Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night crackled.

Electric light stammered against the dense fog, a sickly, greenish glow cast by something half-crushed beneath the ruins of a city that had long since given up. It reeked of scorched metal, of insulation torn and burned, of something synthetic, something wrong. Smoke rose in slow, lazy spirals from the carcasses of machines still twitching in their death throes, limbs jerking, optic lenses flickering between awareness and oblivion.

Silver had no more pity for them than they had ever had for him.

His breath came shallow, sharp. A gash along his ribs burned where some jagged piece of shrapnel had torn through fabric and skin alike. He was no stranger to injury, to blood crusted dark against white fur, but exhaustion clawed at him, unrelenting. His fingers trembled where they hovered before him, bent into a weak, unfocused grasp, a parody of telekinetic precision.

No good. He had pushed too far again.

Somewhere in the distance, a structure collapsed—slowly, almost politely, steel beams sighing against gravity before toppling in a muted groan.

Silver exhaled through his teeth. It was over. For now. Until the next wave, the next assault, the next impossible battle where he would throw himself forward, break himself apart, and mend just enough to do it all again.

But not tonight.

His head swam as he reached out, fingertips grazing the invisible fabric of time itself. It resisted. It always resisted. Time was a selfish, wretched thing, clinging to its own threads, curling around itself like a snake coiled tight in self-preservation. It did not want to be touched. But Silver had never been gentle.

The world buckled.

—

He awoke on wet pavement.

The rain had stopped recently, but the ground still gleamed, puddles stretching in warped, golden patches beneath the dull glow of streetlamps. The air was thick with petrichor, with the tang of damp brick, the faintest trace of something fried and greasy from an all-night diner somewhere beyond the dark.

Not home.

Good.

His limbs felt leaden, his head stuffed with cotton and static, and it took him longer than it should have to lift himself, to gather his bearings. A sign loomed before him, hung crooked on its bearings and swinging gently in the night breeze, its wood softened by age, lettering bold and stubborn against the elements.

Chaotix Detective Agency.

Silver almost laughed. The sound came out more like a breath, a sharp and ragged, dry thing. His brain had steered him here on some half-conscious impulse, drawn to familiarity, to reliability, to something just barely resembling safety.

He staggered forward and knocked.

Or tried to. His first attempt was a feeble tap, his knuckles grazing the door like a particularly indecisive ghost. The second was marginally better, a proper knock, if weak. He had begun considering the logistics of simply leaning against the door until— oh, the door swung open. Silver almost stumbled forward, catching himself just barely on the doorframe, hissing as his palms scraped raw against the old wood.

Espio blinked at him, all sharp edges and quiet calculation, pupils narrowing just slightly in the dim light.

“Silver.”

That was all. Just his name, stated plainly, evenly, no inflection betraying any particular emotion.

Silver, for his part, swayed on his feet, thought about the logistics of standing, then thought better of it.

“I—” he began, then promptly forgot where he had been going with that sentence. His vision blurred. His knees buckled.

Espio caught him.

There was no fumbling, no hesitance. The chameleon simply moved, hands steady as they braced Silver’s weight, as they guided him inside with a practiced ease that suggested this was not the first time someone had shown up at his door half-conscious and bleeding.

The agency was dim, lit only by a low-watt lamp in the corner. The air smelled of old paper, of the faint bite of black coffee long since cooled, of something herbal, something grounding. Espio maneuvered Silver toward the couch—worn, overused, vaguely musty—and eased him down with an efficiency that bordered on clinical.

“You’re hurt,” Espio observed, finally.

Silver, forehead pressed against the cool fabric of the couch arm, managed a sound of vague agreement.

Espio did not demand explanations. Did not interrogate, did not press. Instead, he stood, disappearing momentarily into the dark before returning with a damp cloth and a roll of bandages.

“This is not a thorough job,” Espio informed him, kneeling beside the couch as he pressed the cloth against the worst of the damage. “This is a ‘you will not bleed all over my furniture’ job.”

Silver huffed something like a laugh. His entire body felt like a singular, throbbing bruise, but the pain was distant now, softened by sheer exhaustion.

“Fair enough,” he mumbled.

Espio worked efficiently, securing bandages with the tight precision of someone who disliked waste. Silver remained mostly still, aside from the occasional involuntary twitch, his limbs heavy, his mind slipping.

“Rest,” Espio said, at last, voice lower now, quieter. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Silver had just enough energy left to wonder what, exactly, they would talk about.

Then sleep took him.

Silver woke up in pieces.

His first sensation was discomfort—something stiff pressing between his ribs, a dull ache wrapped around his middle, the weight of sleep still pulling at his limbs like thick seaweed tangling around an anchor. Then, awareness drifted in, slow and murky: the scent of old newspaper, the distant clatter of something shifting in the next room, the faintest trace of damp from where the cushions had absorbed the night’s humidity.

He blinked blearily at the ceiling. It stared back, lined with faint cracks, the plaster swirled into patterns like the whorls of an old fingerprint.

Not home.

Not—

His breath stilled. Not the future, either.

Silver’s fingers curled against the coarse fabric of the blanket half-thrown over him, gripping it as though the sensation alone might steady him. His head was thick with fog, memories slipping through his grasp like sand through his fingers. What had happened? The fight—yes, the fight. The ruins, the metal beasts. The sharp scent of ozone after a burst of telekinesis had torn through them, the rattling gasp of his own breath, burning, shallow. And then—

Nothing.

Or, rather, a smear of impressions: cold rain, wooden signs, warm hands catching him before he hit the ground.

Silver’s ears twitched, picking up the faintest noise of movement, something shifting in the kitchenette—ceramic against wood, the quiet hush of water being poured. The familiarity of it sent a strange, twisting feeling through his chest.

He pushed himself upright, the blanket slipping from his shoulders. The room did not swim as much as he expected, though a dull, persistent throb in his ribs reminded him not to test his limits too quickly.

Silver was in the Chaotix Agency, and if he was here, that meant—

A fresh wave of frustration coiled in his gut, twisting sharp.
Silver exhaled through his teeth. He had no memory of deciding to come here, which meant his body had dragged him on instinct, a desperate, automatic retreat to something familiar. But familiarity was not safety, and it was certainly not permission. These people had no obligation to him, no reason to put up with Silver’s exhausted, battered self showing up unannounced in the dead of night. He needed to leave. He needed to leave now.

He swung his legs over the couch and pushed himself to his feet, wobbling, but upright. One step. Then another. The door wasn’t far. He could—

“Sit down.”

