Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Badou wondered, as he did every Sunday, exactly how he got himself into this mess.

He got into a lot of messes. His lifestyle choice was as much to blame as the city he lived in, and there wasn’t a lot he could do about either of those things. He wasn’t bad at his job - though certain people would disagree with him on that - and he tried his best to avoid conflict when he could, but it never seemed to do him much good.

Mimi once told him she thought he was unlucky, and he didn’t disagree with her, not necessarily. He just wasn’t the self-pitying type. Sure, he got into a lot of shit. Sure, it happened nearly every day. But as long as he could come home with a wad of cash, a full pack of cigarettes, and time to sleep before it started all over again, he could deal with it.

This current mess, however, was trying his patience.

The ‘mess’ in question was a man around his age, with pale hair and pale skin - more ghost than human, though being a ghost would imply he’d been human once - who was lying on a couch across from him , watching a television screen placed a few feet away. On that television screen was a film from some age long since passed where people still filmed in black and white, and two people were talking; just talking. This entire film had been nothing but talking in various rooms for what felt like an eternity and Badou had long since stopped caring. The thing he did care about was the fact that Heine was in his apartment, lying on his couch, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

The weird thing was it had become normal.

Maybe normal was the wrong word. Badou was used to it. No, that didn’t work either. He could tolerate the fact that every week on a Sunday, Heine turned up and spent most of the day watching films with him. This week it was Dinner at Eight, and Badou had never been more bored in his entire life. Okay, that wasn’t entirely true, he could be watching paint dry, but it would be less awkward watching paint dry and there was a mild - very mild - appeal to that right now.

Normally on a Sunday, Badou would be sleeping. If he wasn’t sleeping, he’d be smoking. Maybe he’d go out for a quick visit to Buon Viaggio, chat to Kiri for a bit, bump into Mimi and inevitably be dragged into yet another bad, under-paying job. Spending his Sunday with Heine, of all people, was weird.

They’d known each other for four years. In that time, Badou had mostly only ever seen him on a job, and even then most of the time Heine left him behind, making some snide comment about how he didn’t need ‘extra baggage’. To be honest, if getting left behind meant he missed out on Heine ripping people apart, he didn’t mind so much. When they weren’t on a job, he occasionally bumped into him when he caught up with Bishop at the church, but at most Badou would attempt a conversation and be met with a disinterested grunt in reply.

Heine had gotten a little friendlier over time, though ‘friendly’ was too strong a word for someone like him; he tolerated Badou more than he used to. Heine trusted Badou to do his job, and Badou trusted Heine to do his. Sometimes, if Heine got too caught up in obliterating people to help Badou out of a bad situation, he’d treat him at Buon Viaggio and call it even. It wasn’t exactly even when Badou was nursing multiple injuries, but it was better than being left for dead, he supposed.

Despite all of that, here he was, spending his precious free time with someone he associated more with gunfire and spitting out blood than watching cheesy romcoms from the 50s.

It was more force of habit at this point than an active decision on both their parts. It started out with Badou dragging an unconscious Heine back to his apartment, one Sunday nearly two months beforehand, wondering how on Earth he’d explain the blood stains and coughed up bullets to his landlord. Telling someone that the seemingly dead person bleeding out on his floorboards was not, in fact, dead - and was soon going to be right as rain because of freaky immortality bullshit - was harder than justifying a corpse. Luckily, Badou didn’t have to deal with explaining Heine to anyone, so he waited for Heine to get up like he usually did, expecting him to be tired and pissed off that Badou hadn’t left him where he was.

He waited, and waited. After an hour, Badou felt confused. Normally Heine would be up and about by now, but he was still lying face-down on Badou’s floor, unmoving. After two hours, Badou was downright anxious. This wasn’t how things normally went, and he had no idea what to do. Bishop was away, Nill was staying with Granny Liza, and as far as Badou knew they were the only people who could even remotely help him with Heine.

