from nightmares and immediately reach for Torch, like he was making sure he was still there.
Torch took it all, soaked up the attention and affection. The growing love they shared and nurtured with one another. Love that stayed, even when Clancy was found and stolen away again. Even when just a sliver of himself could be with him in his captivity, that led him off the island and through the wilds back to him. That had grown to bursting by the time he had him back in his arms. Never mind that they were planning to go to war with the city, he had Clancy back. And he knew Clancy felt the same, that it was reciprocated.
And still… he stayed behind.
Worse, he offered you a place by his side and you refused.
The thought struck so suddenly Torch nearly recoiled from it.
Why couldn’t you just have stayed with him? Why did you have to be all high and mighty and choose the right way and leave him—
No— no, he stayed. He chose that, the moment he put on that dreaded red robe. He was the one that stayed there.
His hands fisted in the black fabric that had made its way back down to his lap. His jaw clenched tight as heat crawled up the back of his neck. The burning behind his eyes is still there.
Stayed and let Dema sink its claws back into him. Became something new. Something colder and unrecognizable.
Every memory that had softened him moments before suddenly curdled sharp in his chest. All the promises and nights spent swearing they’d survive this together and see it out to the other side. And still Clancy had still gone back—
He had chosen them.
The anger came fast after that, easy in its hot and ugly feeling, entirely impossible to stop once it started moving in him. It swallowed the grief he was so used to allowing himself to drown in. He knew what to do with the sad feeling.
But this somehow felt easier to be consumed by.
He shoved himself to his feet before he could think too hard about it, pacing the room once, twice, hands shaking violently at his sides. The tent suddenly felt too small, the silence unbearable.
Maybe that’s what drove him to this now.
Maybe it was rage more than reason as he packed a bag in the middle of the night, pulling on that black cloak as he tugged the collar above his nose, torch in hand as he led himself onto the familiar paved path to the city. He walked in silence, his thoughts keeping him company across the two-day journey.
He arrived at the cement gates of the city in the evening of the third day, having spent much of that morning pacing around in the high grasses and trying to talk himself out of doing this. The nagging voice in his head, so unlike his own yet still living inside him, was yelling this is a bad idea.
But the anger won out, fueling him still as he went inside and ascended the stairs upward.
He tried not to think about the last time he did this, turning towards what he’s walking into.
In the little news he’s gotten from the banditos they have planted in the city still, he’s heard the same thing over and over again these past weeks: Bishop Nova has not been seen. He’s effectively become a shut-in, only living within the confines of his tower and not seeing anyone other than the Bishops. Surely making plans and moves against him and the Banditos. He didn't trust city gossip for this reason, it gave him too many thoughts like that. But his scouts confirmed it in their time there; no one has seen him in weeks.
The thoughts, this is a bad idea, he's plotting against you, you can't possibly be stupid enough to do this, repeated and rephrased in his head, carried him through the tunnels and above ground when he breached the surface through their main route of getting in. Even once inside, they didn't stop, just changed. Despite having run this path many times before, he still had the lingering fear of being caught. Someone just waiting to pop up from and pull him away to some dark corner of the city.
But like always, no one was there. Even the sidewalks at this hour were mostly barren. People here and there, none paying attention to him and his dark colors as he made his way through, heading for the tower at the center of the city. Breaking into it was almost easier than their little tunnel system, which had formed around bandito footsteps over the years as they made their way into Dema. This was just a simple pass through the doors after messing with the lock for a moment with his lockpicking kit, then further up and throughout the stairs, taking the many flights until he made it to the top floor. Below him, now he knew, were the offices and studies, the clerical areas meant for those who worked within the city. But this entire floor was reserved for the Bishop of the tower.
Clancy’s room.
No, not Clancy anymore.
Nova, he reminded himself. He's Nova now.
He goes to pull out his tool kit again, but something makes him stop and reach for the nob.
It shifts under his fingers as he twists it to the right, the door clicking open with ease.