Silver flinched.

Espio stood in what could count for the kitchenette doorway, one brow lifted, arms crossed. There was no real anger in his voice, no sharp demand—just a flat, unimpressed observation, as if he were commenting on the weather rather than catching Silver mid-staggered escape attempt.

“I—I shouldn’t be here,” Silver said, more defensive than he intended. “I—I just—” He gestured, vaguely, in a way that was supposed to encompass everything: the fight, the time jump, the unconscious arrival at Espio’s doorstep, the sheer weight of his own exhaustion pressing into his skull. “I didn’t mean to—”

Espio exhaled through his nose. Then, in a single smooth motion, he crossed the room, nudged Silver firmly by the shoulder, and maneuvered him back down onto the couch before he could so much as protest.

“You can barely stand,” Espio said, dryly. “And your solution is to leave?”

Silver scowled at his own knees. “I’m not your problem.”

Espio made a noise of vague amusement. “Apparently, you are.”

Silver had no rebuttal for that, which was infuriating.

Something was placed into his hands. He blinked down at it. A bowl. More specifically, a bowl filled with bright, honey-colored cereal, the artificial sheen of it practically glowing in the morning light. The scent was familiar, sickly sweet.

“Charmy’s favorite,” Espio said, evenly. “Eat.”

Silver stared at him, halfway caught between disbelief and some strange, reluctant amusement. “This isn’t exactly the breakfast of champions.”

“Charmy would disagree.”

As if on cue, the door to the back room burst open, slamming against the wall with a force that should have cracked the frame..

“Silver’s awake!”

Silver barely had time to brace himself before a blur of fuzzy yellow and brown flung itself onto the couch beside him. Charmy’s wings buzzed with excitement, eyes practically glowing with delight.

“You’re awake! You’re actually awake!” The little bee bounced, his wings buzzing loud enough to rattle Silver’s already tenuous grip on reality. “I knew you’d wake up, but Espio said to let you rest, and Vector said, ‘Yeah, let the poor guy breathe,’ but I knew you’d be up in time for cartoons! You like cartoons, right? You have cartoons in the future, right?”

Silver blinked at him. “Uh—”

Charmy didn’t seem to need an answer. “It’s Saturday morning, which means you’re just in time for Super Chao Adventures! It’s the best show ever. Last week was a cliffhanger, and I had to wait a whole week, but you don’t! Oh man, this is great. You’re totally watching it with me.”

Silver had very little say in the matter, given that Charmy had already turned the television on and turned back to him with the wide-eyed expectation of someone waiting for the appropriate amount of enthusiasm in response.

Before he could formulate a reaction, Vector’s voice rumbled from the other side of the room.

“Gotta say, kid, you’ve got a real talent for makin’ an entrance.”

Silver turned toward the crocodile, who was now lounging in a chair with all the carelessness of a man who had long since stopped questioning his houseguests spontaneously appearing half-dead in his office. Vector smirked, one sharp tooth catching the light.

“Last time you showed up, weren’t you drenched and half-conscious then, too?” he mused. “Not exactly what I’d call a good habit, but hey, makes life interesting.”

Silver felt heat creep up his face. “I—I didn’t mean to show up.”

“Yeah, yeah, none of ‘em ever mean to,” Vector said with a lazy wave of his hand. “But you’re here, and you’re breathin’, so I figure we’ll just roll with it.” He tilted his head toward Espio, who was already unrolling fresh bandages. “Ninja here patched you up last night. Not that he ever listens when I say he should wake me up for this kinda thing.”

Espio, still kneeling beside the couch, let out a dry sigh. “Vector, you sleep through thunderstorms. I wasn’t going to waste my time.”

Vector snorted. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re all ‘mysterious’ and ‘self-sufficient.’” He crossed his arms, giving Silver an appraising look. “How ya feelin’, kid? Besides lookin’ like you got hit by a truck.”

Silver hesitated. The honest answer was tired. Bone-deep, soul-deep, the kind of exhaustion that clung to him like wet clothes. But somehow, with Charmy practically vibrating next to him and Vector’s casual teasing, the weight of it felt a little lighter.

“I’ve been worse,” Silver admitted.

Vector huffed. “Not exactly a glowing report, but I’ll take it.”

Espio, meanwhile, had already begun tending to Silver’s wounds with that same silent efficiency as the night before. His hands were steady, peeling away the old bandages with careful, practiced movements. The antiseptic he applied was cool, but not harsh.

Silver exhaled, trying to ignore the dull sting as Espio worked.

“You should have stayed in bed longer,” Espio said without looking up.

“I didn’t wake up in a bed,” Silver pointed out.

Espio’s expression remained unreadable. “You needed the rest.”

Silver bit back his instinctive protest. He knew he needed it. Knew that if he had tried to push himself any further the night before, he might not have made it here at all. But acknowledging it—admitting it—still felt like a loss.

Before the moment could stretch too long, Charmy grabbed Silver’s wrist (thankfully the uninjured one) and tugged excitedly.

“Come on, come on, the show’s starting! You gotta see this—last time, Mega Chao was about to get blasted into space, but then—oh, wait, you don’t even know who Mega Chao is! Okay, so Mega Chao is like, this super cool crime-fighting chao who—”

As Charmy launched into a rapid-fire explanation of the show’s entire backstory, Silver let his shoulders loosen, just slightly.

He could still feel the exhaustion pressing at the edges of his mind, the weight of everything still left unresolved. But right now, he had a bowl of cereal in his hands, a warm couch beneath him, and a team that—against all reason—had accepted his presence without hesitation. Vector DID, however, make a few comments about paying him back in visiting a week in the future and bringing him back a list of powerball numbers.

Espio, meanwhile, had already retrieved the first aid kit and knelt beside the couch, rolling the bandages from the previous night off with practiced ease. The cloth was stiff with dried blood, the gash along Silver’s ribs already forming a thin, raw scab. Espio’s touch was careful, but efficient, methodically dabbing at the wound with something antiseptic and cool.

Silver exhaled, trying not to tense.

He was still frustrated. Still guilty. But—

The cereal was warm in his hands. Charmy was chattering on about some cartoon episode, oblivious to the exhaustion still woven through Silver’s bones. Espio worked quietly, steady, reliable, with the precision of someone who had done this before. And Vector, for all his boisterousness, was at least pretending not to pay too much attention, letting the atmosphere settle into something resembling normalcy.

Silver sighed, let his shoulders relax by increments.

Maybe, just for a little while, he could stay.