He would have to deal with this himself, somehow, which made him angry by the time the third hour came about. Having lost all patience, Badou tried to wake Heine up. He kicked him, pulled on his hair - it was surprisingly soft - yelled his name, made snide comments about his fashion sense; nothing. After four hours, Badou resigned himself to Heine lying immobile on his floor and picked a distraction. The film he’d rented out three weeks beforehand and forgotten to trade for something else - meaning he’d re-watched it dozens of times out of sheer laziness - would do. He settled himself down on a couch, a lit cigarette between his fingers, and focused on anything other than Heine.

Four hours after that, Badou woke up with a jolt at the sound of laughter. He took a moment to orientate himself - head lolling against the side of the couch, a burnt out cigarette drooping between his splayed fingers - before he realised the film he’d put on was still playing. Heine was sat on the other couch as if nothing had happened, watching the television with casual disinterest. Eventually, he realised Badou was staring at him, and turned to give him a pointed look.

“You really watch this shit?”

Badou blinked, struggling to process what was going on. “I thought you were dead.”

Heine raised an eyebrow. “Did you forget I can’t die? Idiot.”

“In my defence, you weren’t moving.”

“I was asleep. Getting shot full of bullets is tiring.” Heine paused before narrowing his eyes. “Why did you take me to your apartment? You know where the church is.”

Badou sighed, dropping his long since dead cigarette into an ashtray before lighting another one. “Yeah, ‘cause an empty church sure would help you. I couldn’t exactly leave you there, so you can stick your ungrateful attitude up your ass.”

Heine bristled. “I woke up caked in blood with five bullets to cough up. You could’ve done a better job, asshole.”

Badou gave him the finger, took a long drag of his cigarette, and exhaled out smoke with a content expression. Heine scowled over at him.

“Do you have to smoke?”

“My apartment, my rules, Heine. Now, either you get out and give me some peace and quiet, or you shut up.”

Heine did in fact shut up, much to Badou’s surprise. Normally he would give some muttered comment under his breath and leave, even if he was in no state to walk. Instead, Heine settled back and went back to watching the television again. Badou raised an eyebrow.

“I thought you said this film was shit.”

Heine shrugged in reply, leaving Badou confused and somewhat annoyed. All he really wanted to do was go back to sleep. He considered forcing Heine to leave, but it was too much effort, and if Heine did nothing more than sit and watch TV then Badou couldn’t really complain.

And that’s how it started.

The next Sunday, the two of them were given another job. This time, it was Badou who was left unconscious - thankfully not full of bullets - after someone bashed his head in with a brick. He woke up to the familiar smell of his apartment - stale smoke and unwashed clothes, the true essence de Badou - with a sodden blood-covered jacket under his head and Heine sat on the couch beside him, watching the same film from the week before.

Badou grimaced, not even attempting to raise himself up, trying to look for a cigarette without turning his head and failing. Ouch. He groaned, waving a hand in Heine’s general direction.

“Cigs.”

Heine looked over at him, apathetic. “What?”

Badou scowled, already losing his patience. He likely had a concussion and he was not in the mood for Heine being difficult.

“Cigarettes. Hand ‘em over.”

“You get them. They’re your cigarettes.”

Badou groaned. “Yeah and you’re not concussed, so get ‘em before I find a way to beat the shit out of you.”

Heine gave a short, sharp laugh. “I’d like to see you try.”

He complied nonetheless, throwing a pack at Badou none too lightly, but Badou couldn’t care less the moment he had the cigarette between his lips. He blew out a cloud of smoke, giving a satisfied smile, before reality kicked in.

“Wait, how did you get into my apartment?”

“I used your keys.”

Heine said it so matter-of-factly that Badou almost accepted that answer. Almost.

“How did you know where my keys were?”

Heine was annoyed now, throwing a glare Badou’s way. “Listen, asshole. You were passed out on some mafia boss’s carpet and I took you home when I could’ve left you there. Now we’re even.”

Badou resisted the urge to argue, realising that Heine not even a year ago would probably have left him for dead. He sighed, closing his eye against the glaring light of the television and tried to get comfortable.

