Chapter Text
“Got a sec, boss? I’m heading out to the villages tonight for a delivery, and one of the regulars that, uh… helps me with food distribution had a special request for something I don’t recognize from the menu. He swore he’d tried it here…about a decade back, I guess?”
Owen smiled warmly. There was nothing quite like hearing that one of his family’s dishes had wormed its way into someone’s heart and tastebuds, that someone who hadn’t left the outlying villages of the Eufaula in years was still thinking fondly of something that he (or his father, most probably) had prepared for them.
“Hit me! The saloon’s slow today, and I always have some time to whip something up for a long-lost friend of the Blue Moon.”
The corner of Grace’s mouth twitched imperceptibly. Owen treated everyone who’d ever graced the saloon’s doorstep like an old friend, but she couldn’t help but think how much more weight that statement held with the additional context of her closely-guarded secrets.
“This guy that helps me pass out the deliveries to the villagers…he said something about…five spice steak? Sound familiar? I haven’t seen it on the menu since I’ve been here, but he insisted that he’d had it here and that it was his favorite thing he’d ever eaten.”
Owen’s smile faltered for a moment, his eyes widening slightly, before he realized he needed to temper his reaction. Grace didn’t know. Grace…couldn’t know, could she? His face quickly shifted back to his customer service veneer of perpetual and convincing cheer.
“Yup, I know that one. It’s…been a while, but I’ll see what I can do here in a bit. I’ll uh…go grab some fresh yakmel steaks from Coop’s, we’re fresh out after the breakfast rush this mornin’. Watch the bar for me for a bit?”
“You got it, boss,” Grace agreed cheerfully, sliding behind the wooden bartop and taking a seat. The saloon was nearly empty at this time of day, between the lunch and dinner rushes. She watched as Owen slipped out the door with a quick wave, and arched an eyebrow as his seafoam cape disappeared around the frame.
Why did he seem caught off-guard? It’s just steak…right?
It was not, in fact, just steak.
Owen paced towards the ranch, his head foggy with the potential implications of Grace's request.
It wasn’t a decades-old Blue Moon specialty, either. It was one of Owen’s own signature dishes, one he’d perfected in his private kitchen with extensive feedback from…friends. One friend in particular. One friend in particular.
Sure, it had eventually made it to the Blue Moon’s menu—his friend had insisted it would be a hit, and even offered to bring in extra fresh yakmel steaks from the trail to offset the ingredient costs. It had actually become extremely popular… in the very short amount of time that it had actually remained on the menu.
A few weeks afterward, everything had gone to shit. His friend found out that his Pa had been found clinging to life in the ruins, suffering from an incurable Old World virus. He barely saw him for weeks. All of his free time was spent poring over old medical texts with his brother Haru, trying in vain to find a breakthrough for Howlett. Owen had insisted on bringing them meals, but time alone had been nonexistent for those last couple of weeks. His friend researched, tried to negotiate with the church, and slept. The last of those three occupations was questionable at best.
Then, they blew up the temple and went on the run without so much as a parting word. Owen had not seen his friend since.
Logan had been more than a friend, truth be told. But it had been so new when everything went south that not another soul in town had known. So it was his friend that had turned outlaw, his friend that he hadn’t spoken to for two years.
Logan’s turn toward a life on the lam was something that Owen had bottled away like an expensive Portian wine, though the heartbreak hadn’t aged nearly as well. He refused to process it, and he’d spent the past two years alternating between pretending none of it ever happened, and sinking into depressive episodes he had to work to hide from his patrons.
He’d removed the five spice steak from his menu shortly after Logan’s departure. Every time he cooked the dish it dredged up memories of them workshopping it together in his kitchen. Logan and his questionable-at-best kitchen talents weren’t allowed to touch his expensive cookware, a boundary he’d readily conceded to—he loved when Owen would create new dishes for him to try.
Owen had tried to keep making it, but every attempt led to haunting echoes of old compliments to the chef…and memories of the subsequent evenings spent together…circling endlessly around his worried mind.
Logan had been so selfless in all aspects of his life as a monster hunter—he’d been taught by the best after all—and a considerate lover. Owen had even begun to think they might have a real future together.
The bandit persona was so incongruous with the Logan that Owen had known that he almost couldn’t believe that it was genuine. But after two years, the acts of antagonism toward the town they’d both been devoted to since they were children, paired with the complete lack of communication, made it hard to hold onto that hope.
Maybe that’s why this request from Grace had Owen so shaken. All he’d hoped for for the past two years was something that could let him leave the light on…some indication that Logan still cared, that he was still in there somewhere, that maybe, just maybe, he’d be back one day.
