Work Text:
It has been nearly a year since Edgar and Fred and Gloria and Boyd stood watching the Towers burn, and a little less since they settled into a house and into the solace they find in each other. There was a moment, back then, somewhere in the chaos and debris and impromptu late-night swims, when someone (none of them really remember who) started crying and suddenly they were a mess of entangled arms and faces buried in shoulders, damp and shivering and nearly washed away by a flood of relief and realization as the sun started to rise over the lake. They were and are a mismatched, ragtag bunch of survivors and despite this, or perhaps on top of this, they love each other.
They have not emerged unscathed, and this comes as only a vague surprise, because no matter how much a determined little boy wishes he can’t brush away years upon years upon years of trauma in a night. They are there for each other, for when Boyd is too afraid to leave the house, for when Gloria can’t like any part of her being, for when Fred wakes up screaming, head full of dead soldiers, for when Edgar rips through rooms like a tornado. They are their own safety net and dreamcatcher, there with the perfect degree of holding and reassuring and maybe a little kissing, if anyone’s up for it. Of course it’s okay to not be okay sometimes. They know. They have all been there. They were all there.
And because they were all there, of course, it has been a little hard to get back into the world across the lake. Gloria still has enough money stored away from her glory days to keep them more than afloat, which is a comfort. There has been some helpful fudging of records courtesy of the Psychonauts, after some encouragement from their young friend, which is a blessing. But things are a little different, and things are a little difficult. Edgar has been able to sell some of his art, but no one seems to have many jobs for black velvet painters right now. Gloria’s nationally-covered fall seems to follow her wherever she goes. Fred found some therapy work at a local clinic, but sometimes it’s just too painfully similar. Boyd, even sans his criminal record, is rejected by stigma at every turn. There are a lot of long, worried nights; there are also a lot of soft, golden mornings when Edgar makes everyone breakfast in bed and Fred is giving someone a clumsy wake-up kiss and they all know that they’re fine. They’re not perfect, but the corners of their house are bright and clean and plausible, and they are safe and they are warm and they are finally fine.
They are a ridiculous tangle of people, and they love each other.