He quickly goes into the room without thinking, shutting the door behind him and pressing his body against it. Torch half expected to see Nova just beyond the door, standing there in his bishop's robes waiting for him. something. But all there was before him was the silent, empty apartment.
It’s a standard apartment layout, it seemed, a kitchenette off to the left side and a desk/study area to the right. Further ahead was a living area, with a couch and a few lounge chairs, and off to the side, a large queen-sized bed stood high and regal. There was a walk-in closet inset in the wall just next to it, Torch heading towards it as he approached, but the bed caught his eye. Its pristine, regal red sheets sat flat and fixed to the bed on the far right side, closer to the wall, while the left side, closest to the closet, was pulled back, shucked down to the end of the bed. As if whoever had been lying in it before had pushed them to the side as they had gotten out of bed.
There's a sound from the other side of the room, a splash he thinks, as his head swivels to the right side of the room. The bathroom door, slightly ajar, with the lights on behind it. A warm light spilling onto the carpeted area of the bedroom/living room.
“Nova?” He calls out, mouth betraying him in the waver of the word.
He's met with silence again.
Then— the sound of water sloshing faintly in the distance, behind the door of the bathroom.
“Torch?”
It's so timid, he thinks, whether by how quiet it sounds, surely muffled by the door, or otherwise. But it’s enough to kick him into gear, stalking over to the bathroom and pushing the door, ready to tear the Bishop hiding behind it APART.
Never mind that he sounded so scared. And that Torch, for all the rage he felt in this moment, making his heart jackhammer like the beat of a hummingbird’s wings, was terrified too.
The anger had always been easier than the alternative of letting himself drown in the grief and betrayal Clancy left him with. Easier than admitting that coming here after three days of pacing and second-guessing himself had almost been a cry for help in itself.
One final attempt to prove to himself that Clancy was truly gone, that Nova was all that remained of him. He had needed to see it with his own foolish eyes, needed one last glimpse at the man he still loved despite everything.
Torch couldn’t help but feel it, even beneath all the headstrong anger.
It doesn't matter. He slams the door open all the same, grief and fear aside, the sound echoing off the porcelain surfaces of the large room. And like he thought he would, his mouth goes dry at the sight of him, words dying in his mouth.
Because it’s Nova.
Not standing tall in crimson bishop robes. Not waiting for him with an assembly of guards at his back and fury in his eyes for the other man.
Just… Nova. So close to the man he knew before.
Steam curls thick through the warm light spilling from overhead neon fixtures, fogging the mirrors and softening the sharpness of the tiled room, now made almost dreamlike.
And Nova himself, naked as the day he was born, half-submerged in a large, claw-foot porcelain white bathtub tucked into the far corner of the room.
And above the waterline—
His stomach. Rounded out into a belly that peaks out with his shoulder and feet above the waterline.
Torch’s brain struggles to make sense of what he was seeing.
Nova stares back at him with wide eyes, startled and terrified all at once. One hand, ash black and stained as it had been for so long now, matching his clenched jaw, gripped the rim of the tub hard enough that if it weren't for his stain, it would probably be white-knuckling it, while the other spread over the curve of his stomach like a shield.
Protective. His hand, such a stark contrast against the paleness of his belly.
And suddenly the world seems to tilt sideways beneath Torch's feet.
He’s pregnant.
Gravid.
Knocked up.
Up the duff.
With child or whatever other fucking euphemisms he had heard spread around camp since he was a teenager.
The realization slams into Torch so hard that if he weren't already frozen still at the sight of the man, it would've caught him all the same. Every thought in his head evaporates, anger and fear otherwise. The rehearsed words he had practiced out loud on his walk here point in his favor. Any accusation he could get out of his mouth in the direction of the bishop before he broke down in tears.
It was gone.
All he could do was stare.
Nova, on the other side of the room, watches this crash-and-burn in real time. His own breathing, uneven and fast from the absolute jump scare Torch had just provided him, was not yet leaving as the other man's hazel eyes bore into him. His skin. He made no attempt to hide what had become so evident months ago from him.
