Archive of Our Own ^beta

It felt like being in a film; like he’d actually managed to get inside the TV screen, in between all the bustling people, honking cars, packed-together buildings stretching upwards into a canopy of heavy metal and stone and glass. And all around him buzzed a constant cacophony of lights and motors and batteries and wires and--

The fucking cameras, every damn where and--

Every single person a bright blip fraying at his already taxed senses, each of them carrying at least a cell phone--like Ethan did--but usually there’d be one or two other devices, pinging their presence insistently.

The cars, at least, he’d been able to mostly filter out. He’d gotten used to them on the highway, and then back at Braşov, though the sheer number of them here--

And Ethan was heading for a monster of a building, light reflecting blindingly off the vast stretches of glass along its exterior, and swarms of people were entering and exiting, and Ethan was joining with them, and he had no choice but to follow--

If one of these fuckers bumped him one more time he was going to--

The doors were automatic, and he’d almost overloaded the sensors on instinct before he’d realized--

The inside of the structure was worse; somehow more crowded, with more lights, more electronics, the voices of dozens of people echoing off the cavernous walls, dozens of conversations bouncing back to him, when he was just trying to locate all the cameras--

“We’re almost there,” Ethan said, glancing quickly back at him, presumably to make sure he was still following.

Karl grunted, the closest thing to a response he felt like giving, and watched a small group drawing close, closer, and half of them had bags that could be hiding any number of things, if they were BSAA, or someone else. He was picking up enough metal, unraveling the shape, the feel of it in his mind, that they could have been--

And they were moving away, heading back towards the entrance him and Ethan had just come through.

“The store’s a little further back on this floor, but it should have everything we’ll need,” Ethan continued, glancing idly back and forth, from shop front to shop front. “Should only have to make the one stop.”

“This is a waste of time,” he said. Again.

And again Ethan merely waved him off, not even turning back around to look at him; just kept up the same steady pace, weaving around people and trash cans and kiosks. “Not if we want to actually maintain our cover, it isn’t,” he said. 

He’d given Karl the same argument before, back at the hotel. It’d seemed like bullshit to him, but then he’d seen enough of the people here since they’d made their way over, and Ethan maybe had a point.

Like hell he was going to just admit that though. Especially when everything about this place was screaming bad idea .

There was, at least, enough metal here that he’d be able to defend them, if it came to that. Unfortunately, the sheer amount of metal around them also meant that he wouldn’t be able to pick out anyone planning to attack them until they were already fucking attacking.

“Here it is,” Ethan said, stopping in front of a store that seemed to span the entire back wall they’d stopped in front of, stretching even farther back than that, as far as Karl could tell, anyway.

Its front was all clear glass panes, intermittently covered in brightly colored posters, most of them reading “sale” or “special.” There was apparently some kind of discount on shoes, limited to today. 

How fortuitous, he thought, if they needed fucking shoes.

“We used to shop for Rose’s clothes here,” Ethan said absently, moving out of the way to let a woman pass. “Well, at this chain, not this particular store.” He finally turned back, looking over at Karl, and blinked, adding, “They have clothes for adults too though.”

“One would assume,” Karl said, “considering you drug us out here.”

“Karl,” Ethan said, his tone somewhere between chiding and exasperated. 

“Ethan,” Karl said in turn, offering him a bland smile.

“Excuse me,” said an old woman, already pushing between them to head inside.

He’d tensed as soon as she spoke, having to reel in the instinct to strike out as soon as he’d felt someone coming up behind him.

“Uh, sorry,” Ethan replied, his Romanian coming out delayed, accent as terrible as always.

“Our apologies,” Karl said, putting on a disarming smile.

The woman shot him a suspicious expression before continuing on inside.

Okay, so maybe Ethan had more of a point than he’d allowed. Maybe he did stand out.

Still not fucking telling him that.

“Look,” Ethan said, all but herding him in after the woman, “we’ll just grab a few things and then leave. It’s probably better we’re not out in public too long anyway.”

It was the cameras, Karl knew he meant the cameras, but still he said, “What, embarrassed to be seen out with your dear husband?”

The tips of Ethan’s ears went pink, the same way they did every time Karl brought that up.

“That’s not what I--” he cut himself off with a huff. “Whatever, let’s just get in and get out.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart,” Karl said, watching the blush spread before Ethan turned away from him, heading deeper into the store.

Karl followed him, glancing around as they walked, cataloging the racks of brightly colored clothes, the customers milling about, slowly moving from rack to rack like sheep grazing.

It was bright in the store, the fluorescent lighting giving off a constant, persistent buzz, but compared to the rest of the building there were fewer electronics, and that combined with the increase in distance from the rest of it finally allowed him to filter them out. He’d still be able to track every person in the store just by the devices they were carrying.

Not that even that would be necessary, considering how fucking loud they all were. 

There were the ones in groups chatting amongst themselves, some seeming to be trying to talk over the music being piped in over the speakers, a grating up-tempo wash of sound with lyrics he’d decided to tune out as soon as he’d heard them. 

Even the solitary customers would tread loudly, the soles of their shoes tacking against the tile, or their bags or elbows or what-the-fuck-ever bumping into a rack so that the hangers would all rattle.

They passed a section selling what he belatedly realized were cosmetics, and only because he was suddenly assaulted with the mixed stench of about six different perfumes at once. Even Ethan sneezed as they passed. 

A baby started crying nearby and he found himself glaring at the back of Ethan’s head.

“Why the hell do I even need to be here? Couldn’t you have just picked some shit out? You’d know more about what would let us blend in anyway, not me.”

Ethan sighed, “I don’t know what size you wear.” He turned down an aisle that apparently led through the children’s section if the increase in eye-gouging colors and contorted cartoon faces was anything to go by.

Karl passed a display of shirts featuring cartoon dogs dressed as cops for some damn reason, Paw Patrol emblazoned in English over each of them.

It was incomprehensible.

“Besides,” Ethan continued, “don’t you want to pick out your own clothes?”

Karl shot a glance at him, tearing his eyes away from another display about teenage turtles or some equally inane shit. “Why?” he said.

Ethan turned, giving him a confused expression. “Why?” he repeated. “You don’t care what you wear? I could pick anything .”

He snorted, “You make that sound like a threat, but we both know you wouldn’t pick anything that would draw attention.”

Ethan actually looked offended at that, as if that wasn’t his entire proposed purpose for being here. “You apparently have two pairs of boxers--I did your laundry, I fucking know this, Karl--I could get you--” he floundered for a moment, apparently trying to think of something suitably galling, “--I could get you fucking lingerie.”

Karl grinned, “Is that a promise?”

“Ugh,” Ethan said, his whole face red as he spun away, stomping on past a few more over-bright displays.

Karl let him get far enough away that the sense he had of him started acting up, a prickling annoyance at the back of his mind. He waited just a bit more, pretending to be absolutely absorbed in a display about whatever the fuck mine crafts were, watching Ethan from the corner of his eye. He stopped soon enough, turning around with a frown, hands on his hips.

Karl?

If this is where you got Rose’s clothes I feel sorry for her , he projected, figuring any of the displays surrounding him would easily cement his point. 

