Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The breakroom at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. is janky. It shouldn’t be. Through a series of transactions that no one but Nicky and Lark know about, they have the money for what they need, but they overlook the comforts of a functioning coffee maker and a microwave for other things. Mainly weapons and tech. 

It doesn’t matter much. They have what they need. 

Sparrow gets his 2am meal out of the middle shelf in the fridge. The one that doesn’t freeze the food or leave it questionably warm. It’s a perfectly made vegan wrap and apple slices courtesy of Rebecca Oak. Terry is less interested in food. He holds the second-hand coffee pot up against the drip spout so it will actually brew, and waits. 

“Where do you think they are?” Sparrow asks. He drops his food onto the counter, peels off the lid, rubs his eyes. 

“Tempe, by now,” Terry says. He pulls out his phone. Grant’s always got his location on. Thank god. “Give it an hour, we’ll head out to our half of this mess.” 

Sparrow hums in agreement and Terry turns on his phone just to check that his guesstimation is correct. 

“God damn paranoid,” Terry says, as soon as the light from the phone reaches his eyes.

“What?” Sparrow leans over to catch a glance at Terry’s phone. Instead of the tracking app, there’s a spread of texts from Grant. 

“Marco’s not answering his texts,” Terry says. 

“Probably because he’s asleep, like a normal person.” It doesn’t pass him by that it’s the middle of the night. Somewhere out there Hero and Normal, Taylor, and Lincoln are asleep. At least hopefully. In Grant’s mind somehow Lincoln is always kidnapped, or fighting monsters or attacked by an incursion. Always.

“Tell him we checked the house and everything is fine,” Sparrow says, but Terry’s already typing out the message on his phone. Everything is fine. Marco’s asleep, Linc’s fine.

“There has got to be an off switch on that man,” Sparrow mumbles. 

“You know there’s not,” Terry’s tone is softer than Sparrow’s. He’s always understood Grant a little better than the others. Maybe it’s because his mom worked for years with people who needed just a little more breathing room, a little more help. Maybe it’s because his step dad had to learn how to be a human right in front of him. Maybe that’s it. Either way, ever since the trip to The Forgotten Realms, and even before that, Grant needed reminders to breathe, to see the world in front of him, and to not assume the worst. 

“You think you can talk to him again?” Terry asks Sparrow. He wants to do it himself, Lincoln can’t spend his entire life cooped up in a house, but unlike him, Sparrow has kids. One who’s barely six and knows how to shoot a gun, and the other definitely not as normal as Sparrow would hope. With his goofy missing front tooth, his wide smile, and love of cheerleading competitions on TV. 

“I can try again,” Sparrow says, always ready for a heart-to-heart. “I think he’ll listen this time.”

Optimistic. Terry thinks. Last time they talked Grant stormed out of the room, only to come back the next day looking like he hadn’t slept.

“He’s got to give that kid some semblance of a normal childhood,” Sparrow continues.  

Terry watches him get that thousand-yards stare again. The apple in his hand hovers a few inches from his mouth. Sparrow’s got his own hang ups and fears, but those are for another day, Terry thinks. For now they just have to wait for the next step in their mission, and their next mission after that. And maybe if they’re lucky, somewhere in between they can figure out how to be half the dads their parents were.

Chapter Text

It’s late. Sparrow is doing everything he can to keep himself awake and driving, because he’ll be damned if he and Grant don’t get home to their kids for another day. It’s been three days so far. A long trip to a dangerous place, and a fight they scraped their way through. Rebecca is going to be fraught about the cut on his arm, and he doesn’t even want to begin to think about what Marco’s going to say about Grant’s cracked rib, black eye, burnt leg. But it’s Marco, and Marco takes things in stride. Irritated sometimes, and confused, maybe, but in stride. It’ll be fine. 

Sparrow lightly turns the wheel around another bend on the long highway home. Grant taps on his phone. He’s clicking around a crossword puzzle for questions they might actually know the answers to. He got a subscription to the New York Times just for moments like this, and also because he’s a librarian, and behind all the layers of murderer, anxiety, gaming, he’s a giant nerd. 

“Six letters, ‘men following orders.’”

“Is this a crossword question or an existential one?” Sparrow asks. The roads are dead quiet, which is good because he’s leaning his head on his hand, while his arm’s resting on the windowsill, and he really shouldn’t be.

“Crossword question,” Grant says, letting the entire secondary question slide right by. Not in the mood for existentialism, then. Sparrow takes a deep breath, peels himself away from the window and stretches. Hopefully that will wake up his bones. 

It doesn’t. 

He rolls down the window, gets blasted in the face by icy air that helps for about five minutes before becoming too much. He rolls up the window. He’s got to keep some kind of conversation going.

“What are you gonna do first when you get home?” Sparrow asks. It’s the dullest question in the world and they’ve all asked it of each other enough times that they can repeat the answers back to one another. 

Lark- check the windows and doors, the protective seals above them. Eat everything in the fridge. 

Nick- High five the beam between his open concept living room and kitchen leaving a charcoal smudge that Cassandra will playfully scold him about in the morning. Then he’ll noodle on his guitar until his nerves chill enough that he can sneak into Taylor’s room to kiss him on the head. Then he’ll pass out, either next to Cassandra in his underwear or in a pile of stuffies next to Taylor’s bed. That particular resting place has been the topic of several group chat goofs and shamings. 

Terry showers. Washes off whatever adventure they’ve been on. Scrubs his skin too hard, but no one mentions that. Then he eats. Gets what sleep he can before he gets up early to do paperwork. 

As for Sparrow and Grant, they’ve got their own particular ritual. Check in on the kids, first and foremost. Reassure themselves that they’re asleep. That they’re safe. 

He doesn’t know how long Grant stares at Lincoln, checks his head for scratches, his arms down to his toes. Feels the heat of his skin, and watches him breathe in and out. If he’s anything like Sparrow it’s an hour. An hour of waiting for the other shoe to drop, reassuring himself that it didn’t happen this time. That it’s all okay, at least for tonight. 

He knows Marco inevitably peels Grant away, gets food in him, puts him to bed. Sparrow can at least get himself up. Hero’s okay, Normals okay. Food, sleep. A shower if he remembers that Rebecca doesn’t like the smell of sulfur on the pillows or the feeling of dirt on their sheets. 

“Check on Linc,” Grant says, unsurprising. Sparrow finds himself smiling at the certainty of that answer. The comfort in knowing it’s the same every time.

“Me too,” Sparrow says. 

“You’re gonna check on Lincoln?” 

Sparrow burst out laughing. He sometimes forgets that Grant’s a dad, just like him, bad jokes and all.

“No, idiot. Jesus.”

“So you’re going to check on Jesus.” 

Maybe it’s because it’s 2 am, or because there’s been so much tension in the air for so long, but that breaks Sparrow. Gets him laughing until he’s coughing. 

“Yep. Checking on our lord and savior Jesus Christ,” he says when he finally catches his breath. 

Grant’s smirking. Proud of himself. Git.

“Linc’ll be fine,” Sparrow says. “Probably grown a few extra toes, but he’ll be fine.” 

“I’ve heard they do that when they’re around 4,” Grant says playfully, but Sparrow can hear him straining to “yes and” Sparrows game. He’s always worried about Linc. If the kid really did grow two extra toes it would be the end of Grant’s sanity, what little bit there is left of it, that is. 

“Are you finally considering bringing him to the park with me and Normal next week?” Hero’s started kindergarten and Normal’s been chewing the furniture looking for things to do and people to play with. It’s driving Rebecca mad. If he can just get Lincoln out of the house and to a playground then at least Normal could have a normal friend, because it’s not going to be Taylor. The kid’s four and running around with katana’s and talking about Anime just like Hero. Lincoln’s a little naive and sheltered, but at least he likes sports and video games. A normal, average kid.

“I don’t know,” Grant says, straining to come up with another excuse. 

“It’s not far from your house. We can go when it’s quieter.” 

Grant looks out the window. Sparrow can practically feel the fear radiating off of him. The pancake stacks of specific and not-so-specific eventualities that could befall Lincoln three miles away from his house. It’s the messy combination of Grant’s anxieties, Marco’s need to make Grant feel okay, and the fact that Lincoln started his life orphaned on a sinking ship. If that’s the way the kid came into the world, how much messier is it going to be moving forward? Lincoln bumped his head on the corner of a table once and needed two stitches. Sparrow and Terry spent the next week talking Grant through panic attacks and shopping for padded coffee tables. 

“One hour,” Sparrow encourages, “three miles from your house. I’ll be there. I can bring Lark. You know he would stop the world for those kids.” Sparrow wavers then adds, “He would also look like an absolute lunatic with a kevlar vest at a kid’s playground, but I don’t think he’s terribly concerned about what people think about him.” 

Grant doesn’t take the bait to smile at the image of Lark at a playground. It’s an image Sparrow’s already seen multiple times, and still finds it at least passingly amusing when he doesn't think too hard about it.

Grant shifts uncomfortably in his seat. Sparrow fidgets, knows he shouldn’t, but ends up pushing anyway. 

“You need to give that kid a little more freedom,” Sparrow says quietly. They’ve had this conversation before. Terry asked him to have it again. He’s going to follow through. Grant sucks his teeth, and Sparrow can see the irritated reaction he’s going to have from Grant instead of the panicked reaction. 

“I can’t,” Grant says. He leans forward in his seat and clicks open the glove compartment, clicks it back shut, a frustrated little tick. 

“One hour,” Sparrow says. “We can all be there if you need. We can do whatever you need, but let that kid enjoy a park.”

“We have a great swingset in the backyard,” Grant says.

“Ah yes, but do you have a teeter-totter?” It’s not the point, Sparrow knows it’s not. Grant would get a teeter totter if it meant keeping Lincoln at home, but he needs to say something.

Grant moves the vent toggle back and forth, opens the glove compartment, closes it. Sparrow wonders how close to a meltdown he is.

“He’s only four,” Grant says. 

“I know,” Sparrow says. 

The five of them were abducted on a drive to a soccer tournament. Out of the blue, no warning. Anything could happen, anytime, at home or not. 

Sparrow doesn’t have an argument, at least not one they haven’t already hashed out. His kids are fine, Taylor’s fine. Grant’s house isn’t any safer than anywhere else (an argument that definitely didn’t do Marco or a panicking Grant any favors) the park is as safe place for kids, bouncy ground, large enough spaces for Grant to follow Lincoln around every obstacle.

“What can I do to convince you?” Sparrow asks then. If he can’t argue, then maybe Grant can explain himself. Grant opens the vent again, closes it. Opens it, closes it. Opens it, closes it.

“Grant, you’re okay. You’re safe,” Sparrow reminds. 

“I know,” Grant mumbles too fast. Opens the vent. 

Sparrow considers reaching out a hand. Grounding him. He doesn't because he doesn't want to accidentally freak him out instead. Giving him space is a good option unless he’s in a throwing fist type of panic mode.

“I could try,” Grant says after a long time and several deep shaky breaths. Vent opens, Vent closes. Vent opens, Vent closes. 

“Really?” Sparrow tries really hard not to let too much excitement enter his voice. He tamps down shock. If Grant could just give him an hour, show that it’s safe, then maybe next they could get a trip to the children's museum, or an outing to a zoo. Well maybe the zoo is a little far-fetched, but perhaps they could get him to the park with the dinosaur slide. Lincoln would love that. 

“One hour?” Grant asks. 

“One hour. Whatever you need to feel safe,” Sparrow bargains. Grant is quiet for a long time. Opening and closing the vent. He moves to playing with the button on the glove compartment, and that seems like a good change. 

“I want Marco to come with me.”

“Anything you need,” Sparrow repeats. 

Grant swallows, then says, sounding a little embarrassed by the request,

“I like the idea of having Lark there.”

Lark, Sparrow has to admit, is Grant’s broken other half. They’ve all been through the ringer, and Sparrow and Lark are the same person, twice, but Grant and Lark came out the other side of The Forgotten Realms fretful and angry fighters. They understand the other’s fear. 

“I’ll make sure he’s there,” Sparrow says. It’s an easy request, and one Lark would be happy to fulfill. 

Grant nods. Opens the glove compartment, closes it. 

Sparrow doesn’t know what to say. The relief he feels is palpable, and only matched by the worry he feels that something might go wrong. Something tremendously small, but something nonetheless. He has to make sure that nothing happens, that Lincoln has a good time and doesn't get so much as a bump on his head. He has to make sure everything is okay, so maybe Grant can be a little more okay.

Chapter Text

The front door of the Oak-Swallows-Garcia household is painted a bold Pink. It stands out against the brown siding, but matches the rows and rows of flowers that Sparrow carefully tends. 

Grant knocks on the door, phone in hand and nerves a little frayed. He doesn’t know who to expect at 9am on a Thursday morning, but he’s hoping for Sparrow. Rebecca works whatever hours she wants since she’s the CEO of Swallow’s Ice Cream. Lark’s tracker says he’s definitely at the house, but he’s not Grant’s first choice, and probably shouldn’t be awake, considering the reason Grant’s making a house call. Sparrow is a stay-at-home trophy husband but he does spend a lot of time out in the community fighting for birds rights and bike lanes for dogs or whatever. 

The door swings open after the second knock. It’s Sparrow, Grant knows almost immediately. He’s wearing a frilly apron, a wooden spoon in a large bowl of…something granola-y. Grant exhales in relief.

“Grant! Welcome welcome.” Sparrow steps back then returns to stirring his spoon through the crumbly-thick mixture. 

Grant takes a tentative step into the house and looks for Lark. No sign of the man. He’s not surprised, from the barrage of text he got at 2 am he’s hoping Lark is passed out upstairs. 

“I’m making oatmeal balls,” Sparrow says. “You want some batter?” Sparrow scoops some of the oatmeal peanut butter situation out of the bowl and offers it up. He knows the Oak-Garcia family has some loose feelings about germs, and Grant’s not ready to share in the petri dish of spit that he’s sure is already on that spoon. 

“I’m good,” he says, and just as he suspected he would do, Sparrow takes a huge bite off the end of the spoon, drops it back in the bowl, then walks away toward the kitchen.

“What brings you here?” Sparrow calls through a mouthful of food. Grant kicks off his shoes and follows Sparrow to the kitchen. 

“Wellness check,” Grant says. Sparrow turns back to him with a raised eyebrow and Grant holds up his phone. 237 new messages from one Lark Oak-Garcia from between the hours of 2 am and 3:30am.

“Oh.” Sparrows face drops a little. 

“Oh?” 

Sparrow sighs. 

“Yeah.” His face scrunches up. “Lark bought about 200 dollars worth of krill on the Metaverse marketplace got very drunk and spent last night asking the wikiwhale about art.”

“Art?” Grant asks, “How does that even work?” He looks down at his phone where fuzzy images of trees and bright boxes create a long wall of texts from Lark. He should have realized Lark was drunk by the more-than-usual misspellings and bad photography.

“I think the whale projects them?”

“The whale is there to answer questions about the Forgotten Realms and incursions,” Grant says, “Doesn’t Lark have google on his phone to ask regular art questions too?”

Sparrow shrugs. “It’s never good to drink alone, Grant.” 

Jesus he can’t be serious. There’s a beat and Grant realizes he is very serious. 

“The whale doesn’t count as a person,” Grant says.

“Just because you have a limited opinion about what is classified as a sentient being-”

Grant presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose.

“Sparrow it’s not that-”

“What is it then?”

“The Wikiwhale isn’t a friend,” Grant says, “If Lark’s going to drink– or maybe he shouldn’t be drinking– but if he is drinking he should at least be doing it with one of us. I guess.” Grant doesn’t really know what he’s saying, except maybe he’s saying he’s worried. 

“It’s fine.” Sparrow says, fully ignoring the obvious gravity of the situation. Grant stares. Sparrow stirs his oatmeal.” 

“Okay, well, can I do anything about it?” Grant asks. “To help? He seemed insistent about texting me specifically.”

“Far as I can tell, you’re the librarian, and therefore an art critic.” Sparrow says. Which isn’t true, at all, but Grant gets the sentiment. 

“Is he okay?” Grant presses. He rubs his forehead, not sure he’s ready to think about Lark’s mental state. Sparrow pokes at the bowl of oatmeal, doesn’t answer. Doesn’t answer. Doesn’t answer. 

“Dad’s birthday and all that,” Sparrow eventually says. “He’ll be alright.”

Of course, Father’s day and Henry’s birthday. Should have realized the annual meltdown season was upon them. 

“How about I pick him up a few artbooks and drop them off,” Grant suggests. “He seemed particularly taken by Lawrence Baker, maybe I can find something?”

Sparrow looks up from his important work of stirring chia seeds into his mixture. “Just out of the blue?” He asks. 

“Yeah. I think he’d like that.” Grant shrugs. They’re not a particularly strong gift-giving group, but Grant likes the idea of giving Lark something that might make his life even a little bit better. Something tangible to turn to instead of a whale and alcohol. 

Sparrow watches Grant carefully for a few moments. 

“You want to stay for brunch?” he asks, “I’ve got avocados and almond milk yogurt and -” 

“I’m good on breakfast.” Grant doesn’t let Sparrow finish listing off vegan delicacies. “Marco made chilaquiles.” 

“But I’ve got oat milk!”

“Will Lark be okay?” Grant cuts into the breakfast distraction with the real question, the one eating him from the inside out. Sparrows stirring slows, stops. 

“He’ll be better knowing you care,” Sparrow says. “He won’t show it, but he will.” 

Grant nods. That’s all he wanted to know. “I’ve got to get to work. Tell Rebecca and the kids I say hi.”

Sparrow nods, “Will do.”

Chapter Text

Grant finds three books. There is only one with any of Lawrence Baker’s works in it, but Grant gets the idea of what other art Lark likes from the 200 + pages of pictures the man sent him in the middle of the night on a bender, wikiwalking through the whale’s art expertise. 

Lark had had better nights. 

And two weeks after that night Grant has something to offer. It’s not Lark and Sparrow’s birthday, or a holiday, but Grant knows Lark, and knows he appreciates gifts more on days that don’t matter. He appreciates someone, anyone, thinking about him on a day that doesn’t matter. He appreciates anyone thinking about him at all.

Grant finds Lark’s car parked at the shooting range at the edge of the city. If he didn’t see the location tracker on his phone showing Lark heading out, Grant would have gone right in. The man at the check in knows them all on sight. Knows what guns they prefer, and chats them up about the latest in lock boxes and sniper scopes. It’s disgusting, and rewarding, and Grant tries not to think too hard about all the information he’s amassed about guns since his childhood. 

Grant watches Lark walk out of the range in a semi-daze.

“Lark-” Grant calls out before Lark can get spooked on his own. 

“Grant?” Lark shocks himself out of a deep space-out, squints for a second then pulls out his phone. Grant knows the habit. He and Lark were paranoid enough several years ago to stab trackers into their arms, and now they use it to double check that the other one is who they say they are. They have yet to find out if Scam Actually knows about the trackers or if he can mimic the signal. They’re hoping they never have to find out. 

Lark’s fears seem somewhat allayed when he sees Grant’s small tracker beeping in the same spot that Grant stands, leaning up against his minivan’s hood.

“Still me, unfortunately, ” Grant says, self-deprecating in a way he can only be with Lark.

Lark hmphs with understanding. 

“How was the range?” Grant asks.

“Got most of my shots. Wrist’s back to normal.” Lark holds up his right arm and twists his wrist in a loose circle. His wrist got pretty well smashed three months ago when an incursion was trying to stomp a crossbow out of his hand. The stomping stopped Lark, but it couldn’t stop Grant from piercing a bullet right through one of the things ten eyes. Down went the monster, and curled over screaming went Lark. Three months later and apparently Lark is finally back to 100%.

“Crossbow and automatic?” Grant asks.

“All good,” Lark says. “You going in?” He nods toward the range. He and Lark sometimes go shooting together, but they’re way more likely to wander there solo. For Grant there’s something raw and stripped away about who he is on the shooting range. It feels too much like being naked when a grin smears across his face as a rifle recoils. He doesn’t like people seeing it. 

Lark, well he would take someone with him, but they’ve all gotten too spooked at one point or another at Lark’s manic look when he makes a perfect shot, or gets six rounds in rapid succession. The man’s bloodlust can be hard to stomach. 

Out of everyone, they’re still the most likely to go to the range together.

“No,” Grant says. He pushes away from the front of the car and opens his passenger door.

“Brought you a gift.” He grabs the three coffee table art books and walks back around the front of the car to Lark.

Lark frowns and takes the small stack from Grant when it’s offered. He opens the cover of the first and looks a few pages in. Grant gets the feeling he’s looking for a hidden compartment or trick.

“This isn’t a gun safe,” Lark says, confused. 

“They’re books, Lark.”

Lark goes ahead and checks the other books for hidden compartments then frowns harder. Grant doesn't know how to respond. Doesn’t have to when, after another moment of looking, Larks stops flipping around on a Jackson Pollock piece, turns a page and stares at a Joseph O’ Sickey painting. His confusion melts slowly. His finger lets one page drop. Then another. Each small move reveals piece after piece of artwork. He can’t pull his eyes away. It’s like watching Lincoln turn his attention onto a tablet, slowly disappearing into another world. Grant doesn’t know if he should pull him back. Lark looks at one picture, slowly lets the page drop, stares at the next, then again. He’s peaceful. Still in a very unLark way. And then Lark realizes it and shuts the book.

“You know I hate reading.” He holds the books back out to Grant, shoving them like they might hurt him.

“Not for reading,” Grant says, pressing them back. Lark never really caught onto reading. He’s dyslexic as hell and there are days Grant has to text Sparrow to get translations of his brother’s texts. “It’s just paintings, you can just look.” 

Lark scratches his scraggly beard, and looks uncomfortable with the situation. Grant momentarily worries that he’s done something wrong. Then he realizes that Lark had said This isn’t a gun safe. Grant thinks back to every gift he’s seen someone give the man, tactical vests, silencers, hunting knives, a rare black-powder scented candle from Sparrow in a well meaning but fruitless attempt to soften Lark’s rough edges. 

“It’s art,” Grant repeats. “There’s a bunch of the paintings you sent me in them. Here-” Grant takes the middle book from the stack and flips through until he finds the Lawrence Baker drawing. It’s a tall landscape sketch of a tree and log and undergrowth, but none of it is quite finished or maybe it just morphs into something else before it ever really forms. Your eyes can’t land on or finish anything. 

Lark reaches out a hand, runs his finger down the page, reverential. 

“It’s the first thing that looked right,” Lark says quietly. He glances up at Grant, back down again, clearly unsure if he should be saying this out loud. 

“What do you mean?” Grant offers. He’s never seen Lark’s exterior crack like this. He wants to make sure he’s gentle now that it is. Lark deserves that. 

“It’s what I looked like inside, when it all happened.” Grant looks down at the drawing. It looks just like any other drawing to him. Detailed, subtle but not simple. It means something to Lark though. No one’s ever given him anything but guns, and no one’s ever given him anything that describes what it felt like to fall apart all those years ago. Grant gently puts the book back in Lark’s hands. He doesn’t close it, just hands it over and waits. 

“Sorry I barrage texted you,” Lark says. He still doesn’t take his eyes off the art.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant says.”Text more often.”  He tries to think of the right thing to say. Grant is messy, but he tries to be honest. Lark bottles it up, breaks down in fits and bursts and giant explosions. This is nothing like that. This is like finally seeing the world of Lark, but only through a stained glass window. Not stark or clear, but at least there’s some light getting through.

“You should enjoy those,” Grant says, hoping Lark will take the books without another fuss, get into his car and take them home. Maybe he’ll look through them without also chugging his way through a bottle of Everclear. 

Lark runs his finger around the edge of the open book. Grant doesn’t know where to go or what to do. He and Lark get into fist fights, and scream at each other about their feelings, they don’t usually look at art.

After going back and forth, Grant slaps Lark’s arm.

“I’ll catch you later,” he says, flinches internally. With anyone else he could at least fake his way through an emotional conversation. For some reason he can’t seem to pull it off with Lark. He pulls his car keys out of his pocket and turns to leave.

“Grant-”

Grant stops in his tracks. Braces himself and turns. 

Lark’s practically clutching the books to himself. “Thank you.” The sheer genuine appreciation in his friends eyes is a punch to the gut.

“Anytime,” Grant says. He rubs his neck, then adds, “Text me anytime. I mean it.”

Chapter Text

Lark pulls a sparkler out of the box, twirls it around a few times, then jabs it into Nick’s forearm. Sparks burst to life on the tip, sizzling and cracking as Nick yelps and smacks Lark’s hand away. 

“Dude!” Nick gives Lark a knock-it-off look and pulls his arm out of the other man’s reach. 

Lark grins wide and mischievous. 

“You’re gonna give me away,” Nick says.

“To who?” Lark asks, waving his hand to motion around the Oak’s backyard. “The assembled toddlers?” Across the space there are stumbling kids, and the parents trying to keep them from falling off plastic playsets or tripping on hoses and garden plots. 

“There are grownups here too, man,” Nick says. 

“Oh.” Lark looks around at the small group of parents that aren’t in on the whole Nick-is-a-demon thing. It’s a small group, but it is a group none-the-less. “right.” His sparkler sizzles happily. 

“Where did you find all of these people anyway?” Nick asks. 

“I don’t know,” Lark says, “but Sparrow and Rebecca have friends, apparently.” 

There’s a lull in the conversation long enough for one of the many children running around to pull to a stop in front of them. 

“That’s so cool Uncle Lark!” Hero grins wide and stares at the fizzing toy. 

“Merry christmas.” Lark hands the firework down to the kid and Hero smiles wildly and not unlike  a young Sparrow. “Don’t light yourself on fire.” Lark calls after her, pretending to be a responsible adult. He watches her run in the dimming evening light. He never spends too much time thinking about Hero’s childhood, if he did then teaching her how to fight would only hurt worse, so he grabs the box of sparklers and shakes out another stick. 

“Don’t even think about it.” Nick holds up his hands and steps out of the other man’s range. Lark whines pathetically, but puts the sparkler back.

“Fine.” He tucks the box safely into his back pocket and leans against the fence. Nick resets himself at Lark’s side. 

“Nice to see you out of kevlar for a change,” Nick says. It’s not an understatement, the five of them have been working almost nonstop for three months. In all that time Nick hasn’t seen Lark as anything but a murderer hyped up on monster energy drinks, head-to-toe in gear, sporting at least three weapons. 

“Still strapped,” Lark says. “Don’t tell Sparrow.”

“He is too.” Nick shrugs. “Told me not to tell you.”

Lark laughs, short and deep, and both men glance warily up at the sky. It's been hanging bleak and red for too many years. 

“Did you hear what Terry did?” Lark asks. He doesn’t have anything to fidget with since he promised Sparrow he’d leave his butterfly knife at home and the sparklers are in his pocket so he picks at the wood on the tall privacy fence around his backyard. 

“I’m not sure I want to know.”

“It’s not bad,” Lark says, “Just weird.”

Nick raises an eyebrow, curious.

“He rolled the dice,” Lark says.

“The Die another Day Dice!?” Nick looks impressed, shocked, scared. None of the rest of them, even Lark, has tried that. Life’s too bleak to know when he’s going to die. 

“A couple days ago,” Lark says. He pulls a satisfying splinter off the wall, turns it around in his hand and presses little lines into it with his fingernail.

“That explains why he’s been staring at the doodler sunset for twenty minutes now,” Nick mumbles. 

Lark looks up and follows Nick’s eyes to Terry standing in the middle of miniature baby chaos knot, holding kombucha and not moving. The porch lights flick on behind him and Lark hears Nick chuckle. 

“What?” Lark asks. 

“Nothing, just.--Mortals,” Nick says. 

“You’re mortal,” Lark reminds sourly. A little less mortal than the rest of them, but mortal. At least they’re pretty sure Nick is somewhat mortal. A little bit. On his mother’s side.

“But not like you,” Nick says. 

Lark sighs,

“I know.” There’s a long moment where Lark watches Terry, then breaks his tiny piece of wood in half, then in half again. Then he says, “Will you catch us on the other side?”

Nick makes that back-of-the-mouth thoughtful noise that he picked up from his kinda dad, Glenn, then says, 

“Of course- but how are you so sure you’re going to hell?
Lark gives him an unamused stare. 

“Terry at least has a chance,” Nick says. Lark looks back at Terry, turns that possibility over and over in his head. He doesn't know what makes a good person, at least not anymore, but Terry surely qualifies. Only problem is,

“Terry makes the same decisions day-to-day that we do. Can’t take that back.”

Nick doesn’t have any way to argue. He leans against the fence and stares. 

“So will you catch us on the other side, at least to say hello?” Lark asks again. Snaps the last bit of splinter that he can before dropping the wooden flakes to the ground.

“I’ll catch you,” Nick says. Then noticing Lark surreptitiously sneaking the sparklers out of his pocket again says, “You can light one more sparkler…I guess”

Chapter Text

Grant’s in the middle of cooking a 9pm dinner when his phone screams to life. His, usually set-to-silent unless there’s an emergency, phone. He scrambles for it to see a call coming in hot from Nick. 

“What’s up?” Grant rushes to turn off the stove, and starts heading for his gear neatly hung under a sheet by the door. He’s panicked until he hears Nick’s raspy singing.

“Can I crash at your house tonight. You’re house tonight, you’re house toniiggghhhhtttt. tonighhhhtttt,” Nick’s been on an X-Ambassador kick, apparently. 

“Nicki, this is an emergency line,” Grant reminds. 

“You didn’t answer my text.” 

Grant pulls his phone away from his face and sees that exactly thirty seconds ago Nick texted those exact same song lyrics to him.

“It’s an emergency meeting of the queer committee minus Terry and the aces,” Nick says, as a ridiculous explanation. Grant doesn’t have it in him to explain again how wrong Nick is. Lark’s screwed his way across the city, and Terry still won’t call himself bisexual despite the high-school thing. Grant certainly doesn’t have the energy to go against the unstoppable force that Nick is when he wants to hang out. Grant looks at his pot of cooking perogies, the salad he made up. 

“Are you hungry?” Grant asks. He made enough for dinner and lunch the next day, he could easily feed Nick.

“Ah, hell yeah.” Nick pauses then asks, “is there peppermint in it?”

“No”

“Even more awesome. I’ll be up there in a sec.” 

Before Grant can even hang up his phone there’s a crack in the living room and the scent of sulfur and Christmas spices. 

“I have arrived!” Nick walks into Grant’s tiny kitchen triumphantly holding Twisted teas and an ancient copy of Left for Dead, two things Grant likes, but he’s less sure that Nick does. Apparently the guy is going with his default programing of doing whatever he thinks the other person wants to do. Years spent copying his dad and other boys until he was seamlessly one of them, then more years trying to remember which dad to follow fully wrecked his sense of himself. The guy doesn’t know who he is let alone what he likes. It kills Grant to see it. 

“What brings you to this side of hell?” Grant asks. He pulls an iron skillet from a cabinet and sets it on the stove to warm. Chops some onions. Of all the things his dad is good at, cooking is one of them, and he didn’t let Grant leave the house without knowing several solid recipes. 

Grant sees the flicker in Nick’s eyes, the momentary calculation of him trying to remember which timeline to live in, which person he wants to inhabit.

“Dads are fighting,” Nick says. 

“Damn,” Grant says, not for the first time. He puts the onions in possibly too much oil, makes a face then adds more oil. He’s not that good of a cook. 

Nick sets the teas on the counter, followed by the game. 

“Figured you wanted to do video game night,” Nick says. 

“Or we could go out,” Grant counters, harmlessly poking at other options. Things Nick might finally glom onto as his own. “See some music. I heard Force to Reckon With is playing downtown.” Nick had showed some passing interest in the band a few months ago. Nick goes into buffering mode at the suggestion. Grant stirs the onions.

“How about food and you get to pick the video game?” Grant negotiates himself down. 

“Games are good,” Nick says. It’s something.

“Go look through my X box,” Grant says, “I finally got holographic guitar hero. Thought you might like to play it sometime.”

“Nah,” Nick says. “Why goof around when I can play the real thing.”

“Because it’s fun,” Grant says, silently happy that Nick at least has that opinion in his pocket. Grant dabbled with guitar at the tail end of high school thinking it would subtly get someone’s attention. He still prefers guitar hero though. 

Nick wanders into the next room, and Grant hears his tv hum to life. He finishes with the onions, fries the pierogies, still doesn’t hear anything from the living room. He plates everything, considers adding an insulting spring of peppermint on top just to mess with Nick. Doesn’t.

When he gets to the living room, Nick is still scrolling through the games. There aren’t as many as Grant would like, he’s working on a senior-in-college shoestring budget, but there’s a good selection.

“Have you at least narrowed it down?” Grant asks. 

Nick flicks back and forth between Fifa and Halo. That’s something at least, Grant thinks. 

“How about fifa,” he compromises again, making choices he knows Nick can’t. 

Nick smiles wide, “love it.” 

Grant hands him a plate, nods back toward the ratty couch.

“Fifa and Twisted Teas it is.”

Chapter Text

Terry wipes his hands on his pants before knocking on Grant’s front door. He’s recently moved in with Marco into a small house in the middle of the safest suburb they could find in their price range. It’s a nice step on the way to the proposal Terry knows Marco is working toward. 

There’s no movement inside and Terry wonders if he should knock again, he doesn’t know how far into the depression hole Grant’s fallen or how hard that means he’s sleeping. He has his own set of keys if it comes to that, but he would rather Grant meet him at the door. 

He’s about to knock again when he hears shuffling, a soft pat pat pat of socks on wood.

Grant unlocks the door, then the dead bolt, then the lock above the other two that he specially installed while Marco looked over his shoulder with his unfailingly in love stare. 

When Grant opens it Terry does a full scale run down of the situation. Unwashed hair, crumpled pajamas, sock feet, watery weary eyes. He doesn’t stare too long at the muscles on his arms, the ones he’s had since bench pressing in a panic at fifteen. He wonders if Grant’s done any kind of physical activity in the last week. Terry knows it makes him feel better, but he also knows his favorite sparring partner, Lark, is in Florida, which isn’t helping with the whole depression thing. 

Grant’s not okay. Terry knows he’s been flailing back and forth for a while, but the last two weeks has been extra rough. He had his first panic attack at his new library job a week ago. He was mortified at being mentally ill in his place of work. Also it’s allergy season, Chelsea lost some kind of playoff, and he’s starting to suspect that Marco’s planning to propose. Grant’s freaking out about commitment and is eating himself alive about not being good enough, and Marco– god sweet Marco– wants kids and despite all evidence to the contrary Grant thinks he’ll be a terrible father. Terry can’t understand, but empathizes. Terry wants to be a father so bad. His long term girlfriend and him want kids and are falling apart bit by bit every time it fails. He worries that the only thing holding them together is that possibility, and the thing that’s going to tear them apart is the lack of it. 

“Terry?” Grant rubs his eyes then glances around for a clock that’s not there. He doesn't have his phone in his sweat-pants pockets, and he and Marco, unsurprisingly, don’t have a clock hanging above their front door.
“It’s one in the afternoon,” Terry says. “Thought I’d drop by to say hi.”
Grant hums, clearly understanding Terry’s real reason for being there, but not energized enough to fight it. Grant knows he’s depressed, knows people will be checking up on him. Maybe somewhere deep under the belief that he doesn't deserve it, he appreciates it. Terry’s not here on a mission to pull Grant out of a week-long slump, he’s just here to prove that they all care. Even through the worst of it. 

Grant leans his head against the side of the door and Terry worries he might fall back asleep standing. 

“Brought you depression snacks and crosswords,” Terry says. He holds up the fresh book and bag of food he picked up from the grocery store on the way over. 

“Godsend,” Grant mumbles. He takes a moment, then pulls his head away from the door. There are two adorable lines on his forehead from where either side of the door pressed into his head. He stumbles backward and lets Terry into the house.

Terry tucks the book into his back pocket, a good move since just as it’s put away Grant slumps into his side, full body surrender. 

“Jesus.” The wind is knocked out of Terry, but he catches Grant around the waist and holds him up and tight against his side. “You’re ’okay,” he says. 

Grant nuzzles his shoulder. Terry gives him a second to ground himself, then takes a tentative step forward, seeing if Grant will follow suit, or if he just needs held. Grant silently steps forward. Terry takes another careful step. Grant slides forward. 

“Couch or bed?” Terry asks after a few more steps. He thinks he hears Grant mumble couch and confirms it when he sees a nest of blankets on the worn piece of furniture. Terry gets him to the edge and detangles Grant from his side so he falls with a thunk into the pile of blankets. Terry pulls some out from under his friend. Tucks the fuzzy one against his side, drapes the weighted blanket as high up on his shoulders as he can manage. Grant leans his head onto the back of the couch.

“Don’t have to be here,” Grant says. Terry takes it for what it is, the obligatory depression stance, that he’s not good enough to be loved. He’ll get through this too. He’ll Come out the other side feeling loved again. 

“Want to be here,” Terry says. He grabs something out of his grocery bag then leans forward to press his head against Grants. “Love you.” He feels breath come soft out of Grant’s nose. Feels the heat of his forehead pressed against his. Alive , Terry thinks to himself. Alive.  

He puts a hand up to Grant’s cheek, then grins and says, “brought you chocolate.” 

He leans back and drops a hershey bar on Grant’s lap. Grant hums happily, but doesn’t move to pick it up. Terry goes into the kitchen to throw pizza bites and chicken nuggets into the air fryer. 

Grant hasn’t moved to open the chocolate when Terry gets back.

“Eat,” Terry prompts. Grant fumbles for the chocolate, eyes still shut. His fingers don’t grip the wrapper in the right way, drops it after two tries.

“Feel like shit. Ter,” Grant says. He looks like days worth of sleeping and crying. Looks like he might cry again. It’s not the depression that gets him most of the time, it’s the days of it. He’s worn down slowly by a lack of caring, or desire to move and do things, and the grey matter in his brain refusing to fire enough to make memories and love happen. He’s fighting against an unstoppable and very real sickness. 

“Just your brain,” Terry says. He takes a few of the blankets out from around Grant and sits down at his side, close as he can get. He takes the chocolate from Grant’s lap, easily opens it and breaks off the top row to hand to Grant. His friend nibbles the side, eventually takes a full bite. Watching him eat is exhausting. He barely chews, just lets the chocolate melt on his tongue, before taking another languid bite. After the first row of chocolate he pulls his head off the back of the couch and blinks a few times. Terry hands him another row.

“You want some?” Grant offers. 

“I’m good.” 

