Archive of Our Own ^beta

“Adam? Jesus Christ.” Oh. He’s in homeroom with Blue Sargent again. Time really is a circle and shit.

“Hi Blue,” he mumbles, because that’s about all he can muster at the moment. He’s finally able to hobble enough that he’s allowed back at school. He’s been back at work for weeks. It’s funny, how people in this town will turn an eye to get another set of hands. Robert Parrish has him on a gruelling schedule—most days he’s working overnight stocking at a grocery store, his normal after school shifts at Boyd’s, and then still in the factory in the mornings. He doesn’t sleep, unless it’s one of his off days on one of them.

“You’re hurt,” Blue says. “Noone has seen you for weeks Adam.”

“Leave it,” Adam says. “I’m fucking serious.” He’s shocked that he’s got enough energy for the flare of anger in his gut. Ronan and Gansey and them better just leave him the fuck alone. They’ve done enough damage. He’s worse off than he was before he met them—now he’s not only not at Aglionby, but he’s broke, and he has no way of hiding any more money. He’s so fucked. He’s so far under his father’s thumb, and Niall Lynch is going to keep it that way to keep Ronan under his.

“Where have you been?” She’s at least trying to be quiet. Then again, Blue and Adam are a familiar kind of weird at this point. Everyone at Mountain View is used to it. Adam was only gone a couple of months, not enough time for everyone to forget about it.

“You know where,” Adam says. “It is what it is.”

“It is not.” Adam swears her hair has gotten even more spiky in the last few minutes. She’s pissed about something. “Jesus, you look like you haven’t slept.”

“That’s because I haven’t, Blue. I’m working overnights,” he admits. “Fucking Niall Lynch.”

And Blue leaves it like that. He can see her watching him, in Spanish and study hall and lunch, the only periods that they share. She won’t do anything, when it comes down to it. Because that’s how she is, at the end of the day. Blue Sargent talks a big game, but when push comes to shove she’s not gonna do shit. It was like that when they were fighting over the blue crayon in kindergarten, and it’s like that now. She let him have it then. She’ll leave him alone now.

“Where are you going right now?” Blue asks at the bike rack. Oh, she’s pretending to put in effort. Great.

“Boyd’s. I have a shift.” Adam is careful to keep his voice toneless.

“I’m heading that way. My mom is driving me to Nino’s. Let us give you a ride.” Blue is standing right in front of Adam.

“Uh no thanks.” Blue doesn’t move. “Can you please let me unlock my bike?”

“No. You can’t ignore everyone forever.” Blue crosses her arms. Adam just pushes her to the side gently. “It’s just a ride. You look exhausted.”

“I said no thank you. I don’t need y’alls help. Especially not theirs. Now, if you can excuse me, I can’t be late for work.” I mean, he can. Boyd ain’t a snitch—he doesn’t like getting involved in Robert Parrish’s business, but he also thinks Robert Parrish is good-for-nothin’, lazy bastard. He won’t make Adam’s life harder than it already is unless Robert Parrish is staring him down himself.

And so Blue walks back to the car. Here’s the problem with psychic moms—they don’t give up easily.

“No dice,” she says, throws her stuff in the back. “And Gansey is going to bug the shit out of me at work.”

“Has Lynch been back at school at all?” Calla asks. “I know the bastard was throwing his stuff out of Monmouth.”

“Yeah. Declan talked him out of homeschooling Ronan. I think the Monmouth thing was worked out, too. But I don’t know if that will last, because he’s beating himself to pieces over what happened with Adam. Drinking and driving and shit. He stole his dad’s BMW last week.” Blue sighs. “I’m worried that Niall’s going to retaliate against Adam again. I don’t know what he all has on him…”

“Lynch hasn’t seen Parrish since it happened. He has no reason to take it out on him again,” Maura says, scoffs. “He’s done enough to the kid.”

“It doesn’t matter if he hasn’t seen Adam. He knows it’s a weak spot.” Even just saying it leaves a bad taste in Blue’s mouth. But Ronan’s reaction just proves the point to Niall—what happened with Niall slipping Adam’s finances to his parents very clearly upset Ronan. Niall Lynch does not give a shit about the blood stain in the dirt out back behind the Parrish’s doublewide, does not care about where it leaves Adam. But it did pull Ronan back into line. That was the goal. And it worked.

Blue knows he won’t hesitate to do it again. Niall Lynch somehow knew Adam’s finances well enough to either dream a copy or obtain a legitimate document to send to the trailer, which means he knows a lot more. Anything could be devastating to Adam. And it doesn’t matter to Niall what it does to Adam as long as it pulls the noose just a little tighter around Ronan’s neck.

Maybe that’s also why Adam’s pulling away.

The less he can get Ronan to care, the less effective the rebuttal is. Cold cut, logical, a Parrish answer. It’s not a Lynch answer.

“He can’t be fucking around in Adam’s business like that,” Calla fumes. They’re driving alongside, and with the stoplight and stopsign situation in Henrietta, they’re essentially playing tag with Adam’s rusted bike. “The kid barely looks alive.”

“He’s barely allowed to sleep, with the work schedule his dad has him on,” Blue responds. “I just… I don’t know what to do here.”

Calla, Maura, and Persephone all look at each other. They know what they want to do, what they have wanted to do since Blue came home fuming about some kid with a bruised up eye who stole her rightful blue crayon—it’s not the right time yet. Destiny is a funny thing.

“Are you going to loiter my whole goddamn shift?” Blue asks, topping off Gansey’s sweet tea and trying not to breathe in the nauseating scent of hot avocado on pizza.

“Maybe, Maggot,” Ronan says, slides into the booth beside Gansey. He’s got dark circles to rival Adam’s. All he’s been doing is staring out across the way at Boyd’s autobody, for the brief moments Adam appears out of the garage to bring a car in or out. “He back at school yet?”

“Today,” Blue says, eyes searching Gansey’s, hidden behind his glasses.

“Are his classes… satisfactory?” Blue knows that’s Gansey’s guilt coming through, but for all of his trying to persuade Aglionby to move Adam to a full scholarship, it came one visit from Robert Parrish too late. Adam had already been pulled and his reputation as irredeemable trailer trash had been cemented.

“He’s in all the AP classes he can be except Spanish. Dunno what the fuck he’ll do next year, but we don’t have Latin at Mountain View so he’s kind of fucked on that one,” Blue responds.