From the connection Ethan had opened up Karl could feel first confusion, then a begrudging amusement tinged with only the slightest trace of irritation.

Just get over here, Karl.

He went, more than happy to leave the, frankly deranged, as far as he was concerned, selection of children’s clothing.

Not that the men’s section was much better.

“Ethan, I know I saw this exact shirt back there in a size made for a baby--”

“A lot of people really like SpongeBob,” Ethan said, not quite defensively enough for Karl to determine whether he was one of those people. 

He did, eventually, find some new undershirts, holding a plastic-wrapped pack of them out to Ethan. “Here,” he said.

Ethan took them from him, glancing at the package before looking back up at Karl. “Something tells me you’re not a ‘Medium,’” he said, moving to put the package back on the shelf Karl had gotten it from. “Guess we should figure out what size you actually are,” he muttered, as if to himself. Then, turning back to Karl, his eyes raking up Karl’s torso in too clinical a manner to be very interesting, said, “Wonder if that shirt has a tag.”

He stepped to the side, reaching for the back of Karl’s neck before he’d even finished speaking. Even knowing exactly what Ethan was reaching for, he still tensed up, the brush of Ethan’s fingers against his skin as he reached under Karl’s coat for the back of his undershirt set alarm bells ringing in his skull. 

Too close to his neck, his throat, carotid artery--

Fucking relax, it’s just Ethan.

He forced himself to stand still. Forced his arms loose at his sides. Waited it out as Ethan pulled out the collar of his shirt, flipped it over, let out a disappointed huff of breath when he didn’t find what he was looking for. 

“Alright,” he said, reaching over to an adjacent rack of shirts, “Plan B.”

Plan B apparently involved Karl standing there while Ethan held different shirts up against his back, tugging the edges over, presumably to see where they fell on him.

He couldn’t even enjoy having Ethan’s hands on him because the loud, obnoxious music kept drowning out his thoughts, or a customer would get too close, snagging his attention. Then there was the flickering of a dying flourescent bulb in one of the lights in the ceiling that was making his eye twitch.

Ethan hmm’d behind him, fingers pressing firm into his right side, holding the shirt there against him. “I think you’re going to need an extra large,” he said, stepping back and moving to replace the shirt on the rack.

Karl cocked a brow, leering, “Extra large, huh?”

But Ethan wasn’t even paying attention, was standing there frowning at fucking shirts. “Or maybe you need a 2XL,” he muttered.

2 X L? Two extra large? A double extra large? “...Are you calling me fat?”

Ethan blinked, a shirt in each hand. “Uh, no, I just, you, uhm. Broad?” he said, then, shoving both shirts at Karl, “Just see what fits.” The tips of his ears had gone pink again, and he turned away, moving towards a different display entirely and leaving Karl to watch him go, thinking that if nothing else this excursion had garnered plenty of opportunities to make Ethan blush, even when he hadn’t been meaning to.

Of course, then he was apparently expected to search for more clothing, which he really couldn’t give a shit about, especially when his attention was torn between tracking the locations of the customers in the store and keeping Ethan in sight at all times. Even being able to feel where he was, Karl didn’t trust that the BSAA or who-the-fuck-ever wasn’t keeping tabs on them, or wouldn’t be alerted as soon as Ethan popped up on camera somewhere. He didn’t know enough yet about how the security systems he’d been encountering in this city worked to feel comfortable interfering. Set his teeth on edge, thinking about it.

Most he could do was what he had been: keep an eye open and hope for the fucking best.

“It’ll be warmer where we’re going,” Ethan told him after a while, moving back within earshot. He had a few articles of clothing bunched up under his arm, and gave Karl that small little frown that meant he was disappointed but wouldn’t say anything about it. “You should find something to wear for when we get to the States, too.”

Feeling irritated with this place, with Ethan, for making him come out here, Karl grabbed the first thing he saw, a garishly colored short-sleeved button-up shirt with a pattern that looked like leaves.

Ethan’s eyes widened, and through the connection Karl could pick up a sudden prickle of surprise and then a somewhat strained He can’t be serious layered over with the dual sense of ridiculous and ugly . “You like that one?” Ethan asked, successfully keeping the doubt out of his voice that Karl nonetheless felt.

Karl looked back at the shirt. It really was ugly, he thought. He didn’t particularly feel one way or the other about it, but said, “Yep.” And then, when that little frown returned, “I think it suits me.”

And the response that netted him was making the whole fucking ordeal worth it. From the connection: more surprise, followed immediately by something that felt a whole lot like despair. And then Ethan was saying, “Ah, okay, well,” and so clearly trying not to let on that he apparently thought the shirt was the ugliest thing he’d ever set his eyes on that Karl couldn’t help the smirk, and then that brought on a sour wave of annoyance and Ethan was giving him the exasperated look now, and that was better than that frown. “Really?” he said.

Karl held the shirt up in front of his chest. “What?” he said, “You don’t think so?”

Ethan just sighed, “Just get it in your size, you’ll pop a button if you get that one.”

“So you were calling me fat.”

But Ethan just turned, muttering, “I’ll find a fitting room,” over his shoulder.

Karl watched him go; watched the shoppers closest to him; felt the buzz and hum of the lights. And him there in the middle of it, knowing how fucked they would be if the BSAA tried something here. If they were separated--and they could be only too easily separated here--how far out would the sense he had of Ethan stretch before he couldn’t feel him anymore? Was there a limit, a radius? They’d never tested it, should have tested it. He didn’t even know the first thing to do if he lost Ethan out here. No way to track him if Karl lost that sense, and it’d take too long to figure out all the tech; it’d be useless by the time he worked it out, and then there’d be no telling where the BSAA would have squirreled Ethan away.

He exhaled, forced himself to relax. Forced himself to turn away from Ethan’s retreating figure--the sense was becoming insistent now; Ethan had gotten that far away--and sort through the rack of shirts until he found one in the size Ethan had mentioned. He found a second shirt too, in a worse color, thinking that would make Ethan happy, him taking initiative like that. Or piss him off, as this shirt was even uglier than the first.

Then, forcing himself to go slow, he followed after where Ethan had gone, letting the sense work itself loose the closer he got.

Ethan wasn’t worried, he thought. He’d have felt it if he was. Ethan’s projecting got worse when he was worried, or stressed. Surprise, too, would do it. Ethan would know more about the world out here than he would, anyway. Maybe Karl should take his cues from him.

He snorted. Kept catching the sidelong looks he was getting from their fellow shoppers. He’d gotten the message clear enough if Ethan hadn’t; he didn’t belong here. He knew it, and they knew it. Playing dress-up or whatever else Ethan wanted wasn’t going to change that. 

Karl , Ethan projected, the slightest thread of worry woven through the connection--Ethan must not be too keen on being separated out here either--and then, Come here .

On my way , he answered, cutting the connection immediately so nothing else could get through.

He was almost there, anyway, wending his way past racks of clothes and mannequins and slow-moving shoppers, finally spotting Ethan in a back corner. 

He looked innocuous standing there, frowning down at something on his phone, his hip jutting as he rested the armful of clothing he’d picked up against it, which even now looked like it might slip his grip at any minute to drop onto the floor.

