Work Text:
Layla’s visiting. It’s not like you have off days, vacations, so something must have happened. A hazard of the trade, probably. Someone dying. A friend getting taken hostage. Or—maybe it’s worse than that. Because the thing is, she’s been uncharacteristically subdued. The thing is, she came to you, broke into your apartment in the middle of the night like she didn’t live halfway around the country. Like she didn’t move away from you on purpose.
(If you asked her about that, about the end of high school, about choosing an assignment in Oregon of all places, she’d deny she had a choice. She’d say it was fate, that her assignment was nothing more than that—an assignment.)
Of course, you didn’t ask about it when it happened. You just let things die down, let her have her space until one day you called and she picked up the phone and it was like you were friends again.
You are friends again, but not like you were. Not the friends that have sleepovers or share secrets. You’re friends simply because you’ve known each other for so long that it’d be weirder not to be, history be damned.
Also because it’s hard to have friends, normal friends, in a job like yours. Someone always seems to get hurt. It’s a lesson everyone learns the hard way.
Anyway, Layla is visiting and you haven’t asked why, haven’t asked anything except for one half stuttered, Layla, what are— when you woke up and found her in the living room, pulling out the couch to make a bed. She didn’t even stop her task, just cut you off with, I’m staying here for a bit. Where do you keep your sheets? and that was that.
It’s been about a week now, and it feels like old times, like high school. What you used to dream about, anyway—coming home to Layla, living with her—before you broke up. Since she’s basically moved into your shitty apartment, taking up a permanent space in the living room, the couch always unfolded into a bed, it feels like slipping into another timeline rather than just going back to the past. A timeline where things didn’t deteriorate between you because of your stupid ego, your god-awful powers. (Even after freshman year you didn’t learn. You couldn’t.) A timeline where you’re normal—both of you.
But you live in this timeline, this universe, where you can fly and lift buildings, where the girl sleeping on your couch can control plants, and you’re tethered to the phone, your call system, because you’re on duty. 5 AM to 12 AM shifts this whole month. You miss the days right after graduation when you were working the baby hours, 8 to 8, and getting to sleep at a normal time. You took it for granted.
You took a lot for granted back then.
It’s almost midnight. You’re minutes away from your shift being over, technically, but you haven’t gone to bed yet because you know, you know, the second you do you’ll get a call. It’s more worth it to stay up and power through, finish that final mission of the day then come home and crash, instead of dragging yourself out of bed.
Layla’s decided to stay up with you and talk, keep you busy. She’s nice like that. Distracting you from how shitty the day has been, how crap your stats are (10 supervillain arrests, 6 supervillain escapes, and 7 civilian deaths all in the last month, and all preventable, something The Superhero Federation keeps lording over you, the fact that you need to be better at your job, Stronghold, these kinds of mistakes aren’t acceptable anymore—)
Layla’s nice, though. She isn’t mentioning it, any of it. Isn’t saying a word about the fact that you’re staring at your phone like a goddamn teenager, waiting for it to ring. Instead, she’s telling you about her day, because she’s finally started going places outside of the apartment (which is more than you can say for yourself, job be damned).
“And guess who I saw?” Layla asks.
“Who?” you grunt, barely paying attention.
“Warren.”
Your eyes snap up immediately, trying to gauge if this is a joke. Layla wouldn’t do something like that, you’re sure, but still. Still.
As your eyes find hers, you know that she’s serious. That she’s telling the truth, she saw Warren today. Warren Peace.
Something strange curls in your belly. “Wha—here?”
She nods. “At the grocery store. He works there now.”
Warren’s back in town. Warren’s back. It buzzes under your skin, and you blink stupidly, trying to figure out what to say, how to be normal about this.
Layla gives you a look, the one she gave you a lot in high school, around the time things were ending, falling apart. It makes your stomach squirm. “He asked about you. Said the three of us should catch up sometime. Told me to pass the idea along.”
The three of them. God. Of course.
“Right,” you say.
You can’t stand her expression as you spit out the word, all pity and knowing, so you turn back to your phone. Finally, it rings.
You flip it open and start asking for details immediately, skipping the usual pleasantries you have with your caseworker.
It’s some break-in downtown. A museum. A villain asking for you. Just you. Or, not you, technically, but The Commander, which. Well.
“Yeah,” you say into the receiver. “I’m on my way.”
——
You find Warren a few days later. Right where Layla said he’d be. Bagging groceries at the QuickMart.
The second Warren sees you, he calls out to a coworker— “I’ll help this last customer then I’m taking my thirty.”
