Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A FATES TALE:

Pocket had been running for so long that time blurred together; years seemed to fly by, and each day was simply a goal to survive and move on to the next. It had been ages since they had taken a moment to settle down, and they couldn’t remember when that last moment of rest had been.

Pocket's head echoed with the noise of New York City, the bright lights, loud conversations, honking cars, but now it all felt distant. It was something that had faded into a distant memory now.

The constant noise of the city steadily faded into the distant fog, replaced by the resonance of the bitter winds, the collision of tree leaves, the sound of birds; nature. The air in the forest felt fresher, cooler, and infinitely clearer than the dense atmosphere Pocket was used to back in New York City. 

Pocket’s mind felt foggy, yet their feet kept pushing them deeper into the forest. With every step, the trees grew denser around them; the fading sunlight cast long shadows as the sun dipped low on the horizon. There was no way to know if someone was following them, but the thought alone kept Pocket moving onward.  
  
Escape was no longer just an option; it was a necessity to Pocket. The city's streets, once what Pocket would’ve called home, had grown hostile. They couldn’t tell how much time had passed while they’d been moving; all they knew was the sense of fright that settled further with every step.  
  
Pocket’s body began to ache. Their calves started to tense up, causing a dull constant pain. They paused for a moment, allowing themselves to feel the fabric of their shirt rise and collapse with every sharp exhale. Searching for a place to lean, they reclined against the truck of the tree, their gaze tracing the green leaves shifting above.
  
How long had Pocket been lost in the sounds of nature around them? How distant was New York City now? These questions lingered in Pocket’s mind as they kept going deeper into the forest, but no answer would be given to them to provide clarity.    

The stillness was suddenly shattered by the sound of twigs and leaves breaking underfoot. Despite just calming down, Pocket’s heart rate spiked again, a surge of panic flooding their body; a feeling that was oh-so familiar to them. Pocket clutched their briefcase close to their chest with one hand, bracing themselves to confront whoever, or whatever, was coming closer.  

In the distant shadows, a small one-eyed monster stumbled its way out from behind a bush, balancing on its two legs as it stared directly at Pocket. Pocket locked eye contact with the small-scale denizen, slightly lowering their briefcase as realization dawned on them.  
  
Pocket began to scan their surroundings, trying to find any possible escape routes. They cautiously stepped to the side, but the monster mirrored their movement as if trying to mock them. 

Pocket had no desire to kill or harm the creature. After all, they were the one intruding into its territory. Using their shotgun in this situation would only make things worse, as the gunfire would echo for miles in the forest. Using the briefcase would be a viable option, but it comes with the splattered gore of the poor creature all over the briefcase and surroundings. The idea of cleaning gore off the briefcase, not to mention themselves, was something Pocket couldn’t bear to contemplate.  
  
Either the creature could prevail, or Pocket would; it was a matter of survival. They clutched their briefcase, preparing to retreat into the small, enclosed space then burst out with enough force to take down the denizen. They only needed the creature to come just a bit closer.  
  
Concealed within the foliage of a bush, Shiv crouched down low among the leaves. Every movement was intentional and measured as he took great care to avoid making any noises that could reveal his presence to the monster and person in front of him. The rustling of leaves and shifting of branches are minimized under his steady footwork. 
  
He reached for an arrow with steady hands, setting it carefully against the bowstring. His fingers settled on the arrow’s tail, a familiar motion that felt second nature. His fixed look tapers, calculating distance and time with almost exact precision. Each breath he takes is slow and controlled, ensuring he remains undetected as he lines up the perfect shot.  
  
Every muscle in Shiv’s body works in perfect harmony to keep him precise with his bow. His focus is unbreakable, ensuring the shot lands true without endangering the person nearby. With a release of the string, he felt the surge of the arrow as it sliced through the air with a faint whisper. Shiv lets the bow fall into his purlicue as the arrow finds its mark in the monster, striking with a precise impact that echoes in the stillness.  
  
Pocket stood frozen in place, their eyes fixated on the fallen monster before them; their mouth was slightly agape in astonishment. Unbalanced breaths escaped their lips, each one caught in their throat as they struggled to regain control. Slowly, they became aware of their surroundings all over again as they grappled with the aftermath of their adrenaline-fueled fight-or-flight response.  
  
Pocket looked fixedly toward the figure approaching, bow in hand. A wave of anxiety washed over them as they made a deliberate effort to steady their breathing. The sight of the hunter didn’t ease Pocket’s already panicking mind.  
  
“What are you doing here?” Shiv’s voice carried a quality that was new to Pocket; it was coarse and rugged, unlike anything they’d heard before. Shiv ignored Pocket’s position and walked towards the denizen, using a hand to let the curve of the bow rest securely against his shoulder and chest.  
  
“..Thank you.” Pocket evaded the inquiry, looking vacantly down at the dead animal's body. They straightened their stance and, with brisk motions, began brushing dirt and splinters from their green coat.  
  
“Are you hard of hearin’? That’s not what I asked,” His brows furrowed in frustration as he raised his hands to his ears, cupping them slightly to mimic the action of straining to hear. “New York’s that way.”  
  
“No, I..” Pocket studied the other man; their expression shifted from worry to bewilderment, eyes widening slightly as they got a look at Shiv. On one arm, a tapestry of scars is painted along Shiv’s skin, with hundreds, perhaps even thousands, of marks running up his wrist to his shoulder. In contrast, his other arm is completely wooden prosthetic, seemingly too big for Shiv’s body, creating a striking juxtaposition.  
  
Shiv leaned down, heedfully moving his body weight toward the ground as he shifted his focal point intently to the monster he had just hunted down. He checks for signs of life, ensuring that it’s lifeless.  
  
“... What are you doing?” Pocket inquired, their voice barely above a whisper as they observed Shiv’s posture.  
  
“Taking the body back so I can butcher it,” Shiv said. With precision, he reached to retrieve the arrow, his fingers moving cautiously to avoid damaging it. He examined the arrow with interest, looking for any signs of wear or damage from the impact. 
  
“Like, eat it?”
  
“Yes..?” Shiv responded, raising an eyebrow at the thin figure in front of him. He began to uncoil the rope, letting it slip fluidly through his fingers. He wrapped the rope around the denizen's legs. “This is gonna be my dinner.”  
  
“Dinner?” Pocket instinctively recoiled slightly and drew their shoulders back in a clear display of revulsion.  
  
“...Yes. Are you more fucked up than I thought? Denizen knock some sense out of you? You need medical?” Shiv gave a look with an equal amount of disgust on his face back at Pocket. For a brief moment, Shiv’s eyes catch a glance at Pocket’s shotgun slung casually over their shoulder. The raw force of that shotgun was not intended for hunting; it was meant solely for inflicting harm and taking lives.  

Something about Pocket felt off to Shiv, an unshakable energy that gnawed at him. They carried an air of mystery; clearly they didn't belong in the woods. The longer he studied them, the more certain he became that something was wrong. Their coat, though now smudged with dirt, had clearly been expensive—too fine for someone accustomed to the wilderness.
  
