Chapter Text
pull
noun
a force that draws something toward a point without ever arriving
(Found in the Sentry Core Directive Memo on Pathway Resistance. Circled once.)
Neil
Andrew's shift had ended nearly half an hour ago, but he showed no signs of leaving. Neil had noticed this trend lately — Andrew lingering at Eden's after his shift was done. Not that he minded, exactly. It just didn't make sense. Andrew was meticulous about his routines; breaking them usually meant he had something planned, though Neil couldn’t quite figure out what.
The pulse of the music vibrated through the floorboards, pressing into Neil’s bones and drowning out the bells in his head that signaled souls waiting for him.
He scanned the crowded club. Bodies pushing close on the packed dance floor, bathed in washes of neon pink and blue light. Neil didn’t usually come to Eden’s — too loud, too chaotic — but he still vividly remembered the altercation outside the club two years ago, Andrew bruised and bloodied by a group of strangers. So when Andrew started staying late more often, he couldn't help the restless, worried thoughts creeping in.
Neil leaned against the bar next to Andrew. He’d sighed deeply when Neil had arrived a few minutes ago, probably exhaustion from another long shift. He was dressed as always, head-to-toe in black: a crisp button-down, sleeves neatly rolled to his elbows, showing the familiar black armbands. The shirt pulled slightly at the shoulders as Andrew shifted, highlighting the quiet strength Neil knew he carried effortlessly.
His gaze drifted upward to Andrew’s hair, watching the club's neon lights briefly turn the blond strands pink, then blue, then purple. Mesmerized, he watched the halo of shifting colors, catching in the edges of his hair and holding there for a beat too long.
Andrew always styled it carefully, Neil had seen him do it enough times to know. It made him uncomfortably aware of his own perpetually tangled mess.
He wasn’t sure why.
Right now, Andrew's fingers were loosely curled around a whiskey glass, slowly swirling the amber liquid with practiced ease. His thumb tapped out a deliberate rhythm against the counter, entirely separate from the club’s pounding music.
He tilted his head slightly toward Neil. “You’re hovering.”
Narrowing his eyes, Neil still didn’t understand how Andrew could always tell where he was. “How do you always do that?”
“You’re noisy,” was Andrew’s unhelpful answer.
“That’s not even true.” Neil rolled his eyes. He knew for a fact no one could hear him. Except Andrew.
Eyes fixed straight ahead, Andrew took a slow sip. “Your cloak matches the ridiculous dress code, but the jeans and shirt are atrocious.”
The insult barely landed. If anything, Neil felt oddly pleased by Andrew’s attention. He was about to respond when a stranger settled into the space on Andrew's other side. Neil straightened, immediately irritated.
“Long night?” the guy asked, flashing a practiced smile.
Andrew ignored him, eyes forward. Neil crossed his arms, already annoyed on Andrew’s behalf.
The man leaned in, oblivious to Andrew's disinterest. He studied Andrew’s profile, angling his body toward him with a lazy confidence. “You know, I’ve been watching you for a while now.”
Neil narrowed his eyes. “That’s not at all creepy,” he muttered under his breath.
“You clearly work out. Bet you're pretty strong, huh?”
Well, yeah. Anyone who’d been to a gym more than twice could guess that.
Still, Andrew didn’t answer, just kept swirling the whiskey, slow and unimpressed.
“And the all-black look? Works great on you. Real mysterious.”
Neil’s gaze flicked between them, brow furrowing as he tried to understand the interaction. It reminded him vaguely of Seth’s clumsy attempts to charm Allison or Matt’s awkward compliments toward Dan. Suddenly it clicked, and confusion gave way to disbelief.
“Is he… flirting?” He said aloud before he could stop himself.
No, that couldn’t be right. He’d seen flirting. In TV shows and movies. Or even watching Dan and Allison — more skilled than their boyfriends, making it look natural, easy. It usually involved clever back-and-forth banter or genuine compliments. Not painfully obvious observations about someone’s appearance.
“And blond, too,” the guy added. “That’s my favorite.”
Rolling his eyes, Neil turned fully toward Andrew. “He can’t be serious.”
Andrew’s thumb stopped tapping on the counter.
“He might as well announce that water’s wet, or that Eden’s is loud. What's next — complimenting you for wearing shoes?”
“What do you say? Want to get out of here?” The guy leaned in closer, undeterred by Andrew’s lack of response.
Neil scoffed incredulously. “Really? That's his best effort? He didn't even try to be creative.” Complimenting Andrew wasn’t even difficult, anyone with half a brain could manage it. “He could talk about literally anything, like how your eyes are the color of sunshine. Or, wild idea, your personality. But no, let’s go with ‘you have hair.’” Neil shook his head, incredulous. “Unbelievable.”
Andrew’s eyes flicked briefly toward Neil’s direction, brows twitching.
Neil hesitated. Had he said something wrong?
After a slow exhale, Andrew finished the rest of his whiskey in one steady motion and turned toward the guy. “You. Leave.”
The stranger pulled back, startled, but Andrew had already dismissed him. He set his empty glass down on the bar with finality and moved toward the exit. Neil watched the man slink away into the crowd, oddly satisfied.
Shrugging off the interaction, Neil muttered, “About time,” as he followed Andrew, still confused why he had insisted on staying longer.
Andrew didn’t respond, just huffed an almost laugh as if Neil had made a joke. As they crossed the dimly-lit parking lot toward Andrew’s car, Neil glanced sideways at him.
“There’s a new episode of that baking show, the one where everyone’s absurdly nice for no reason.”
Andrew sighed deeply, pulling out his keys and unlocking the car. “Fine.”
Neil smiled to himself. Andrew could pretend to be annoyed all he wanted, but Neil had noticed how closely he followed the intricacies of cake decoration. He wisely said nothing as they climbed into the car.
Andrew
Light from the TV flickered across the living room walls. Soft pulses of color shifting in slow rhythm. A narrator’s voice drifted in and out, too level to follow. Something about migratory birds and wind currents.
Andrew wasn’t watching. Not really. Too tired from a day filled with professors droning on about words and meanings. Too full from dinner to move. Or, more likely, from the ice cream afterward.
He was stretched across the right side of the couch, arm folded behind his head, the other hand resting near the half-finished glass of water on the side table. The cushions were warm. Too warm. The room was dim except for the flicker of the screen and the soft amber glow from the hallway light Nicky always left on.
Neil hovered nearby, then drifted closer. Seemingly easing into the opposite side of the couch as if claiming his spot.
Andrew didn’t react.
The screen kept playing. A field of cranes moved across the marsh in slow formation.
Trying not to fall asleep, he muttered, “So what do sentries do for fun?”
A pause.
“Not much,” Neil answered. “We - - - dead.”
Andrew blinked slowly. “Sad.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“What - - - you do - - - fun?” Neil asked, dry.
Andrew didn’t even look over. “Touché.”