There was a man, a meter or so to his left, holding up a coat like he might glean something just by holding it at slightly different angles. He had a cellphone, keys, an odd assortment of small metal bits and embellishments in his clothes and on his person. No weapons that Karl could sense.

There was only one camera facing their direction, and it didn’t even have a clear shot of Ethan where he was currently standing.

He blended in anyway; didn’t look any more out of place than anyone else, save for the times he’d struggle to read a sign or open his mouth to say anything in Romanian. The coat guy likely hadn’t even noticed Ethan was there. Had no idea what he could do. What he was capable of.

Not that Karl thought it was likely Ethan would do anything. He’d become increasingly certain that, even if Ethan knew how to control the megamycete, whatever was left of it, or the link between them, he’d never do so.

He was too trusting; Karl had thought this before, back at the village watching Ethan’s interactions with the villagers, and then later with the Duke. He’d thought he could use that to his advantage, and he’d been wrong then, but he wasn’t wrong now.

Ethan on his back in the mud and the snow, limbs loose, relaxed, so fucking unbothered despite everything. It felt like it should be a surrender, that what he was doing was surrendering, giving in, giving control over to Karl, but it wasn’t that at all, was it? You won’t hurt me, and I’m not going to hurt you , the connection was telling him; this unbending surety that Karl was someone he could rely on, that  Karl was someone he could trust--

You little fool, he’d said, and, You can’t--, because it was worse than a surrender, somehow, what Ethan was doing--

The music piped in over the store’s speakers switched over to something annoyingly upbeat, and just as nonsensical as everything else that had been playing. 

“Oh, I love this song!” said someone right next to him, a girl and her friend, just passing him there in the aisle, not even looking at him but–

He’d already sent his power out, unthinking, seeking a weapon, felt the rigid lines of every shelf and rack near them–

Racks closest to him already shaking, clothes hangers rattling as they knocked together–

The racks, metal frames, he could send one into them, knock them flying, get them the fuck away --

He shook his head; fisted his hand in the fabric of the shirts he was holding. Drew his power back to himself, felt the susurrus of it just beneath his skin. The racks all stopped shaking, the hangers lightly swaying still.

The girls continued on down the aisle, they hadn’t even noticed, had no awareness of him at all, and he glanced quickly to Ethan; if he’d been watching, if he’d seen what Karl had almost done--

Ethan stood in the same position, sighing as he thumbed whatever he’d been looking at on his phone closed and slipped it into his back pocket. He looked up then, the sense telling him exactly where to look, and nodded at Karl, gesturing back behind him.

Found the fitting room .

Karl was moving towards him, feeling a dull headache pressing just behind his eyes--likely due to how fucking bright it was everywhere--and tracking how far away those two girls were getting by their cell phones. Coat guy was still there; a quick glance confirmed he’d found a new coat to hold up at different angles.

“What happened to getting in and getting out?” Karl said, voice a little sharper than he’d intended.

Ethan pursed his lips, but didn’t comment except to say, “We still don’t know what size fits you.” He then shifted to move the bunch of clothes out from under his arm. “I grabbed a few pairs of pants for you to try, too.”

Karl was grinding his teeth. Forced himself to stop. “I have pants.”

“You effectively have one pair of pants. And, like I told you, it’s warmer where we’re going.” Then, his voice lowering, just the barest amount, “Please, Karl. It’ll only take a minute.”

So Karl let himself be led back into the fitting room. Let Ethan dump the pants on the bench on one side of the cramped little closet Ethan had directed him into. Let Ethan go with nothing more than a glower when he said, “I’ll be right outside,” and slipped back out, closing the door behind him.

The song switched over again. Something mournful this time; whiny and melodramatic.

Karl threw the shirts on top of the pile Ethan had left, turning to meet his own reflection in the mirror. Eyes squinting against the damned fluorescents--he really needed to find some more glasses--and shoulders tense; lip curling with the growl he’d been feeling caught in his chest.

He shrugged out of his coat, giving in after only a moment of thinking about tearing out of this place. Just saying fuck it and heading back for the hotel.

He didn’t know if he’d even be able to find his way back without Ethan, and the way he’d felt when he’d realized that, like he’d been fucking right from the beginning, that he never should have left the factory. He never should have listened to Ethan; should have just killed every single BSAA grunt out there, and then just kept killing all the others that’d come after him, for as long it took, for as long as he could hold out--

His shirt next, dropping it haphazardly on top of his coat, buttons tugging dangerously in his rush just to get the damn thing off .

What the fuck was he even doing here? Ethan had a point , he’d told himself. They did, after all, have a cover to maintain .

Fucking bullshit. What did that matter? What did any of these little people matter? None of them had a fucking clue who he was or what he could do--what Ethan could do. Even the BSAA was dependent on their metal weapons and electronic equipment; he’d been skulking around all fucking day, jumping at shadows, when he could, in less than an hour, walk into the BSAA headquarters in this city and level it .

No, you dumb fuck, he told himself, whipping off his undershirt, you’re here because of Ethan . Because Ethan asked you to, and you’re so fucking wrapped up in what he fucking wants--

Ethan, on his back in the snow and the mud, under Karl, looking up at Karl, relaxed and loose-limbed and--

He growled, fighting with the hanger the ugly fucking shirt was on.

You should be figuring out how to break this link. This connection. It’s just another leash, and you’ve been acting like it’s the other way around. Like it’s tying him to you. All fucking relieved when you realized he couldn’t just up and leave you now--

The hanger clattered against the back wall; he’d thrown it without meaning to. 

“Karl?”

And here you are, finally free. Finally got what you wanted; the bitch dead, your leash slipped, and you can’t even manage without walking right into another cage. Too fucking scared of what’s been beyond the walls of your prison all this time to do anything else but roll over when your new master tells you to.

He brought a hand up, knuckled at his eye socket as if that would help with the pain, and growled out a “It’s nothing,” when Ethan called his name again.

Except, he thought. Except . Ethan didn’t want his leash. Hell if he could figure out what Ethan did want, especially now that his kid wasn’t an option, but he wasn’t so dense as to not realize that Ethan had no intentions of stepping into Miranda’s shoes.

The problem, Karl thought, was that he wanted him to.

It was like lacerating himself, thinking it, so he forced himself to; to stare at his sad fucking reflection and really ponder that shit. Let it catch in his skin.

All that time planning your revenge, your great escape, and now you’re too chickenshit to do anything more than hope he’ll tell you what to do. He’ll decide what to do next. Why worry about jack shit when you’ve got Ethan there yanking your chain, calling you to heel?

Why waste a fucking second thinking about how there wasn’t anything left to live for, now that he’d accomplished--Ethan had; don’t forget, asshole, Ethan killed her--what he’d set out to?

When he was little, real real little, memories fluttering, waspish things, he’d wanted to go home. Not the house he’d later found out his family had lived in there in the village, but his real home . Or, at least, what he kept telling himself was his real home .

It had probably been a holdover, he’d thought later; years and decades later. Something he’d thought so often as a kid that it’d hung around inside his skull, a stubborn echo. This isn’t my real home, I want to go back to my real home . That kind of thing.