Chapter Text

Espio was no stranger to discipline. To restraint, to the practiced stillness of a body trained in patience. But Silver had a way of unraveling that carefully cultivated composure.

It was not the way he looked, though Espio had noticed, in a way one notices the change of seasons or the fine details of a polished blade. Noticed the height, the long lines of him, the pale fur fading into frost-dark points along his hands and quills, the absurdity of that thickly knit scarf he clung to even indoors. It was not even the way he moved, though Silver’s movements—fluid despite his exhaustion, unthinking in their grace—had a strange and unearned familiarity, as if he had always been here, pacing the length of the Chaotix office, fussing over Espio’s case files like they belonged to him.

No, it was the way he spoke, with the stubborn conviction of a man who had seen the world end and still insisted on helping it. The way he sat forward when he talked, hands animated, expression bright even in defiance. The way he argued, because of course he argued—he had been arguing with Espio since the moment he woke up on the agency’s couch, disoriented and embarrassed and insistent that he had overstayed his welcome.

“You have not,” Espio had said, flatly, in a tone that did not invite debate.

Silver had debated anyway.

“I’m taking up space,” he’d insisted. “And I’m not—I don’t need to be taken care of.”

Which was a lie, because Silver had needed to be taken care of, had still been wincing every time he moved, had dark bruises blooming beneath pale fur, had looked like he had not truly rested in months. Espio had ignored his protests, handed him a bowl of Charmy’s cloyingly sweet cereal, and set about keeping him there as long as possible.

Which was easy, at first. Silver had been too tired to resist in any meaningful way. But the moment his strength began to return, so did his relentless need to do something.

“I can help,” he said, trailing Espio through the office as he sorted through case files. “I want to help.”

“You are recovering,” Espio said.

“I can recover and also do literally anything else.”

Espio did not look up. “You are injured.”

Silver made a frustrated noise. “So? I can still use my psychokinesis. I don’t even need to move for that.”

Espio flicked his tail in irritation—betraying himself, because Silver noticed instantly.

“I can help,” he pressed, stepping closer. “Just let me do something—”

And Espio could not look at him. He had learned, by now, that Silver’s conviction was dangerous—dangerous in the way it set him alight, in the way it made his skin prickle, in the way his traitorous scales betrayed him by shifting, mottling, a telltale wash of unbidden color along his arms.

He turned away, focusing instead on the methodical organization of case files. “Charmy has been trying to get someone to watch his cartoons with him,” he said. “Perhaps you could offer your assistance.”

Silver groaned, dropping his head against Espio’s desk. “You suck.”

Espio did not smile. But it was an effort.

—

It was easier, somehow, to sit beside Silver when he was asleep.

There was no need for restraint, then, no need to be careful about what his body revealed, no risk of being caught watching him—his sleeping expression slack, his breathing deep and even, that absurd scarf bunched up beneath his chin.

It was easier, too, to let his tail curl idly around the leg of the chair, to let his own exhaustion settle in his limbs.

Outside, the city moved, restless as ever. Vector was snoring from the next room over. Charmy had left the television on again.

Silver shifted slightly, his fingers twitching against the blanket Espio had forced upon him. Espio remained still, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way the dim light cast long shadows along the curve of his jaw, the bridge of his nose.

His colors softened. A light pink.

This was fine, Espio told himself, resting his elbow against the arm of the chair, resisting the urge to reach out. Silver would be gone soon enough, back to his own time, his own battles.

For now, Espio would allow himself this.

The door slammed open.

“Esp, you got that file!?”

Vector’s voice obliterated whatever tenuous equilibrium Espio had been clinging to, and Silver startled so violently that he nearly upended the stack of case reports beside him.

“I swear—” Espio began, whipping around, his tail lashing against the desk with a sharp thwap.

“Whoa, what’s with the mood lighting?” Charmy zipped into view, pointing at Espio’s arms. “You’re all pink now!”

“I am not—” Espio inhaled, clenched his jaw, and exhaled in a controlled stream through his nostrils. The color deepened.

Vector, oblivious to Espio’s suffering, stomped over and slapped a stack of papers onto the desk. “Anyway. Got a case. Real simple. A guy lost his briefcase, wants us to track it down—”

Silver perked up. “I can help with that!”

Espio shot him a warning glance, but Silver was already sitting up again, his scarf pooling in his lap, his quills rumpled from the cushions. He looked bright-eyed and intent, his entire being radiating that stubborn, overeager earnestness that had become Espio’s simultaneous undoing and greatest irritation.

Vector snorted. “You’re still on the injured list, kid.”

“But—”

“Nuh-uh,” Vector interrupted, flapping a hand dismissively. “No backtalk. You can help when Esp says you’re good to go. Ain’t that right, Esp?”

Espio, whose authority was apparently unquestionable in this matter, felt his throat tighten. Silver was looking at him—fixing him with those storm-touched eyes, wide and imploring, as if Espio held the key to some grand, irrefutable truth. It was unfair. Unreasonable. Silver had no business being this persistent, or this endearing, or this—

Espio wrenched his gaze away. “No fieldwork,” he said, crisp and cool and utterly betraying the fact that his tail had curled into a telltale spiral behind him.

Silver groaned, flopping back onto the couch. “You guys are killing me.”

Charmy landed beside him with a grin. “You’ll live! Anyway, wanna play cards while Esp and Vec work?”

Silver slumped, defeated. “Fine. But I’m gonna win this time.”

“You say that every time.”

Their voices faded into amiable bickering, and Espio, exhaling a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, turned back to his reports. He made a valiant attempt at focus, ignoring the warmth that still lingered beneath his scales, ignoring the way Silver had been watching him, ignoring the sheer inevitability of it all.

The days stretched forward, and Espio could already see it—the slow unraveling of restraint, the gradual, quiet surrender.

He was doomed.

bonus scraps, may seem jumbled

Silver had barely been able to stand, let alone speak, when Espio found him—half-draped over the window ledge like some tragic wraith, his scarf unspooling in weak tendrils across the floor, his goggles fogged with exertion. The battle—whatever bleak horror had preceded his arrival—had taken something from him. The thick air of struggle still clung to him, acrid and electric.

Espio had seen wounds before. He had inflicted them. But there was something almost offensive about them on Silver, something that gnawed at the more animal parts of his mind, the ones that made his limbs lock and his tail curl tight when he thought too much about it. Silver was too stubborn to be so fragile. His futuristic composition—evolved to withstand a ruined world—felt unfairly contradicted by the way he winced when Espio tightened the bandages around his ribs.

