Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I just want to go home.”

There was a ringing in his ears, thin and reedy and whining like the first few seconds after an explosion.

Home.

Phantom sensations had burst to life in the blink of an eye, real and solid and now in a way that had stolen his breath away before disappearing as quickly as they came. Fuzzy, crackling static that prickled at his fur, warm vinyl, jello and daisies and gingham.

I never got to visit her grave , he’d realized, as the smallest edge of hysteria began to take hold. I don’t even know if she has one.

His anger was often blinding, but in the next moments he could hardly recall the distance between hearing the question and watching a flash of blue go flying, only the tightness in his knuckles left behind tell what had occurred. The sudden lack of control would have been frightening, if there had been anything between his ears outside the constant, buzzing wail.

“We can fix this!”

Not every mistake can be undone , he’d thought, biting his tongue, thinking of gunfire and shattered glass. He’d watched the other hedgehog fall to his knees, and in a dark little corner of his mind he’d felt some small satisfaction.

The universe was a vast and uncaring place; that he knew well. Any being, no matter how powerful, had a limit- a distance that they could never cross, a weight they couldn’t carry, a battle they couldn’t win. Anyone who tried their luck so often was bound to lose someday, and a lifetime of dumb luck doesn’t make you special.

This is your limit, Sonic , he’d thought to himself as the sky shattered into pieces. You rolled the dice a thousand times, and this time, you lose.

He’d survived so many losses in life. So many betrayals, and failures, and bitter, bitter defeats- and everywhere he went, his cheery little doppelgänger was there to tell him that nothing was hopeless, there was always a way to win, and that if he tried hard enough, if he ran fast enough, everything would be okay.

That if you had enough faith and hope and love in your heart, you could save everybody .

(Like he could have saved her .)

“I know I can get through to him, please- just let me talk to Nine.”

Such blind, childish faith. As if putting your trust in someone somehow made them worth trusting.

Shadow had gone along with it uas long as he could for the sake of their mutual goal, until he’d had no other choice but to take the warped little cyber-kit down himself.

Obviously, that had been the end of that. Foolish, fair-weather Sonic had made another soft, naive little play at hope and mercy and the power of friendship , risking not only himself, but the entire universe, all of reality on the sentimental nature of a codependent social reject with a bone to pick.

Of course it had worked.

Why was he even surprised?

And just when Shadow had been certain that he’d done it again, pulled a miracle out of his ass and attributed it to his flimsy little fairytale code- barely scraped by on the skin of his teeth and managed to learn absolutely nothing - he’d gone and done one of the most honourable things he’d ever seen, and sacrificed his life to save them.

And then survived .

Because of course.

Shadow was not a “touchy” individual by nature, not by a long shot, but after a comrade lays down his life for the universe, the least you can do is offer him a hand.

Still, racing through the shimmering void towards that ever-dimming speck of white light he knows is home , carrying the limp blue body in his arms, his fur prickles.

They burst through the portal in the barest nick of time, landing on a dusky shoreline just as it snaps shut behind them, taking all the copies and doubles and infuriating robot-fakes with it.

Shadow watches as it disappears, like a single shooting star winking from the sky.

The hedgehog he carries is no longer a flickering, ghostly blur. His pained twitches have stopped as well. He is alive, and he is whole, and in time, he will probably be well enough to tease him about this mercilessly.

For now, though, he stands beside the shore and looks up at the stars, and breathes in the air of a world re-made.

It is, as far as he can tell, approximately nine days before the end of the world. Which is good, because her hero is in no fit state to be tackling the apocalypse.

Shadow heals quick, personally, but the ridiculous speedster appears to take his time when it comes to recovering from heroic injuries. It’s been at least an hour and a half since anyone has thrown a punch, and the bruised skin visible between his parted fur is still only just turning warm and pinkish. At this pace, he estimates most of his upper chest and shoulders will be various shades of green and purple by high noon.

Not that he’d checked . It just became apparent as he’d verified that “the blue blur” was still breathing.

It was… strange, to see the speedster holding still for so long. He seemed the type to talk and spin and kick around even in his sleep .

But then again, neither of them had slept much at all these last few days, had they?

Shadow had been designed for survival. He could comfortably go well over two weeks without food, and about the same without water, and to his own knowledge was able to remain functional and conscious for several minutes without air.

A few days confined to a shimmering black-violet void had been aggravating, yes, but he’d objectively been otherwise fine.

He hadn’t witnessed the entirety of Sonic’s exploits between the five worlds, but he can imagine things on his end may not have been so easy.

At the very least, Shadow expects that he will likely wake up hungry, and seeing as their options are limited and his rival is in no shape to argue, he makes the executive decision to lay low and recoup in a secure and well-stocked location with limited outside access.

He takes him to his place.

The door is still locked when he gets there, and the line of small stones peppered across the threshold appears undisturbed, so he’s relatively at ease as he steps inside with an armful of blue quills and makes his way to the spare bedroom.

It’s not an area that sees much use- even when he’s there, which is a rare occasion in itself- but he keeps it clean just in case.

