Chapter Text
The sun is just peeking above the skyline when they leave the building. Mags is crying, her hand clutched tight in Sam’s. Jackson is walking out with a now-monologuing Oliver and an uncharacteristically quiet Mark. Joan finds herself clutching the arm of her disoriented…. something. Friend, ex, coworker, pain in the ass, probable soulmate, it’s all too much to keep track of.
“Hey, um…” Sam’s meek voice manages to reach all of them, ringing through the parking lot. Wadsworth is talking with the medics, who are still attempting to look after Alex. Joan knows they’re all feeling the same pang of guilt for leaving him here. “Did you guys want to… all come back to my place? It’s- It’s decent size, and I can pick up food from somewhere or something, I just figured...”
She leaves the rest unsaid. They all know none of them will be able to be alone the rest of the night, least of all sleep soundly.
“Yes, that… that’d be great,” Joan exhales, letting the others follow after her with muffled agreements.
Joan guides Owen into the back seat of her car as Sam makes sure that Jackson has her address right and hands off her keys to Mags.
*
Owen’s head is still throbbing, aching, spinning. He’d never had a concussion before, he wasn’t a very athletic child and that pattern didn’t change much in adulthood. He‘s tired beyond belief but Joan is insisting he stay awake. And logically, he knows that he can’t rest yet, but all he can focus on is his exhaustion. And Joan.
Joan is a constant. As long as she was in the room (and sometimes when she wasn’t) she was something to focus on.
The door next to him opens only seconds before the passenger door. Sam slides in next to him, then Mark claims the front seat. Owen watches as Mags, Jackson, and Oliver pile into another car across the parking lot. God, there’s so much left to take care of. This disaster still isn’t over.
The sun is reaching through the windows, and as annoyingly bright as he finds it, it makes him smile. It had only been a few hours, but time stretches for forever when you fear you’ll never see the sun again.
He feels Sam lace her fingers through his just as he had seen her do with Mags only minutes ago. She’s searching for stability. He gives her hand a squeeze, eliciting a slight look of relief from the girl next to him. The woman next to him. It’s a mental slip he makes often. Her shaky smile and her kind eyes make him forget she’s not a child at times and always leave him with the strong urge to wrap her in a blanket and tell her it’ll be alright. But she’s not a child, she’s a brilliant young woman in over her head.
He doesn’t bother voicing the question on his tongue, “Why is everyone who knows where Sam lives in the same car?” Maybe a part of him is just all too entirely aware that the messy entanglement of their four lives is almost comforting at the moment. That even though things are weird for some of them, rocky for some of them, bad for some of them, the familiarity of the complex history they share is a tether to reality.
He leans his head back, trying to stop the dizziness that came with the car’s motion. He focuses his ears on the humming of the engine and on the silence of the three weary souls around him.
*
Joan almost laughs thinking about the people in this car. Everyone who’s just exited the building has survived a tragedy together, but the four of them… They’d lived a tragedy together. They’d been a tragedy together. There was blood, good and bad, buried so deep within them that it was a foundation of their interactions. Their own personal tragedy was such a fundamental part of them that the trauma, the trust, the mistrust, the love, and the hate that stemmed from it were no longer parasitic in nature, they had blended into indistinguishable cornerstones of their relationships and of their identities.
They’re all completely fucked up.
That’s her diagnosis for them. Fucked up. She, Dr. Joan Bryant, Dr. Joan Bright, Bryant- is diagnosing herself, her brother, her best friend, and her ex with “fucked up.”
She lets her eyes wander to Mark. He’s slouched over and his head is leaning against the glass of the window, the vibrations it’s sending through his skull don’t seem to be of much importance to him. He’s in his own world, which was never uncommon.
No. It was never uncommon. Because when they were little, they’d tell stories of worlds all their own locked away inside their imaginations, but their worlds were always his. He had the beautiful, creative mind that could weave stories into reality, and reality into something better than it was.
Of course, she had started realizing long before he had that reality could never improve. Nights sent to bed without dinner because the TV had been a little too loud and having to sit through endless scoldings for reasons they could never understand weren’t the adventures he’d crafted them into. They weren’t a prince and princess locked in a tower, they weren’t slaying any dragons, and they weren’t master thieves.