Now, Silver was recovering in the space Espio had all but claimed for himself in the agency’s back room, where the air was less saturated with Vector’s cigar smoke and the buzzing chaos of their line of work felt, if not distant, then at least ignorable. Silver occupied the futon Espio had begrudgingly relinquished, and Espio himself had taken to meditative squatting nearby, a book open in his lap, unread.

Silver, of course, was restless.

“Just let me help,” he groaned, for what had to be the twelfth time that morning, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “I can do stuff sitting down! Paperwork—phone calls—psychic stuff!” His tail thumped against the blankets as he spoke, his ears twitching in frustration.

“Vector handles the phone,” Espio replied, not looking up from his book. “And Charmy on paperwork is already a liability. I’m not giving you that kind of power.”

Silver scowled, his arms crossing over his chest—a mistake, given the state of his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath and immediately abandoned the posture, instead flopping back against the pillows. “I’m just—” he exhaled, voice sinking into something softer, something self-punishing. “I’m taking up space.”

Espio did look up then. Silver’s scarf had unraveled slightly, the loose knit edges fraying from where he had absentmindedly picked at them, his hands fidgeting even in his stillness. His quills were unkempt, their natural gradient—blue-tipped and snow-faded—contrasting against the dark pillow beneath him.

“You should be resting,” Espio said, quieter now.

“I should be working,” Silver countered.

A sigh curled in Espio’s chest. He was accustomed to holding his emotions in check, his self-discipline honed to a knife’s edge, but Silver—Silver was uniquely, irritatingly adept at wedging himself into the cracks of Espio’s resolve. It wasn’t just the stubbornness, though that was part of it. It was the way he wore his emotions openly, like an artist’s palette smeared across his face, like his soul itself was incapable of opacity.

And Espio—Espio had spent a lifetime mastering the art of opacity. It was a talent intrinsic to his very biology. A chameleon, ever blending, ever hiding. He had learned control from the moment his skin betrayed him in childhood, from the first time someone had pointed out a blush blooming down his arms, the faintest green-tinged embarrassment betraying what his expression would not. It was something he thought he had long since mastered.

But here, in this tiny room, where Silver’s presence was inescapable, where the air was thick with his breath and the weight of his gaze, Espio could feel the betrayal begin anew. The softening at the edges. The creeping warmth across his face, his limbs. His traitorous tail, curling toward Silver’s own without his permission.

And of course, that was when Vector kicked the door open.

“Espio! Charmy lost the case files—”

Charmy, hovering just behind him, threw up his hands. “I didn’t lose them! I just don’t know where they are!”

Silver startled, and Espio—too slow to will himself neutral—felt the briefest shift in his coloration, a faint, humiliating bloom of dusty pink trailing down the length of his arm before he buried his face back in his book.

Vector, to his credit, only arched a brow ridge. “Am I interrupting somethin’?”

“No,” Espio said too quickly.

“Sure looks like—”

“No,” Espio repeated, firmer. “And I’m not letting Silver do paperwork, if that’s what you’re about to ask.”

Charmy groaned. “Come on! Let the guy help! It’s gotta be boring just lying around—”

“You don’t know the first thing about boredom,” Espio muttered, his tail still stubbornly curled toward Silver’s, even as he willed his skin back to its usual hue.

Silver, for his part, was watching him now, with something like curiosity beneath the frustration, like he had caught onto something Espio wasn’t ready to acknowledge. Espio refused to meet his gaze.

Vector snorted. “Alright, lover-boy, don’t get your tail in a twist. Just find those files, huh?”

Espio went rigid. “What—”

But Vector was already gone, cackling all the way down the hall, with Charmy fluttering after him.

Silver, finally, smiled—small, but undeniably humored.

Espio, for once, had no idea what color he had turned.

—- another scrap slash rendition

The agency had always smelled of old paper and ink, of damp wood and scorched coffee, of the peculiar scent of Vector’s scales and the faint, saccharine traces of Charmy’s ever-present candy stash. These things were constants, anchoring Espio to the predictability of routine, the comforting rigidity of order. And yet—

Silver.

Silver was an intrusion, a disruption, an anomaly not only in time but in the very foundation of Espio’s carefully maintained equilibrium.

He should not be here.

And yet here he was.

For days, Silver had occupied the battered old couch in the corner of the office, wrapped in a quilt that clashed garishly with the cold, muted hues of his fur. His scarf—worn even in sleep—spilled over the cushions, its soft blue a whisper of some place distant, some tundral dream of a future Espio would never see. His body, built for that ruined world, was an odd contrast against the agency’s cramped and cluttered warmth. He was tall—too tall, his limbs unfolding in awkward angles when he tried to sit up—but he carried himself in a way that made him seem smaller, shoulders curling inward, hands drawn close to his chest as if to shield himself from touch.

Not that Espio would touch him.

(He had, of course. Once. More than once. When Silver had first stumbled in, bleeding and breathless and too exhausted to form a coherent explanation, Espio had had to steady him, had had to brace a firm hand against his arm, had had to lower him onto the couch and press a damp cloth to his forehead, cataloging in quiet horror the way Silver’s skin burned under his palm. But that had been necessity. That had been practicality.)

Now, however—now Silver was healing. Slowly, but surely, his bruises yellowed, his movements grew steadier, his voice lost its hoarse, fever-worn rasp. And with his recovery came an unrelenting determination that made Espio’s head ache.

“I have to do something,” Silver was saying now, pushing himself upright, his quills disheveled from sleep. His goggles—pushing his quills back on his forehead, fur ruffled where the straps dug in—caught the morning light, flashing bright for a brief moment before settling into a dull glint.

“You are doing something,” Espio replied. “You are recovering.”

Silver scowled. “That doesn’t count.”

“It absolutely counts.”

“I hate sitting around.”

“I am aware.”

Silver groaned, flopping dramatically onto his back. His scarf pooled over the edge of the couch, one tasseled end brushing against the floor. Espio’s tail twitched.

“I could at least look through some case files,” Silver said, lifting an arm to gesture vaguely toward Espio’s desk. “Or, I don’t know, organize stuff?”

“You are not touching my desk.”

Silver huffed. “What am I allowed to do?”

“Rest.”

“Espio—”

The door slammed open.

“Silver’s awake! Again!”

Charmy buzzed into the room, barely avoiding colliding with the filing cabinet as he zipped toward the couch. “Finally! I was starting to think you were in, like, a coma or something. You woke up before, but you’ve been out again a long time!”