“That’s great. That’s certainly competitive academic rigor for college apps,” Gansey says. “If he he needs any prep books for exams or anything, we can help.”

“Yeah, we don’t really talk about that. I don’t know if he has any time to study anymore.” Blue lets that one slip. They deserve to know something about him. But she’s not going to play middle man forever.

“How much is he working?” Ronan asks. He won’t even look at Blue. He’s just ripping a straw wrapper into tiny pieces. His hands are shaking.

“All the damn time. Look, I have to go—just give him some space. Please.” Blue walks off to a table that has not one, not two, but three screaming children. It’s just that kind of night.

She still leaves before Adam. Calla glances over at the autobody, to the bike still chained up outside, before they drive home. But she doesn’t say anything. Just sighs.

“Why don’t you do anything?” Blue’s voice shakes a little as she finally says it into the car. She’s wanted to ask for years really, because surely there had to have been more options than this. Before Adam was set in his ways, before he gave up on adults completely.

“We have tried,” Calla admits. “Back when you were both little, we’d call social services whenever something became obvious. Nothing ever came of it.” Blue feels her brain reel at that—had there really been reports? “Now… it’s complicated. Now that Niall Lynch is involved, it needs to be iron tight. We need to know there’s no wiggle room for that fucking bastard to fuck around. We need to make sure we’re not going to drive him farther away.”

“There has to be something—there’s no way what he’s doing is sustainable. He’s living on almost expired scraps from the grocery store and whatever naps he can sneak in class,” is what Blue comes up with.

“I know this is frustrating. Trust me, your mom and I and Seph are doing everything we can.” Calla hopes that’s enough. They need to get Adam to trust them, just a little. That’s the first step.

“I… I just don’t know what to do.” Blue puts her head in her hands. “About this or my fucking Algebra II test.”

Blue is exhausted when she hauls herself into homeroom the next day. Adam is already there, slumped onto his desk. He’s still in his coveralls, arms grease-stained and sporting a new bruise on his face.

“Rough night?” Blue asks, takes a sip out of her thermos of tea. “My moms sent a tea thermos for you, too.” She just puts it on Adam’s desk.

“What?” He barely lifts his head. “No thanks.”

“I’m just the messenger,” Blue says, drops into her seat next to him.

“Why do you look fucking terrible?” Believe it or not, that’s an olive branch from Adam Parrish. Or, he’s just too tired to censor his thoughts.

“Math test today,” Blue says. “What about you?”

“Day three of three of no sleep. I think I’m tasting color,” Adam says, groans a little. “But I get to go home today, so … yay.”

“You know, if you need a ride home late and I’m at Nino’s, just walk over. I’m not convinced Calla or Maura won’t try to run you off the road when you’re biking at night just to prove a point.” She tries to say it casually.

Adam glares, but he doesn’t pick a fight.

It’s on another night three of three that Adam and Ronan finally talk again. Adam is blaming it on the delirium—he’s doing the bare minimum homework he can get away with, and he knows he’s only surviving on the grace of his reputation. He doesn’t know how much longer he has before teachers start asking questions they shouldn’t. He’s just so tired, and if he’s not at school he’s working and if he’s not working he’s sleeping.

It’s like there’s just a permanent fog around him. His muscles and tendons and bones keep going, but his brain is lagging slower and slower behind. There’s no point to thinking anymore.

“Hey, Parrish,” Ronan says, long after the others have just left and it’s just the buzzing of the lights and the various clunkering of Adam’s tools in this piece of shit Henrietta car.

“We’re closed,” Adam says, because that’s what he’s supposed to say.

“No, Jesus.” There’s a small caw, and Adam finally looks up from the car. It’s not a customer, at least Adam hopes it isn’t. It’s Ronan Lynch, all dark circles under glass eyes and shaved eyes and big ears. There’s the raven on his shoulder. The raven that he dreamed. “It’s me.”

“Oh,” Adam says, because his brain feels like a bunch of rusted gears now. It’s trying to catch up, but it’s getting caught, torn on itself. “What did you name her?”

It’s the only thing he can ask. They were in this very shop, the night Ronan dreamed the raven. The night Niall Lynch would decide Adam Parrish was a threat to be disposed of.

“Chainsaw,” Ronan says, grins a little manically. “She’s a shithead.”

“Just like her father,” Adam says, and it feels like, for one second, that he’s not drowning. Fuck Ronan Lynch.

“Look, Sargent said to give you space,” Ronan said. “But I’m worried as shit… and like shit.”

“I mean, it’s not like you knew what he would do,” Adam says, continues to work on the junker. “It’s just shitty.”

“He ruined your fucking life, man. It’s fine if you’re still pissed at me,” Ronan says. He’s still pissed off at himself. He’s a six pack deep but he showered so Parrish wouldn’t have to smell it on him. He just doesn’t know what the fuck to do anymore. He can’t dream like his dad is demanding he does, he can’t do anything like he’s supposed to.

He doesn't know what he’s going to do if his dad finds out that he’s here tonight.

“He’s ruining your life, too.” Adam should be angry. He used to be angry. He wants to be angry. He can’t. “I’m just fucking tired.”

“Okay,” Ronan says, slumps down the side of the building. “Fuck, me too.” He has no right to look like he does, all sharp edges in the harsh white lighting.

“You been sleeping?” Adam asks, sits down next to him. He doesn’t give a fuck about the junker. Boyd won’t give a shit if it’s not done tomorrow.

“No. I can’t. He’s gone again and I can’t dream when he’s gone,” Ronan explains. “I don’t know how he always knows but he does.”

“That’s fucked up,” Adam says.

“Yeah. Declan’s trying to figure something out, but…” Ronan sighs. “I don’t know. Shit’s fucked.”

“Shit’s fucked,” Adam agrees. “I’m so tired I’m dizzy.”

“You should sleep,” Ronan says, reaches out before he can talk his alcohol-soaked brain out of it. Adam’s head is on his shoulder, Ronan’s hand wrapped around a thin, sweaty, shoulder.

“Can’t. Gotta go stock fuckin’ Aldi,” Adam mumbles, but then Ronan’s hand is in his hair and Adam feels something deep in the pit of his stomach. It’s the moment you realize you’ve been missing something.

“Jesus,” is what Ronan ends up saying. “When do you sleep?”

“School,” Adam mumbles. “All my dreams are dead and my teacher’s don’t give a shit.” He laughs a little, and it only sounds a little hysterical.