Germany, he’d figured. Had spoken the language exclusively until Miranda had broken him of it. 

There’d been books, too, back in the factory. Mostly scientific works, but a few novels, and then scores of journals, all of them written in German. His name never appeared in any of them, but he’d thought, maybe more hopeful and stupid than realistic, he’d recognized himself in the author’s occasional mentions of mein Sohn .

But that had been it. Childish thoughts about what the outside might be like based on a fractured memory of it. Then later, the strange and impossibly changed places he’d see in Salvatore's films. All of it only the vaguest notion of after and once she’s dead because there wasn’t room for anything else except for how fucking much he hated her.

And now there was Ethan. Ethan who, sporting wounds Karl had given him, had lain at his mercy and said “I don’t want to hurt you”; had thought, I don’t want to hurt you .  

And he had fucking meant it .

Karl’d gotten one of the shirts on. Hadn’t bothered buttoning it and slipped it off as soon as he realized he’d just been standing there. He dropped it back into the pile. 

He’d been waiting for so long for Ethan to turn on him, to try to control him, like Miranda had, that he’d missed the moment he started hoping for it instead. Easier that way. So much easier.

“Just give it a fucking rest,” he hissed under his breath, digging around in the pile for another shirt, fingers closing around fabric, something Ethan had picked out--

“Karl? You okay?” Ethan sounded worried, sounded close, like he was right on the other side of the door. 

“I’m fine,” he bit out, staring down at the shirt. It was just a plain t-shirt. Maroon. Looked soft.

Ice pick stab of pain behind his right eye and he cursed, flinging the shirt so it thwacked lightly against the wall.

The door was opening. “I said I’m fucking fine,” he growled, turning to squint at Ethan, who was regarding him with furrowed brows and a clearly doubtful look on his face.

“You don’t sound fine,” he said, and the room was cramped enough Karl had to back up just to make space for him. Ethan closed the door behind him with a click, and frowned up at Karl, who was pressing the heel of his palm against his eye without thinking. “Is something wrong with your eye?” Ethan asked, going to take a step closer before realizing there wasn’t even room for it.

“It’s nothing,” Karl said, adding when Ethan looked like he would immediately press the issue, “it’s too bright.” Then, because Ethan was still looking like he would press the issue, “Shirt fit, can we go?”

“Too brigh--Wait, you mean just one shirt fit? How many did you try on? No, here, stop doing that, you’re going to make it worse,” and he was reaching up for Karl’s hand, fingers closing around his wrist, thumb brushing his skin, pressing up into his palm, muted by the leather of his glove, when Ethan went to move Karl’s hand.

Right next to your eye. Could put it out, could blind you--

Having to force himself to stay still and just let Ethan manhandle him, dropping Karl’s hand to gently grasp his jaw, tilting his face down while muttering, distracted, “Let me see,” and looking into his eyes, concern wrapping around him through the connection.

Karl watched him in turn, his brown eyes narrowed in concentration, focused solely on Karl; the way he leaned closer, turning Karl’s head just slightly. Like the fucking guy earlier with the coats, trying to glean some kind of hidden knowledge from an altered angle.

“It’s just a headache, Ethan,” he said, but didn’t pull away.

“What were you thinking about,” Ethan said, instead of anything at all that Karl might have expected him to say. He leaned back, only slightly, only to put enough distance between them to meet and hold Karl’s gaze. He left his hands where they were against Karl’s jaw, his expression determined.

“What,” Karl said, tone flat, fluorescents buzzing particularly loud.

He had absolutely not been projecting anything, he was fucking sure of it.

“In here,” Ethan said, “this room, the store. All day. Something’s been bothering you.”

Karl grinned, grinned wider to see, to feel, Ethan’s annoyance at it. “How astute of you. I only had to tell you ten times that this was a waste of time--”

“Not that,” Ethan interrupted him, finally dropping his hands from Karl’s face, his right moving to grip Karl’s forearm, just above his elbow. “I know it’s not just that, Karl.”

“Do you, now,” Karl said, not intending the flicker of his power, weighing down the words. Tried to reign it in, to not let Ethan see--

Not that it even seemed to bother him, if anything he just looked more determined. “Is this about the dream?”

The dream--

Ethan, awake, waiting for him on the far side of that almost comically large bed. “You don’t dream about him as much as you do your--as you do the woman. Who is he?” And he could still feel the sweltering heat of the factory, could still smell the acrid tang of the metals, the chemicals, the rank miasma of unclean metalworking water, could hear the deafening clamor of the machines, and Ethan had been there too. He’d been there again.

If Ethan thought this was about the damn dream--

“No,” he bit out, “it’s not the dream.” He should have just said yes, he thought immediately; let Ethan continue thinking whatever he wanted.

Not that Ethan seemed at all convinced anyway. “I meant what I said last night, that--”

“It’s not about the fucking dream, Ethan.” The overhead light flickered once, and he fisted his hands, focused on winding his power back close.

Ethan had barely spared it a glance, releasing Karl’s arm to run his hands through his hair, clearly frustrated. “Then what is this about?” he asked, quick flick of a gesture up at the light.

“Oh, I don’t know, you tell me.”

“ Karl .”

He snarled, leaning forward into Ethan’s space, “You really gonna make every little fucking thing your business?”

“If I’m worried about you? Yes .” He crossed his arms, meeting Karl’s eyes and refusing to move away, even leaned closer on the last word, close enough that Karl could feel his breath.

“Then you can cut that shit out --”

“Why? Why can’t I worry about you?”

“Why the fuck would you want to?” He tried to back up a step, even before he’d finished saying it. Hadn’t meant to, was shaking his head and trying to turn back to whatever pile he’d dropped his own fucking clothes in. He could physically move Ethan out of the way if he had to, he just wanted out--

But Ethan grabbed him, hands around his shoulders, holding him in place. “It bothers you that much?” he said. “Because it’s me?” Because of the megamycete? Karl heard, like it was an echo drawing out behind his words.

His hindbrain was screaming at him to knock Ethan’s hands away, to put distance between them. He glared at Ethan, eyes already squinting from the flickering light--that fucking flourescent bulb, and he couldn’t concentrate enough to stop it. He thought, Because it’s me. Because you should fucking know better. He said, “It doesn’t bother me. Do whatever the hell you want.”

Which he should have known better than to say, because Ethan immediately took him up on it.

He opened a connection, and it was all surface annoyance, irritation, low simmering anger but then soon enough Ethan’s worry hit him, his goddamned concern .

He’d say the wrong thing again, he didn’t know how to say the right thing, what it would be. Didn’t know how to be there for Karl the same way Karl had been there for him, was there for him, and he wanted to. He wanted to help. He just wanted to--

“It’s this fucking place!” he practically yelled it, his power echoing in his words, lashing out to fry the damned fluorescent light, dimming the room. “Do you know, Ethan, that out there I can barely tell a traffic light from one of those stupid fancy watches? It’s all just so much noise. It would take nothing, nothing , for the BSAA, or Redfield, or whoever, to just slip in, right under my fucking nose, and--” He shook his head, trying to get his temper under control. 