“Any monster would be obliterated by that gun,” Realization sank in, and he began to straighten himself from his crouched position, letting the rope fall to the ground. “You ain’t familiar with the creatures out here, you ain’t got hunting gear, you got a flintlock shotgun at your side? What’s the real reason you’re out here?”  
  
Pocket pivoted in an unexpected, rather sudden motion, grabbing the flintlock shotgun from their shoulder with urgency. The movement is a blend of adrenaline and instinct as they position the barrel of the gun towards Shiv. He quickly raised both hands, palms facing Pocket, with his mouth slightly agape in surprise. 
  
“I was never here, okay?” Pocket’s eyes fixated on Shiv, every detail sharpening in their perception. The world around them started to dwindle into an obscure blur as they examined the expression on Shiv’s face. It was hard to read, but it was a mix between astonishment and amusement.
  
“Woah. Let's calm down,” Shiv’s presence seemed to loom over Pocket, who instinctively shrank back. Shiv’s confidence stood in contrast to the uncertain posture of Pocket. Despite the warmth in Shiv’s voice and approach, Pocket’s anxiety doesn’t ease.  
  
“Don’t get any closer,” Pocket shoved the shotgun into the white fabric Shiv was wearing, their grip reinforcing the base of the shotgun. Every second he wasted, every stubborn word, only made things more dangerous for him. That didn't scare him though.
  
“You don’t intend to shoot me,” Shiv took another footstep closer, the carpet of fallen leaves made a sharp crunch that sliced through the silence of the forest. “You would’ve shot the denizen if you wanted to shoot somethin’. Your finger isn’t even on the trigger,” he added, tilting his head slightly and gesturing towards Pocket’s hand.  
  
“I don’t, but that can easily change,” Each word Pocket said carried a remarkable weight that Shiv couldn’t ignore. Every syllable Pocket spoke was cautiously selected.  
  
“Whatever you did back in the city, I’ve done 100% worse. I’m not your enemy,” Shiv reiterated. He pressed Pocket’s shotgun further against his own torso, making out the cold metal on his shirt. Shiv took in this notion; the gun hadn’t been set off for a while.  
  
“I didn’t do anything!” Pocket raised their voice. Shiv flinched at the action but kept his hands raised. He could sense the nervous feelings radiating from Pocket, who seemed to embody the essence of cornered prey—tense and on high alert. One wrong move and Shiv would be an animal’s dinner.  
  
As Shiv observed the person in front of him, a sense of understanding dawns on him. He notices the signs of a fight-or-flight response taking hold of Pocket. Pocket’s eyes were wide, pupils dilating as they made Shiv the center of attention. Pocket was propelled by pure adrenaline once more, caught in a heightened state of their survival response. Each action was driven by a primal need to survive.  
  
“Didn’t mean to offend you,” Shiv held out his prosthetic arm toward the flintlock, gently maneuvering it to where it was no longer pointed at him. He knew how easily fear can trigger a reaction. 

With the gun now pushed aside, the two of them stand face to face, their faces locked in a tense exchange. “But you ain’t gonna make it far in these woods,” Shiv continued. There’s a silent acknowledgment of the significance of this moment.  
  
Pocket recognized the truth in Shiv’s words; there was no way they would emerge from this forest and see the end alive. The tall trees began to blend into a hazy mass, and the concept of direction faded from their thoughts. A sense of disorientation took over Pocket’s mind. There was no way Pocket could head back to New York City, but there was no way they could head deeper into the forest.  
  
“I can’t tell you why I’m here,” Pocket finally managed to find the words. Their gaze flits away from Shiv, avoiding the man’s intense stare. “But I can’t return to the city.”  
  
Shiv took a step back from Pocket, allowing some of the tension that had been building up to dissipate into the air. Without replying, he crouched down once more, resuming his task of hogtying the monster with efficiency.

He cut the length of the rope, manipulating it to secure the creature’s feet tightly together. While he worked, Pocket watched with rapt attention, absorbing every movement and technique that Shiv employed. This was a scene that Shiv has enacted countless times before. 
  
“It’s only gonna get colder from here,” Shiv's voice remained calm. “You can stay with me until morning, alright? I have enough warmth and food to share.” He hoisted the monster onto his shoulder.

Pocket hadn’t revealed the truth about why they were in the forest. They knew there was little reason for Shiv to place any trust in them, and yet, here Shiv was, offering shelter to them. Shiv’s unpleasantly masculine looks didn’t make it appear like he was a charitable type. After all, they had only just met, and yet here was Shiv, extending an act of goodwill that felt nearly unwarranted.  
  
Pocket leaned forward slightly towards Shiv with an arched eyebrow and a trace of skepticism threading through their voice, challenging his confidence. “You don’t even know my name; are you so sure?” The words were tinged with a blend of curiosity and disbelief.

“You didn’t shoot me when you had a gun to my chest,” Shiv flashed a grin. The words slipped from his lips like a provocative challenge, as if he relished the danger of the moment. 

“But I still held a gun to your chest,” Pocket retorted, making it clear that the threat had been very real. 

“Not the first time, won’t be the last. I’m Shiv.”

“It’s Pocket,” they said, giving Shiv a friendly smile. He reciprocated with a grin of his own, and in that moment, their shared expression carried an unspoken acquaintance, a brief yet genuine connection.

“It’s gonna get too cold to stay outside for long,” He slung the denizen over his shoulder by its legs, beginning to walk away. "Might start raining in an hour or two."

Pocket was caught off guard by the remark, delivered so nonchalantly it almost didn’t feel real to them. “How do you know it’s going to rain?” The skies seemed to be peaceful and bitterly cold, leaving Pocket puzzled. Pocket looked around in search of any signs of imminent rainfall but found none. 

“I got the nose of a bloodhound. I just smell it,” There was pride in his voice, as though he genuinely trusted his instincts to predict the weather. 
  
Pocket trailed Shiv closely, keeping their wits about the hunter. While they had no particular reason to distrust him, they also felt no reason to place their trust in him. Every step Pocket took landed densely, breaking the deathly quietness between the two with a loud crunch as their foot pressed down on twigs and leaves.  
  
In comparison, Shiv’s footsteps were practically mute, all footsteps taken with meticulous care. The soles of his shoes barely brushed the ground. Pocket noticed how quiet Shiv's movements were, something in Shiv's life must've forced him to learn this habit. 

Time seemed to fade, slipping away overlooked and unheeded. Pocket’s legs started aching again, muscles tightening with exhaustion as they struggled to keep up with Shiv’s momentum.  Shiv picked up on Pocket’s exhaustion; their breathing had started to delay, and the once-firm impact of their footsteps had faded into a much more sluggish step. 

Pocket still held their defenses high, advancing painstakingly. Regardless of the exhaustion that coursed through their body, they moved forward. It wasn’t just about survival; it was about proving to themselves that they could endorse, that they wouldn’t let their circumstances dictate their fate.  
  
“We’re almost there,” Shiv said, gesturing with his hand toward the muffled light glowing in the distance. “See that light? I’ll get you a nice futon and a hot drink, alright?” 