Grant mumbles something, then leans into Terry. Terry wonders how much longer the food has, but doesn’t fret. The air fryer will turn itself off, and he’s got something more important to do. Mainly hold Grant upright until he finishes eating the chocolate. He snuggles in, pulls Grant against his chest, then nudges his chocolate back to his mouth before it can melt on his finger. Grant takes a bigger bite this time, actually chews. He waves away the next row of chocolate Terry offers and Terry relents when Grant says, “Just want to sit here.” 

Grant’s heavy and Terry can feel his breath through his t-shirt. It’s slow and solid and Terry is so happy to feel it. It’s so much better than the alternative Grant has toyed with and tried a few times. 

He rubs Grant’s back. It’s the best he can do, the only thing he’s been able to do since high school. Just sit in the thick of it. Feed him junk food that he can swallow and just be. 

It took Marco two rounds of meltdowns to understand Grant and Terry’s relationship, but he got it after a bit. Something more than friends, something less than what Grant and Marco have. Something that evolved from those few questioning kisses in the rocky confusing years in their late teens to something better and more solid than anything else Terry has ever experienced. Grant’s his. There are days they cling to each other like life rafts, others they push back, holding the other to higher standards. They demand the best for the other, force happiness on the other when they can’t muster the energy to fight for it themselves.

“Just gotta grit your teeth,” Terry says, “This’ll pass.” Grant knows it. Terry knows it. They remind themselves with words and hugs. This’ll pass, just like the last time this happened, and the time before that. Hold the grab bar, keep breathing. He presses his nose into Grant’s hair, reminds himself to get Marco to give him a shower tonight, a line Terry crossed only twice, desperate and at a loss. 

“We’ll eat some garbage food, and if you’re up for it, a walk around the block. No thinking, just you and me under the bleak-ass sun. One step in front of the other.” 

Grant nods into his chest. He will grit his teeth. He’ll do what Terry suggests on the off chance it moves the needle an inch in the right direction. Just have to get through the day, Terry repeats to himself. Then the next, and the one after that.

Chapter Text

It’s late. Too late to be at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. Too late to be chewing nails and staring at a map. Grant can’t watch Terry do this again. The coffee pot rumbles behind him, shimmed with a pencil so the lid stays against the drip spout. A redbull is already empty on the second table. Terry’s eyes are red, it’s got to be going on 32 hours now, no sleep. 

Lark had left D.A.D.D.I.E.S. in a huff an hour ago, called Grant twenty minutes later when he couldn’t get his frustration to subside. 

“He won’t go the hell to sleep,” Lark said.

So Grant put on clothes, explained away his absence to Marco by saying Terry had a nightmare and needed a friend. Was easier to explain than Terry working overtime to track down an incursion, to find a way to destroy it, to try again to save a small piece of the otherwise uncontrollable world. Terry’s worried beyond reason about the families broken in the incursion’s wake. About how they aren’t going to destroy it fast enough to save the next family. Terry holds every failure on his shoulders, picks up all the future ones as well, balances them on top. They’re going to grow spikes and nail him to the floor, one day, making him unable to move forward until he fixes everything. Has everything in order. 

“Ter-” Grant’s voice is gruff from lack of use. It’s three in the morning. 

Terry shoots his attention up, takes a stumbling step, but unlike the rest of them, doesn’t immediately go for a weapon, just a sharp breath and a tight exhale. 

“Scared the hell out of me, Grant,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be asleep. You know staying up late fucks with your mental health.” Somehow Terry doesn’t mention that pulling all nighters fucks with Terry’s. He’s never seen the man more high-strung and controlling than when he hasn’t slept more than 5 hours in three days. 

“They say if you take twenty minute power naps on a long shift it helps keep you going and doing a safe job.”

“Coffee does the same,” Terry mumbles. His eyes are drifting back to the map, and the tablet he’s got set next to it.

“What’s the latest?” Grant asks instead of telling Terry that coffee absolutely isn’t a sleep replacement. Telling him to chill out is never a helpful strategy for dealing with Terry, he’ll wind himself down eventually, can’t just cut him loose or he’ll dive to the ground crashing with no bungee cord to bring him back up. 

“Can’t pin it down. No pattern,” Terry says. “Keeps popping up. We go there, it’s gone. It’s like it’s watching for us.”

“Might be-” Grant says. “Any electrical pulses coming from it? If it’s attached to some grid it might be pulling on Lark or I’s tracker? Maybe we stay behind?”

“No pulses that I can find but-” Terry looks like he’s got an idea, but then shakes his head, puts his finger on the bridge of his nose and presses hard.

“Headache?” Grant asks. Terry gets them, probably not as often as he should, considering his caffeine intake and his stress.

Terry sniffles,

“Not bad,” he says, but when he opens his eyes he squints like the light hurts.

“I can look into something for you,” Grant offers. 

“No, don’t worry about it,” Terry says, too quickly. “You should sleep.”

Frustration is what overcomes Grant at that moment. Terry’s a pure hypocrite. He needs sleep too.

“Can’t sleep when Lark is sending me SOT texts.” Grant says, using their stupid Save Our Terry shorthand that they’ve all learned to text each other. Not to be confused with their PLOTS text to Peel Lark off the Sidewalk, or Grant’s favorite Stop Drop and Roll as notification of when Nick shows up at one of their houses, unannounced and ready to do something . 

Terry rolls his eyes to the ceiling, 

“It’s alright,” Terry says. 

“It’s not!” Grants not usually this forward with Terry, but he’s tired and he’s the one to say the thing that needs to be said. Honesty is needed, at least this once. “You need to hand off some of this stress.” He points at the map, the tablet, doesn’t motion toward the pile of paper and the notebook and the stack of books Terry’s got on the other table alongside his shotgunned redbull. 

“It’s not-” Terry fumbles and fights to find a defense. “It’s- I need to get stuff done,” he says. “Gotta keep this place running. I’m the only one who knows how to do half this stuff.”

“Then teach us,” Grant says, “You don’t have to be the pillar that keeps this place from falling apart.”

Terry stills, a dramatic, somewhat eerie amount. Grant watches as the world in front of his friend zooms out a thousand feet, takes a moment too long to zoom back in.

“You’re all so busy with life,” Terry says, so quietly that Grant barely hears him.

Grant swallows. The family thing, he thinks. The- you all have families you need to spend time with, jobs, health you need to keep up because you have something to lose-argument. Grant feels like he’s falling.

“You don’t have to work 24/7 just because you don’t have some kind of normal American family to go back to,” Grant says, “Pick up a hobby, enjoy parks or music or fishing?” 

“How about magic?” Terry asks with a bitter fighting glare. A “hobby” that helps with work and nothing else. Terry’s coffee is done and he goes over to pull it out of the cradle. Grant pushes his way into the room, catches Terry’s wrist as he begins to bring the pot up to his mouth. 

“Hang out with us outside of work,” Grant says. “We’re your family, and if that’s not enough of a reason for you to take care of yourself, then fuck you. You can’t keep this up. You’re going to run yourself into the ground.”

“Someone needs to!” Terry looks shocked that he said it, and said it so loud. Grant doesn’t bat an eye. He’s been yelled at before, not often by Terry, that’s a little shocking, but it’s not about to fluster him. He wrenches the coffee from his friend’s hand, pours it out in the sink while Terry blows hot air out his nostrils. He’s half delusional from lack of sleep, sways under Grant’s fingers.

“Terry, you need to go to sleep, and if I have to sit on you to make that happen I will.”
Terry holds his glare. Doesn’t flinch. 

“We will save them, but not because you’re awake so long that you can’t see straight.” It’s not lost on Grant that Terry’s still squinting against the light. 

Terry finally rips his hand out of Grant’s grasps, watches in agony as the last bits of coffee run down the drain. Grant knows it was trash coffee, the kind Terry gets in bulk from Costco, but it’s a full artistic engineering endeavor to get the coffee pot to brew it so Grant’s probably just put thirty minutes of work down the drain. 

“Bed,” Grant says. He knows Terry’s got a cot in his office. Lark’s got nests built up all over D.A.D.D.I.E.S. stashed with food and more and more recently sketchbooks, but Terry deserves a little bit better than that. Grant wracks his brains for the best place to stash him for the night where someone can keep an eye on him. He comes up with Lark’s bed, because he knows he’s awake, there’s a shut door between him and a screaming kid, and no one can escape Lark Oak-Garcia. 

“C’mon,” Grant says.

For his part, Terry lets Grant cart him from the room. He shivers at the threshold, and briefly looks over his shoulder, but Grant wraps an arm around his back and drags him into the hall, down, up, around until they’re in the garage, slipping into his minivan. Grant puts Terry in, thinks about buckling him, because now that he’s in dim lighting without something to look at Terry’s slumping hard. 

Grant shoots off a warning text to Lark. 

“Can I sleep in your bed with you husband then?” Lark shoots back. Twit.

“Give it your best shot,” Grant responds. Honestly, Marco would probably let him.

By the time they get to the Oak-Garcia house Terry is head first into the cold window. Lark is standing on the front porch hitting a negotiated-down-from-cigarettes vape. He helps scoop Terry out of the van, doesn’t say anything as Grant puts an arm around Terry’s waist and leads him into the house, up a flight of stairs. 

“Bed-” Lark points through the mess of his room to his queen-sized bed with worn down pillows strewn everywhere, and a dozen blankets he’s secretly amassed in a desperate search for comfort. 

“Am I gonna have to sit on you Terry Stampler?” Grant asks as he drops his friend on the bed. 

“Wake me in four hours,” Terry says. He wipes at his eyes, lists a little to his left. 

“Eight.” Grant negotiates up, knowing Lark’s like hell gonna wake him up at all. 

“Six.” 

“Deal.” Grant kneels down and starts pulling Terry’s shoes off. Behind him Lark finds an oversized shirt that Grant recognizes as his own, and a pair of sweatpants. He throws both at Terry. Terry misses the catch on each, letting them hit his face and shoulder respectively. Grant starts the process of peeling his clothes from him, but Terry waves him off. Grant gives him privacy by taking his shoes to the door, pretending to admire some of Lark’s sketches and beginner paintings. He’s gotten better, or at least gotten more frenetic in his passion for art. 

Grant’s happy to see it, loves the new creations and relaxed look that comes over Lark’s face when he’s lost in his world of art. He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he hears the spring of the bed creak, Terry toppling to the side. 

“I’ll be at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. early tomorrow,” Grant tells Lark. “Pick up where he left off. He’s got to believe we’ll help when it matters.”

“He should believe that anyway,” Lark says, “But you know him, he’ll take on as much as he can until he breaks. We’ll never be able to pick up enough.”
Grant feels that statement in his bones. He could take and take for days and weeks, and yet somehow Terry will always find more to carry. Best not to overload himself in a desperate attempt to save Terry, best to keep his shoulders bare to pick him up each time he falls. 

“Let him sleep,” Grant tells Lark quietly, knowing it’s unnecessary, but needing to say it anyway. 

“Not a problem,” Lark says, “Now get back to Marco, before I do.” Lark winks wickedly. Grant rolls his eyes, and doesn’t leave until Lark climbs over Terry and takes his spot on the far side of the bed with a pen and a notebook. Terry breathes evenly. Asleep already. Grant nods to himself, yeah, he’ll keep picking Terry up, time and time again.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week. The awe’s worn off. The bits of adrenalin and love have been scraped away leaving Sparrow raw. Nothing but bones. Nick sees it that way, maybe a little too clearly. He blinks his eyes until flesh Sparrow comes back into view, as he is. Bags under his eyes, hands shaking in the upstairs hallway of the Oak-Swallows-Garcia household. Somewhere Hero fusses. He wonders if he should do something about that. Trauma can happen early in childhood Nick knows now. 

Rebecca is in her office, on an emergency call. Still sick and exhausted from labor and bringing a small bundle of light into this world, and still somehow attached to her first child, an ice cream empire. Hero is only fussing a little, probably just cooing herself to sleep. Sparrow is crashing like rocks off a cliff, like a father whose child is set to inherit the black of the sky.

Nick approaches slowly. Kneels gracefully to Sparrows side. Sparrow gasps for air, sucking in loud scraping sobs. 

Nick has nothing to say. Not a father, not an Oak. So he hums, something old and safe. Sparrow doesn't hear him. Not on the first go around. Nick carefully puts a hand on Sparrows back, rubs circles. Nick can feel the world dropping out below him. Sparrow, constant chaos, straddles two worlds and does it with a wry smile and a confidence born way back when he was fighting monsters and trees and a lineage that wanted to rip him to shreds. Sparrow. Their little bird, unafraid. Now terrified. 

“I brought her here,” Sparrow gasps on Nick’s second go around of the lullaby he sang to Hero the first time Sparrow let him hold her. Nick cuddled her close and tamped down every bit of flame that might have poked through, every scary thing that might have stuck to him from hell. “I thought it would be easy, but she’s perfect, Nick. She’s-”
Small, and wiggly, and defenseless and gripping a piece of Sparrow’s heart so fully that for the first time Nick sees love in Sparrow’s eyes for someone who’s not Lark. 

Nick rubs Sparrows back, hums. Sparrow fights just to breathe. Nick thinks of a panicking Grant, a screaming Lark. 

“In and out, my man. In and out.” Sparrow tries to breathe. “Let it out.” 

“She’s perfect. I can’t do this to her. How do I not do this to her?”
Just needs to run it out of his system. He’ll never stop screaming about how unfair this is. Shouldn’t have to ever stop. Somehow Nick always knew this was how it was going to turn out. There was no way Sparrow would be okay with the chosen-one situation. It was always stupid of them to think Sparrow might rise to the occasion. Cruel to think it would be okay. Maybe it would have been better if it were Lark. Or maybe the man’s unstable nature would have exploded the whole situation into something cataclysmic. 

Too late. It was Sparrow who bit the bullet, had a kid to offer up. Issac and Abraham. Maybe Hero too will be spared at the last minute. It’ll be too late at that point though, she’ll be trained up for the slaughter whether it happens or not. 

“We’re all here with you,” Nick reminds. They watched it happen, okayed it and nodded along and breathed in deep and said okay. Every time. Okay. Okay.

It was not okay. Grant was right, dead eyed and certain it would be bad. Unable to stay in the room for the conversations. Barely able to explain himself, the word chimera stuttering out of his mouth on more than one occasion.

The boys all fell in love with Hero. Not as hard as Sparrow, not as thoroughly devoted, but in love nonetheless. Grant had a panic attack so fully that he was out for two days. Terry would be here right now if Nick hadn’t essentially handcuffed him to the desk at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. Enamored, protective, in love barely covered it for him. Uncle Terry. 

Lark? 

God Lark. 

He shook, cried and counted toes, every wisp of baby fuzz hair on her head. Breathed her in, made her part of himself like she might be the light that was missing. She held his finger. He stopped painting. The realization that he could paint for a thousand years and never make anything as beautiful as his niece was palpable. And then he hid it. Acted like it meant nothing, because it couldn’t mean anything. He flickered and snapped and slammed around like an exploding star, realizing a few days before Sparrow what being in love with a bomb meant. Terry and Grant tackled him, pinned him to the proverbial floor, hid him from Sparrow, at least for a few days. 

Nick saw an eternity stretched out ahead of Hero. She makes him feel like a snapped guitar string. Flailing around for the thing that tethered him. Loose and in love. He wants one–a kid– never thought of that before.

Could he and Cass really bring a kid into this world. 

Would he be damning that kid too?

Damning. There’s always hell to hide in, he thinks.

“Day at a time,” Nick says. “Maybe we can still save her.” It’s a long shot, a maybe, a lie…probably. 

Sparrow scrapes in another pained breath. 

“Out all the way,” Nick reminds. Sparrow and Grant sometimes forget that getting air all the way out of their lungs is just as important as getting it in. Sparrow pushes air out, out some more. It helps, when he breathes back in it’s steadier. 

“She’s perfect,” Sparrow repeats. A scratched record all week. Nick doesn’t hear the bubbling, fussing coming from Hero’s crib anymore. Wishes he could. When she’s quiet they all assume something horrible has happened. He almost gets up to check, but tells himself she’s fine. Fine. Henry’s not like Barry. Not a kidnapper. 

Sparrow sets his chin on his arm resting over his knees. His eyes are red-rimmed and soaking wet. Nick pulls his sleeve over his thumb and gently wipes away what he can. Sparrow closes his eyelids when Nick gets close to his green eyes. There’re specks of water on his dark lashes. Tears pinched out in the corner of his eyes. Nick does what he can. Pushes the stray strands of sticky hair on his face back into the mess hanging lopsided out of his ponytail. He can fix that. Gently takes out the elastic band, shuffles his blond waves around and through his fingers. Rakes the strands up and into one clean collection. He puts the band back on. Sparrow looks a little more put together. 

Nick runs out of easy things to fix. The harder stuff hangs in between them, so he sings quietly. Monsters and Men, Helipad, The Small Glories. Classics and new things that he knows Sparrow’s fallen in love with since stepping away from his parents collection of world music. An eclectic mix of pop and folk, screaming rock and violins pulling bows across strings in a kind of wail. 

Sparrow drops into Nick’s chest after the third song. Nick catches, holds in his fire so as not to overheat his friend. Nick rubs his cheek, continues to sing, quiet until Sparrow falls asleep. It’s not a fix. They won’t find one. They’ll spiral around this problem until they end it or Hero does. 

He hears a stair creek. Then another. Rebecca making her way slowly upstairs. Must hurt like a bitch, but her bed is up here, and after five days of sleeping on the couch, she wanted her sheets, and her worn-in mattress, and her husband nestled into her side. Her husband who is currently sleeping on the floor curled into his friend who definitely didn’t come in through the front door.

“Oh, Nicky!” Rebecca says, when she hits the upstairs hall. “Didn’t hear you come in.” She takes another step and sees what Nick is holding. Her face melts. Nick likes Rebecca good enough, gets why Sparrow loves her, or loves the idea of her. She’s even, normal, banally in the middle. Neutral. How Sparrow wishes he could be. 

“Just tired,” Nick says. “Hope it’s okay. I’m keeping an ear out for our girl.”

The couple has had a number of people around to help. Sparrow actually reminding people to wash their hands before holding his kid, something he thought he would never hear in an Oak-Garica household, but something they all do anyway. Nick’s now met Rebecca’s sister, her mom. There’s always clean hands around to help. 

“Thanks,” Rebecca says. “You gonna put him to bed?” She asks, nodding to Sparrow. Nick raises his hands in an I-don’t-know motion. He has no freaking idea what his plans are. 

“I’m on Hero duty,” Sparrow mumbles into Nick’s chest. 

“Sure you are, buddy.” Nick rubs his back. Sparrow curls into the fetal position and puts his hands between his knees. Nick rolls his eyes at Rebecca.

“I’ve got it,” Nick says. “You get some sleep. I’ll grab you if she needs fed.”

Rebecca rubs Nick’s hair, something she’s never done before, but exhaustion and babies are making everyone more cuddly.

“Thanks,” she says. “Feel free to drop the husband off in our bedroom if he gets to be too much trouble.” Nick smirks. Like Sparrow’s a kid. Wishes Sparrow were still a kid. That none of this were on his shoulders. On Hero’s tiny shoulders. On any of their shoulders.

Chapter Text

Grant gets ten for ten on his knife throwing, stands back and smiles at his handiwork. Sniper with the bullet an sniper with-

Lark screams from across the gym. Not a pained one, just anger, pent up and bursting at the seams. Grant looks over in time to see him rip his few pieces of safety gear off his head, off his hands. He’s still in his tac vest and cargo pants, practicing fighting in full gear, but his head is exposed now. 

“Hit me!” he demands from Nick. “C’mon.” Lark motions toward his chest, his cheek, gets in a faux defensive stance, hoping Nick will take a pot shot. He must have lost another round of sparring. Nick cheats on days when he’s feeling more Nick than Nicholas. 

“Hit me!” Lark demands again. “Fucking personalityless bastard.” There’s something wicked in his eyes, unhinged. 

Shit. Grant bolts across the room. 

“Nicky don’t hit him,” Grant says. He grabs Lark around the chest and pulls him back before Nick can land a square hit on his jaw. 

“Don’t hit him.” Grant holds out a hand to Nick. “He wants it.” Lark tries to shove an elbow into Grant’s stomach, Grant twists him to the side enough that he misses. 

“Knock it off Lark,” Grant says, holds him tighter. “Knock it off.” Lark doesn’t stop, but doesn’t fight harder. He drags his own arm up to his mouth and bites. 

“Shit, Lark.” Grant could really use an ice pack right now, they already went running this morning, fast and furious and that had barely helped. Hyperactive teetering on hypomanic. 

Shower, Grant thinks fast on his feet. He drags Lark’s ass toward the two bathrooms at the far end of the gym. Lark growls and twitches in his arms, but doesn’t put up any real fight– could knock Grant on his ass if he wanted to– just curses out Nick as he’s dragged away. Somewhere in the back of his head he must know he’s out of control, must be a little relieved that Grant has grabbed the wheel. It wouldn’t be the first time.

Grant shoves Lark into the bathroom, wrangles him over the lip of the tub holding tight to his vest and chest. Lark’s wiggly and mad. Grant has no free hand, can’t quite get Lark still enough to let go so he balances on one foot to kick on the cold tap. Then he wrestles Lark long enough to pull the stopper on the shower. Icy water blasts them both in the face. Reset button, Grant hopes. Lark lurches, then yells, and finally his arm’s out of his mouth and after three seconds he straightens out and twists toward freedom. Grant lets him go. Steps out of the tub and starts patting Lark down for the sour patch kids he knows the man has stuffed in his tac vest. Two packs, front right pocket. Grant unwraps them as Lark curses quieter and quieter. 

“I hate you,” Lark says.

“I know.” Grant responds, shoves a Sour Patch kid in his mouth while he’s going for a foul-mouthed retort. Safer than sour skittles, less messy than those sour juice treats that are so popular with the kids these days. 

Another jarring reset button, sour. Another tumbler clicking back into place in Lark’s brain. 

“You fucked up all my gear,” Lark growls. And shit Grant really should have considered that

He sets the candy aside and starts ripping off Lark’s vest.

“That’s some gay shit- Fu”

Grant dunks Larks head back under the icy stream. He comes out sputtering and spitting. Cursing again. 

“I’m saving your stuff,” Grant says. He finishes taking off Lark’s vest. Then holds Lark’s shoulder so he doesn’t move out of the cold water while Grant tosses the vest in a soggy pile behind him. The bathroom’s not big, the water is going to seep everywhere. Grant hopes it doesn’t do too much damage, he hates repairing things. He turns back to Lark and sees the knives dangling off him. He should also be checking him for weapons. The bite mark on his arm is leaking a little around the top, the rest is red and starting to bruise. 

Grant goes for the first knife he can see, the hunting one strapped to his hip. 

“Stop touching me!” Lark throws himself against the far wall. Grant lets go, immediately. It’s not an emergency anymore, Lark should have at least some bodily autonomy.

“I’m just getting your knives,” Grant says, “you and I both know you shouldn’t have them right now.” More likely to commit suicide when you’re manic , Grant remembers reading, right after the diagnosis. Right before the boat that was Lark started to right itself, finally. Lark shivers, takes a long time under cold water to think, then finally nods. 

“I know.”

“Can I touch you?” Grant asks. Lark nods once. Grant’s still unsure. “Checking your pockets on your pants first,” he says. Lark’s not shy about his body, but it’s still important to ask. Lark okays it so Grant reaches in, finds a pocket knife in one, a sharp nail file and fingernail clippers in the other. “Cargo pockets,” Grant says next, moving down his legs. He waits for a nod, finds a butterfly knife. 

“Shins.” Grant really waits for the nod this time because he’s going to have to reach up Lark’s pants to grab the two hunting knives he knows he has stashed there. “Get the ones out of your waistband.” Grant tells Lark. He does. Pulling a sheathed hunting knife, and a switchblade out. 

“Really it?” Grant asks. Lark takes another knife out. Lower this time, clearly strapped to his thigh. Grant’s glad he didn’t have to go for that one. Lark hands them over and Grant tosses them to the far side of the toilet with the rest. He counts them as he goes. A lot for one person, and still somehow less than he expected. 

He finishes checking him over, his chest, up his sleeve, shoes. Probably should have done this two days ago when Lark started splitting at the seams. 

“Good?” Grant asks. Lark nods, and Grant believes him. Lark’s edges are starting to soften, still wrapped tight but the urgent need to hurt himself, to get someone else to hurt him, has worn off. 

“Got my Risperidone?” Lark asks. It’s something Grant loves now about Lark. He’s trying. After years of fighting and biting and getting into fights he’s trying to get better, in fits and starts he’s doing his best. It burns hope in Grant’s chest. It means maybe he gets to keep the bits of Lark he loves the most for a little bit longer. Maybe they’ll all be okay someday.

“I don’t have them. I can text Terry,” Grant says, moving away from the water so he can text without frying his phone. They keep a stash in the kitchen, another in the small med bay. Lark makes a noise and Grant stops. 

“Two minutes to the kitchen and back,” Lark says. 

“Two minutes,” Grant confirms. Lark wants Grant to get them, probably doesn't want more people worrying over him. Makes him uncomfortable. 

“Set a timer?” Lark requests. He can hold it together for two minutes. Ten seconds twelve times. Count them. Hold off. 

Grant opens the Calm Harm app they all have on their phones now and sets the breathing app for two minutes. Grant reminds himself of the number of weapons scattered behind the toilet. Then he turns on the app. A small shape grows and shrinks one time before Grant bolts out the door. He needs to be fast. Ten seconds twelve times. He hurries down the stairs down a hall and skids into the kitchen. No time to really talk to Terry who’s brow raises in confusion at Grant’s soggy clothes, his frantic pace.

“Risperidone,” Grant says, drying his hand on a convenient tea towel so the pills don’t leak in his grasp. Risperidone, an antipsychotic that Lark’s been cleared to double dose on when he’s hypomanic, great for acute flare ups and keeping Lark out of the hospital. Starts working in about 12-24 hours, levels him out like nothing else. He drops one into his hand. Lark’s on .5 mg daily now, another .5 or 1 mg will probably kick this. He drops a second pill in his hand and caps the bottle. Ten seconds times twelve . He hurries back out the door. He thanks god for the cardio both he and Lark do because it makes it easy to run back up the stairs. 

He gets to the bathroom just as the last shape on the breathing app shrinks. There’s no water puddle on the floor. No evidence that Lark left the shower. The knives are still there, damp and glistening. 

“Held it together.” Lark smirks, proud of himself.

“Amazing.” Grant says, trying to catch his breath. “1 mg?” he asks. He holds out the pills and Lark nods. Grant thinks about getting him a glass of water, but remembers Lark can dry swallow pills like a champ, and if not, he’s still standing under a downpour.

Lark pops the little orange pills. Swallows. Stares. Twenty four hours. He drops against the back wall of the shower again. 

“Don’t want to be like this in front of Hero,” Lark says. He crawls his back along the tub wall, unable to stop moving now that the self harm itch has been pushed to the back of his mind. Doesn’t want Hero to see him restless, mean and unsettled. Hero’s two and Lark constantly worries that some part of him will rub off on her, or he will damage her. 

“Marco and I have the spare bedroom,” Grant says. Grant knows where all of his firearms and knives and razors are. It’s not his first go around on manic-Lark proofing his house. He’ll call Marco, they’ll make it safe. “Movies until things settle.” Ice, pop rocks, rubber bands around his wrists. Harm reduction until the chemicals in his head even out. 

Lark sways. Grant finally reaches past him and shuts off the spout. His teeth chatter, but Grant doesn’t think he’s that cold, just crashing from an out of control minute. He’s still tense, like a coiled spring, but not venomous like he was before. He doesn’t know how hard it is for Lark to hold it together. To keep the throttle exactly where it’s supposed to be. He’s described it before, like wrestling an alligator, or holding back a wave. And, right. The crashing. That’ll happen soon too. Easier to deal with in some ways. At least he’ll be slower and easier to catch. 

“Let’s dry you off,” Grant suggests. “You have some clean clothes out in the gym.” Ugly sweaty clothes, but dry ones. Grant helps Lark strip down to the least amount of clothes he feels comfortable in–which is apparently none-- but Grant requests he leaves the boxers on for a little while longer. Then he wraps him in two of their fluffiest towels, dries off his hair, leaves the towel on top of his head and walks with him out to his bag of gym clothes hanging against the far wall. Clean clothes go on. Sour Patch Kids go in his mouth when the walls start closing in again. Lark savors the sour. Shuts his eyes and lets Grant put his shirt on. Lets him walk him to the garage. Into the car. 

Grant drives them both home where Marco meets them at the door. They share a look over Lark’s head. Marco’s pretty sure he’s got everything locked away. Points to Grant’s weighted blanket on the couch, Lark’s favorite take out on the coffee table. Another fun Lark habit, believing he doesn't need food when he’s like this, just sustenance from the sun and earth. Not sure where he got that one from, but it comes screaming out of him when he’s like this.

“Movie requests?” Marco asks. Lark hums, so they put on Die Hard and let it play, and replay, and replay in the background. A safety valve, and a soft place for Lark to land in between frenetic movement. Grant and Marco buffer him when he gets up looking for art supplies, thinks about leaving to buy more, tries to cook, leaves the stove on. Braids Marco’s hair –poorly since he doesn't have enough– braids his own. Puts on chapstick, takes it off. Finds Grant’s nail polish, puts it on, takes it off. Puts on chapstick. Grant takes him on a walk. Walks him back. Let’s him smoke in the backyard even though he quit when Hero was born, chews on his vape like a teething ring when Grant swaps one for the other. Doesn’t eat. Finally eats something small. Disappears upstairs, Grant follows, watches as Lark takes everything out of their bathroom closet swearing he can rearrange it better. Actually does, which is impressive because he and Marco are pretty organized. There’s a full three hours where he follows Grant around obsessed about the Doodler and demanding weapons and maps and a plan . He thinks he’s got a good one. Three good ones. Grant writes them down and can’t wait for Lark to see them later. Lark falls asleep around 3am in the bathtub covered in Grant’s weighted blanket, dosed with Trazadone, while Moana plays on repeat on his phone. 

He’s better the next day. Sleeps until at least six, and walks blurry-eyed into the kitchen. Grant and Marco are there with mugs of coffee that Lark can’t have, or shouldn’t have today. Wants it. They argue back and forth playfully while Grant makes vegan eggs and toast without butter. Lark’s not vegan. Hasn’t been in years, but there’s something comforting in the food that Sparrow would have made him if he were home. 

Sparrows already let them know that he’ll be over in a few hours. Grant needs a nap and a break from Lark’s constant movement, and Sparrow misses his brother, hard not to see that Lark misses him back. He keeps looking for his mirror image whenever there’s a lull in the conversation. 

Lark recites the entire plot of Mulan while Grant finishes cooking, feeling better but still not out of steam. He’s at least aiming his crazy. Knows he can’t stop moving, but at least he isn’t dangerous about it. Talking about Mulan is tame, so that’s where Lark puts his energy. 

Sparrow gets there sooner than they expect. When he opens the door Lark practically knocks him off his feet, head into his chest, barrel hug.
Sparrow nuzzles into Lark’s hair and laughs. When he’s not angry, Lark’s mania can be endearing. Sparrow can get the best or worst of it. 

“Hey brother,” Sparrow nearly sings. He winks over Lark’s shoulder, nods toward the stairs to tell Grant he can go back to bed. There must be bags under his eyes, and Lark’s crazy, but so is Grant and things get worse the more his own sleep cycle is fucked. Grant feels swooping relief as Sparrow detaches Lark and pulls some coloring books out of his bag. That’ll keep him entertained for about twenty minutes. Not Grant’s problem though. He’s going to go pass out. Takes a village to keep Lark alive. A village they are more than willing to provide.

Chapter Text

Sparrow moves his phone so it’s squished between his shoulder and his ear and picks Normal up off the floor. Grants talking to him, and Normal’s got his hand in his mouth and probably something else as well. 

“Grant it’s totally fine,” Sparrow says into the receiver, “Lark or I can meet you over there sometime today or tomorrow. Yup. Let me talk to him. Hold up-”  Sparrow gets a hold of Normal’s soggy little finger and pulls out spit, half a blue crayon, and glitter. 

“Where did he get glitter?” 

“Who?” Grant asks from the other end of the line.

“What? Normal. Don’t worry about it. I’ll talk to Lark and get back to you. Just give me an hour and- oh wait- Lark’s here. I’ll call you back.” Sparrow hangs up his phone and sets Normal down in the same swift motion. 

“Lark, I need to talk to you.” His brother’s just come in from outside, kitted out, keys in hand and a cackling Hero hoisted sack-of-potatoes style over his shoulder. 

“Sure thing,” Lark says. He hangs his car keys on the hooks near the front door and turns around, “Do you want this back? I found it in the front yard.” Hero’s arms and tangly brown hair swish back and forth as Lark turns around then back again. Her laughter peels out of her louder and louder with Lark’s every exaggerated move. 

“Nah. You can keep that one,” Sparrow says. “I’ve got one already. He somehow got into glitter?” 

“Not me,” Lark says, “That one’s on Rebecca.” Lark got the kids glitter playdough for a “Winter Solstice Celebration” two years ago and Sparrow still hasn’t let up about it. 

“I’ll ask her about it,” Sparrow says, pretty sure that it wasn’t Rebecca. Neither of them like non-biodegradable glitter, and this glitter definitely looked plastic-based.

Lark walks toward the kitchen, picks a banana from the counter basket and peels it with his teeth since his other hand is busy. He’s a lot of things, but not dangerous with the kids. He keeps one hand safely over Hero’s knees. 

“What did you want to talk to me about?” Lark asks, spitting a bit of banana into the bin at the end of the counter. The movement jostles Hero who scream-giggles for her Uncle Lark to set her down. He hoists her up higher and spins, “Who’s talking?”

“Meeeeeee”

Lark hums and turns back around to face Sparrow. 

“I keep hearing things,” Lark says.

“Should probably talk to someone about that,” Sparrow says, playing along. He feels Normal bump into his shins before rushing over to his uncle.

“Grant.” Sparrow finally answers Lark, “Marco told me that he was backing out of the park thing.”

“Good god,” Lark says, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. Sparrow feels similarly. It’s been months of wearing Grant down, and picking and repicking dates, and they were finally pretty sure they had it nailed down when Marco called him. Sparrow promised to be endlessly patient with Grant, but at this point Lincoln’s going to be an adult by the time they get to the park.  Normal holds his hands up. Lark looks at his banana hand then Hero then Normal and decides to set down the banana. He picks Normal up and flings him over his other shoulder. The giggling multiples by two. 

“So it’s over?” Lark asks.

Sparrow shakes his head and waves down the concern. 

“I called him and convinced him to do it. His counter proposal was for one of us to go with him today or tomorrow and see the place.” Exposure therapy. 

“We’d be casing a park?” Lark says.

“Whatever he needs,” Sparrow reminds. 

“Whatever he needs.” Lark flips Hero so she’s right side up again. Her hair hangs in front of her face and remains a tangled cobweb until her little fingers start pushing it away. Normal is still upside down and squealing behind Lark’s back. 

“Again!” Hero demands. Lark leans forward, dropping Hero upside down in a different direction, which delights her to no end. Their uncle is like a constant moving jungle gym. 

“He alright otherwise?” Lark asks. Sparrow can only half hear Lark over the laughter. It makes Sparrow quirk a smile. His brother and his babies. 

“He’s good,” Sparrow says. “Doing his best. I think we’ve just got to jump through the hoops, get through Friday, and it’ll get easier for him.”

“We’ll get through it,” Lark says confidently. He flips Hero back up. Pulls Normal over his shoulder. Normal tries to put his hand in Larks mouth, so he gives him a zerbert in response. More laughter ensues. 

“Lincoln’s gonna have an awesome time,” Lark says. “And no one is going to explode, there aren’t going to be any incursions, and Normal and Lincoln are going to be totally normal kids playing at a park.”
Lark gives Sparrow a meaningful look over Normal’s head. Sparrow fidgets with the hem of his shirt. He hates it when Lark reads his mind. 

“I’m glad you’re confident,” Sparrow says. Lark didn’t see Grant in the car the night he first said “yes” to the park idea. He didn’t just spend a half hour talking him down over the phone. He won’t be spending the next two days doing the same. He might, however, go with Grant to check out the park. 

“He wants you to go there with him,” Sparrow says, 

“Is it because we’re the best at casing joints?”

“It’s because you’re both paranoid, brother.” 

Lark squints his eyes at Sparrow, but doesn’t comment. The gang calls Grant and Lark paranoid on a regular basis, there’s really no argument left to be made. 

“I can do it later today,” Lark says.

“Maybe that will make Grant feel better.” 

“Hope so,” Lark says. “Now I’m going to go teach the kiddos how to lock pick.” He tosses the pair around until Hero’s riding piggyback, Normal’s latched onto his foot and he has a hand free to eat the rest of his banana. 

“You should first teach them how to lock doors,” Sparrow says. Lark gives him a thumbs up and walks unevenly out the back door toward the small swingset they have amidst the garden plots.  

Sparrow calls Grant back.

Chapter Text

Nicky and Lark storm in the kitchen as Terry finishes his bag of chips. Or rather Lark storms in. Nicky’s just walking, head down, screw driver and rags in hand, resolutely ignoring Lark’s badgering.

“You don’t get to hide it,” Lark says. 

Nick goes straight for the fridge and starts wiggling it out of its spot wedged between the wall and the counter. Terry watches. Something seems off about him. He can’t quite put his finger on it. 

“Terry can you please tell Nick-”

“Nicholas!” Oh, there it is, Terry thinks. He looks at Nicky. What’s off are his clothes. His jeans don’t have holes, his shirt is a reasonable light blue, tucked in. It’s disorienting.

“Terry can you tell Nicholas, ” Lark says his name with as much venom as he can muster, “that he can’t just drag our magical items back down to hell whenever he wants.”

“They belong there. You stole them.” Nicholas pulls the fridge the rest of the way from the wall and squeezes himself behind it. He unplugs the whole thing and starts unscrewing the back. 

Lark makes an I’m-going-to-crush-his-skull motion with his hand, and looks to Terry for help.

“Okay. Whoa.” Terry sets his mostly empty bag of chips onto the table. “Lark, what did he take?”

“My infernal iron crossbow bolts to start with,” Lark says. Terry’s a little surprised. There are at least three items in the building that one could reasonably say they stole from hell, Lark’s crossbow bolts aren’t one of them. He found the iron, he got someone to forge them into bolts. They’re his. 

“Okay,” Terry says, he holds out his hands in a calm down motion to Lark and looks over at Nicholas. He’s intent on the fridge, using it as a way to avoid Lark. Terry can barely see him now that he’s ducked below the counter. 

Terry wants to say something, but isn’t sure where to start, or what to say in front of Lark that won’t set him off further. He turns back to Lark.