Ethan’s hands were back on his face, gentle again. “So we’d deal with it,” he said, the connection echoing the determination Karl could hear in his voice. And there, underneath it, a swelling fondness, directed at him . “We’d deal with it the same way we’ve dealt with everything else.”

What, by almost dying? he wanted to say, was planning on saying, but Ethan had left the connection open, was projecting such an intentioned sense of calm that it caught him off guard, and then he couldn’t say anything, not with what Ethan was pouring into him.

We won’t always be running, we won’t always be watching our backs, the BSAA is for Chris to deal with, not us, you said we have time, well, we have time, I can show you--

“Ethan,” he said, wanted him to stop, wanted him to close the connection. Wanted the we, we, we to cease.

Ethan’s fingers twitched there against his face, and his eyes went wide, and then narrowed, back to determined, and Karl must have let something through, must have missed it under the wave of Ethan’s own emotions, that fucking open connection, needed Ethan to close it, but he was just warm enveloping fondness buoyed by concern, by a pressing desire to fix, to assuage hurt.

And there, underneath all of it, something else, this strength that almost burned, and he couldn’t place it, couldn’t--

“Ethan,” he said again, sounding to his own ears like he was pleading.

But Ethan just kept projecting calm , sliding his fingers around to grip the back of Karl’s skull, pulling him forward until their foreheads touched.

Karl just let him, had bunched one hand in the collar of Ethan’s coat without realizing and was gripping Ethan’s shoulder with the other. Briefest flicker of anger, of outrage, that Ethan was trying to control him like this--

He closed his eyes on an exhale, forcing himself to lean into Ethan’s projected calm . He’d done the same thing to him, after all; Ethan was only shadowing what Karl had shown him.

We’ll be leaving soon, Ethan told him. We can go anywhere .

Relief at that, followed immediately by disgust at himself, because he hadn’t been relieved they’d be leaving. No.

He felt relieved because Ethan kept saying it, kept saying we , kept assuming they’d be together.

He pulled back, shaking his head to dislodge Ethan’s hold, released his own on Ethan’s coat, his shoulder.

“Karl--”

“It’s fine,” he said, took a step back. “I’m fine, Ethan.”

Ethan looked doubtful--felt doubtful, through the bond--but relented, taking a step back himself.

He cleared his throat, said, “Which shirt did you say fit?”

It took a while after that for him to close the connection. He moved around Karl in the cramped space, grabbing up clothes, passing Karl’s shirts to him as he found them.

He was worried still, about Karl, mostly, but also about the light, about someone accusing them of property damage, of having to tie that to their new identities when it had only been days.

He was worried, as he had been since they’d been told their departure time, that the fake ID, fake passports, wouldn’t work. That something would go wrong.

And he was angry with himself, that he hadn’t thought about Karl being around so much metal, so many electronics, what it would mean for his powers. He should have thought of that beforehand, should have anticipated it--

Karl had gotten used to tuning out Ethan’s thoughts when he started worrying about nothing like this, but he found himself paying attention now, buttoning his shirt back up and watching Ethan move around behind him in the mirror, gathering up clothes, his thoughts growing distant as the connection closed.

It would be easy, he thought, feeling Ethan’s thoughts taper off to a vague wash of concern, watching Ethan putting a shirt back on a hanger, only too easy to take advantage of this. To take advantage of Ethan. He was practically painting a target on himself; just dumping himself into Karl’s hands.

He’d thought, before, that night in the woods, that there had to be more to it. He knew exactly what all Ethan had survived, and it hadn’t been because of luck.

He was tenacious, and driven to the point of single-mindedness, to the point of making stupid fucking mistakes, but he’d bounced back from all of them.

I trust him , is what he’d told his wife. And back then Karl had thought he was just saying that to get her off their backs. He’d half-thought Ethan’s anger, the bottomless despair Karl had been picking up from him, would just turn to Karl instead; redirect to a different target.

But there had been, Karl remembered, nothing but relief; the sense that he wasn’t alone, he wasn’t going to have to do this-- this terrible thing that rent at him --by himself.

Karl didn’t think he’d ever felt a hurt like that before, not something that wasn’t physical. 

And Ethan had just soaked it up. Soaked it all up until he’d nearly drowned in it. 

He’d meant it back then, too, Karl realized now; that “I trust him.” Ethan didn’t have ulterior motives; he wouldn’t have been able to avoid projecting them if he did. Ethan trusted Karl simply because he wanted to, and hell if Karl could wrap his mind around it.

Ethan was sighing, arms full of clothes, and saying “Let’s just get all of them and sort it out later.”

Karl took his coat from the top of the pile and said, “Sure.”

Followed Ethan back out into the store, immediately squinting at the brightness of the overhead lights. He felt another stab of pain behind his eye and grit his teeth, thinking that he could fucking deal with it until they’d left the store, left the whole shitty building.

He could, he thought again, take advantage. Do exactly what the Duke had accused him of. Ethan was practically delivering himself to Karl, so why not.

Why not.

Because Ethan had saved him, back during the dream. Even then, even knowing who he was and what he’d done, Ethan had saved him. Had risked himself to do so. Had trusted--again, fucking again with that--Karl with his daughter over his own wife, over Zoe Baker. Ethan had come back for him, back at the village, when he could have left Karl to distract the BSAA. He’d found Miranda’s notes on Karl and read them, and felt sick at what she’d done to him; had felt panic at the thought of the BSAA getting that information, not for what they’d use it for, but that they’d somehow use it against Karl , to hurt Karl .

Whatever you want , he’d said, offering anything of himself just to get Karl to agree to leave with him; another misplaced attempt to help, to save .

I wasn’t just going to let you die , he’d said, and Karl had felt--had seen--his panic when he’d thought Karl was crystallizing, despair building.

I don’t want to hurt you , he’d said, and he’d fucking meant it. He’d meant all of it. There wasn’t another angle with him. He wanted to help Karl, he wanted to trust Karl, so he fucking did. 

It was like looking down through clear water with him. No reflection distorted, it was just Ethan, as fucking stubborn as always, setting on a path and sticking to it.

Ethan’s hands on his face, and We won’t always be running , and like hell would he ruin that. Didn’t he already have Ethan, like this? 

His instincts were screaming at him that this was an opportunity wasted, that he had to be wrong, no one trusted like this.

But apparently Ethan did.

It was a mistake, but like fuck would Karl be the one to make that clear to him.

“Oh,” Ethan said suddenly, and then made a sharp right, almost losing some of the clothes pile. Over here , he projected, in case Karl had somehow managed to miss the change in direction.

“Thought we were leaving,” Karl said; they’d been heading straight for the register. He quashed the annoyance he felt at having to spend even more time in this fucking place.

“We are, I just thought of something--Here!” and he dropped the entire pile of clothes he’d been carrying on top of a low table displaying leather satchels in order to gesture to a fixture with--

Sunglasses.

“You said it was too bright,” Ethan said, slowly rotating the display until he found a pair with rounded lenses, pulling them free to pass over to Karl. “These help, right?”

Karl took them from him. Metal frame, not too thin; the lenses dark enough. He slipped them on, and immediately felt relief at the decreased brightness.