Shiv’s keen attention to detail didn’t miss the signs of Pocket’s discomfort, the way their legs trembled with fatigue, the slight hesitation in their movements, and the guarded look that lingered in their eyes. Shiv chooses not to address it directly, understanding that any comment might only heighten the tension already hanging between them. 

Shiv walked towards the pergola section of the house, hefting the denizen's body onto the sturdy table. He circled to the opposite side of the table, making his way to the small sink nested along the wall. He turned on the faucet, cleansing away any dirt and blood left from the hunt.  
  
Pocket’s eyes were fixated on the lifeless creature as they stood on the opposite side of the butcher table. A mix of skepticism and mild disgust crossed their face, “Are you seriously gonna eat this?”

“You don’t have to stick around and watch me butcher this creature; it’s not exactly a pretty sight…Especially for someone like you,” He gestured towards the table before continuing, “Why don’t you head inside, warm yourself up a bit, and take the chance to meet Grandpa Talon?”

“There’s someone else in your house?”

“Yeah, he’s my boss,” Shiv said, shaking his hands to dry them, “Taught me everything—light footwork, archery, the works. He’s a bit older now, but he’s like a grandpa to me. He’s retired now though,” His face softened with a hint of affection at the thought. “Once you’re settled inside, I’ll come back out here and get started.”  

In the center of what looked like the living room sat a small, elderly man who could only be “Grandpa.” Pocket looked at Talon, yet Talon didn’t return the gaze. Instead, he continued reading the book in his left hand, completely disregarding Shiv’s entrance.

“What did you bring back?” Talon’s voice rang out through the cabin, sharp and deep, carrying an edge that sent a chill down Pocket’s spine. His voice carried a weight of authority, making Pocket feel as though the question was not only about the creature Shiv had brought but also a subtle challenge directed at them.  

“A slab of meat and a guest needing shelter for the night,” Shiv’s tone was light but respectful as if he was giving a report as he removed the bow and quiver from his shoulders, carefully hanging them on the rack beside the door. “I’ll help Pocket get settled in first, then I’ll come back to butcher the meat for the stew.”

Talon lifted his gaze from the pages of his book, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took a long, scrutinizing look at Pocket. “How many times do I have to remind you to keep city dwellers out of this place?” There was a hint of frustration underlying his words.
  
“They're a refugee this time,” Shiv replied, rolling his eyes in slight annoyance. The casual dismissal in his voice suggested that this wasn’t an unusual occurrence for him, and the phrase “this time” lingered in the air. Pocket couldn’t help but wonder whether Shiv had brought others like them to the cabin in the past.  

“You’re an adult; do what you want,” Talon replied nonchalantly. The dismissal in his voice was unmistakable, clearly showing his lack of interest in engaging with Shiv’s antics. 

“Can I take your jacket, Pocket?” Shiv asked.

“Oh, uh.. yeah,” Pocket replied, a hint of uncertainty in their voice. With a careful yet hesitant hand, Pocket relinquished the coat to Shiv, who took it with a grateful nod. He walked over to the coat rack and placed Pocket’s jacket right next to his familiar leather one, highlighting their different styles. 
  
Without any forewarning, Shiv promptly reached out and seized the leather strap of Pocket’s flintlock, effectively disarming them in one fluid motion. The bold action, while carefully thought about, carried a significant risk, as it immediately triggered a visible reaction from Pocket. The sudden loss of their weapon sent a rush of adrenaline coursing through them, leaving them momentarily startled.  
  
Shiv’s decision to disarm Pocket was not just a precautionary measure; it was a clear assertion of control, aiming to ensure that Pocket wouldn’t act on anything. Shiv could sense the weight of Pocket’s look fixated on him. Pocket straightened their back and rolled their shoulders slightly, aware of needing to maintain a composed facade.  
  
It was evident that the act of disarming had not just been a simple precaution, it had struck a nerve within Pocket. For just a moment, Shiv saw a crack in the facade Pocket put up. Pocket fought to suppress any flicker of vulnerability. It was a mask they wore to shield themselves from their surroundings, and they were determined to keep it up.

“Help with dinner, alright? I gotta get started on the meat,” Shiv’s voice was brisk as he moved with purpose as if the tense moment never happened. He searched around the coat rack until he found a white chef’s apron, its fabric slightly wrinkled. As he tied the strings securely around his waist, he turned his head back at Pocket and Talon, he announced, “I’ll be back in a bit."

An extended and awkward silence settled between Grey Talon and Pocket, saturating the surroundings with tension. Their eyes wandered over the wooden walls, where various photos were displayed—images of Shiv, Grey Talon, and several unfamiliar faces. The atmosphere felt warm and inviting, a stark distinction to the cold, unwelcoming house Pocket had come from.  
  
The sight filled them with a sense of longing, evoking memories of meals. Pocket recalled memories of home with their family, sitting at a long rectangular table. Their mom and dad chewed in silence as they bore their eyes on the black sheep of the family. Every night, Pocket prepared a home-cooked meal for their siblings and parents, yearning for approval that always seemed just out of reach.

“You know how to cook?” Talon finally broke the silence. He moved towards the stove where he retrieved a large, heavy pot from the shelf above. 

“...Well enough. I used to cook for my family,” Pocket explained, walking towards the small kitchen. Various seasonings were scattered across the countertop, mixed with stray papers and other odds and ends. It wasn't the most organized space, but that didn't seem to bother Talon.

“Wash your hands and cut,” Talon retrieved a few carrots and potatoes from a woven basket and placed it firmly on the cutting board in front of them. 

Pocket removed their glove with a swift motion, tucking it into their pants pocket before turning to the sink. They turned the faucet on and felt the lukewarm water splash over their cold fingers. On their left hand, there was the sickly green hue that was on it—a reminder of their past. A pang of sadness tightened in their chest, but they quickly shook off the thought.  
  
Pocket positioned the fresh carrot on the cutting board and began slicing it with a sharp knife. The repetitive motion became almost meditative, allowing them to lose track of time. Their thoughts drifted, slipping just beyond their grasp as if they were watching themselves from a distance. 

The weight of the knife in their hand felt disconnected from their body, but they forced themselves to focus. This cabin was dangerous, they knew that. Staying here, lingering in one place for too long, meant risking more than just discovery. Every decision Pocket made was weighted heavily in their head, each decision had its own consequences. 

Walking through the door, Shiv cradled a sizable piece of freshly cut fatty meat in his hands. The sound of the cabin door creaking open prompted Pocket to instinctively lift their head. He maneuvered around the other side of Pocket’s cutting board and set the hefty cut of meat beside the cut vegetables.  
  
Reaching to his side, Shiv unsheathed his knife from the garter secured to his thigh. He made a quick motion to wipe the knife clean, using the blood-stained apron that he was wearing. “Let me handle the rest of the potatoes and the meat."

"Alright," Pocket stepped out of the kitchen, giving Talon and Shiv room to work. "If you need anything, let me know." 

As Pocket stepped back into the living room, something caught their eye—a wooden upright piano, tucked quietly into the corner. It seemed almost forgotten, its presence nearly hidden beneath a thick layer of dust that settled over the mahogany finish.  
  