“What happened?” He mouths. Nicky has…trouble is the best way to put it…keeping the timelines in order sometimes, rarely these days, but it happens in the same way all of them have bad days. It’s just that the pure Nick and pure Nicholas modes are few and far between these days, and they’re usually triggered by something. 

Lark’s too deep in his irritation to be helpful. He just growls and stares at his current foe. Terry rubs his forehead realizing that Lark’s not going to be helpful.

“How about you go punch Grant for a while and I’ll talk to Nicholas.” 

Lark’s squints at Terry’s use of Nicholas’s full name. Terry makes a face and motions Lark toward the door. 

“I need the bolts back before tomorrow,” Lark says. “I’m planning to do something about the incursion near Palmer Point.”

“Understood,” Terry says. He shoos Lark away. The man huffs and stares a little longer at Nicky, but eventually stomps off. 

Terry picks his chips back up, eats the crumbs.

“So what do you think is wrong with it?” Terry asks.

Nicholas shrugs. He is hella good at fixing things, and enjoys it too. Part of Terry doesn’t want to poke around at the current situation because maybe while he’s in Nicholas mode he’ll fix the toaster oven as well. 

Or maybe he should poke around. Nicholas looks distraught in a way that’s more than just irritated by Lark. 

Terry finally tosses out the totally empty chip bag and goes over to the fridge. He wiggles it out a little further– Nicholas scooting with it– so he can see him and sits down.

“I probably can’t fix this one,” Nicholas says. “Might be the gasket seals.”

“I don’t know what that means Nicky-Nicholas, sorry.” 

“You didn’t mean it,” Nicholas mumbles. “I’m not mad.” 

Of course he’s not. Nicholas is uptight, but not cruel. 

“So’s Lark just being an ass?” Terry asks. He knows Lark has valid points, but Terry’s not currently talking to Lark so his arguments are irrelevant. He wants to be on Nicky’s side for now. 

Nicholas tilts his head like he might answer, but doesn’t, so Terry picks at his nails and moves on, 

“So what’s going on, if I’m allowed to ask.”

“I truly don’t believe you, or anyone here cares.” 

Terry bites his tongue. Nicholas is utterly convinced that they all dislike him. Probably because a few of the gang has straight up said that to his face, but it’s not… well mostly not… true. Doesn’t really matter right now anyway. They all love Nicky and somewhere under Nicholas is their friend and their friend needs help.

“I care,” Terry says. “and even if not, sometimes talking to another person can help you feel better. It’s an interesting psychological-”

“Terry, please don’t psychoanalyze me.”

Terry holds down a smile. A little piece of Nicky is poking through. 

“Would never dream of it,” Terry says. “but you are here, when you don’t have to be, so some part of you must want to be psychoanalyzed.”

“Terry,” Nicholas growls.

Terry leans forward so he can see more of Nicholas. 

“Nicholas-”

Nicholas glares then picks up his rag. 

“I should probably wash off the coils first step,” he says. Terry doesn’t point out that they talked Nicky into taking a look at the fridge a few weeks ago and he did that exact thing. Nicky’s memory gets spotty when he’s like this. Nicholas isn’t some dissociative identity alter as far as any of them can tell. He still has Nicky’s memories, just remembers them like he would a rowdy drunken night. Nicholas doesn’t feel like he really made any of those decisions and it’s embarrassing that he ever did those things. 

Nicholas of course remembers his childhood with Jody and Morgan very clearly. He remembers the small pockets of time between then and now when Nicholas was calling all the shots. So maybe it is dissociating, they never really got him checked out, but it doesn’t really matter. Nicky figured out how to be Nicky and all his histories melded together into one mostly functional person. He survived.

The problem is that Nicholas, without a clear view of all Nicky’s and Nick’s memories, is about as equipped to deal with grown up problems as the 13-year-old who found out his dad was a demon.

Terry shuts his eyes and thinks about baby Nicky. What he would say to that kid.

“I know something’s wrong man, but I’m here to help.”

Terry hears a clatter, snaps his eyes open. 

“Nicholas?” Terry leans forward to look through the gap between the fridge and the counter. Nicholas’s dropped his screwdriver and is blinking a little too fast at the appliance in front of him.

“Nicky?” Terry hazards a guess.

“Yeah- Terry, ri-right. Right here.” He doesn’t look at Terry. It looks like he’s straining just to keep his eyes open. Nicky scoots back a few inches and takes in the back of the fridge in earnest. “Can you give me a second?” He closes his eyes and covers them with his hand. He counts off numbers in a very Grant manner. 

“Yeah. Whatever you need.” Terry doesn’t stop watching his friend. His shoulders relax and his mannerisms change subtly. Nicky.

“Terry?” Nicky asks after a few minutes. His voice shivers. 

“Right here.” 

Nicky breathes in and out a few more times before bringing his hand down.

“Lark okay?” he asks. Even his voice sounds different, a little deeper and more settled. Matte. He squints through the light until he can fully focus on Terry’s face. 

“Just picking a fight with you, per usual.” The guy who’s a little lax and the guy who is constantly fighting on high alert don’t normally see eye-to-eye. Nicky nods. “Are you alright though?” Terry has to ask. 

“Weird,” Nicky says. “Weird couple of days. What am I doing here? It’s fuzzy.”
Terry shrugs. 

“No idea,” he says. “Fixing a fridge or stealing back things we’ve borrowed from hell, not really sure which.”
“I remember thinking.” Nicky snaps his fingers a few times, trying to pull up a memory or two. “I didn’t expect this.” Nicky picks up the screw driver, looks at it, puts it back down. 

“Didn’t expect Nicholas?” Terry asks. He tries to be as neutral as possible about Nicholas’s arrival. As annoying as everyone thinks Nicholas is, he’s a part of Nicky, and he gets a little ruffled and uncomfortable when they pick on him. 

“Yeah,” Nicky says. Something ominous seems to be hanging over him. Terry swallows and starts to ask a question when Nicky says, 

“Cass is pregnant.”

Terry’s heart pulls a full one eighty. He nearly yelps in excitement.

“Seriously!” 

Nicky cracks a full bright smile before it peters out.

“C’mon man,” Terry says. He slaps Nicky’s shoulder excitedly. “You two have been trying for months. This is good.”

“This is great,” Nick says. He’s breathless with awe. His eyes sparkle. “It’s amazing, it’s just-”

“Just what?”

“Man, I’m not gonna be a good dad.” Nicky looks heartbroken. Defeated in every inch of his body. Terry adjusts so he’s sitting comfortably. “I mean, Jody was a good dad, and Glenn tried, but I’m a mashed up bit of it all and that can’t turn out right.” Nicky motions to his head “I thought only having memories of Jody would somehow be for the best. Or Nicholas thought that and kinda took over. I want to be perfect like Jody. I- he - we refuse to be anything less than that.”

“The Nicholas part of you is a kid,” Terry points out.

“Didn’t say it was rational,” Nicky says. Terry instantly feels bad about pointing that out. It’s not Nicky’s fault that he disappeared into Nicholas land for a while. 

“How long has Nicholas been- you know” Terry pretends to turn a steering wheel. He knows it’s been long enough for Nicholas to drag a bunch of stuff back to hell, but hopefully it’s not been long enough for Cass to get worried. Despite encouragement Nicky still hasn’t told her about the hell thing.

Nicky shrugs.

“Well, not to be mean,” Terry says, “but Nicholas is wrong. You’re going to be a good dad.” Good enough, Terry thinks. It’s the way more doable goal. It’s what his mom recommends when someone is being a perfectionist. He doesn’t think that advice will be particularly helpful here. Glenn, after all, was good enough. 

Nicky shuts his eyes, cocks his head to the side and takes a deep breath. Then in a motion Terry hasn’t seen much since they were teens, holds up his hands and starts moving things around. He tosses unseen memories into piles, shuffles from one to the next like he’s scrolling pages of a book. He grabs the ones he needs and pushes the ones he doesn’t off to the side. 

He rubs his temples when he’s done and opens his eyes. For just a second Terry sees the red flames of hell then Nicky starts messing with his collar, cleaning up the edges and flattening it down. He picks up his screwdriver. 

Nicholas again. Shoot. Terry sighs. 

“You worried about being a good dad, Nicholas?” Terry repeats, not sure where in the conversation Nicholas thinks they are. 

“I’m not worried,” Nicholas says stiffly. “I just need to not have Nick’s strong memories clogging things up. If I just have the good, normal memories with Dad– Jody not Glenn obviously–then things will just go smoother. It’ll be better.”

“You can’t just forget Glenn,” Terry says. “He gave Nick good memories. Taught you a lot.”

“He gave Nick weed when he was thirteen,” Nicholas bites. “You know what that’s done to us?”
Terry crosses his legs and settles in. There is a good chance that if Terry’s next sentence isn’t perfect he’s going to get Nicholas’s long Just Say No To Drugs lecture. 

“You had a rough time for a while, but things leveled out,” Terry says. Nicky hasn’t been uselessly blazed for an entire week in years. He can actually deal with most of his problems instead of smoking his problems.  

“Bad things happen all the time Nicholas,” Terry says. “You got through, you survived. Ignoring that, and ignoring the person you’ve become isn’t going to help. Who knows, maybe having experience with pain will help you relate to your kid when they are going through a hard time.” It’s not a perfect sentiment. Acting like trauma and hardship makes someone a better person is at best a condescending lie, but trauma happens. 

Darryl and Grant floundered around with sharing trauma, trying to figure out how much to share with one another and where to find common ground and how to support each other through the hard stuff. They figured it out. 

More importantly for Terry it was something that helped him and Ron figure out their relationship. Terry’s dad died. That is something that still hurts somewhere so far down in the well of himself that he still doesn’t know how to heal it, but having Ron around, someone who was damaged so thoroughly by the monster that was his father made it easier to talk to him about the hard things. 

“Kid won’t have trouble,” Nicholas says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll protect him.” It’s a heartbreaking statement. A belief only a thirteen year old would have. It kills Terry to hear it, because there’s no control over that stuff. There’s none. 

“Shoot.” Nicholas puts his head in his hands again. He looks pained. “I don’t want to remember this stuff. I don’t want Nicky’s memories.” He presses his fist into his temple. Squeezes his eyes shut.

Terry reaches a hand through the gap and puts it on Nicholas’s back. He doesn’t know what to do except wait, and possibly lock Nicholas in the kitchen until he lets Nicky come back, but he’ll make that decision a little later. 

Nicholas takes a couple moments, just rocking back and forth and pressing his hand to his head, then he sniffs, picks up his screwdriver and starts in again on the screws. He’s ignoring the problem, doing something to keep Nicky’s memories down.

Terry huffs out a breath. Thinks through things, and what they did as teens to tempt out Nick when Nicholas was driving them mad. He decides he wants to do something for real, then says, 

“Can I see your phone?”

Nicholas frowns deeply, instantly suspicious.

“Why?”

“ I want to see your camera reel,” Terry says. There’s no use lying. 

“No,” Nicholas snaps. “There’re memories in there. I don’t want them.” 

“There sure are-” Terry agrees, “but I want to show you the one of you and Glenn at-”

Nicholas starts humming very loud. Focuses more and more of his attention on the fridge. 

“-the one of you two at Universal Studios when he finally agreed to take you,” Terry says, louder to get over the volume of Nicholas’s humming. He’s committing warfare on Nicholas at this point, but it seems necessary. He feels only slightly guilty until Nicholas…or Nicky more likely, clenches up almost entirely into himself and yells, 

“Terry, grab it!” He covers one of his ears, repeats, “Grab it quick. Back pocket.”

Terry lunges for Nicky’s phone and picks it out of his pocket just before Nicholas lashes out. Terry yanks it back to his side of the counter/fridge divide and punches in Nicky’s code. He knows all of them. Privilege of being the tech guy and the office guy and the everything guy for the team. 

Nicholas isn’t having it. He shoots a hand out and grabs Terry’s shirt, his arm, anything he can get his hands on. Terry fights him off and scrolls as quickly as he can through his photo reel with the other. He finds the old Universal Studios pictures saved carefully in a folder labeled, Glenn Dad.  

“Look, he finally took you,” Terry says. He turns the phone around so Nicholas can see the photos. There are selfies of him and Glenn in lines for rides and eating soft pretzels. He slides to the next picture, and then the next. “He wasn’t great, but he was trying.”
Nicholas growls, but it doesn’t last long. He drops away from Terry and scoots until he’s resting his back against the far wall. He curls up again. 

“You can’t just ignore half of your memories because they don’t fit Nicholas’s perfect world,” Terry says. Nicholas’s childish world. “People make mistakes and they do good things to make up for it and they try harder and fail again and again, and you’re going to do all of those things too, and as long as you’re trying it’ll be alright.” Terry licks his lips, “I mean look at us. All of our dads are idiots, but they’re trying. With the exception of maybe Lark, we all like our dads well enough, and we all turned out alright.”

Nicholas stares at the cracked floor tile a foot in front of Terry. “What if he turns out like Lark though?” Nicholas mumbles. 

“One in a million chance,” Terry says. He hopes he’s right.  

Nicholas drops his head against the wall. 

“You really think it’ll be alright?” Nicholas asks. Terry knows that Nicky knows it will be alright, but sometimes it’s nice to hear it from someone else. 

“It’ll be alright.” 

Nicholas nods. He shifts where he’s sitting, and fiddles with his collar again. Untucks his shirt. Nicky’s confidence slips back over his shoulders like a jacket. 

“I need to copy those pictures onto your phone,” Nicky says. He caps the statement with the tell-tale Glenn guhaf-laugh. “Keep you around for emergency deprogramming, just in case. It’s going to be a long couple of months.”

“A long eighteen years,” Terry counters. He smiles at Nicky, and Nicky returns the expression, albeit a little more warily. “You’ll get better at this,” Terry says, “You got better at other things.”

Nicky nods. Scratches at his collar. 

“Oh hey,” Terry says. “While Nicholas is hiding near the surface can you ask him to finish fixing the fridge?”

Nicky smirks.

“And Lark’s going to need his crossbow bolts back.”

“ So needy,” Nicky says.

“Just like your kid will be,” Terry says. He slaps a hand onto Nicky’s shin and gives him a completely unsympathetic look. “I’m giving you practice.” 

Nicky looks up at the ceiling. “I think I’m going to hang out around here for a bit,” he says. “I’ll grab the bolts later, and I’ll fiddle with the fridge and toaster oven.” 

“Perfect,” Terry says, delighted that Nicky already read his mind about the oven. “Let me know if you need anything.” 

Nicky nods and Terry gets back to his feet.

“Hey Terry,” Nicky says. Terry turns around. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.”

Chapter Text

Sparrow returns to his human form gasping for air. Terry’s there, holding a water bottle, and a rag. 

“Where’s Lark?” Sparrow says, tripping over his words and losing a battle with his knees. 

Terry grabs his shoulder and keeps him from slipping down the brick wall at his back.

“He’s with Grant,” Terry says simply. Sparrow always asks for Lark when he contorts back into his human form. Usually they can provide. “You gonna be sick?”
Sparrow turns inward for a second, taking stock of his toes, shins, chest and arms, head…stomach. 

“Yeah,” Sparrow says, nodding suddenly.

“Let’s get you somewhere nicer.” Terry hoists himself under Sparrow’s arm and walks him eight feet to the grassy patch next to the abandoned gas station. Sparrow prefers puking on grass, something all of them unfortunately know by now. His transformations don’t go as well here as they do in the Forgotten Realms. Just like Terry’s spells are harder to cast on this side of the planar divide. 

On Earth Sparrow comes back feeling like his bones have snapped. He’s tired, and, if he ate anything in wolf form, barfing up blood, fur, and meat. 

Sparrow hates it.

He leans over and wretches. Wretches again. It’s red and chunky and Sparrow whines not unlike his wolf form between each expulsion. Curses. No wonder he’s a vegan. Terry would be too if his only experience of meat was upchucking it once a week. 

When he’s finally done he spits into the grass, long strands of red spittle hanging while he blows his nose and groans. 

Terry reaches down and touches his shoulder with his water bottle. One of the athletic gatorade ones that he doesn’t have to touch with his mouth, can just squirt it in. 

Sparrow sprays it into his mouth, swishes, does it again. Washes down his face when he’s done. Terry hands him the rag.

He looks miserable, but he still pushes himself off the ground to a standing position. He sways, but stays upright. Always manages to pull himself upright. 

“Everyone okay?” Sparrow asks. 

Terry debates telling him about Lark’s leg but decides to go for it. He’s going to find out eventually anyway.

“Lark got himself good on a piece of metal,” Terry says. Lot’s o blood, but we think he’ll be fine.”

“I can heal him,” Sparrow says. He looks around to spot the other half of their team, but it’s too late. Terry sent them away ten minutes ago on a speed run to the local hospital. 

“Can’t,” Terry tells Sparrow. “You’re tapped out on magic for the day.” Terry’s been keeping track, by the time Sparrow had turned into the love wolf his spells were trickling down to nothing. His tank was empty. He was surprised Sparrow could even transform the way he was going. 

“How bad?” Sparrow asks, he runs a hand down his face, momentarily looking a lot like his father.

“Just bloody,” Terry says. “He was going to let Nick cauterize it then just glue it back together, but Grant and I insisted on taking him in.”  

“Thank god,” Sparrow mumbles. He looks around at the rest of the battle ground. There’s barely anything to show for the fight, just some grey dust and the battle wounds they now carry. 

“You feeling better?” Terry asks. 

“Feel like shit,” Sparrow says. He takes another swig of water, spits pink fluid out onto the pavement. There’s something stuck in his teeth. Why the remains of the monster didn’t turn back into dust when everything else was destroyed is beyond Terry’s comprehension, but it didn’t. It lingers on Sparrow and on Terry’s clothes like cigarette smoke.

“Let’s get back.” Terry nods to the truck he’s got parked across the roadway. It’s an old Toyota Tacoma with badly placed fire decals that Nick thought were very funny. Sparrow follows him slowly. He looks like his bones ache. 

Terry turns over the engine, thanking whatever deity might be in the universe that it turns on first try. 

Sparrow sighs as he slips into the passenger seat. 

“Hospital?” Sparrow asks. 

“Home,” Terry counters, but he looks at Sparrow’s face, determined and worried, and knows that they’re going to the hospital. Lark will be happy to see his brother. Everyone’s lives will be easier with those two together. 

“Hospital,” Terry relents. He shoves the truck into gear. The tires rumble as he pulls away onto the dusty road. 

“So you left those three chucklefucks alone together, eh?” Sparrow asks once they’re at a good speed, cruising down back roads. Terry grins. Sparrow and Terry are the functional ones. Can’t leave the other three alone too long, they’ll wind up fist fighting in a gutter. 

“They’ll be fine for a half hour,” Terry says with unchecked optimism. “Anyway, I was worried about you.” 

Sparrow waves him off. 

“You’re always disoriented when you get back,” Terry insists.

“Grant could have snatched me up.”

“Didn’t want him driving my car.”

“Really?”

Terry’s fake smile falters. 

“Just needed a break from them,” Terry says quietly. They’re a lot. A lot of arguing, a lot of screaming and fist bumping after a good fight. A lot of unhealthy emoting. He hated seeing how alive Grant looked after being shoved in the chest so hard he flew back six feet. Terry isn’t in the mood. 

“I know you told me already, but it was Lark’s leg?”

“Yeah,” Terry says again. Sparrow’s memories will solidify here in a few minutes, until then he doesn’t mind repeating. “Sliced right up. He’ll need stitches, at least until you get your powers back.”

Sparrow nods and looks out the window. The stars are out, bright and certain. Sparrow traces Gemini with his finger, then Canis Major. His dad taught him every star in the sky during the year he and Lark took off from regular school. They were their own suns at that time, burning too hot and lighting the world on fire. Sometimes a little too literally. 

“You okay?” Sparrow asks. “You seem quiet.”

Terry shrugs. 

“My flaming swirl spell didn’t work.” 

That wasn’t it. His earthbind one didn’t work either. Instead of gaining momentum he feels like he is losing it. Feels like the harder he tries to fight the doodler the more he loses. The more he struggles to keep his head above water, the faster he sinks. Quicksand. 

“Are we ever going to get there?” Terry asks. They’ve been fighting so long, and none of it seems to make a difference. The doodler stays resolutely in the sky. The world still looks like it’s ending. 

Sparrow rests his head against the seat. The rumble of the road is the only thing that exists for a while.

“Maybe Lark and I are Sisyphus and this is our punishment,” Sparrow says. “The same fight over and over forever.” 

“You and Sparrow barely understood what you were doing.” They’ve hashed it out over and over. Can they blame the twins? Should they? Does it matter? 

“We didn’t understand the enormity of it,” Sparrow says. “We knew we were releasing the doodler. We wanted to show that we were powerful. I thought between the Love Wolf and Lark’s sheer strength we could somehow take it on. Prove something. Look at us now, my powers are fluctuating, Lark’s falling apart and we’re getting nowhere.”

“Icarus then,” Terry says, “You flew too close to the sun.” 

“Pulled the sun to us,” Sparrow says. “I hate that we dragged you all along.” 

Terry hates it sometimes too. He wonders what a normal life would look like; an office job at some company he doesn’t really care about, a wife, a dog. Adopted kids. Then he looks at Sparrow, and it tugs at his heartstrings. Their’s isn’t a friendship of convenience, it’s a house with so many awkward additions and appliances repaired with duct tape and ingenuity that it’s indestructible or at least irreplaceable. Pieces fall off, things spring leaks, but they just keep building. That’s what he wants more than anything in his life. People he cares about. Who care about him in return. 

“The universe did the dragging first,” Terry says. It’s a polite middle-man statement. They’re all involved with this because their dads were involved in this. Did Lark and Sparrow make it worse? Yes, but Terry, Nick, and Grant could have walked away years ago, and they chose not to. 

“The universe in her infinite wisdom, cursed us with one another,” Sparrow smirks. An adage they say to one another when they’re at wits end. When there’s nothing else to say to explain why they are to each other what they are. 

“You know I love you,” Terry says. “Would go to the ends of the earth to stop the doodler with you.”

“Even when it’s fruitless and we suck at it,” Sparrow asks so quietly that it might as well have been just to himself.

“Especially when it’s fruitless, and none of my magic works and we all need a month’s vacation.” 

Sparrow reaches across the space in the truck and squeezes Terry’s shoulder. That’s all he needs to say. 

Terry turns the steering wheel, and Sparrow’s phone rings as they pull out onto a main road. 

“There it is,” Sparrow says sadly. 

“There what is?”

“Nick threatened a nurse, and someone’s calling the cops because Grant forgot to leave his 9mm in the car.”

“Shit,” Terry curses. He speeds up a little. “Knew we shouldn’t have left them all alone.”

Chapter Text

It’s loud, so goddamn loud. Finally. Lark’s close enough that he can almost touch the speaker in the dirty concert venue. He can feel the vibration of the drumbeats and the screeching of the guitar riffs. Rattlesnake’s vocals shiver along his arms. 

He doesn’t have to feel anything else, just the music punching him over and over and over. It’s better this way. He doesn't want to be in the world right now. There’s still blood on his shirt from the person the last incursion ate. There’s dirt and something black under his nails. His hair smells like burnt plastic and smoking bones. He shakes with the loss of adrenalin from his body. The harsh come-down from a fight. 

He could almost handle all of that if he couldn’t also feel the distance between every molecule in his body. He can feel the open space yearning for the black that used to take up residence there. It screams. He would curl up next to Sparrow tonight if he could, for a moment relaxing next to the one person whose body cries with the same need. He could be soothed by its familiarity, but Sparrow is sleeping next to Rebecca, and Lark’s at a concert with Nicky. 

Someone taps Lark on the shoulder. He turns around to find Nicky has finally made his way back. He holds out a cup. Sloshing brown beer. Nicky motions to his ears. Says something Lark doesn’t catch and can’t lip read under the snatches of light coming from the stage. Nicky grumbles and pulls out his phone. He taps on his notes app then holds it up.

“Put in earplugs.” 

Lark shakes his head. He wants the thrumming. He wants the noise. He wants the pain. He wants it to reverberate in his body for hours after the concert ends. 

Nicky gives him a stern look. Always the safety nut at music events, like he’s somehow the only expert amongst them when it comes to ear protection. Lark wears earplugs on the shooting range, but he needs the noise tonight. 

Nicky taps him and motions again. When Lark doesn’t move he takes a sip of his drink, then sets it down at his feet. He pulls a backup pair of earplugs from his pocket. They’re the new fancy ones that look like one-way-only butt plugs, clear plastic flaps in three circles around a center cone. Nicky holds one out for Lark with a mother-hen, Narcolas stare. Lark scowls, but doesn’t resist when Nicky leans in and starts wiggling it into place. It’s not as bad as Lark thought it would be. He’s still close enough to the speaker that he can feel the music. They don’t even dull the noise that much, just take out some of the ambient sounds and make the vibration inside his ears less painful. It’s not bad, Lark has to admit, he’s had worse experiences with things going in his ears. 

He drinks his beer. Nicky actually made a good choice on the brand. Hoppy and rich. Nicky probably took his time getting them so he could have a better view of the stage. Lark knows Nicky’s not particularly happy with Lark’s location choice. They’re too far off to the side for a clear view. They’re huddled up closer to the speakers than the band. Nicky let him pick the spot tonight, because Lark is the most unsettled, and Nicky doesn’t want to find out how desperate he really is. Lark doesn’t really want to know how desperate he is either. 

The music slows for an interstitial, and Lark tries not to growl while the lead singer mumbles something about his wife into the microphone. Just play music , Lark thinks. He reaches out for the speaker, hoping it’ll start vibrating again. Vibrate right into his will to live. 

“You good?” Nicky leans into his line of sight. Lark feels the world go wobbly under his feet. He smoked with Nicky out back before the show. His hands shook around the blunt. He’s only two beers in. Stuff mingles with his meds in an unhappy way, but this feels worse. He feels angry, and ragged, and fucking horny. Nicky’s right next to him, breathing near his face trying to talk. They’re up against the rail, other people jostling around them. The music still won’t start. It hurts. So Lark tucks a finger into Nicky’s waistband. Tugs him close. Nicky stutter steps, nearly spills his beer down Lark’s front. But he smiles good naturedly when Lark pulls him against his crotch. 

“C’mon Lark, no.” It’s still loud in the room, people cheering and talking and just bodies everywhere, but Lark can hear Nicky this time. He shakes his head then slips his own finger into Lark’s and carefully removes it from his pants. 

Lark doesn’t care, knew it wasn’t a real prospect anyway. He was just there. None of the guys ever let him get far. Grant chuckling and ruffling his hair. Terry getting all freaked out because when it comes to men he only ever has eyes for Grant. But Nicky, c’mon he could. It’s unfair that he’s queer in the trans way and not in the willing-to-fuck-your-guy-friend way. Nicky’s always been straight as a board. 

Lark knows the meaning of no, won’t snivel or connive, but he leans his head into Nicky’s chest and groans. He needs the music to start back up. He needs something to blunt out the feeling of his skin boiling off his bones. And then it blasts out. One ripping cord that lights every hair on his body ablaze. Lark shuts his eyes and lets it burn him. Push him hard in the back. He wants to fall into the speaker, curl up above the shaking magnets and vibrating diaphragm. 

Nicky cheers on the new song. His chest rumbles, and Lark feels the deep joy emanating from his body. Nicky knows music, sees it clearly like a book written out. Lark just likes the noise. He wishes he could understand it too. Wishes he felt anything more sophisticated than the raw need for distraction. 

It turns out to be the last song. Something Lark would have known if he were paying attention to the talking and not just trying to fuck Nicky. He can’t take the silence, and the lights that slowly tick on, bit by bit. It’s choking him. 

“Where do we go now?” Lark begs Nicky. Nicky knows where the parties are, knows the best spots for music and dance and drugs if he wants them. “C’mon, Nicky.”

Nicky gives him a bewildered, worried look. 

“Don’t go Narcolas on me.” 

“It’s a bad thing when I’m the responsible person around Larky,” Nicky says solemnly. 

“C’mon a few more hours, another band, somewhere. There’s gotta be something.”

“I don’t know man. Maybe I should get you home. I can get an uber.”

Lark pins him with as much desperation he can muster. He feels the doodler night crushing down on him. He can hear the screams of the woman they failed to save, just before the five-eyed lawyer with nails that were too long attached to arms that bent the wrong way bit her head off. He feels it writhing in his gut, like the blood and guts Sparrow puked onto his shoes not long after. Sparrow’s at home, asleep next to his fiance. Lark is here, scratching at his skin and needing more of something. 

“One more party,” Nicky agrees. “I know a place not far from here, kinda grungy.”

“Loud?” Lark asks, that’s all he needs.

“Not like this, but it’ll do for 2am,” Nicky says. 

Lark nods. He follows Nicky down a long road. He doesn’t know where Nicky bummed a cigarette, but he lights it on his skin and they smoke it back and forth as they go. 

“You know this is why they never leave us alone together,” Nicky says, blowing out a cloud of dirty smoke.

“Because we’re cooler than them?”

Nicky quirks an eyebrow.

“Because we’re reckless.”

“I’m reckless, you just like music,” Lark says. The continued existence of Narcolas keeps Nicky in check. Lark on the other hand can’t keep his shit together. The medicine is helping, but it’s not there yet. Not the right dosage, not the right prescription, can’t go full dose right off that bat. Titrate they say, while Lark claws at his skin and breaks down at all hours of the day and night. 

He takes a long drag, and Nicky turns onto a side road. There’s noise coming out of a door set below the street level. It’s a large basement apartment with brick walls that reverberate music that comes from two bass-heavy speakers at the far end of the room. It’ll do. Nicky wanders to the DJ and Lark wanders to a pile of people on futons passing a bottle around.

He doesn’t ask if he can join, just finds a seat, and the next time the bottle’s handed over he takes a swig. 

The woman he’s sitting next to is named Lindsay. She knows the DJ, asks him to play something heavy. It makes the molecules in Lark’s body humm but not fuse back together. He wants more. The booze quiets the screaming, but not enough, he’s still riled for stimulation, wants more. Wants something that will make the world beat with him. He tries for a release with a new person. He leans in close to Lydia, kisses, and licks, and paws at her, making himself way too obvious, but Lydia’s in. They stumble blindly for the bathroom, a side room, the first room that’s empty. 

Her painted lips taste like chemicals and Lark wonders if they tested the mixture on animals before she smeared it on. Wonders about the sourcing ethics of her lavender perfume as he licks a trail down her body. The sex is slow but utilitarian and it leaves Lark buzzing and panting, and a little less frantic. Maybe. The alcohol settles in like a blanket. Sex and drugs and rock and roll is something he’s considered a prescription for a long time. It numbs the feeling death leaves in his body. 

Nick finds him hours later standing over a decimated pile of chips and guac. Salt and savory and sour and a desperation for more. The party is winding down, but only because the morning’s winking eye is threatening. The DJ has played house music and quiet music and is fading away into a sunrise set played at some jam band festival two years ago. The noise isn’t helping anymore.

“Let’s go,” he tells Nicky, and Nicky is all too happy to agree. He steers Lark to the door, out and up. They stumble in the last gasps of night air to a park, or an empty lot, Lark can’t tell the difference right then. There’s something that passes for grass and they collapse into it. Head to head smoking Nicky’s last blunt. 

“Better?” Nicky asks. 

Lark doesn’t know the answer. He still wants something, but it’s quieter. A background beat behind a different need. A need to go home and cling to his brother and wait for a second person’s body to regulate his own. He can’t do it himself, needs the beat of another person’s heart to remind his what a steady rhythm sounds like. What unbroken skin feels like. He’s cracking in ways he can’t explain, hurting somewhere deeper than the Mariana Trench can hide her mysteries. 

Nicky taps his shoulder for the blunt. Lark hands it back over. The doodler opens his eye. Morning flashes, harsh and all-knowing. Lark’s shirt still has blood on it. There’s still dirt under his nails. 

“I want to go home,” Lark says. 

“I can make that happen,” Nicky agrees. 

Chapter Text

Grant has mayonnaise out, bread, a tomato soup in a pot that he’s adding basil and small bits of garlic to. Terry’s on his counter, talking lightly. There’s a ridiculous shirt for sale on his targeted ads, a sequel to a book coming out that he’s excited about. He’s going hiking with Ron this weekend. 

Grant smears mayonnaise on a piece of bread, slices Terry’s favorite cheddar cheese. 

“Have you finally made it out to the Bistro on Fifth?” Grant asks.

“Didn’t want to go alone,” Terrys says. Grant grins, puts the bread in the pan, adds the cheese and lets it sizzle. It’s not a hard meal, barely a meal at all, but it’s one he finally gets to share with Terry. 

“You have work until Thursday?” Terry asks. He reaches a hand out, low to graze Grant’s wrist. Holds out a pinky.

“Friday’s free,” Grants says, already reading his mind. He reaches his hand up, loops his finger in Terry’s. Lets it hang there while he flips the grilled cheese.

“I get paid tomorrow. We can hit it up together.” 

-

“I’ve got something for you.” There’s paint on Lark’s hands, vibrant blue and smears of black. A smile on his face that’s comfortably south of manic. Sparrow finishes the page in his book. Enjoys the moment for the split second before Lark waves him up to his room. Excitement floating off him like water. 

Lark needs his own studio. Sparrow keeps making plans to build one above the garage, or just clean out a section of the garage for him to have. The art supplies crammed between his bed and the wall are getting overbearing. He’s got canvases stored on the bare side of his bed, racks of acrylics in baskets up the wall. Newspaper on the floor and charcoal somehow smeared on furniture, courtesy of his last bad week.

“Close your eyes.” Lark stops them at the door to his room. Sparrow obliges, a grin spreading across his face. He hears Lark’s door creak open. Then Lark’s hand is in his to guide him over the threshold. He’s always trusted Lark with his full body. He feels safe stepping into a messy room, even with his eyes shut. As long as Lark is there. 

“Ta-da.” 

Sparrow opens his eyes. There’s a painting, cockeyed on an easel. Him and Rebecca, perfect facsimiles. Sparrow’s seated, resting against a tree. Rebecca’s laughing a foot away with Sparrows feet on her lap, a book on top of that. A candid moment Nick snapped with his camera months ago on a long spring day. 

“Wedding gift,” Lark says. He rubs his nose with the back of his hand leaving a trail of black across the bridge. “Also other gifts, but this wedding gift-” he says. “I was too excited to wrap it.” Sparrow walks across the room, almost reaches out to touch the laugh lines on Rebecca’s face but stops. The paint’s still wet. Lark just finished it.

“You like it?” Lark asks, desperate for some kind of approval on a job well done. A piece of beauty he’s added to the world instead of taken away.

“I love it.”

–

“It is an emergency,” Nicky insists over the phone. Grant gets up from the couch and the warmth of Marco’s arms and heads to the door. Nicky promised to use the front door, even if he’s portaling there. 

“See you in a second,” Grant relents. He opens the door and surprise surprise, Nicky is already there. Soaking wet while slush from the sky continues to fall on his shoulders. There’s something bulky in his leather jacket. A puppy head sticking out. 

“Jesus,” Grant says. He backs up to let Nicky over the threshold. 

“That was fast,” Marco says, surprised. He still doesn’t know everything, and especially not the hell thing. He also gets up from the couch. “Whats?- Oh!” 

“I found him on the side of the road,” Nicky says, “he was all alone and all wet, and I wasn’t about to leave him, but I can’t take him home because of the all dogs go-” Nicky makes a you-get-it face to Grant. “I’m keeping him warm.” With infernal heat . It’s the reason there’s steam coming off of him in waves. He’s already drying off.  

“Yeah sure right,” Grant says, staring. Tan fur, big floppy ears, a Marco trap for sure. “Uh. We don't have anything for dogs here.” It’s nine at night. Walmart might be open, they can get puppy food- but he doesn’t want to leave. He looks over his shoulder to Marco, and damn he shouldn’t have done that. Marco’s eyes are like saucers. He’s lovestruck. His hands are out ready to pull the scruffy thing from Nicky’s jacket and snuggle it to death. It probably has fleas.

“Welp, looks like I’m going to the store,” Grant says. Nicky beams at him. Marco frees the puppy from Nicky’s jacket and coos. 

Grant grabs his keys.

–

“It’s kinda cute,” Sparrow says, tilting his head to the side and watching Grant trace a bubble through the air. Nicky blows another batch and Terry cackles.

“Hilarious,” Lark says drily, a rogue spell or a dusty flower from Nicky’s hoard, they’re not really sure. The question is who’s trip-sitting their fearless leaders for the next couple of hours. Nicky’s the most obvious choice. He’s already having fun, blowing bubbles and watching Grant and Terry stare mesmerized at the oily surfaces.

“It’s like a little world,” Grant says. Terry giggles, reaches out and pops it.

“You killed my world.” Grant’s face falls, then he looks at Terry. Instantly a grin spreads back on his lips. “I like your face,” Grant says. He touches Terry’s nose, his cheek. 

“I’m out.” Lark grabs the car keys from Sparrow’s belt loop. “You coming?” He asks Sparrow.

“Oh no,” Sparrow says. “I’m staying right here. 

–

“Those are green beans,” Sparrow says. He points to the bush beans he’s got in one raised bed, “and those are the peppers.” Terry brushes some dirt from his hands, not all of it, he’s still working.

“What are we weeding?” He asks. 

“Tomatoes.” Sparrow knows it from smell, sharp and almost spicy. Earthy beyond anything. 

“I get some in a few months for helping, right?”

“As many as you want. We usually have too many, and we still have salsa and pasta sauce from last year.”

“Your life is so strange,” Terry says. Planting and harvesting and canning, and living as much off the land as someone can in the suburbs. Sparrow’s always trying to shove crunchy vegan granola into his idea of a stereotypical normal life. 

Terry digs his hands back in the dirt, pulls up a blade of grass by the roots, as low as he can. It feels good, the cool earth under his hands instead of something bloody or heavy or dark. It charges his body in a way he didn’t expect.

“You still have a bit of Oakvale in you, don’t you,” Terry says. Sparrow hums happily. 

“Hopefully not too much,” he says. “Just the right amount.” If his bushy plants and healthy looking veggies are anything to go by, he has just enough.

–

“This one’s a mystery,” Grant says. He taps one of the books Terry has laid out on the library counter. “That one is really sad, and you’re going to hate it.”

“How do you know? Maybe I like tragedies.”

“Terry, I know you. You hate tragedies. You like romance novels, action movies, and cozy mysteries. This-” he waves the latest New York Times bestseller in the bummer category around. “Will make you miserable.”

Terry frowns. “No one is ever going to believe I’m cultured.”