They just sit like that. Head on head, Ronan’s hand in Adam’s hair, until Adam has to go again.

Adam doesn’t realize until he’s gone that it’s the most grounded he’s felt in a long time.

Ronan doesn’t realize how much he’s going to pay for that one fleeting moment of happiness.

Adam wakes up in history to his teacher putting a blue slip of paper in front of him. Oh, fuck.

“I’m not going to guidance,” he says. “I’ll stay awake. I promise.”

Ah, shit, Ms. Leipold is crouching next to his desk now.

“I’m worried, Adam. You haven’t been turning in your homework and you’ve been sleeping in my class.” Her voice is gentle, calm.

“Your homework isn’t worth a lot for grades,” Adam says. “I’ll turn it in, though, I promise. And I’m doing fine on your tests.” Her tests are just pieces of past APUSH tests; they’re not hard.

“Adam, this isn’t a debate,” she says. Adam sighs, and pulls himself out of his chair. He’s either hearing a funeral march or his own heartbeat in his ears during the whole trudge down to guidance—he’s used to being sent, but this is just the start. It’s annoying. If he gets sent twice more this month, which he will, it’ll be a big thing and his dad will get even more pissed.

Fuck. The last thing he needs is the teachers pretending to care.

“Sup, Mrs. Berry,” he says when he gets there, is shocked she hasn’t quit from burnout yet. Between the opioid crisis and just general poor school fuckery, her job has got to be a shitshow.

“Adam Parrish,” she says. “Sit down please.” He does, but that’s not a good sign. He never talks after hello. He can’t give her any kind of ammunition.

“So, multiple teachers have concerns,” is what she leads off with, which means she’s learned from the days of her asking Adam how he’s feeling. She goes to list how he’s not doing his homework, how he’s sleeping in class, how he comes to school looking like he does, how he doesn’t have friends, blah, blah blah. Adam just lets her talk.

“Can I go?” His voice is calm, polite, and firm. “I’m missing class.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” Mrs. Berry says. “We’re trying to help you here, Adam.”

Bullshit.

“Can I go?” he says, stands up with his knapsack. He only feels a little dizzy.

She doesn’t relent until fifteen minutes later, sends him off late to Spanish with a slip. Blue sees the blue color when he gets there and raises an eyebrow.

“Don’t say fucking anything,” he says. “Fuck Mrs. Berry.”

“I’ll drink to that,” she says. “You going home tonight?”

“Unfortunately.” Adam isn’t looking forward to it. He doesn’t know if this is Niall Lynch’s doing or just his father’s own inadequacy, but he’s been cut to half hours at work. But hopefully he’ll get to sleep.

“I’m at Nino’s, if you want a ride,” she says, like she always does. It’s starting to get colder, and Adam’s bike is starting to malfunction again.

“I’ll let you know,” he says, which is what he’s been saying lately. It’s not a no.

“Okay. I get off at ten,” Blue says. “What did Mrs. Berry have to say today?”

“Don’t,” Adam says, puts his head down on his desk. Blue sees the teacher look over at them.

Adam is very obviously snoring.

“We’re working together,” she says, and the teacher straight up rolls his eyes. Maybe it bought Adam some time, maybe it didn’t.

It’s raining, and Adam looks exhausted and on the verge of tears when he walks his bike across the street over to Nino’s. It doesn’t really look like a bike anymore. Some asshole Aglionby kid ran it over on their way into Boyd’s.

That one, Adam is willing to bet, is Niall Lynch.

“It’s not my bike,” is what Adam says to Blue. He’s sitting in the rain at the back entrance, unable to look up at her face. He only knows it’s her by her absurd shoes. “It’s my dad’s.”

“What happened?” Blue’s not a mechanic, but she takes one look at the bike and knows it’s not salvageable. “What do you want to do here?”

Adam just looks at her. His eyes look like they’re bruised, the circles around them are so dark and so deep. He takes a breath. “I can’t take it home.”

“We’ll give you a ride. You can say it was raining too hard to bike home. It’ll give us some time,” Blue decides. She helps Adam up, because she knows the last thing he needs is to be sitting out in the rain any longer.

Calla and Maura are both in the car. Oh, they totally knew this was happening.

“Hi Adam,” Maura says, offers him a towel. “I don’t know if we’ve officially met. I’m Maura, and Calla is driving.” She gives him a small smile. “I’ll put your bike in the back. We can store it during the bad weather.”

“That’s okay, m’am. I’m gonna keep it inside of Boyd’s,” Adam says quickly, doesn’t accept the towel. “I’m sorry for the inconvenience.”

“It’s no bother at all,” Calla dismisses. “You shouldn’t be biking in the dark anyway. Not with the way idiots in this town drive.” She carefully watches as Adam goes to go hide his bike.

“You knew,” Blue says, when it’s clear Adam’s out of earshot.

“We hoped,” Maura corrects. “But… he looks awful.”

“He got a guidance slip today,” Blue says, because the only adults left that she thinks can help are sitting right in front of her. Someone needs to do something. “It’s getting bad.”

“We’ll ask if he wants to stay tonight, but I doubt he’ll take us up on the offer,” Calla says, and then Adam is back to the car.

“Thanks again, y’all, for the ride,” he says. He just slowly sinks into the backseat. He looks resigned about something.

“Any time,” Maura says. “You and Blue tend to work about the same shifts. It’s no trouble for us to give you a ride. Any time.”

“I don’t want to cause trouble, m’am,” is what Adam responds. He just wants to ride in silence. He has no idea what’s waiting for him. He’s hoping they’re asleep already. He knows he needs to make a plan to fix the bike, which is probably going to be trying to convince Ronan to help him, but he’s too tired to think through the ramifications of that plan.

Thankfully, they seem to get the drift.

The witches drop him off far enough away from the trailer, but he can see the lights are on.

Fuck.

Adam barely stumbles into school the next day. He missed his shift at the factory, had hitched a ride with someone who had taken pity on him stumbling along the side of the road.

He hasn’t slept in days.

The world is spinning, orbiting around the pain in his chest, in his arm.

His dad was pissed. He knew about the bike, was already mad and drunk because of his own shit and because he just hates Adam.

He barely makes it into homeroom.

“Adam, no.” That’s Blue. “Come on.” She pulls on his bad arm and Adam gasps. Their homeroom teacher is approaching. “Shit, sorry man.” She keeps pulling though, and Adam just kind of stumbles after her.