Pocket’s eyes traced the contours of the instrument; the keys, yellowed with age, stood still and silent. It was strange to see such a beautiful piece so abandoned, its wood losing its lustered, the pedals untouched for what seemed like years.  
  
Talon noticed Pocket lingering near the piano. “It used to belong to my son,” He said, pausing for a brief second, the weight of the memory settling into the space. “He moved away a long time ago with his wife,” The piano held more than just dust; it carried echoes of the past.  

"It has a nice finish to it," Pocket murmured, leaning in for a closer look. Their fingers pressed into the keys, rewarding them with a few off-key notes. 

"Mmm... Guess I've neglected to tune it," Grey Talon remarked, though his body told a different story. He didn't turn from the stove, but the subtle way his shoulders tensed at the sound wasn't missed by them.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to hurt your ears," Pocket stepped back from the piano. There was something about the piano, something more than just a forgotten piece of furniture. The way Talon reacted, the way he carefully avoided looking at it, told Pocket that it held certain memories; ones he wasn't exactly eager to share.

"No worries."

As Pocket sat down at the dinner table, they couldn’t help but observe the harmonious way Shiv and Talon moved about. The bond between the two was incredibly deep, a profound understanding and mutual respect that transcended a normal friendship. It was a mentorship that held a deep meaning for both of them, perhaps it even went into family territory.  
  
Talon bustled around the kitchen, coordinating with Shiv and occasionally offering guidance, but it was Shiv’s skill that drew Pocket’s full attention. It became clear to Pocket that cooking was not just a necessity for them; it was a form of artistry, a dance of sorts that brought a sense of life and purpose to the space. 

Shiv’s hands moved with remarkable precision as he cut the potatoes and meat. Despite the challenges of missing an arm, Shiv’s movements had an unexpected elegance to them; it was as if he had adapted his technique over time. 
  
Shiv frequently glanced over at Pocket as he continued, each time locking eyes for a moment and then looking away. There was an undeniable connection forming between them, an invisible thread that seemed to Pull Shiv closer to Pocket on an emotional level.  
  
Maybe it was the way Pocket looked so frightened and vulnerable when facing the the denizen; their hesitation to pull the trigger lingered heavily in Shiv’s mind. If Shiv was in that moment, he wouldn’t have hesitated. He would've pulled the trigger and left the body. Pocket’s brief moment of fear unveiled a deeper layer of Pocket’s character, one that tugged at Shiv’s heartstrings.  
  
It was evident Pocket was reluctant to open up, keeping their emotions tightly guarded. Yet, this mystery that Pocket carried with them only fueled Shiv’s curiosity. This curiosity mixed with empathy stirred something within him, a desire to offer support to someone who seemed to need it. The Baxter Society saved him a long time ago, maybe it was time to extend the favor to someone else.  
  
A seemingly protective instinct came over Shiv. As he continued to stir the simmering pot, Shiv couldn’t shake the feeling that his connection to Pocket was more than mere circumstance. It was a burgeoning friendship that could perhaps help them both heal. 

The stew came to a nice simmer, showing that at last, it was complete and ready to be served. Talon picked up a ladle, filling each wooden bowl generously. Coming up behind, Shiv took the bowls from Talon and expertly balanced them atop his prosthetic arm. He made his way to the dinner table, where he placed each bowl down.
  
“Eat,” Talon commanded. Almost instantly, Shiv wasted no time; he dipped his wooden spoon into the rich, steaming stew. With an adept motion, he lifted the wooden bowl closer to his lips, shoveling generous spoonfuls of the stew into his mouth. 

After a few moments of enjoying their meal, Shiv turned his attention to Pocket, noticing their hesitance. “What’s wrong?” His gaze bore into Pocket, trying to decipher the source of their unease. 

The look only worsened Pocket’s sense of uncertainty. It was clear that something weighed heavily on Pocket’s mind. The warmth of the stew made the space cozy, but there was an undercurrent of tension that made Pocket feel out of place.  

“Nothing, sorry,” Pocket's voice was barely above a whisper as they picked up the spoon and began to eat the stew. Each mouthful was a distraction from the thoughts that crept into their mind, particularly the image of the dead denizen. It wasn’t every day that Pocket got food on the table.  
  
The three of them settled into a silence as they ate, the only sound being the clinking of spoons against the wooden bowls. Although the recipe wasn’t his own, Shiv had invested more of his soul into this dish than he usually would. Whenever he got a chance, he would analyze Pocket’s expressions, searching for any signs of appreciation or discomfort. Despite his keen observation, he couldn’t draw any conclusions about what Pocket was truly feeling.  
  
Talon noticed the slight change in Shiv’s demeanor when he was next to Pocket. He would watch Shiv interact with Pocket, he found himself observing with a sense of intrigue. It was as if Shiv’s care for Pocket had added a new layer to his personality. 
  
Talon couldn’t help but reflect on their shared experiences, realizing that Shiv had always been somewhat of a lone wolf, focused on the skills and practice that he had put Shiv through. Yet, now, as he prepared the meal and attentively checked on Pocket, there was a tenderness in his actions that suggested something more. Was this a sign of Shiv’s desire for companionship, or was it something deeper?  
  
Talon thought back about when he first took Shiv in. He had every reason to turn Shiv away, to keep his distance from the troubled young man. He saw beneath Shiv’s rebellious front—a vulnerability, a kid caught up in survival, not knowing any other way to live. Thinking more about it, Talon saw the parallels between Pocket and Shiv.  
  
Talon had rarely seen Shiv open up to people. He usually kept people at a distance, yet here he was, his gestures and expressions softened. It was subtle, but just out of character for Talon to notice. 
  
“Good hunting, Shiv,” Rising from his seat, Talon collected his wooden bowl and headed toward the sink. Shiv, who had been focused on his own bowl, looked up at Talon’s word, a flicker of joy lighting up his face. 
  
“Here, let me take that,” Shiv said, lifting Pocket’s bowl from the table and placing it on top of his. He walked over to the small sink and began scrubbing the bowls under the stream of water. “Let’s head to my room, you’re exhausted."

"Why are you helping me?" Pocket questioned, suspicion laced in their voice as their shoulders tensed up.

Shiv, who had been occupied with the dishes, barely paused. "Hm?" He glanced over his shoulder. "Should I have not trusted you?"

Pocket's fingers curled at their sides, resisting the urge to scoff. "You know that's not what I meant."

"You needed help," Shiv said, his tone monotone as ever. He set the lash dish aside to dry before turning towards a door at the far end of the room. He pulled it open, revealing it to a dark staircase leading down. "Nothin' more than that."

Pocket crossed their arms, unmoving. "Why should I believe you?"

Shiv shrugged, already stepping down the first few steps. "You don't have to." He let out a yawn, rubbing the back of his neck. "You can leave anytime you want."

Pocket clenched their jaw, irritation bubbling in them. The way Shiv dismissed them so easily gnawed at them. The nonchalant tone, the effortless way he pushed them aside. As much as they hated the idea of relying on him, they didn't have a choice. For now, they had to put up with him. At least until morning.
  