It would be beyond foolish to hand Ethan a weakness like this.

“Yeah,” he said, “they help.”

And Ethan smiled at him, just a small upturn of his lips. “Let me get that tag, then,” he said, and stepped closer, reaching up and telegraphing his movements as he gently removed the glasses, yanking off the tag that had been affixed to one of the arms, before carefully replacing them.

“Now we can leave,” he said, still smiling, and turned to bundle up the pile of clothes again.

Karl followed him silently to the register, attention still snagged by other shoppers, by tracking the cameras, but mostly he just had eyes for Ethan. For the way he set the clothes down and then passed over the tag for the glasses with a mangled “He’s wearing them now” in Romanian that the store clerk barely acknowledged. 

Karl, after a moment of watching the clerk slowly scan each article of clothing, of tracking how the machine she was using worked, slipped his arm around Ethan’s waist, pulling him close. 

Ethan tensed, Wha--

Just maintaining our cover, dear , he projected, watching as the tips of Ethan’s ears, of what Karl could see of his face, went pink.

And Ethan, after a brief surge of annoyance through the connection, allowed it. He relaxed, and leaned into Karl’s side, his body a welcome brand of warmth.

Karl linked his thumb into a belt loop and slid his fingers into the pocket of Ethan’s jeans. Felt Ethan go tense again, and then there it was: Ethan slamming one of his metaphysical doors. 

He was almost certain now that what Ethan was trying to block him from sensing was attraction, possibly arousal. And it was still fucking annoying that he persisted in doing it.

Karl had wondered why he was so dogged about it, when Karl had made it more than clear that it would be welcomed. Ethan didn’t really strike him as repressed, and he’d never been anything other than flustered at Karl’s own advances. 

He’d thought for a while that maybe it was his wife; maybe he was feeling guilty even though, near as Karl could tell, that ship had well and truly sailed.

But Ethan had, whatever the reason for it, somehow managed a way to shut down his end of the connection. By brute force.

Couldn’t be fun for him, Karl thought, amused as Ethan relaxed again. Always having to stamp down on your own thoughts like that probably got old quick.

But then, Karl had been beginning to suspect that that might be the only control Ethan would be able to manage. How he described what he felt from the connection was markedly different from what Karl got from it. It was like he couldn’t sense it at all until Karl would intentionally project something at him, and even then, it was just thoughts or emotions he was picking up.

He couldn’t sense the connection linking them, opening up. Not the ambient charge of it, stretching between them, not unlike the sense Karl had of him--and it was so fucking obvious now, that it was all the same thing. 

And it made a kind of sense to him, that Ethan couldn’t control it. The mold, or megamycete, or whatever he was made up of now, wouldn’t have had a reason to shut it off, not if it was the means by which it controlled whatever it took over. That Ethan’s projecting got worse when he was upset or stressed pointed to the same: as the dominant host, the one doing the subsuming, the one enforcing his will, of course a stress response would involve a heightened connection.

“How will you be paying?” the clerk asked.

After a moment, Ethan replied, “Uh, lei.”

“Cash,” Karl corrected.

“Cash,” Ethan told her.

And then Karl had to let him go, taking a step back as Ethan dug his wallet out to count out the total.

He wondered if he should tell him. Didn’t imagine Ethan would take it very well. He wouldn’t be too fucking happy, if it were him.

Maybe it was a control thing, more than anything, Karl thought, taking one of the bags Ethan handed him and falling into step next to him as they-- fucking finally --left the store. 

If door slamming was the only way Ethan had to regain some control over his own thoughts, Karl could hardly fault him for it. 

“There’s an exit over here,” Ethan told him, lightly grabbing at his arm to get his attention, and then just sighing and steering him where he wanted him to go when Karl looped their arms together. “It’s a longer walk to the garage, but there should be less people.”

Already he could feel the weight of all the metal, the electronics, the voices, all of it washing over him in an oppressive wave, scattering his thoughts. There were more cameras to keep track of now, more people, more potential threats.

He grunted an affirmative and let Ethan lead them. 

He was, at least, able to pick out the cameras easier now. If he could ever have half a second to focus solely on them instead of all the damn information and signals and frequencies he couldn’t help picking up and sifting through, he might actually be able to figure out how to manipulate them, keep them from picking up Ethan at all.

Time, he thought. We have time.

**

Ethan lay, like he did the night before, on the far side of the bed. His back to Karl, not quite close enough to the edge that Karl felt he should be offended, but the span of mattress that stretched out between them was ridiculous.

He hadn’t been expecting the bed to be that fucking big. Didn’t think they even made beds that big. Hell, Alcina’s bed probably hadn’t even been this big.

And Ethan was just curled there, snoring softly, enough light making it through the drawn curtains that Karl could see him clearly. Could watch the slight movements of his breathing, or the way his shirt fell on him, bunching up his sides to reveal a few centimeters of skin. 

He usually started out the night with the covers pulled only to his waist, only pulling them up higher later, in his sleep.

Karl felt strange, knowing that.

And it was exactly the same as the night before, him wanting to close the distance, to reach out to Ethan, to pull him back towards Karl, to get Ethan underneath him, bracket him in, hold him there until Ethan gave in and just admitted what he kept stopping himself from thinking.

He’d fallen asleep like that, the night before. Just watching Ethan’s back and wanting .

But then he’d had the dream--

Machinery above him, machinery far, far below. Gears turning, slotting into place, metal on metal. The grinding of machines, the hammering of machines. It was loud--so loud he wanted to cover his ears, to leave.  But he was following after the man, trying to keep up with his longer stride. He kept falling behind despite his best efforts, panting but trying not to make a noise, trying not to make it obvious he was struggling--

Underneath the grate they were walking on a dark creature hung, its misshapen body ill lit by the lanterns strung up along the ceiling. It looked a little like tar or oil, shimmering strange colors, seeming almost fluid.

It kept up with the man far easier than he could.

He kept trying to tell him about it.

Father, he said, listen--

You’re not going to learn anything hanging at your mother’s skirts, the man said. She indulges you too much, and I’ll not have it--

Father, don’t you see it? It’s right--

But the man was getting farther away, and he had to run now, just to keep him in sight. The hallway seemed to stretch out endlessly, the walls seemed to draw in closer, and the lanterns flicked out, one by one, behind him.

Beneath him, the creature trilled, a pleased sounding noise that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Father! he called. His voice echoed off the walls, bouncing down into the yawning void below him, below the creature. It chittered, and sped up, its many talons clanking against the grating as they curled up over it only to release as soon as it found a new handhold.

He ran, chest burning, breaths coming harsh, his shoes hitting the grating with the same clanking the creature was making, the two joining into a rattling cacophony, all of it blending with the unceasing clamor of the machines.

The man, much farther now, so far he could barely hear him, said, What, boy? What in the world is wrong now? Do you not listen to anything I tell you?

Please, he said, Father, you have to run. It’s right behind you!

How many times have I told you before? the man said, not even turning to look at him. Take stock of the situation. You can't do anything until you've determined what needs to be done.

The light dimmed, suddenly, around him--it was the lanterns, going out, leaving him in darkness.