“Are we in the girl’s room?” Adam kinda slurs, but he slumps down the wall and gasps.

“Yup,” Blue says, sounds like she’s panicking. “Okay, I’m going to be honest. You have like two options here. We go back, and Mrs. Hernandez is going to write you a blue slip. Or, I call my moms and you go sleep this off on our couch.”

“I can’t,” Adam says. “I can’t miss school. Missed a bunch when he broke m’ribs last time, so ‘m gonna be truant. And I don’t know the witches.”

“They won’t count it. It’s a sick day,” Blue tries to reason. “I’ll take you to the nurse. C’mon, you’ve already gotten a bunch of blue slips.”

Adam feels like he’s adrift at sea in a thunderstorm. He doesn’t know if he can keep going. He’s falling apart at the seams—fingers bloodied and bruised and cracking from all the work they’re forced to bear, brain so tired that it can’t do more than slowly orbit the room–but he knows that if he lets this happen something horrible is going to follow. He’s not sure if it’s worse to try to keep his head above and keep drinking in the rainwater, or to just let himself go under.

“I… I can’t Blue. It feels wrong,” is what he says.

“Trust me, Adam.” Blue sounds like she’s begging. “The office isn’t going to ask questions. Just take a day to sleep it off. You’re not going to make it through if you keep it up like this.”

Adam tries to stand up, just pitches to the side. Blue helps him.

Her moms are already at the office when they get there.

“Hi, honey,” Maura says, helps Adam into one of the chairs. “We heard that Adam was sick.”

The secretaries know enough to know that any option that isn’t sending the kid back to his actual home is a good option. The Fox Way ladies might be a little weird, but they’ve never had any issues with them. One of the secretaries, Adam really doesn’t know her name, looks Adam up and down.

“It’s a shame your parents are working, sugar,” she says in that old white lady southern drawl that sets Adam’s teeth on edge. “Are you okay going with Blue’s parents to rest?” It’s a test. They’re leaving it up to Adam if he’s comfortable with it.

“Sure,” Adam says, because he’s really just trying to not puke on his shoes. Everything is spinning.

“Alright. Let’s get going, then,” Calla says, forces a smile for the secretaries. She’s trying to be subtle in how she helps Adam up, but she hears the hmmphs and tittering as they help Adam out to the car. They just lay Adam down in the backseat.

“Alright. Be honest, kid. What’s hurting?” Calla’s voice is blunt. “Our house isn’t far but we have ice packs and stuff in here.”

“Dunno. Nothing is making sense,” Adam says. “I’m just tired. Just need to sleep it off.”

“Okay.” Persephone’s voice is gentle. “We’ll wait until we’re home. You can sleep as much as you want.”

“No. I need t’get up for my Boyd’s shift at three. I’ll be fine by then.” Adam tries to muster as much certainty as he can into the statement.

Calla refuses to grace the statement with a response. She doesn’t really think Adam is with it, because he’s bruised up as all hell and by the way he’s moving there’s no way his ribs aren’t bothering him. His left arm, too, is looking like the wrist or elbow or something is at minimum sprained. This child needs rest.

That’s what it comes down to. He’s a kid being used as a pawn and he needs sleep and rest in a place where he’s not worried about Robert Parrish or Niall Lynch.

They both know better than to mess with Fox Way.

So she helps him inside, helps him get set up on the couch with blankets and ice packs and a few cats to keep guard.

Adam just passes out.

“Some part of him knows it’s safe here,” Persephone says, some hours later. She’s replacing the ice packs. They don’t think his wrist is broken. They hope it isn’t. “He hasn’t woken up at all.”

“Or he’s just exhausted,” Calla says. “The kid hasn’t had an eight hours of sleep kind of night in months. He’s just crashing hard.”

“We need to decide what we’re doing about Boyd’s,” Maura says. “From what Blue has said, Boyd is a good person. Maybe we can call him out.”

“We need to talk to him. He won’t like us doing anything behind his back,” Persephone says. “We’ll wake him up for a bit at two. He can eat and we can decide what’s going to happen.”

It sounds simple, but it’s Adam Parrish. He wakes up, and suddenly he has ideas and a plan. He’s had a solid five hours of sleep, and he’s just with it enough to know that he’s in some deep shit.

“Thank y’all. So much. But I do need t’go to work.” He needs to talk to Ronan. Ronan’s taken to showing up when it’s just Adam and maybe one other guy left at Boyd’s, and Adam needs his help with the bike situation. It’s the only answer. He needs a new one, exactly the same as the old one. It’s an impossible problem if you’re not a dreamer.

“Okay. But we’re driving you.” Calla knows now isn’t the time to push. It was a big step, him sleeping on their couch, and they can’t afford to push him away now. “We’ll pack you up a dinner, too.”

“Okay,” is all Adam says. “Thank you.”

He’s too tired to pick fights over his pride. He feels like the exhaustion is sanding down his edges, scraping away at all of the sharpness until all that’s left is smooth bone. Nothing left but a body to be used for the hard work no one else wants to do.

“I need your help.” The words taste like oil coming out of Adam’s mouth, and his stomach is in knots just thinking about the consequences. Is it worth it? By helping himself, he could be hurting Ronan. It feels like every little step, every yellow brick is going down the wrong road here. But It’s so dark he doesn’t even know if he’s on the right path. Is Niall Lynch worse than Robert Parrish? Does Adam get to make this kind of decision?

He can’t hurt Ronan. He can’t do it.

But he has no idea what he’s going to do if he doesn’t fix this.

“Yeah? With what?” Ronan is fiddling with some random car parts. “Dad’s out of town. He took Declan with again.” Ronan just sighs, throws a piece of metal at the shop wall. “Whatever he has him doing, it fucks him up.”

“You don’t have to help,” Adam says. “I don’t want to make shit worse.” He swallows hard, rolls himself back under the car. “I just… someone wrecked my dad’s fucking bike.”

“Jesus,” Ronan says. “Your bike?” He’s getting the dark look, storm clouds over arctic ice that can only harbor an omen for devastation.

“Yeah. I… I’m in deep shit.” It feels like barbed wire in his throat, saying the words out loud. But Ronan understands in a way the others can’t, with Niall Lynch being like he is. Ronan knows now in a way that he didn’t used to how a fuck up isn’t just something that can be moved beyond, but it’s something dangerous. Adam has no idea how Robert Parrish would react to seeing his bike totalled. He really doesn’t want to find out.