It’s a testament to his absence that a fine later of dust has settled on the end table, and that the air has grown stale from inactivity.

He lays the saviour of reality down on clean white sheets, resigning himself to scrubbing the dirt and oil of battle out of them later.

The hedgehog is filthy- both of them are- but he’s not going to begrudge him this. Just this once, he gets a pass.

He lingers a minute to spread a blanket out over him, and then another debating whether or not he should close the door, and then a third simply standing in the hall with bated breath.

Bracing for what , exactly, he isn’t sure. For something else to go suddenly wrong? For another egg-themed villain or robot horde to appear over the horizon? A flash of light, a banging at the door, another desperate “friend” in need of help?

It doesn’t come.

He’s almost surprised.

In the end, he leaves the door open. Just in case.

His returns, rare as they are, follow the same pattern every time, with only slight variation.

He usually begins with a sweep of the perimeter before entering, but seeing as they’re already inside and no surprise ambush has popped out to greet them, he supposes it’s safe enough to skip to the interior sweep.

Doors and windows are all still locked and untampered. Nothing has touched his security system, and exterior cameras show nothing outside of the usual wildlife has come near in his absence.

The cellar remains dry, which is a relief, as it had flooded during the last monsoon and had taken days to drain and scrub out.

There are no perishables to throw away, no plants requiring tending, no pets or livestock to suffer without care.

There is a vine of poison ivy near the back door that’s easily doubled in size since his last visit, but he thinks he’ll leave it for now. It’s a small deterrent for anyone looking to sneak in and catch him unawares, but one never knows when such a thing will prove an advantage.

By the time he’s finished his inspection, washed off, and performed a rudimentary clean, the sun has risen through the curtains and the chirps of early-morning songbirds have blended with the usual noises of the forest.

There’s been no movement from upstairs the entire time, which… would not concern him if it were Rouge or Omega.

He pulls a box of protein bars and a few sickly-sweet electrolyte drinks from the pantry before he can think too long about it.

Sonic is awake.

He doesn’t seem to notice Shadow arrive. Or at least he’s never been adept at pretending he hasn’t in the past.

Maybe that’s changed, though- it has been an eventful few days, after all. Maybe he’s picked up a few new tricks.

Regardless, it gives Shadow a minute to observe without interruption, and he takes it shamelessly.

The blue hedgehog is still unnaturally motionless and calm. He appears to be looking at the window, where the sun’s glow is filtering through the closed curtains in a warm yellow haze. Here, too, the sound of birds and the distant tide are audible, a welcome change from the hours and hours of nothing out  in the crystal void.

He wonders if Sonic had missed it too, or if he’d even noticed with his single-minded fixation on restoring their home.

He’d been so determined to save his friends. What else did their world hold that he could still cherish without them?

At least Shadow has the stars.

He shakes the thoughts loose for another time. Here and now, he snorts, shifts his feet, and places a free hand against his hip to announce his arrival.  “Amazing. Two and a half hours, and you’ve managed to sit still without triggering an apocalypse. Is that a new record for you?”

Green eyes dart his way, widen for a beat, then almost immediately calm. “Shadow,” he rasps. “You’re here?”

“Is that a question?” He jeers, but makes his way over to offer one of the bottled drinks. “Maybe you took a few too many knocks to the head after all.”

He ignores the way the hedgehog’s arm trembles as he accepts- the red one, interestingly. Huh . “Did we win?”

Always with the winning or losing. Honestly, it was like a fixation with him. “Wouldn’t be here if we didn’t,” he says simply, and uncaps the- blue- ugh- bottle for himself.

It tastes like plastic and fake blueberries.

Gross .

He watches Sonic take a sip of his own, apparently unbothered by the saccharine salty-sweet chemical cherry taste. In fact, he almost seems comforted by it, the faintest twitch of a smile at the edge of his lips. “Good,” he answers. “That‘s… that’s good.”

He hums. What else is there to say? What does anyone say after what they’ve seen, what they’ve accomplished?

He takes another drink of crappy plastic blueberry, and sits in the empty chair across the side of the bed.

They share the space in silence. The longest silence, he thinks, that they’ve ever shared while the both of them were conscious. Even in battle, it seemed at least one of them was throwing barbs at the other, trading words as well as jabs and kicks. As rarely as they stood together as allies, companionable quiet was even rarer. Like scooping up a handful of sand on a mile of open beach and finding a diamond.

He considers breaking it, just out of habit, but decides against it. Who knew how long it would be until something like this happened again?

Hopefully never, if it required a world-ending cataclysm every time. He’d take the incessant chatter over incomprehensible destruction every time.

So he sits, and drinks, and watches from the corner of his eye as his self-proclaimed rival does the same. And when they both finish, he unwraps a bar and passes it over without a word.

Then they ear, and sit, and listen to the outside world.

“Is this where you live?”

Shadow opens his eyes. Odd- he can’t recall closing them. “For now, yes.”

“Oh.” Sonic seemed to hesitate. His hands- still dirty, he’ll have to fix that- fiddles with his empty wrapper, twisting and folding and shredding it into tiny silver pieces.