“Don’t be cultured,” Grant argues. “Why bother being smart and miserable.”

“Because smart is my brand.” Terry grins at Grant. Wrinkles his nose argumentatively.

Grant tsks. 

“As a librarian I’m not allowed to deny you a book. As your friend I can slip the real book out of its dust jacket and stick some Agatha Christie in its place.”

Terry hums. “You’re no fun.”

“I’m protecting you from yourself. You’ll thank me later.” 

—

“I hate it,” Grant says. He looks down at the tuxedo he’s trying on. Pushes it down and tries to flatten it to make something about it look better.

“You’ve hated every tux so far,” Nick says from the bench. “I feel like I’m in a preteen movie.”

“I feel like I’m in hell,” Grant says. 

“Hell has a great market district,” Nick says offhandedly. 

Terry fiddles with Grant’s jacket buttons. Tries to lay the fabric flat. 

“It’s nice,” Terry says. “I like it better than the tailcoat one.” 

“What if I just wore whatever Marco is wearing?”

“Because that’s boring,” Terry and Nick say with slightly different inflections, but at the same time. 

“You get to pick something you love,” Terry says. 

“Then I get to wear my armor.” Grant pins Terry with a hard stare.

“You get to wear whatever I choose for you then,” Terry grins argumentatively. Grant’s brow furrows in a particular way that makes Terry want to touch his forehead to smooth it out. 

“One last tux,” Terry says. “I’m sure it’ll be the one.”

“Whatever you say, best man .”

—

Nicky presses his lips to the microphone. An acoustic guitar that’s so unlike his rocker roots, held deftly in his hands. He’s a piece of art, Lark thinks as Nicky sways, makes love to homemade lyrics in a dingy bar in Grant’s small college town. 

“He’s fucking good,” Grant says. They both knew it, but have never seen it so raw. It’s usually yelling and singing like it’s a fight. This is something subtle and simple. Lark feels some kind of way about it. 

“You alright?” Grant asks. Lark sips his crappy beer and can’t quite put words to it. It’s what he feels like when he sees a painting done by a master. One that will sit right behind his eyes for days and days.

“Wish I understood music like he does,” Lark says. 

“He wishes he could understand sketches like you.” Grant looks over at Lark and grins. “Our little artists.” He reaches out to pinch Lark’s cheek condescendingly. Lark ducks out of the way and swats Grant’s hand from the air.

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.”

“Fuck you.”

“Eat my dick.”

—

“Lark, what the fuck did you do back here.”

“Nothing,” Lark mumbles, which is really the only explanation for the rat’s nest in the back of his head. He hasn’t done anything, including brush it. 

“We could cut our hair, you know,” Sparrow says. “If you’re not going to take care of it.” They’re both rocking shoulder length waves, and both refuse to change the look without the other doing the same. Switching places has been too handy for too long to change the game now. 

Sparrow teases apart another knot, careful not to pull, because Lark’s a baby about his hair. Sparrow shoots him with more of Hero’s fruity detangler and goes for the next knot. 

“I was thinking about a beard,” Lark says. Sparrow mumbles around the comb in his mouth. Takes it out to fight another chunk of hair.

“You think you can take care of a beard?” Sparrow asks. 

Lark shrugs.

“Sick of shaving.” 

“I’m down,” Sparrow says, “One month, reassess afterward.” 

Lark holds his hand up for an agreement fist-bump. 

“I bet mine’s going to look better than yours,” Lark says. 

Sparrow pushes his head. 

“It’ll just make you look more homeless.”

“Better than looking more like a professor.” 

–

“Sit.” Grant points to the bench by the door of the Oak-Swallows-Garcia household. Lark falls onto the wooden top. 

“These yours?” Grant holds up a pair of tan army surplus boots, identical in shape and size to the green pair of army surplus boots right next to it. Lark nods. Grant grabs them and plops onto the floor right in front of Lark. He’s still curled over his smashed wrist, looking grumpy and tired and in pain. 

“Foot.” Grant taps Lark’s right shin. Lark offers it up listlessly. Grant tugs the boot on, ties it off neatly, with just the right tension, the way he knows Lark likes it. It’s not the first time he’s put on or taken off Lark’s boots. He taps his left foot. Lark offers it up. 

“Now for the walking part,” Grant says. It’s sunny outside, a perfect fall day. Fresh air will help, he knows. He pulls Lark to his feet and opens the door to the crisp air. 

They walk down the stoop, onto the long sidewalk. Lark leans into Grant’s shoulder, shuts his eyes and breathes until a leaf brushes past his cheek. He winks an eye open, is greeted by bright red trees, fall air. 

“Better?” Grant asks. 

“Fuck you,” Lark says, smiles softly.

-

“Cotton Candy,” Grant says. He holds out the spun sugar to Sparrow who stares, confused. 

“It’s vegan?” Sparrow confirms. 

“Just sugar,” Grant says. “Honest to god, how you’ve made it this far in life without ever learning about cotton candy is unbelievable”

“I just- you know dad- wasn’t about sugar.” 

“And you and Lark were all about doing the exact opposite of what your dad said. Even just cultural osmosis,” Grant says. “Never even a picture?”

Sparrow shrugs. 

“I guess maybe? I just thought it was a fantasy thing, like unicorns or something.”

“Amazing,” Grant says for the twelfth time that day.

“How do I eat it?” Sparrow holds the small paper cone and leans his head to one side to take a bite then the other, can’t quite figure out the right angle.

“Here.” Grant pulls a patch of cloud from the bundle and hands it to Sparrow. Sugary sticky goo clings to his fingers and he licks it off. The perfect cotton candy flavor. Sparrow toasts, looks a little awkward, then stuffs it in his mouth. 

His face goes through a series of rapid looks, shock, delight, confusion, awe. 

“What the hell is that?” he asks, his eyes wide. He pulls off another handful and stuffs it in his mouth like an investigative journalist

“It melts,” he says. 

“Yep.” A grin is plastered on Grant’s face as he watches the other man become consumed with the mystery. 

“Are there other flavors?” 

“Sometimes.” Grant shrugs. They’re at a fair, so probably not many flavors if there are more than one. “It’s just kind of fun.”

“Very fun,” Sparrow agrees. He pulls another patch off, then another. “I think I’m in love.” 

-

“Is this some evil twin power?” Grant asks.

“No it’s some no-schooling bullshit,” Lark says. “Now hold my waist.” 

“How about you hold mine?” 

Lark stares Grant dead in the eye. 

“You’re trying to tell me Marco’s playing the part of the man in this scenario?”

Grant’s face flushes.

“Thought so,” Lark says. “Now hold my waist.”

Grant lets his hand fall to Lark’s hip. 

“Hit it Sparrow.” 

Sparrow hits play on his bluetooth. The music isn’t anything exciting, but it has an easy beat to follow and that’s all Grant needs to handle right now.

“Remember to count,” Lark says. “The footsteps are the same as we’ve been practicing, there’s just a beat now.”

Grant counts off once, twice.

“Eventually you’re going to have to move your feet princess,” Lark goads. 

“I will.” Grant, stomps on Lark’s foot, then gets back into place. 

“Fucker.”

“Three two one.” Grant counts off then pushes Lark backward. Right foot moving forward, left over. A simple waltz, and somehow Grant and Lark dance it like they’re sparring. They have sparred for so long that it’s second nature to dance around one another. That’s why it’s not strange at all that it works, that after several simple triangles Grant can turn and bring Lark with him around and over toward the couch, back toward the middle of the room. It’s the first time it’s worked, but it’s working. The first time it’s clicked. He and Sparrow could never pull it off despite several attempts.

“Look up,” Lark says. Grant does. Meet’s Lark’s eyes. His smile splits with amazed jubilance. 

“I’m dancing,” Grant says. 

“Easy as boxing,” Lark says. “Told you so.”

Chapter Text

Nicky shakes out his hands. Fear trails up his spine as he follows Grant into the kitchen. 

“You know there are professionals for this,” Grant says. He finds two beers in his fridge, cracks one and offers the other over to Nicky. 

“And what am I supposed to tell them Grant? That in one timeline my mom died, even though she’s fine in the other?”

“Just make up a kind of lie,” Grant says. “Like Morgan is your step mom?” 

The lie settles weird in Nicky’s chest. It’s not true and it won’t help him to make something up. He already lives straddling several lies. Nicky continues to shake out his fingers, plays out a chord in the air without realizing it. Unconscious fiddling. 

“Rather have you,” Nicky says. Grant takes a swig of his beer. Nicky feels safe with Grant. The man has to know almost as much as real professionals, right? Minus years and years of practice and supervised sessions and all the other important things one needs to become a therapist. This’ll be fine. The point is Grant’s got an obsessive bordering on psychotic fascination with self help and psychology books. He needed them, combed through them for years in a desperate attempt to fix himself, to make anything feel a little better. It’s an impulse he goes back to when something goes wrong. No matter how much he learns, it’s never enough. Nicky knows this about him. Needs him for it. 

“What if I do something wrong?” Grant asks, “What if I ruin you?”

“More than I’m already ruined?” Nicky chuckles. “C’mon man. I can’t get worse.”

“You can.” Grant is deadly serious.

“I want you,” Nicky says. He bites his cheek and then adds, “You hold people gently. You know that?” Grant knows how much pressure it takes to kill a man. He knows how much pressure it takes around Lark’s chest to get him to chill. He knows the pressure of a hug, and a handshake. He knows how to hold people gently. Does it on instinct. 

Grant swallows uncomfortably. Nicky can hear him trying to wriggle out of his skin. Hates compliments. Hates himself. Doesn’t believe he’s a good person. Can’t fathom a world where he’s called gentle. Called anything but killer. 

“Please, Grant.”

“I already said yes,” Grant sighs. He swirls his drink. “You really don’t want one?” Grant asks.

“Pushing alcohol on someone who has a history of substance abuse?” Nicky chides. Half grins. He still drinks, never alone and never when he’s this keyed up. Usually just in social settings. 

“Put Nicholas away,” Grant grumbles. “I’ve got Gatorades and some of your favorite LaCroixs.” Holds people gently Nicky thinks. Grant hates LaCroix. Only keeps it around for him. 

“I’ll take a lime one if you got it.”

“Course I got it.” Grant grabs a green can out of his fridge then motions back toward his bachelor pad living room. 

“Uh, where do you want to sit?” Grant asks. Nicky looks around at the offerings. Crappy couch, crappier recliner. Floor. Somehow the latter seems the most appropriate. He grabs a few pillows off the couch and drops them on the middle of the floor. He presents his seating arrangement to Grant for approval. Grant shrugs without argument, grabs a book and takes a seat. 

Nicky settles in across from him. Drums his fingers on his knees. 

“Okay.” Grant licks his lips and Nicky watches as his friend internally talks through what’s about to happen. Then says it out loud, “First thing you need to know is we’re not fixing you today. This isn’t a magic bullet this isn’t-” Nicky wants to butt in and roll his eyes and tell Grant to get on with it, but he’s trying to hold himself back. He’s trying to exist in the space with Grant. He wants to follow careful footsteps. “It’s not going to make things better. It might make things worse for a while.”

Nicky feels the lump right above his stomach, right below his lungs. It’s been chewing slowly through his ribcage. He feels ready, maybe, finally, to do something about it. Morgan Freeman died in Nick’s reality. There’s grief buried in there that’s so deep he’s not sure how to safely touch it. He’s too scared. It’s not safe. Like hot coils or a speeding sandbelt. 

“All we’re doing today is creating a safe space for you, or Nick rather, to actually feel something.”
Nicholas pushed the death away and so far back that it seems like a dream that Morgan Freeman died. But it exists on Nick’s skin, in his insistent memories. News of car crashes and cold nights leave him breathless. His mom’s death was a sudden shattering loss. 

And then Nicholas bucks, because she didn’t die. She was there his whole childhood, and she was there when he returned for a while from Hell. She was there when he wanted to come back to earth. 

Nick stayed with her like a stranger in the house, but no, not a stranger, Nicholas grew up in that house. But it wasn’t all of their house-

“Nicky, you okay?” Grant’s hand is on his arm. Nicky looks down. Nicholas and Nick are fighting again. 

“I’m good.” 

Grant looks uncertain, but nods and continues. 

“I want some agreement from Nicholas that he’s gonna let this one go.”

“You know he hates it when we hurt,” Nicky says. Nicholas jumps at any bite of pain, and goes into full protector mode. As clumsy and ineffectual as it usually is. He’s just a kid.

“And he takes this one personal,” Grant sympathizes. “His mom didn’t die.”

Nicky swats at certain memories, tries to find his way through the minefield. Nicholas’s mom didn’t die. She was a safe haven after everything wild went down on the infernal plane. She was a slice of normal. She didn’t die- Nicky clenches his teeth.

“He needs to let Nick grieve this one properly,” Grant says. He swallows, grasping for psychological straws. He’s in over his head, out of his depths and all Nicky has.

“Think he can hold off?”

Nicky shuts his eyes.

“I’ve got something to try,” Grant says, switching tactics deftly. “Deep breath.” 

Nicky tries to follow him, in and out. The ball of pain in his core squirms like it wants to claw through his intestines and scoop out his stomach. It wants to squeeze through the space between the cells of his skin. It’s fear at the possibility of grief. He knows it’s coming. Like a punch to the gut. Like puking.

“Put a hand on your chest,” Grant suggests. Nicky uncurls white knuckle fingers and flattens one hand over his lungs. “One on your belly.” Nicky follows Grant’s lead. It hurts to straighten out enough to breathe, but Grant does the same motion and Nicky mirrors. “Breathe all the way down to the bottom,” Grant says. “And all the way back out.”
Nicky knows how to breathe, fully in, fully out. He’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“I want you to talk to Nick and Nicholas,” Grant says. 

“What the hell am I supposed to say to them?” Nicky asks. He’s talked to them before. As an exercise in getting their histories straight, but he’s never been good at volleying their fighting emotions. Two broke kids trapped in his consciousness. 

“Reiterate to them how they’re feeling.” 

They’re not feeling anything. He’s feeling scared. 

Nicky feels his throat close up. His stomach writhes. 

“Deep breaths Nicky,” Grant says. “Just tell Nick and Nicholas that it’s okay to feel whatever they’re feeling. Do you know what that is? Do you know how to find out?” 

That’s something two counselors and Grant have already taught him. Naming feelings and where they show up in his body is a skill he’s fought for. Right now his body is screaming, run, hide, scream, fight . 

Don’t think about death.

“I feel really scared, Grant,” Nicky says. “Like really scared.” His body is dropping off a cliff.

“That’s fine,” Grant says. “That’s fine. Just tell Nick and Nicholas that you hear them, that you know they’re scared.” 

“ I’m scared,” Nicky insists. He’s scared shitless, right there and right then.

“ What’s there to be scared of?” Grant asks simply, not accusatory, just interested.

Nicky tries to inhale, but it feels like it’s coming in through a straw. “Hand on your belly Nicky. Keep breathing, It’s okay to be scared, but remember you’re safe. You’re in my apartment, in my living room. You’re not a kid anymore. You have agency.” Grant takes Nicky’s hand and puts it back on his belly. “Tell Nick and Nicolas that you understand why they’re scared but tell them they’re safe.”

“Scared this is gonna hurt,” Nicky says. He knows it’s gonna hurt. Came into this today fully prepared for a meltdown. He didn’t prepare to be bowled over instantly by his warring factions before even trying. He needs Nicholas to give up the belief that his mother is the only one. He needs him to step aside long enough for Nick to feel heard. He can’t move forward without some kind of understanding. He’s bridged so many gaps between the two lifetimes, but this is the gap, the void between their two realities that’s remained broken and depthless.

“I lost my mom when I was seven,” Nick says, shocking Nicky out of his stupor. “And you didn’t!” It’s a bite, an anger he hasn’t ever been able to vocalize. Nicky gasps. 

Grant’s hand comes off Nicky’s stomach like he’s been stung. There’s surprise in his eyes that he instantly tries to hide. Grant’s so out of his depth. All Nicky has. 

“He needs to stop fucking hogging my life!” Nick growls, presses a palm into his eye. “I wanna smoke.” 

“Nick, you’re safe,” Grant says softly. “I want you to work with Nicky here. He’s pretty good at feeling things.” 

Nicky’s letting things happen in his body that make him want to crawl out of his skin. Nick’s there. Solid like granite stone. He really wants to smoke. Really, really, really wants to smoke. Doesn’t want to be here. 

“Hand on your chest Nicky,” Grant reminds, “other on your belly.” Nicky feels his fingers play the C chord in his lap. A. D. 

“Nicky’s pretty good at feeling things,” Grant reminds. “Think you can feel what’s in your body right now?”

“No.” Presses into his eye harder. Through his one good eye Nicky sees Grant move his hands around thinking about putting them on him somewhere, unsure if he should. 

“I lost my mom,” Nick says again. “I lost her and he won’t let me go to her gravesite.”

Nicky hiccups. 

“No gravesite to see,” Nicky tells Grant. Ever the mediator. 

Nicky wants to cry. God he’s choking up. Feels like there’s ants on his body. He wants to run and hide, and he wants to cry. Hard. He is crying before his brain can catch up with his body.

“You’re safe,” Grant reminds again. I’m fucking not . Nicky feels.

He hears Grant curse nervously under his breath. In over his head.

“I lost her,” Nick gasps. It’s real. Like hell flames and Morgan’s Honda civic. His mom died. Grant finally gives in to his body, scoots closer to Nicky and opens his arms. Nick pushes him back, and yells, then rams his head into Grant’s chest for a hug hard enough that Grant coughs. Be holds him tight. Know how pressure to put into it. Nick cries. Nicky Cries.

It hurts. 

Everywhere in his body. Hurts worse than Nicky was anticipating it hurting. His mom died. He’s never cried the right way. He cried like a seven year old, and then he ignored it until he couldn’t, and then he smoked until he couldn’t. 

He can’t breathe. The ball in his stomach is screaming from his shoulders to the bones in his feet. It’s maybe better than it was when it was just a tightly wrapped ball of pain and fear, but it doesn’ feel like it right now. Right now it just feels like hurt. 

He pushes back against a frustrated and angry Nicholas at the side of his mind. He tries to listen to the whisper of a grown up Nicky reminding him he’s safe, and it’s okay to cry for the first time in a long time. He can’t stop crying if he wanted to. He wants to smoke.

“Feel it,” Grant whispers. “You’re safe to cry.”

Feel it in your body , Nicky reminds himself. You’re safe now. Safe to feel.  

Nick cries until he can’t remember where his body starts and where it ends. He’s a loose wad of tissue paper, a cotton ball under a dripping faucet. 

“You can be sad anytime you need,” Grant says. He rubs Nicky’s back. It sounds like he’s talking to a kid or a drunk Sparrow. Nicky doesn’t know how he feels about that. Doesn’t know how he feels at all. He wants a blanket and a nap. He wants Glenn. He doesn’t want to move from his spot curled half onto Grant’s lap. It’s safe there. Grant holds him gently like a kid in their parent’s arms walking home after a party. He doesn’t feel healed. Just raw and broken open. The edges are sharp and the nerve endings are facing fresh cold winds. 

Grant just holds him anyway. It doesn’t hurt where his arms touch him. This is why he wanted Grant. In over his head. Out of his depths. Holds him gently anyway.

Chapter Text

“Do you want to go over it again?” Lark asks. Grant taps his fingers on the dash, looks nervously at the park. Lark’s attempted to thread the needle between too late for kids to be at a park, and too early for night. It’s an hour where two men walking around a park is peak levels of creepy. 

“I’m just being obsessive,” Grant says. “Shouldn’t encourage it.”

“Just this once I’m going to,” Lark says. “It’s about your kid.”

Grant breathes in. Out.

“Yeah, one more go through,” Grant says. 

“Whatever you need.” Lark gets back out of his car, and Grant tumbles out the passenger side. They walk through the opening in the gate and trudge across the short stretch of grass. Grant takes note of every blade of green. 

“We’ll park there,” Lark says, motioning to the small parking lot. “Sparrow and I will meet you with Normal. Terry and Nicky think they might come too, but I’ll let you know at least an hour before we get here. Then we go through the fence opening and make it to the grass. You can carry Lincoln to here, but Sparrow and I think you should set him down in the grass.”

Grant repeats the plan back to himself, walking through the whole process. Getting out of the car a safe distance from the road, carrying Lincoln through the opening in the fence, setting him down on the grass.

“We’re gonna let Normal walk in by himself. He’s done it a lot before. Normal and Lincoln know each other, so nothing bad there.” Lincoln and Normal like each other enough, in the way two kids vaguely each other’s age like each other. 

Grant nods along. Lark continues his walk across the patch of grass and stops at the edge of the spongy playground mat. He and Grant scope the sky again, check the park trees for any suspicious hideouts. Grant stares at every house within eyesight. He hates it, Lark can practically feel the waves of panic rolling off him. Anything can happen, and the variables are higher outside the safety of his house, where he knows his neighbors, and every crack in the sidewalk. 

Lark and Grant spend a moment pointing out the dangers in the air and sky, then turn their focus back to the actual playground. Grant tests the springiness of the mat. Breathes again. 

“The manufacturer of the playground equipment is known for their quality. They have an almost nonexistent failure rate, and the failures that did happen were installment issues.” Lark walks Grant through the playground. They look at the bolts and joints and poke at the plastic of the slide. Sturdy, durable. 

Grant’s shoulders are relaxing. Lark worries they’ll tense up again as soon as they head back toward the car, but for now he’s somewhat reassured. 

“What does Normal like to play on?” Grant asks. 

“Slide, swings,” Lark says. “Sometimes he just eats dirt.” 

“Can’t he do that at home?” 

Lark’s a little surprised that Grant’s making jokes. 

“Different flavor here,” Lark says with half a smile. 

Grant breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth. 

“I can follow him through most of these obstacles,” Grant says. 

“You fit everywhere except under those tires,” Lark points to the five tires on the edge of the playground, half sunk into the ground. Little arches for kids to play under, “but he can’t get far there, and Sparrow can get in if something happens.” Grant keeps nodding, running every possibility over in his head. He looks at the jungle gym, the swings, the slide, the teeter-totter that he’s already said is off-limits. The merry go round that is definitely off limits. He goes over them again.

One more time. 

Lark waits patiently

“I think I’m good,” Grant says. He swallows thick spit, and fiddles with his shirt cuffs. 

“Tomorrow,” Lark says. “We’ll all be here. It’ll be fine.”

“Totally fine,” Grant says slowly, exhaling on the fine, and clearly not totally believing it. 

“Let’s get you home,” Lark says. He pats Grant’s back and walks him toward the car. “Marco and Linc’ll be waiting up for you.”

Chapter Text

“Stand by the wall.” Lark shuffles Terry off to the side of the door, and ducks farther into the room. Terry hurts. Can’t really tell where. He looks down. Something is wrong, just can’t quite-

“Shit- You okay?”

Terry looks up. What’s Lark doing here?

He’s boarding up the room, that’s what. Shoving a desk in front of the door. Checking the rest of the room for entrances. The ceiling is solid. Walls, drywall, but they’ll hold. There’s a vent but it’s too small for a human and especially too small for the- wait what were they fighting again?

“Sparrow should be here in about a half hour,” Lark says. He’s right in front of Terry suddenly, frantic and out of sorts in a way Terry hasn’t seen in a while. Terry needs to figure out what’s going on. If Lark’s worried then something is very wrong, or someone’s hurt. Lark never handles injuries well. His big green eyes say someone is hurt. Shit. Terry needs to figure out who. Take over for Lark. Lark always looks so scared when someone is hurt.

“What’s going on?” Terry asks. Gather info, fix the problem. 

“A curse,” Lark says. “You remember what happened?”

Terry blinks around. They were…doing…something?

“Whatever fucking curse they got you with is gonna get worse before it get’s better,” Lark says, breathlessly, “Can you give me a baseline?” It’s rapid paced, Terry barely catches all of it. “I need as much info as I can get.”

Terry still has no idea what to say to that. Something is wrong, and Terry wants to help, but can’t figure out how. 

“Shit,” Lark says. He fidgets in a particular Lark way, like if he moves enough, punches enough maybe somehow he can fix the problem. There’s nothing in the room, as far as Terry can tell that he can punch effectively. Definitely nothing he can punch that will fix…what does Lark need to fix again?

“Do you know your name?” Lark asks.

“Terry Jr. Why?”

“The spell they hit you with Terry. Sucks at your brain. Keep up.” Again he’s talking too fast and referencing things Terry’s got no idea about. If Lark wants Terry to keep up he’s going to have to slow down. Break up his sentences at least. Lark looks so scared. Scared to the point that he’s trying to tamp down angry as well. Terry wants to help. How can he help?

“Do you know where we are?” Lark asks.

Terry looks around for context clues, because, huh, that’s weird. He has no idea where he is or why he’s here. It’s not D.A.D.D.I.E.S.

It’s not his house.

“Terry!”

“Huh?”

“I asked if you knew where we are.”

“Lark, I have no idea where we are.” Terry doesn’t feel panicked about this fact, just odd. Seems weird not to know where you are.

“Good,” Lark shakes his head. “I mean bad, but at least I know how far gone you are.” He chews his cheek.

“Far gone?” Terry asks. 

Lark lifts his hands. They hover between them, like maybe he wants to pat Terry’s shoulders or comfort him or…something. But Lark is the one who looks freaked out so Terry lifts his arm and sets it on Lark’s shoulder instead. 

“It’ll be okay,” Terry says. “How can I help?” Lark is ill equipped to handle certain problems. He’s in fight mode and he can’t fix broken with fighting. Terry can help.

“Stay here,” Lark says, then disappears out of Terry’s line of sight. Terry tries to track him around the room, but it’s like everything has become pixelated and shifted. He catches Lark out of the corner of his eyes, and the man’s already off to the next thing. He has to spend time finding him again, and again he’s gone. He’s gone. Where is he? Is Terry alone? Was there someone here with him?

“Lark?”

“Right here.” The voice comes from his left. Terry whips his head around. Lark hasn’t left. Terry’s not alone. For a second he thought- but no- how would Lark get out of…wherever they are. 

“Terry you should sit,” Lark says. He licks his lips, and nods to himself that he’s making the right choice. He steps around to be in front of Terry then guides him gently to the floor. It’s carpeted, looks like an office for some middle-manager. There’s got to be something interesting in here to do while they…wait?

“What are we doing here Lark?”

“We are hiding,” Lark says. He frowns and looks around the small room. He does this thing with the pad of his thumb where he rubs it right along his top lip thoughtfully. “We’re waiting,” Lark amends. “For Sparrow. It won’t be long.”

“Can we go some place less depressing?” Terry asks. The carpet is red and the walls are grey and the whole place gives creepy-interactions-with-your-boss vibes. Maybe if they’re somewhere nicer Lark will calm down. He looks really worried. 

Lark chuckles quietly. It’s not a comfortable sound. 

“No this is where it’s safe. And it’s where Sparrow’s going to expect us, so we’re going to hang out here for a little while.” Too many words again, but Terry gets safe and Sparrow , and that’s enough for now. 

There’s static and something blares over Lark’s radio. They don’t all need radios–Sparrow and Terry can cast Message– but Grant and Lark are always chattering over them. 

“Grant to Lark.”

“Go for Lark.”

“You got him somewhere safe?”

“Yeah, waiting on Sparrow,” Lark says. “You got everything locked down?”

“Yeah. Easy, but the sooner the better on our caster would be great.”

Caster? Oh crap, Terry’s a caster. Does Grant need him for something? He starts to get up, is stopped abruptly by Lark grabbing his sleeve. That movement is certain and solid. Terry sinks back to the ground, even though Grant’s out there. Something is wrong.

“Grant needs a caster,” Terry says.

“Grant can wait,” Lark says. “You know what month it is?”

“What?” Grant is out there.

“What month is it?” Lark says, “It’s for-” he rolls his eyes around the room looking for some kind of lie.

“Lark really?”

“You’re losing your goddamn mind and I’m trying to figure out how much you still got rattling around in there,” Lark says.

It’s too fast. Too many words at once. They get lost and strung together and stretched like mozzarella cheese. It’s frustrating. He feels frustrated, and Lark looks scared, and Terry can’t figure out how to comfort him and Grant needs him now anyway. 

“Grant needs…something,” Terry says stubbornly. He has no idea when he talked to Grant, or what Grant was saying, just that Grant needed… argh! Something. “Grant-”

“Is safe. He’s fine.” Lark pulls his vape out of a top pocket and hits it. Then he chews on it anxiously. He doesn’t want to be here.

“Grant’s safe?” Terry repeats. 

“Sure this is a good game,” Lark says. “Let’s just repeat this back and forth for the next-” he looks at his watch, “twenty minutes.”

“Twenty ‘til minutes what?” Terry struggles to get the words out in the right order. He doesn’t like the feeling of talking right now. The words are all upside down and diced into uneven squares. 

Lark pushes himself up and shuffles over to a desk. It’s set weirdly in front of the door– which seems like a bad place to have a desk– and rummages around. He comes up with a deck of cards, a pen, and some sticky notes. He walks back to Terry and sits down. Or one of the twins sits down. It definitely looks like Lark. The tac vest and everything.

“Lark?”

“Right here buddy.”

Lark uncaps the pen and writes something on a pink sticky note. He turns it around for Terry to see. It’s nothing. Hieroglyphics and squiggles. Terry has no idea what Lark expects from him. 

“Grant is safe,” Lark says. He points to the series of creative blobs with the butt of his pen like he’s a third grade teacher. 

“Grant,” Terry says. He doesn’t know why Lark’s talking about Grant, but it’s nice that he’s safe. Why wouldn’t he be safe?

“Is safe,” Lark says. 

“Grant…. safe,” Terry repeats. Lark points to the paper again. 

Why did Lark draw nonsense? Terry shakes his head and raises an eyebrow at– Lark! Right Lark.

“So that’s not going to work.” The first words of Lark’s sentence slurs into soup by the time he gets to the last. Work? What work. Terry thinks he might be frustrated under everything, but it’s so hard to even keep track of feelings. Sparrow tosses- no Lark? No has to be Sparrow, because Lark is out fighting, surely. Are they fighting? Where are they? Sparrow tosses the pen back to a desk. Terry follows its trajectory. A desk in front of a door. That’s odd. 

“Terry?”

“Huh?” 

There’s a man in front of him. Dirty blonde waves. Tan skin.

“Sparrow?” Terry realizes after a beat. 

“Lark.” 

Oh. Lark. 

“How’s your arm?”

Terry squints at the man in front of him. Lark. He remembers, it’s Lark.

“Dammit,” The man says. He takes Terry’s arm and starts poking at it. “Soaked through your shirt,” he mumbles. He starts patting down the pockets of his vest, unpackages something white and sterile. He presses it to Terry’s arm and-

“Ouch.” 

“This happens when you get a mail opener shoved into your arm,” the man says. All Terry gets is the words mail and arm . The man presses the pad of white against his arm and ties it tight. 

“You still with me, bud?”

Terry follows the tan hand on his arm up to a frowning face. “Terry, you good?”

“Bad?” Terry says. He thinks it’s probably the right answer. The guy is in his early twenties, light hair, green eyes with specks of gold. Familiar somewhere deep in his chest. He looks really worried. Terry should do something to help him. 

“Terry? You know your name bud?”  Lips, moving, words coming out. 

“Terry?” The man says again. 

“Terry.” Terry points to himself. Points to the guy in front of him. Confused. 

“Lark.” The guy points to himself. His hand shakes. He looks scared. Nervous to the core. Terry wants to comfort him. It’ll be okay , Terry thinks. He reaches out his arm and pats the man’s shoulder. It’ll be okay. No reason to be scared.

Chapter Text

“Terry?” Sparrow peaks his head into Terry’s office at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. and glances around at the walls and walls of organized papers, piles of books and tablets, and filing cabinets stacked high. “You need a bigger office,” Sparrow says, shakes his head and looks directly at him, “Grant’s careening toward a meltdown and Lark and I are at wit's end. Think you can talk him down?”

Despite the overwhelming stack of work that needs done, Terry gets up from his chair immediately. He drops his pen onto a hastily annotated book they stole from The Library’s keep a few months ago and turns off his buzzing computer monitor. 

His least favorite thing is watching Lark have to tackle Grant to the ground and hold him until he stops screaming. If they can head it off at the pass then life’s gonna be easier on all of them. At a certain point though Terry’s the only one who can really do that. 

Terry opens his top drawer and grabs what he’s deemed Grant’s Monkey, but is really just a dollar store stuffie that’s slightly larger than his palm. He follows Sparrow down and across the compound stopping only briefly in the kitchen where he grabs an ice pack, pop rocks, sour and patch kids. All the things that work better when Lark’s in a bitey mood, but might help Grant ground himself if it’s a flashback and not a run-of-the-mill panic attack. 

Terry and Sparrow hurry the rest of the way to their well-stocked training room. It’s a large space with a huge area of mats in the middle, daggers and crossbow bolts stuck into bullseyes on the far wall, and chew marks from Sparrow on dog toys in the corner. In the middle of the room in shorts and a t-shirt not dissimilar to soccer gear Grant and Lark square off, not about to fight, but trying hard not to melt down. 

Lark is crouched, hands out placating. Grant stands breathing, counting, but not glancing around for things to ground him. He’s not there.

“Black mats,” Lark says, knowing what’s in Grant’s immediate eye sight. He looks up at Sparrow who gives him a thumbs up. Lark taps the ground, then continues. “My socks, ugly christmas ones from Sparrow-”

“Hug him or something,” Sparrow mumbles.

Terry chuckles at Sparrow’s suggestion then waves him off. He’s got this, has gotten this dozens of times before. He doesn't ask what set Grant off. About half the time it’s never really anything. Just life. He’s had panic attacks in his living room just because he let his guard down for a half second, or because it’s Tuesday. This is just life for him.

Lark glances up at Terry, doesn’t move. No abrupt movements. 

“Hey Grant,” Lark says. “Terry’s, coming in on your left.” 

They wait a beat, then Lark says it again. Terry scans Grant. His eyes are unfocused, his back is arched like he’s bracing himself against an attack. He’s scared.  

Terry takes a few careful steps over. No movement from Grant, or any acknowledgement that his surroundings have changed. Deep in it then.

“Grant it’s Terry.” To his surprise that does something. Terry’s voice stirs him.

“Knew he liked your voice better,” Lark says. Sparrow shushes him. 

“Grant you’re in the gym at D.A.D.D.I.E.S.,” Terry says. Grant nods, but Terry’s pretty sure he doesn’t understand. “Grant. You’re safe. You’re at D.A.D.D.I.E.S.,” he repeats.

“Floor,” Grant says offhandedly. He blinks and shakes his head. His eyes remain unfocussed. Terry takes another step. God Grant. It hurts Terry to see him like this. It reminds Terry of every fight Grant could be reliving, every moment he might have died, or any moment that one of them might have died. The list is long and painful. 

Terry reaches out his hand, lets it hang there while he decides whether to touch Grant or not. When Grant whines like he hurts Terry makes up his mind. 

“Touching your shoulder,” Terry warns. He taps the back of his hand to Grant’s shoulder. He flinches and chops Terry’s hand away. Ducks into himself. Not a fighting stance but a childlike defensive one. Terry looks at Lark to ask what the fuck. Lark raises his hands. No clue. 

“Grant it’s Terry. We’re gonna sit down okay?” He puts one hand on the front of Grant’s shoulder, the other behind, pinching him lightly in place. Grant winces, but doesn’t jerk away. Terry shouldn't be touching him. Really shouldn’t, but he wants Grant to snap out of it. Knows that Grant wants that too. He would be okay with all of this if he were in his right mind.

They all talked about it, after Lark had settled. Grant and Lark called a meeting, presented paperwork, Grant’s knee bobbing up and down under the table, Lark glaring to make sure no one tried to make fun of them. 

Advance Directives for Mental Health and plans of action. Legal paperwork telling them all what they were supposed to do if Grant or Lark were incapacitated because of their mental health issues. 

Lark’s was clear, as soon as he’s even teetering toward a meltdown they have the right to lock him up. Kicking and screaming. He’d rather be tackled then left stark raving mad on the side of the road. He escaped his youth without any major STDs, prison time, or giant non-doodler-related wounds, and he’d like to keep it that way thank you very much. To everyone’s surprise he put Grant down as the person who gets to make the call and barring him Terry can do it. Sparrow’s too compromised, Lark explains and from the way Sparrow looked down at the ground, Terry could tell Lark had already talked to him about it. 

Grant gave power to Terry, then Sparrow. They could lock him up if his desire to eat metal, or take a long medicine-assisted sleep became too much for them to handle. Before that, he’s got an action plan. People to call, words to say if he can’t spit out the truth. Who’s supposed to stay with him, and what script they can follow to find out what he’s thinking about. He’d written out measures to get him to calm down. At the bottom of the page were the phone numbers for his doctor and the mental health crisis team.

The caveat on both papers: avoid cops unless absolutely necessary.  

Grant would want him to pull him back, as safely as he can, but pull him back nonetheless. Even if it means touching him. He presses down a little, starts to sit down himself, hoping Grant will follow, but he’s not there yet. 

“Grant let’s sit,” Terry says again. Grant jerks away and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. 

Shitshitshit . 

Lark gets to his feet and follows Grant carefully with his eyes. Lark sucks with sick people but he’s great at restraining them. 

Get it under control , Terry thinks, before Grant starts clawing at his skin or screaming. 

Grant needs something he can feel. He’s not seeing, which might mean a flashback, which means grounding exercises. Terry reaches into his bag of things and grabs the monkey. He’s hefty for a stuffie because Terry took all the fluff out and put in rice and vanilla beans. His  tummy is a rough texture, his hair soft and long enough that you can rub it back and forth. He’s got a tiny sequined top hat and leathery hands. A plastic nose. Every part feels a little different. Terry had purchased him immediately one day when he was buying chocolate for a depression hang-out. It was perfect.

“Grant, sweetie,” Terry says, a knee-jerk pet name from far too long ago coming out alongside his concern. “I think you’re having a panic attack. You need to breathe. I’m going to count, and I’m going to hand you something. I want you to focus on those things.”

Grant doesn’t respond. His lips move like he’s talking, but Terry can’t hear a single word. 

“In two three four,” Terry says. He keeps a rhythm with his pounding heart. “Hold two three four. Out two three four.” He lightly touches Grant’s hand. His hands are open, his fingers pointing toward the sky. Terry taps the monkey against his middle finger. Grant sways, “Out two three four.” 