“Master thieves” had started when she was thirteen and had begun sneaking downstairs at night to stockpile extra snacks for when they were sent to bed without eating, or when their parents neglected to make dinner and Joan was too busy with schoolwork to step up.
He had looked at her like she was a hero, yet wove a story where she was a criminal. She always found that amusing yet somewhat concerning (he really shouldn’t have thieves for role models). And when the ’thieves’ story persisted she had found an old copy of Robin Hood at the school library to read to him at night. From there he had demanded more stories and she had been happy to supply.
She had always been more than happy when it came to Mark, God knew that. She would do anything for him, so isn’t it ironic that she still hadn’t been able to save him?
No, she’s not going to think about that, not now. She’s going to focus on the road like she should be doing. She’s going to get all four of them back to Sam’s house and then they can all scream and cry and break down in each other’s arms.
Her eyelids feel heavy and the urge to yawn is bubbling up within her. She quickly blinks away the sleep and refocuses her eyes. She’s got a while to go.
*
“-I’ve got a while to go….” Joan glances tiredly back at him.
They’re stopped outside a grocery store and Sam and Mark are inside buying food. With the two of them gone and the car stopped, she lets herself unleash the monstrous yawn she’d been fighting back.
Owen nods in acknowledgement. She wonders if he can see the exhaustion in her eyes or if he’s lost the ability to tell when she’s overwhelmed beyond belief because God knows he used to have it. “You’ll be alright. We’ve gone through this much….
She smiles, almost fondly. She knows he’s right. The sun is higher in the sky now and she’s becoming painfully aware of his presence here with her.
And oh, this is one of those days. One of those days where she catches a glimpse of him, perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect freckles covering his perfect face and wonders why they can’t just be normal. Wonders why things had to end with bang, why he had to lie to her, why anyone had to lie to her, why Mark had to be taken to Tier Five, why anyone had to be taken to Tier Five, why Tier Five even existed, why the AM was so broken, and why they were so broken.
“And it’s not like it’ll be too long. Sam’s place isn’t too far. You’ll be fine.”
“Yes,” it’s all she can say, because God she’s so tired, and God he’s so beautiful, and they’re just broken enough to blend seamlessly into this broken circumstance.
She catches him glancing out the window. He’d always liked watching the sunrise, even more so than she had. They used to get up early and sit on his balcony, mugs of coffee in hand, each other’s sweaters strewn on, arms around each other. She misses it sometimes. Most times.
That sleepy early morning sound made up of loud yawns and hushed laughter and birdsongs. The warmth of another person next to her as she’d taken in the view. The way he’d looked in the fresh sunlight, beautiful and peaceful.
Yeah. They’re fucked up.
*
He makes a point to focus more on the sunrise than on the conversation. It’s been one of his favorite sights as long as he can remember, he’s always been a morning person. The sunrise has always made him feel happy. The warmth and serenity it brings, the start of a new day, and the symbolism of new beginnings. God knows he should be appreciative for new beginnings.
He forces his eyes to wander out the window because something feels so inherently wrong about looking at her. The only sight that’s been able to make him feel more warmth than watching the sun come up is her. And the most overwhelming joy came from seeing her with her hair undone and a tired expression, the light of the rising sun hitting her face perfectly. That was what made him melt.
That sight wasn’t his to see anymore, though. He didn’t deserve anything near the level of happiness that that sight brought him. He certainly didn’t deserve any form of happiness that came from her. Not after all he’d put her through.
So with just the two of them in the car now, and the sun rising in the distance, and her as beautiful as ever, he looks away.
And he wants to be in love like a normal person. He wants to be in love with someone who he can wake up to every day, go to bed with every night. Someone to whom he can say “I love you” and have it mean something special, something that both of them will treasure.
He wants that more than anything.
It’s through his own screw ups that he’ll never have it. Just because he’s come to terms with it doesn’t mean he’ll ever forgive himself.
*
When the others return, Joan feels an instant relief. The tension was thick enough to cut through and she hadn’t realized it ‘til it was gone. Mark hops into the passenger seat, still avoiding eye contact with all of them.