Shadow reaches over and replaces it with another bar, tossing the bits into the wastebasket nearby.

“Ah,” he says, like he hadn’t noticed what he was doing. “Uh- thanks. Sorry.”

Shadow snorts. “Don’t be sorry. Just eat.”

“‘Kay.”

He does as he’s told.

It’s weird.

“Where do you live?”

Green eyes, again, land on him.  (He tries not to bristle. It feels wrong, being looked at.)

“Uh,” he says again, like he’d forgotten how to talk some time in the past few hours. “Uh…. well, I guess that… kind of depends?”

“Depends on what?”

“Um. On… what day it is?”

He blinks.

Sonic blinks back.

“That,” he stops himself. “You-“

“I mean, I have a place,” the biggest idiot alive says hurriedly, sitting up a little straighter against the pillows. “Like- a few places, actually. A surplus of places! Man, you wouldn’t believe the places-“

Shadow cuts him off with a raised hand. “Stop,” he says tiredly. “Just… stop.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs deeply, breathes in and out by counts of four like the book Rouge gave him had said.

When the buzzy feeling in his head clears, he looks up to see his guest watching him uncertainly, like he’d stumbled across a live bomb that could go off at any second.

He bristles at the implication. “Don’t look at me like that,” he snaps. “You just- stop. Just stop.”

He stands, gathering up empty packaging as he does. “You’re still recovering, and I need some space. We have eight days until your second chance at stopping Robotnik, so you’re going to stay here, lay low, and take it easy until then.

“ I am going to tidy up. You are going to take a shower and go back to sleep. And when you wake up, we’re going to talk about why your life is a garbage fire. Don’t ,” he growls, stopping the blue demon in the act of standing, “try to leave. I will drag you back and tie you down if I have to, I swear to god.”

At last, he turns to leave. “The bathroom is on the door to your left, towels are in the closet. Do your best not to destroy the planet while you’re in there.”

He makes his departure before his guest can argue. There’s a strong chance he’ll end up kicking him if he sticks around much longer.

He still leaves the door open, though. Just in case.

”You know I love it when you take charge,” he hears, shouted down the hall in a weak and thready voice, cocky as ever. 

Obviously nothing has changed. 

And to think, he’d almost wondered if they could. 

Chapter Text

Sonic waits until the sound of Shadow’s footsteps fade to the bottom of the stairs.

Then he waits a little longer, because he’s heard Shadow walk normally, and it’s crazy how quiet the guy can move when he’s not paying attention to himself.

It’s only when he’s absolutely certain he’s alone that he makes the effort to haul himself away from the headboard and sit straight under his own power.

It’s an effort he suspects has something to do with having his ass handed to him over and over again non-stop, and he finds himself all the more grateful for the privacy he’s been given. He’d stretched and rested and massaged at weary muscles as often as he’d been able between fights inside the shatterverse, but even so, getting back to full speed is going to be a sore and creaky process. That he knows with a certainty borne from experience.

But there’s no point worrying about all that now, he figures, flexing his legs experimentally. One thing at a time.

The immediate issues become apparent the second his feet touch the floor: pain, full and aching and bone-deep, throbs from his soles straight up to his calves. Too much hard impact for far too long, he imagines- it had been a problem when he was younger, too, before Tails had hooked him up with well-cushioned shoes that held up to mach four without disintegrating.

He sighs. One more thing to appreciate about his Tails, it seems- another drop in the bucket, really. A whole ocean full of buckets.

Man, he’s going to give his buddy the biggest hug when he sees him again.

The thought makes him smile.

But- and this brings him back to square one- he won’t be hugging anyone while he’s this grimy. Not if he wants to stay on their good side, at least, and after seeing a Tails gone (temporarily) dark-side….

Yeah, he isn’t going to be tracking space gunk into the workshop or “borrowing” his tools any time soon.

Not if he can help it, at least.

But again. One step at a time.

With one hand on the side table and the other on the edge of the bed, he slowly eases himself standing.

The ache he finds is manageable, for the most part. After a minute or so of holding still it sort of just fades into the background, easing from an insistent pounding to a lower throb that pulses in time with his heartbeat.

Really, it’s the muscle fatigue that he suspects will be his biggest problem. He can feel a tremble in his joints that warns against any (relatively) quick or strenuous movement.

Nothing a bit of rest and a hot shower can’t improve, though. Fortunately, he happens to be within reasonable distance of one made available specifically for his use.

Even if it is Shadow’s.

Actually, he thinks, flicking his ears at the thought- maybe especially if it’s Shadow’s.

How often is it that he gets the chance to snoop in on the personal life of his most secretive rival, after all? Opportunities like this are rare, and besides, he’d literally been ordered to make use of the guy’s shower. Obviously he wouldn’t be able to avoid picking up on certain things, like… his taste in interior design, or what kind of towels he liked, or what kind of shampoo he used!

Perfectly normal things to wonder about. And a perfect opportunity to find out!

So, he sets off shuffling down the hall at an awkward snail’s pace, pausing every few steps to lean against the wall and breathe.