The man grunts, seemingly not put out by the short notice. Of course, it’s 7 PM on a Thursday so it’s not like they’re particularly busy anyway.
Once you’ve paid for your groceries and packed them into the car, you turn to Warren, who has followed you outside to the parking lot.
The two of you haven’t spoken yet, nothing past the words “Cash or card?”, nothing of substance, and you’re trying to figure out what you can say. You know what you want to say, but that’d be—. It’s—.
You swallow down the question. It’s not one that bears asking now. Not when you just got him back. You open your mouth, determined to ask something normal, something like, How have you been?
But Warren beats you to it, “It’s good to see you, man.”
“Yeah,” you nod.
The wind whistles as the two of you just stare at one another. Surely you weren’t this awkward and uncomfortable around each other in high school. Surely.
Warren shoves his hands in his pockets, strangely bashful under the warm glow of the streetlamp. “Wanna get some food?” he jerks his head towards a restaurant across the parking lot.
The Paper Lantern.
“Yeah,” you say, the word coming out faster than your brain can keep up with.
His lips twitch upwards, fighting back a smile. “Is that the only word you know, or something?”
“Ye—, no. I mean, food sounds good. Let’s go.”
—
Being here with Warren, in this restaurant, in this corner of Maxville, feels like you’re in high school in the same way that Layla being in your apartment feels like high school—familiar, a glimpse into what life could’ve been.
You were friends with Warren, once. But you weren’t— you didn’t— You were friends with Warren, you were, but not the kind of friends that sat in a restaurant, crowded into a booth, knees touching under the table.
You wanted to be. But it wasn’t— You couldn’t— He—
You try to force yourself to stop thinking about it. The past. You try and tell yourself to be Warren’s friend because that’s what you are, you think, but your mind just wanders and wanders and it lands on the simple fact: You are not supposed to be here.
You’re technically on call—Jesus, when are you not?—and you only did the grocery run because you couldn’t take it anymore, knowing Warren was there, knowing you’d see him after all this time. It was a monumentally stupid move, monumentally selfish. And you know that if you sit around here, with Warren, the chances that you’ll get pulled away to a scene before you can drive home and stock your fridge with the groceries you just bought (and, technically, didn’t need) are growing higher and higher by the second.
You know you are not supposed to be here. You know you need to leave. But you can’t make yourself get out of the booth.
You look at the menu instead, adjusting yourself in your seat and knocking your knees into his, hyper aware of the way your jeans brush together, feeling it like a second skin.
—
Layla’s flicking through a book when you get home, sitting on her bed in the living room, legs folded under her lap. “Hey,” she says. She doesn’t look up.
You pause in the doorway for a miniscule second before shutting it softly behind you. Her presence has become rarer and rarer these past few weeks. You’re never quite sure when she’ll be home. A moment like this, Layla in bed, at home, as if she has nowhere else to be, is startling. “H–hey.”
You don’t know where she goes during the day. Just like you don’t know why she’s here. She still hasn’t offered up the information. You still haven’t asked.
You’re afraid, though, that the answer on both accounts is Warren-shaped. Or, at the very least, Warren-related.
Warren walked away from it all and now he’s back and Layla’s done the same. That could be where she goes during the day. Visiting him. His reappearance was around the time Layla started leaving the apartment more and more. The pieces fit together, if only a bit too neatly.
The thought of it, Layla and Warren being together, linked in some way—belief, physical space—makes your stomach turn.
You don’t want to think about it. Any of it. You throw your keys on the kitchen table and go to your room.
—
Your knuckles are bruised and bloody. Hitting Steel Trap is like hitting, well, steel. Even your super strength has limits.
Steel Trap (or, Stan, which is his real name) is laughing maniacally throughout your hits, despite his wounds.
He dodges what you’re sure would be a particularly harmful blow to his face and smiles, “Getting tired? Need a break?!” And shoots out a metal arm, throwing you into the nearest building, cracking the glass on the window.
Yes, you think. Yes, God, I’m tired. Of course I am.
But, you can’t say that. You have a role in this fight. A part to play.
You crawl out of the rubble and bellow, "Justice never sleeps!” as you launch yourself towards the villain.
Just like you know you should.
—
It’s a month later when you see Warren again. You’ve been avoiding the QuickMart, but you go back tonight. Because. Well. It’s Warren.
Thirty minutes later, you find yourself in the Paper Lantern. Your knees brushing against his all over again. It’s electrifying. It’s the best thing you’ve ever felt. It’s the worst thing you’ve ever felt. It’s— it’s everything.