At the bottom of the staircase, his room came into view, a cozy but slightly chaotic space. Clothes were across the floor, while the desks were cluttered with an assortment of random items: cups, sharp knives, scattered papers, and a few personal belongings that hinted at his life and interests. The clutter spoke volumes about Shiv’s personality—busy, sometimes haphazard, and a slight mess.  
  
Amidst the disarray that filled the room, a certain warmth enveloped the space. The cluttered surfaces might have suggested chaos at first glance, yet it was this very chaos that breathed life into the environment. It proves someone has lived here, someone breathed life into this room. It was a sanctuary, imperfect but still inviting.  
  
“Make yourself comfortable,” Shiv said, nudging a pile of clothes into the corner with the side of his shoe, dismissing the clutter with a casual shrug. Pocket watched as he moved over to his bed, crouching down to pull a large futon mattress from underneath it.   
  
Shiv fetched a large, thick blanket and carefully spread it over the futon, smoothing out any creases to make the space feel a little more like home. The blanket, soft and warm, stirred a flicker of gratitude and excitement in Pocket; they hadn’t felt the comfort of warmth like this in years. Life on the run had made luxuries like this scarce, and the simplicity of a soft bed and blanket felt like a gift from God Himself.  
  
Pocket set their suitcase down beside the staircase with careful ease, as if hoping it would go unnoticed in the basement light. The gesture was subtle, but Shiv’s eyes drifted to the case anyway, observing its worn edges, occult symbols, and Pocket’s protective stance near it. Still, he chose to stay silent about it, understanding that some things were better left unsaid. It was clear to Shiv that whatever was in that suitcase mattered deeply to Pocket, something they guarded close.  
  
He respected the unspoken boundary, recognizing that the mysteries within that case were deeply personal to Pockets, secrets they weren’t ready to tell yet. Everyone harbors their own burdens and hidden truths, and he understood that some things are meant to remain private.  

Chapter Text

A FATES TALE:

“Here,” Shiv muttered, reaching into one of the dressers beside his bed and pulling out a well-worn but clean shirt. “For sleep.”

Pocket hesitated, taking the shirt in their arms. “Your… shirt?” they asked, glancing down at the fabric. The shirt carried the scent of cigarettes, wood, and gentle laundry soap. 

Shiv didn’t bother looking up from rummaging through the drawer, adding more clothes to the small pile. “Why are you so confused about everything?” he said, voice half-teasing. “Yes, my shirt. Now go change,” he insisted, plopping the rest of the clothes onto Pocket’s arms without hesitation.

“I can’t just take these…” Pocket protested, squeezing the clothes in their arms.

“Look at what you’re wearing, city slicker,” Shiv shot back with a slight smirk, finally meeting Pocket’s gaze. “No way in hell am I letting you sleep in a clean bed dressed like that. Now hurry up.” 

Shiv gestured toward the bathroom, “Take a shower while you’re at it,” he suggested. He reached into his nightstand, retrieving a loose cigarette from the cluttered drawer and fishing out a lighter from the mishmash of items scattered on top. 

He thumbed the old lighter, its spark flickering before catching flame. Cupping his hand around the end, he leaned in, the cigarette softly glowing as he drew in a slow breath, letting the smoke curl into the air. He rested his head against the wall with a tired ease, his gaze drifting far off into the distance. 

Pocket found themselves studying his posture as he leaned back, a faint trail of smoke spiraling up from the cigarette tucked effortlessly between his fingers. The rich, earthy aroma of tobacco wafted through the air, enveloping the room in a scent that Pocket had grown familiar with over time. Shiv’s whole demeanor was easy and unconcerned, so opposite of Pocket’s own tense energy.

“I... Thank you, Shiv,” Pocket murmured, feeling a pang of guilt at how much Talon and Shiv were doing for them. Each gesture of kindness only deepened the weight of indebtedness Pocket felt, knowing they had nowhere else to go. Shiv had a point, after all; dragging dirt onto a futon would be rude. 

With a small nod of appreciation, Pocket accepted the folded clothes in his hands, their fingers curling around the soft fabric. Without another word, they headed towards the bathroom. 

Shiv found himself alone, left in the quiet comfort of his own space, though his mind wasn’t nearly as still. Pocket’s arrival had brought a certain tension with it, an unfamiliar but intriguing presence that Shiv couldn’t quite place. Smoke left his lips, filling the room with a tobacco smell that he usually found soothing, but tonight, it didn’t settle his thoughts. Pocket lingered in his mind—a person so visibly guarded, as if every moment required them to brace against something unseen. There was something odd about them. 

With every drag of his cigarette, he thought about how different they were from anyone he usually lets into his space. And yet, against his usual instincts, he offered them shelter. 

When Pocket had first pointed the shotgun squarely at Shiv’s chest, he felt no fear. Even in that charged moment, with a gun to his chest, Shiv was captivated. Something about the defiance in their stance left Shiv more intrigued than alarmed. 

Throughout the interactions with both Talon and Shiv, Pocket’s responses had been noticeably brief. Each word they chose was meticulously selected. Pocket was aware of the weight their words carried, and they preferred to remain silent rather than risk saying something that could lead to misunderstandings or reveal too much about themselves. He found himself increasingly intrigued by Pocket’s reluctance to share more. 

The tension that locked their shoulders and the way their jaw tightened told him this wasn’t just an act of hostility towards him; it was something deeper, driven by survival instincts Pocket had honed over time.

Maybe Shiv recognized fragments of his younger self in Pocket—someone navigating the world with primal instincts. Maybe it was this echo of his past that made a connection between them, though he wasn’t usually one to think about such things deeply. 

He reached for the veiled memories of his days on the streets, days where adrenaline and instinct took over most of the time, but the details evaded him. All that remained were impressions, blurs of the feelings he felt, and sharp decisions without thought. His gaze fell on the scars marking his remaining arm, souvenirs from a life that had taken more than it gave. Then he looked at the prosthetic, hand-crafted from a mix of wood and metal. It was a reminder of what he had lost, both physically and in other ways.

Shiv longed to recall the true stories behind each scar. Some were thin, others jagged, each a faint whisper of a memory he no longer had. And yet, it was better not to remember every painful detail; his past would break him. All that mattered was that Shiv made it to the next day. However on quiet nights, when sleep seemed impossible, Shiv would lie awake, spinning made-up stories for each mark. He would imagine the criminal life he led, one filled with reckless choices and unforgiving moments that left these scars. 

He knew he hadn’t been a good man before; that much was clear even through the haze. All he could do now was hope to carve out a different path for himself.

Shiv rolled his head slowly, stretching out his neck as he released a deep groan that echoed slightly in the quiet room. His eyes slowly settled on Pocket’s briefcase, resting faintly illuminated in the dim light. If Pocket discovered he had peeked inside, all trust that he was building would be for nothing. 

His attention shifted towards the bathroom door, listening intently to the gentle sounds of water hitting against the tiled floor. The peaceful ambiance contrasted sharply with his swirling thoughts. Shiv tapped his cig in thought. After debating the pros and cons, Shiv made his way toward the briefcase. 