By the time he gets to the right door- outside the bedroom and directly to the left, right? Or- not right, but left… right?- his legs are screaming, and an oddly warm stiffness has spread across his ribs on his left side just below his lungs.

He raises a hand to the spot and presses down, checking best he can for breaks.

Nothing shifts under the pressure, which is good, but there is a sharp flare of razor-edge heat, which is less than good. He’s no doctor, but going off previous injuries, he’ll take a guess at a minor fracture, and likely some bruising to top it off.

Ribs, he sighs again. Always so fragile, pitted against the crushing grip of a megalomaniac’s giant metal death-bot.

Or a egg-alomaniac, he grins.

But alas, he may have to take this shower sitting down.

He manages to flick on the light without too much searching and blinks as it turns on with an audible hum.

Then blinks again, because… huh.

He’d wondered at Shadow’s design choices, obviously. The guy practically radiates doom-and-gloom, meticulous practicality and… well, indifference to anything as frivolous as style. Given what he knew about his general attitudes and habits, the space that greets him is… surprisingly normal.

Small, modern, and unassuming, are the words he’d use if pressed.

There’s a fogged-glass cubicle that can only be a shower, a toilet, a sink, and a hanging rack of- somehow, interestingly- pale blue towels.

They look plush and cushy, and there’s even a smaller matching one next to the sink beside a well-used bar of soap.

It… looks like a room out of any ordinary house.

Weird.

He limps inside and locks the door behind him, ignoring the mirror in favour of hop-stepping a beeline for the shower.

Socks, shoes, and gloves fall to a pile on the floor, and he only slows his pace to figure out the knobs and make sure the water isn’t totally freezing before rushing inside.

Immediately, he melts under the heat and steam. The water pressure is perfect, and feels almost like a massage against his quills, and the temperature is just on the right side of boiling.

He lets himself slide to the floor with a low groan, and grants himself permission to just luxuriate in the miracle of quality indoor plumbing.

Sorry Thorn, he thinks quietly to himself. Your world is beautiful, but I’m sticking to warm water and chili dogs as long as I can help it.

His stomach gurgles at the thought.

Right. Granola bars had helped tide the beast, but the monstrous hunger of a super-speedily metabolism wasn’t going to rest easy on snacks. Once he makes himself presentable, priority numero dos would be food.

Man, he was gonna owe Shadow big time after all this.

Shadow.

Yeah, speaking of hangry beasts- had he seriously carried him across the void, or was that a bizarre dream his dying brain had come up with post-prism-drain?

When he’d stepped into the extractor- when he’d volunteered- he hadn’t been sure he’d step back out. In fact… he’d been fairly certain of it.

He’s used to people seeing him as a hero these days. It feels good, knowing that strangers see the blue blur and feel their worries lighten, their confidence bloom, their hopes rekindle- he doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of the way people’s shoulders straighten and eyes grow bright, the way they band together and fight the good fight with just a sliver of hope on their side.

But in that moment… up on that platform, with reality collapsing in on itself and everyone he’d ever really known nothing more than a memory… he’d been scared.

He didn’t want to die, was the thing. He’d fought so hard to see his friends again, and… if he was ever going to be with them again, he’d have to survive, to keep himself whole.

There were still so many things he wanted to see, and do, and say to the ones he loved, and death… death would be the end of that.

But destruction of the shatterverse would be the end of everything, and that was so much worse.

So he’d known in that moment that he was making the right choice. Because it was all he could do, and… as much as he and Shadow fought, he genuinely respected the guy. Trusted him to save the world, if he had to. And it… seemed like something Shadow would do, if their positions were reversed.

When he’d looked out into the crowd and locked eyes with that steady red gaze, and seen that small, approving nod, he’d felt- braver, perhaps. Secure in his choice. Reassured that… that even without him there, everyone else would be safe. That they would be taken care of in his absence.

And then…

And then he’d lived.

Having the prism energy siphoned out of him had been one of the most painful experiences of his life. It had been like drowning, like being bathed in acid, like being blasted by sand while lasers boiled his skin into dust.

His one relief, as he’d fallen to the ground, had been knowing that at least he wasn’t alone. That he would be witnessed and succeeded by that steady silhouette, and he would not let his sacrifice be in vain.

When he’d opened his own eyes once more, and seen straight on through his own ghostly hands… hell, he may have been a bit too out of it to really “think” anything, but whatever neurons were firing had been pretty well convinced that he was dead. Gone, poof, reduced to a ghostly hologram like transparent proto-world Amy, Tails, Knuckles, and Rouge.

Only the twisting, churning aftershocks of his proto-world form destabilizing had made him question that, and by the time he managed to register the feeling of warm hands against his back, his shoulders, his legs…

Yeah, he’d been loopier than an egg-bot with half its thrusters knocked out.

All he can recall now is… pain, and cold, and a soft, warm pressure against his side. Winking lights, a bright flash and the smell of salty ocean waves and flowers.

Shadow, he realizes, half-way between squeezing out a dollop of shampoo and lathering it into his quills. Shadow’s soaps smell like the same flowers.