Of course, it’s hard to focus when your leg is bouncing, your hand tapping against the table. You’re anxious. Jittery. Not just because you’re here with Warren, selfishly invading his space, giving yourself a break, it’s that there’s something looping in your mind. Something you just can’t shake.
Warren gives you a look across the booth. He can feel your anxiety, and you’re sure he wants to ask what the hell is wrong with you but he knows better. Heroes aren’t ones to discuss their feelings. They can’t afford the luxury.
“You want dim sum or…?”
Warren usually orders for the both of you. He knows the chef, likes to go back to the kitchen and catch up.
You could nod, let him walk away to place your order, and take a moment to collect yourself. It’s what you should do. It’s the part you’re supposed to play.
Heroes always follow a script. Save the day. Say the line. Rinse. Repeat.
This is no different.
And yet. Warren is watching. Waiting for an answer. So when you open your mouth, you find yourself spitting out the words. Just with a look, an idea that he wants to know what you’re thinking, you fold.
“Why did you do it?”
Whatever Warren expected you to say, it wasn’t this. You watch as he freezes. His eyes narrow slightly. “What?”
“You know what,” you answer.
His face is stone, impossibly still. The restaurant is crowded. Loud. But watching Warren, now, is the quietest the world has ever felt.
“Because I had to,” he says finally. “Either I’d prove everyone right in the end that I’m—I’m just like my dad or…or I’d have to watch people get hurt. Die. Know that it was on me, that it was my fault.” The words sound rehearsed, steady. Something Warren’s been sitting on for a while.
Know that it was on me. My fault.
Your immediate reaction is to snap back with something cruel. To say that with Warren gone, not helping, he’s still letting people die, killing them inadvertently. And that the two of you could do so much good together. That you could save twice as many people as you do alone. No one would die. No one.
You want so badly to let it all out, a slick oil spill of words that’ll stain the table and drip down onto your shoes. Soaking into the carpet as you beg Warren to come back.
To team up with you. To—to be—
But you don’t say any of this. You can’t. Instead, you say—“That’s the job, though. People die. Or…or they hate you.” Your voice comes out hoarse. Tired.
Warren stares at you, something unreadable etched on his face. “Yeah, Stronghold. I know.”
—
“Aren’t you supposed to be good at this?” Layla mutters, dabbing ointment on your wounds.
Layla knows as well as you do that super strength does not equal super healing. Does not equal invincibility. You aren’t a God—either of you—no matter how much people treat you like you are.
“Yeah, well—," you begin, before stopping abruptly. The movement of your mouth has torn at the cuts on your lips. Blood blossoms onto your tongue.
You gather it in your mouth, the blood and saliva and god knows what else, before leaning over
to spit it into the sink.
Layla pulls back slightly, frowning at you, entirely unimpressed.
“Yeah, well, shit happens,” you finish, giving her an unimpressed look back.
It's an obvious understatement. Shit always happens. It’s a well-known fact that shit happening is what keeps heroes employed—permanently. Heroes don’t retire. They can’t. You’re just expected to save and fight and save until you die. Violently. Crushed by a building, poisoned, drowned. The sort of deaths that come with the job.
And no one talks about it, no one at all, because acknowledging it is enough to make someone crack. Lose their mind. It’s why the Superhero Federation is always pumping out new heroes and sidekicks, it’s why there’s always a backup plan and then a backup plan for the backup plan.
You were one of those plans.
Your dad. Dead. In a fight to save the city—because isn’t it always a fight to save the city?—he was knocked down and just couldn’t get back up. He was as old as superheroes can really get before they get slow, before something kills them. He was only 49.
You were 17. A month shy of graduation. Your dad’s death, your mom’s inevitable breakdown, and then her death—fighting someone, still fighting, but distracted by grief, making one misstep—and it was all up to you.
Everyone was counting on you.
And you remember that time in blurry fits and starts, flashes from another life, before you became him, The Commander, but watching your dad’s death on the news…that was crystal clear. Always would be.
It was September. The sun was dappling the leaves, that last bit of summer still in the air. You hadn’t done your lab homework. You were copying Ethan’s. It was lunch. The TVs in the cafeteria, the ones that Sky High always had broadcasting some fight (a way for students to “keep up” and “track their future enemies”) were tuned to a battle uptown. You barely paid attention. Too focused on trying to finish up your homework, only glancing up at the screen once to confirm, Oh hey, that’s dad. Wonder what souvenir he’ll take from this fight? before you turned away.