Silver blinked. “I—”

Charmy plopped himself onto the couch beside Silver, entirely unbothered by Silver’s baffled expression. “You missed yesterday’s cartoons,” he said. “But don’t worry, I recorded ‘em.”

Silver opened his mouth. Closed it. “You—uh—what?”

“You have to catch up,” Charmy continued, kicking his legs against the couch. “Especially on Monkey Cop. There was this crazy twist last episode.”

Silver cast a bewildered glance toward Espio, who, for his part, merely crossed his arms and nodded in grim resignation.

“He is going to make you watch them,” Espio said. “You do not have a choice.”

Silver looked from Espio to Charmy, whose wide, expectant grin suggested nothing less than an absolute certainty that Silver would comply.

“…Alright,” Silver said at last.

Charmy cheered.

Espio sighed.

The morning carried on like that—Silver watching cartoons with Charmy, Espio sorting through the ever-growing pile of case files, Vector occasionally shouting something from the back office about overdue bills. Silver still shifted restlessly, still itched to do something, but at least this kept him still, at least this kept him from pushing himself too far too soon.

Espio kept his distance. It was safer that way. His skin had already betrayed him too many times these past few days, his internal equilibrium made fragile by Silver’s proximity. The subtle flush of color at the tips of his fingers, the warmth creeping up his throat whenever Silver spoke to him directly—he had spent years mastering his control, and yet here he was, slipping, faltering, weakening.

It was nothing. It would pass.

Silver laughed at something on the television, and Espio—despite himself—looked up.

Silver was smiling.

Espio turned quickly back to his desk, ignoring the way his fingers tingled, ignoring the flicker of color at his wrists.

It would pass.

Chapter Text

The air in the office was thick with the scent of yellowing newsprint, coffee gone lukewarm in forgotten cups, and the faintly cloying trace of Vector’s cigarillo—something sweet and indulgent, vanilla maybe, or whatever flavored nonsense he’d picked up on a whim. The blinds filtered the morning light into slanted gold bars, dust motes drifting through them in lazy spirals. Beyond the walls, the city stirred. The distant wail of sirens wove through the steady murmur of traffic, punctuated by the occasional bark of street vendors hawking their wares. A wet wind ghosted in through the cracked window, carrying the scent of rain on pavement.

The world outside was waking, restless. So was Silver.

Espio could feel it.

The static of his power had been a quiet thing at first, a murmur at the edge of Espio’s senses, little more than a hum of energy thrumming beneath the surface. But now it crackled—soft but insistent, an undercurrent of pent-up energy that Silver himself could not contain. Even now, Espio could feel it tugging at his awareness, a restless presence that prickled like static against his scales. It was a wonder the couch hadn’t started levitating.

Across the room, Silver sat hunched forward, elbows braced against his knees, fingers drumming a quick, uneven rhythm against his thighs. His scarf hung loosely around his neck, his quills still mussed from sleep, but his eyes were sharp—too alert for someone who was supposed to be recovering.

Espio had been tracking the signs for days now. The way Silver’s foot bounced against the floor, heel tapping out an erratic beat. The way his hands fidgeted, smoothing the worn knit of his scarf between his fingers. The way his gaze flickered—too sharp, too eager—toward the door every time Vector mentioned a new case.

Silver was getting better. Too much better. And he was restless.

“I’m fine,” Silver declared, as if sheer insistence could make it true. “I should be working.”

Espio, who had heard this argument no fewer than seven times in the past forty-eight hours, did not even glance up from his paperwork. “You’re still recovering.”

Silver groaned, flopping back against the cushions with a dramatic sigh. “You said that yesterday.”

“And it was true yesterday.”

“It’s not true today.”

“Hmm.” Espio made a show of marking something in his report.

Silver slumped deeper into the couch, radiating frustration.

Across the office, Vector chuckled, flipping lazily through a file. “Give it up, kid. Esp doesn’t budge easy.”

Espio allowed himself the faintest, most infinitesimal smirk. Silver, of course, caught it immediately. His ears perked, and Espio could practically hear the cogs turning in his head as his expression shifted from exasperation to something far more dangerous—determination.

“You guys have a case today, right?”

Espio finally looked up, but too late—Silver had already latched onto the idea, and his expression burned with that familiar, maddening fervor, the kind that made him impossible to reason with once he had set his mind to something.

“I can come with you,” Silver pressed, leaning forward again. “I won’t get in the way. I’ll just—just observe.”

Espio tilted his head. “You’re incapable of just observing.”

Silver waved a hand dismissively. “I’ll be careful.”

“You’re also incapable of being careful.”

Silver spluttered. “I—okay, first of all, rude.”

Charmy, who had been rummaging through a drawer in search of something no doubt irrelevant to work, looked up just long enough to chime in, “He’s got you there, dude.”

Silver shot him a betrayed look.

Espio sighed, rolling his shoulders. This would go on forever if he let it. And the truth was, Silver was healing—his movements were looser, no longer stiff with pain. The bruises along his ribs had faded, and his breathing had evened out, no longer edged with that sharp, telling tightness. Keeping him cooped up any longer might actually be more dangerous than letting him work.

Espio closed his file. “Fine.”

Silver sat up so fast his scarf nearly slipped from his shoulders. “Wait—seriously?”

Espio exhaled through his nose. “You can come.”

“Yes!” Silver punched the air, a crackle of telekinetic energy sparking off him in a burst of excitement. The scarf around his neck fluttered slightly, disturbed by the shift in atmosphere.

Espio ignored the way his pulse skipped.

“But,” he continued, leveling Silver with a sharp look, “no heroics. No overexertion. You follow my lead.”

Silver nodded so quickly it was a miracle his head didn’t fall off.

Espio pressed his fingers to his temples. He already knew this was going to be a mistake.

The city streets gleamed slick with last night’s rain, the pavement shimmering under the dim, fractured light of a sun still struggling to break through the morning haze. The air was thick with damp, clinging to clothes and settling into bones, carrying with it the mingling scents of wet concrete, rusted metal, and the occasional waft of something warm and greasy curling from a nearby street vendor.

It should have been a simple job. Tail the suspect. Observe their patterns. Report back. A low-risk case, routine, the kind Espio could have handled in his sleep.

And yet.

And yet, he had spent the last half hour in a state of awareness so sharp it bordered on painful.

Not because of the suspect. The suspect was easy—lanky, long-tailed, wearing a battered trench coat that had seen better days, moving with the wary, measured steps of someone who knew they were being followed. A professional might have called them cautious. Espio, with the seasoned eye of someone who had tailed dozens of people in his lifetime, called them sloppy. The kind of person who only half-expected trouble, who knew enough to glance over their shoulder but not enough to know when to run.