“Make sure to wake me up in an hour.”

“Why?”

“So I don’t go into a coma, idiot.”

Heine laughed. “Right, yeah, as if I care about that.”

Badou mumbled an insult before passing out, and when he woke up an hour later to Heine’s foot in his stomach - his bruised, very unhappy stomach - he nearly punched him before he remembered and settled down again.

Hours later, after several re-runs of the same film and several kicks to Badou’s stomach to get him to wake up, Heine gave a frustrated noise and stood up, making his way to the door. Badou, semi-conscious, called out to him from his spot on the couch.

“You’re off?”

Heine didn’t reply for so long that Badou assumed he’d left, but eventually Heine gave a reply, sounding tired.

“If I watch that film one more fucking time, I’m gonna go insane.”

Badou grinned. “Aren’t you already insane?”

“Shut it. I’m going home to sleep, and next time I’m bringing shit to watch that isn’t gonna make me want to rip out my eyeballs.”

“They’d just grow back, it’d be pointless.”

Heine didn’t hear him, already halfway down the hall, and Badou didn’t pick up on Heine mentioning a ‘next time’ until a lot later.

And that’s how the pattern went, every single Sunday like clockwork.

Heine would turn up at Badou’s apartment, usually after a job, but occasionally for no other reason than ‘habit’, bringing along something from the rental store. Either that or Badou would rent something in advance, if not just to watch something even remotely interesting; Heine’s taste in films was questionable. The two of them would order shitty take-out and watch the television in relative silence. ‘Relative’ meaning Badou talked about as much as he usually did, and Heine was about as talkative as a dead cat.

It was a strange pattern to have fallen into. Badou was used to some element of regularity. He worked part-time at a shop. He usually went to the same places on the same days at the same times. But he lived alone, and company in his apartment was unheard of. Heine, on the other hand, didn’t seem used to any kind of routine at all. He came and went as he pleased, like the stray dog that he was, and it was strange to see him coming to Badou’s apartment, time and time again, as if it was normal.

It was normal, he supposed; as normal as it could ever be for people like them.

It wasn’t that Badou disliked Heine, or even disliked the company. It was just weird. Heine had only been this tolerant of Nill, at least to Badou’s knowledge, and that likely meant Badou had somehow become Heine’s friend… somehow. It seemed like more trouble than it was worth, since Heine more often than not attracted a crowd of bad people in the same manner that rotten meat attracted flies.

Badou didn’t really know anything about Heine, beyond his bad taste in films and his talent for ripping people’s limbs off. He knew Heine never went anywhere without bandages around his neck, and he was scared of women - Nill being an exception - but that was as far as Badou’s knowledge of him went. He could ask him about it, or use his skills and dig up whatever he could find, but ultimately it didn’t really matter.

As long as Heine was tolerable, Badou couldn’t care less.

And that brought him back to sitting and watching the black-and-white film on his television, with Heine on the other couch, watching with apparent concentration. Badou was bored.

“Why do you watch this shit?”

Heine turned his head. “What?”

“Why do you watch shit like this? They’ve just been talking for hours now.”

Heine snorted. “It’s not even been on for an hour yet, idiot. They’ve not just been talking either.”

Badou scowled, tone full of sarcasm. “Oh yeah, I forgot, they briefly ate dinner, how interesting.”

“It’s called Dinner at Eight, what were you expecting?”

“I don’t know, not this! You really don’t make sense to me sometimes.”

Heine turned towards Badou fully with a frown. “What’s your problem?”

Badou sighed, propping himself up with an arm and gesturing with his free hand. “You’re all, ya know, spitting blood at people and disembowelling them with your fingers. And you like stuff like this?”

Heine bristled, irritated by the comment, before shrugging. “It’s better than your shitty crime films.”

Now it was Badou’s turn to get defensive. “Hey, my taste in films is excellent.”

Heine gave a derisive laugh. “Yeah, ‘cause watching guys smoke for three hours while they fail to catch an obvious bad guy is real fun to watch.”