You knew superheroes could die, of course you did. But your dad was…well, he was your dad. The Commander. He was invincible. He always won his fights. Always. You didn’t even think about leaving school, rushing to help him.
You wish he had. Because now you have to live with the fact that you didn’t.
And as much as you want to walk away from it all, like Warren did, as much as you know you could disappear and it wouldn’t matter because you’re just a cog in a much larger machine, something to be worn out and replaced—you can’t do it.
People are still counting on you. You’re not a backup plan anymore, you’re the plan, the first defense. You have a job to do. A responsibility.
——
You look at Layla and the strawberry poptart that has found its way all over her face, a thought striking you hard and fast. “Did you ever imagine this?”
She wipes her face and rolls her eyes, “What? Eating poptarts with you on the floor? Squatting in your apartment?” She takes another bite, saying through chews, “Oh yeah. It was my dream.”
You hesitate. You’re not sure if this path is a good one to follow, but you want to do it anyway. You—you need to know. “No,” you say tentatively. “You and me. Living—living together.”
She stares at you, hurt and angry. "That's not funny Will. You know I did."
"I've just been. I've been thinking—"
"No." She says, shaking her head.
Some part of you lets out a sigh of relief. As much as you love Layla, you don't love her. You never did. And her being like this, living with you like this, keeps making you think about all the ways you failed her in high school. All the ways you failed everyone back then. "Okay. Well. Had to ask."
"Don't worry, Commander. This is temporary. Promise."
You're not quite sure why that hurts, when it's the answer you wanted all along. One you’ve been waiting to hear for weeks.
——
The alarm rings again just as you get into bed. You barely got home twenty minutes ago from your last call. What was supposed to be your last call. A fire. Not deadly but still painful. Horrible. You can hear the wails and screams of the apartment building. The ash and smoke stuck to your skin, so thick you can taste it.
The ringing of the alarm is hurting your head. You should answer. Pray that it isn’t another fire.
Your mind wanders to Warren instead. And the moment that changed everything. The moment that proved you were made for this.
Your cafeteria fight. Fire smoldering against the brick and tables and your skin. Feeling your heart thud in your chest, a course of adrenaline, lifting the table—saving people, your classmates. Putting yourself in harm’s way.
It’s all you’ve done since. Sacrifice. Be good. Be a hero. Except—except. You don’t want to be.
The thought hits you as the alarm pauses and restarts. You do not answer it. You just stare at the ceiling, contemplating.
You don’t want to be a hero. You really, really don’t.
You feel shame for thinking like this, thinking so selfishly, but…it’s always been there in the back of your mind. You haven’t slept in years. You haven’t made friends since high school. You haven’t read a book or gone on a first date or taken a vacation or done anything with your life except give it up with both hands raw and bleeding to something that doesn’t seem to care whether you live or die.
You were invited to speak to Sky High’s graduating class three years ago. You declined.
The alarm is ringing louder now. If you don’t answer you’re going to get demoted to worse hours, somehow. Maybe get a stern talking to from your caseworker.
You’re so tired. So, so tired. You close your eyes for one second, two, thinking about how amazing it would be to sleep. Really sleep.
But you can’t do that. You won’t. You have a responsibility. You force your eyes open and reach out a hand, finally, finally picking up the phone.
—–
Warren eyes you over when you slide into your usual booth. You’re aware you look like hell.
“Giant robot,” you mutter. “Don’t ask.”
“You know, QuickMart is always hiring,” he says. “We could use the help. And we have approximately zero giant robots.”
You raise an eyebrow, “Approximately?”
He smiles impishly, “You never know.”
You crack a smile back, “Thanks. I needed that.”
“But, I’m serious. We are always hiring. It’s a pretty easy gig, all things considered.”
Your smile fades as quickly as it arrived. You breath out slow and deep, shutting your eyes tight for a long, long second before opening them again to stare at Warren, dull and angry. “I can’t. I can’t just take a different job like— I can’t quit.”
Like you, goes unsaid.
Warren inclines his head, “Layla did.”
——
You hit the villain. The monster. The machine. The whatever-it-is-today. You hit it, her, him, them, and the moment is infinite. Fighting is always infinite in a dizzying sort of way. As far as you are aware, there is no version of you from this morning or an hour ago or two seconds ago—there is only the version of you that exists now, in between punches.
It’s all that exists, because it’s all you remember.
You’ve been doing this for so long. Weeks. Months. Years. And it never gets easier, because it never ends. Someone always needs help. Always needs saving. Always needs you in a way that translates to doing this, exactly this, forever. Or, well, until you die.
