Chapter Text
Grace felt like her brain was about to boil over.
She huddled behind the wooden planks that made up the undercarriage of the Water Security Office, playing the scene she’d just witnessed over and over again in her mind.
How had Pen left the underground storage facility so quickly? How had he known exactly where to go? How had he managed to round up both Haru and Lucy mere moments after they met up?
Grace had been spying–naturally–on their planned rendezvous point for information exchange, keeping an eye out for Lucy as she crept back across town following their game-changing observations deep below the Oasis. She staked out a spot in the reeds between the Oasis and the train tracks, and watched in horror as Pen made a beeline for the rendezvous point not even a minute after she’d settled in for her watch. She clutched at her concealed pistol, knowing she could only use it if things turned extremely dire. She couldn’t compromise the mission–not yet. Not when they’d just secured enough evidence to kneecap the entire Duvosian operation. Not when they were so close to getting enough intel to force the Alliance to stop resting on their laurels.
She’d breathed a sigh of relief when Pen merely apprehended them, knowing full well what kind of damage he was truly capable of with his relic gloves. But her relief was a hollow feeling as she watched Haru and Lucy struggle in his grasp. He dragged them–far too easily–down the train tracks and up the hill to the Civil Corps. She’d trailed them as far as she could, peering through the vegetation until they were out of sight. Justice’s exclamation of shock echoing down the otherwise deserted street was her only confirmation as to where they ended up.
I have to keep watch…I can’t leave town…as long as Pen’s involved, they’re in constant danger. But I need to tell Logan…he needs to know…he needs to prepare…
Grace’s mind raced a dozen laps as she stared blankly at the still waters of the Oasis. It had certainly lost some of its allure now that she knew what lay below the statue at its center. The moonlight reflected off the surface, casting a faint, refractive glow.
The moonlight. Moonlight!
The sight served as a trigger in Grace’s brain, taking her back to a few weeks prior when she’d found that piteous note in the food containers that Owen had packaged for her trip out to the villages . Of course she’d found the note. She wasn’t “Secret Agent Grace” for nothing.
It had been a bit of a shock, to be honest. Her boss, of all people, had apparently been seeing the outlaw before he went on the run–but in an uncharacteristically sentimental moment, she hadn’t had the heart to discard the note. Logan had been through so much. Owen–her boss, yes, but also a friend–was clearly heartsick.
She wasn’t supposed to get attached to her allies on the ground. But.
Grace knew that if her ACI higher-ups caught wind of her…discretionary indiscretion, she’d have hell to pay. She also knew that they wouldn’t catch wind of it. She’d scoffed to herself, thinking about how the Alliance seemed to want to pay as little attention to Sandrock as possible–her efforts there included. She wasn’t going to begrudge her two friends a simple moment of humanity as long as she could monitor the situation . She trusted Logan not to jeopardize the mission, as rash as he could sometimes be. And although he wasn’t in on the plot, she also trusted her boss. She would have known by now if Owen was up to anything nefarious. Again, she wasn’t “Secret Agent Grace” for nothing.
And now, in the moment of truth…as the pot was about to boil…she was going to collect on that trust. That one little note–or the information she’d gleaned from it, anyway–was going to save their entire operation.
*****
Grace glanced at her watch as she listened to Pen’s heavy footsteps echo up the long stone stairway just north of the Water Security Office. Owen would be almost done with his nightly inventory and prep work any minute now. Perfect timing–for once.
She crept along under the boardwalk, emerging silently from beneath the stairs next to one of the abandoned waterfront storefronts. She darted from shadow to shadow until she reached the far end of the Oasis near the commerce guild. She turned the corner just as she heard the saloon doors swing open. As her boss turned to lock up for the night, she silently darted up behind him, and pressed a palm over his mouth as she pushed him back through the door.
Owen swung around with a muffled grunt, his sizable arms locked in a fighting stance. They dropped to his sides as he caught sight of his beleaguered sous-chef in the dim blue light filtering in through the frosted glass door panes. Grace pulled the door shut and quickly released him.
“Grace?! What the fuck was–”
“Moonlight. You…I saw the note, Owen. I know you love him. Moonlight. Am I wrong?”