Grace couldn’t have known…could she? She wasn’t even here yet when he left. She doesn’t know him beyond the wanted posters. She doesn’t…know about our history.
But that didn’t explain the fact that someone who hadn’t left the outskirt villages for years apparently knew about his five spice steak. The five spice steak that had only been on his menu for a few weeks. The five spice steak that Logan had told him was the “best thing he’d ever eaten.”
Owen sighed as he approached the till outside the ranch store, neatly wrapped yakmel steaks in hand.
“Alright there, dear?” Mabel chirped in her thick Sandrock accent. Owen’s penchant for theatrics had led to him adopting more generalized enunciations over the years, but he had a soft spot for his hometown’s accent. Especially when it was drawling out his name, or making up new ones like “Darlin’” or “Sunshine”…
No. We are not going there. Not when I don’t even know for sure…
Owen snapped out of his thought spiral, smiling brightly at Mabel. Those customer service skills—or maybe it was the acting and storytelling—sure did come in handy these days.
“Just chipper, Mabes. Cooking up some extra dishes for Grace to take out to the villages tonight. Ran out of the last of our steak this mornin’, we were running a special on steak omelettes…”
“Oh, you two are too kind, sendin' food out to the outskirts like that. You’re really gonna make someone’s day with these steaks, I’ll tell ya that. Coop’s been workin' with some new feed for the herd, folks have been tellin’ us to keep doin’ whatever we’ve been doin’…”
Owen’s attention waned. He’d normally be enthralled by the conversation—any improvement in the quality of locally sourced ingredients would be a boon for the saloon. But his mind had begun to wander as soon as she’d mentioned making someone’s day.
All he wanted was to see that smile again, mask be damned.
L,
I…don’t know why I’m writing this. It’s not you. It can’t be you.
…can it?
If you don’t understand this note…just ignore it.
If you do…I need a sign, Moonlight. I don’t need an explanation, not yet. Just…let me know you’re there.
If this is you, somehow…I miss you. I hope you can come home…someday. I know things are a mess. But I think there's a reason. I feel it in my heart. In my bones.
-O
Owen’s hands trembled slightly as he tucked the small notecard into the takeout container with the five spice steak, hoping to hide it from prying eyes. Grace’s, mainly. He always got the feeling that there was something going on behind her cool and collected veneer, but maybe she was just a gossip on the prowl like any other university kid.
He steeled himself as he placed the container in the climate-controlled bags that Grace had just recently begun to use for food transport. As he waved Grace off into the evening light on her rented mare, he threw a wild hope out to Peach, or the Light, or the universe…whatever happened to be listening.
Please don’t let me be wrong.
Logan pivoted on the spot, his pale turquoise cape unfurling behind him as his drawn dagger glinted in the last vestiges of the sunset. He gazed into the hideout, his attention focused on one of the handful of secret entrances. He relaxed and tipped his hat as Grace wandered in, weighed down with her freezer bags. They’d been expecting her, but hypervigilance was his default state these days.
“Howdy, Grace. Whatcha got for us this week?” Logan’s voice was almost cheerful—the climate-controlled transport bags had really given them something to look forward each week after months of subsisting off of whatever they could hunt, forage, and scavenge. Home-cooked meals…there wasn’t much more he could bring himself to hope for at this point.
Or so he thought.
A familiar smell wafted from the takeout containers. He’d honed his senses after years spent on the trails with his Pa. He knew that scent.
“Grace, is that…?”
“Got you some of that steak you wanted. Apparently it’s off-menu lately, but Owen remembered the recipe and agreed to make a handful of servings for the villagers, so to speak.”
Off the menu? I’m going to have to have a chat with him when…
No, not when. If . If he ever got to go home.
Logan suppressed the urge to sigh. He knew that Grace would question his reaction if it were in any way dissonant with what she expected. If he was an expert in monster behavior, she could read people just as well. That’s why the Alliance Central Intelligence paid her the big gols, anyway.
“Thank ya kindly, Grace,” Logan said gruffly. “Means a lot that you’d go out of the way ter try t’ get ahold of our favorites like this. Haru’ll be happy with the stuffed mushrooms an’ spicy fish soup too, I’ll keep ‘em warm until he gets back from patrollin’.”
As Grace waved her goodbye and walked purposefully back towards the tunnel entrance, Logan opened the first box of five spice steak with an emphatic growl from his stomach. He froze, not quite sure if he believed what he was seeing. There inside the box, scrawled in Owen’s handwriting…
His oasis-blue eyes drank in the note, his mind and heart racing each other. He knew he needed to react before Grace was out of earshot. The idea came unbidden, a bolt from the blue.
“Hey, Grace? Hold up! Almost forgot somethin’…” his voice boomed across the cave as he scrambled toward the tunnel.