“But there’s an actual plot! There’s action and romance and it’s more interesting than whatever this shit is!” Badou gestured at the television with his hand, face pulled into a grimace. “Why do you like stuff like this anyhow?”

Heine shrugged. “I dunno, it’s interesting enough.”

“That’s not an answer, Heine.”

“Yes it is.”

Badou groaned. “Why are you always like this? I was just asking!”

“Yeah, well you asking is irritating, so shut up.”

A somewhat tense silence descended upon the two of them, broken only by the sound of the television across from them, before Badou couldn’t help but speak.

“I have one more question.”

Heine sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You’re so goddamn annoying sometimes. What is it?”

“Why do you come here every week?”

Silence, immediate and painfully awkward; Badou almost wished he hadn’t asked. Almost. After what felt like an unbearable few minutes, Heine settled back against the armrest behind him and shrugged.

“Beats being stuck at home.”

Badou raised an eyebrow. “What, your place infested with rats or something?”

Heine scowled, considered retorting, before making a disgusted noise and shaking his head. “I can’t be bothered to deal with this shit. You want me to leave? Fine.”

He pushed himself up, putting on his jacket and taking his share of that day’s pay with him. Badou turned and looked up at him, feeling altogether unhappy with this development, though he wasn’t quite sure why. Maybe it was the break in routine… or something. Badou watched Heine unlock his door and leave it open as he walked out, and after hesitating for a moment he raised himself up and ran to the door, yelling down the hallway.

“Next time, we’re watching The Cotton Club and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

From the end of the hall, Heine laughed and flipped him off before disappearing from sight.

Normal. Yeah, this was normal.

Chapter Text

This was not normal.

That was the only conclusion Badou could come to, because something was very, very wrong with this scenario. Heine was sitting on his couch, covered in blood, tapping a finger in time to Gene Kelly singing and it was not normal. Badou didn’t know what felt more out of place; the blood - which was probably not entirely Heine’s - or the fact that Heine seemed to enjoy musicals. Musicals.

Badou hadn’t come with him on the particular job that had led to this mess, caught up in an exhausting and incredibly irritating case he’d picked up from Mimi. Blackmailing two people who were about as interesting as a sack of rocks was not his idea of fun. In fact, a sack of rocks would be more interesting to look at for twelve hours a day.

Either way, he had not been prepared for coming home and finding Heine already sat on his couch, watching Singin’ in the Rain as if it was completely normal.

The door was unlocked was the answer Badou was given when he demanded how Heine had gotten into his apartment. Bullshit - he locked every single one of the five locks on his front door as standard. He lived in a bad neighbourhood and you could never be too careful. Badou knew Heine didn’t have the patience to lock-pick his way through one lock, never mind five; he preferred kicking doors down, and stealth really wasn’t his strong point. The door was suspiciously intact, which meant Badou had either forgotten to lock his door, or Heine came in through the window.

Reminding himself to get more locks added to his windows, Badou dropped his jacket on the free couch and took a moment to look Heine over, noticing the blood and how he was calm to the point of it being disturbing. Heine was always tense, shoulders raised just a little more than they should be, hands clenching and unclenching. He did not sit, serene and at peace, particularly not after a job.

Something was wrong, and Badou did not have the patience to deal with it.

“Why are you watching this shit?”

Heine didn’t reply for a moment, and Badou almost cut in to ask if he was ignoring him before he got his reply.

“I got bored.”

Badou faltered, torn between laughing and losing his temper. He settled for resigned acceptance.

“Listen. I don’t care how you got here or what you do now. I gotta take a long shower and try and think of anything other than doilies and old lady smell.”

Heine didn’t respond, still sat watching the television, tapping his finger in time to the music playing. Badou took a deep breath and let it out in a deep exhale.

Fine, he’d just go about his business.

Thirty minutes later - long hair was a bitch to wash properly - and Heine was still sat there, goddamn laughing at a joke in the film. It was… unnerving. A feeling of concern curled itself uncomfortably among Badou’s insides. He’d seen Heine lose his marbles before, but always on a job, always when shooting and killing. Never like this.