Owen blinked once, twice…three times, unsuccessfully urging his brain to catch up to whatever this was unfolding in front of him. He gaped at Grace like a sandfish out of quicksand, suddenly wondering if he really knew anything about his employee at all.
Grace snapped her fingers in front of his face and jostled his shoulder. “Hello? I need an answer, Owen. Am I wrong? ”
“How…what do you know about…” Owen’s voice trailed off. He looked slightly dazed, like it was all some kind of fever dream. Grace , of all people, knew Logan? Knew that he loved Logan?
Really wish I’d skipped that yakmel milk nightcap…
Grace huffed impatiently and dug around in her apron pockets, bits of crumbs and tattered order slips falling to the ground. She finally fished out a small wallet with a metallic card inside. She flashed the badge at Owen. The apprehension on his face melted into confusion, and then quickly turned to alarm.
“I don’t know what you want with him, but I…I don’t know anything. I’m…I’m not ratting him out.” Owen grit his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. Not even he seemed to be sure why he was defending the man who’d caused Sandrock nothing but trouble for the past two years, but in his gut, he knew he couldn’t aid in Logan’s capture.
He wasn’t lying–he didn’t really know anything. But he was certain Logan had been nearby that day in the desert... a little over a week ago by now. He’d replayed his encounter with the dive buzzard countless times. The crack of that revolver reverberated through his skull relentlessly.
He would not be sharing that bit of intel.
No. Not for a million gols.
He slowly opened his now-icy-blue eyes, gazing back at Grace with renewed resolve.
“You won’t be getting any dirt from me. Not even if you’re an… ACI agent ?” he exclaimed, catching another glimpse of the badge with clearer eyes. “Grace? What in Peach’s name is going on h-…”
Grace intercepted his question once more, her exasperation growing by the second. “Owen…you really think I’d be bringing him home-cooked meals if I was just going to turn around and hand him over to the Alliance ? We’re working together, Owen. The question is–do you trust me? Do you trust him ?”
Owen froze, his heart thumping audibly in his cavernous chest. The answer was on his lips before he could even fully process it.
“Y-yes.”
Owen felt like his brain was about to boil over.
He scrambled around his house, assembling a travel pack of anything that might be useful. Medicine. His old rifle and a box of ammunition, dusty with disuse. A couple flares. Jerky…dried sandberries…a few packets of coffee and tea, grown by the builder. Bandages. Socks? He’d read somewhere that good socks were one of the most important things you could own if you spent a lot of time on your feet. He threw a few pairs of Vivi’s handmade ones in the pack.
Owen’s reeling mind drifted back to everything Grace had divulged to him just moments earlier. It had been all hushed tones and desperate urgency as she detailed Haru and Lucy’s capture, what they’d found under the Oasis, and–most pertinently–what exactly she needed Owen to do. He was to trek to the Badlands–on foot, to avoid attracting attention–and call for Rambo when he reached the wooden post at the canyon’s edge.
It was simple enough on paper, and Owen had agreed without hesitation. He’d waited for two years. He was being given the opportunity to bring Logan home, and he’d be damned if he wasn’t going to take it.
Now that he was faced with the prospect of actually preparing to leave, things were a bit more complicated.
He wasn’t too worried about his rusty fighting skills…he’d dispatched a few rockyenarolls over at the ranch at times when the Civil Corps was busy with more pressing matters over the years. Cooper’s supply of home-raised livestock was crucial to the Blue Moon’s success, after all.
He was worried about sneaking up on his estranged lover.
He had a temper…that had always been true, though it was usually reserved for people who truly deserved it. He was surely going to be stressed about Haru when he didn’t return as expected. And he certainly wouldn’t be expecting to see Owen in his hideout, of all people and places.
How much has he changed? Will he panic? Will he lash out…?
Owen knew that living in survival mode did strange things to people, and as much as he yearned to see him again, he couldn’t help but feel apprehension start to take hold. He didn’t truly know what kind of person he was going to find in the depths of that cave.
But he was going to find him.
Even if things went south for their old shared flame...even if it was beyond rekindling...Logan needed to know about the evening’s developments. This was the culmination of his life’s work for the past two years. The motor that kept him going through the deepest reaches of despair. The atonement that would finally allow him to grieve his father’s memory in earnest. The redemption that would bring him home to Sandrock…
Home…home to me .