He kept running, kept gasping, unable to call out again. Unable to do anything but watch as the last of the lanterns went out, as, subsumed in darkness, the creature cried out, a triumphant sound, and then nothing. Silence. 

Silence save for his own ragged breaths, far too loud in his ears.

He’d woken with a start, the same way he always woke from those fucking dreams, and stared up at the darkened ceiling, gradually becoming aware that Ethan was awake, there next to him.

“Karl?” he’d said, wary.

“You saw it too,” he’d said, glancing out of the corner of his eye at Ethan laying there. He’d turned over onto his back and was staring up at the ceiling much the same way Karl had been. His hands were twisted into the covers that he must have pulled up to his chest sometime during his sleep.

He had nodded, said, “You don’t dream about him as much as you do your--as you do the woman. Who is he?” 

“No one,” Karl had said at first, and then, at Ethan’s sigh, “I don’t fucking remember, Ethan.” And then, because that was giving more away than he wanted to, “It doesn’t even matter, it’s just a dream.”

“It doesn’t seem that way,” Ethan had said, his voice quiet, and when Karl had jerked his head to look at him it was to find Ethan had turned away.

What the hell was he even expecting? He’d seen exactly what Karl had, was probably even the cause of it, if not directly then simply because of the megamycete, because of whatever this was that linked them.

What did he even want Karl to say? That he’d spent years thinking that...Believing that it had been his own words-- take stock --his own way of reorienting himself, of processing, when now he didn’t know if it wasn’t just something left over from him . From a man he hadn’t even remembered in the first place. 

Or maybe it was something he was putting in the mouth of this shade that his brain could only just be conjuring to fill in the space for his father.

He’d realized he was grinding his teeth and forced himself to stop. 

“I really don’t remember him,” he’d said after a while, not even entirely sure if Ethan was still awake.  “I don’t remember either of them.”

And that did it--Ethan had turned back around, onto his other side so he could look at Karl. “Do you…” he’d started to say, paused. “It was only recently you started dreaming about them, wasn’t it?” he asked instead.

Karl grunted an assent. Had thought he really must be going soft, because then he’d said, “I don’t think I’ll ever know more about them than what I see in these fucking dreams.” He’d frowned then. Just because Ethan trusted too easy didn’t mean he had to. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he’d started to say.

Only for Ethan to interrupt him, “Who's to say you won't figure it out, once you've had more of these dreams? That you won’t remember something more concrete?”

It didn’t exactly feel good, hearing Ethan just state what he’d been quietly hoping like that. As if he even knew a fraction of it. 

But it wasn’t exactly bad, either. 

He’d been furious before, realizing that none of it was as simple as him just regaining memories he’d thought long lost. Realizing that it hadn’t been him, but Ethan, again Ethan, who was the cause. Who had been present for all of it, a silent ghost, listening in, watching, as Karl’s brain had worked to lace back together the strands of everything he’d forgotten. Everyone he’d forgotten.

There is nothing I can have just to myself , he’d thought then, there never has been .

But that sting was gone. Laying there in the dark with Ethan, who had gone on to say, voice tentative, like he was sure at any moment Karl would rebuke him, or cut him off, “I’ll help you, you know. Any way I can.”

He had snorted, said, “No need.” Said, “Lot of fuss for a fucking dream.”

But the words had lodged somewhere in his chest, right there next to I don’t want to hurt you and I trust him .

Here, now, the memory sticking like a burr, he was careful getting up, slipping out from under the covers and keeping silent, not wanting to wake Ethan. 

His coat was where he’d left it draped over the plush armchair in the corner--one thing he could say about Chris’ team, they at least had shelled out for a nice fucking place--and it took no time at all to find his lighter and cigars, his knife. 

He pulled out a cigar, quickly cut the cap, folded the knife closed and slipped it back in its pocket; moved across the room to the doors leading out to the balcony. 

It was still bright out, all the lights of the city blinking back at him, hitting him the same time as the noise once he’d slid the door open. He closed it quickly behind him, lighting up as he crossed to the chest high wall there at its edge. He slid the lighter into the pocket of his--Ethan’s--sweatpants, leaning forward against the wall and puffing on the cigar, squinting out at the city.

It was loud, just as loud as it had been during the day. The harsh traffic sounds interspersed with the distant beat of music, of voices lifting up to him from the street below. 

He’d known, intellectually, that it would be like this. He’d seen enough movies to know.

It still somehow caught him by surprise, being out in it himself. Being out at all. Being here, now. Knowing he could, if he wanted, go anywhere, do anything. No one to stop him anymore.

He held the earthy taste of the smoke on his tongue and then released it. Watched it twist and dissipate in the night air.

Ethan could, he thought, stop him. Karl knew exactly how to force Ethan into doing so. What he’d have to do.

It was all little more than a thought exercise, though. He wouldn’t, didn’t need to. Might have, once, just to buck any notion that Ethan had any kind of hold on him.

But he’d been the one to hand himself over to Ethan, hadn’t he? He’d been thinking about it, off and on, since they’d met with Ethan’s wife that first time.

If you’re right, and Miranda revived him in the hopes that he would kill you, or at least interrupt the reconstruction, but then he sided with you instead? She, or I guess the mold that made up her new body, would have instinctively classified him as other, and began working to colonize him as well.

He’d kept running through those words, sided with you instead , thought about spalting, about all of Mia Winters’ theories pieced together with what he’d done in the dream.

Sided with you instead , and there wasn’t a moment, was there? There’d just been Ethan, the only obvious link to a way out that he could think of. There wasn’t any siding about it.

He snorted, brought the cigar up to his lips to puff on it, to pull the smoke into his mouth. It tasted richer now–he’d hit the second third. 

He wasn’t that fucking dense. How many times had he helped Ethan, or tried to help him? They’d fought back to back, and then he’d tried to warn him, the stubborn idiot, to get away before Miranda could sink her claws into him too.

And then there was the ship, and the mold, or the megamycete, he figured, taking Ethan, and he’d thought better that than giving her the satisfaction of killing me, better it take me too, better to die with him, with Ethan, than out here with her.

He’d sided with him practically from the beginning. Miranda may have landed him there in that dream, but he’d apparently been an active participant in his own ‘colonization,’ in landing them in whatever link or bond they’d ended up with.

The thought wasn’t even a bitter one; it just was. Wasn’t like he could change anything, anyway; he wasn’t even sure he’d want to. And not just because it was, like he’d thought earlier, back at the store, easier this way.

He’d never had anyone rely on him before. Never had anyone put the kind of trust, of faith, in him that Ethan did. It was, if he allowed himself to think about it, almost heady. 

Then there was the telepathy. Ethan’s inability to control the projecting. The intermittent brush of his mind against Karl’s, all his warm and sharp and bright and sour emotions, spilling over, and only Karl was privy to them, and that was fucking heady too.

He let another cloud of smoke fall from his mouth, listening to a new sound adding to the discordance of the city, eventually placing it as a plane lifting off, scanning the sky for it until he spotted it--lights lifting higher and higher into the sky, far enough away they looked like blinking stars.