She wants to reach out and squeeze his hand, to let him know she’s here, and maybe to remind herself that he’s right there. She doesn’t though, not attempting it at all won’t hurt nearly as much as if he pulls away.
It still hurts though.
*
The second Sam sits down she’s already woven her fingers between Owen’s and allowed her head to become intimately acquainted with his shoulder. He doesn’t comment on the fact that two days ago she could barely call him by his first name. A lot’s happened in the past few hours.
At least, enough’s happened to make him clutch her hand tighter instead of saying a word.
He’s desperate for the warmth, the contact, the comfort. He knows she is too, he can feel it in her touch. He hasn’t had friends to be touchy feely with in a long time, hell, he hasn’t had anyone to be touchy feely with in a long time.
He can see the faint anxiety hidden in her features. There’s relief written across her face, of course, they’re all relieved, all glad they made it out. But the fear, the uncertainty… he’s started to realize recently that it never goes away, only fades from time to time.
He leans in closer, looking out the window and trying to clear his head. The moving scenery however, proves too disorienting, so he closes his eyes.
“Are you asleep?” Sam asks cautiously.
“No,” he mutters, “just closing my eyes for a minute.”
“Okay, good,” she responds uncertainly. She lets her weight shift downward so that she’s just a bit more slouched into his shoulder.
He looks down at her just in time to catch a glimpse of her stealing a glance his way. He gives her a slight smile, wordlessly reassuring her. She deserves to rest. He turns to face forward again, closing his eyes and squeezing her hand tighter.
When he opens his eyes, she’s asleep.
*
Joan lets out a yawn, ignoring the cautious glance Mark shoots her way.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive, Joanie?”
“Yes, Mark. It’s five minutes to Sam’s house and I’m not about to pass out.”
“Right.”
While her attention is drawn to him, she takes notice of the cold glare he shoots at the back seat. Mildly curious, she takes a quick look at the mirror and- oh. That’s… interesting. She quickly focuses her eyes back on the road. That can’t… mean anything, right?
She can’t place the bitter feeling that rises in her chest at the sight, so she elects to ignore it. There’s just something so… off putting about the sight of someone you once had a certain level of intimacy with crossing that threshold with someone else. Hell, she’d never seen Owen so much as hug another woman outside of his family. It wasn’t as though she would have even had a problem with it when they were dating, it’s just… Not a sight she’s used to… and well, interesting.
*
Joan can hear Sam begin to stir as she parks the car. The four stumble out together, the sun now fully in view. Joan moves to help Owen, despite his assurances that he can walk steadily on his own. She turns her head to see Mark hang back with Sam, laughing at something as they grab the grocery bags.
“So… You were being… awfully affectionate with Sam.” She clears her throat, not entirely knowing how to have this conversation or why she began it in the first place. “Is there um, is something…”
“Oh!” He exclaims, catching on to her unspoken question. “No, um- Goodness, no. She’s… well, she’s more than a few years younger than me. Besides, well, you know I’m…”
She doesn’t allow herself to react to that. The fact of the matter is that she’s usually equipped to deal with the almost painful openness of Owen’s feelings for her, but right now the reminder is something she’s unprepared for. She feels bare in a way, stripped of all of the defenses she puts up against him, stripped of the layers of tension that usually stand between them. And it’s as though a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She feels lighter, more free, even if the weight being lifted was that of her armor.
Jackson, Mags, and Oliver are all gathered around in the living room when the two arrive. When Sam and Mark enter and discard their bags in the kitchen, Sam practically gravitates back to Mags. The look on her face is almost desperate, as though she’s anchoring herself to the other woman. But the movement is hesitant, she’s trying not to let herself get too close, not yet. Joan also notices how Mags is bridging the gap, moving closer to Sam, gripping her hand, becoming more welcoming and more reassuring every time Sam hesitates.
Joan speaks hesitantly, “I can- I can help make breakfast.”
“No, Joan-” Sam begins immediately, “You need to rest.”
“But I-”
“She’s right Joanie, besides” Mark begins to speak and she feels her heart swell when he smiles for the first time since they got out, “...everyone knows you can’t cook.”
The others all grin a little at that, Owen even lets out a small snort.