“He’s out of town. I’ll dream you a new one.” Ronan doesn’t even hesitate.

“I don’t want to get you in trouble,” Adam says, and Ronan laughs.

“When have I ever given a shit about that?”

It’s a fatal error. Neither of them know it, drunk on their own relief of seemingly escaping their own separate dooms, but it’s a huge mistake.

Niall Lynch knew when he destroyed Adam Parrish’s bike the only way to fix it would be for Ronan to dream a copy. If Ronan does it, it means Adam Parrish is still a problem.

A problem to be eliminated.

Adam feels like he’s walking through molasses. He doesn’t know where he went wrong; in the few days since he’s dreamed the bike, it feels like everything but the bike has gone wrong.

He’s lost his job at the grocery store.

That hadn’t gone over well, and Adam honestly doesn’t know how well he’s masking the aftermath. It’s not like he’s sleeping more, because now instead of working somewhere else he’s working for his dad. In the trailer junkyard, all night long, trying to fix impossible problems.

His whole life, Adam has felt like an unsolvable problem.

Something at his very core, buried deep in the space between the molecules in his DNA is wrong. It’s built its way into his tendons, his bones, his blood, his body, has made him unlovable. It’s made him the way that he is, why things go the way that they do for him. It’s a magnetic force for more unsolvable problems. He’s destined to be his own Sisyphus.

Fuck. He needs sleep.

“Adam?” Blue’s voice is concerned, has to be because it’s wavering all over the place. “Spanish is over.”

“Was I sleeping?” Adam asks, because he really can’t tell anymore.

“Yeah. I think the teacher was writing an email about it,” Blue says, helps him to his feet. “What do you have next?”

“Dunno. What day is it again?” It’s a Thursday, right? Or is it only a Tuesday?

“It’s Wednesday,” Blue says. “I think you should go to the nurse. I can call my moms—you know our couch is always open.”

“Can’t. M’good Blue. Thanks for offerin’,” Adam mumbles, stumbles up. “I think I have calc.”

Blue walks him to calc.

He’s barely through the door before he has a blue slip.

Goddammit.

Adam shoves it to the bottom of his bag, where it can join the pile that’s been growing every day. He realizes he hasn’t checked on his grades in ages, has no idea what he’s going to see when he does look. His test grades all look the same, but he hasn’t done any homework in a long, long time. And just like that, there’s an itch under his skin. It’s not just everyone else ruining everything—grades have always been his way out. He’s been ruining his own life, too. His own chances. Oh, god.

He stops in the computer lab on his way to guidance, logs into the stupid grade software with trembling fingers.

He has an A- in English. The rest are fine. No one’s put in the homework zeroes.

Why?

By the time he makes it to Mrs. Berry’s stupid office, his whole brain feels disjointed. His thoughts are parts of a car that’s all rusted, and half of them are missing anyway. Things just keep breaking and lurching and catching and no thoughts are flowing.

“Hi again, Adam,” Mrs. Berry says. “I’m guessing you lost the blue slip again.”

Adam just nods. He can’t talk—she’s used to that. Usually, he’s refusing to talk. If he talks, she calls social services. He can’t. Adam doesn’t know how far Niall’s influence reaches, but he knows that’s the wrong move in this fucked up game. They just sit there in silence until she lets him go.

“We can’t help you unless you let us, Adam,” Mrs. Berry says. “All of your teachers have written you a blue slip at this point, and you’re missing work in all of your classes.”

“Yeah,” Adam says, hears how rough his voice sounds. “I’ll do better.”

The truth is, he doesn’t know if he will. He doesn’t know if it matters. Even if he does his homework, the next time he builds things up, has a plan, there’s nothing to stop someone more powerful from knocking him right back into the dirt again. He’s so tired of being knocked down. He’s so tired of being tired.

“Can I go to the nurse?” He asks, some minutes later. By this point, he’s guessing Mrs. Berry has moved on to some other homily.

“Sure, Adam.” Maybe, Mrs. Berry is finally giving up on him, too.

“Oh, hello, Adam,” the nurse, Mrs. Anderson, says. She’s young, and Adam thinks her college loans are forgiven if she sticks it out at their school for a certain number of years. She’s always been kind, though. “I heard you were stopping by.”

“Uh, hi.” Adam has no idea what to say. What do you say that makes you get sent home? People want to go home? “I don’t feel good.”

“So I’ve heard. That bruise on your face looks nasty, too,” she says, and Adam knows he tenses.

“It’s a few days old, m’am. It’s fine. My, uh, folks are working,” he says. He knows that if it comes down to it, he could probably go to the witches’ den. But he doesn’t want to drag them into his mess.

“That’s okay, honey,” Mrs. Anderson says. “You can sleep in the back.”

Adam thinks he’s asleep before his head hits the pillow.

He doesn’t understand how Ronan dreams every time he falls asleep. Adam never dreams—he only sleeps when he’s so exhausted that the only thing his body can do is sink into the abyss. He sleeps like he’s losing time.

He doesn’t wake up until someone is shaking his shoulder. It feels like he’s waking up in a grave.

“Adam, honey,” Mrs. Anderson is saying gently, as Adam sucks in air. He’s hunched over from sitting up so suddenly, from being dragged from the depths so quickly. “It’s the end of the school day.”

“Oh,” Adam manages. His skin is feeling tight again, and he has no idea where he’s going to go now. If Blue’s right, it’s the day he doesn’t work at Boyd’s, so he shouldn’t go there. He knows he shouldn’t go home. “Thanks for letting me sleep here.”

“Any time, sweetie,” she says.

Blue is waiting for him outside of the office. Because of course she is.

“Come on. You’re coming over for dinner,” she says. “Or the moms will give you a ride where you need to go.”

Adam hates that he’s considering both options. He doesn’t want to go home, really doesn’t want to know what’s waiting for him there. But he can’t let the witches think he needs them either, because that will end badly. If the witches think he needs them, and Niall knows that the witches are involved, it’s just another group dragged into this whole mess.

“Please? You look like you need some more rest,” Blue says, her voice soft. Her voice is rarely soft, but Adam thinks that this is the version that can move mountains.

“I need to be home by seven,” is what he ends up saying. Even his tongue feels heavy.