They’d be heading there soon enough; just biding their time until their flight, Ethan had told him, leading to his insistence that they pass the time ‘constructively’ with the shopping trip.

Karl noticed he’d let the ash get too long on the cigar and rolled it against the wall, noting that he was already halfway through the second third. He felt a brief flicker of regret; wondered if he shouldn’t have just done without. He was nearly out of cigars, and didn’t know the first place to look for more. Maybe he should ask Ethan.

As if he’d summoned him, the balcony door slid open, and then Ethan was stepping through, rubbing his arms and saying, “Aren’t you fucking freezing?” coming to stand at his side, teeth already chattering.

“You can always go back inside,” he said, amused despite himself.

“Thought we’d suffer out here together,” Ethan grumbled, stepping even closer to him, likely just for warmth.

He snorted, watching Ethan from the corner of his eye. “Generous of you,” he said.

Ethan rolled his eyes, but then turned to regard Karl fully. It was clear from his expression he was working through something, so Karl just waited him out.

“Are you okay?” he asked eventually. He was clearly freezing, standing there in boxers and a t-shirt, shaking, teeth chattering, shoulders hunched up practically to his ears. Could have just stayed in bed, warm and comfortable, and instead he’d drug himself out here, more concern .

He should have found it annoying. Should have been annoyed.

“Sure,” he said, “Never better.”

Ethan gave him a look, but didn’t press. “I’m sorry about today,” he said instead.

“The hell have you got to be sorry for?” Karl asked, angling his body so he could look at Ethan more fully, maybe figure out where the hell he was going with that .

Ethan winced, but soldiered on, “I should have realized, you know, about the whole,” he freed one of his hands from its vice grip on his arm to make a vague gesture, encompassing everything and nothing, “the technology thing.”

“The technology thing,” he echoed, and by the time it hit him what Ethan was actually on about he’d already continued.

“Because there practically wasn’t any, back in the village, and you’ve been there, what?, your whole life basically, and then I drag you to the fucking mall, of all places, and you’ve told me you can sense metal, and then there was the whole thing with the BSAA’s electronics back at the factory, and I really should have--”

“Ethan.”

“--known better than to dump you in a damn mall in the middle of the largest city in the fucking country--”

“ Ethan. ”

“--we walked by, like, five cell phone kiosks, my god --”

He leaned forward, pressing himself right up against Ethan, forcing him back against the balcony wall, and Ethan stopped practically mid-word, eyes going wide. “Uh,” he said, interrupting himself.

“Thought you were cold,” Karl said, pressing his hands to the wall on either side of him, bracketing him in. 

Ethan huffed, his breath coming out white in the cold, and rolled his eyes. “Yes, and we could easily solve that problem by going inside where it’s warm.” He shoved lightly at Karl’s shoulder, trying to get him to back up.

“Could solve it out here,” Karl said, refusing to budge. 

Ethan apparently took that exactly the way he’d intended, slamming a door shut on whatever thought he was refusing to have. His eyes flicked away and he dropped his hand from where it was still resting on Karl’s shoulder, wrapping his arms around himself again, teeth back to chattering. “Listen,” he said, “I meant it. I’m sorry I didn’t--”

“Let me try something?”

Ethan blinked, turning to meet his eyes. “Try what, exactly?” he asked after a moment searching Karl’s face.

“Warm you up,” Karl said, doing his level best to keep the grin off his face. And obviously failing going by Ethan’s expression.

“No,” Ethan said, stressing the word, and Karl knew he was grinning now, could hardly help it.

“It’ll just take a moment,” he said and, cigar still tucked between index and middle fingers, lifted his hands roughly level with Ethan’s shoulders and concentrated.

Ethan was watching him curiously, relaxing back against the balcony wall now that he was no longer penned in. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“Told you,” Karl said, already feeling his power responding, doing just as he wanted, electromagnetic waves spooling out through them, “I’m warming you up.”

Ethan had been looking skeptical, like Karl was merely working up to the punchline of a joke, but his teeth had stopped chattering. His breath was no longer visible. His eyes widened and he said, “What are you-- How did--” He cut himself off, shaking his head, “Could you always do this? If we traipsed through the whole damn village naked and you could have--”

Karl snorted, “No, just figured it out when I was looking at your microwave.”

“At my…Karl,” Ethan said, voice pitching up on each successive word, “are you fucking microwaving us?”

“I’m agitating your molecules enough to create friction, which is what’s warming--”

“No, okay, just. Christ, that’s worse. We could just go inside, and you wanted to agitate my goddamn molecules--”

“Hey,” he said, mock affronted, “this is a gesture , Ethan, don’t ruin it.”

“Microwaving me is an incredibly thoughtful gesture, Karl, I appreciate how quickly you're vibrating my molecules or whatever,” but Karl was pretty sure he was fighting back a smile. “I’m sure this will come in handy if we fall in a frozen lake again.”

Karl drew his power back inward, already feeling the cold air again. He’d started to bring the cigar up for a pull, noticed the cherry had gone out, and rolled the ash off on the wall instead. “We could also just avoid doing that,” he said.

“Lot less frozen lakes where we’re going, at least,” Ethan said. He gestured back towards the room, tilting his head. “You showed me your cool new trick, can we go back inside now?”

Karl moved to the side, stepping out of his way. “After you,” he said. And then, when Ethan pushed off from the wall, stepping towards the door, “There wasn’t anything today that you needed to apologize for.”

Ethan froze, turning just enough to look at him. “I’m sorry all the same.”

He should have fucking known better than to argue with him; Ethan was the stubbornest bastard he’d ever met.

Ethan reached out, squeezing Karl’s bicep as he passed, just the briefest touch, a bare suggestion of warmth, and then he was slipping back through the door and inside.

Karl followed him after only a moment, closing the door behind him and dropping what was left of the cigar and his lighter on the TV stand before turning to see Ethan getting comfortable in the bed, covers pulled all the way up to his chin.

“We’ve got to get up early anyway,” he said, chasing it with a yawn. “Want to make sure we get to the airport with enough time to spare.”

“Spare for what?” Karl asked, plopping down on his side of the bed. 

Ethan pulled a hand out from under the covers just to wave it vaguely. “Airport bullshit,” he said. Then, turning to regard Karl with a solemn expression, “You’re going to hate it.”

“Probably,” Karl agreed, and laid down, stretching out, still quietly amazed at how much fucking space there was in the damn bed.

It wouldn’t be the norm, he’d gathered. Had picked up enough of Ethan’s spillover worries to know that they’d have more budget motels in their future; Chris’ team might be willing to foot the bill for a fancy hotel with a laughably huge bed, but Ethan certainly wasn’t.

Not that he minded any. Lot of good memories from that first motel, he thought, grinning. And really, the further out they got from the village the better. He didn’t give much of a fuck where they went, so long as it was away , and it was with Ethan.

Ethan, who, Karl noticed, was closer to him than before; the stretch of mattress left between them had decreased. 

He could still make out the sounds of the city; could still clearly make out Ethan’s face, slightly angled toward him, features going soft in sleep, illuminated by the light working its way through the drawn curtains.

He was close enough that Karl could touch him, if he just reached out.