Owen stood in front of his refrigerator, thermal backpack in hand. If all went according to plan, they’d likely have to wait at least a few hours before returning to town–Grace had overheard something about a public trial at 9 AM the next morning when Pen left the Civil Corps. He quickly stuffed leftover portions of five spice steak and stewed eagle cistanche into the backpack, topping it off with two canteens filled with cold water.
Weighed down with comforts of home and the ache of uncertainty, Owen slipped out into the night, quiet as steam rolling off the boiling water of his hometown.
*****
Owen wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting when Grace mentioned an “Old World theme park,” but this certainly wasn’t it.
He’d picked up some rutabaga during his journey through the Badlands, hoping to bribe Rambo to take him into the hideout via a more direct route. The mix of a familiar face and a beloved treat was futile. Though the goat deigned to allow Owen to give him a few pats on the neck and a good scratch between the horns, he was adamant about dropping Owen off at the main entrance to the ruin.
“You’re stubborn just like your rider, ‘Bo. At least you’ve got his back. You don’t have to protect him from me, but I guess you don’t know that after all this time…”
Rambo bleated reproachfully, and Owen had the strangest feeling that the perceptive goat had more of an opinion than anyone gave him credit for.
As he wandered deeper into the ruin, Owen found himself grateful for his consistent workout routine. The more obvious aspects like weightlifting came in handy when swinging his body weight between platforms, but it was his yoga practice that proved invaluable when he found himself looking out at a whirling tower of mechanical spaceships set to the most irritating music the Old World had to offer. He took a deep breath, stretched his back, and cracked his knuckles.
You’re unhinged for this one, Moonlight, but it’s no wonder nobody’s found ya in here…
Owen crouched on the platform and then launched like a spring, navigating from spaceship to platform to spaceship again, all while the repetitive Old World tune made him feel a strange desire to dance and punch a wall at the same time.
When he reached the bottom of the tower, sweat-drenched and more than a little irritated, he found himself in a pathway that opened into a larger room full of massive building blocks and spring-loaded jump panels. Owen looked down at his 30-something-year-old knees and sighed.
As he looked up at the towers of blocks, he could have sworn he saw a flash of pale seafoam green flit around a corner on a distant ledge. His rumination was short-lived. He heard a ticking noise approaching from behind, and dove out of the way just in time to avoid one of those deceptively cute walking time bombs. He glanced back up as he dusted himself off, but all was quiet and still. The faint refrain of the Old World earworm echoed in the distance, and Owen trudged on, more determined than ever to put an end to the nonsense.
You’re lucky I love ya, Moonlight…
Logan felt like his brain was about to boil over.
He’d been expecting Haru. Peach, even if something went wrong, he’d’ve expected Grace, or maybe the builder. But then Rambo came back to the main cavern looking rumpled, and he could’ve sworn he heard the faint echoes of a struggle coming from the direction of his “funhouse of horrors,” as Andy had dubbed the hideout. Rambo wasn’t supposed to bring anyone into the hideout without being instructed to do so, and he’d shown Grace and the builder the bypass route direct to the main cavern. He ventured out to investigate, daggers drawn and finely honed hunting senses on high alert.
Who th’ hell’s tryin’ ter come in at this hour? Surely not the Corps…? Pen…?
He planted himself on top of the block structure, and peered around a corner as he waited for whoever it was to make their entrance. He heard them making progress on the rocketship tower, and he sank deeper into the shadows behind a particularly large block as the interloper landed on solid ground with a grunt.
Why did that sound familiar?
Logan’s question was summarily answered as a tall, broad figure clad in colorful oranges, blues, and greens rounded the corner into his field of view.
Logan’s heart dropped into his stomach and he retreated swiftly, a cold sweat erupting across the back of his neck.
He didn’t know who he was expecting, but the answer wasn’t Owen. Not in a million years.
Logan sprinted back to the main cavern as he heard one of Haru’s animatronic bombs go off, followed by another frustrated grunt. He’d be fine…the bombs didn’t actually do much damage, they were intended more as a nuisance than anything.
Logan, on the other hand, was decidedly not fine .
He slumped into his horned armchair, suddenly self-conscious about the blatant absurdity of it all.