“Let’s go to the car,” Blue counters with. “I think the moms are making Thai curry, but I know they were talking this morning about making some that wasn’t spicy.”

Adam fiddles with a worn arm on his backpack. He still doesn’t feel awake; he feels like he’s in a daze the whole drive, like he’s walking and then suddenly he’s on a floral couch with a cat named Empress Katherine in his lap.

He really needs to stop passing out on the witches’ couch.

Adam’s thigh is jiggling the whole ride back to Antietam lane. He doesn’t know why, but he feels like he’s breaking some kind of rule. There’s a lot of unspoken rules, but no one has ever told him he can’t spend time at Fox Way. He wouldn’t say he trusts them, but the bar is six feet under at this point—their couch isn’t home and isn’t work. It’s the best he’s got.

“Thanks, m’ams. For the ride, and the food.” He’s trying his best to be polite, like he didn’t just have a fight with them about taking some back with him. He thought they had understood the situation.

“Any time, Adam,” Calla says. “Our door is always open. The porch door is literally unlocked,” Calla says, like this is an important fact he’s going to need later.

“Where would you like us to drop you off?” Seph’s voice is mild.

“Just by the trailer park sign would be perfect, m’am,” Adam responds, lets out a breath he was holding because at least they understand that he can’t be seen accepting rides from people.

“Adam,” Maura says, when the sign comes into view. “I know Blue has given you our phone number. Do not hesitate to use it.”

Adam doesn’t know why the conversation feels important.

The lights are off in his parent’s doublewide. He can take a breath.

“Dad’s back in town. Well, he should be, this evening,” Ronan says, the next day at Boyd’s. Neither of them know it, but they’re in the eye of the hurricane. The sunset is painting the garage’s normal blues and blacks orange and pink. “Declan doesn’t know why he’s back early.”

“That’s weird,” Adam says, hunches over the hood of the car. He’s tired, yeah, but he thinks the sleep he got at school yesterday and at the witches is carrying over. He’s got three more blue slips, but he ignored them all. “The bike works great, though. Thank you.”

“Any time, man.” Ronan lets out a deep sigh, sinks against the garage wall. “He was gone awhile. It was almost like shit was normal.”

“I know what you mean,” Adam says, takes Ronan’s hand. “Since fucking Aldi fired me, it’s gotten a little better. People get mad when he has me working all night with those big lights on.”

“You’ve been spending more time with the witches, too,” Lynch responds, squeezes Adam’s hand. Ronan brings both of their hands into his own lap. “No one fucks with the witches.”

Adam allows himself a laugh.

“I just keep ending up on their couch,” Adam admits. “It’s really comfortable.”

“I’m not judging, man.” Ronan is so tempted to say more, to do more than hold Adam’s hand. It feels wrong, in the soft lights of the evening. They’re talking about how shitty their parents are; now is not the time.

“You should try it sometime. Empress Katherine always stares at me, though,” is what Adam responds with. He’s looking at Ronan, and somehow in the golden hour the darkness under his eyes is lessened.

Oh. And Ronan leans in.

Adam and Ronan are speeding towards a car crash, and maybe that’s why Ronan tastes oil on Adam’s lips. Everything seems softer, gentler, with Ronan’s hands cupping Adam’s face, bathing in sunlight. Adam’s lips are hopelessly chapped, and Ronan’s stubble burns his cheek, but it feels right. It feels so impossibly right in this moment.

That’s the horrible part about a tragedy: it’s preventable from the outside, but completely inescapable to those who are trapped in it.

Adam bikes home that night, feeling lighter than he’s felt since the night the Aglionby letter arrived in the mailbox. His thoughts are of Ronan’s hands, his lips, his eyes when he smiles.

He doesn’t notice his dad’s bike sitting outside. The real one, all broken and crumpled up.

He’s still smiling when he enters the trailer.

Adam thinks this dirt might actually be his grave. It’s his last thought before his brain gives up—he can’t get around the overwhelming pain coming from his head, his chest, but his leg is the epicenter for pain.

He remembers twisting as he fell, his leg catching and his chest and head hitting a rail.

“Hey, kid.” Someone shakes his shoulder, and Adam thinks he hears something groan, but he feels it deep in his skull and that hurts so much that he thinks he pukes. Then his front feels wet. “Oh Jesus Fuck. I’m calling the cops.”

“Noooo.” Adam knows it’s him who forces that out. “You can’t.”

“You think I want the cops around here?” The disembodied voice sighs.

“I got someone else who can pick me up.” Adam rattles off the Fox Way phone line, because it’s the only option. He can’t think, can’t breathe, really, but he knows that the cops are bad news. The witches are fine. They’re safe, even.

“Alright. Just stay put, I guess.” Adam thinks the voice is some neighbor, a face in a window on the nights the Parrish’s doublewide rumbles and shakes.

Adam lets himself slip into the ether.

He wakes again to a breathful of dirt, to a gentle hand on his face.

“Adam, sweetheart?” It’s Calla’s voice, Seph’s hand on his face. Adam hears himself groan again. He coughs. “Okay. We hear you. We’re going to get you some help, honey.”

“No cops,” Adam coughs out.

“You need an ambulance,” Maura says. “We can’t avoid them. But we’ll get rid of them as quick as we can, I promise.” The hand is still moving through his hair. “Just stay still. Help is on its way.”

“M’fine,” Adam manages to groan out. “Don’t need an ambulance.” He tries to move, to prove he’s okay, but he barely manages to crawl before someone’s hand is gently on his back and it’s pointless to try. “Need help.”

“We know, honey,” Seph says. “We’re getting you help.”

No, that’s not it. Through the seemingly impenetrable haze of pain and fog and probably concussion in his brain, there’s a constant thrum. Ronan. Ronan. Ronan.

Ronan.

If his dad knows about the bike… then … then… then something bad’s coming for Ronan.

“No. Ro’,” is all Adam can get out, because thinking that much is making it hurt more which makes it all that harder to put together. “Lynch. Gotta help Lynch.”

“We’re focusing on you right now, bud,” Calla says. He manages to open his eyes enough to see the worry swimming in her eyes, but then he sees the swirling red and blue lights coming his way and he thinks he’s puking again.

The hand in his hair is gone.

“We’ll take care of it,” Seph whispers, and then Adam hears some loud shuffling and he feels someone else kneel beside him.