For some reason this fact makes the spinning sensation in his head go quiet, and something in his face get tingly.

He hopes it isn’t the soap. He’s not sure what would happen if he turned out to be allergic, but it would be embarrassing to explain if he suddenly swelled up or broke out into hives.

“You’ve managed to sit still without triggering an apocalypse,” he remembers. Hah. Yeah, no- if the first thing he manages to do after successfully saving the universe is kill himself with a scented hair product, he’ll never hear the end of it. It’s exactly the sort of stupid thing that Shadow would get a kick out of.

“You fool- isn’t it obvious that even with all your strength, you could never withstand the shampoo of the ultimate life form.”

He snorts in his effort to suppress a giggle.

The tingly feeling persists, but it doesn’t break out into any kind of itching or burning, so he figures it’s probably safe. He continues with his shower unhampered by threats of sudden death.

He finishes up and towels off without further incident. There’s not much he can do about his dirty clothes, so he just kinda… bundles them up and sets them out of the way in the spare room.

Getting there, he finds, is far easier than it was getting out- the hot steam had done wonders for his aches and pains. He can even take a deep breath of air without aggravating his ribs too much, which is a blessing on its own.

Yeah, eight more days to spare? He’d be just fine.

He hopes Shadow is healing up okay too. He knows the super-powered hedgehog has to have some kind of accelerated healing- some of the hits he’d landed on him in the past would have sent just about anyone else for a long nap in the hospital- but he’d lost sight of him a few times during that final battle on Grim. He’d looked alright after, but he was a secretive guy by nature, and he wouldn’t put it past him to hide some major hurts if he thought they made him look weak.

Actually… where was it he’d said he was going? Downstairs to clean? Sonic glances. around. Everything he’s seen of this place so far has been basically pristine. How much if a mess could there be to keep a guy occupied this long? And was this place soundproofed, or what? He hasn’t heard a thing since Shadow left him to do… whatever.

His quills prickle for reasons he can’t explain. All of a sudden, it feels weirdly urgent that he track Shadow down, like- now. Now, now.

“Sha-dow?” He croaks. Then coughs to clear his throat, because damn, he sounds like shit. “Shadow?” He tries again, a little stronger. “You still busy?”

“What?”

He jolts, dropping his used towel to the floor with a perfectly ordinary and not at all high-pitched squeak. Somehow, the sneaky jerk managed to teleport behind him without so much as a whisper to announce his presence.

Which is, you know. Super rude.

“Geez, Shads, you think you could maybe warn a guy!” He presses a hand to his ribs, putting pressure on the twinging sensation in his side. Shit, he definitely jostled them- ugh, having bones sucks. Why do squids get to have it so easy?

The black hedgehog, Sonic thinks, doesn’t look nearly as apologetic as he should. “I was here first,” he says blandly. “You should be more mindful of your surroundings.” Then his ears flick- a quick motion, like swatting at a fly- once. Twice. “Do you normally leave your possessions all over the floor?”

He looks down to where his tidy pile has been knocked over, and where his host’s nice blue towel lays forgotten at his feet. “Whoops! Sorry about that. I’ll just- hg.” He freezes mid-crouch, arm outstretched. “Damn it.”

“What did you do?”

Ugh. “Why’s it always gotta be something I did?” He grits out. “Can’t stuff just happen?”

Shadow doesn’t dignify him with a response. The towel, just barely out of his reach, is plucked away without a word.

Now, Sonic’s childhood may not have been what a book-smart person like Amy would describe as “stable”, but he has manners, and he knows that the proper thing to say when someone helps you out is “thank you”. And he’ll say it! Just as soon as he can… move. Or think.  Right?

Yeah. Any minute now.

God, his legs are on fire.

“May I?”

He looks up.

There’s… a hand in his face. Shadow’s hand, offered out like he’s waiting for him to shake it. And the other is just sort of… hovering by his shoulder, about an inch away. Not touching, just… there.

He blinks. Then blinks again, because it’s… still there.

“Uh,” he says dumbly. “Um. Okay. I mean- thanks?”

The offer isn’t retracted as he accepts it. Which- sure, he knows Shadow isn’t a total asshole, but he’s also really kind of a lone wolf, pick-yourself-up-by-your-bootstraps sort of dude. And normally, signs of weakness are met with a scoff or snide comment, not considerate gestures. And yet here he is, letting himself be gently guided back to bed by the ultimate freaking life-form, like he’s some kind of feeble old granny being walked across the street.

It feels weird.

Super, super weird.

And that damn flowery smell is making his skin feel all buzzy again.

“You should go back to sleep,” the other hedgehog tells him, once he’s laying back down under his crazy-soft blankets, tucked in with puffy pillows and clean sheets with a glass of water and everything. “You’ll heal faster if you rest.”

“Uh… sure.”

“Do you have any food allergies?”

What? “Not… that… I… know of?”

“Good. I will have food ready in a hour. There are more protein bars in the nightstand if you can’t wait, and a wastebasket within reach if you require it.” With that he receives a pointed look; one that clearly says, “so don’t throw your garbage all over the floor like a slob.”