Her blonde head popped back around the corner, eyebrow cocked. “Hmm?”
“Uh, next time…any chance we could get some…stewed eagle cistanche?”
Grace laughed, which came out as a mildly derisive snort. “Getting fancy now, are we? I’ve tried making that one before and it…didn’t end well.”
Well, shit.
Grace winced, remembering how the stewed poultry in her version had remained a bit raw. Unfortunately it had been a customer that discovered her misstep, to Owen’s deep chagrin. “I’ll see if the bossman is open to helping me out again, though.”
And…perfect.
“Much obliged, Grace. I owe ya one. Or a hundred.”
Grace shook her head and waved goodbye again. “Just help me get this mission accomplished and that’s repayment enough for me. I gotta get home at some point.”
Logan tipped the brim of his hat as she departed, then pulled it off his head, holding it to his chest. He pressed his forehead against the cool stone of the cave wall, trying to process what had just happened.
Two years. Two fuckin’ years.
After two long years, he was reaching out for what he’d yearned for ever since the initial shock of…well, everything...had worn off.
He was the reason that Logan still had those rare, cherished dreams that interrupted the relentless onslaught of nightmares. Every surreal smile or phantasmal touch was a hallowed reprieve from the visions of smoke and fire and pulverized stone that usually looped through his unconscious brain like some mangled Old World movie reel.
I gotta get home, too.
Owen crossed the Shonash Canyon Bridge on his rented steed, his brow furrowed sharply in deep thought. He didn’t have to gloss over his emotions out here.
Stewed eagle cistanche . Owen’s personal favorite dish, as Logan was well aware.
It had to be a message…but what was the goal? Was there a goal? It could just be some sort of…acknowledgement, but Owen couldn’t help but hope that there was a deeper motive behind Logan’s now-overt attempts to communicate with him.
He rode down the train tracks, lost in memories of the days when he’d head out early like this with Logan leading the way on Rambo…Owen would collect cactus fruit and hunt for rare bits of cistanche for his recipes while Logan took care of any local tripion infestations that strayed too close to the trails. As their relationship progressed, they'd begun to share a clandestine kiss—or two, or maybe a little something more, if the mood struck just right—before Logan headed deeper into the desert for the day and Owen turned back to intercept the brunch rush at the saloon.
It was time together that they’d treasured, far away from the prying eyes and ears of Sandrock’s thriving community of gossips in those early days when they weren’t yet sure what they were becoming.
They were memories that Owen clung to despite the pain associated with them. They’d only barely been able to define their relationship for themselves before everything had been torn apart.
Owen noted the distinct lack of tripions that morning. Maybe someone was still regularly clearing them out—that new builder wielded a mean dagger, after all. Or maybe…
You’re getting your hopes up with no evidence again.
Owen sighed heavily as he approached the massive, half-buried skeleton of an Old World sea creature, the landmark that signified he was close to where he could forage cistanche. He dismounted, noting a handful of grumpy little thorny jumpers burrowing themselves into the sand to escape the approaching heat of the day. Otherwise, the coast looked clear, and he busied himself sifting through the sand near the small patches of desert vegetation.
It didn’t take long for him to find what he was looking for…cistanche was in season, and he hadn’t been out here in a while—these days, he usually just commissioned the builder to find cistanche for him when he got the itch to use it in his cooking. Wandering out into the desert on his own simply wasn’t appealing, and it always brought the painful memories flooding back.
Between stewing in those memories and being preoccupied with his treasure hunt for the strange little parasitic plants, Owen didn’t see the massive dive buzzard floating down from the sky a couple hundred yards behind him, eager for a chargrilled breakfast.
Logan peered quietly over the top of a dune, his electric eyes laser-focused on his…former? Estranged? Long-lost? …lover, as he hunted for cistanche in the early desert dawn. He cut a graceful figure as always, and Logan’s chest tightened at the memories of when they’d wander the sands together in these early morning hours before…everything…happened.
There was a heaviness to Owen’s movements that hadn’t been there before, and Logan knew that Owen knew .
His spur-of-the-moment plan had worked. Owen was right where he wanted him—completely alone, out in the desert and far away from prying eyes. But now that the script of his own making was playing out in front of him, Logan was wavering.
I need to talk to him. I need to see him.
No...it’s too dangerous.
The two diametrically opposed trains of thought bore down on each other, threatening to collide violently in Logan’s skull. He needed to make a decision.
Logan wasn’t worried about his own safety—far from it. He hoped Owen wouldn’t react badly to his presence, but frankly, he believed he would deserve anything that Owen decided to dish out.