Because the fighting might be infinite, but you aren’t.
——
You sit on it for longer than you should, the fact that Layla quit. That she didn’t tell you. You wondered as much but it’s one thing to think the impossible and another to know for sure.
Still, you’re not judging. Or, trying not to because it’s Layla. Your Layla. Layla who refused to use her powers in placement. Layla who told you she’d love you even if you had no powers at all. Layla who never wanted to be a hero, who hated the whole system, the whole game, but went and did it anyway because—
That’s what you do. That’s what everyone does.
You don’t have a choice. Heroes aren’t born, they’re made. Molded and crafted by force until there’s nothing left.
And the secret, the thing that makes it all tumble over, the real reason you can’t judge: You never really wanted to be a hero in the first place, either.
You just wanted to make your parents proud. Wanted them to love you. And this—this constant sacrifice, this torture, putting your body through hell, through harm’s way day in and out, is the only way you knew how to do it.
They’re gone. Been gone. Were gone before you really became a hero. They died for this. For–for legacy. For helping people.
And if you do what Warren and Layla did…if you— If you quit…
No. You won’t be able to live with the guilt.
—
Layla’s flipping through channels, absentminded, when something catches her eye and she scoffs.
“What?”
“The Incredibles is on.”
You had seen The Incredibles when it came out, of course you had. You and Layla had gone and made fun of how wrong the movie got superheroes and their families. This was the year before your powers, before high school. And you remember feeling a strange kinship with the normal, powerless baby until the end of the movie when he turned into a goblin. You’re glad that wasn’t your power.
Thinking about it now, though, the whole thing feels a lot less like a stupid movie about heroes and villains and good and evil and a lot more like your actual life.
Heroes being useful up until they’re not. Treated as expendable. Always expendable. Getting hurt, dying. No one knowing or, or caring except their families, their friends.
Because citizens don’t want to know things, you’ve learned. They just want to feel safe.
That’s the problem with all the comics, the movies, the merchandise. It’s hard to know what’s real and what’s just made to sell something. Sell this idea of who a hero is, what safety can look like.
You remember the advertisements and press conferences your parents did when you were little. Remember how tired they seemed after. Sort of remember the hero of the year award and that fiasco, that lure, that trap.
And you’re starting to think none of it is—was—real. None of it at all.
Layla’s already moved past the channel playing The Incredibles, thumb flicking the button on the remote. She’s in the 40s now. You don’t get that many channels in the first place so sooner or later she’s going to hit static or loop right back to that movie. That awful, stupid movie.
You snatch the remote from her grasp.
“Hey!”
“We’re watching the Discovery Channel,” you say. “Or TLC. Your choice.”
She frowns for a second then mumbles, “Discovery.”
—
The man in the suit is laughing maniacally. You find it in yourself to briefly wonder why all villains laugh like that. Do they take a class or something?
Distracted by the thought, the absurdity of it all, by the fact that you’re fighting a man dressed in a suit made from candy wrappers (Candy Dan) you almost miss the toffee syrup headed your way. Almost, but not quite. You’ve been doing this long enough that your instincts are wired. Set up perfectly.
You dodge the syrup and flex your fist. This is the part where you say some quippy one-liner like, “I’ve got a sweet-tooth for justice” or “Your tricks can’t stop this treat” and shove your fist into his face but you don’t want to. You just want this to be over.
You want to go home.
—
You missed Warren, these last couple of nights. Missed him in a way you probably shouldn’t given that he’s a civilian now. Given that you’re, well, you.
But you have missed him, tremendously. You don’t know when dinner became a regular thing. A thing you look forward to day in and out. But that’s what they are. Regular. Normal. Except for when they aren’t because of your job, your all-hours-of-the-night schedule.
Finally, things have aligned for the two of you to meet up and you’re grateful. Beyond it. And you find yourself wishing that, just this once, you were normal. That you and Warren were getting dinner tonight because you…Because you both wanted…
As your mind wanders, your hand inches closer to where Warren’s rests on the table. You don’t even realize you’re touching him until he interlocks your pinkies and gives you a smile.
“Hey, Stronghold,” he says, beautiful and real and perfect and you wish again, with all your heart—
It’s dangerous to wish like that. Think like that. You pull away.
His smile falls instantly, replaced with hurt.
You open your mouth as if to apologize, to give some explanation, even begin with a half-strangled “Warren—” but nothing else comes out. There’s really nothing to say.