Shiv aimed to grasp the lock positioned just beneath the sturdy carry strap. The moment his fingers made contact with the cold metal, a searing pain shot through his fingertips.

“Ah–! What the fuck?” Shiv exclaimed, jerking his hand back instinctively. He grabbed his wrist, staring at his afflicted fingers, a slight reddish hue to his hand. 

In his panic, he dropped his cigarette, the ember flaring as it landed. Panic coursed through him as he grabbed a nearby shoe, quickly pressing down on the burning tip. It released a cloud of smoke with a sharp hissing sound. 

The bathroom was certainly not the most luxurious space Pocket had ever encountered, but at this moment, it was a welcome sight. The room had a lived-in quality; it was a space of care and routine. This was the highest compliment Pocket could muster, as it spoke to a sense of home, something they had been yearning for. 

On the thin rim of the sink lay a collection of combs, an assortment of hair products, a bottle of lotion, and a bar of soap. Each item hinted at a life that had unfolded here, filled with the everyday rituals of washing and grooming. It was a reminder of the normalcy Pocket had been missing. 

They turned the shower handle, adjusting it until it was on the “hot” side of the scale. Pocket then set the clean clothes down in the sink, creating a small pile that felt like a lifeline amidst the chaos that was the bathroom. Pocket placed both hands firmly on either side of the sink, grounding themselves at that moment.

They stared at the mirror, their reflection lingering uncomfortably for what felt like an eternity. Disgust washed over them as they confronted their own eyes. With each passing second, they felt as if their appearance was slowly dissolving away, fading from view, much like the sense of self they once knew.

Once the mirror became sufficiently fogged to block any reflection, Pocket finally began the process of removing their clothes. They felt an overwhelming discomfort at the sight of their own body, a struggle that Pocket frequently faced. The mist in the air created a cocoon of privacy that allowed them to shed not only their clothes but also some of their insecurities. 

Reluctantly, they began to unravel the white cotton that encircled their chest. The pale fabric drops beside their feet, and a wave of sudden sorrow washes over them. The cloth was the only thing left of what Pocket’s family had become, but served as a piece of Pocket’s identity and comfort.

Pocket’s hand instinctively traveled to their chest, fingers brushing against the rough texture of the gunshot scar. Its jagged edges and uneven contours served as a testament to the brutality of the injury. 

Attempting to push aside the thoughts of past trauma, Pocket stepped into the cramped confines of the shower. The warm water enveloped their nude body in a comforting embrace. The tightness that had coiled around their hands started to loosen, and the persistent knot in their neck gradually began to fade. 

With each drop that slid down their skin, Pocket surrendered to the gentle embrace of the steam-filled air. The simple act of showering became a ritual of cleansing, not just of the body, but of the spirit. There was a temporary sense of solace. 

Water trickled down their small chest as they tilted their head back, eyes fixed on the shower head above them. Peeling off the sarashi had felt like a breath of fresh air but also felt like shedding a layer of themselves. Without it, something was missing.

Looking down at their chest stirred the discomfort all over again. Being intersex came with its struggles. Every inch of Pocket’s body had been scrutinized, labeled as “wrong” by others as if they had no say in what their own existence should be.

The steady rhythm of droplets pattering against the tiles filled their ears; a soft soothing sound that blurred the edges of their thoughts. For a while, they let themselves drift, zoning out in the quiet hum of the water.

The peace was interrupted by Shiv’s startled exclamation echoing from the other room. Instinctively, they turned off the water in the shower, the warm cascade now feeling unnecessary. 

Pocket hastily wrapped the thin white cloth around their chest. Once it was loosely in place, they slid into the oversized shirt that draped on their frame. They quickly gathered their belongings under their arm, their heart racing as they fumbled to unlock the bathroom door. Pocket flung the door open and dashed into Shiv’s room, ready to confront whatever caused Shiv’s unexpected outburst.

Pocket’s eyes darted around the room before landing on Shiv, who lay facedown on his bed. His head was buried deep into a soft pillow, while his stomach was pressed firmly against the mattress, creating an image of distress. “You okay?” they asked, their voice laced with genuine concern.

In response, Shiv managed to lift his wooden arm and offered a reassuring thumbs-up. Despite the lighthearted reply, Pocket couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more beneath the surface. 

Shiv gradually lifted his head from the comfortable pillow, his eyes narrowing as they focused on Pocket standing before him. He took a moment to absorb the way the clothes fit on Pocket’s frame, even if the sleeves were slightly oversized. Water droplets trickled from Pocket’s wet hair, landing softly on the floor. So consumed by concern for Shiv, Pocket hadn’t taken the time to dry their hair at all.

Pocket’s disregard for their own needs and their rush to see if Shiv was okay didn’t go unnoticed, and frankly, it warmed his heart in a way that felt different.

Shiv’s eyes lingered on the subtle hump beneath their shirt. He knew better than to stare, and he didn’t want to call attention to it, but the change was impossible to ignore. His instinct was to say something, but instead, he pretended he hadn’t noticed at all.

“You look nice, city dweller,” he remarked, accompanied by a soft, weakened laugh. With a gentle sigh, he shoved his face back into the pillow, as if to retreat once more into the comforting depths of his thoughts. 

“What was that about?” “You scared me!” At that moment, Pocket’s carefully constructed front began to crack.

Suddenly, everything else faded from Shiv’s mind, leaving only a singular focus on the emotions that Pocket was trying so hard to conceal.

“I dropped my cig and ended up burning myself,” Shiv lied quickly. Lying had become second nature to Shiv; it was as if the act of deceiving was woven into the very fabric of his being.

”That’s what made you yell like that?” Pocket pressed, skeptical of his answer.

Shiv rolled onto his back with a playful grin. “There you go again with all the questions,” he teased. “I’m fine. No need to trouble that pretty head of yours over me.”

Pocket brushed off Shiv’s compliment yet again, well aware that he was fishing for a reaction. They simply rolled their eyes, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and moved over to the mattress Shiv had set up for them on the floor. Pocket settled down with a sigh, muttering, “Whatever you say…”

Shiv let out a low, tired groan as he stretched, loosening the tightness in his shoulders and neck before he slowly pushed himself up from the bed. With a sluggish motion, he picked up the folded clothes, cradling them under one arm as he headed toward the bathroom. 

“Don’t do anything stupid, alright?” Shiv said. Pocket responded with an eye roll.

A faint cloud of warmth lingered in the bathroom. Shiv paused to breathe in the leftover steam. A soft “pop” sounded as Shiv detached his prosthetic arm, placing it on top of the toilet lid.

Pocket sat quietly on the mattress, feeling the weight of solitude settle around them like a cloak. The silence of the room amplified every little sound until it felt overwhelming. From the bathroom, they heard the steady pattern of water falling onto the tile, each droplet landing with a distinct tap, creating a subtle rhythm in the background. It was strangely soothing, almost like a heartbeat.