If someone finds out that he’s been in contact with me, his life is in danger. Grace could probably keep 'im safe, but Grace doesn’t…know about us. She can’t. She woulda been livid if she found that note. If Duvos knows I’m tryin’ to smoke ‘em out…then anyone associated with me is in danger…
But…two fuckin’ years…I just want to…need to...
Logan’s internal debate screeched to a halt as a new movement registered in the periphery of his vision. He watched in horror as a massive dive buzzard glided in from the direction of the Outback, alighting silently in the sand a couple hundred yards behind a very preoccupied Owen.
Logan was instantly on high alert as he unholstered his revolver. He tracked the buzzard’s every move through the sight, ready to shoot at a split second’s notice.
He had to be careful—he would avoid shooting if he could. Logan knew that Owen could handle himself—frankly, his marksmanship was better than that of Sandrock’s Civil Corps members, second only to Logan’s among the townsfolk.
Logan’s grip on the revolver tightened and he flicked the safety off as the dive buzzard caught sight of Owen, whose back was still turned away from the mutant bird.
C’mon, man…some situational awareness, please…?
That plea was made unnecessary as the buzzard’s jetpack engines roared to life with a metallic screech. Logan watched intently as Owen scrambled to face the creature and reached for his own holster. Logan’s jaw dropped in tandem with Owen’s as the horrified realization that it was empty crossed the bartender’s face.
Shit! I’m gonna have to…
Logan didn’t even have time to finish his thought as the buzzard launched itself forward, flames erupting from its engines as Owen threw himself to the ground. He narrowly avoided the blast, and Logan knew he had milliseconds to act.
He lined up his first shot and squeezed the trigger in one fluid motion, hitting the buzzard between the eyes. Then, two more shots to the neck and chest in rapid succession, just to be safe. Logan waited a beat to make sure the beast was well and truly dispatched, but as soon as the buzzard began to topple into the unforgiving sands, Logan was off and running back down the opposite side of the dune without even waiting for Owen’s reaction.
The buzzard had made Logan’s decision for him.
Even after two years apart, Logan couldn’t bear to put Owen in any more danger than necessary. He couldn’t bear the thought of him getting injured, or worse, especially because of his own recklessness.
This was a mistake. Yer an idiot for thinkin’ this was a good idea. Look what ya almost caused…woulda been like Pa all over again, ya selfish bastard…
Logan’s heart was heavy as he retreated from the scene, silently berating himself. He was surprised to feel the pricks of damp heat in the corners of his eyes. He’d been so close. But in the potent rush of adrenaline, guilt, and longing, he felt farther away from home than ever.
Meanwhile, across the dunes, Owen sat in a daze. He let rivulets of sand trickle through his fingers as he watched tendrils of smoke rise from the buzzard’s carcass, those three shots echoing in his brain.
He knew a revolver when he heard one. He knew that revolver, in particular.
He glanced around the desolate landscape, azure eyes searching for those telltale horns. Somehow, he knew that he wouldn’t find them.
“Thank you, Moonlight…” he murmured, to nobody in particular.
Logan took his time returning to the hideout. Going on a patrol was a good excuse to be alone with his thoughts, which spun a tangled web in his head.
It was evening by the time he returned to the cave, and he was surprised to find Grace waiting for him, chatting with Haru.
“About time you showed up. I’ve got news.”
Logan eyed the spy cautiously, her serious tone causing his adrenaline to spike. Haru’s expression was equally leaden.
She can’t know…Owen wouldn’t have told her…right?
“…and? Ya gonna tell me or just rag on me for patrollin’ and doin' my job?” Logan glanced from Grace to Haru and back again, an expectant expression on his sand-swept face.
Grace rolled her eyes. “You’ll understand when you hear this. Logan…it’s almost go time. I think I found where they’re storing the water, and I’ve got the schematic for the antilock we need to construct so we can investigate. Once we bring in the builder, things…might start happening pretty quickly, depending on what kind of evidence we can find.”
Logan’s jaw dropped for a moment, but he collected his emotions as he settled heavily into the chair across from them. His brow furrowed as he returned Grace’s intent gaze.
“How soon can we move?” he questioned, trying not to let the desperation he felt after the day’s events seep into his voice.
“Judging by the nature of the latest intercepted telegrams, we need to move as quickly as possible,” Grace explained. “The Civil Corps is actively trying to find the hideout after all that mess with their incompetent bounty hunter, so we should have an opportunity to loop in our builder fairly imminently.”
Logan was grateful for his mask as he bit back a smile, his first of the day since the dive buzzard attack.
His mind wandered back toward Sandrock as Grace and Haru began to hash out the details of the plan. That wasn’t his job, anyway.
I think I’m comin’ home, Sunshine. Jus’ a little bit longer…