Terry slips the monkey farther into his hand, lets it lean until it’s also maybe accidentally-not-accidentally touching his forehead. A sensitive spot. It takes a second, but Grant’s forehead wrinkles. Terry counts again, and Grant’s fingers slip over the little critter. He pulls his hand away from his eye and the stuffie drops fully into his hand. Terry adjusts deftly to hold his hand under Grant’s to make sure the stuffie doesn’t fall to the ground. 

“Feels kinda soft,” Terry says. “Out two three four.” Grant actually follows the breathing. It’s got to be ingrained in his subconscious by now. The number of times they’ve all counted breathing for him is in the hundreds. He follows it easily. “It’s soft,” Terry prompts. 

“Soffff” Grant’s lips don’t move, it’s more the idea of a word. Grant’s hair flops sweaty in front of his face as he stares dazedly at the monkey. 

“What color is it?” Terry asks. He looks over at Lark. The other man has backed off a little. He looks incredibly relieved. 

Grant smooshes it around in his hand. Crunchy rice moves around under the fuzzy skin. The Monkey has a heft to it. The thing is perfect.

“Grant buddy, keep breathing,” Terry says. “In two three four.” Grant blinks slowly like he’s drugged or exhausted. Terry would be worried that he was drugged if he hadn’t seen Grant in this state before. 

“What color is it?” Terry asks again. 

“Pink,” Grant mumbles after a while.

“Good,” Terry says, even though the monkey is mostly brown. His hat is pink at least. Terry tries to put some positive emotion in his voice to cover up the scared, and to maybe hook into some part of Grant’s brain that appreciates praise. 

“You’re doing great, babe,” Terry says. “You’re safe. You’re at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. HQ. You’re safe.”

Grant continues to squish the monkey around in his hand. Terry’s patient, it can take a long time to pull Grant back, but at least he’s getting pulled back and not sinking deeper in. 

“Wanna sit?” Terry asks. Get him to the ground where he can feel the floor, his pants, anything really. Grant sways. Terry gently pushes his shoulder down again. No violent reaction there, just a slow descent to the ground. 

“Doing great, Grant.” Getting better. Grant sits, half criss cross applesauce half a defeated slump. He stares at the monkey. Continues to smoosh it around in his hand. 

“You’re at D.A.D.D.I.E.S.,” Terry reminds. Grant nods.

“Can you look up at me?” 

Grant moves his head around, but doesn't hone in on Terry for a long time. When he finally does it’s with a deadened lost look.

“Hey there,” Terry says. He forces a smile onto his face. It hurts a little around the edges. Grant blinks. “Can I have your hand?” 

Grant looks slowly at the stuffie in his right hand and blinks. Terry taps his left one. Grant looks over, gets the hint and slowly holds his hand out for Terry to take. 

Terry places Grant’s hand on the ground. 

“Cool, squishy mat,” Terry says. Grant nods.

“Squishy mat.” Grant’s next breath is deeper, steadier. 

Terry picks up his hand and looks around. There’s not much exciting happening around them. He scoots closer. He’s got rough denim jeans, and he puts Grant’s hand on the hem. He moves his thumb so he fully feels the fabric.

“Denim,” Grant says, unprompted. He touches Terry’s pants for a little longer then holds out his hand for Terry to take. 

Terry gently places Grant’s hand into his own, then flips it over so he can see his pink palm. He rubs smooth circles in it. He always does that for Grant when he’s like this. It’s a good sign that Grant remembers, that he’s here enough to know that Terry is with him. 

“Warm hand,” Grant says. He squishes the monkey in his other hand, then lifts it to his nose. Terry made sure it smells strongly of vanilla. “Depression monkey.” Grant sighs. He’s got a pavlovian dislike for the thing. He says it’s the stupid hat but Terry knows it’s the connection to panic attacks. The disdain in his friend’s voice makes him chuckle. He might be irritated about the monkey but Grant’s grounded enough to recognize it, and that’s a win in Terry’s book. 

Terry rubs more circles in Grant’s hand. 

Grant lets go of the monkey and touches the ground. Touches his shirt. He starts to look around. His breathing comes easier, and his eyes focus faster. 

“You’re doing so great Grant.” Terry says. “You’ll get through this.” Terry says. He encourages him to keep going, then he waits. Grant eventually picks the monkey back up and rubs his little belly. Then he holds him by his toe and drops him to the mat with a thud. Cackles. What a child. 

It’s a good ten minutes of small encouragements, little movements and breathing before Grant looks okay enough for Terry to feel comfortable asking, 

“You back?”

Grant nods, but being back is still only halfway through it. He’s here now, but whatever got to him is still rattling around. Grant doesn’t come back to earth from a flashback full-willed and ready to go. Grant looks exhausted, wrung out like a weathered sponge. Terry wants to reach out and scoop him up and take him home. He’s got a stack of paperwork though. Things he needs to get done before whatever horror comes next. 

Grant’s hand still rests in his. It’s warm and calloused. There’s hard work in every line there. 

Terry specifically needs to work on incursion cataloging. If he gets that done he can check for patterns they suspect are real. Terry runs his finger along Grant’s lifeline. Presses his thumbs into his palms and rubs out to the very edges. He hears whispering behind him. The twins mumble at each other at a volume and speed that only the other can process. A minute later Sparrow squats down at Terry’s side. 

“If you want to take him home we can shut the place up for the night for you.”

Terry shakes his head. He rubs another circle in Grant’s palm.

“I need to get some cataloging done.”

Sparrow looks up and over at Lark, then back to Terry. 

“We can do that, you know,” he says. “Just say the word and we’re on it.”

“Yeah but it’s-”

“-cataloging Terry. We’ve done it with you before. We’ll even use your color-coding tagging system. We’ll do it perfectly.”
Terry doesn’t like that. It’s his work. He can get it done, he just needs like 11 more hours in the day and an extra day in the week. 

Sparrow sighs deep. 

“Okay since I know you won’t hand the work over for your own good, can you at least hand it over for Grant’s? You need to drive him home.”

“I can get him settled and come back.”

“Or you could give it a rest for like a day,” Sparrow says. Terry hates that. Hates it very much in the depths of his soul. He bites the tip of his tongue and tries not to show how upset the thought of handing over his work is making him. 

“We got this,” Sparrow insists. “It’s gonna be fine.”

To Terry’s surprise he feels Grant’s hand close around his. His hands are warm and his fingers thick and cozy. 

“I think Grant agrees,” Sparrow says with a self-satisfied smile. 

“I agree,” Grant says, tired but clear. 

Terry’s being ganged up on.

“Not fair,” he says, and shoots Grant a look. Grant shrugs. He looks so tired. He drops his head into Terry’s chest. It doesn’t help Terry’s resolve.

“So?” Sparrow asks. 

“Yeah. Sure. Fine. I’ll go,” Terry says. “Can you and Lark really finish the cataloging?”

“Easily,” Sparrow says. “Take our boy home.” Sparrow rubs Grants back for a moment then gets up and goes over to Lark. 

Terry scritches the hair on the back of Grant’s head for a little while, then gently gets him up. He’s boneless and grumbly, and clutching his Depression Monkey tight.

For Grant, Terry supposes, He can let his work go for a day for Grant.

Chapter Text

“It’s retro punk,” Nicky explains. He’s enthusiastic, effusive, and Terry feels like the world is popping in his vision. 

They did it. Or they did something. A four person gang-up that ended in Terry getting to go with Nicky to a concert. Nicky frequents them. All the time, but he doesn't drag people along unless he knows they’ll like the music, and only stays as long as the other looks happy. 

They brought him a list of bands. A list of concerts that weekend. Nicky had to choose one show and then one of them to go with him. For that night, Nicky would have full reins to be as hyper music nerdy as he wanted. 

Terry still doesn’t know why Nicky picked him. Lark can get down with rock, and Grant’s at least fun at these kinds of things because he is very goofy when he’s tipsy. Sparrow loves music like Nicky loves music. But Nicky picked him, and he seemed very happy about his choice. 

Nicky skips sideways for a bit. He’s waxing poetic about harmonies and something about steps, or frets or, Terry’s just not that good at this. 

“Did you like the finally?” Nick asks excitedly. Terry doesn’t know how he feels about it but he remembers it, of course he does. There was fire involved. 

“The instrumental break in the middle.” Nicky puts his fingers to his forehead, pushes them out in an explosion motion. “Harmonica, trumpet. Genius. Or insane, but they made it work.”

Terry remembers that part now. He did like it, it’s just that it was all overwhelming and he couldn’t have pointed out what all the instruments they were using were if his life depended on it. It was noise, like really, really good noise, but it was busy and overwhelming. Terry stared and scanned the stage and tried to keep up, but it felt like it was moving a mile a minute. 

“I’m not supposed to care if you liked it right?” Nicky asks. He starts walking next to Terry again, matching his pace, and stuffing his emotive hands into his pockets.

“Technically not caring was part of the deal,” Terry says, “but I did enjoy it. Knew a few of the songs even.” He did enjoy it. He was still feeling a little tingly and happy around the edges but the thing he loved most was seeing Nicky’s eyes all lovestruck and sparkly. Which they still were a little now, but Terry catches something else. Something sly or…or mischievous.

“Nicky?” 

“Yes dear?”

Terry takes a few steps ahead of Nicky and turns to look him in the eye. He raises one eyebrow.

“What!” Nicky says. He’s holding back some kind of devilish laugh. “I’m just really glad you enjoyed yourself is all.”
Terry knows it’s not a crush thing, even though there’s embarrassed red touching his cheeks. He’s too head-over-heals for the Cassandra girl. It’s not nerves, he’d been doing well all night with the decision making part of his task. Terry’s not giving it up though. Something is off. He squints like he’s trying to interrogate Lark about missing weaponry and waits, and waits and then doesn’t even need Nicky to tell him what is going on, because it is so obvious. 

So obvious.

So obvious and yet he missed it. Grant said he was going on a date with Marco and could cancel but would rather not. Sparrow offhandedly said that Terry liked retro punk. Lark was trying to balance things on his nose and was staying resolutely out of the whole conversation, which is so unlike Lark that it should have raised alarm bells in Terry’s mind instantly.

“You picked me to get me out of the office, didn’t you!?”
Nicky bursts out laughing now that the secret he was trying to hold back finally spilled over the edges. 

“We got you so freaking good,” Nicky says. He stutters to a stop to bend over and laugh some more. Terry kicks him in the shin. Lightly but still probably harder than the situation demands. 

He leans down to Nicky’s level. 

“You all are monsters,” he says, but the corner of his lip is twitching up against his will. It was a good one. A great one actually. Using Nicky’s neuroses against his workaholism is evil genius. Unfair. Uncool. Incredibly good.

“So did you have fun?” Nicky asks. He wipes a tear from his cheek and pins Terry with a meaningful look. His brown eyes twinkle.

“Fuck,” Terry realizes. “I did.” 

He sighs hard and long suffering and he and Nicky relax back into standing. He had a really good time.

Chapter Text

“It really is going to be okay,” Terry says. Sparrow drums his fingers on his knees while Terry pulls into a parking spot. It’s a beat by a band Nicky found for him a week ago. It’s been playing and replaying in his head like the songs his mom used to sing to get he and Lark to sleep.

Lark isn’t with him. He is in the hospital. Sparrow can't sleep.

“I know,” Sparrow says, though he isn’t quite sure he believes it. 

Terry gives him a worried look, then turns off the car. 

They get out onto a black asphalt lot next to a long flat stucco building. San Dimas Springs. Terry walks Sparrow all the way up to the check in desk. ID out, name, sign in. Check for weapons. They left them all in the car. 

They’ll call him in when Lark is settled. Visiting hours are 3-5. Sparrow’s hands feel numb. His body feels numb without Lark. Lark . Lark. Lark.

lark

Terry finally stops rubbing the hollow of Sparrow’s back when a woman in a grey branded polo shirt calls his name. She leads him through thick double doors and back to a room that looks a bit like a conference room if a conference room was made with soft edges and simple, non-breakable furniture. Lark is easy to spot, hunched over in a chair, leg bobbing. His stare hovers just above the table. Sparrow nearly knocks the woman to the side to get into the room.

“Brother,” Sparrow says. His heart is doing a million things at once. His skin feels prickly with love and fear and precariousness. 

The woman does a double take when she sees them together. The same man, twice. Sparrow drops to his knees right next to Lark and turns his chair to face him. 

Lark’s hands are wadded up in his hoodie sleeves… Sparrow’s hoodie’s sleeves… The hoodie Grant says Lark demanded between sobs because it smelled safe. Underneath the hoodie is Grant’s faded t-shirt. The shirt they could wrangle him into the easiest. Then Terry’s sweatpants on his legs because Larks pants were so dirty, and Terry always has a spare outfit at Grant’s place. Lark chews on the cuff of the sweatshirt. It’s soggy with spit. His leg keeps bobbing. 

Sparrow feels scared. He doesn’t like that feeling. He knows how fear feels right before he’s brave. Brave he knows. Brave is the reaction to fear, but it doesn’t work here. Try as he might, he doesn't know how to be brave when what he’s scared of is his brother’s mind. 

“I’m stuck,” Lark says. His body stutters as if to emphasize the point. He doesn’t look right. No fire or fierceness or certainty. It’s like standing on the ceiling. Lark isn’t angry, or wild. He’s chopped up and tucked into himself. “I’m stuck here,” Lark says again. He presses a soggy hoodie sleeve to his head, and crushes his eyes shut. 

“Grant told me,” Sparrow says. He gently takes Lark’s hand away from his forehead and places it between his own. Lark’s hands are cracked and bloody from being out in the elements for two days. He looks rough; sunburnt on one side, scratched up and bruised everywhere. The cuts on his face are only half bandaged. Lark picks at things– bandages, scabs, paint, mission, his friends, himself– and Sparrow assumes that’s why he can clearly see the cut over Lark’s eye, the one on his lip, his cheek. The bruises that live alongside them are harsh and dark, but they’ll heal. They always do. 

Sparrow goes to touch the black and blue around his left eye but doesn’t let himself heal it. There will be questions if bruises come and go. Grant said they probably counted and categorized them on his way in, because Lark hurts himself, and they need to know when he adds more. He’s cruising for a one-on-one staffer. Someone to hold his hand and talk him through it when he wants to scratch and bite his skin off. 

Sparrow’s eyes track to Lark’s. They’re as bright and clear as ever. Depthless and terrified as he stares back. They haven’t drugged him to the gills, or they’ve tried and Lark’s sickness has bucked their attempts. 

Because that’s what it is. Sickness. It isn’t the Doodler, or bad days, or just Lark being intense. He’s sick. The spirals Sparrow’s always known were there, but never looked closely at, are too strong now. They grew in ferocity, like a hurricane catching speed near the coast. Sparrow moves his hand from Lark’s cheek to his arm. He rubs circles where he knows his name is tattooed under the fleece fabric of his hoodie. Sparrow’s matching one burns. Lark is the most important person to him, and he missed this. Missed all of this. There are tears in Sparrow’s eyes and no words in his mouth. Lark just looks– he chews on his hoodie– like a star collapsing in on itself. 

“I’m sorry,” Sparrow says, because he is sorry for so many things. He wants to offer a thousand apologies. He doesn’t know how to say he should have known. His twin intuition should have told him something was wrong. He should have known. 

Lark shakes his head. 

“I messed up.” He scrunches his face, nearly crying, then unscrunches it, then searches Sparrow’s face for something. “I don’t want to be alive.”

It’s like Lark’s reached into his chest and ripped out his lungs. 

“Oh, Lark.” Sparrow inhales sharply. His heart screams from his stomach, cries in the hollow of his chest. Grant told him. Told him as matter-of-fact and calmly as he could. Said Lark would be okay. That they were all going to help take care of him. Grant was certain. Grant had been in this spot before. He told Sparrow everything about the facility. He reminded Sparrow of his own experience at the hospital. Sparrow was the one who took Grant to the ER last year. Grant is better. 

Grant is better. 

Sparrow looks in Lark’s eyes, could his brother get better too? Some day? He has to because he and Lark are two pieces to a puzzle, two sides to a blade, and he can’t be Sparrow without Lark. Lark without Sparrow without Lark without Sparrow. Doesn't work.

He puts his hands on either side of Lark’s face and holds him. Brushes his cheeks with his thumbs and just watches him move, and sniffle and fucking exist. 

“I’m so sorry,” Sparrow says again. So sorry that Lark feels as bad as he does, that Sparrow let it get this bad, and sorry that the stress wore him so thin that his brain’s only outlet was this kind of release, and he’s sorry that it’s not him. 

Lark shakes his head. Really does start to cry. Sparrow guides his head to his shoulder and holds him tight. Lark feels like home. Their bodies hum with the same chaos. Except somewhere along the line Lark’s chaos started gnawing on him. 

“I’m bad,” Lark says, almost too quietly for Sparrow to hear. “Everything in me is evil and I can’t get rid of it. It’s eating me alive.” Lark pushes gently against Sparrow, a rhythmic rocking that Sparrow doesn’t think he can control. 

“Shhhh. It’s okay,” Sparrow says and runs a hand through Lark’s hair. He doesn’t know if it is okay, but he can lie for now. Lie until okay becomes true. 

Sparrow tries not to cry himself, but he’s failing. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s panicking a little under the false calm he’s trying to show his brother.

Lark untangles his hands from the roughed up hoodie sleeves and grips at Sparrow’s shirt. He envelops him as much as he can into his arms. 

“It’s so noisy,” Lark says. “Can’t stop, and it’s black. It’s all black from the inside. It’s not the road they said it was. Can’t control it anymore.”

He’s not making complete sense, but Grant had warned Sparrow of that as well. He said Lark wasn’t in his right mind when he showed up at his door. Made less sense when the crisis people put him in the back seat of their Honda. It’s still strange to hear the broken sentences and the nonsense explanations. He wants his brother. He wants his in-control, ferocious brother. This Lark is huddled up and confused. Picking at his shirt and the bandages on his cheek then snuggling his face back into Sparrow’s shoulder desperately. He’d been like this before, snuggly, or rambunctious, or wired, or over caffeinated, or too tired to move. He was just intense. He was just Lark, but this…  

“You all should hate me now,” Lark says. He beats his head into Sparrow’s shoulder. Sparrow tries to buffer the action with his chest, hand anything to keep Lark from hitting his collarbone too hard with his head. “You should hate me.” He says it again and it cuts so deep into Sparrow’s chest that he can feel the knife come out his back. Sparrow has a thousand responses on the tip of his tongue, shock and refutations, and a rumble like an animal’s growl, but he searches for the right one before speaking. 

“Why’s that?” He pushes Larks head a little from his shoulder to look him in the eye.

Lark’s bright eyes scan Sparrow’s face desperately.

“You can’t love this,” Lark says, like it’s obvious. 

Sparrow frowns, feels a familiar anger pointed in an unfamiliar direction. What fucker made Lark think that? But Lark is scanning his face with fear as deep as the ocean so Sparrow fights to school his features into something that won’t scare his brother. 

“I love you,” Sparrow says simply. How could he not? Sparrow has loved Lark since before the universe pressed them into existence. 

“No,” Lark protests. He shakes his head, letting his blond waves whip around. 

“Yes,” Sparrow says louder. It’s a game played by brothers since the dawn of time.  Back-and-forth yes-and-no. 

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes times infinity.”

“No.” Lark growls, but before Sparrow can respond again he says, “Why?” 

The game stops abruptly. 

Sparrow grits his teeth, buckling in for a fight. 

“Because-” Sparrow grabs the sides of Lark’s head, holds tight and presses their foreheads together. There is only one answer Lark will hear. “Because I am the love wolf, and there is no power stronger than the power I possess when wielding that love.” It’s a threat of force he’s more than willing to use against his brother. He’s daring Lark to fight back, because Sparrow knows he’ll fight harder. “I will love you until I win,” Sparrow says, bares his teeth just a little bit. 

Lark presses his head back into Sparrow like a fight is finally alight in his chest. He tugs at Sparrow’s collar, as he pulls him toward himself. Head to head the whole way. Pushes him back again. 

“It’s not me,” Lark says. He points at his head. “I’m something evil.”

“I can love that,” Sparrow says. He grabs Lark’s hand and pulls it back down so they can wrestle their arms between them. 

“I can’t control it,” Lark growls. He pushes his head against Sparrow’s.

“I can love you through that.” 

Lark crashes his body weight back, Sparrow follows, keeping their heads pressed together. He won’t let his brother leave his gravitational field and when Lark pushes forward again Sparrow counters. Sparrow knows exactly how to take a blow to the head. He played soccer, he can do a header. Knows how to track his brother’s moves. Knows how to stay in his brother’s way. Lark is fighting. Sparrow loves to see the spark of anger behind his eyes again, but he won’t let him win his self deprecation game. Won’t let him flay himself. Won’t let him believe he's unloveable. Sparrow’s the love wolf. That’s his power. He will win. 

“I hurt myself.” Lark’s throat barely lets him finish his sentence. A tear leaves a shiny stripe down his cheek.

“I can love you with scars,” Sparrow says. He thinks of the burn marks Grant told him were on his arms. The bite marks and scratches. 

“The evil in me is so powerful,” Lark says. He’s breathing in tiny sharp gasps. Sparrow grabs his flailing hands again and pins them in between their hearts.

“I am more powerful than any evil,” Sparrow says. He enunciates. every. single. word. 

Lark pushes against his head. Once. twice. Presses hard. Sparrow presses back. A force builds between their two skulls like a thunderstorm on the horizon. He holds Lark’s hands, counter’s Lark’s fears until he squeezes out a last thought.

“It’s your power?” Lark asks. It’s a question, a demand for reassurance, a damn broken, a world split open. 

“My power,” Sparrow hisses in return. He’s menacing, threatening. Powerful. “Power.” 

Lark’s eyes flicker up to meet his. They’re too close. The brothers’ eyes are crossed and soggy with tears, but they meet in that frightening place where chaos and anger and creation collided to make them. Sparrow will win this fight. Lark stares for a long time, then whispers, 

“ Power”

Chapter Text

“Ten,” Terry says, “rest are garbage.”

“Not garbage,” Grant argues through a mouthful of grocery store ramen. “You have no taste.”

“Better taste than you.” Terry’s empty bowl is set off to the side, the food decimated in three minutes like he was starving. 

There’s almost no furniture in Grant’s new college apartment except the appliances that came with the place. It’s just a bare blue-painted wood floor, three broken chairs and an air mattress. They’ll get the rest tomorrow, and the day after that. A slow move. They’re not in a hurry to get Grant’s stuff out of his parent’s garage. He didn’t get far from San Dimas. He did two years at a community college, and now he’s here. A library sciences major and a studio apartment a thirty minute drive from home. Still close enough for Terry to come over, to pass out on his double mattress when he’s too scared to sleep alone. 

The argument doesn’t matter. The content was never the point. The point was sitting knee to knee with Terry, eating food, and laughing. 

The tenth Hunger Games movie was fine. Originals were better, too girly for Grant’s taste but the remakes were the real garbage. Seven through nine were unhinged bloodbaths and Grant was into it in a way that made everyone uncomfortable. He and Terry laugh about it now, but the leading man was cut and his aim with a sniper rifle broke something important in Grant’s brain. He loved them. 

It’s already midnight. They’ve been together all day. Holding off the moment Terry has to go back to San Dimas proper. Just a little longer, they keep thinking, separately and still somehow together. If they just stay awake then Terry won’t have to drive away and Grant won’t have to curl up on his air mattress alone in a strange new place, farther away from his friends than he’s ever been. It’s a twin-sized air mattress. A few fluffy sleeping bags. Two pillows. 

Grant would sleep on the floor to keep Terry there. It’s unfair. They’ve never really started something official save for the kiss on prom night, and they never really ended anything either. Never stopped the other from dating, and never really approved of the other’s less-than-impressive partners. 

“Twelve?” Terry asks, holding onto the dying gasps of their movie ranking.

“Caliper was fine, but the whole attempt to make slingshots cool was a little forced.” 

Grant bites his fork, eats the last bits of his cheap food. MSG and salt coats his lips. He’s tired. Full of warm food. He can keep going though. 

“Has Sparrow made you watch that french environmentalist film yet?”

“The conspiracy one?” 

Grant nods. Sparrow’s girlfriend is very into it and Sparrow finds it very funny, but can’t refute it because Rebecca only tangentially knows about the whole Doodler-is-the-reason-the-world-is-broke thing. 

“Guy needs to pick someone less-” Terry doesn’t know a polite way to say aggressively centrist. 

“She’s available.” Grant shrugs. “And she wants kids.” He’s not convinced Sparrow loves Rebecca in any special way. He is convinced that Sparrow desperately needs her for his have-a-baby-to-stop-the-doodler hail mary. Sparrow doesn’t like sex, or romance. Just loves people like Grant’s dad described Jesus loving people. All-encompassing and unending. He loves Rebecca in that same way. It’s not better or worse than romance. It’s just different. 

Grant honestly worries that Lark’s already got a kid out there somewhere. That brat’s going to pop up as their little chosen one at just the wrong moment. 

Terry yawns, and Grant can’t help but follow. He needs to think of another topic, something else to keep them awake. 

“What about the Fast and Furious movies?” Terry says, and it’s so blatantly obvious at this point, what they’re doing that Grant can’t hold in his smile. Terry just straight up laughs, full and loud, and unabashed. Grant falls into him

“I don’t want you to leave, man,” Grant says. Terry holds Grant’s head against his chest. Grant can feel Terry’s beats of laughter against his forehead. 

“Man, I don’t want to go.” Terry rubs a hand through Grant’s hair. Something soft and intimate that makes Grant purr. He loves Terry so much. 

“We can sleep on the floor,” Terry suggests. They’re occasional optimists, but there’s no way he and Grant will both fit on the air mattress. Grant barely fits on it with his broad shoulders and sheer immovable mass.

“I’d sleep on the floor if it was next to you,” Grant says. He leans away from Terry’s chest to look him in the eyes. Terry pushes a strand of hair out of Grant’s eyes and smiles. 

“I could sleep literally anywhere at this point, I’m so tired of trying to stay awake.”

“So sleep next to me.” Grant shrugs. He stumbles to his feet, grabs his and Terry’s ramen bowls  like it’s a done deal. 

Grant walks to the kitchen corner and listens as Terry gets to his feet. He dumps the bowls into the sink. He tries to walk away, can’t. He ends up washing them because his brain won’t just let them sit. 

When he turns around Terry’s built them a nest out of blankets and the two pillows. It’s scrappy and sad, but it feels like going home. This’ll do , Grant thinks. He can live here if every once in a while Terry comes over to remind him of this first night in his own place. Curled up next to him.

Chapter Text

Terry finds his phone with fumbling fingers, flicks through names. Grant is with Lincoln today. It’s Nick and Cassandra’s date day. Sparrow’s surely busy with the kids or the Wednesday community gardener program. Lark? His finger hovers over the name. Lark knows how to plot potential incursion points. He doesn’t have magic, but he can use the items Terry brought with him.  

Or maybe Terry can just finish this. Maybe he can buck up. Maybe he can do it.

No.

They keep telling him he doesn’t have to do it all. He can’t believe that, but he has to right now because his hands are shaking. He’s not sick. Doesn’t feel sick, just wrong. So wrong. Like he can’t look at a problem and solve it, like he can’t see anything good at the end of the day. Like he can’t fathom finishing this search. The project sits in his chest like a lead balloon, dragging him down. He needs to sit. He needs to not be looking at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. work for a few hours. Just a few and then he can get back to it. It’s just been a hard six months, and a hard week, and it’s justified if he just needs Lark to finish this one thing. Lark can get it done, and maybe in exchange Terry can weed their garden or something. 

Terry pushes on Lark’s name, then the call button. It’s ringing in his headphones before Terry can catch his breath. 

“Terry Jr Stampler. What can I do for you on this horrid red skied day?”

“Hey Lark.”

“Yup. That’s me.”

“Um.” How is he going to say it. How does he phrase I need a break . 

“You still there?”

“Yeah. I’m out. Doing that site check,” Terry says. The magical energies in the area spiked high enough for a check. So Terry’s checking. 

Maybe he can finish it?

He can’t finish it. Can’t even look at it without wanting to cry. 

“Oh sweet,” Lark says. “Want me to meet you there?” He says it like it’s nothing. Like this endless work stretching out in front of Terry is as easy as flipping through one of his art books. 

No is his knee jerk reaction, except, yes. That’s exactly what he wants, but he also just wants to be able to finish it himself. He also wants Lark to just take over. 

“Ummmm.”

“Terry, you okay?” Lark’s about as intuitive about emotional things as a tree limb, so Terry must sound pretty bad. 

“I’m actually.” God this is so hard. Terry rubs his eyes and looks around. The world is out of focus. It’s too hard and it’s too much to consider continuing this. “God Lark. I think I need a nap.” A nap, sure. That sounds cool and totally normal. 

“Are you sick?” Lark pauses for a long time. “Terry, do you need me to come get you?”

“It’s fine,” Terry lies. “I’m just-”  He pauses, but now that he’s admitted he’s tired he can’t take the honesty back, it’s like he’s sprung a leak. “Lark I just need a break for a few hours, Okay? I’m just gonna sleep or something. I don’t know. Nothing is making sense right now and I think I just need to step away.”

“Holy shit, man.” Terry hears rustling in the background. “Where are you at, like exactly?”

Terry sniffles and tries to breathe, but the world is swimming around him, and he’s sinking into it. 

“Terry, I swear to god I’m chipping you when I find you. You said you’re at the hot spot?”

Terry nods, realizes that means nothing over the phone and manages to croak out a “yes.”

“Shit.” Lark curses again. “Terry, man I got you covered. Wish you had called sooner. I’ll get Sparrow or Grant to come get you.” He pauses, and Terry can imagine him running through a rolodex of phrases he’s heard the other guys use when someone’s freaking out. “Thank you for telling me?” It sounds a little forced from Lark, but he’s trying his best, and it makes Terry laugh through the tears. 

“I’m gonna go home,” Terry says, 

“Someone’s gonna drive you home,” Lark insists.” Just stay put. Don’t worry about the mapping. I got it. I’ve done it before. I can do it again. Blindfolded.” 

Terry nods. 

“Don’t call Grant. I’ll be okay,” Terry says. “He’s got Linc to worry about.”

“Yeah and he also has Marco,” Lark reminds. “New kid doesn’t mean he doesn’t care about you. Sparrow’s got one and a half kids and still loves me for some unknown reason.” Yeah but Lark lives with Sparrow. They’re brothers . That’s different. 

“I’m calling Grant,” Lark says. 

Terry wishes he wouldn’t. Really wishes , but fighting Lark is like trying to push the black sun out of the sky. He’s tried it before and so far it hasn’t worked. 

Terry hears Lark yelling something to Sparrow, fumbling the phone. There’s jingling of keys, and boots on a sidewalk.

“You still there Ter?” Lark asks. 

“Yeah.”

“Awesome. This is Sparrow, by the way. Lark’s got my phone. He’s calling Grant for you.”

“Why is he calling Grant on your phone?”

“I wanted to stay on the line with you,” Sparrow says. It’s definitely Sparrow. Terry can tell in the slightly chipper tone, the lighter and easier way he talks to Terry. In the fact that he doesn’t seem freaked out. 

There’s the beeping of a car unlocking, a door opening, keys jingling again. Terry feels his stomach clench with a kind of shame. 

“You don’t have to,” Terry says. “I’m alright.” Two car doors slam, and one Oak-Garcia voice turns into two. They’re talking about who's driving. They must be on the car’s bluetooth speaker.

“Grant’s on his way,” Lark says to Terry. “Nicky’s gonna meet Sparrow and I there so we can finish the survey.”

Terry feels like he’s falling. Everyone is coming? 

“Terry, man, you still there?” Sparrow? “Stay where you are. We’re on our way, it’s gonna be okay.” Definitely Sparrow.

It’s not going to be okay though. He just wanted Lark to come finish the survey, and he wanted to take a nap and now all the guys are descending and taking things over, and it won’t be his project anymore, and if they can get everything done without him, what good is he anymore to any of them?

“Terry?”

Terry hangs up the phone. If he just keeps walking, if he just keeps working he won’t lose his spot on the team. He’ll still have a reason for the guys to like him. He works hard. He keeps things going. He just has to keep working. Except when he looks up, the grid he’s laid out that he needs to survey is large and stretches out in a way that feels like infinity. 

Oh shit he can’t do it. Can’t. His brain goes off like a siren. Can’t Can’t Can’t. Oh God I can’t.

His phone rings. Sparrow. Terry sinks to the dusty ground. He doesn’t feel good. He feels weight crushing down on him. He feels tired in a way that makes his bones want to take individual vacations from each other. He wants to lay down in the dirt and stop being himself for just a little while. 

His phone stops ringing. Starts up again immediately. He’s going to have to face them eventually. Maybe he can pretend like the phone call dropped.

“Hey Sparrow.”

“Terry, I swear to god if you hang up on us again, I will burn down your entire library.”

“Hi Lark.” 

“What Lark means is we just want to stay on the line with you until we get there.”

“You don’t need to.” This is too much.

“Nope, but we want to.” That’s definitely Sparrow because the canned emotional phrasing slips out easily. “I could have Grant call you instead?” Sparrow asks, “Of course then he’d be talking and driving, and I can talk while Lark drives which seems safer.”

“He drives and shoots out the window on a weekly basis,” Terry says.

“Doesn’t mean he should.”

Terry has to admit the back and forth is loosening the pain in his stomach, the strain in his chest. 

“We’re about five miles out. You want me to tell you about something cute Hero did the other day?”

Terry grins despite himself. He doesn't quite get the word yes out, but Sparrow hears him well enough that he starts in on a perfectly timed five minute story about Hero making fighting costumes for all of her stuffies. She even pretended to stitch kevlar into their vests just like her Uncle Lark does with his.

Terry sees the car pull up on the other side of the grid just as Sparrow finishes up. 

“We see you Terbear,” Sparrow says. God Terry hates when Sparrow calls him that. Hates how it makes his stomach flip with a kind of hungry need for more. “Hanging up now, see you in a minute.”

“Yeah, sure,” Terry says. It’s mortifying to be found sitting, with a tear streaked face and his body given up.

The twins march across the dirt field and stop at his side. Lark crouches down to his level and gives him a steady once-over. His careful scan done, he gets back up and offers a hand out to him. 

Terry sways when he’s back upright. Gravity shoves its hand onto his back. He barely has time to adjust to the weight before Sparrow crashes into him with an all encompassing hug.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says. His cheek presses right next to Terry’s. Proud is not the word Terry would have used for having a full breakdown at a work site. Terry tucks his nose into Sparrow’s shoulder to hide his reddening face, and maybe if he closes his eyes and squeezes really tight he’ll believe anything Sparrow is saying. “I’m so happy you called when you needed help.” 

He doesn't start to believe Sparrow is proud of him or that he did the right thing, but Sparrow keeps hugging, and Terry swears he’s casting some kind of comfort spell because Terry feels incrementally better. When he steps away from the druid he feels lighter. Dizzy. 

Lark grabs his shoulder to hold him upright, because Sparrow definitely did something to him. He blinks at the druid and somehow can’t muster the energy to accuse him, or even glare. 

“Grant’ll be here soon to take you home.” 

There’s a crack and then a cheerful greeting. 

“I have arrived,” Nicky says. 

The corner of Terry’s lip pulls upward. Nicky walks into his line of sight, grabs his face and plants a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Is he drunk at 2 in the afternoon? Oh right, date day. Mimosas. 

“So it’s just a grid check?” Nicky asks. He looks around and finds Terry’s tablet discarded on the ground a few feet from where Terry hit dirt earlier. 

Lark beats him to it and picks it up. He blows the dust off the top and looks over Terry’s work. It’s perfect. Terry does it just the way he likes it, and then he has all the information, and he can keep everything organized, and he’ll know everything, and he can make sure everyone’s as prepared as possible for the next incursion, or acolyte, or unexpected disaster. 

“I got this.” Lark shrugs like it’s target practice, because this is easy. Check each section of the grid, plot it, worry about it later if anything is off or spiked too high. That’s why it’s so frustrating that Terry couldn’t just do it himself. Not today.

“You’re on like day fourteen of work?” Sparrow asks. Terry blinks. He doesn't know. He knows he spent an afternoon with Nicky last week, but he managed to get stuff done that morning. And there was that Saturday after the battle with the gloopy mail clerk. He did have to sleep that one off for a while. 

“Silence is a horrifying answer,” Lark says. He’s still looking at the tablet, but it doesn’t matter, because Terry’s got Sparrow’s worried look to stare at and it’s dark enough for both twins.

“Take a few days,” Sparrow says. 

That’s not going to happen. Terry feels itchy just thinking about it.

“We got it,” Lark says again. It almost sounds like a threat.

“There’s like fifty things you absolutely do not got,” Terry snaps, 

“Yeah but like twenty that I do.” Lark finally looks up from the tablet. Them’s fighting words , is all Terry can think.

“I’ve got at least five things covered,” Nicky says. He’s raising one hand in the air and counting things off on the other. 

“Nothing is going to fall apart in three days,” Sparrow says. He sounds so fucking zen about it. 

“Feels like it will.” Terry kicks the dirt like he’s five. Feels like a five-year-old.

“It can feel like that,” Lark snorts. “Doesn’t mean it’s true.” Lark would know. He thinks the world is ending about once-a-month. Terry’s not like Lark though. He’s fine, he’s just…tired. So fucking tired. 

A car door slams. Grant’s here now too. Fuucccckkk. With so many u’s. He’s completely outnumbered. Mortifying. Fuck.fuck. fuck. 

He wants to growl. To glare at all of them. Except he called Lark. He wanted the rescue. He wants the three days off. Imagine how much sleep he could get in three days. He could watch the new Le Mis adaptation on Netflix.  

Or he could get those spells categorized. He needs to make some more healing potions for when Sparrow is tapped out or in wolf form. 

“Terry!” Lark snaps in his face. 

“Healing potions need made,” Terry says. He rubs his eyes. They feel chalky and watery and he doesn’t know how much longer he can keep them open. Dammit Sparrow and your stupid whatever-it-was-spell. Terry can’t even figure out which spell it might be, and he knows all of Sparrow’s spells. “I need to get emails about acolyte movement organized”

He hears Grant’s footfalls in the dust. Grant’s Odyssey smells like car-freshener vanilla. He can’t wait to sink into the cloth seats. No. Can’t.

Yes. Has to. 

So tired. Fuck. Sparrow. What the fuck. 

“What else?” Sparrow asks kindly. 

If Grant stuffs him in the car and makes him take three days off, they’re all going to need to know what needs done. His brain feels like jello. He needs to thiiinnnnkkkk. 

“There’s a book of spells I just picked up and it needs combed for anything new. I have a full log of spells on my green tablet. Sparrow knows about that one.”

“Got it,” Sparrow nods. Of course he can do that.