Not like he would want to anyway. For everyone else outside the apartment, yes. But not Torch.
Never Torch.
Even when he broke into his room and slammed open his bathroom door, which definitely left damage behind based on how loud the bang was.
He waited for the explosion of emotion soon to follow from the man. He was never one to be quiet about what he felt strongly.
But Torch just stood there, mouth slightly open, completely speechless.
Nova flushed red almost immediately beneath the heat of the bathwater and his stare.
“What?” he snaps suddenly, voice sharp in a way that feels more defensive than angry. “It’s rude to stare, Torch.”
The words finally jolt something back into him. Torch blinks hard.
The thought of what to do now comes back slowly as he watches Nova shift awkwardly in the water, trying and failing to cover himself with one arm despite the fact that he’s entirely naked in a clear tub. The movement only makes the water slosh gently around the swell of his stomach.
Torch can’t stop looking at it. At him. At the impossible reality sitting right in front of him.
He looks beautiful.
The thought arrives uninvited, and he forces himself not to screw up his face from trying to stop it. But doing so lets the rest of them follow as he takes in the sight.
His hair still buzzed, almost fresh based on how close the crop is to his hair. And his face, there's a subtle, healthy weight to it now. He imagines the rest of his body followed suit with the bump at some point. And that, the bump. A flush to it, just as his bare shoulders were where they stuck out above the water.
Alive.
Alive alive alive.
Torch takes a slow step forward before he can think better of it.
“You’re…”
The sentence dies halfway out of his mouth.
Because obviously.
Obviously he’s pregnant, dumbass.
Torch can't help his own flush now as it rises across his face.
Nova huffs out something halfway between a bitter laugh and a sigh. He rubs at his face, water splashing as he moves.
“Yes,” he says flatly. “Yes, I am.”
His arms instinctively fold tighter over his stomach after he says it, somehow more protective despite him clearly now being angry too.
“Are you okay?” Torch blurts out. He hears how stupid it sounds immediately, once again. But his mouth doesn't shut as he asks now, “Like— right now, are you okay? Is it hurting? Is something wrong?”
Nova’s expression shifts, eyes darting away from under his gaze now.
“I’m okay,” he says after a second, quieter now. His sharpness is gone, leaving as he lets go of his white knuckling of the tub's rim. His gaze now drops to where his hand rests over the curve of his belly. His thumb strokes absentmindedly across his damp skin, disturbing the water in little waves that rippled out from the center of him.
“I’m just sore,” he admits softly. “And tired. I’m always tired now…”
The room falls quiet after that, neither knows what to say next. They don't want to disturb the moment's fragility.
“Help me out of the tub,” Nova says after a long moment, the words reluctant and quiet. Then, almost begrudgingly, a tacked-on, “Please.”
Torch moves before he can think too hard about it.
The bathroom suddenly feels too small as he crosses it, heat from the steam clinging to his skin beneath the layers of his cloak. Nova shifts carefully as Torch approaches the side of the tub, one hand going back to brace against the side of the tub as he moves to sit up. The other stays fixed to the underside of his stomach.
Torch tries very hard not to think about any of this too much.
“Okay,” he says instead, voice rough around the edges.
Nova reaches for him first. His damp hand sliding into the crook of Torch’s left elbow while his other moves up to his shoulder. Torch steadied himself beside the tub, hands hovering awkwardly for half a second before finally settling one under his armpit, and the other against his arm, just as he did. He wanted to keep his touch light, but feeling the weight of the other man made him hold on.
Nova rises slowly from the water with a soft hiss through his teeth, hand gripping tight to Torch. And again, as he leans against Torch as he steps up and over the lip of the tub, one leg at a time. He settles a moment later with another heavy breath, still holding onto him as his other settles back against his bump.
At that, Torch immediately jerks his gaze toward the ceiling.