“I’m not your goddamn therapist but you should, uh, get a shower or something. You look like shit.”

That got Heine’s attention, and the look of annoyance in his eyes made the horrible churning feeling in Badou’s stomach dissipate a little.

“You’re telling me… to use your shower… why?”

Badou hesitated, trying not to look awkward and failing. “Uh… ‘cause you look like a B-movie extra right now?”

Heine paused, looking down at himself before giving a quiet ah, as if he had genuinely forgotten the state he was in. He had genuinely forgotten. God, that was so much worse. It occurred to Badou that Heine would have no idea where anything was, but only after Heine had entered the bathroom and shut the door behind him.

Sighing, dragging a hand down his face, Badou knocked on the door. Silence. He knocked again. Silence. He attempted to keep himself calm and failed.

“Heine, you useless sack of shi-”

The door suddenly opened, and Badou had to take an immediate step to the side to avoid being hit with it. Heine narrowed his eyes at him, teeth gritted.

“What?”

“Uh…” Badou faltered, suddenly all too aware that this situation was way too domestic for his liking. “The, uh, towels are in the cupboard under the sink.”

Heine blinked, deadpan. “Right.”

He tried shutting the door before Badou put his hand in the way. Heine let out a sharp exhale, visibly irritated.

“Badou, I swear I’m gonna -”

“Do you need clothes?”

Heine faltered, genuinely confused. Now that was a sight to see. “Wh… what?”

Badou pulled a face, feeling awkward and embarrassed now. “You… you can’t exactly wear that shit after you’re done, so do you, uh, need something else?”

Heine blinked a few times before sighing, rubbing at his temples. “Sure, fine. Now will you leave me alone?”

Badou walked away, grabbing a mostly clean shirt and pair of jeans from a pile on the floor - it was better than being covered in blood, at least - and found the bathroom door closed again. Now he was angry. He rammed a fist into the door, and as soon as it opened he threw the clothes at Heine - none too lightly - and slammed the door in his face.

Half-expecting to have a gun shoved into his stomach, Badou waited until the sound of water could be heard through the door before stepping away. He turned the television off with a grimace - not today, Gene Kelly - and flopped onto the couch with a groan. Ignoring the feeling of damp hair against his back, he tried to focus on anything other than the situation he was in.

He was willing to tolerate a lot, but Heine breaking into his apartment and staining his couches with someone else’s blood toed a line. A very, very thin line, one that Badou was tempted to move somewhere more reasonable. Most people would’ve chucked Heine out - or screamed - and yet Badou was letting the guy use his shower, wear his goddamn clothes, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

The thought occurred to him that it was like he’d adopted a stray dog - an unwanted, mangy, smelly dog that bit people - and he couldn’t help but laugh. The whole situation was laughable. Lighting a cigarette, letting it soothe his nerves a little, Badou settled down and tried his best to think of the upside to this mess. At least Heine hadn’t killed him - yet - which was a plus. No-one was trying to break into his apartment to get to Heine, and for now Heine was being reasonable. Creepy, but reasonable.

Badou hadn’t seen Heine like this before, which ruined the nice little upsides he’d come up with. Running off pure adrenaline, fire in his eyes, fingers twitching, teeth bared - that was crazy Heine. That was something Badou could deal with because it was simple - there was nothing he could do about it. Heine wasn’t exactly receptive in that kind of state - unless by receptive you mean having your guts ripped out - so Badou would leave him to it. Heine would calm down on his own, show up at the church or Buon Viaggio, and they’d both pretend nothing happened.

This was different.