“I didn’t want to move him on his back—I was worried about his neck,” Calla is saying, and then he loses track of everything because he’s on his back and the stars are too bright.

Adam manages to turn his head, before there are hands on his neck forcing it back, and he sees Seph and Maura talking to the cops. He feels his body lurch, but there’s something plastic and hard around his neck.

“Easy, Adam,” Calla says, smooths his hair back. “They’re just stabilizing your neck.”

“We need you to stay still,” a voice is saying, somewhere to his right. “My name is Will, and I’m an EMT.”

Adam hears himself gurgle a little. He can’t force himself to open his eyes, to speak, because being on his back has taken the gasoline inside of his ribcage and set it ablaze.

“I have some questions, and then we’ll set your leg and get going,” Will continues. “What’s your full name, bud?”

“Adam Parrish,” Adam mumbles, feels Calla squeeze his hand. “Calla, you gotta… “

“The cops are leaving, honey. Maura will call Ronan after,” Calla says. “Focus on answering Will’s questions.”

“How old are you?” Will asks. Adam knows he should know this, but something isn’t working in his brain.

“Uh…” Adam feels panic rise in his chest, tries to sit up despite whatever the fuck is on his neck, but there’s hands on his shoulders and chest keeping him down. He can’t remember. Why the fuck can’t he remember?

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” Will is saying. “We’re going to give you something for the pain, and then we’ll get things moving.”

Once the ketamine hits, Adam really doesn’t register anything past himself screaming when they splint his leg.

Someone lets him, finally, pass out.

The last thing he sees is Calla climbing into the ambulance after him.

Adam wakes up suddenly, sucks in a breath before he forgets that he can’t breathe. It’s too bright, and his chest is burning.

“Adam, hon, you’re okay.” That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. He doesn’t know where he is, all he knows is that it’s so bright that it feels like his brain is absorbing all of the light, is ready to explode into its own supernova. He just groans, tries to roll to hide his face, but something goes wrong and he’s weightless for one second before the supernova finally ignites.

The floor feels cool on his face. Everything stills for that one second, in the dark and cool. He can parse the voices talking before the hands are all over him again.

It’s softer, where he is now, but it’s bright and warm and loud.

“It’s too much,” Calla says. “He can’t handle all of the noise and light.” She has to be the hand on his forehead.

“We need the light to work—we can cover his eyes and give him ear plugs, but with the concussion we also don’t want him sleeping any more until we can get a CT scan,” the nurse responds.

“I think the light is worse,” Calla says, and that’s how Adam’s eyes are covered with a dark towel and he stills immediately.

“Ronan,” Adam says, because it’s the only thing he can think of.

“He’s on his way, sweetheart,” Calla says. “He’s okay.”

Adam lets out a breath, realizes that it feels just a little bit easier.

“Are they druggin’ me?” he asks, because it’s the only explanation. His head rolls towards Calla, but the towel stays in place.

“You’re on strong pain medication, yes,” the nurse says. “My name is Amelia, and I’ve been taking care of you since you got to Children’s. We’re waiting on orthopedics to put in the orders for x-rays and scans.”

“S’okay. M’okay. I really need t’be going,” Adam manages to get out. He definitely cannot pay for whatever they’re doing to his legs and his ribs, even if he could see what was going on.

“No, sweetheart.” Amelia’s voice is firm, and her hands are on his shoulders. “You’re staying here with us.”

“Can’t. Too expensive,” he explains, hopes it’s a convincing argument. “Stuff will heal.”

“It won’t.” Calla’s voice is strong, offers no room for argument. Adam thinks he believes that this is one of the women who raised Blue Sargent. “Adam, you need to listen to me. Don’t worry about the money, or about Niall. Me, Maura, and Persephone are handling it. Let’s take some deep breaths.”

“We’re going to take you for some scans now,” Amelia says. “I’m going to give you some more medication to help with the ride, but it might make you sleepy.”

“I’ll be right here when you get back,” Calla promises, squeezes Adam’s hand. Adam feels whatever they’ve pushed into his system wash over him in waves. He feels himself go under, comes up for air just long enough to feel the stretcher move. He goes under again, wakes up and feels himself move. The next time, he stays under the water for good.

“Where is he?” Ronan Lynch demands, storms into the emergency room looking like a fallen god. “Where’s Adam Parrish?” His voice trembles with the backing of thousands of tragedies, but Calla looks at him and she just sees a child. A child who has carved himself into jagged edges.

“Ronan,” she says, and the air stills around them both. It is a summons. She can feel every molecule ready to ionize as he approaches, the static energy growing to a fever pitch.

When she wraps around his back, it all dissipates.

“He’s going to be okay,” Calla says. “He’s hurt. He’s hurt really bad, but he’ll be okay.” It feels like a confession, but Ronan just gulps a breath of air.

“Can I see him?” Ronan pulls away from Calla. “I need to see him. This is all my fault.”

“None of this is your fault.” Calla looks Ronan straight in the eyes. “You’re a child. This isn’t your fault.”

“I dreamed the bike. My dad did all of this because of me,” Ronan explains, starts pacing. “This is my fault.”

“It’s not,” Calla says, and Ronan can’t argue, not when she says it like that. “They just took Adam for x-rays and scans. They said it could be an hour or so before he’s back. Let’s take a walk.”

“I want to be there when he’s back. What happened?” Ronan asks, even as Calla leads him away.

“Right now, they’re thinking broken ribs, broken femur, and concussion,” Calla summarizes. “We won’t know more specifics until after.”

“He broke his fucking femur?” In the harsh hospital lights, Ronan looks like he’s fragmenting. “He can’t… He can’t go back there.”

“He’s not.” It’s a promise. Maura and Seph have been talking to social services. “He’s been placed under our care.”

Surprisingly, Ronan Lynch just exhales.

“You can keep him safe from my father?” Ronan asks.

“He knows better than to mess with us,” Calla says, but she normally knows better than to manifest things into existence.

She has just found Maura and Persephone when Niall Lynch rears his ugly head.

“Ronan, go wait downstairs for Adam,” Maura says. “Take our phone in case something happens.”

For the first time in his life, Ronan listens.

Niall Lynch must not know about the powers of three. Calla, Maura, and Persephone know things about Niall Lynch that could drive him right out of Henrietta. And they’re done allowing him to run amok as he pleases.

“Niall Lynch,” Calla says, stands tall and proud. “I do believe a talk is well overdue.”

The air is positively crackling.