No, the problem was Silver.

Or rather—Espio’s inexplicable, infuriating awareness of him.

It wasn’t Silver’s fault. Not entirely. Sure, his insistence on ‘helping’ had already made this morning more exhausting than it needed to be, but that wasn’t what was getting under Espio’s skin. It was the little things, the details Espio had no business noticing.

The way Silver’s scarf fluttered in the wind, the soft knit catching the weak light. The way his movements were just a little too effortless, his steps a fraction too light, the ghost of his power making it look like he barely needed to touch the ground at all. The way his quills caught the pale, watery sunlight, sharp edges illuminated like the points of a blade.

Espio had trained his entire life to be perceptive. To notice details, to catalog and compartmentalize. It was second nature to him.

But Silver was a distraction Espio had not accounted for.

“So what are we looking for?” Silver asked, voice pitched low but not quite subtle enough to blend in.

Espio didn’t look at him. He kept his focus on their target. “Patterns,” he murmured back. “Where they go, who they meet, if they double back. Watch for deviations.”

Silver hummed, nodding. Espio could feel his restlessness more than see it—the subtle twitch of his fingers at his sides, the faint shifting of weight from foot to foot. The telltale signs of someone barely holding still, resisting the urge to move, to act.

It made Espio’s jaw tighten.

Silver was still recovering. He shouldn’t be exerting himself. Espio had to remind himself of that, had to trust that Silver wouldn’t push himself too hard.

…Right?

That concern was answered in precisely the worst possible way.

Their suspect rounded a corner, their pace quickening, posture shifting into something sharper—aware. Sensing danger, maybe. Sensing them.

Espio tensed, ready to adjust their approach, to slip seamlessly into a different route—

And then Silver floated.

Just an inch. Just enough to lift off the ground and peer over the heads of the crowd, his instincts overriding common sense in that split second.

Espio acted immediately.

His fingers snapped out, closing around Silver’s wrist in an instant, yanking him back down.

Silver yelped—soft, startled, catching himself just in time to keep from fully stumbling. His boots met the pavement with a faint scuff, his balance thrown just slightly off-kilter.

Espio shot him a sharp look, his fingers still wrapped firmly around Silver’s wrist, grip steady but unyielding. “No powers,” he hissed.

Silver had the decency to look sheepish. “Right. Sorry.”

Espio should have let go immediately. That would have been the smart thing to do. The professional thing.

But he didn’t.

Not at first.

His fingers remained where they were, his grip slackening slightly but not releasing, not until his brain caught up with the fact that Silver was warm. The thin layer of gloves Espio wore did nothing to dull the sensation—Silver’s fur was warm, his pulse a steady, quiet rhythm against Espio’s fingertips, and that realization hit Espio far too late, far too sharp.

Espio dropped Silver’s wrist like it had burned him, turning his attention back to the case, steadfast and unyielding. He turned sharply on his heel and walked ahead, putting a deliberate amount of space between them.

Silver blinked, caught off guard by the sudden retreat. Espio turned his attention back to the street, to the suspect ahead, to anything but the lingering sensation of warmth on his fingers.

Silence stretched between them.

Then, in the periphery of his vision, Espio caught it—Silver’s gaze. Lingering. Curious. Amused.

Espio did not acknowledge it. Did not react. But his pulse, steady and measured only moments before, now felt profoundly, irritatingly uneven.

Silver, naturally, followed right after Espio.

Their suspect had slowed again, their gait returning to something more casual, less hurried. Espio took it as a small mercy—the slip-up hadn’t been noticed.

“Seriously, though,” Silver said after a moment, his tone quieter now, more thoughtful. “I wasn’t trying to be reckless. I just… I don’t like not knowing what’s going on. Back home, if you hesitate, even for a second, it can get you killed.”

Espio glanced at him. Silver wasn’t looking at him this time—his gaze was fixed ahead, his fingers still twitching slightly at his sides.

Espio’s expression softened, just a fraction. “This isn’t your future.”

Silver gave a small, almost rueful snicker. “Yeah. That’s the part I keep forgetting.”

They fell into silence. The city moved around them, the rain-slick pavement reflecting the restless world above it.

Espio cast one last look at Silver—at the way he kept his hands fisted at his sides, at the tension in his shoulders, at the way he looked ahead but not quite at anything in particular.

He didn’t say anything.

But, quietly, he adjusted his pace—just slightly, just enough so that Silver no longer had to follow.

They walked side by side.

The city had begun its slow descent into evening, the sky bleeding violet between the towering silhouettes of buildings, neon signs flickering halfheartedly to life like waking drunks. The streets were slick with reflection—pavement doubling the world above, glassy and restless, the shuffle of passersby distorting in elongated, shifting shapes. The suspect had settled into routine again, their hurried steps smoothing out, their shoulders loosening.

Espio’s sharp gaze took it all in—the way they stopped at a corner stall selling fried dough, exchanged words with the vendor, leaned, lingered, waited. A signal, perhaps. A meeting set for another day. Espio noted the time, the placement, the minute way their coat shifted as if weighed down on one side—concealing something. A weapon? A ledger? The details went neatly into place, slotted into his mind’s vast and ordered filing cabinet.

Beside him, Silver remained taut as a bowstring, restless, fingers still twitching at his sides.

“This isn’t your future,” Espio had said earlier.

But Silver carried his world with him, wore it in the set of his jaw, in the way his eyes scanned the street like a man accustomed to expecting disaster. It was a strange thing, Espio thought, to walk beside someone whose home had not yet come to be. A man out of time, existing in the liminal space between what was and what would be, and yet—here. A tangible thing, breathing beside him.

At the very least, Espio thought wryly, he was walking now. Not trailing behind, not hovering that infuriating half-inch above the ground. The correction had been wordless, but Silver had felt it. Not behind. Beside.

Small victories.

The detective agency was an old thing, wedged between a laundromat that smelled of stale detergent and a pawn shop cluttered with the desperate, tarnished remains of bad luck. The door groaned as they pushed inside, the dim warmth of the office wrapping around them like a too-small coat, worn and familiar.

Vector was at his desk, hunched over some piece of paperwork that looked as though it had suffered several indignities in the form of coffee rings and haphazard scrawls. His expression was one of deep concentration—though, upon closer inspection, the paper in question was a crossword.