“Oh my god,” Nova mutters, clearly noticing. He lets go of him now and Torch automatically takes the step away, still not looking at him.
He can feel the flush across the face as he stares very hard at a crack in the tile overhead. “What?"
“You are such a fucking idiot sometimes.” He can practically hear the eye roll in Nova's voice. He tries to make a rebuttal, but all that comes out is stuttering.
“I’m just trying to be respectful!” is what he finally settles on.
Nova laughs once at that, short and breathless from exertion more than amusement.
“Torch, it’s fine, you don’t have to look away, really.”
“But it's—”
“I swear, if you say it’s rude, I’ll slap you," the Bishop threatened, coldness in his voice.
Torch risks glancing back down at him.
Nova stands there, entirely naked, dripping water onto the bathmat laid beneath both of their feet. While his eyes go straight to the bump, it's not the only noticeable change on him. His thought before was right, the rest of his body filled out with his belly. His chest is fuller, ready for the baby, which if Torch were to guess would be here any day now. That thought sent a white-hot thrill of fear up his spine as it landed dully in his stomach.
His mind wanders again, and he looks at Nova's face. Even without having to ask, he can see in Nova's eyes that he's exhausted, one hand still supporting the weight of his stomach while the other is planted against his back, helping to hold himself up. He seems, if Torch were to guess, to be almost glowing now, flushed skin now visible all over in the bathroom light.
Torch swallows hard.
“There’s a robe over there,” Nova's voice softer again, nodding vaguely toward a rack near the sink. “Would you get it for me?”
Torch all but scrambles to obey, grateful for something to do.
He grabs the thick towel robe from the hook alongside an actual towel and returns quickly, holding both out awkwardly. Nova takes the towel, drying himself off while Torch toed the line between staring too much and not looking enough at him.
He fails miserably, Nova catches him looking at least twice.
He says nothing about it.
Once mostly dry, Nova steps closer to the counter, snatches a pair of black boxers, steps into them, then shrugs into the towel robe with visible relief. The fabric barely closes around the swell of his stomach as he ties it above it, not bothering that there is just a strip of skin showing.
Torch pretends not to notice the way Nova winces as he bends over slightly, reaching down to scratch at the back of his calf. He follows him out to the apartment, sticking behind him as he watches him— and Trench below, there's no other way to say it, but he's waddling. His wide gait as he steps, hand planted against his back, making his way towards the couch in the living area. He lowers himself onto it with a groan that sounds pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, leaning back heavily against the cushions, eyes falling shut almost immediately. One hand drifts down to rub slowly across the curve of his stomach again, while the other tugs the towel robe open enough to scratch absentmindedly at the taut skin beneath.
Torch stands there awkwardly in the middle of the room, still lingering halfway to the door. Still trying to process the fact that any of this is fucking real. Like his entire world view hadn't just been shattered and he didn't come here with the intent of screaming till one of them (him) broke down into blubbering tears.
He's here, with Nova.
Nova is here. And pregnant. He's pregnant. He's going to have a baby soon. Probably your baby, definitely your baby, holy fucking---
“Can you go get me my lotion jar? From the bathroom?”
“Why?” Torch asks, defensive. It’s automatic. Nova groans, glaring at him.
“‘Cause I just sat down and I don’t want to get up again. Can you please—” But Torch is already off walking back into the bathroom to find it. It’s the red little thing with a white lid, something straight from the pharmacy down the block. He brings it back to him, and Nova takes it without a thank you, not that Torch really expected one. He unscrews the cap and starts to rub it on his skin.
The sides of his belly have faint stretch marks, sprouting from below his navel and crawling up, a few further back on his hips from what Torch can see.
He moves then, around the couch and coffee table, to sit on the coffee table right in front of Nova. He isn't sure why now he feels the need to be close to him while he does this simple, monotonous act.
Afraid that if he pulls this tether too wide, it'll all go up in smoke and be revealed to be some cruel joke pulled on him.