He nods. Cool. Message received, loud and clear.

Shadow- still not making any smart comments about his weak, inferior body- nods back, a bizarre déjà-vu to their little moment just a few hours before- and then… flicks off the light. And walks out at regular, respectable, leisurely pace, leaving the door cracked just a little behind him to let in the light from the hall.

Sonic finds himself staring after him for a very, very long time.

Chapter Text

There’s a few cans of soup in the pantry.

Not a personal favourite, and a too bit high in sodium to be his first choice for any normal occasion, but handy in a pinch, and good fuel for an ill comrade, as Rouge had so handily mentioned some time ago, so Shadow takes two to carry back to the stove.

He could cook real food, of course- he’s picked up a few new tricks in his time on-planet- but it’s fast, and condensed canned soup is the exact sort of over-processed “comfort food” he figures the hedgehog upstairs would appreciate.

There’s a can opener in the drawer, but that’s more for Rouge and Omega’s benefit than his. Rouge, because for all her strengths actual enhanced strength sunny one of them, and for Omega, because otherwise he’ll crush them open against his head like an empty soda can at a party and leave wet beans behind everywhere. Shadow, slightly more dignified and far more pragmatic, uses a claw to pry up the thin tin seal and peels it off like a strip of tape, tossing it in the recycling bin to be dealt with later.

He wrinkles his nose at the thick, oily yellow film of the liquid inside before slopping it into a pot on the stove.

Food on the ARK had been… predictable, if he had to choose a word. Comfortingly so. Freeze-dried, powdered, concentrated and re-hydrated, yes, but nutritious and fortified with all the necessary fats, vitamins, minerals, and acids, all measured to the correct volumes and quantities to be consumed at the correct times.

Very little of it was what he would choose to describe as pleasurable- not like wild mint, fresh strawberries, and apples- but more like… oatmeal. Quick, efficient, and filling. Practical and easy to store and prepare. Like canned soup.

Just… cleaner.

And less oily.

He flicks on the gas burner and quickly ignites it with a gentle zap of red light. The smell is offensive even as it burns, but as his research had advised, gas-power only requires periodic refills instead of the steady upkeep of an electrical grid, and he isn’t around enough to justify installing solar panels. He supposes he could power everything using his own chaos energy, but unfortunately, installing that kind of hardware is slightly beyond the range of his usual expertise.

He could learn, yes, but again, he’s hardly “home” with enough frequency to justify the effort.

The generously-named “soup” begins to smell slightly more palatable as it’s heated. Good enough that he finds himself stepping out back for a brief moment to uproot a handful of small white onions to throw in as well- for a bit of added nutrition, of course.

The scent of green and dirt is far more welcome in his kitchen than wet tin and salt anyways, he finds. Clean water, too, is welcome- one of the first things he’d done upon arrival after dropping off his guest was let the faucets run until the stream turned clear, then taste it for any impurities.

Groundwater here tastes better than anything he’s had in a city, but is vulnerable to heavy metal contamination and algae blooms in the hotter months.

Nothing that could hurt him- obviously- but the native residents of the area were as always far too fragile.

But today, it passed the test. His guest may complain of the slightly clouded tint if he poured himself a cup from a faucet, sure, but the worst it would do was give him a little extra calcium. Shadow figured he could survive that.

Speaking of. He turns an ear towards the stairwell and pauses, just a beat.

No movement.

Good.

He resumes his stirring. As weird as it is to see the hedgehog moving at a- dare he say it, sensible pace- he’s not naive enough to think for a second that it’s guaranteed to last. If he were the type to gamble, he’d put a fair sum on the line to bet their little truce would last maybe four days, tops. Less if some kind of unexpected crisis broke out requiring his attention.

Forget that his little ragtag group of friends were more than capable of handing themselves on their own if needed. Honestly, he must have some sort of complex.

He frowns, staring down at the swirling current of noodles and onions. The steam beginning to rise feels… nice. Soothing.

He closes his eyes. There had been alternate versions of everyone he recognized between universes in the shatterspace void- everyone except Sonic and himself.

He’d had… time. To wonder about that. Plenty of time.

Given that the prism crystal had shattered into a number of habitated worlds equal to the number of shards, his hypothesis was that the united crystal itself was some form of anchor point grounding their reality. When it had broken, so had the fabric of their existence, fragmenting all living beings grounded with it into multiple iterations of themselves.

If he hadn’t jumped, he wondered, if he hadn’t teleported at that exact moment, would Sonic have encountered multiple incarnations of himself as well?

There had been a robotized Rose hedgehog under the thumb of the five Robotniks- would that world’s Shadow have been a second metallic pet alongside her? Or perhaps inside another stasis tube, hidden away somewhere in that hideous red fortress? Perhaps on the forest world his alien genes would have tipped him closer to the state of that feral fox, controlled by only his most primitive instincts. On the ocean world, perhaps a bloodthirsty mercenary.

Would Sonic have met a fifth flickering ghost on that grey, washed-out replica of their own reality? A projection of Shadow, wearing his face, mindlessly repeating the same rote phrase over and over again?