Charmy, a blur of perpetual motion, was flitting between the desk and the small, battered television set in the corner, where a grainy broadcast of some long-forgotten kung-fu movie played. He provided his own sound effects, undeterred by the absolute lack of interest from anyone else in the room.

Silver barely had time to shake the city’s damp from his coat before Espio shut the door behind them with the finality of a man sealing off one world from another.

“The suspect’s movements were predictable,” he reported, crossing the room with the ease of someone who had long since learned to navigate the agency’s organized chaos. “They made contact with a street vendor, exchanged words but no visible items. Likely setting up a meeting for later.”

Vector lifted his pencil from his paper, the ridge of a brow quirked. “And?”

Espio exhaled, perching himself at the desk’s edge. “And, they’re cautious but not careful. They know to look over their shoulder, but they don’t know how to hide when they do it. Sloppy.”

Vector scratched his chin, considering. “Not bad. Not bad. But, more importantly—” He gestured toward the desk, where a grease-stained cardboard box sat, the corners dark with oil, the smell of salt and cheap tomato sauce clinging thick to the air. “—we got pizza.”

Silver, silent up until now, had been staring at the box with the quiet intensity of a man seeing God for the first time. Espio, watching, fought the entirely irrational urge to find the sight amusing.

“Yo, Silver,” Vector drawled, flipping open the box. “You eat yet?”

Silver shook his head, and Vector grinned, shoving the open box toward him.

“Knock yourself out.”

It was, by all accounts, a truly dismal slice of pizza. The cheese had long since congealed into something resembling industrial-grade adhesive. The crust, likely overcooked even in its prime, had entered an entirely new phase of geological development. It was the kind of pizza only a detective agency on a budget could afford—the kind that tasted like cheap tomato paste and regret.

Silver bit into it like it was the finest meal of his life.

Espio watched as his shoulders, which had been wound so tight since their walk, finally eased. His fingers no longer twitched. The tension in his jaw released.

Charmy, pausing mid-air, snorted. “Dude, you act like that’s the best thing you ever ate.”

Silver, mouth still full, swallowed like a man unwilling to waste even a second of the experience. “It is.”

Vector let out a short laugh. “That bad in your future, huh?”

Silver didn’t answer immediately. He took another bite instead, chewing thoughtfully. When he spoke, it was quieter. “You ever live on ration bars for months at a time?”

Charmy made a face. “Ew.”

Silver hummed. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence.

Then, in a move so casual it almost seemed an afterthought, Vector reached for his wallet, fished out a crumpled bill, and tossed it onto the desk. “We’ll order fresh next time.”

Silver blinked, startled, then smiled—small, genuine.

Espio, watching, did not smile. But he did reach for the last slice in the box, tearing it neatly in half, and wordlessly handed the larger piece to Silver.

They ate in companionable silence, the city humming quietly beyond the rain-streaked glass.

Espio stood by the window, arms crossed, watching the rain bead against the glass and trickle down in lazy rivulets. Behind him, Silver sat cross-legged on the couch, hands fidgeting in his lap, his restless energy barely contained.

“You ever think about leaving?” Silver asked suddenly, his voice quiet but not hesitant.

Espio didn’t turn from the window. “Leaving?”

“Yeah.” Silver shifted, the leather of the couch creaking softly beneath him. “Like… just going somewhere else. Not forever, just to see what it’s like.”

Espio was silent for a moment, watching the city breathe beneath him. The glow of headlights, the slow, rhythmic pulse of traffic lights changing, the distant blur of figures moving beneath umbrellas. “This is where I’m needed,” he said at last. “Where I have purpose.”

Silver hummed. It wasn’t agreement, but it wasn’t disagreement, either.

“Yeah,” he said eventually. “That makes sense.”

Espio glanced back at him then, studying the way Silver’s fingers curled and uncurled around the fabric of his gloves, the way his gaze flickered toward the rain as if drawn to something distant, unreachable. He didn’t belong here—not really. There was something in him that was always half elsewhere, even when he was sitting still.

Espio looked back to the window. The rain blurred the city’s edges, turned it into something almost dreamlike. He exhaled slowly.

“…If I ever did,” he murmured, “it wouldn’t be running. It would be because I chose to go.”

Silver looked up at that, his expression unreadable, but something in his posture eased, just slightly.

“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “Yeah, that makes sense too.”

The detective agency was deep in the hush of night, the weight of sleep settled over it like a heavy coat. The rain had begun again sometime after midnight, a lazy, drizzling thing, clinging to the city’s bones and whispering against the windowpanes. The neon signs outside cast slow, pulsing light through the slats of the blinds, washing the room in shifting shades of red and blue. The television in the corner had long since flickered into static, its hum now part of the fabric of the agency’s quiet.

Inside the agency, the silence was heavier, thick with the weight of exhaustion. Vector slept in his chair, as he always did when he couldn’t be bothered to drag himself the few steps to the back room—his massive form slumped back, one arm dangling over the side with a slack grip on an empty soda can, mouth slightly open in the manner of a man who had long since mastered the art of sleeping anywhere.

Charmy had collapsed in a heap atop a blade on the ceiling fan, one wing twitching every so often in some restless, half-formed dream.

Espio, however, was not asleep.

He rarely was, not fully.

He sat cross-legged against the wall, head tilted back, eyes lidded but not closed. His breathing was measured, even—practiced stillness, the kind that made him appear at rest while keeping him firmly tethered to the edge of wakefulness. He had trained himself to wake at the softest shift, to register the subtlest of movements in his periphery.

Which was why, when the sound of movement—soft, careful, but unmistakable—broke through the hush of the room, Espio’s eyes slit open immediately.

Silver, bathed in the dim half-light from the window, was fumbling with the blanket that had been thrown over him sometime in the night. His attempts at folding it were… less than graceful. Espio counted no less than three aborted attempts before Silver seemed to give up and smoothed a hand over it as though that alone would make it neater, then nodded once to himself, satisfied.

He winced as he nearly knocked over a half-empty glass on the desk, catching it at the last second with fingers still too stiff from sleep. Next came the note.

Silver fished around for something to write with, eventually settling on the back of a discarded receipt and a pen that took a few sharp shakes to coax into working. He hunched over the desk, his handwriting a hurried scrawl. The neon glow caught on the curve of his quills, traced the slope of his shoulders, and for a moment, he was utterly still, as if caught in some quiet thought.

Then, setting the pen aside, Silver reached into his pocket. Espio did not need to read the note to know what it said.