“I’ve got potions,” Nicky says. “We need any fire potions while I’m at it? Those are fun.” He rubs his hands together mischievously. Terry groans.

“I’ve got a list of inventory on the green tablet as well, make sure you update that with anything you make.”

“Sweet.”

“The work cars’ insurance needs paid. The bill should be coming any day now.”

“We can set that aside for you for when you get back,” Sparrow says, “or actually, Grant might know how to do that.”

“Lark’s managed to get another virus on his laptop.”

“I’ve got a…person.” Lark says. A fuckbuddy who works in IT, Terry remembers. “They fix computers. I got it covered.”

“Don’t let them see any of the Doodler stuff on it,” Terry begs. It comes out like a whine.

“‘Course not,” Lark says, “Probably.” That doesn’t assuage Terry’s concern, but he’s sinking. His hands are on his knees as he tries to stay somewhat upright.

He lists three more things. A fourth. Fifth. They’re scooped up by the gang, who all lazily pull out their phones and start tapping in tasks. They’re acting like this is easy. Like taking the things off Terry’s plate that weigh him down is as easy as making PB&Js for lunch. Under the exhaustion he thinks it makes him mad. Or relieved. Or loved. He can’t make sense of it. Doesn’t have to because Grant gets to him with a gentle pat on the back. He can fall into the soft seats of Grant’s car and pass out. 

“You ready to go?” Grant rubs circles on his back, and forget the car, he’ll just curl up on the dirt. Dammit Sparrow.

“Terry, you gotta make it to the car before falling asleep,” Lark says somewhere in the distance. He feels Grant– warm solid Grant– loop an arm around his waist. What the fuck did Sparrow do to him? Lark gets his other side, under his arm. 

“He okay?” Nicky asks. Sparrow says something. 

Grant and Lark make Terry walk. His feet shuffle across dust, and shuffle and shuffle for miles, but then he’s in a car. His head resting against the seat. Lark pats his shoulder. Terry fumbles to buckle himself in. Fails. Grant does it for him. 

He hears Grant and Lark talking for a bit. A laugh. 

“Got to convince him to do this like a month earlier, but at least he did it,” Grant says. 

“Better than dragging him from the office.”

Terry feels a soft hum in his body, a quiet settling there from just the possibility of getting to take a day to sleep. It’s quiet inside Grant’s car. He feels weightless. Sparrow’s so mean. Lark and Grant’s conversation ends. The driver’s side door opens, and closes. The car turns over. Terry feels Grant rub his shoulder, and then he feels nothing at all.

Terry chews on a pencil, looks over his notes from the last time they saw a three-headed creature. There was another one a few days ago. There has to be some connection. Right? He can’t quite think straight. 

And wait. He’s supposed to do something about that. He looks up at the crooked cork board Lark put up above his desk in a fit of irritation. In the middle on crinkled old paper is a list of things the other guys can do. Sparrow can help with spell categorization. Grant knows most of the office stuff and loves looking over old mission notes. Lark can do anything related to field work and some basic tech stuff. Nicky’s got potions, and field work as well. 

Terry hears footsteps outside his door. He rolls his chair over and opens it. Sparrow is walking down the hall headed toward the kitchen or maybe the stairs down to the vaults. 

“Hey Sparrow!” he calls out. 

Sparrow turns around. He’s got a glowing sword over his shoulder, so he must be headed toward the vaults. Terry questions the sanity of what he’s about to ask, but he takes a deep breath and thinks about the note Lark pinned right above the list of tasks the others can take over. ASK FOR HELP YOU DUMB MOTHERFUCKER. 

“I need to head out for the day.” Deep breath you can do this. “Could you look through the tablet for magic components we might need and compile them for Nicky?” It’s the only other thing he needed to get done today. He can text Grant about the mission briefing later.

“Hell yeah,” Sparrow says, and he gets that stupid smile on his face that makes Terry kick his chair back into his office before that weird light, loved feeling comes over him again. It does anyway. He can deal with that. Yep, can totally deal with that. He shuts the mission file, tucks it back into his filing cabinet. He’s going home to sleep and watch the great british baking show.

Chapter Text

“Try this,” Grant says.

Terry holds out his hand on instinct and Grant drops a fried plantain into it. Terry flinches for a moment expecting it to be searing hot, but finds that Grant had the foresight to let it cool.

Terry pops it in his mouth. It’s good. Salty and rich. It’s one of Grant’s better batches because plantains are his latest food obsession and cooking is his panic hobby when he runs out of video games and Grant has been panicking for a week. Tonight there’re plantains frying, muffins in the oven, pasta for Lincoln, some kind of homemade ravioli in another pot, and a kale salad with a homemade vinaigrette. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t tell him,” Grant says for a second or perhaps third time. Terry’s lost count. 

“Or-” Terry rests his elbows on his knees. He’s in his favorite spot perched on the counter in Grant’s kitchen. He’s close enough to the stove to talk and get free samples but far enough away that a distracted Grant won’t accidentally rest a hot spoon against him. “You tell him so his excitement can convince you that this is going to be a fun and totally uneventful trip.”

“You’re with them,” Grant grumbles while he pokes at the sizzling plantains. “Traitor.”

“I’m a complete traitor,” Terry agrees, even though he can’t be a traitor because he’s been involved in this operation since before day one. “Doesn’t change anything.” 

Grant pokes the plantaines again.

“What if we have to back out? What if something happens? It will just break his heart.” Poke

“Then don’t back out.” 

Grant glares at Terry. 

“You and Lark walked the playground. He’s going to be there tomorrow. I can probably be there. I’m just waiting on a confirmation from that contractor that he can do the meet up at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. later in the day. Sparrow is going to be there.”
Grant sets his spatula aside. Stirs the pasta. Stirs the ravioli. Pokes the plantains.

“Grant, you can’t keep putting this off,” Terry says. Grant takes the ravioli pot off the burner and strains the water into the sink. The pasta water steams into the air. Grant puts the pasta back into the pot and pulls out plates and bowls for dinner.

“Can you put these out?” He hands the stack to Terry, but ignores Terry’s comment. If Grant got his way he would procrastinate for the next 18-30 years. 

Terry takes the stack with a sigh and a pointed stare. 

Grant and Marco’s kitchen is open concept into their dining area. Terry can still see Grant poking angrily at dinner while he sets out plates and bowls for Marco, Grant, and himself, then the small iron man plate for Lincoln. He hears two sets of feet on the stairs as he finishes up.

Marco comes around the corner with Lincoln in tow. The little boy is hopping along behind his papa, floppy hair bopping in his face.

“Terry, I thought I heard you come in.” Marco smiles wide and comes in for a hug. Terry wraps him up in his arms. Marco holds tight in the way he does when something is wrong with Grant. He’s got a lot of hugs; his worried hug, his happy hug, his hug when he wants to ask you something, and the hug he gives you when he has juicy gossip he wants to whisper in your ear. Terry leans away and makes a your-stubborn-ass-husband-is-being-a-stubborn-ass face. Marco leaves a hand on Terry’s shoulder, squeezes and sighs. Terry barely gets his feet back under him from the hug before a tiny human pushes his way between them. 

“Uncle Terry!” Lincoln holds his hands up and Terry’s got the little guy in his arms in one quick swoop. “Do you wanna see my dinos!” Lincoln asks. Terry does very much want to see Lincoln’s dinos, but dinner’s almost on the table.

“How about after dinner bud?” 

Lincoln groans exaggeratedly and flops his head onto Terry’s shoulder. His tiny chin digs into his shoulder and it tickles, but Terry continues to hold him tight and hold fast to his decision about waiting until after dinner. Lincoln could talk Terry into almost anything, but Terry’s got important dinner discussion plans, and he’s feeling impatient. 

“I’ll talk to him again,” Marco says. Terry covers one of Lincoln’s ears and presses the other against his shoulder. He leans close to Marco so the man can hear him hiss,

“If he doesn’t tell him in the next half hour, I’m going to.”

“He’ll never forgive you,” Marco says.

“I can pay Lark fifty dollars to sit on Grant while I take someone somewhere. ” Terry nods at Lincoln. He pins Marco with a stare. Lincoln starts to push away from Terry’s protective hand and glares suspiciously.

“Grown up talk,” Terry and Marco say at the same time.

“Blehehehhh,” Lincoln says and wiggles out of Terry’s arms. Terry lets him down and they watch him skip off to the kitchen and stop right at the threshold. Kitchens are dangerous. 

Marco looks back to Terry. He doesn’t find Terry’s threat nearly as funny as Terry does. The man is highly overprotective of his neurotic husband. There’s probably some damage there, but Grant says Terry’s not allowed to pry, so he doesn’t. Terry raises his hands to signal his surrender. 

“I’ll grab forks,” Marco says. Terry puts his hands on his hips and stares up at some unknown god-like being to give him strength. Marco comes back with forks and a spoon for Lincoln and the kid helps his papa give everyone the right cutlery. 

Grant comes in a minute later with one pot, then back out, then back in with another pot, a pan, then the salad.

They sit down around the table and Terry can feel the tension in the air, even as Lincoln digs into his food like he’s never experienced the magnificence of mac ‘n cheese before. Between bites he tells Terry about brontosauruses, and then T-rexs but more importantly the giganotosaurus. 

Terry sits next to Lincoln and smiles and chats but makes sure he has time to shoot Grant very significant stares every other minute. He’s got an internal clock ticking, and as much as he wants to spill the beans on Grant’s behalf he’s going to give him the benefit of the doubt. At least for a little while. 

Grant barely eats. He pushes his salad around his bowl and chokes down about one ravioli. In between dinosaur discussions they’ve been holding up a strained polite conversation about the library and the garden in the back where Marco and Lincoln are growing marigolds. Terry’s about to kick Grant under the table when Marco reaches his hand out and squeezes Grant’s.

Grant takes five deep breaths. Six.

“You do it Marco,” Grant eventually expels.

“Sure babe?”

Grant nods desperately. Marco squeezes his hand again and Terry nearly bounces out of his chair. He cannot wait until Lincoln hears this. He’s as excited as Sparrow in a wildflower patch. 

“Linc kiddo, your dad and I have something to tell you.”

Lincoln looks up from his plate and holds his little color changing spoon up in the air. He looks at his dad’s hands death gripped on the table then up at his papa. Terry watches Lincoln with barely contained glee. 

“How would you like to go to the park with Normal tomorrow?”

“Park?” Lincoln cocks his head to the side, and Terry tries to keep his eyes from bulging. The kid knows what a park is, right? He whips his head back around to Grant and Marco. 

“It’s like our swingset out back,” Marco explains. “You know on Bluey when they go to a place with swings, and and-”

“There’s a slide,” Grant offers. His voice is a little rough and it takes a second for him to peel his eyes from his plate of ravioli to look at his son. “Uncle Lark showed me. There’s uh, monkey bars, and-” His hand twists in Marcos, “There’s a fun ladder or two you can climb, and a xylophone thing.” Grant is forcing his breathing to be neutral. He painstakingly puts an excited look on his face.

Lincoln’s mouth slowly opens, his little eyes grow. 

“Park?” He says. 

Grant and Marco nod. 

Lincoln get’s halfway to standing but knows he’s not allowed to stand on chairs. He can’t contain his excitement and suddenly he is standing, and hopping a little on the balls of his feet. 

“A slide!” He jumps in a way that nearly makes Grant leap over the table to protect him from tipping the chair. Terry spares his friend by putting a hand on the backrest and buffering Lincoln from falling. Lincoln vibrates . His hair bounces as he does something that looks like speed tiptoeing. He doesn’t know what to do with his tiny body. He squeaks? His little feet hop back and forth and that’s too much for Grant so Terry gets up and swings Lincoln onto the floor. As soon as his feet hit the ground, he’s out of the room. Terry chances a glance over his shoulder to Grant. His jaw is a little slack, his eyes are all heart-shaped and scared. Marco is rubbing his thumb over the back of Grant’s hand. 

“Park.” Lincoln bolts back into the room with his shoes in hand. 

Marco chuckles. Grant’s smile is cracked glass.

“We have to wait until tomorrow, pumpkin,” Grant manages. 

Lincoln’s smile falters, but not for long. 

“Park tomorrow!” He throws his arms in the air. 

Grant laughs. Terry is so shocked that he has to look at Grant to make sure he heard right. Grant’s almost genuinely smiling. 

“He’s not going to sleep tonight,” Marco mumbles. Grant manages to detangle his hand from Marco’s. He pushes his chair back and holds out his arms to Lincoln. 

Lincoln drops his shoes and runs to his dad, crawls up into his lap and continues to bounce. Grant looks dumbstruck. He runs his hands through Lincoln’s hair and blinks.  

He’s okay? Terry thinks. 

Grant looks to Marco, then Terry. There’s still fear there. A lot, but there’s something like resolve there as well. 

Terry mentally screams with fucking joy. 

“Park! Park! Park!” Lincoln chants.

Chapter Text

It isn’t okay. Not in the way it should be okay. Not in the neutral, unsettling, horrible way that Lark expects to feel after a fight. And that fight was two days ago. He isn’t okay. Isn’t okay wasn’t okay. Isn’t okay.

Isn’t

Wasn’t.

He wants Grant. Not Sparrow. He wants Sparrow, but doesn’t want Sparrow to worry. He and Lark are brothers, but he isn’t the right brother right now. He doesn’t want Sparrow to worry about him. He doesn’t want Sparrow to look at him like the world is shattering apart, because if this was happening to Sparrow, Lark would break into a million pieces and wouldn’t be able to put himself back together. 

Lark doesn’t give a fuck if Grant worries about him. He wants Grant, because Grant will fight him. Grant will do what the others won’t. Grant is mean to him like an older brother is mean. Lark needs someone to be mean to him, because his insides are churning and chewing and screaming and nothing is making it stop. Not the weed he borrowed from Nicky. Not the all-night walking. Not the fist fight at Charlie’s or the beating he took behind the hole in the wall joint on Chelsea. Not the curly haired man at the diner who makes the best noises when Lark blows him. Not even the art at the Majestic Gallery or the paintings he can’t lift his hand to finish. His body won’t respond to anything, and his brain screams at him like it’s being torn apart by hell hounds. He feels out of control. 

Lark can’t sleep. 

Lark isn’t hungry. He’s been hit with some curse, and can’t eat. He doesn’t need to eat. Maybe a spell? Sparrow can turn into animals, maybe Lark can turn into plants. He just wants the sun, but the police asked him to leave the park after he laid in the middle of it for four hours. Half his face is burnt. Police didn’t find the gun he had on him, or the knives, they just wanted him to leave and stop scaring the kids, and fancy dog walkers, and mom joggers. 

Lark can’t sleep. His skin feels like flaking paper and humming magnets. He wants Grant. He isn’t hungry. He’s thirsty, but the beers aren’t satisfying. Water tastes like metal. He’s snapped. He feels brittle and awful and he hates himself as much as he hates the black sky.

He thinks he might kill himself, and that’s the scary part, because there are fates worse than death, and he deserves those instead. 

He needs to get to Grant, because he thinks he might jump off a building. The police didn’t find the gun, but he kind of thinks they should have. He needs to get to Grant before he can get to himself. 

Lark’s phone is still somehow alive but he can’t check it. He knows what he’ll find. Sparrow’s got to be worried by now. Lark hasn’t been home in two days. He can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t stop moving, if he stops moving the monster will catch up. He’ll stop being alive. He’s the monster and the monster has a gun. 

His insides churn and bend themselves inside out. He wants to take them out and slop them onto a table and ask Grant to inspect them, to tell him what’s wrong with them. Maybe Grant can put him back together better. 

Grant’s apartment door is blue, and he gets there before he works up the courage to check his phone. There will be messages from Sparrow, and Terry, and Nicky and Grant. 

He bangs on Grant’s door. Maybe Grant will be mad at him. Punch him. Lark’s knuckles are bloody and he can’t really remember which fight those are from, but it was probably the second. The first was unimpressive. Maybe the blood is why the police wanted him out of the park. He’s dirty. He scares kids. He would worry his brother. 

Grant doesn’t answer.

The Police should have found his gun. There are fates worse than death, and Lark needs to live long enough to suffer them. 

“Grant!” Lark bangs on the door. Grant has to be in there. He has to be in there because it’s the middle of the night and if he’s not there Lark’s going to have to figure something else out, and he can’t figure something else out. He can’t think straight, and he can’t see straight, and all he keeps thinking about is the gun in his pocket and how Grant lives on the third story of an apartment complex and it’s five stories tall all together, and how he can’t jump off of that because if Lark died right outside of Grant’s apartment Grant would break, and there are fates worse than death and those are for Lark, not Grant. 

He’s pretty sure Grant would care if he died.

“Grant!” He calls his friend’s name again, bangs harder, and harder because he needs Grant. Needs him to get to the door. He hasn’t felt his heart really beat in days. Only for a brief half hour after the goliath at Charlie’s bar cold clocked him. He felt it in his nose. It burned like chlorine and smelled like cartilage. He felt it in his body for a full five minutes. It was thrilling. He laughed until the bouncer walked him out. 

He feels his heartbeat now, but he knows if his heartbeat wears off there will be no bouncer to take him away. He takes his gun out of its holster while he can. Unloads the magazine and chucks it in one direction. Takes out the bullet in the chamber. Tosses the empty gun in the other direction down the hall. It clatters and crashes before landing, and Lark briefly freaks out that he THREW A GUN , but at least now it’s out of his hands. It’s fine, Lark thinks. It’s farther away now. Grant will be home any minute, and it will be fine. Or Grant is already home. It’s the middle of the night. He’s Fine finefinefinefinefinefinefinefinefine

“GRANT!” Ten or a thousand more pounds on the door before three locks clunk clunk clunk. Lark stumbles backward. The door creaks open.

“Lark?” Grant’s bleary eyes rake over him. “Jesus!” Grant says. He pushes the door open the rest of the way and pulls Lark into the apartment. Lark lets him, because Grant is here and he’ll do something. 

Grant shuts the door and Lark thinks, thank god the gun’s on the other side of the door now. Thank god. Except Lark knows exactly where Grant keeps all of his guns. 

Grant would beat him senseless if he tried to get one now. 

Grant disappears from the room and comes back with his phone. He's got the group chat open.

“Not Sparrow!” Lark panics.

“Just saying you’re here,” Grant says. He holds out a placating hand. “You need to sit down.” He points Lark to his couch, but now that Lark is inside, he can’t sit. Nothing feels right. Maybe he should leave. The sun will be out soon, he can try the park again.

“Lark please sit,” Grant says, and the please is nice, but Grant’s saying it like it’s a threat. This is what Lark wanted. He wanted Grant to yell at him and tell him what to do.

But his brain also wants to fight so he pushes his back against the door and tries not to let out a guttural miserable howl because that’s what’s inside him. His whole body wants to yell. He’s full of dark grit and embers and there’s a second person in him that is trapped like a wild animal and he can’t actually hold it in that long because he does end up growling. The sound is a deep pained thing that expels itself from his body like vomit. It’s encased in rage, bottled under heat, pressurized. He feels an overwhelming need to hurt himself. Kill himself. He remembers desperately that he doesn’t have to be in charge anymore. Grant can be in charge. Grant can be mean to him and tell him what to do and keep him alive, because there are fates worse than death and right now living is one of them. His body feels torn open, ripped apart and he feels so so so mad, and scared. Scared of himself. 

Grant grabs his upper arm and shakes him. 

“Lark!” 

Lark just shoves his body toward Grant and keeps screaming and maybe crying, and Grant just holds his arm tighter. 

“Sit down, Lark.” Grant tugs his arm down. Lark protests, so Grant doesn’t ask again. He drops down and drags Lark with him. 

Lark falls to the floor, gracelessly. The black in him flares and he pushes away from the door to fight. Grant knows his goal and he pushes back with his full weight. His shoulder slams into Lark’s chest, and it’s almost like being grappled. Grant’s weight is on top of him. His shoulder is pressing into his core. Pressing him into the door, and god it feels so good. Lark gasps for air. Grant needs to stay right where he is, stay there forever pressing Lark’s chest into the door. Forcing his shoulders straight. He’s warm and human and pressing hard and Lark’s leg kicks against the ground on impulse. He wants more pressure. Wants Grant to stay there forever. 

“Lark, talk to me buddy,” Grant says. 

Grant’s done this before. Not quite like this; he’s just tackled him during sparring when he got too riled up. Held him from behind and waited for him to calm down. It felt good then, it feels like a drug now. It’s a temporary release valve on whatever is burning under his skin.

“Can’t do it,” Lark says. He gasps for air. It’s not the right words, but it’s close. “There’s noise.”

Grant’s good at this. Grant tried to kill himself with pills and alcohol in college. Covered it up as partying and alcohol poisoning, and Sparrow saved his life holding a healing spell over him until they got him to the hospital. Grant made Sparrow take him to the hospital six months later. Lark can look Grant in the eyes and Grant. Won’t. Flinch.

“Guns in the hall,” Lark says, doesn’t know how to explain it any better.

“Lark, you thinkin’ about shooting someone?” Grant says, because murder is what makes the most sense. Lark is violent and angry and mean. Maybe he is trying to kill someone. Someone in him is trying to kill someone. He’s trying to kill someone. He’s trying to kill himself. 

Lark kicks out against the ground again. His boot shush shushes against the rug under them as it tracks back and forth. Grant slowly releases the pressure on his chest so he can get a better look at him, but that’s no good because Lark needs the pressure. It’s the only thing making sure he stays solid. It’s making sure he doesn’t transform into black Doodler sludge. Lark whines and presses his chest toward Grant. 

“Please.” Lark barely manages to get enough volume in his voice to tell Grant not to move. He needs him. He thinks there might be tears in his eyes. He can’t pull his focus onto anything in particular. His eyes keep moving. He keeps moving. His boot shush shushes against the carpet. 

Grant looks at the bruising on his face. The blood he knows is under his nose. Tracks down his shoulders. There’s a bite mark and a bruise on his neck, because the diner boy likes to suck right above his collarbone. There are scratches over top where Lark tried to peel his skin away an hour later. Grant tugs at Lark’s sleeve. Lark pulls away. Grant shoves him against the door again and thank fuck that feels good, even though it’s more of a warning this time than a helpful pressure. God he knew he needed Grant. 

Grant grabs his sleeve and pulls up. He nods like a piece of a puzzle is dropping into place when he sees the three spots lined up where Lark tried to put out a cigarette on his skin. He couldn’t stomach it the first time, or the second. The third time he knew how it felt, pressed hard. He smelled burnt hair and skin when he pulled it away. He feels nauseous seeing it now. 

Grant keeps his shoulder against Lark’s chest and breathes three times. Shit Lark should have thought about triggering Grant. Should have gone to Terry, even though Terry is too easy to fool. Lark would have said, “I’m fine. Accidentally burnt myself cooking”, and Terry would have believed him. Sparrow would cry. Maybe he would know what to do, but maybe not. Nicky would just call Grant anyway.

“You want to eat and take a shower before I call someone, or you want me to just do it?” Grant says it matter-of-factly. “Middle of the night means cops. If we can keep you alive until office hours you get to go with the nice crisis team.” 

It’s already a done deal then. Lark’s getting locked up today. Lark could lie and say he doesn’t need them. He doesn't want to need them. He wants to do what he always does when he feels like this, fuck and fight until it goes away, but he’s tried that. He’s tried every combination of that and it’s not working. It’s not working. It’s not working.It’snotworking. and he can’t make the noise stop. 

“Lark?” 

“Grant make it stop,” Lark kicks again, and again and again. He pushes himself forward into Grant’s shoulder. He needs to fight something. He kicks his foot against the ground again, like a toddler needing force and pressure, and he needs his brain to stop.

“Lark I got this, man,” Grant says, “I got this.” Lark can’t hear him. He’s crying and panicked and there’s nothing until he feels Grant’s hand grab his wrist and clamp tight. 

“Lark. I got this,” Grant says again, grits his teeth, “Lark listen. Shit.” Grant fumbles with his phone. 

“Not Sparrow!” Lark pleads, because he’s messed up but knows he doesn’t want to scare his brother.

“I got this Lark,” Grant says again. “No Sparrow. Promise.” 

Grant has a conversation with someone, but Lark can’t breathe, can’t hear anything. Can only feel fear, and panic. 

Grant keeps holding his wrist, pressing into him, and then he’s also grown a third arm or something because there is a rhythm being tapped on him. Somewhere. His leg. It’s a rhythm he’s familiar with because he’s beaten it into Grant’s back before, under duress when he was the only one around who could help Grant focus after a panic attack. Near the corner of his brain he hears a count. The word breathe. He’s so tired. What if he just didn’t breathe? What if he just stopped. 

“Lark.” Grant flicks his cheek. A little spark of pain. Lark flinches and tries to curl up, but Grant’s body is there covering him and smothering him, and he’s hot. Suddenly it’s too much to have Grant there. 

“Get off,” he says. Grant releases him just a little, but it’s not enough. He’s trapped, and can’t move and someone’s trying to kill him. 

“Get off. Get off.” Lark flails and fights, slams his head into the door hard enough that the world is solid for a second. Grant finally leans back but he holds a hand to Lark’s chest in a sparring stance as he follows Lark to standing. His standing is not long-lasting. The world pitches and goes black around the edges. Lark feels awful. Too thirsty to drink. Too tired to sleep.

Grant nudges him a few stumbling feet to the left and Lark falls. He comes back around kneeling and a little slumped into Grant. Grant is calling for someone in the hall to come on in, but it’s from the end of a long tunnel. 

“Grant?” Lark asks. 

“I got you Lark.” Lark pushes Grant away, but this time Grant stays planted. A door opens, shuts quietly.

“Nicky grabbed me,” Terry says. Lark blinks around the apartment. Terry and Nicky are there. Terry’s peeling off his coat and draping it over Grant’s disgusting recliner. Nicky holds Lark’s gun up to show Grant then tucks it into his waistband. 

Lark growls at the dark metal object and three sets of eyes turn to him. 

“Let’s go Larky,” Terry says, “I’ll help you shower. Grant’s gonna make you food and we’re gonna get you some help.” Lark buries his face into Grant’s shoulder. “Nicky said he’ll go with you to the hospital. We can put an invisibility spell on him if they won’t let him ride in the car with you. He’ll hold your hand the whole way. We’ll get you help.”

Help. Like they did with Grant in college. Like they did with Nicky in high school. They’re going to help.

Lark pushes his head into Grant’s shoulder. He looks for his collarbone with his forehead, so he can press into something that might press back. Grant puts his hand in Lark’s hair. Tugs a little to get his attention, then rubs the spot where his hairline meets his neck.

“We got you Larky,” Grant says. “We got you.”

Lark finds his hands and grabs for Grant’s shirt. 

“We got you,” Grant says again, and again, and again, until Lark think’s he maybe believes him. 

“Grant help me,” Lark says, it’s pathetic and whiny, and he hates himself for it, but Grant just squeezes him tight, and Lark realizes that maybe he can help. 

3 years later

Lark has keys to the Li-Wilson household. He uses them and stumbles into the house. 

“Hello Lark?” Marco says, from his spot on the couch, where he’s holding Linc and a book about trains or monkeys or whatever. Lark ignores him and heads for the stairs. He’ll be friendly to Marco later, right now he wants Grant. 

Their bedroom is on the right and Lark kicks open the door. Grant must be in the thick of it because he only flinches a little and doesn’t even move for the knife Lark knows is under his pillow. He goes back to the game he’s playing on his phone as soon as he realizes that it’s just Lark at the door. 

“Hi to you too,” Lark grumbles. He kicks off his boots and drops onto the bed at Grant’s side. “Heard our cycles synced,” Lark says. He’s fucking in it too. Ups have downs, have ups have downs. He’s electric, but not today. Today he’s dead. He heard Grant was down for the count too and motherfucking misery loves motherfucking company. Grant takes his hand away from his phone long enough to smoosh Lark’s face away from his own. 

“I’m not bipolar,” Grant says. “I don’t cycle.”

“But you’re still depressed.” Lark scoots closer to Grant, “You’re warm,” he purrs. Lark shuts his eyes and Grant taptaptaps at his game. There’s a long break in the conversation where Lark breathes too close to Grant’s face before Grant asks,

“You okay?”

Lark hums low and slow.

“Yeah. I’m good.” Better than he was three years ago. So much better. So much okay that it makes him feel tingly and inhuman.  

“You?”

“Fucking sucks,” Grant says. “I’ll be alright. Marco and I are taking Linc Christmas tree shopping tonight.” 

“Sounds fun,” Lark says. He snuggles even closer to Grant who grumbles at him and bats away his loose curls. After another minute though he pulls one of his hands away from his screen to scritch his hand through Lark’s hair. Lark nuzzles in closer and closer until he’s all up in Grant’s sweaty t-shirt. He smells like BO.  

“I can’t play Fortnight 3 and rub your head at the same time, Larky,” Grant says. 

“Don’t play Fortnight,” Lark says. He kicks at Grant’s shin with his cold bare feet. “Watch Triple Frontier and drool over how hot Oscar Issacs is with me.” 

Grant chuckles in that depressed way that’s sad and reverential and almost fine.

“Or you could go home and be miserable at Sparrow,” Grants suggests. He moves his head and dry spits in an attempt to get Lark’s hair out of his mouth. He eventually gives up. Lark’s hair is inescapable.

“Want to be miserable with you,” Lark says. He licks his lips, and feels weird but adds, “you get it.” He knows Grant gets it. He has always got it. Has always got him. Will always get him.

He saved his life. Lark doesn’t like to talk about it, but when Grant stops scratching his head for beat too long and Lark knows what Grant’s thinking it’s too much. Lark head butts him in the chest and Grant coughs, but starts scratching his head again. 

Lark lays there, and lays there. He feels miserable, but Grant’s scratching feels pretty good. The guy who’s always got him. Always has him. 

“Love you,” Lark mumbles. It’s the best he’s got, and he hopes it encompasses everything it’s supposed to. 

Grant smoothes out Lark’s hair.

“Love you too.”

Chapter Text

“Were you able to get the guy to come to D.A.D.D.I.E.S. later in the day?” Sparrow tucks his phone up next to his ear and finishes Normal’s peanut butter and cracker snack. Hero’s at school and Normal is running around the living room jumping on cushions and pretending he’s a dragon. The park is an hour away, and Sparrow’s doing last minute phone calls. 

“Yeah,” Terry says. “He’s coming later today so I can make it. I texted Grant already to give him a heads up…”

“Awesome. Yeah. I was just about to call him for the second time today.”

“He alright? It’s like an hour away.” 

Sparrow thinks he’s doing pretty good considering the circumstances, but Terry probably has other opinions. 

“He’s-” Sparrow thinks about the right answer, “probably going to call you too. He’s wound up tight.”

Terry sighs and says, 

“Figures...Have you talked to Nicky?”

“I think Lark’s on it. They were hanging out last night,” Sparrow says.

“Are they hung over?”

“They played it safe, sounds like. Just goofing off and tailing that guy from the coffee shop who was acting weird,” Sparrow says. “Lark got home at a reasonable 11:00pm. Have you talked to Marco?”

“He’s still all in,” Terry assures. “Just been buffering Grant all morning and grouching at me for making Grant do this.”

“I imagine babysitting Grant is quite the task.” Sparrow licks peanut butter off his finger and is suddenly very glad that he only has to worry about getting Normal to the park. Rebecca is at the ice cream shop and has no qualms about play dates.  

“I’m probably going to check in on him again and see if he wants backup,” Terry says. 

Having Terry on board for this has been a massive relief. 

“Thanks,” Sparrow says. “I don’t know what I would do if this fell through.”

“Me neither.”

There’s a small silence over the phone. This has been a long time coming, and it’s finally here. Sparrow wants to thank Terry for being on his team the whole way, but Terry beats him to the punch. 

“Thanks for all your help,” Terry says. “It means a lot.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” Sparrow says. “We make a good team.”

“That we do,” Terry says. “We should gang up on the guys more often.” 

Sparrow grins. 

“Love you Ter-bear. See you soon.”

“Love you too and see you soon.” 

---

“Nicky!” Lark yells into the phone as soon as Nicky picks up. He’s halfway through a bowl of vegan brownie batter with black beans while watching Normal pretend to eat a sheep stuffy he borrowed from Hero’s room. The kid growls, pretends to snort fire and hops to the next cushion. There might be hope for him, Lark thinks until he trips over his feet and tumbles to the floor. Okay less hope, but he does hop back up and strike an impressive pose, so he’s got that going for him. 

“I’m here,” Nicky confirms. “So park still on?”

“Fully on. You coming too?” 

“Taylor’s at preschool, but I’m going to be there,” Nicky says. Definitely better that way , Lark thinks. If they threw Taylor at Grant at the last minute it would be a whole new layer of unexpected variables. Not to mention Sparrow’s on this kick about trying to get Normal to have normal friends. Lark doesn’t think Lincoln counts, but convincing Sparrow of that isn’t worth it. 

“Should I text Grant?” Nicky asks. 

“I’m on it,” Lark says. He’s got an open text box to Grant already. “I promised I’d tell him as soon as you were a confirmed yes.” 

“Cool.” 

Lark pulls his phone from his ear and shoots Grant a quick text. We got Nicky too.

“So you think it’s actually going to happen?” Nicky asks. Lark leans back to look into the kitchen where Sparrow’s making his own calls. 

“I think there’s a 60% chance this happens,” Lark says, which is probably on the high side. “But saying it does happen, there’s about an 80% chance Grant will have a meltdown at some point.”

“I’d put money on that,” Nicky says. 

“Five bucks says he waits until he’s back in the car,” Lark says. 

“Five says it’s at the park.” 

“Deal.” Lark grabs a stuffie from the floor and launches it underhand to a spot next to Normal. 

“Oh no the sheep are attacking!” he calls out. Normal growls and jumps onto the offending creature. It’s makes Lark smile.

“I think Terry’s in charge of calling Marco about panicking Grant contingency plans. Just in case,” Lark tells Nicky.

“The goal is letting Lincoln have a good time,” Nicky says, “Grant can have a shit-all time as far as I’m concerned.” 

Lark snorts. He can hear love behind Nicky’s words, both for Linc and Grant, but they’ve all expressed similar screw-Grant sentiments. Lark loves Grant like a brother, which means he’s fully allowed to sit on him in the van so Marco and Lincoln can keep playing. Not that Marco would forgo Grant for that, but a guy can hope. 

“If something happens, I will drag him into his minivan and make Terry talk him down while we play,” Lark says. “Or rather you all play and I stand there looking threatening and stoic.” 

Lark is kind of bummed that he doesn’t get to play lava monster with Normal and Linc, but if this goes well he can play it with them another day. Maybe even at the dino park.
“You’re not actually bringing weapons to a playground are you?” Nicky asks. He’s got chaotic energy like Lark, but even he has limits. 

“A knife or two.” Lark says. “Some potions. Figured you would be the actual weapon if something happened. I’m mostly just the scout.” 

“I’m a utility knife of violence.”

“You’re effective,” Lark agrees, “Also Sparrow and Terry have their powers, and there’s always the gun I keep in the car safe, so we’re covered.”

“Ah yes, of course. The car gun,” Nicky says. Lark can hear the smirk. “Very safe.”

“In our line of work it is.” Lark has guns hidden all over the place. Mostly out of range of the kids and always locked. Not that Hero and Normal don’t know how to use them, but it’s always good to be safe. It’s fine. Totally fine. 

“So see you in an hour?” Nicky asks.

“Of course,” Lark says. “I’ll talk to you later, Grant is frantically texting me. I gotta go.”

“Talk to you soon.” 

“See ya.

---

Grant: Are you sure I don’t need to bring any kind of Doodler detector? What about shield potions?

Lark: I’ve got potions covered. Bring you. Normal clothes that won’t scare Linc. 

…

Lark: A sense of wonder . 😂🙃

Grant: Jump off a cliff

---

This is the answering machine of Marco Li-Wilson. Please leave a message after the beep.

“Hey Marco, it’s Terry. Call me back when you get a chance”

---

“Did we double check the incursion map?” 

Terry doesn’t know how to tell Grant for the fifth time that everything seems fine. Very incredibly fine. 

“Grant, I have tripled checked everything. Lark has at least double checked everything. It’s fine.”

“It’s fine,” Grant repeats back. He sounds tired. Tired of himself, Terry would guess. Grant’s called himself exhausting before. “What else do you need Grant?” Terry asks. Sparrow told them all to be patient. He told them to do whatever it took. Lincoln needs this day, and all the days that come after it. Getting grant out the door is a means to an end. 

“How’s Lincoln?” Terry asks to get Grant’s wheels to stop turning so hard that they burn up.

“He is running around the house on turbo speed.” 

Right on cue, Terry can hear a giggling scream followed by Marco’s voice pitched low to be a scary monster. “He’s been talking about the park all morning.”

Terry grins. He can almost see the accidental smile on Grant’s face. Grant would burn down the world for Lincoln, but somehow holding himself together is the bigger ask. 

“Grant you’re going to hang up with me, and you’re going to spend the next half hour paying sole attention to your kid?” Terry says, “Hold off panicking for ten minutes with him.”

“And ten after that,” Grant says. Baby steps. 

“Ten,” Terry says. “and if you have to call me again you can.”

“Yup.” Grant’s response is strained, but Terry’s seen him do harder things.

“You got this, Grant,” Terry says. “For Lincoln.” 

“For Lincoln.” 

---

Nicky: Hey Sparrow, you want me to pick up snakes on the way over?

*snacks

---

“Sparrow, I made it to the park and guess what!”

“What?”

“There’s no incursions here. Wild shit.”

“Lark, did you just call me to tell me a park looks like a park?”

There’s a curious beat while Lark gathers his thoughts. 

“Called you in case Grant called you.” 

“Oh.” Sparrow slows, “Thanks. Do you want me to tell Terry too?”

“I’ll post it on the group chat. There’s one other family, thought I would give Grant a heads up about that too.” 

Lark kicks his foot against the metal fence. It rattles down the line. He maybe also called Sparrow just to hear his voice because Grant’s panicked text made Lark feel uncomfortable and wired. He’s never been as good at keeping Grant calm as Grant is at keeping him calm. It’s making him nervous. 

“We got this don’t we?” Lark asks.

“We definitely got this,” Sparrow says. “You alright?”

Lark takes a deep breath. Yeah. He’s definitely alright. 

Probably. 

“You do the best you can. Fake bravado and we’ll be good.” Sparrow says, reading his mind like he always does. Or usually does. 

“Think he’ll do it?” Lark asks. If Grant can do this, Lark will be alright. Lark is brave and tough, but he can be kind of goo when it comes to Grant. 

“He’s going to do it if Terry and I have any say in this.”

That determination makes Lark grin. 