Sam and Mags retreat to the kitchen as the others find themselves awkwardly standing around. “So,” Jackson starts to suggest, “how do we feel about watching a movie?”
“I like movies,” Owen chimes in.
“Yes,” Joan clears her throat, “a movie sounds alright.”
Mark nods a little and moves soundlessly to the coffee table where Sam keeps the remote.
The five of them settle in on the couch, Joan is sandwiched between Owen and Oliver, Mark and Jackson on either ends.
Oliver is clearly exhausted, though through his yawns, he manages to criticize every movie Mark selects on the Netflix recommended.
Eventually, Mark elects to ignore him, pressing play on Newsies. Oddly enough, Oliver doesn’t seem to have any qualms with that, seeing as he sinks back into the couch, not saying a word as to Mark’s final movie choice.
*
Owen is finding it increasingly hard not to stare. It was hard not to stare when they were alone together in the parked car. It was hard not to stare as they made their way inside, her accusing him of having feelings for Sam, which they both knew somewhere deep down was ridiculous because he’s still in love with her. It was hard not to stare when she sat down next to him, when she had quietly hummed along to the opening number of the movie. When she had leaned into his shoulder. When Oliver got up to ‘see what was taking so long’ in the kitchen and she had stretched out and her head had wound up resting on his leg. And now, with her asleep in his lap, he finds it hard not to stare.
Mags announces loudly from the kitchen that breakfast is ready and Joan shifts uncomfortably, as does Jackson, Owen notices, who’s next to him on the couch and trying not to fall asleep. Owen also notices the way Jackson’s eyes are shifting periodically to Joan, sound asleep and peaceful.
Mark and Jackson stand up around the same time, Mark turning over his shoulder to glare daggers at Owen. And a few minutes later, the noise of everyone exiting the kitchen simultaneously, chatting more comfortably and carrying plates fills the room. Joan begins to stir yet again and, attempting to be a calming presence, Owen reaches his hand down, carding his fingers through her hair soothingly. Her small whines quiet down as he continues and she shifts into a more comfortable position.
Owen doesn’t even notice Sam approaching them until he feels a blanket drape over his shoulders, another one covering their co-director quickly after. “Thanks,” he smiles warmly as she tucks Joan in.
“No problem,” Sam responds, removing Joan’s glasses and placing them gently on the coffee table. “Want me to bring you a plate?”
“Oh, no thanks, I’m not that hu-” he starts, being quickly cut off by a plate of food entering his line of sight. If the food catches him off guard, it’s not nearly as much as the figure offering it to him.
“Just take it,” Mark mutters bitterly, he’s avoiding eye contact and his voice is dripping with ‘I-swear-if-you-make-one-wrong-move-I’ll-kill-you’.
Owen takes the plate, offering a warm smile to the other man, which, to no one’s surprise, isn’t reciprocated. “Thank you.”
“Yeah, uh, no problem,” Mark responds, the same look is still written across his features, but it’s softer than it was seconds ago, if only by a minuscule amount. It’s less of a threat, more of a warning.
*
Joan can’t move. She can’t scream either. She’s in her office, except- no. Her office is in Tier 5. She’s completely still at her desk, locked away in a cell she knows all too well, and outside the walls she hears the screams of the people she loves. Her heart is slowed, there’s a dull ache in her head, and the blood coursing through her veins feels stunted.
She feels like a corpse.
She still can’t bring herself to move, but the scenery around her changes nonetheless. In the blink of an eye she’s in the ICU, and in another blink she’s up in flames with it. She can hear screams around her. Sam. Owen. Mark. Jackson. Mags. Oliver. Andrea . And then one scream persists. As the others’ cries die down, Owen’s wails continue to cut through the air, making her blood boil as she remains absolutely still.
The pressure keeping her still feels like dozens of pinpricks down every nerve in her body. She’s still in pain, and Owen’s still screaming. Suddenly, the scream being held back in her throat bursts and her entire body feels as though it’s burning, like her every nerve is flaring up.
As the wail rips from her throat and harmonizes with his, she can feel herself falling forward. The flames in front of her give way like a trapdoor and so does the ground beneath them. She wakes up gasping for breath.
“Joan.” Owen’s standing over her, wearing crooked glasses and a concerned expression.