They wrapped their arms around their knees, the soft fabric of the borrowed clothes feeling foreign yet oddly comforting against their skin. Pocket’s mind drifted around the room, mapping out every corner. Each item in the room told a story of Shiv’s life.

Shiv had been living here for quite some time. The bed was larger than they’d expected, easily wide enough for Shiv to stretch out. Several pillows were scattered around the bed, varying in size and wear. Some had thick fillings, while others looked slightly deflated, perhaps Shiv’s favorites. 

Layered blankets covered the bed, each one a bit different in texture and color. The top blanket was a woolen weave, durable and rough for strong winter nights. Beneath it, a thinner, softer quilt rested—a faded but vibrant piece that seemed to hold fragments of history. Its worn patches and muted colors suggested it might have been around since Shiv’s younger years, a remnant of memories that had somehow persisted alongside him.  

A subtle aroma wrapped around their senses, a blend of leatherwood mingling with the smoky remnants of tobacco as if the air itself held echoes of Shiv. The tobacco smell was slightly overpowering everything else in the room, but Pocket didn't mind. 

Out of the corner of Pocket’s eye, they saw Shiv’s slightly opened drawer. Curiosity got the better of them. Pocket wanted to know more about Shiv. There had to be something more to him. For all Pocket knew, Shiv could be a serial murderer who was planning to take their life.

Inside the drawer lay a jumble of items—homemade rolled tobacco, a pair of nail clippers, a few pens, stacks of random sticky notes, a small bottle of eye drops, and various other mundane objects that barely held Pocket’s interest. 

Under the clutter, a small, weathered photograph lay hidden, its edges smudged from years of handling. Pocket lingered on it, the figures captured in the photo. The inscription at the bottom read, “I love you: 193…” though the last digit was lost in a blur. On the right, a younger Shiv, his appearance almost unrecognizable. His hair was down below his shoulders, and he wore a more relaxed outfit. More importantly, both of his arms were intact. Cradled in his arms was a young child, no older than three, with eyes and hair that mirrored Shiv’s own. 

Was this a kid of his? If it was, where was he?

Thoughts of Shiv flooded Pocket’s mind. They found themselves reflecting on Shiv’s demeanor; the way he carried himself with an air of confidence that almost seemed effortless. 

Though Shiv came off as easygoing and carefree, Pocket knew he had to be carrying burdens of his own, much like the struggles Pocket kept hidden. Shiv’s outward confidence and charm were just a way to mask whatever was hurting him. 

A series of questions began to echo in the depths of their thoughts. Why had Shiv chosen to take them in when they were a stranger? What had compelled him to extend a hand even when Pocket shoved a shotgun to his chest? What was Shiv hiding? They couldn’t shake the images of the scars that marred Shiv’s skin, whispers of a life filled with hardship and struggle. Pocket felt a connection between them, but perhaps that was too risky. 

In the cramped confines of the bathroom, Shiv stripped off his clothes and carelessly tossed them into the sink. He adjusted the shower handle toward the "cold" side—a choice that felt almost instinctual by now. As he prepared to get in, he ran his fingers through his long pompadour, tousling it into a chaotic mess that framed his face. The hair fell in waves, just past his shoulders. 

As he stepped into the shower, the cold water enveloped his body, the droplets striking his skin with a sharpness that might have taken others by surprise. Yet for Shiv the icy sensation barely registered. Years of hardship had dulled his sensory perception. Temperature control had become a constant struggle for him, yet he chose to disregard it. He preferred to reserve the limited supply of warm water for Talon, who needed it more. 

Shiv looked at his hand once more, perplexed by why it hurt when he touched Pocket’s suitcase. It was a constant burn that lingered uncomfortably beneath the surface. Yet, as he did often when faced with pain, Shiv brushed off the discomfort. He focused on the task at hand. 

The freezing water danced along his body, tracing the lines of the scars on his arm. He let the moment breathe, savoring the quiet and the solitude. The cold water felt invigorating against his skin, a reminder that he was still alive, still breathing. 

His mind, usually racing with dumb thoughts and witty comments, seemed to hit a pause button. Shiv lifted his head towards the showerhead, letting the water hit him directly in the face. The coldness jolted him awake and grounded him in the moment. He allowed the water to wash away not just the dirt but the nagging thoughts. 

Time seemed to slow down around him, each second blending into the next. His eyes were closed as he surrendered to the sensations around him. He rubbed the droplets away from his eyes, reality settling back in as he realized it was time to move on from this brief moment of peace. 

The last traces of the day’s worries seemed to swirl down the drain along with the suds. He took his time washing himself, paying attention to the small contours of his body. After feeling good with his cleansing ritual, Shiv reluctantly turned off the shower. 

The sudden silence was unsettling. He grabbed his towel, wiping down the water on his body. Sliding into the clean clothes felt comforting. Grabbing the towel, he wrapped it around his hair and vigorously shook it, trying to absorb the excess water. He let the towel drape loosely over his head as he strolled back into his room. 

Pocket couldn’t help but furrow their eyebrows in curiosity as they took in Shiv’s appearance. “What?” he asked. 

With a moment of hesitation, Pocket replied, “Your hair is longer than I expected.” There was something undeniably appealing about the way Shiv wore his hair down, the strands going past his shoulders. Pocket thought it suited him, framing his face and adding a certain charm to his rugged demeanor. It revealed a more relaxed side that they found intriguing. 

“Like what you see?” Shiv smirked as he settled into the edge of his bed. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the damp towel into a nearby pile of clothes. He leaned back, clearly relishing the chance to banter with Pocket. 

A light groan escaped their lips in response. “Sure,” they replied, trying to maintain the facade of annoyance, but a hint of amusement flickered in their response. There was an undeniable appeal in the way he carried himself, a confidence that both intrigued and frustrated them. 

Shiv repositioned himself on his bed, pulling the many-layered blankets up on him for warmth after the cold shower. He burrowed deeper into his covers, letting out a long yawn that echoed in the quiet room. His head made a soft “thud” as it hit the pillow.

“Goodnight, Pocket” he murmured, his voice thick with the weariness that settled over him after a long day. Each word dragged slightly, softened by the drowsiness pulling him closer to sleep with each second.

Pocket, already lying down, watched as he drifted off. Not wanting to disturb the peace settling over them both, they replied, “Sleep well, Shiv.” 

Chapter Text

A FATES TALE:

The room was shrouded in absolute darkness, it had the stillness that only comes in the deep hours, likely no later than 3 AM. Shiv laid there, letting himself feel the weight of exhaustion pressing down on him. He forced his eyelids open, though even that small effort felt like a struggle.

Shiv lay sprawled across the bed, his body a clear testament to the restless night. His limbs stretched in a tangled arrangement; his one arm was thrown over his head, one leg dangled off the edge of the mattress, toes just brushing the floor, while the other was sharply bent at an uncomfortable angle.

He released a weary sigh from the back of his throat and rubbed his eyes, trying to shake off the tiredness that lingered on him. He stretched his neck out, blinking slowly, waiting for his vision to adjust to the basement’s dim light. His sight settled, almost by instinct, on Pocket, lying on the floor.