Here he was, two years on the run, and his old lover was currently dragging himself through a demented Old World theme park just to…see him? No, surely not.
Is he fed up? Sick o’ my yakshit? Lookin’ fer answers I don’t know an’ can’t find m’self?
Logan hadn’t needed to explain himself to anyone since Grace had arrived in Sandrock more than a year ago. He wasn’t sure if he could anymore, to be honest. Least of all to the person he’d probably hurt the most with his disappearance and the subsequent betrayal of their shared hometown–illusory or not.
Logan figured he had about fifteen minutes to decide how to handle the situation.
Fifteen minutes to decide how to reintroduce himself to the man that he loved.
Logan knew that he wasn’t the same man he was before he left Sandrock. Unrelenting grief, guilt, and a blind pursuit of upholding his father’s dying words had changed that person…the idealistic, confident, dedicated, sometimes brash young man that he had been. He was guarded, now…hypervigilant, calculating, and distrustful, with a thick layer of physical and mental pain underneath it all. That was before the added effects of living in isolation for two years.
He had Haru, and that brotherly bond was invaluable to him, especially in the immediate aftermath of their ill-conceived temple bomb. They had each other even when they had literally nothing else to distract themselves from the reality of what they’d done.
He’d had Andy for a time, and he missed the kid something fierce–he’d given him moments of invaluable insight into fatherhood, and frankly, a reason to not be so reckless in his pursuit of Duvos. Being a father figure to Andy made him feel more connected to his own Pa, in a way. But the kid was ultimately safer in Sandrock, and he’d stay there until they could be reunited someday.
And then he had Grace. Though her visits were infrequent, she did her best to help them live better in hiding, and she was integral to his goal of saving Sandrock…as his Pa wanted.
But Owen was the constant ache in the back of his mind…or other places, depending on his mood on any given day. Those days were admittedly few and far between…he’d become a bit single-minded once Grace arrived, channeling all of his energy into his patrols and intel-gathering. The sooner they uncovered the plot, the sooner he could avenge his Pa’s death…and the sooner he could return to Sandrock.
In fact, he’d had more of those days in the past couple of weeks than he’d had in the entire year prior. He missed Owen daily, of course…but after the five spice steak…after that Peach-forsaken dive buzzard…he didn’t just miss him. The steak was proof that Owen still cared, despite the evidence that piled up against Logan with every new tactic he employed. And the dive buzzard…the dive buzzard was proof that Logan still couldn’t imagine life without Owen, even after two years on ice.
He didn’t just miss Owen–he needed to feel him again. Be with him again. Hold him again.
Logan’s heart leapt into his throat as the thought crossed his mind once more. Yes, he’d changed. But his feelings for Owen had only grown stronger–that much he knew.
What he didn’t know was if he could ever truly feel that old, carefree type of love ever again. The free-spiritedness that had permeated the couple of good months they’d had together before his Pa’s illness was an emotion that felt like it was off-limits to him now. The tenderness, the warmth, and even the lust…they all felt foreign and inaccessible. They were as distant as a warm shower, a good cup of coffee, a pair of big fuzzy socks, or any number of other luxuries he used to take for granted.
This isn’t how this was supposed to happen.
He was supposed to clear his name first. He was supposed to prove that everything he did–every act of banditry, every crime he committed–was in service of Sandrock. In service of his hometown, and everyone who lived there. In service of Owen .
And beyond that…if he told Owen everything–about the suspected plot, about Duvos, about his Pa’s last words–he’d only be putting Owen in more danger. Knowing things could make a person dangerous, but it could also put a target on their back. After the dive buzzard incident, Logan knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if Owen was hurt as a result of knowing him. Of loving him.
He’d have to face Owen as the disgraced outlaw he still was. It was bad enough having to look at himself in the mirror every day. Facing his lover–if he could even still call him that–was on another level entirely.
Logan was not the fearsome bandit he’d made himself out to be as he sat in wait, tapping his foot nervously against the sandy stone floor. He wasn’t scared of real bandits. He wasn’t scared of monsters.
Peach, ain’t even sure I’m scared o’ Duvos or dyin’ no more.
But I’m scared of scarin’ him away. Scared of hurtin’ him. Scared of losin’ him.
I…can’t lose him too.