Badou knew that sometimes Heine got bad. It was the kind of bad a lot of people could relate to; a kind of bad even Badou could relate to, though he hated admitting it. He knew Heine sometimes couldn’t sleep. He’d shut himself inside his apartment and no-one would see him for days, sometimes weeks. He’d always say he’d been watching films or playing video games. He’d look like death - more like death than normal - with dark bruising under his eyes, fingers twitching, skinnier than the last time anyone had seen him. Bishop would reprimand him about not taking care of himself, Nill would give his hand a concerned squeeze - and he’d flinch a little, even around her - and Badou wouldn’t comment and would instead ask about when they’d be taking another job.

This was different. Heine had looked… out of it. He was sat too still - apart from that damn finger tapping - and he was too distracted. Badou didn’t like it. He didn’t normally care - he wasn’t Heine’s goddamn babysitter - but normally this sort of thing wouldn’t happen around him. Heine kept these things to himself. He didn’t turn up at Badou’s apartment, blood-covered and shell-shocked, watching happy cheery musicals as if nothing was wrong.

All this overthinking wasn’t what he wanted, especially after a long day trying to blackmail old ladies, and it was giving him a headache. Badou rubbed at his temples, let out a sharp exhale, and tried to think about what he could do to fix this. By fix, he meant no longer having to deal with this. He was somewhat inclined to tell Heine to fuck off and leave after the shower, but then he’d have to negotiate getting his clothes back. He couldn’t exactly afford to buy new stuff - it was a pain finding jeans that accommodated his leg length and flattest of asses - and it was too much hassle even thinking about asking Heine for his clothes back.

When the bathroom door opened, steam billowing out and dissipating upon the ceiling, Badou resigned himself to doing what he felt was the least amount of effort; letting Heine do whatever he wanted to do. He was a pain to argue with, and if Heine left of his own accord then great. If he stayed… well, Badou would figure it out. He could always go sleep and hope Heine was gone when he woke up. Though there was still that niggling feeling, eating away at his insides, and when he raised his head to see Heine standing, staring blankly at the floor near the television, he couldn’t help but feel… concerned.

“Oi, Earth to Heine.” Heine raised his head to stare at him, a sliver of annoyance in his eyes; there, that was better, anything was better than that blank zombie look. “Are you just gonna stand there or do something other than stare at the goddamn floor?”

Heine scowled, visibly irritated, hands clenched into fists, shoulders tense. Badou almost felt satisfied, though Heine being annoyed usually wasn’t a good thing. Heine seemed to hesitate for a moment before flopping down on the coach beside Badou, towel wrapped around his shoulders, water dripping onto the fabric.

So he was staying, at least for now. Badou wasn’t in the mood to argue, so he settled back and realised it was way too quiet. He almost wanted to turn the film back on, at least to give some background noise, but the thought of having to tolerate cheery singing and dancing again made him grimace.

The silence stretched out into something a little too tense and awkward for Badou’s liking. He turned and focused his attention on Heine, wondering if he’d fallen asleep or become a blank-eyed zombie again, and found Heine lying back, eyes closed, too tense to be asleep but relaxed enough to ease Badou’s nerves.

He looked a little more normal with his cheeks flushed and skin devoid of blood. Badou noted - with no small amount of amusement - that his clothes were too big on Heine, jeans rolled up at the ankles and band shirt hanging off his shoulders. It was weird to see Heine dressed in something other than his Hot Topic-esque outfits. Scratch that, it was weird to see Heine dressed in Badou’s clothes, but he tried not to think about it too hard.

Heine cracked an eye open, expression hard to read. Badou raised an eyebrow.

“What?”

Heine opened both his eyes and scowled. “What’re you staring at?”

Badou blinked, awkward, before giving a shrug. “Just thinking you look a lil less creepy now.”

Heine almost smiled. Almost. “What, ‘cause I’m wearing your shitty clothes that reek of smoke?”

“No, ‘cause you’re not covered in blood anymore and giving me a thousand mile stare, dumbass.”

Heine’s almost-smile fell from his features a little, and he turned away, facing forward with a dark look in his eyes.

“It was a bad job, now shut up and put the film back on.” He hesitated before adding, “Idiot.”