The way Sonic had looked at them, that pain in his eyes… would he have mourned for him, as well?

He hesitates, pausing in his work to just… stop. Just to stop, and… take stock of himself.

He sets down the knife he’d been cleaning and spreads his hands, inspecting both for any unusual shakes, and finds with some annoyance that there is a faint tremble at the tips of his fingers.

It’s light, nothing anyone else would notice, but he’s surprised it hadn’t caught his attention sooner.

What else had Rouge’s book said? Something about the body communicating with the mind. Tension and sensation, posture and… something.

He takes a deep breath, counts to four, and lets it out. Waits four seconds, then breathes in again- does it four times, until his mind seems to clear.

There is… a light pounding in his forehead and temples. His shoulders have begun to curve inwards. His fingers, no longer shaky, feel… tingly. Like the first few seconds after an electric shock.

Sonic had been electrocuted, he recalls. Repeatedly, in fact, back on that metal metropolis. That was likely a factor contributing to his slow recovery.

He sets the clean knife and cutting board down next to the sink with a little more force than is strictly necessary and flicks off the stove on a series of quick motions. Seeing that- seeing the other hedgehog forced to endure a litany of experiments for the curiosity of those damned Robotnik clones- loathe as he was to admit, that had stuck uncomfortably close to home. Watching an echo of his memories and experiences play out in front of him, to someone he had worked with so closely in the past… even if they weren’t friends, it was. Unpleasant.

At the time, his hands had clenched tight into fists, nails digging through the fabric of his gloves and straight into his palms- he’d felt frozen, transfixed, unable to look away. He’d itched to leap up, resume his furious barrage against the unyielding portal’s surface, force it through brute strength alone to let him in, but he… hadn’t.

He’d never felt anything quite like that before.

He hopes that he never will again.

Four inhales, four exhales.

He opens his eyes to a bowl of hot chicken soup, laid out on a tray next to a spoon and a glass of water that has already settled.

Right.

He puts a concentrated effort into make the stair steps creak as he climbs them back up to the guest room. Sonic had never struck him as the easily-startled type, but it had been a hard few days, and he knows well how long it can take to pull your mind from the battlefield. He doesn’t want to deal with him worsening his injuries with any abrupt movements.

He knocks twice on the door at the end of the hall, propping the tray on one hip to hold it steady. “Sonic.”

A groggy voice answers, but if any English words are used, they’re beyond comprehension. “It’s me,” he says unnecessarily. “I’m coming in.”

“‘Kay.”

Figuring that’s as good as he’s likely to get, Shadow walks in to find his guest struggling to sit up. He curses under his breath and sets the tray down on the end table before rushing to assist. “Stop moving.”

He’s waved off with a casual gesture. “It’s alright Shads, I’ll be fine- I’ve handled worse.”

“You’ve been lucky,” he counters, but holds himself back from manhandling the stubborn idiot. If the blue fool needs to burn himself out before deigning to accept reasonable assistance, so be it. He is capable of patience.

Not that he expects a long wait. He can hear the other’s breathing catch audibly as he shifts back, until he is once again cushioned upright on his borrowed pillow throne. Even recently bathed, he smells of heat and exertion.

“Cracked ribs, muscle strain, and fatigue will take the larger part of your recovery,” Shadow recites aloud. “Superficial injuries should clear up soon enough, presuming you continue to ingest fluids at a reasonable pace.” Speaking of, he retrieves the tray of soup and carefully moved it to the other’s lap. “Eat as much as you can,” he instructs. “There is more on the stove.”

He notes Sonic’s baffled expression but chooses not to comment. Of course the idiot hadn’t considered the basics of care; simple fundamentals like rehydration and rest. His idea of first aid is probably “wrap it in sports tape and walk it off”, which would explain the sheer volume he burns through on a day to day basis.

He must be hungry, Shadow thinks, watching him eye the bowl with blatant suspicion, but he hesitates to pick up the spoon helpfully provided. The pause lasts long enough that he’s begun to grapple with the mortifying possibility of having to spoon-feed the moron when he finally lifts the entire bowl to his mouth and starts to drink.

Shadow feels his eye begin to twitch, but, again, dedicates a heroic amount of effort to saying nothing. “Know thy enemy”, he’d read somewhere once. Wise advice that had proven useful on frequent occasion, and not just on the battlefield. If his enemy at this time is Sonic and his impulsive, flighty nature, then he’d take just about any excuse to run off on his own, leaving Shadow behind to plan for Eggman’s inevitable move on the prism. Any benign criticism or abrasive comment would be the perfect excuse to disappear- which is the only thing saving him from that discussion he’d promised earlier, as well.

Shadow’s ears flick at the reminder, and he shifts in his seat.

Sonic, for his part, is as oblivious as always: he keeps slurping at his soup, taking frequent breaks to rest his shaky arms. 

He eats like he was raised in a barn.

Hell, maybe he was, Shadow thinks, ignoring the wet slurps. Given his other mannerisms, it would certainly make sense. And hell, it could even explain his preference for a nomadic lifestyle.