He pulled out the crumpled bill Vector had tossed onto the desk earlier and set it neatly atop the folded blanket. A moment later, he hesitated—then, as if struck by a sudden idea, he pulled out a wad of his own cash.

Espio nearly made a sound at that—some quiet exhale of amusement, perhaps. Silver, with all his good intentions, had no idea that the money from his future was nothing but scraps of paper here. Whatever currency it would once be, whatever value it held in the ruined world he called home, it was utterly meaningless here and now.

And yet, Silver placed it beside the bill with a sort of reverence, a sincerity that was almost painful in its honesty.

Espio should have stopped him. Should have told him that it was pointless, that the gesture meant nothing. Espio should have stopped him.

But he didn’t.

He let him go.

Silver slung his scarf around his neck, adjusting it with practiced ease. He hesitated at the door, glancing back once, his gaze sweeping over the dim room, over the sleeping figures, over the life he had only borrowed for a few days.

Then he slipped out, the door closing behind him with a quiet click.

Espio exhaled slowly, tilting his head back against the wall.

Silver had been restless from the moment they met—untethered, belonging to a place Espio could not follow. The future, bleak as it was, was still his home. And Espio knew—knew, in some deep and unspoken way—that a man untethered would always return to where he came from.

So he let him go.

And, for the rest of the night, Espio did not sleep.

Dawn came sluggishly, seeping through the window in thin, anemic rays, casting the detective agency in a colorless hush. The rain had relented sometime in the early hours, leaving behind only the scent of wet pavement and the occasional patter of runoff dripping from the rooftop. The neon signs had dimmed, the city stirring back to life with its usual groggy indifference.

Espio opened his eyes.

Espio stirred, slow and deliberate, allowing himself the careful luxury of pretending.

Pretending he hadn’t been awake for hours, hadn’t watched the color of the sky shift from deep indigo to that aching, muted blue of early dawn. Pretending he hadn’t heard the click of the door last night, the way Silver’s footsteps had faded into the city’s hum, distant, irreversible.

Instead, he yawned—measured, precise, the picture of a man just now dragging himself into the day. He unfolded himself from his place against the wall, rolling his shoulders, indulging in the quiet pop of his joints as he stretched.

Vector was still slumped in his chair, one leg flung over the armrest, snoring with the unwavering confidence of a man who could sleep through cannon fire. Charmy had fallen off the ceiling fan sometime in the night, as evident by him sprawled out snd snoring on the floor, one antenna kinked from the impact, presumably.

Espio, methodical as ever, unfolded his legs and rose with silent precision. He stretched, vertebrae clicking into place, and let his gaze skim the room. It was exactly as he had left it—save for the absence of a particular, infuriating presence.

He stepped toward the desk with all the practiced indifference of a man unbothered by the inevitable.

The blanket was there, folded as well as Silver had managed—meaning, not particularly well. It sagged unevenly, as though uncertain of itself. The note lay atop it, weighted down by a laughably useless pile of currency, the one legitimate bill that Vector had tossed on top barely disguising the others beneath it.

Espio regarded it for a moment.

Then, with a perfectly measured hum, he picked up the note.

“Huh,” he said aloud, and was pleased by how convincingly neutral his voice sounded.

Vector cracked open one eye, squinting blearily. “Eh?”

Espio gestured vaguely to the blanket, the note. “Silver left.”

Vector made an inarticulate noise, somewhere between acknowledgment and dismissal, and rolled onto his side as best as he could in the old chair, already halfway back to sleep.

Espio unfolded the receipt Silver had used as stationery, scanning it as if for some final confirmation of what he already knew. The ink was lightly smudged from where he had pressed too hard.

“Thanks for everything.”

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Espio exhaled, a slow, measured thing, and folded the note neatly, tucking it between his fingers. With practiced ease, he opened his desk drawer just wide enough to slip the paper inside, beneath a stack of old case files, where no one would think to look.

Then he closed it.

The useless currency, he left on the desk.

Perhaps, if he ignored it long enough, Vector would claim it, mistaking it for something worthwhile. Perhaps it would simply disappear beneath the usual clutter, vanishing the way lost things often did in this place. Either outcome suited him.

Vector stirred eventually, stretching with a great yawn, his jaw cracking audibly. “Kid left, huh?” he muttered, rubbing at his eyes as he slumped forward. He blinked at the bills on the desk and, after a moment of scrutiny, snorted. “Hah. Guess he thought we were a charity case.” He swiped up the one real bill and left the rest untouched.

Espio said nothing.

Charmy woke next, groggy and petulant, mumbling complaints about cold pizza and lack of proper breakfast.

Espio made a sound of agreement at the right time. He sipped his tea when expected. He filed their latest case reports with his usual efficiency.

It was just another morning.

He told himself this as he went through the motions—boiling water for tea, sweeping aside the scattered debris of last night’s cheap dinner, straightening the office the way he always did when the others let it fall into chaos. filing reports, sorting through case notes, enduring Charmy’s endless chatter with the patience of a man who had done so a thousand times before.

But his mind—traitorous thing that it was—had taken on a cruel, repetitive loop.

His gaze kept snagging on the couch, on the place where Silver had slept, on the crumpled indent of a pillow that had not yet flattened back out. Expecting to see Silver sprawled there, limbs thrown haphazardly, his hair still tousled with sleep. The image had burned itself into the fabric of the room, an imprint that refused to fade, like a footprint in wet sand.

When Vector griped about paperwork, Espio caught himself waiting for Silver to chime in, to offer some overly earnest, hopelessly naïve remark about how all jobs have their boring parts.

When Charmy joked too loudly, Espio listened for Silver’s laugh—expected it, somehow, as if it had ever belonged here in the first place.

And yet, silence answered him every time.

His ears, finely attuned as they were, kept waiting—waiting for the inevitable sound of a chair scraping back too quickly, of Silver’s impatient footsteps, of that exasperating voice cutting in to offer an unsolicited opinion on something Espio had long since mastered.

Instead, there was only the clock.

A soft, steady ticking. The kind that made silence feel heavier.
It was a foolish thing, this awareness of absence.

He had known, from the moment Silver had stepped into this place, that he would not stay. The boy had always been half here, half elsewhere, a creature unmoored from the present. His home, bleak as it was, called to him in ways Espio could not begin to understand.

Espio had always been good at living in the present. At measuring his surroundings with sharp, exacting precision, at focusing on the task at hand. And yet, for the first time in a long time, he found himself painfully aware of the absence of something—someone.

Silver was two hundred years away now, back where he belonged.

And yet Espio, against all reason, still found himself waiting.