He half expects Nova to cower away, shrinking at the closeness of him now. But the opposite, his legs spread wide to accommodate Torch between them now, still working the lotion into his skin, paying him no mind. Or maybe he’s hyper-aware of Torch’s presence now and just doesn’t care how close he gets.
“How far along are you?”
“How far do you think?”
Torch shrugs. “I wouldn’t know.”
Nova sighs. His hands keep moving as he stares off.
“I think I’m closer to nine full moons than eight now. It’s hard to tell now, though. All I feel is… big.”
Torch nods. He doesn’t know what to say to that.
“Congratulations,” is what comes out of his mouth next. Nova’s hands stop, both splayed out against his skin. Torch looks up to see them, then his eyes. Nova’s got this far-off look, pointed downward, but just staring. Like he’s not aware he’s doing it. He takes a deep breath, his stomach rising with his chest, and his hands start to slowly move again and find rhythm.
He doesn’t say anything about Torch’s comment, looking back down at his belly.
“Why are you here, Torchbearer?” He sounds so defeated.
Torch could cry from the sound of it. From the sight of him. All of it. He wants to weep into his lap and beg for something, anything. Just for him to look at him.
He just looks at Nova.
"I could feel you— something, I could feel something,” he quickly lied, looking away as he rubbed his neck, “something. Just something. It wanted me to come… here, so I listened.”
“Really?” asks Nova. Torch looks back. Nova’s staring at him.
“It wanted you to find me?”
Torch shrugs, “I’m not sure. Maybe. I mostly wanted to yell at you.”
Nova ignores the second part, thinking.
“So, what, you just happen to get this…. divine message, to make the three-day walk here, because you got a feeling? Just when I—” He cuts himself off, sucking in a breath through his nose. His left hand goes to brace himself against the couch cushion while the other holds his bump. Torch stares at that other hand. Nova doesn’t move it back and forth like before. Torch’s heart begins to beat wildly again.
“What?” he asks.
Nova sits there a moment longer before a hand comes up to tug his robe closed. He must be done putting on his lotion.
“Nothing. It’s fine. Your timings just fucked, as always.”
“Hey!" he tries to rebuff. "That’s not fair. I didn’t ask—”
“To come here? No one forced you to come here, Torch. Other than the little voice inside your head.” He goes to stand then, shifting his weight forward as he braces himself against the arm of the couch and the cushion he’s sat on, rocking forward to stand.
Torch moves automatically, getting out of the way as he stands, but hands coming out to, what? Help? He isn’t sure. But Nova seems to think so, and accepts his offer, left hand that’s not braced against the armrest moving to grab onto the crook of his elbow. He leans his weight into Torch now, and Torch takes it, another arm going instinctively to ghost over his sides as he pulls himself to stand with a grunt.
They stand there together for a moment, Nova readjusting, heavy breathing, as he still holds onto Torch. Torch lets him. He’d let him forever, but Nova moves away, going to walk around the coffee table and over to the bed.
“I’m going to bed now. You can have the couch, if you want…”
He doesn't wait for Torch's response, shuffling over to the bed and taking a seat again.
And again, Torch is left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. He's quick to strip off his cloak, setting it down against one of the chairs. He takes off his boots next, and his belt, too. He'd take his shirt off too for good measure and strip to his boxers just like Nova, if he didn't think he'd be cold on the couch without a blanket.
Torch isn't sure why he does this. Stay that is. His plans were dashed by everything that had happened. He could barely get a word out to the other man and just followed whatever he said. Happy to play minder to him. And now, so quick to run to bed. Why? To end this conversation or fast forward to the inevitable new one in the morning. Just a continuation of now.
"Goodnight then," he says mostly to himself, and settles down against the couch on his side.
Nova doesn't say anything as he leans over to pull the lamp chain, casting them both in darkness. Torch listens as he grunts and adjusts in bed, before very quickly settling off into sleep. He's quick to follow, not too far behind.
Sleep comes easily to both of them, surprisingly.