The bastard doesn’t stand a chance. He looks like he’s starting to realize it.

Good.

Ronan is trying hard to focus on breathing through his nose when Adam comes back. The witches are scary, but they have no idea what his dad is capable of. He has no idea what to do if the witches don’t win this.

He has to protect Adam. He has to protect himself. He doesn’t know if he can do either.

“Hi honey.” He has no idea who this is, but she’s pushing a gurney with Adam on it, so he has a finite number of guesses. “Please tell me your name is Ronan.”

“Ronan?” Adam groans out. He’s got something covering his eyes, but Ronan’s guessing that’s because it’s bright in here and Adam sounds like his brain has been rattling around in his skull far too much to be healthy.

“I’m here, man,” Ronan says, squeezes his hand. He looks, and he can’t tell a whole lot because it’s all covered in bandages and splints and ice packs, but by the amount of that, it’s not great.

“Where’s Calla?” Adam asks. He moves his head, and groans.

“Stop moving if it hurts,” is what Ronan says, gently rubs Adam’s hand. “She’ll be back soon. She was going to get Maura and Seph.”

He has no idea how to explain the panic gripping his ribcage.

“You’re worried,” Adam says, because of course he has to key in on Ronan when he has two functioning brain cells. He tries to shrug off the eye covers, but the nurse stops him.

“Trust me, kid. You don’t want that,” she says. “Remember last time?”

Adam just groans. He does, and neither he nor his stomach want a repeat.

“It’s nothing,” Ronan tries. He squeezes Adam’s hand again, but he looks and lets out a sigh of relief when all three witches are walking towards them. “Calla, Maura, and Persephone are back.”

“Hi honey,” Calla says, takes her seat. She’s staring at Ronan, though. She just gives him a nod. Niall Lynch won’t bother Henrietta or his own children anymore. “How are you feeling?”

“Bad. Amelia’s not lettin’ me sleep,” Adam slurs out.

“Not until we get the reading on the CT scan,” Amelia clarifies.

“He’s really gone?” Ronan can’t help but ask. “What the hell happened?”

Adam’s not even going to try to parse that one out.

“Declan is bringing Matthew here,” Maura explains. “Niall should be leaving Henrietta.”

“For good, if he knows what’s good for his health,” Seph finishes.

“What the fuck.” That’s Adam. “What the fuck.” His hand goes to his head, because trying to piece this together is sending his head spinning around and around.

“It’s okay,” Calla soothes, removes Adam’s hand gently, replaces it with her own carding through his hair. “It’s taken care of.”

The doctor shows up. Three of Adam’s old broken ribs rebroke, along with three of his new ones. They need to operate on his femur in the morning. He’s severely concussed. They’re still going to operate.

All Adam can focus on is Ronan’s hand in his, a steady weight keeping him tethered when it feels like his head is floating away.

It’s an odd collection of people, in Adam’s hospital room that night. Declan Lynch arrives with three duffel bags, Matthew Lynch, Chainsaw, and a bottle of Tums. He’s been popping them like candy.

Blue arrives like a hurricane, pissed no one told her until then. She takes up her spot on the floor leaning against the couch.

Adam wakes up, and he’s convinced he’s hallucinating or having double vision. He just groans, because it’s super fucking bright and his entire body fucking hurts.

“Hey,” Ronan says. “Pain meds. Press the button.” It’s a gentle reminder, and after one click of the controller in Adam’s hand, he clicks it again and again. “Fuck yeah. Get those pain meds, Parrish.” His voice is barely a whisper.

It’s a quiet night. Calla whispers the explanation of the surgery, and the nurse whispers encouragement when he has to do breathing exercises to make sure he doesn’t get pneumonia. Hours ago, his life was whizzing thoughts and panic and stolen kisses and worrying about the next second, the next minute, the next hour.

Now, it’s a standstill. He’s trapped in the ether of the medication and the pain and the concussion. He can’t think, so he can’t think about how everything is changing. It’s changing around him, just like the people are moving around him, planning around him, taking care of things around him.

He’s just tired. Adam knows he should be fighting, should be telling them he can’t afford any of this, should be fighting the witches.

He’s too tired.

He drifts back to sleep, with Calla’s hand carding through his hair.

“Adam Parrish, where do you think you’re going?” Shit. Calla is using the mom voice.

“Uh. Nowhere?” It’s been three months of living at the witches, and with the migraines and the crutches and the pneumonia, Adam is finally getting back into the swing of things. They won’t let him work and he’s still not going to school full time and it’s still hard to think, but he’s getting there.

He hates to admit it. But he’s needed the rest. Not anymore, though.

“Correct. Because I don’t see your crutches,” Calla says. “Sit down.”

“Stop it,” Adam says, feels his anger flare. “I don’t need to tell you everywhere I’m going.”

“I see Lynch’s car outside,” Persephone says mildly, hands Adam the crutches.

“You need to be using your crutches, Adam.” And there’s Maura. It’s officially three on one. “And getting proper rest.”

“That’s all I’ve been doing,” Adam says. “We’re just going for a drive. That’s it.”

Calla just walks out onto the porch. Adam tries to crutch after her, but Seph just steps in front of him.

“Y’all are being crazy,” Adam says, and she just gives him a disappointed look. Adam is not looking forward to hearing another lecture about the word crazy and its historical use to undermine women. She’s right, but he’s just so pissed off and it’s easy to revert. “I’m sorry, Seph.”

“I know,” she says. “But you’ve had a few migraines this week, and you need to get some rest.”

“Snake, get in here,” Calla calls out. “You can take over our living room, I guess.”

There are days where Adam still looks like a skittish cat. Where he won’t clue them in on how he’s feeling, will push himself into another migraine trying to catch up with school faster. Where he tries to sneak food to hoard in his bedroom in case there isn’t some later.

Those days are slowly becoming less.

It helps, when Ronan’s there to distract him, to hold his hand, to take his mind off of the worry of the day. It helps, with Blue there to remind him when that things are there to stay. It helps, when Seph can see his migraines coming before Adam can.

Adam sinks onto the couch, puts his head in Ronan’s lap.

Time is feeling like more and more of a circle, which each day looking more similar to the last. He can trust in there being oat milk in the fridge for him in the morning, in Calla telling him to put his (new) phone away at nine thirty, in Ronan’s fingers in his hair to help him sleep.

Adam thinks he might just let himself lean into it.