—
The thing is. The thing is. You know—you know the whole system is messed up. Is wrong. But. You are the system. Kind of.
So what does that make you?
—
You spit it out over a bowl of cereal. Lucky Charms. The kind of thing your mom never let you buy as a kid. “Warren said you're working at the QuickMart.”
Layla doesn’t freeze like you expect her to. Doesn’t seem caught or put out. She simply puts down the apple she was biting into and clasps her hands, thumbs knocking together. “Will,” she says, and you hate how soft her voice is. “You're not stupid. You know I wouldn’t be here if I was still a hero. If I had somewhere else to go.”
You flinch a little at the reminder that, before a few months ago, Layla wasn’t a constant presence in your life. She was just a friend you called sometimes, when you remembered you hadn’t talked in a while. “Right…so what— what happened?”
Now she freezes.
“You don’t have—”
“Do-you-remember-Ruby?” she cuts you off, words rushing out all at once.
Now it’s your turn to pause, your eyebrows knitting together as you try to place the name. “Um…no? Should I?”
Layla shrugs, “My roommate? I thought I told you about her.”
“Oh.” It comes back to you, faint memories from months ago. The impression of Layla saying something along the lines of “my roommate this” or “my roommate that” in every one of your conversations. You don’t think Layla named her though. You’re pretty sure she didn’t. Still, you nod slowly. “Oh. Yeah. Her. I— I remember.”
Layla looks down at her hands. A sapling has begun to sprout from the apple she left half-eaten on the table. But something about it seems wrong. Twisted. Rotten. “She wasn’t just— she wasn’t—” Layla stops.
The sapling keeps growing. Reaching towards her like a child reaching for its mother.
“I mean I wanted to tell you, I wanted to tell someone, but it wasn’t—I couldn’t. She was normal and she thought I was normal and—”
“Layla,” you whisper, because you know. You know. Layla’s like you in a lot of ways. Always has been.
She shakes her head, “I thought I could keep her safe, keep everything safe, but somebody found out, I don’t know how, I don’t know, and she—”
Cold washes over you. You know where this story is going. Where it has to end up. Your hand reaches out to Layla’s shoulder, wanting to show her some semblance of comfort, of friendship, but she flinches away, curling in on herself.
You take your arm back, resting it in your lap.
The distorted sapling has begun to rot in earnest, its leaves turned gnarled and black. Layla’s eyes stay focused on it, as if searching for—for something. “It was horrible,” she mutters. “Ruby was all— like she never— and it was my fault. So I couldn't. I couldn't do it anymore. I refused. And the Federation didn't even— didn't even care. They’ve never cared. They just— they spit us out and then they dust off their hands and it’s like— it’s like we aren’t people.” She looks up at you, eyes wet and round and angry, “And I’m tired of it. I want to be a person again. A real person. Y’know?”
“Yeah,” you say, around the lump in your throat, the tears in your eyes. “I do.”
—
The last fight of your life is long. Tiresome. And you don’t know it’s going to be the last fight until you do. Until some contraption is pushing on your chest and crushing you, killing you, and you think, I don’t want to die like my father.
Somehow you find the strength, somehow you push it away, somehow you trap the villain somehow it all ends.
It just ends. You hang up your suit. Tell your caseworker you’re done and head to the Paper Lantern. Like it was that easy all along.
It doesn’t feel right. It feels wrong. Your skin is crawling and you have half a mind to call your caseworker and say that was a poorly timed joke. But— you don’t.
Warren stops you. The sight of him in the parking lot, under the glow of the neon sign makes you reconsider. You could— you both could—
There was nothing holding you back anymore.
You jog up to him, smiling anxiously. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. Was beginning to think you were stuck. That I was gonna get stood up again.” His tone is light, but you sense the question. The fact that he just knows.
He’s always been able to read you like a book. Him and Layla both. You wonder what that says about you, your type.
You shake your head, steadying yourself. “Nah, not anymore,” you say.
Warren’s smile is like the sun. “Not anymore?”
“Just—” you begin, “figured the quickmart needed me more.”
He snorts before breaking into laughter. You’ve never seen him like this before. This giddy and free. You wonder if this is what Warren was like when he was a kid, before everything went sideways. Before your dad and his dad and heroes and villains and highschool. Back when the world was simple.
“So,” he says, still breathing through bits of laughter, “how about we go inside?” He stretches out a hand, something for you to take and hold quickly. Quietly.
You do. “Okay,” you say, squeezing his fingers like a promise before letting go. “Let’s go in.”