Badou was seconds away from asking more, but the look in Heine’s eyes and the way his fingers were buried in Badou’s oversized Van Halen shirt - that was really his brother’s old shirt, but he didn’t want to think about that right now - made him falter. He let out a sigh before pushing himself up to put the television back on. The film had been playing in the time since Badou had turned the screen off, so - with a curse - he pressed rewind on the VCR.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, why’re you still using a piece of junk like that?”

Badou turned, seeing only curiosity in Heine’s expression, and shrugged. “It’s a hand-me-down from my brother. No use buying a DVD player when this thing works just fine. The rental place has enough shit on VHS for me not to care about it.”

Heine, seemingly satisfied with that answer, settled back, leaving Badou to turn back to the screen. He couldn’t remember where they’d left off and decided it was as good a time as any to resume playing, grimacing as singing assaulted his ears the instant he pressed play. He returned to his cosy spot on the couch, lighting another cigarette - he was nearly out, he’d had to buy another pack soon - and tried to let his mind drift away from the film, from Heine, from the shitty job he’d spent all day working on.

Badou couldn’t remember falling asleep - which is how falling asleep usually went - and found himself under a blanket in the dark, the only light coming from the television screen, flickering with static. Groggy and fuzzy-headed, Badou turned and nearly jumped out of his skin when he saw Heine sat, knees close to his chest, staring at the television screen with a blank expression. Heine noticed the movement - after a few tense seconds - and raised an eyebrow.

“You really shouldn’t fall asleep while smoking, idiot. You’re gonna burn this place down.”

Badou faltered, not with it enough to process what Heine was saying, before giving a tired groan, talking behind his hands as he rubbed at his face.

“If I was gonna burn this place down by accident, it’d have happened already.” He moved his hands aside and noted the blank look in Heine’s eyes. He realised, rather belatedly, that Heine must’ve gotten him a blanket. He added, almost as an afterthought, “You should, uh, probably sleep or something.”

Heine grimaced. “I’m better off not sleeping.” Knowing Badou wouldn’t settle for that, he turned his gaze towards him and scowled. “Go back to sleep, idiot.”

“What, and leave you staring at nothing in the dark? That’s way too creepy for my liking.”

Badou pushed himself up, looked around for a cigarette and found a mostly intact one; probably the one he’d started smoking before falling asleep, which Heine had placed in the nearby ash tray, evidently. The flash of light from his lighter was calming; a shred of warmth in his palms, embers aglow in the darkness.

The silence that enveloped the two of them wasn’t quite tense, wasn’t quite awkward. It was… pensive; that was the word for it. Badou took long, steady drags of his cigarette, watching the smoke dance its way into nothingness, and tried to think about how to talk to someone that did his very best not to talk at all.

He wasn’t the type to be anyone’s therapist - he had enough problems of his own, thank you very much - but this felt different. Badou wasn’t an asshole, despite what some people may claim, and it was clear Heine had stayed for a reason other than laziness. Probably. It was hard to tell with him sometimes, and even if Badou knew him better than most that didn’t mean much in the end, considering how close Heine kept things to his chest.

Heine seemed to decide for him. He pushed himself up, gathered up his things in the semi-darkness, and turned the television off before heading for the door. Badou pushed himself up, squinting in the sudden lack of light, and spoke, voice muffled a little by the cigarette between his lips.

“You better give those clothes back or my brother’s gonna haunt your ass for stealing his shirt.”

Heine laughed - and it was a normal laugh, not the kind Badou was familiar with - and shook his head a little.

“Sure, whatever. Put that thing out before sleeping or you’re not gonna have anywhere to store these shitty clothes.”

And that was that. Badou lay back down, listened to Heine’s fading footsteps down the hallway outside, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and wondered if Heine was going to be alright. He decided, almost instantly, that it wasn’t his problem, at least not in that moment. He put his cigarette out with a trace of a smile, wondering what Heine would do if he found his apartment had actually burned down, and settled back against the headrest; his bed would be comfier but he was too lazy to move.

He soon fell asleep, dreaming of old lady doilies and blank stares and the metallic stench of blood.