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They take their respective meds, and they make dinners, and they fuck like old men, because they are. Nights, they sit out on the back porch they built together and they listen to crickets sing in the creeping darkness as the sun goes down. It’s not like they have anything better to do, not really; neither of them like to travel too far and neither of them want to move to fuckin’ Florida or something so they live a quiet, contained little life and Marty continually feels a little surprised how happy it makes him.
Or: Rust and Marty and life after almost-death.
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