“You love Lincoln that much-” Lark says. And anytime there’s love in the mix, Sparrow is unstoppable. 

“Love him to bits,” Sparrow says. 

“So I’ll see you soon?”

“See you soon, brother.”

---

“Hey Terry. Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah?” Terry says. He’s got about three people calling and texting him. He forgot he even left a message with Marco.

“Uh…Grant called me,” Terry tacks on with a shake of his head to clear his brain. He pulls the reason he called Marco up from the recesses of his memory. “I thought I would just check in with you to see if there was anything I could do.”

“To deal with my husband who is panicking because of you?” Marco’s tone is sharp with irritation.

“Yes, that one.” Terry’s dealt with overprotective Marco before. He’s not bothered. Marco gets frazzled and irritated when something happens to Grant, and extra frazzled and irritated at Terry or Lark when they’re the reason for it. And they are the reason for it more often than not. 

Terry’s holding firm on this one though.

“He’s going to be fine,” Terry says. 

“I know.” Marco sounds like he’s stepping away from some kind of background chaos. He breathes into the phone. “Sorry Ter, it’s just tense over here.”

“I can imagine,” Terry says gently.

“Yeah. Bet you can.” Marco takes a deep breath. “Didn’t mean to take it out on you. I know this is a good thing, and Lincolns beside himself happy.”

“But?” Terry prompts.

“Just hard.” 

Terry listens for something more from Marco. His silences usually say more than his words. 

“You want me to take a shift for a while?” Terry asks. “I was gonna head straight for the park, but I can swing by…” 

Marco hums over the line.

“If I do it, I’ll text first to give him a heads up.”

“No surprises?” Marco says. Anything to buffer Grant. 

“No surprises.” Terry echos.

“Yeah, You think you could come over and talk to him. He trusts you.”

“Of course,” Terry says, “See you in ten.” He’ll shove on shoes and get there as fast as he can.Then five minutes after that they’re going to load Lincoln into the car, and they’re going to go to the park, and it’s going to be amazing. 

---

Not there long enough for snack

…

Grab Grant a celebratory Hersey Bar?

---

“Grant?” Lark looks at his phone to make sure his volume is up.

“...”

“Grant Anthony Li-Wilson did you really just call me so you could breathe into the phone?”
“...”

“Dude!”

“It’s gonna be fine, right?”

“Jesus, man.” Lark’s stomach twists. He loves Grant. Gets him on a cosmic level, but he has no idea what to do with this. Sparrow’s reminder, fake bravado , plays in his mind. He takes a deep breath.. “You really want to stir my paranoia up with your anxiety right now. Neither of us win.”

“You’re at the park?” Grant asks. “Sparrow said you’re already there.”

“Yeah man, I’m here.” Lark paces down the grass strip between the parking lot and the jungle gym. He’s trying not to notice the dad of the family already here shooting him curious glances. “It all looks good.” It’s a normal park. Normal red-sky day. “It’s okay to be freaked out, man. I’m always freaked out, but it’s one hour. We got this.”
Grant breathes heavy over the line. It sounds strangely dull, like Grant’s hiding in a pile of clothes. Lark wonders if he is. 

“We got this,” Lark says. Fake bravado. 

“Yeah,” Grant says. “We got this. 

---

Nicky: Champagne?

Sparrow: Haha. but No

---

“Hey Terry,” Sparrow checks that Normal’s got his shoes on the right feet, and finds his Chacos at the back of the closet. He hasn’t put on shoes in a while. 

“Hey,” Terry says. “Wanted to let you know I’m going over to Grant and Marcos.”

“Jesus is something wrong?”

“Nothing wrong. Marco’s already exhausted so I’m going to give him an extra pair of hands.” Sparrow checks his things; Sunscreen, shoes, water bottle, adventure pack to store cool rocks and flowers. He’s got everything.

“Oh, awesome,” Sparrow says. An extra pair of hands to wrangle Grant into the minivan will be helpful. “Lark just called from the park, there’s another family there, but nothing out of sorts.”

“I got the text,” Terry says, “but I’ll pass that along when I get there, just in case.”

“Perfect,” Sparrow says. “See you soon.”

“See you soon.”

---

Terry: I’m going to kill Grant. 

Sparrow: He’s coming right!?!?!?!

Terry: yes.

Terry: Just being dramatic. 

Sparrow: You love him anyway.

Terry: 😠

---

Marco: On our way, see you in 5

Sparrow: Getting in the car now. See you soon.

Marco: See you soon.

---

Nicky: Candy for everyone!!

Sparrow: Don't accidentally melt it again…

Nicky: 😈 🔥 😛

Chapter Text

Lincoln is beside himself excited. 

Grant feels like someone has a boot on his chest. Every moment leading up to this one runs through his head. He could have stopped this at any point. He didn’t have to say yes to Sparrow in the car. He didn’t have to pick an official date. He didn’t have to check out the park with Lark. He didn’t have to tell Lincoln about the trip.

But he did. 

Lincoln is beside himself excited. A good kid. A kid who deserves to be this unconcerned and this happy. Maybe Sparrow’s a little right, wanting his kids to have a normal life. Marco’s mostly been in charge this morning. Grant feels like he’s been in and out of a rolling panic attack all week, and especially this morning. He’s had to sneak off to the bathroom and the bedroom and now he’s in the coat closet where he’s been knocking his head against the wall for five minutes. Air. In. out. all the way out. In. hold. All the way out. Coats, shoes. Fingers, the roof of his mouth, the smell of stale jackets and feet. 

He called Lark. Unhelpful, but at least sympathetic. 

“Found you!” Lincoln swings the closet door open. His toothy smile is wide. Thank god that kid is as oblivious as he is. Sensitive and kind and no clue how fucked up his dad is. 

“Found me!” Grant forces a grin. He loves Linc. Loves him so much that it hurts sometimes. He leans down to chase Lincoln back out of the closet. Lincoln screams into a laugh and runs. Grant feels the floor tip, remembers to breathe out all the way and follows his son’s lead. Into the dining room. He catches him at the edge of the table. He scoops him up and over his shoulder. This is safe. This is fine. They could just play here today. Lincoln is a happy kid. He doesn't need a park to be happy. 

But he deserves it.

“Papa says shoes,” Lincoln says after Grant’s got him upside down.

“Yeah?” Grant asks. He blows a raspberry on Lincoln’s tummy and Lincoln doubles down.

“Shoeeeesssss!!!!!”

Grant sets him on the floor and Lincoln runs back to the closet. He gets his little shoes with the soccer balls on the side and sits on the floor. Grant sits down on the couch. He can hear Marco upstairs, probably getting a few of Lincoln's things together into his backpack. Backup toys, and everything Grant and Marco put on their detailed packing list last night. 

Marco comes down the stairs with Lincoln’s tiny backpack. The backpack he almost never wears, because where would he go with it? The camping trips to the backyard? The grocery store? It’s a little sad, Grant thinks, in the back of his mind. Sparrow said the backpack was important. He called it an adventure pack. Lincoln gets his own in case he finds cool things he wants to bring home. It’s dandelion season, and rocks are cool.  

Lincoln should get to see a little more of the world. 

Lincoln gets one shoe on and Marco crosses the room to Grant. 

“Terry’s gonna drive over with us,” he says. He rubs Grant's shoulder. Terry’s a hair tousler, Lark is a hair puller, and an attack hugger. Marco’s a shoulder rubber and a forehead kisser and a warm embrace. He sits down at Grant’s side and reaches around his shoulder to hold him down. Grant needs someone to hold him down. Marco rests his chin on Grant’s shoulder and watches Lincoln put his other shoe on. Happy kid. They got him here. He’s okay. He thinks of Terry always noting that his friends are Alive. Breathing. So much better than the alternative. Grant is alive, breathing. 

Lincoln comes over to them once his shoes are on. 

“Daddy, you need shoes.” Lincoln points to Grant’s socked feet and Grant groans to standing. He loops his arms under Lincoln’s and swings him toward the closet. 

“Which shoes does daddy need?” Grant asks. Being snuggled close to Lincoln feels good. Like a grounding rod, like he can put all of his fear into a wire and send it to the floor. Away. “Rain boots?” Grant picks up his practically unused muck boots.

“No,” Lincoln giggles. “Sneakers!”

“Coat shoes?” Grant holds the sleeve of one of the fleece jackets at Lincoln's face.

“No. That’s not a shoe!” Lincoln protests. 

“Could be if you try hard enough,” Grant says. Sparrow once helped him make a shoe out of his t-shirt when his got burnt off and they needed to walk across a sea of broken glass.

“Not a jacket Daddy. Sneakers.”

“Ah yes.” Grant grabs crocks. He wonders how many more wrong answers he can get away with. He wonders how many more years he can use this joke before Lincoln rolls his eyes and walks away. Every time he’s with Lincoln he wants to grip the moment with both hands and hold tight. If he just holds tight enough he won’t forget a single second. He’ll have Lincoln innocent and okay forever. He hopes Lincoln’s holding on just as tight. His Daddy might not always be around.

“Sneakers!” Lincoln demands again and Grant finally reaches for his New Balance shoes. He’s such a dad. Horrifying. 

Lincoln nods, like he’s finally broken through to his thick-skulled father. Grant releases Lincoln, walks over to the couch and starts pulling them on. 

“Not combat boots?” Marco raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t tempt me,” Grant grumbles. He’s trying to be normal. Unafraid. A dad taking his kid to the park, no fear of acolytes or incursions. Sneakers, t-shirt. Paranoia is Lark’s job today. 

“I’ll tie it,” Lincoln says. Grant puts his foot on the ground. Lincoln’s been all about tying things since Grant started teaching him knots a few weeks ago. He’s very bad at it, but enthusiastic and Grant hopes that means the kid will know some of the important knots before he’s five. Lincoln studiously locks strings together and pulls and makes things that are almost knots. 

Grant puts on his other shoe and ties tight. 

Grant gets the double knot in place just as there’s a knock on the door. He forgot that Terry’s coming over and the sound nearly knocks his soul out of his body. 

“Terry.” Marco reminds softly. He pats Grant’s back and gets to his feet. It is Terry, of course, and Marco hugs Grant’s best friend with one of his communicate-via-hugs ways. Grant squints trying to decipher the code from a distance but gets nowhere. 

When they pull apart Terry turns his attention to Grant with a smile on his face that makes him look like he’s won a prize. Smug bastard. 

“Almost ready?” he asks.

“Just getting my shoes tied,” Grant bites. He looks down at Lincoln. “How’s it going buddy?”

“All done.” Lincoln presents his mostly-a-knot shoe tie to Grant then looks over to his papa. “Park?!”

“Park time.” Marco smiles indulgently.

“How about you go get in your car seat with your papa?” Terry suggests. “I want to talk to your dad.”

Lincoln looks back and forth between Terry and Grant. He clearly thinks grown ups are boring, and if they hold up his adventure he’ll have things to say.

“I’ll make it quick,” Terry promises. 

Lincoln nods, then runs for Marco.

“Ready for an adventure?” Marco asks. 

“Yes!”

“You have his backpack?” Grant asks.

“Yep.” Marco holds up the bag. Grant nods. 

“Sunscreen? And a snack, and bandaids?”

“I went off the list we put on our phones last night,” Marco says. “I double checked it but do you need us to read over it again?” He’s endlessly patient, but Grant can tell he’s wearing thin, and Lincoln’s patience is wearing very very thin. He’s got Marco’s hand and is doing his best to drag the man to the door. Grant breathes. They’ve gone through the list a dozen times. Triple checked. And Sparrow will also be there, and he’s always pro-dad level prepared.

Grant stares, trying to fight with himself to say it’s all good. 

“You good sweetie?” Marco asks. Grant shuts his eyes, opens them slowly. He nods and swallows his anxiety.

“I’ll see you in a minute or two then.” Marco looks between Terry and Grant, then lets Lincoln drag him out the front door. When it closes behind them Grant rubs a hand down his face then peaks up at Terry.

“You actually alright?” Terry asks. 

“Fuck no Ter.” He inhales and drops his hand, “But I will be. It’ll be fine.”

Terry takes a few careful steps to the couch, makes Grant scoot over a foot then sits down.

“You don’t have to be okay,” Terry says. “You just have to do this.”

“I’m going to!” Grant says.

“I know.” Terry holds out a hand apologetically. 

Grant tries to smother his irritation. He hasn’t slept well. He’s on edge. He needs Terry to know how hard he’s trying. 

“I know. I’m sorry,” Terry repeats. Terry looks around, trying to find his words, looking solemn. Grant waits in the tense silence for whatever it is Terry needs to say. 

“The only thing you have to do today is follow Linc around,” Terry says. “We’re there for you for everything else. Just like you’re always there for us.” 

Grant turns his attention to the carpet. He needs to vacuum. There’re little flecks of dirt mixed in with the tan fabric. 

“Do you know what you’re always saying?” Terry asks, “‘I got you.’ or ‘it’s safe’ or ‘you’re okay.’” 

Grant’s hands shake. He guesses they say it to him as often as he says it to them. Maybe Terry’s calculations are off. Terry snatches up one of his hands and kind of aggressively forces it open so he can hold it. It’s nice. His warm familiar fingers lace in around his. Different than Marco’s but still safe. Terry’s been there since the chimera. Since he changed into the paranoid anxious person he is today. Terry knows how to calm him down and how to win him over. 

“Let us get you this time,” Terry says, “All you have to do is be present with your kid-” and dammit when Terry says it Grant kind of believes it’s possible. He feels the weight of Lincoln between his arms as they looked for shoes. It felt like a solid, real moment. What Terry’s asking really seems possible. Just him and Lincoln. A park.

“You just have to follow Linc’s smile,” Terry continues. “You don’t have to worry about anything else. We got you. Have a good time with your kid.”
Grant looks up at Terry. His friend stares right into his eyes, unblinking. Fucking optimist. 

“Yeah. I know,” Grant says. Another hand squeeze. 

“Then one foot in front of the other for 60 minutes,” Terry says.

Grant feels a little numb and a little scared, like he’s at the highest point on a roller coaster and there’s absolutely no turning back. All he can do is hold on and scream. 

“Follow Linc’s smile,” Terry says. “We’ve got the rest.”

Grant forces himself to nod. Follow Linc’s smile. Trust his friends.  

“Let’s get into the van.” Terry shakes Grant’s hand. 

“Yeah, let’s do this.” Grant agrees. 

Chapter Text

Lark and Nicky are already there when Sparrow pulls in. He glances in his rearview mirror and sees Normal kicking his feet lazily and staring out the window. A normal kid, doing a normal thing; meeting his friend at a park. 

Normal 

Sparrow pulls his volt into a parking spot and does all the totally normal activities of unbuckling himself, going around the car, unbuckling Normal and helping him hop down to the parking lot. 

“Lark, we going on in?” Sparrow asks. He knows Lark went over every step of the day with Grant. Might as well follow those plans. 

“I think I said we’d meet him in the parking lot,” Lark says. He and Nicky are leaning against Lark’s beat up Wrangler, hitting their vapes and chatting lazily. 

Sparrow nods and scoops Normal into his arms. It’s one thing to cross a parking lot but an entirely different thing to hang out in one. He’d rather have Normal on his hip. 

“Go in?” Normal asks. He reaches fruitlessly toward the swingset in the distance. 

“We’re gonna wait for Lincoln,” Sparrow says. Normal’s a pretty go with the flow kid when it’s not something he’s overly passionate about so he gives in easily and consoles himself by reaching out for his uncle Lark. Sparrow hands him off and even though Lark’s supposed to be on fierce scary guard duty he puts Normal up on his shoulders and bounces around until Grant, Marco, and Terry pull in.

Sparrow can feel his heart stutter then kick back in giddily. Grant’s actually here! Sparrow is nervous, and excited, and just plain shocked. Sparrow flashes back to the car ride when Grant finally said yes. The clicking of the vent as Grant snapped it back and forth. Back and forth. 

Sparrow watches Grant get out of the minivan. He rubs his hands on his pants and goes to the back door. Grant’s in a plain t-shirt and sneakers, no vest, no boots, he’s not strapped. Just a normal dad with his normal kid. 

Grant slides open the door and gets Lincoln unbuckled. Terry shoots Sparrow a fragile smile and Marco hovers near Grant while they get him up into Grant’s arms. Sparrow remembers that Grant wanted to carry Lincoln into the playground. The parking lot was a no-go. 

“Ready to go?” Sparrow calls over. Grant opens and shuts his mouth a couple of times trying to come up with an answer, but nothing comes out. He eventually just nods. 

Sparrow smiles as lazily as he can. He tries to exude calm. Grant would never fall for it if Sparrow actually shot him with a calm-the-fuck-out spell, but he can do the next best thing and model it. 

Grant bundles Lincoln as close to his chest as he can, scans the park then walks toward the open gate. 

Five steps. Four. Lark detaches Normal from his shoulder and puts him on the ground. Sparrow takes his hand and walks behind Grant, Marco, and Terry.

Two steps.

One.

The soft grass.

Lincoln wiggles too hard in Grant’s arms for him to hold on any longer. Marco puts a hand on his back while Grant lets Lincoln slip to the ground. The sniper’s eyes look to the sky for monsters or beast descending, but there’s nothing but a red sky. Lincoln tugs on his pants.

“Look!” He points to the slide and tugs again. Normal is already slicing an uncoordinated path toward the swings. Lincoln watches him then tugs harder at his dad. 

“Yeah. Sure. Let’s go,” Grant says. His voice is tight. He unwraps Lincoln’s hand from his pants and holds it. Then Marco, unwilling to be left behind, takes his empty hand. Lincoln wiggles and jumps and holds on tight when his dads swing him back and forth.

Sparrow keeps a lazy eye on Normal, but stays just far enough behind them all so he can pull his phone out and open the camera app. With the park in the background and Marco and Grant holding Lincoln’s hands it’s the perfect shot. There’s a rumble of laughter from his left and Sparrow looks over to find Terry looking at him with his own phone out. 

They snap a picture each– for blackmail reasons– and follow behind. Lark keeps an eye on the sky, and the perimeter just like he promised. Nicky chases after Normal. For a moment it feels like things could be okay. 

–--

Lark paces the park. A few more families have arrived since Lark called Grant that morning, but so far that seems okay. The only problem is that those families keep shooting him looks. Lark tries not to make a big deal about it. He’s accustomed to looks . One doesn’t get kicked out of community parks, and thrown out of bars and asked to leave supermarkets without getting a few looks . At least this time he’s not actually doing anything wrong. He’s not covered in blood, or fighting. He’s wearing regular clothes and not proselytizing about the life saving properties of glucose and chlorophyll. He’s just scanning the park, the trees, the houses nearby. He turns and walks back the other way. 

There’s nothing to look at so he studies–-more often than he should–Grant’s face. He’s smiling and Lark thinks they need to see each other more outside of fights and disasters because this smile isn’t his scary, wild fighting smile, or his determined gnarly grimace smile. This one is almost his wedding smile. It’s certainly brighter than his holiday dinner smile. It’s something uniquely enamored that he has just for Linc. It’s soft and lovely and Lark wishes he saw it more. 

His friend scoops Lincoln off the bottom of the slide, then does the same with Normal. Terry tickles them as they run around the jungle gym back up to Marco who waits up top. Too many adults, but they’re all having a good time. It gives Sparrow a chance to talk to Nicky off to the side. Simple. Easy. Sparrow looks relaxed. Everyone seems to be doing well.

This is a good day so far. Lark paces the edge of the park again. 

Check high, check low, check left, check right. Check devices Terry’s attached to his phone to scan for any magical oddities. This is what he’s good at. He’s used to scouting being more tense, but this is important, so he stays focussed. He performs seriousness for Grant’s sake. 

He paces to the edge, checks the fence line, checks the trees. He checks the houses down at this end. He turns, then starts his walk to the other end of the park. In his trek back he takes a moment again to check his friend’s faces. Grant- almost relaxed enough to be genuinely happy. Terry- giddy like he’s won a prize, Nicky- chill enough that he’s checking his phone, Sparrow - Grinning, in his safe place with his kiddo on a calm day. 

Lark thinks about veering over to the group for just a minute, just to say hi. He wants to lean his head on Sparrow’s shoulder and make a crack about Grant’s dad shoes. He wants to soak up this moment with his friends. But he doesn’t. He stays on track. Lark checks around him again, up, down, left, right, trees, playground. The face of every adult, a quick scan of the kids. Anyone can be an acolyte or incursion. They’re everywhere. Lark checks his phone, looks back up, then checks his friends. Nothing’s changed except Nicky’s put his phone away. 

Nicky’s put his phone away and he looks a little nervous. 

Something is up. Nicky is also, a little, on guard duty, so if he’s seen something Lark needs to know as soon as possible. 

Lark turns his attention back to the playground just to see if something is amiss. Nothing. There’s a rumble in the back of his chest from seeing Nicky’s face, A visceral concern he feels in his hands. He checks again and again until he sees Nicky break away from Sparrow. There’s a certain twitch to Nicky’s head, a motion with his hand that gives him away as anxious. He veers a little off his course to pick up Nicky on his walk toward the other end of the park. 

“See something?” Lark asks, all pleasantries aside. Nicky falls into step at his side. 

“Ah. Possibly.”

That’s not an answer. Lark checks all the directions again, up down left right, but throws in a few extras for good measure. He tries to put himself into the mind of the doodler. Hates it, but does it. Where would he hide? What would he be like at a playground?

Nicky’s left eye twitches in a disconcerting way, like he’s licked a lemon and is trying to keep his eye open.

“So?”

“Nicholas is-” Nicky does a familiar motion with his hand like he’s holding up a baseball to his temple and twisting it. Something is rotating around his brain in a bad way. 

Nicholas’s name puts something sharp in Lark’s gut. Nicholas is annoying, and rule abiding, and has a giant stick up his thirteen year old ass but he notices things. Lark growls. The last thing he wants to do is deal with Nicholas’s acidic cop personality, but he will if it keeps Grant safe. 

“I’d get Terry if I could,” Nicky says, “but he’s babysitting, and if I pull him away Grant is going to get suspicious.”

Lark reaches the end of the park, looks up, down, left right, at the houses, and the treeline then turns to head back.

“And coming to me doesn’t look sketchy?” Lark asks.

“I’m also on guard duty,” Nicky shrugs. “We’re just chatting about security.”

Lark grunts, and Nicky’s eye twitches again. He comes to a full stop halfway down the park.

“Shit,” Nicky says. 

Lark steps ahead and turns to face him full on. 

“Can you just watch me while I talk to Nicholas?” Nicky says. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and presses a thumb into his twitching eye to get it to stop. “Working on it, working on it.” he mumbles to himself– or to Nicholas, more likely. 

“Can you-” Nicky motions between them. 

“Can I what?” Lark asks. It dawns on him slowly what Nicky is asking for. He wants Lark to do the thing Grant, Sparrow, and Terry are so good at where they help Nicky negotiate with Nicholas. He wants him to be a kind of guardrail or guiding light. An anchor , that’s what it is. He wants Lark to be something he can drag himself back with if Nicholas gets too assertive.  

Lark shuffles his feet and hopes that Terry will appear out of nowhere to volunteer as tribute instead. 

“I’m sending you some pics of Taylor and Cass and stuff,” Nicky says, fully ignoring Lark’s clear discomfort. 

It’s fine, Lark thinks. He can do this, or at least he tries to tell himself that. Nicky taps a few buttons on his phone then Lark’s lights up with new messages. 

“Get Ter if it gets too bad, but try not to spook Grant I guess?” 

“Can’t you just ask Nicholas what’s wrong?” Lark asks. He will definitely be getting Terry if things even start going sideways (and deal with the fallout from Grant later) but it’s not his first option. Usually Nicky can just kind of look inside himself, scan his memories and figure out whatever important information Nicholas is flagging.

“He wants to be in charge right now and I do not want that,” Nicky says. Lark is relieved that they’re at least on the same page there. Lark really hates when Nicholas takes over. “Unfortunately he’s not telling me anything so it’s going to be a little longer of a conversation. I just don’t want to get lost.”

Lark bites his cheek and checks everything again. Treeline. Sky. Playground. Families. Grant, Sparrow, Terry, Marco. The kids.

Lark tries not to worry. 

“Could be nothing,” Nicky says. “Nicholas gets riled up about dumb things.”

Lark nods but he does not like this. He’s not the only one either. Grant’s shifted to keep an eye on them. There’s a slight lift in his shoulders and a stiffness in how he picks up Linc to swing him around. He’s aware that Lark and Nicky are talking, and he’s maybe aware that something isn’t right about that. 

“Let’s make it quick,” Lark says. He turns back to Nicky and braces himself for whatever Nicky needs him to do. He tries to mimic what Terry does in these situations so he opens Nicky’s messages with the photos. Lark probably has the same ones buried in his phone somewhere, but his files are always a mess, and Nicky knows it. Better to just have them at the ready. He puts his phone back in his pocket. Then Lark steadies his feet, and holds out his hands. He’s not exactly sure where to put them, but Terry and Grant usually put them on Nicky somewhere. 

Nicky nods in encouragement then reaches out and forces Lark’s hands onto his shoulders. 

“Just hold on,” Nicky says. “Shake me a little and call my name if I’m gone for more than five minutes.”

“Five minutes!” 

Nicky came over here with an emergency and five minutes is way too long of a wait just to find out what that emergency is.

“I’ll try to be quick,” Nicky says. “Just stick with me. Nicholas is being really loud.” 

“Okay, yes fine.” Lark checks all his points again, tries not to think about how long five minutes is, then says, “Close your eyes, I guess?”

Nicky does. Then he takes a deep breath. 

What does Terry always say when he wants to get into Nicholas’s memories?

“Think of Jodie?” Lark guesses.

Nicky smirks.

“I got this Larky,” he says, “just stand there and hold tight.” 

“Oh,” Lark says. “Right. Cool. yeah. That’s easier.” He lets out a major sigh of relief. He knows Grant has talked Nicky through conversations with Nicholas before, but that’s some jedi level brain fuckery that Lark does not want to mess with. He gently squeezes Nicky’s shoulders to encourage him then holds still. 

Nicky takes a deep breath. He releases it with a small shudder, then relaxes. Lark watches his eyes shift back and forth under his lids. 

He’s just gonna stand there then. Waiting? Lark looks over his shoulder. Grant’s still looking at him. Lark grits his teeth and tries not to curse. He feels apologetic. His job is to be strong and take all the worries off Grant’s shoulders. This is a worry. He wants Grant to look away. If he doesn’t see this then it’s not happening. 

Lark shrugs to say I don’t know either , then smiles in a way he hopes conveys ease. It falls flat when Nicky grabs his elbow. 

“Shit.” Lark jerks his attention back to Nicky, and Nicky huffs the greatest auditory equivalent of an eye-roll that Lark’s ever heard.

“I can’t believe he came to you,” Nicky says, and it’s abundantly clear that Nicholas has surfaced in all his Narkolas glory.

Lark growls.

“Motherfucker,” Lark curses. “Nicky really let you out?” Nicky was just supposed to talk to Nicholas, on the inside. Where–and this is very important– Lark didn’t have to fucking talk to him. 

“I needed to talk to someone,” Nicholas says. “Didn’t realize it would be you.” 

“Not much of a choice, dickwad.” 

“Language,” Nicholas chides. “and name calling is unnecessary.” 

And that’s probably fair, but when Nicky randomly turns into a thirteen year old Nark, Lark immediately reverts to his twelve year old self.

“So What’s wrong?” Lark says. The faster he can get answers the faster Nicky can come back.

Nicholas tsks and looks over his shoulder for someone else to talk to.

“You’re stuck with me,” Lark says. He pushes Nicky’s chin back in his direction and stares him down. He’ll be damned if Nicholas grabs someone else to talk to. They’re all having a chill morning at the playground. Security is Lark’s job today. He refuses to let anyone else worry.  

Nicholas clicks his tongue, then pulls out his phone. Nicky’s got about 200 too many apps on his it, and about 50 of them Nicky doesn't know how he got or what they do. Lark assumes the app Nicholas pulls up is one of those mysterious ones because the interface is ugly and code filled and has very strong Nicholas vibes. It looks like something that’s always running on the IT girl’s screen when she booty calls him at 3 in the morning. 

“Police scanner,” Nicholas says.

“Yeah, sure.” Lark shrugs. Terry’s got a way better one on his work computer, and it’s set to scan for certain key phrases and ping his phone if anything comes up. Clearly whatever Nicholas is looking at isn’t important enough to set off Terry’s system because about 50 feet away he is still goofing off with two four-year-old boys. So what is it that Nicholas picked up?

“Two streets over there’s a-”

There’s a loud whistle that cuts him off. A Terry-level loud whistle. Maybe he did get some call on his phone.

Lark turns around. He expects something large and tentacled to be writhing out of a tree or grasping at them from a giant hole in the ground, but Terry is just motioning at Grant who is stalking over to them. Grant’s got his hands stuffed in his pants pockets. He’s forcing a neutral walk, but Lark can see anxiety in Grant from a mile away. 

Lark messed up. He didn’t keep Nicky’s thing under wraps and now Grant’s going to have a meltdown and this whole day is going to be ruined and there goes Lincy’s freedom.

Lark turns back to Nicholas and pinches his arm. 

“Get Nicky out here,” Lark tells Nicholas “or I swear to god I’ll punch you in the nuts.” He’s got twelve-year-old-boy brain and can’t seem to shake it. Nicholas wrenches his arm out of Lark’s grasp and stomps his foot. Lark almost shoves him, but reigns it in. He can reign it in. He is a grown up. He takes a deep breath and asks, 

“What’s on the scanner?” Lark needs to know quickly, so he can have something to say to Grant when he gets over to them.

“There was a phone call about a strange person at the east side playground.” Nicholas scrolls to the right section of his app, and holds it out for Lark to see. In between brackets and slashes Lark sees what Nicholas is talking about. “It’s your description. Tan skin, blond hair, blue shirt. They’re on their way over here.”

Chapter Text

Grant is trying, and to his surprise it’s not as hard as he thought it would be. Lincoln follows Normal and he and Marco follow Lincoln. Slides, swings, the pretend digging rigs that can move piles of rocks around, and monkey bars. It’s easy. Normal has to show Lincoln everything, and Lincoln takes it in with wide eyes and giddy enthusiasm. 

Grant takes moments to squeeze Marco’s hand, or throw a nervous or thankful smile at Sparrow and Terry. He makes certain to keep one eye on Lark as he paces around the park. The man looks calm and in his element. He’s easy going today but dedicated to keeping an eye on things. It’s a relief so great that Grant doesn’t know what to do to show his appreciation. Smile, or wave or just slump his shoulders and hope Lark can see the relief. 

No matter where the others are, today his attention always gets to zero back in on his son. Follow his smile , Terry had said, so he does. It’s bright and easy to follow.  

Forty five minutes in and Grant is almost willing to tack another fifteen minutes onto the end of the hour. He knows that in about five minutes he is going to have to give Linc the we’re-leaving-soon warning, and he isn’t sure how that will go. Lincoln still has spaces to explore and things to do and energy to burn. Another fifteen minutes won’t hurt anyone? Grant glances Sparrow’s way. He also seems to be having a good time just watching the kids play. He won’t care about an extra fifteen. Terry doesn’t have anyone to meet until that afternoon, and Nicky? Grant looks around. Nicky was right by Sparrow a few minutes ago.

Grant looks around. Nicky probably just slipped away to hit his vape or use the bathroom. Lincoln slams into Grant’s legs. Oh right, he’s supposed to be guarding the bottom of the slide. Grant smiles down at the kid then swings him off the slide. Normal slides immediately after. Grant’s pretty sure he doesn’t need to be at the bottom of the slide for the kids sake, but it makes him feel better to catch them at the bottom, to feel their joy radiating as he loops his hands under their arms and swings them off.  

Grant keeps looking for Nicky though. It’s not important that he knows where he is but it does feel like a mission in the way Grant wants to keep tabs on everyone. Lark’s walking, Sparrow’s watching, Terry’s hanging close. 

Grant scans back around the park. He finds Nicky walking toward Lark and Grant stands up taller to hone in on Nicky’s mannerisms. They’re not right. 

“Grant!” Marco calls from the top of the slide. “Linc’s coming down.”

Grant forces his attention back to the kids. Follow Linc’s smile.  

Lincoln slides down into Grant’s waiting arms, wiggles to get off of the slide and runs back to the ramp so Normal can have a turn. It’s easy and repetitive and would almost be boring if Grant were used to coming to the park.  

Grant looks back to Nicky. Lark’s hands are on the man’s shoulders. Grant doesn’t like that. Hates it. Feels his heartbeat speed up even when Lark shrugs and shoots him a close approximation of an unconcerned smile. 

He needs to know what’s going on. 

“Terry can you keep an eye out for the kids?” Grant says. Terry has been lazily leaning on a jungle gym pole, but perks up at Grant’s request.

“I’ve got it.” Terry takes up Grant’s spot at the bottom of the slide but catches his eye. “What’s up?” 

Grant nods to Lark and Nicky and Terry’s eyes follow the trajectory. 

“Sh—oot.” Terry monitors his cursing. “Want me to check it out?”

Grant shakes his head. He’s got it. 

Terry’s about to protest, but Grant feels a painful grinding in his stomach. He needs to know what’s going on. Terry might lie to him and say everything is fine, even if it’s not. Terry’s on a mission. 

Grant walks away and stuffs his hands into his pockets. There’s a rock there, smooth and yellowish. Lincoln had found it and insisted he take it as a gift. Grant worries it around in his hand as he moves. Lark’s let go of Nicky but they’re tussling. Bad news bad news bad news. He hears Terry whistle to get Lark’s attention. 

Grant breathes nice and even. Probably nothing. Nicky’s being overdramatic. Grant’s taking another steady breath when Lark flinches back. He looks to the parking lot, then around at the gathered parents and kids. 

Grant speeds up and pulls to a stop nearly on top of them. 

“What’s wrong?” Something is wrong. Something is so clearly wrong. He looks to the parking lot where Lark was looking. He glances back at the playground. Terry and Marco have Lincoln and Normal. Safe and sound.  

Lark works to force his face into calm, but there’s something feral and panicked in his eyes that he can’t control. Grant wants to grab him and hold on. Save him somehow.

“Is nothing bad,” Lark insists. “Not magically bad,” he amends. 

“What is it!” Grant isn’t calm enough on this day for beating around the bush. Nicky holds up his phone. 

“Someone called in a report about a strange tan, blonde man making circles around the playground.” Nicky seems exasperated, irritated for some reason, and the shoulder holding, weird-app-presenting behavior clicks in Grant’s brain. Nicholas.  

Lark grits his teeth. 

“Police are on the way to check it out,” Nicholas continues.

Grant sees Lark’s breath hitch. He’s got a knee jerk reaction to police, and it’s not a good one. They probably have his name and picture in a file somewhere; breaking an entering, public nuisance, trespassing, and public intoxication are some of the highlights. Most of the offenses are years old, but a few doodler-hunting related ones are recent. The police might recognize him.

Lark should go. He should get in his car and leave. Grant knows it. It won’t be a big deal if he stays, probably just a conversation with the cops and a request for him to leave (even if Sparrow is here, even if they can convince the cops that Lark’s just taking a walk around the playground.) It still makes Grant nervous thinking of Lark gone.

“Grant, ” Lark says. He licks his lips. “You’ll be fine for a few minutes. I’ve tripled checked this place.” He stutters and it clearly takes him a lot of effort to say the next part. It’s a whisper and a plea when it does come out, “please don’t make me stay.”

Grant feels torn. He needs to protect Lincoln, but Lark looks spooked and it wouldn’t be a big deal if he left. Nicky can pick up the watch– except Nicky is currently Nicholas, and as dedicated as he is to their safety his real efforts are slapshot and imperfect. 

Lark’s thousand yard stare moves to somewhere near the parking lot. Grant knows it’s not worth Lark’s mental health to make him talk to cops. Not worth his own to be in a low grade panic for ten minutes without him. Grant’s going to call it early. They’ve made it fifty minutes. That’s good enough for him. 

“Let’s just go,” Grant says. 

Lark nods, but Nicholas scoffs. 

“Just stay,” Nicholas says. “I can keep watch. Make Lark go. This is his fault. This wouldn’t even be an issue if Lark didn’t have such a long wrap sheet for being a psycho.” 

Grant does a double take, Lark lunges.

“What the fuck, asshole?” 

Grant intervenes, checking Lark with his shoulder to keep him from taking a swing at Nicholas, even if he’s also ready to tackle the man. Lark and Nicholas have never particularly gotten along, but even with that, and even with everyone being high strung today, Nicholas didn’t need to make that jab.

“You run into the police all the time,” Nicholas says, like that’s the problem with his statement.

“Nicholas, you need to knock it off,” Grant says. “And never use that word like that.”

“What, psycho? You guys say it all the time.”

Lark growls in a way that really isn’t going to help their case that Lark’s a perfectly acceptable addition to the playground. 

“We are allowed to say it.” Grant forces himself to remember that Nicholas is a kid, a dumbass kid, because Grant is really ready to start something.

“Let’s go back to the others and get out of here,” Grant says instead. He shoves Lark a little in the direction of Sparrow. Away from Nicholas. He expects a fight, but Lark gives Grant one look and deflates. He can see his calculus. He loves Grant’s sanity more than he wants to break Nicholas’s nose again. 

Grant takes point walking back to the others, and Lark follows. There’s the thud of boots behind them telling Grant that Nicholas is following. Thank god he’s shut up. 

“You could stay if you wanted,” Lark says when they’re halfway back. “You’ll be fine. We’re just a few minutes short of an hour.”

“Lark I’m not staying without you and you’re not staying here.”

Grant glances to the road, expecting a cop car any minute. Nothing yet. 

Sparrow and Terry are already on alert when they get back.

“We need to go,” Grant says without preamble. He hands Lark off to Sparrow and walks toward Marco, Terry and the kids. 

“Why are we leaving?” Terry asks. “What’s happening?” He looks around for some sign of an incursion and comes up empty handed. 

“Police are coming to talk to Lark,” Grant says. He assumes Lark is telling Sparrow the same thing. “I want to get out of here before they do.”

Terry’s mouth shapes into an oh. Marco puts his hands on his hips.

“Lark can leave and we can probably stay a little longer without him,” Terry reasons. Grant bites his bottom lip.

“I would rather just go,” Grant says. He doesn’t want to stay. He’s had enough anxiety for the month.

Terry sighs. 

“I’m sorry, babe.” Marco puts a hand on Grant’s arm. It feels good. “Maybe we shouldn’t have come.”

“Jesusssss,” Terry says, extending the word with exasperation. Grant feels Marco’s hand clench.

“Terry. It’s not the time,” Marco says.