Now he doesn’t know much of the other’s upbringing, but everything in his behaviour screams cocky, shortsighted, and scared of commitment.

Honestly, it’s a wonder he’s stuck around Green Hills as long as he has- Shadow wouldn’t be shocked if he woke up one afternoon and skipped town on a whim, couch surfed and hitchhiked his way across the mainland like a leaf in the wind.

It probably has something to do with his bizarre codependence with that two-tailed fox and the others, or his unhealthy fixation on playing the hero all the time. If it’s Robotnik’s fixation on the island keeping him here, then he’d likely disappear as soon as the doctor did, or whenever his little crew of friends dispersed.

The thought is logical and his reasoning is sound, following every observation he’s made thus far, but it’s still… oddly troubling.

“Uh… Shads?”

He looks up. His guest has lowered his bowl in favour of watching him with an inscrutable expression. “You doing okay there, buddy?”

“I’m not your buddy,” he growls, but he puts no real heat in it. “Finish your food.”

“Already did.” And… oh. Apparently he had.

Shadow sighs, then moves to stand, taking the bowl and untouched spoon with him. “Would you like another?”

“Uh. No thanks, I’m good.”

“Hm.” That was fine for now. Better to start off slow with these things, rather than overindulging. Small portions spaced out over more frequent intervals would serve well enough until they were both back up to speed- another one of those things he’d learned in his experience planetside.

He’s halfway out the door for what feels like the hundredth time that day when a movement stops him.

Sonic, his hand raised just an inch in his direction.

His eyes narrow. “What?”

The hand drops. Green eyes flick away in a second of- something- before they harden. “Why did you help me?”

He tries not to roll his eyes. Flighty, he reminds himself. Any excuse to run off. “It was help you or witness the end of all existence. Believe it or not, it wasn’t a hard choice”

“I thought you wanted that,” the other says back. “To end the world, and all.”

Ah.

For whatever reason, he finds himself looking away. “That was a long time ago.”

“Not that long,” Sonic pushes, because of course, that’s what he does. He pushes, and pushes, and pushes, and when that doesn’t work and he doesn’t get the answers he wants he just doubles down and gets reckless and fucks everything up for everybody, because he can’t just stop at leaving well enough alone. “And it’s not exactly the sort of thing you just forget about, you know? Fire and brimstone, death and destruction?”

And The fool dares to smirk at that, though it’s a small thing.

Shadow feels his grip tighten on the tray. “Things changed.”

“What things?”

“That’s personal.”

“Like how blowing up a planet is personal?”

“Yes.” And he turns around, ready to walk away and leave it at that, fuck the consequences, when-

“You can just say you don’t wanna talk, you know.”

And that-

That’s unexpected.

Enough to slow him down.

He turns back, one hand on the door.

The obnoxious blue fool isn’t smirking anymore, but he is looking at Shadow with an odd quirk of the brow that makes it feel like he’s the one missing something.

And then he shrugs, like it’s no big deal either way. “I’m just saying, you don’t have to go fishing for a vague and mysterious cover for everything. You can just say you don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Would you listen?” he asks dubiously.

“I just need to know why.”

Shadow watches as the other clenches his hands, tensing and relaxing rapid-fire as though holding himself back from something.

It’s a show of restraint that’s unexpected for what it is, and Shadow catches himself somehow faltering in the face of it.

“I need to know why,” he continues, “so I know it won’t happen again. So I know I can trust you.”

Because I want to trust you.

The unspoken part hangs in the air like a cloud. It dries out his tongue like Omega’s terrible stale crackers, the ones he keeps in the cupboard so he doesn’t make a fuss about being left out on the rare occasion he’s there while food is being served, never mind that he can’t eat them and will mostly just uses them to make a mess.

So I know it won’t happen again.

He wants to deny the possibility. Shut it down with confidence, drop the subject, walk out, leave it at that. But he can’t. Not when it’s already happened before, not when he knows what’s possible, not when there are still dark little holes in the folds and recesses of his mind that he knows once held something important- that those things were taken away, easily and silently and without even the slightest suspicion on his part. That it could happen, that it had happened, that it could happen again…

Rouge knew whatever Rouge knew, which is usually more than anyone is comfortable with, but she’s been looking out for herself long enough that she should be able to cut ties and run if needed. And Omega is functionally indestructible, fully capable of being puzzled back together as long as a few small and durable components survive somewhat intact. And that’s what they do, both of them- they’re survivors. They can take care of themselves. He doesn’t need them to trust him with anything- he trusts them. He trusts them to live. And some days, the weight of his relief at that is staggering.

Because if they couldn’t? If they didn’t? He doesn’t know how he would cope.

He realizes, distantly, that it’s been silent now for an unusual length of time, neither of them moving so much as an inch.

It’s like time was holding its breath, waiting for one of them to fuck it up.

He opens his mouth. Don’t trust me, he wants to say. You shouldn’t trust me. I don’t even trust me. But he doesn’t.

And like a coward, he shuts the door behind him.