“I-” she pants, her fear seeping through into her voice.
“It’s alright. It’s… You’re alright. That’s what matters.”
She nods, still struggling to breathe. She can feel herself becoming disconnected from the room, she knows to try and focus on her breath. In and out. In and out. Breathe.
Right. That’s not working. Senses.
She can hear the sound of her own breath ripping through the calm of the room. She can hear an episode of Parks and Recreation playing on the TV. She can hear Jackson snoring on the armchair in the corner, and she can hear her heart beating in her chest.
She can feel Owen’s leg supporting her head. She can feel a blanket wrapped around her and she can feel his fingers in her hair.
She can see the ceiling fan spinning silently above her, and below it she sees Owen. She sees his hair, messed up and just above falling into his eyes. She sees the panic in his eyes. She sees the way he’s undone his tie.
“Joan, hey, Joan…” he whispers urgently. “Deep breaths, right? In. Out. In. Out.”
She begins to breathe again, focusing on her breath just as intently as she focuses on his voice. She lets him guide her through coming down.
“In. Out. In…”
She continues breathing, meeting his eyes as she feels herself regain a semblance of control.
“...Out.” He must see the relief on her face, because he mimics the expression. “You okay?”
No. She’s not. She’s not okay, none of them are and none of them will be for a long time after what had happened last night. But she knows what he’s asking. “Yes, I... “ she clears her throat, at a loss for words. “Thank you, Owen.”
“It’s… It’s nothing,” he responds, offering a soft smile. His hand is beginning to slowly comb through her hair, and she’s positive he doesn’t entirely realize he’s doing it. Force of habit. She doesn’t tell him to stop. After all, the force is habitual because he used to do it often. Every time she’d wake up with a nightmare, every time she’d find herself stressed beyond belief with work, and every time she lost control like she just had. The force is only habitual because it’s always helped ground her in times like these. And now she’s savoring it, because it’s been too long, and she’ll likely have to go even longer after today. She can’t allow herself to be this weak again.
“Is everyone else asleep?”
He nods. “Sam and Mags are both in her room, Oliver is in the guest room, Jackson’s in the armchair, and Mark is..." He gestures to the floor, where Joan turns to see Mark passed out next to the couch, blanket wrapped around him.
“Well… that’s an interesting choice of sleeping area.”
“I… don’t think he trusts me.”
Joan snorts a little at that, biting back an ‘understatement of the year’ joke. "What about you? Have you been sleeping? Are you able to sleep? You know, with the..."
"Yeah, my um, my head is feeling better. Sam said I'd probably be fine to sleep."
"So have you been?"
"Well, I um... I mean, I can't really... You were..."
"Oh God," she exhales, a guilty feeling overtaking her, "don't tell me you stayed awake on my account."
"It's fine! Really, I don't mind it. You were sleeping so peacefully and you've had an awful day, and-"
"So have you, Owen. You could have moved me, I wouldn’t have minded.”
"Well, I... please don't take this as being... weird, or creepy. But... I wanted to be close to you. I- I was worried about you, Joan. I-"
"I get it," she cuts in before he starts to try and justify himself. "I... I was worried about you too."
"You were?"
"Of course I was. And... I kind of want to be close to you too." She looks away as she admits it. Her defenses against whatever the hell this is are still down and the current proximity to him doesn’t help.
She can’t get the sounds of his screams out of her head. When Helen had lured him in, with her voice no less, her heart had stopped. And despite the dark, the look on his face when he dropped to the ground was ingrained into her mind.
She had been able to do nothing but watch as he writhed in agony, not even able to scream. She didn’t know what would have happened if Ellie hadn’t showed up.
“Well, then um, lay back down and-“
“No,” she responds adamantly. “You’re sleeping too. Here, lay down.” She gestures and he obeys. She lays down beside him and he shifts to make room. She turns towards him, letting her head rest near his shoulder, hoping he’ll take the hint. She doesn’t want to ask him out loud. He understands. Her position allows him to more comfortably reach his arm around her head, and so his hand finds her hair quickly.
She smiles slightly and lets her eyes close. She knows sleep won’t find her easily, but with Owen’s arm wrapped around her and his other hand stroking her hair, she’s at least able to relax.