“It’s been a good morning,” Terry counters. “It was worth it. This is a small inconvenient hiccup. It’s not worth saying we shouldn’t have come at all.”

“Maybe-” Marco says. His eyes slide to Grant. There’s worry in every line of his face. Marco’s the one who is going to have to deal with the fallout that Grant is sure will happen as soon as the adrenaline and the need to get Lark out of here wears off.

“It’s not a big deal,” Terry says again.

“Not to you, Terry,” Marco bites, “but have a little bit of sympathy.”

Grant’s not having it with Terry and Marco right now. He scoops Lincoln off the ground because like hell he’s letting Terry and Marco keep an eye on him, and goes back to Sparrow. Grant can tell from how tight Lincoln squeezes around his neck that he knows something is wrong.

“Lark,” Grant says, “sorry to ask right now, but before you go can you grab Terry and take him to my house to get his car. I’m not sticking those two feral cats in my van together.” 

He needs to get this figured out, and soon, before the cops are here. Before things fall apart. His stomach twists. It’s an ugly feeling on a day that was going so well. He checks the road. Maybe he can see a cruiser before it gets here. Breathe. Before he can let out the air, Sparrow’s got his arm. Grant jumps before meeting his eyes. 

“I got this, Grant,” Sparrow says, because oh, right, Grant’s not alone. He isn’t in charge of this mission. He forces his body to relax. “Get Marco and head home.” Sparrow squeezes his shoulder “you did good.” His words are almost a balm. He did good. Lincoln made it to the park, and up until about 5 minutes ago he was having a great time. 

“Lark car,” Sparrow directs. 

“On it.” Lark looks fueled up by having a mission. He disappears behind Grant. A moment later he hears a scuffle then Lark walks past, Terry in tow. 

“Where’ Nicky?” Sparrow asks. “He has celebratory chocolate for you. You should grab it before heading out.”

Grant raises an eyebrow at the silliness of that statement in the midst of this mess, but then he remembers where, and more importantly who, Nicky is. 

“He’s Nicholas,” Grant says as a simple, exhausted explanation.

“Shit.” Sparrow looks around for the teenage-adult. “We shouldn’t leave him alone.” When they do leave him as Nicholas, he’s stuck for days. 

They find Nicholas leaning against the slide and flipping through his phone.

“I got him,” Sparrow says. “Go on home.”

Grant feels uncomfortable relinquishing control so easily. In a perverse kind of way he likes being the team leader. It’s soothing to tell people what to do. It takes his mind off his own panic and anxiety. 

Grant forces himself to nod, grits his teeth then turns around to Marco. He’s got his hands on his hips and is staring intently at a tree, calming his breathing. One. two. three. four. 

Grant checks the road one more time, and feels dread when he sees a black car, rolling down the road. No lights, no hurry, but a cop car nonetheless. Grant looks immediately to the parking lot.

“Lark’s in his car,” Sparrow says from over by Nicky. He’s seeing exactly what Grant is. 

“What about you?” Grant asks. Sparrow looks just like Lark. He’s wearing a different colored shirt though so maybe that will keep him under the radar.

“I’ll be fine if I have to talk to them,” Sparrow says. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sparrow scoops up a grouchy looking Normal and waves to Nicholas. “C’mon,” Sparrow says. 

“I’m fine,” Nicholas protests. “I’ll just go back to hell for a while.”

“Nicholas, I need someone to keep an eye on Normal while I drive,” Sparrow lies, but the need for safety and security overrides Nicholas’s desire for independence. He huffs and follows Sparrow out across the grass and to the parking lot. Grant is left alone with Marco and Linc still clasped tight in his arms. Oh shit. They’re alone in a strange place with Lincoln. 

Marco’s hand falls on his shoulder.

“We should go too,” he says. Grant nods jerkilly as Lincoln pulls his head away from Grant’s shoulder. 

“We have to go?” Lincoln asks. His eyebrows are pulled down and his lips have curled into a frown. Grant’s mouth feels dry. He wants to offer Lincoln the world, or at least something to fix his frown. 

“How about we get ice cream on the way home?” Grant asks. It’s the small olive branch he can offer and still feel safe.  

Lincoln looks around the park, and considers his options. 

“Sprinkles?” Lincoln says.

“Lots.” Grant agrees. Lincoln half smiles.

“Can we come back here tomorrow?” Lincoln bounces in Grant’s arms and looks pointedly at the xylophone and the porch swing that he never got to test out. 

The silence that takes hold of their small group is sharp. Grant swallows around a lump in his throat. He knows it’s up to him. Marco would never make him do something he doesn’t want to do, his argument with Terry proved that. Grant doesn’t want to lie. He doesn’t want to offer false hope or break his kid’s heart. He just doesn’t know. 

“I’ll think about it,” Grant says. Lincoln doesn’t fight, just drops his head into Grant’s shoulder and lies still.

Grant feels similar. He wants to drop to the ground like lead and hope someone picks him back up. He’s the parent though so he just holds Linc close and walks toward the parking lot. He wishes it was that easy to give Lincoln everything he wants, to offer him the world, but he has to protect him. The world is too chaotic and his family too messy to take risks. 

Chapter Text

Sparrow points Nicholas to the back seat of the car like somehow he is going to protect Normal from the fearsome blue upholstery. Sparrow doesn’t really care as long as Nicholas thinks he has a purpose. As long as he has a purpose he will stay in Sparrow’s car and proximity to one of them usually helps him slip back into Nicky. 

Sparrow could really use Nicky right now instead of Nicholas. His nerves are grated down to nubs from worry and he’s mad at Nicholas, he supposes, because the trip got cut short. It’s not Nicholas’s fault, but it feels like it. 

Sparrow starts buckling Normal in just as the cops pull into the parking lot. Sparrow glances over his shoulder to make sure Terry and Lark are safely in the Ranger. They are, and they’re even crawling slowly out of the parking lot. The only thing that pulls Sparrow back to what he’s doing is Normal giggling and pointing, 

“Acaba!” he says, like ACAB is some kind of magical spell. He kicks his little feet out and looks rather proud of himself. Probably because when he does that Lark gives him candy like he’s training a puppy. It’s almost cute except Nicholas snorts in irritation. 

“Excuse me?” he growls. Sparrow pushes down his irritation. It’s not very love wolf of him to want to smoosh his hand into Nicholas’s face and shove him against the far door.

“Dammit Lark,” Sparrow mumbles under his breath. 95% of the time it’s funny that his brother taught the kids to curse at police, but right now he could use peaceful silence. 

“Nicholas it’s fine,” Sparrow says, “He’s four. He doesn’t mean it.” 

Nicholas humphs and jerks around in his seat like a petulant teenager. Sparrow rolls his eyes. When they were kids and Nicky was still trying to sort out Nicholas and Nick, he and Sparrow would kick a soccer ball back and forth. Each time it hit their foot they would say something true about themselves. Nicky was trying to pin down what was real in each life and what he wanted to keep in his personality. Sparrow was trying to find the boundaries between himself and Lark. He didn’t know where he ended and Lark began. What was Sparrow and what was LarkandSparrow, and what was just Lark? Playing that game almost felt like understanding Nicky. Sparrow knows Nicholas better than most of them. He probably loves Nicholas more than the rest of them as well. Doesn’t mean he’s not a totally annoying nark.  

“I know you’re irritated right now,” Sparrow says, “but I need you to just focus on Normal right now, and make sure we make it home safe.” It’s a lie, but one that makes Nicholas sit up straighter in his chair. He puts on his best impression of a grown up and nods. 

“Thank you,” Sparrow says. He pushes the last clip of Normal’s car seat into place, subtly checks that Nicky’s buckled in because he’s in Hero’s usual spot and habit is habit, then stands up as naturally as he can. He smirks when he sees Nicholas lean over and double check his work on Normal’s seatbelt. 

Sparrow tries not to look suspicious as he side-eyes the cruiser. He puts effort into looking the part of just a guy putting his kid back into his car. He definitely does not have “tan skin and blond hair.” He tousels his waves and tries to look extra blond, extra white, extra not suspicious. 

The cops glance his way which makes his stomach flip, but the look doesn’t linger. Sparrow slips behind the wheel and turns on the car so the AC can blast at Normal and Nicholas. He doesn’t pull out. The list of mission objectives doesn’t have all the boxes ticked off because Grant and Marco aren’t safely on the road. For a soft moment Sparrow wonders if they’ve stayed behind for one last slide or turn on the swingset. 

The hope doesn’t last long. He quickly finds the trio walking across the grass, Lincoln curled up in Grant’s arms. Marco’s hand is on Grant’s back and he gives the cops a cursory glance as they walk past. Lark’s gone. He’s safe and there’s nothing left to find in the park but happy, normal families, who aren’t paranoid about monsters. Sparrow tries not to feel jealous of them. 

Sparrow looks at the car clock. They made it an hour, if they count that last ten minutes of everyone hurriedly loading into their cars. One hour. 

Sparrow has to count it as a win for his own sanity. Today was the culmination of months of planning and fighting. It means he has to believe they’ve made it an hour. 

Grant puts Lincoln in the car then looks over his shoulder toward Sparrow. His face is a riddle Sparrow can’t puzzle out. He would stare longer but Grant turns away to talk to Marco and the moment is lost. Sparrow should get out to talk to him. He needs to debrief. He needs to know all of it; if Grant enjoyed himself, if he really saw Lincoln’s face, if he would ever consider coming back. It’s too scary to know though. What if it wasn’t enough? What would Sparrow do if he found out that Grant just wants to lock Lincoln up even tighter? 

Sparrow can’t stomach that. His hands wrap tightly around the steering wheel. His knuckles turn to a white and pink in worry. Grant gets into the passenger seat of the minivan and Marco turns on the car and they’re gone before Sparrow can figure out if he even wants to talk to Grant.

“Are we going?” Nicholas asks from the backseat.

“Yeah,” Sparrow says, breathless. “Sorry.” 

He gets onto the main road home and tries not to think too hard about whether Grant will ever come back to a park. 

Sparrow drums his hands on the steering wheel. He turns on his mom’s radio station. She’s not DJing at the moment, but he falls into the swaying melody of the orchestra playing something old and sweet. 

He tries not to think about Grant. Sparrow loves him. In his perfect world he would wrap Grant in pillows and bubble wrap and put him somewhere safe, but that’s never been an option and probably never will be. He tries again not to think about the implications of Nicholas and Lark’s fight, or the look on Marco and Terry’s faces as they argued. Would Grant ever forgive him for dragging him out there? Will he ever let Lincoln out of the house again? 

“Hey Sparrow?” Sparrow yanks himself out of the highway hypnosis he’d fallen into. They’re most of the way home. Nicholas and Normal have been mostly quiet the whole way. He glances into the rearview mirror and sees Nicholas looking like he’s seen a ghost. 

“Yeah?” Sparrow turns his attention back to the road but listens intently for whatever it is Nicholas needs to say. 

“I think I fucked up.” Sparrow does a double take. Cursing–that’s definitely a Nicky trait not a Nicholas one. 

“You okay?” Sparrow asks. Nicky looks woozy and guarded. 

“I need to talk to Lark,” he says. “Can I come back to your house?”

Sparrow nods easily. Of course he can come over. That was the plan anyway but Nicky probably doesn't remember that very clearly. 

“Of course,” Sparrow says. “Are you feeling alright?” Nicky doesn’t look great. He probably feels pretty gross if he and Lark got into it about something dumb. 

Sparrow just barely catches Nicky’s nod in the mirror. 

They drive quietly the rest of the way. Sparrow glances back at Nicky a few times but only sees him leaning his head against the backrest, his eyes shut and his face scrunched up in misery. 

It was going so well, Sparrow thinks. Now he’s going to be spending the afternoon untangling fights. 

They pull into the driveway and unload. When they get inside Normal hops straight to his bookshelf. 

“Can you read him something?” Sparrow asks, to give Nicky something to focus on besides whatever it is he did to Lark.  “And convince him to take his shoes off.” They’re bright red and sparkly and Normal loves them. “I’m gonna make sandwiches or something.” It’s what he can do. He can feed people. It’s harder to sustain a disagreement when you’re well fed. 

Sparrow goes into the kitchen and looks around for inspiration. He could make peanut butter and jelly, but his hands demand something more tactile to keep his fingers away from his phone. Grant is with Marco. He’s fine. Sparrow’s brain needs something to chew on that’s not worrying about Grant. Grant will reach out when he’s ready. 

Ten minutes later and no luck finding something to cook he hears Lark get home. He heads back to the living room to referee whatever is about to happen, but stops when he sees Terry on Lark’s heels. He’s looking about as hang-dog and sheepish as Nicky. Sparrow doesn’t get a word of welcome out before Lark curses. 

“Fuck.” He kicks off his boots and glares at Nicky. “Why did you let Nicholas in here?”

“Nicky,” Sparrow corrects. Nicky untangles Normal from his lap and starts to stand up. “Lark I didn’t- I mean Nicholas didn’t mean-”

“You did though,” Lark says. 

Nicky swallows and Sparrow swoops into the room to scoop Normal off the couch. He wraps his arms around his dad and stares at his uncle. 

“You know it’s hard to control Nicholas,” Nicky says. “But I want to apologize-

“Save it.” Lark says, “You all have access to each other’s knowledge, so Nicholas doesn’t really have a fucking excuse for being a dick.”

“Maybe you should take a breather,” Sparrow suggests. He steps in between the pair and puts his free hand on Larks chest. He turns just a bit so Normal can properly see his uncle. Or more importantly Lark can properly see is nephew, and it’s definitely not right to use Normal as a buffer but Lark looks his way and he blinks. His focus zeros in on his nephew and then at Nicky and he deflates. Maybe if he can walk away from the situation Nicky’s apology will sink in just enough for them to have a civilized conversation later.

“Fuck you” Lark hisses at Nicky. He side-steps Sparrow, shoves past Nicky and heads not toward his room, but the finished garage where Lark and Sparrow set up a small studio for him. Nicky’s hands clench together, then release. His frown deepens, but he lets Lark go. 

“Are you hungry?” Sparrow fakes a bright attitude. He hasn’t even made food yet, but he can whip something up if it will cool down anger or boost spirits.  

Both men look guilty and disappointed in themselves in very different ways.

“I need to call Marco,” Terry says. 

Nicky flops back onto the couch.

“I need to wait Lark out.”

–--

Grant doesn’t remember much of the drive home because Nicholas and Lark are pissed at each other and Terry and Marco got into it and he feels like there’s a layer of bees just under his skin.

He gets a small vanilla cone and lets Lincoln eat ice cream covered in what is essentially a bowl full of sprinkles. 

Lincoln is having a great time. Grant reminds himself to breathe. 

Grant maybe had a good time. Until he didn’t.

“I’m sorry,” Marco says, between careful scoops of a banana split. Grant manages to grunt, then scrapes together the best response he can.

“S’okay.” Grant’s not sure if it is okay or if he’s just numb. Everything’s covered in a layer of static. The world feels far away.

“Grant babe, you here with me?” Marco reaches across the table to rub a hand up and down Grant’s shoulder, and that maybe grounds Grant a little, but not enough. Grant glances to his right. There’s chocolate around the entirety of Lincoln’s mouth. It’s adorable, and something that feels tangentially like being alive pulses between his shoulder blades before he remembers everything else about the day. 

Was it good? Would he do it again? He had relaxed, after a bit. He almost felt safe. He was able to chase the high of watching Lincoln play. He was able to stave off panic by seeing him smile. 

“Grant, honey, your ice cream is melting.” Grant can’t feel his hands or the sugary sweet dripping between his fingers. He doesn’t taste anything. Can ice cream taste like water? It sits heavy in his stomach. Marco grabs napkins and Grant throws out his cone and time moves and then they’re home. 

Grant parks himself on the couch to take off his shoes, and doesn’t have the energy to walk them back to the closet. His legs are shaky. 

“You need anything?” Marco asks. He leans in to kiss the top of Grant’s head. He’s trying to help and that still feels weird, even after years and years of people trying to help. Grant rubs his forehead, closes his eyes, rubs them too. Pushing his lids into his eyes feels good and real and he wants to keep rubbing them forever. Has to stop before he hurts himself. He forces his hands away from his face and combs his fingers through his hair tugging a little too hard before looking up at Marco. 

“Lincoln and I are going to do a puzzle in the kitchen,” Marco says. 

Grant feels like a cardboard cutout of himself. Dry and flat. Some program running in the back of his mind tells him to do something that will get him out of his head, but it’s soft in this numb place. It’s easy to not be. He doesn’t want to jar it and suddenly have to feel something. 

“Can you let me know if you need anything,” Marco requests again. He seems concerned, but Grant can also hear a soft layer of embarrassment underneath. Grant nods. He drops back against the couch, and Marco takes his shoes and sets them in the closet. He then goes to the kitchen with Lincoln. 

Grant sits. The far wall is white. The blandness hums softly. Grant feels nothing. There’s a shelf against the wall. They decorated it with family photos; Marco’s sisters, Grant’s parents. They added small sculptures Linc made from colorful clay. Lark did a portrait of baby Lincoln that sits on the top shelf. 

Don’t think about Lark. Lark and Nicholas. It went bad. Maybe Nicholas is back to being Nicky. 

The far wall is white. 

It hums. Hums. Hums. Grant isn’t there.

He needs to get up and talk to Marco. Call Terry and make them talk to each other like the fucking grown-ups they are.

He can’t do that yet. The thought of trying to exist sits like an anchor in his body. 

Can he get a glass of water? Ice cold. Jarring. He can maybe do that. He can hear Marco searching for Lincoln’s tablet. He’s got a little soccer game on it that he’s been obsessed with lately. His little hands barely have fine motor skills, but he can score goals. Grant loves playing it with him. He could do that. Get cold water. Play a game with Lincoln. 

Cold water. A game with Lincoln. He keeps repeating those goals to himself. Over and over, until it becomes static in the background. Then he refocuses on the goal. He can do it. One step in front of the other. Step one. Lean forward. He takes a deep breath and dives in. He sits up, and from sitting up it’s a little easier to get to standing. He uses the forward momentum to steer himself toward the kitchen. 

He still can’t feel anything, but at least he has the motivation to get where he needs to be. He picks one of Lincoln’s little plastic cups out of the cabinet and fills it with crushed ice and water. His fridge is stainless steel silver and he stares at the smudges on the surface as he brings the cup to his mouth. 

Ice hits his tongue hard and cold and, shit, his mouth and his throat suddenly exist. 

“Feeling better?” Marco steps up next to him to get goldfish from a cabinet.

Grant examines the cup, because it’s there and the tips of his fingers are cold instead of numb, and that kinda feels good? There’s something itching right behind his dissociation. Does he dare pick at it? 

The park. 

Grant takes another sip and vacillates on whether or not to be in his body. His hand is cold and 

And

And

The rest of him is suddenly too hot, like he’s being lowered into a steaming sauna in winter. He sets his cup down and seriously thinks about taking his shirt off. He needs to at least get out of his jeans. He’s got sport shorts up in his room. 

“I was gonna call Terry to apologize,” Marco says, somehow unaware of the sweat lodge currently heating up their kitchen. His words settle in Grant’s brain then grab him by the collar and yank him into the present. He’s falling in a straight forward line, like being tied to the front of a train. “He texted.” 

Right, because Terry and Marco got into a fight, and Nicholas insulted Lark, and they left the park early.

And the crux of it is Grant doesn’t know if he wants to go back. Going back feels like a full meal. Lincoln was happy, and his friends were nearby and everything was good, and going back feels like a black pit and good day. He doesn’t know. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t know. 

“Grant?”

“Yeah,” Grant says, “Thanks.” He does feel grateful that Marco and Terry figure things out. 

“You know we both love you,” Marco says. “We love each other. Just love arguing more.” The corner of Marco’s lip twitches up. Terry and Marco’s stupid arguments are playful and in depth and insufferable to the point where Grant usually has to leave the room before they start pulling up citations on their phones. Their real arguments are painful, but thankfully short lived. They hurt just the same. 

“I know,” Grant says. “Love you too.” and then he leaves the room to go change out of his jeans. 

He feels better once dressed down into shorts and a t-shirt. He likes the air on his legs. He likes his bare feet scrunching into soft carpet, then the cold laminate wood of the kitchen. 

Lincoln is intent on his video game at the table. Things are there and he’s there instead of not there, and Marco is scooping applesauce into a bowl for Linc, the phone cradled in the crook of his neck. 

His hair is sticking weird like it does when it gets sweaty and dries. Grant sneaks up next to him to kiss his cheek and ear and nuzzle into his side. He smells like sunshine. Grant feels a lot of things and it’s hard to say if it’s good or if it’s too much. Lincoln was so happy. They were safe, and cared for. It all feels thick like honey which means he feels sticky with love, weighed down with possibilities. 

He goes back for his water and takes a long drink. Marco grins at him, pecks him on the cheek before going back at Terry with something in Spanish that Grant knows Terry doesn’t understand. Marco switches back to English and invites Terry to dinner at the end of the week. 

“Is he home safe?” Grant asks. The piece of him that is always in team mode suddenly needs to know that everyone is safe and accounted for.

“You home?” Marco repeats into the phone. There’s chattering on the other end of the line.

“Oaks,” Marco tells Grant. Really? “Everyone is there apparently.” Marco’s brow pinches like he’s listening for something again, then sighs and puts his phone on the counter and turns it on speaker. 

“Hey Terry,” Grants says to announce his sudden presence in the conversation.

“Grant?”

“You’re on speaker,” Marco says. 

“Oh. Cool. Hi Grant,” Terry says, “I was just telling Marco that we’re all here. Nicky’s with Normal. Larks hiding in his studio. Sparrow’s trying to force vegan food on us.”
Grant ruts his lower back into the kitchen counter until he can feel pressure. Everyone is safe. He’s present. Terry doesn’t seem mad. Sparrow at least has something to focus on if he’s forcing food on people. 

“Lark’s still pissed?” Grant asks. He should be pissed. 

“Yeah. Nicky’s waiting him out so he can apologize again.” 

“Nicky?” Grant feels hopeful.

“Definitely Nicky,” Terry says. “He’s making up songs to play on Normal’s toy ukulele. He keeps complaining about shoddy craftsmanship.”

The ukulele is colored like a watermelon and has plastic strings. Shoddy craftsmanship indeed. 

“Truly suffering,” Grants says. He feels pressure against his back from the counter, and suddenly a horrible pressure in his stomach. He needs Terry, and Sparrow, and Nicky, and Lark. He feels tingly, and the distance between him and his friends grows a fourth dimension. Space time distance, and something else indescribably far away. 

“You still there?” Terry asks. His voice is light and easy. Grant had a good morning, until it went bad. They all did. Terry won’t hold a grudge about them not making it to a full hour even if he snipped at Marco about it before. Sparrow is probably happy that it happened at all. He thinks of the twin’s sunshine smile. The way he always somehow smells like dirt when he hugs him. He could use a dirty Sparrow hug right now.

He needs a dirty Sparrow hug right now. Needs a Lark hug that is so tight it almost hurts. Needs Nicky’s seering warmth. He needs Terry’s everything.

Fuck he needs his friends. He puts his water back on the counter. 

“Terry can you stay at Sparrows for a little longer?” Grant asks. 

“I’m here for a bit,” Terry says. “Why?”

Grant feels light and breathless and kind of only a little feels it when Marco puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“I’m gonna come over,” Grant says. 

—-

The house is quiet. Sparrow can just hear Terry in the other room making amends with Marco. Their relationship is always back-and-forth push-and-pull, but they love each other at the end of the day– have to– since their favorite person in the world sits between them. 

Lark is still hiding in his studio and as long as he’s hiding Nicky is staying put in the living room switching between playing music and reading books. Normal demands a hippopotamus book for the fourth time, and Nicky acquiesces. He’s the best at that book anyway because it is sing-song style and Nicky has no qualms about performing every voice and hitting every note like he’s on stage. 

Sparrow cooks, because he can, and because he doesn’t know what else to do. He needs to know if the park went well. He needs to know how badly Grant is falling apart. 

Rebecca’s sourdough starter is all ready to be split and made into bread so Sparrow scoops a portion out and starts a new batch of bread. At least this is something meticulous to get his mind off of Grant and the park and Lincoln and also, again, Grant . Maybe he can work up the courage to call him? Or not. Terry’s probably getting updates from Marco. He can wait for a report. He gets out flour and salt and starts working. 

“Grant’s on his way over,” Terry comes into the kitchen a while later without Sparrow noticing. Sparrow jumps when he hears his voice. Then his heart skips a beat when his words settle into his brain.

“Why?” 

“Marco didn’t say, just said he was coming over.” 

Terry sits down at the island counter and stares as Sparrow kneads dough. Sparrow feels nervous and lightheaded with anticipation.

“You think he hates us?” Sparrow asks. The seams were ripping between all of them on the way out and maybe Grant’s finally had enough of them. Maybe this was the bridge too far. Grant would give up everything for Lincoln.

“Dunno.” Terry says, and it’s not the reassurance Sparrow wants from the man. He looks just as worried as Sparrow feels. Sparrow kneads his bread and folds it over and kneads it some more, and thinks about what else he can make until he hears the door to Lark’s studio click open. Lark’s hands are streaked with red and black. Doodler colors. Colors Lark uses in abundance when he’s upset. 

“Hey brother,” Sparrow says.

Lark grunts and heads for the fridge. His fingers leave smears on the door handle as he goes for a drink. Ginger ale. 

“Nicholas still here?” Lark asks.

“Nicky-” Sparrow emphasizes his name, “is reading to Normal in the living room.”

Lark grunts again. He rubs his forehead leaving red along the wrinkles forming there. It’s not blood. They made it out of today without a real, bloody, fight.  

“Called me psycho,” Lark says. Sparrow raises his eyebrows, feels his fingers tingle with irritation. “Not in a nice way.”

“You and Grant are the only ones who can say that,” Terry interjects. Lark grunts, again. 

“Narcolas is an asshole sometimes,” Terry says, trying to bridge a gap. “I bet he didn’t mean it though.”

“You taking his side?” Lark snaps. 

Terry raises his hands in surrender. 

“Just give him a chance to apologize,” Terry says. He looks exhausted. He’s already done his reparations for his fight, he doesn’t look ready to talk Lark through his. 

“Want me to talk to him?” Sparrow says, and the twins share a look that conveys “talk” means “threaten” in this instance. 

Lark swirls his drink, and Sparrow takes a deep love-wolf breath. He rethinks his stance. Nicky had looked so contrite in the car. 

“Nicky feels horrible,” Sparrow says, feeling himself giving in to his need to be a peacemaker, “and you two are good enough friends to mend this bridge. Anyway Grant’s coming over so we should at least be able to be in the same room together.”

“Grants coming over?” Lark looks up from his drink and says his first clear sentence.

“Yeah. Marco told Terry.”

“You’re talking to Marco?” Lark turns his attention to Terry. 

“Yes,” Terry says. “We kissed and made up. Like adults. Like you should.”

“Grant wishes you would kiss,” Lark mumbles. Terry whips his head around to glare at Lark.

“Joking,” Lark emphasizes, then in a calmer tone, “Why is Grant coming over?” 

Terry and Sparrow both shrug. Their nerves are brittle. 

Lark sighs, then walks past Sparrow and Terry to go to the living room. Sparrow doesn’t hear what Lark says, but it’s loud and abrasive and probably what Nicky deserves. Sparrow shares a look with Terry. 

“They’ll be fine, right?” Terry says.

Sparrow shrugs. They’ll be fine eventually. All they need is a night out without Nicholas anywhere near the surface and they’ll be good as new. A party and a bar fight and all will be forgiven.

Sparrow’s mind doesn’t linger on his brother. Grant’s on his way over. 

“Do we convince him to try again?” Sparrow asks. In the grand scheme of things fleeing the police is not that big of a deal. Maybe Grant would be willing to go to another park sometime. They could make Lark look less suspicious. 

Terry puts his head in his hands,
“Dunno,” he admits. He looks fried. Fried like Sparrow feels. 

Sparrow goes back to the food. He turns his dough into two loaves and sets them aside to rise. He cleans up the flour on the counter and returns all the ingredients to the cabinets. He’s about to start in on dishes when he hears the front door open. 

Sparrow drops his washcloth, and Terry’s stool clatters as he gets up. Sparrow gets to the living room seconds before Terry.

Grant’s there, looking a little pale, but his feet are planted solidly on the floor. His eyes bounce from Nicky and Lark- standing close, with shoulders relaxed enough that Sparrow’s certain that they’ve found some level of peace- to Sparrow, to Terry. Grant steps back toward the door, almost sheepishly. 

“Hey Grant,” Sparrow breaks the silence. Grant fidgets with his hands. He twists his wedding ring. 

“It went well, right?” Grant asks. “Normal had a good time?”

Sparrow looks over to Normal. He is not paying attention to the adults. He’s nose deep in a pop up book Lark made for him and is completely disinterested. 

“He had a great time,” Sparrow answers. Grant nods. He puts it away in his head like he’s taking stock, calculating.

“Lincoln was so happy,” Grant whispers. He twist twist twists his ring, a little too fast to be okay. He fidgets when he’s tired and trying to keep himself awake. He told Sparrow once that the slightly sharp edge of his ring hitting his skin keeps him present and awake. Sparrow’s kept an eye out for it ever since.  

“Grant you’re alright,” Sparrow says. He feels like he’s echoing the night he first asked Grant to go to the park with him and Normal. He hears the vent click click. Sees Grant’s hand twist twist. Grant looks up. He meets all their eyes one at a time, takes a deep breath. 

“Thank you,” He says. “Lincoln- he-” Grant frowns, his forehead wrinkles. 

Sparrow wants to poke at Grant’s thoughts. He needs to know what Grant’s thinking, but he also feels like he’s on the edge of a cliff, he could fall or fly. He waits.

“I think-” Grant starts to talk then just balls his hands into fists, shuts his eyes like he’s fighting himself. “Why can’t I do it again?” Grant deflates like a popped balloon and stumbles a few steps so he can drop onto Sparrow’s couch. He looks defeated. 

Sparrow takes a careful step around his coffee table, shoots Terry a glance, then settles at Grant’s side. 

“For what it’s worth,” Sparrow says, “I’m proud of you. Even if you can’t do it again. You at least did it once.”
Grant takes a shuddering breath in.

“Me too,” Terry echoes. “I didn’t mean what I said to Marco. You did awesome. I’m glad you went.” 

“Me too,” Grant says. “I’m glad.” His voice is small and lost, so opposite of his large stature and usual strong presence. “Lincoln was so happy,” he repeats, like it’s evidence that isn’t stacking up. To Grant something just isn’t right. To Sparrow it’s clear. Lincoln had a good time, Grant loves Lincoln more than anyone else in the world. He wants to go back. He just hasn’t figured out how yet. 

Sparrow feels torn, happy and scared and so in love with Grant. 

“Have you had food?” Lark asks. Sparrow looks up at his twin. He looks like he always does when one of them is out of sorts, a little bit bumbling, and nervous, but food is one of the things Grant forces on him when he doesn’t feel good, so he looks hopeful that this will help.  

“A nap?” Sparrow suggests. He smirks in Grant’s direction. There are huge black circles under his eyes and the whites glisten with exhaustion. Lark might be onto something. Grant clearly knows something isn’t right, but he’s too emotional to put together the possibility that it went okay today. He’s too tired for clear thoughts. 

Grant tries and fails to wave them both off. Terry moves a few books off the coffee table and sits down so he’s knee to knee with Grant. He holds out his hands. 

Grant doesn’t reach out. He runs his hands through his hair and then presses the heels against his eyes. 

“I want-” He takes his hands away and blinks around the room. He catches Nicky’s eyes, then Lark’s. He looks down and rubs his eyes again. 

“Thank you,” Grant eventually says. He sniffles and Sparrow puts a hand against his back. He rubs a small circle. It feels familiar in a way. Grant always rubs circles on their backs, he’s pretty sure it makes Grant feel just as much better as it does them. It’s the hand on his back that allows him to feel when Grant gasps, just a little. The first part of a cry.

“I don't know how to do it again,” he says. Sparrow catches his breath and looks to Terry. Did he just say what he thought he said?

Grant tucks in on himself and brings a hand up to cover his eyes. He doesn’t want them to see him cry which is such an absurd thing since they see one another cry every other week. 

Sparrow kicks Terry’s shin when the other man doesn’t look his way. Grant just said what he thought he said. He’s willing to do it again, he’s just not sure how. He needs food and a nap and this will all get easier to talk about, but he’s willing to do it again. 

Terry finally looks his way. Sparrow rubs another circle on Grant’s back and drops his jaw, smiles wide so Terry knows what he’s thinking. Terry makes a similar ecstatic but silent face then snatches up Grant’s free hand. He holds it gently. 

“We can figure that out later buddy,” Terry says. He does a damn good job of not sounding too happy. He rubs circles in Grant’s hand. He flinches a few times like he might shake Terry off, but he finally relaxes. 

“Nap and Food,” Sparrow suggests again.

“I’ll make a sandwich,” Lark says, happy to have something to do. He darts from the room. His words are enough to make Grant look up. Sparrow traces his line of sight from Lark’s retreating back to Nicky. He’s standing uselessly next to where Lark just was.

“You Nicky again?” Grant asks. Nicky nods and tugs at the sleeve of his shirt. “You can’t say that shit again.” 

Nicky rolls his eyes to the ceiling. 

“I know man. I’m sorry.” 

Grant nods then shifts his focus to Terry. Terry bites his lip and glances to the floor, then finally up at Grant. 

“Forgive me?” Terry asks gently. 

“Yeah, of course.” Grant sighs. He puts a hand on Terry’s neck and pulls him in for a forehead kiss. Then he rests his face against Terry’s shoulder and breathes. Sparrow leans against the back of the couch, but leaves a gentle hand on Grant’s back. 

“Next wednesday,” Grant says simply.

Terry leans away and forces himself into Grant’s line of sight even as the other man’s attention wavers to the ceiling and the far wall and anywhere but him. 

“Grant?”

There’s a long pause. Sparrow can feel Grant counting his breaths. They’re forcibly steady and even. His back rises and falls in counts of four. 

“I have every Wednesday morning off,” he says after a long wait. “Can we make it park day? Skive off work?”

Sparrow doesn’t know how to even start to respond to that. He works very hard at keeping his hand running in slow, smooth circles on Grant’s back and not letting it tighten into a happy little ball.

His attention flashes from Grant’s face to Terry’s (as shocked as he is) to Nicky (staring slack jawed) back to the kitchen where Lark’s just turned the corner with a piled sandwich, back to Grant, then back to Terry. 

“Wednesday,” Terry finally manages, and thank god he does because Sparrow can’t talk right then. 

Grant chews around his tongue for a bit then nods. 

“Lincoln was so happy,” He repeats. He sounds like a broken record.

“Wednesday it is,” Terry says again. 

Grant smiles, weak and watery. There’s still fear there, and a pent up tired from days of not sleeping, but he looks happy. He looks okay. 

“Sandwich?” Lark offers from off to the side. He holds out the plate. Grant glances up from under his damp lashes. Sparrow takes the plate from his twin and holds it closer to Grant. Grant takes in the full existence of the sandwich, then does that thing again where he looks at all of them in turn. He slowly takes the plate and sets it on his lap. 

“Food and a nap,” Sparrow repeats. Grant nods. And the park next Wednesday. Sparrow can’t believe it. The park next Wednesday.

Chapter Text

The coffee maker at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. has a new pot courtesy of Lark after he threw the last one at the wall. The toaster oven is fixed which is good because Terry has to defrost his late night meal before he can eat it. He made the mistake of putting it on the top shelf of the fridge. 

“Is the coffee machine working without a shim?” Sparrow asks as he grabs himself a mug from the top shelf.

“Lark found the right sized pot,” Terry says. He’s saved a significant amount of time this week by not having to hold the pot to the drip spout twice a day. 

“Wow.” Sparrow blows dust out of a mug then pours himself a cup. It’s 2 am again. The pair of them are alone at D.A.D.D.I.E.S. waiting for a call from Grant. There’s an acolyte of the Doodler in San Dimas, but the only intel on an exact location is in the brain of a sauced lab tech two hours south of them. Terry and Sparrow are supposed to be magically on top of the problem as soon as they get an exact location. 

“How close to getting the info do you think they are?” Sparrow asks. He yawns huge and looks around the fridge for his oatmilk.

Terry pulls out his phone. 

“They’ve got to be getting close,” Terry says. “How long does it take to force a guy to give away location details.”

“Honestly I don't want to know,” Sparrow says. Terry also doesn’t want to know. Lark, Grant, and Nicky are a terrifying combination and the less he knows about their methods of intel gathering the better. 

Sparrow sniffs his oat milk, mumbles something about it being warm, then pours it into his mug. 

Terry checks his notifications. His phone is oddly quiet. He opens the app just to make sure he really hasn’t gotten any texts from Grant. 

“I should call them,” Terry says. 

He opens his latest text thread with Grant. Nothing new. Are they alive ? Terry looks up at Sparrow. The man is quietly sipping his drink. 

“Check your phone,” Terry tells him.

Sparrow fishes around in his pocket for his phone. 

“Nothing,” Sparrow says once he’s turned on the screen and swiped a few spam notifications away. Terry really needs to go through his phone again to turn off notifications on his useless apps, he just hasn’t gotten around to it yet. 

“Is it weird that I’m worried that they’re dead?” Terry asks.

“Because they’re being too quiet?” Sparrow asks. 

“Because Grant isn’t paranoid texting me.” Usually he’s got at least one text by now about checking in with Marco and Linc. The quiet in the kitchenette is broken only by the old fridge kicking painfully to life. Nicky never could figure out how to fix the damn thing. 

“I’m sure they’re fine,” Sparrow says. 

“Yeah. Fine. I’m sure,” Terry agrees. His fingers itch for the call button. He can just call Grant real fast to make sure. Terry’s finger hovers over Grant’s name, then he gets a very clear image of himself six months ago, standing in the kitchen wishing Grant wouldn’t text him so much. 

He can hear Sparrow chuckle into his coffee.

“Who’s the paranoid one now?” Sparrow asks. 

Terry shuts his phone off and shoves it into his pocket. It’s been two months since the first park attempt. They’ve been back a few times. Not as many times as they’d originally planned, but life and incursions ruin the best laid plans. Terry is happy, and Sparrow is delighted, and Linc is thriving. Grant even mumbled something about a rec soccer league a week ago. 

“I’m the paranoid one,” Terry laughs. The toaster oven dings. His food is done warming up. 

Sparrow sips his coffee. The kitchenette is quiet, and a little less janky than it was half a year ago. 

The night is quiet. Sparrow and Terry wait for a call.