Pocket’s knees tucked close to their chest, looking like they were trying to make themself as small as possible. The position Pocket was sleeping in seemed to hint at something a bit more—a protective, almost guarded shape. Watching them like this, so vulnerable yet unconsciously guarded, Shiv found himself strangely at ease in the peacefulness of the moment.

The craving for a cigarette gnawed at him, the familiar taste almost tangible on his lips. Normally, he’d just light upright in his bed without a second thought, but with Pocket sleeping nearby, he hesitated. Their usual alertness had melted away, replaced by a serene calm that seemed rare in the moments he’d seen them awake. Something was mesmerizing about the sight, an odd comfort Shiv felt.

Shiv pulled his attention away and began heading towards the stairs. The darkness around him was thick, nearly impossible to see. He let his hand graze the wall beside him, feeling his way up; his fingers trailed along the rough wood grain, guiding him upward until he reached the top.

He unlocked the cabin door, letting the cold air hit him; it was refreshing and rejuvenating. He stared at the rain for an unspecified amount of time, enjoying the scent that came with it. For a brief moment, he paused, staring at the tiny spark as he flicked the lighter.

“Why are you up?” Pocket asked, eyes squinting in the dim light as they spotted Shiv leaning forward against the porch railing. The faint glow of his cigarette cast a warm, ember-like hue around his face, highlighting the quiet focus in his eyes as he looked out into the night. Pocket grabbed their coat, feeling the fabric settle over their shoulders as they stepped outside.

“Huh? I can ask you the same question.” Shiv turned his head, glancing back at Pocket’s figure. Pocket’s hair, just like Shiv’s, was a mess. It was rare to see Pocket out of their usual guarded state.

“Got a light?” Reaching into a hidden compartment sewn carefully inside their coat, they retrieved a pristine pack of menthol cigarettes. The package was immaculate, its edge crisp and clean.

As Pocket held the cigarette between their fingers, waiting for him to offer the flame, Shiv found himself momentarily transfixed by the cigarette.

“Menthol, huh?” Shiv muttered, raising an eyebrow as he took out his lighter. He flicked it, casting a warm glow that illuminated Pocket’s face. They leaned forward, cigarettes poised between their lips, meeting the flame with a steady inhalation.

“Fancy,” Shiv murmured with a hint of amusement. “Never tried one of those before."

Pocket looked at him, eyes half-lidded as they extended the cigarette toward Shiv, a small gesture of invitation. Their fingers wrapped lightly around the filter, holding it out between them with a nonchalant grace. “Want to give it a try?”

Without hesitation, Shiv shrugged, a small, almost careless smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Why the hell not,” He reached out and took the menthol cigarette from Pocket’s fingers, his cigarette offered in exchange.

Each of them took a long drag, their breaths slow as they savored the smoke. Pocket felt the sharp, biting edge of the cigarette, the bitterness and strength of it rushing across his tongue with a slight burn. Meanwhile, as Shiv inhaled deeply from the menthol, Shiv caught the distinct minty aftertaste, smooth and cooling.

Shiv’s face twisted in mild distaste as he handed the cigarette back to Pocket. “Tastes like shit.”

Pocket let out a low chuckle, exhaling a plume of smoke. “Yours does too." There was an unspoken understanding of the intimacy of the moment—standing side by side, smoke curling around them like a silent thread tying them together.
They fell into a comfortable silence under the rainy night sky, the air filled with faint sounds of rustling leaves and rain. They exchanged occasional glances at each other, relishing the warmth of their camaraderie. Time seemed to stretch, with each passing minute deepening their connection.

Shiv flicked the remains of this cigarette to the ground. He pressed the burning end of his cigarette against the fence of the porch, the ember hissing as it made contact. Pocket, mirroring his actions, followed suit.

He opened the cabin door, and with a quick motion, he hung his coat back in its usual spot. Behind him, Pocket followed closely, removing their jacket with the same fluidity, draping it next to Shiv’s, both garments now resting side by side. The movement was almost automatic as if they were both in sync without even thinking about it.

As they stepped back inside the cabin, the warm air greeted them with a soft embrace, a comforting contrast to the cold, damp night that they had just left behind. Neither of them spoke as they moved toward the basement door; the silence stretched comfortably between them. Shiv led the way, his hand briefly touching the railing as he descended the stairs.

Shiv flopped back into bed with a sigh, throwing his head back into the pillow with a sense of relief. The warmth of the blankets pulled him in. Pocket, on the other hand, moved slowly, letting their body sink into the futon on the floor with a quiet rustle of fabric. A deep yawn escaped as they stretched out, eyes half-lidded from the fatigue.

Pocket pulled the blanket up around their shoulders, the fabric offering warmth as they let their thoughts drift in the quiet stillness. Even in peace, a deeper feeling dug at Pocket, just beneath the surface. They couldn’t quite shake the sense that they owed something, not just a simple thank you, but something far greater to both Shiv and Talon.

Survival had seemed like an impossible dream, something that was only just an idea to Pocket. Now, here they were, with a place to sleep, food to eat, and people who cared to offer it all. They could hardly believe how quickly everything had shifted. Questions lingered in Pocket’s mind, each one demanding answers they couldn’t ignore.

“Why did you let me stay with you?” Pocket asked firmly, as they stared up at the ceiling, their fingers pulling the blanket up a bit higher. The question had been on their mind since the moment they’d woken up. “Even after I pointed my gun at you?”

Shiv shifted in his bed, turning so he could look down at Pocket, who was curled beneath the blankets on the floor. There was a pause before he spoke, “Your gun was cold,” he said, his words simple but loaded with meaning. “Either you’d been runnin’ for a while, or you hadn’t fired that gun recently. You're not runnin' away because of shooting someone.”

“So that’s why you got closer? To feel the barrel against you?” Pocket asked, their eyes meeting Shiv as he leaned slightly over the edge of the bed.

Shiv gave an almost wry smile before he shrugged. “Kinda, yeah,” he admitted. He leaned back against the pillow, resting his hand against his face. “Didn’t think you’d pull the trigger on me, either way.”

Pocket let out a light chuckle, “And here I thought you just had some kind of death wish,” they teased. Shiv gave back a shared laughter that softened the air, the tension easing between them just a bit more.

“Only a little,” Shiv replied with a playful grin. “But that’s what makes my life interesting, right?” With a soft laugh, he turned away, pulling the blankets up and settling into his bed.

Hours slipped by, and while Shiv drifted into a peaceful slumber, his gentle snores mingling with the soft rain, Pocket remained awake. It had been a long time Since Pocket shared a space with someone else, let alone been close enough to hear the sounds of another person’s breathing. There was a strange comfort in it, yet even as they tried to sink into this rare feeling of companionship, their thoughts refused to settle.

Shiv’s words from earlier replayed in their mind for longer than they’d like to admit. Shiv seemed carefree, always quick with a teasing remark or smirk, but the memory of the photograph Pocket found kept nagging at them. The image showed a life that Shiv hadn’t shared for a while, buried beneath his easygoing facade. There were too many unknowns wrapped around this man who, for some reason, let Pocket into his world, if only for a little while.