Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Nathan doesn’t wake to the sound of an alarm clock, but to loud noises echoing from somewhere down the hotel’s many floors. Half-awake, he doesn’t reach for his phone—instead, he grabs something that vaguely resembles a weapon, along with his flashlight.

Blindly, he stumbles out of bed, praying he won’t fall flat on his face. God, why was this happening to him? Instead of answering that, he grips the wall for balance, steadying himself as the noise continues below.

He can only assume it’s either an animal or a person—but considering he lives next to a forest, he hopes it’s the latter, not the former.

Just in case the animal…or person, turns out to be hostile, he brings a weapon. Nathan makes his way out of his room and down the many creaking stairs until he reaches the kitchen—the source of the noise.

He pauses at the doorway, frozen for a few seconds. If it isn’t an animal, he isn’t sure what he’s supposed to do. But he doesn’t think about that. Instead, he moves carefully, creeping into the kitchen, every step slow and deliberate, trying not to make a sound.

Then he sees it, and promptly freezes.

It’s dark, shadows stretching across the walls, but Nathan can just make out a small figure standing in the middle of the kitchen. Small…like a child.

Cold air drifts in from the open back door, letting in a sliver of moonlight that cuts through the dark. That’s when Nathan remembers the flashlight clutched in his sweaty hand. He fumbles with it, his thumb slipping once, before it finally clicks on.

The beam lands on the figure. A child—thin, pale, with shoulder-length hair hanging messily in their face—stands in the glow. They’re devouring the lasagna Nathan had made for tomorrow, eating like they haven’t seen food in days.

Nathan blinks, heart racing. He wasn’t even planning to eat that lasagna himself; he’d only made it out of habit, going through the motions. But still—this?

The kid looks barely alive. Their clothes are tattered and old-fashioned, straight out of another century. He can’t quite tell the gender, but something about the frame, the posture, feels boyish.

The kid looks up, probably noticing the flashlight shining in his direction. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, Nathan forgets how to breathe. The kid looks terrified—and honestly, terrified might just be the understatement of the century.

Nathan barely has time to process the thought before the child bolts, darting out the open door and straight into the forest.

He doesn’t think—he just acts. If that kid’s out there alone, it’s not safe. Not with the forest having all those potentially dangerous animals lurking around.

Nathan rushes after him, flashlight beam bouncing wildly against the trees as he runs. But after a while, his pace slows. The forest is vast, dark, and the boy is nowhere in sight. The cold air bites through his clothes, and exhaustion sets in.

As much as it kills him, Nathan realizes he might have to give up—for now. The smartest thing to do would be to call the police, let them handle it. As worried as he is, there’s no point in running blind through the woods if he can’t find the kid.

Without thinking, Nathan makes his way back toward the hotel, flashlight beam cutting through the trees. Every few steps, he sweeps the light across the forest floor, just in case the kid reappears. The woods are too quiet now, every sound swallowed by the cold night air.

He’s only a few yards from the hotel when it happens—his foot hits soft ground, and the earth nearly gives way beneath him. He stumbles, heart skipping, and barely manages to catch himself on a nearby branch. He shines the flashlight down to see what nearly claimed him and swears under his breath.

A hole. A deep one. Why the hell is there a hole in the middle of the forest?

It isn’t bottomless, though—it’s deep enough that climbing out would be tough, but shallow enough that he can see the bottom clearly. And what he sees makes his stomach twist.

The kid.

He’s sitting at the bottom of the pit, knees pulled up to his chest, trembling. The same pale, fragile-looking boy from the kitchen. His hair hangs in his face, and he’s staring off to the side like Nathan isn’t even there.

Nathan crouches down, trying to get a better look, heart still hammering from the near fall. “Hey—hey, buddy,” he says gently, keeping his voice calm. “Can you get out from there? Are you hurt?”

The boy flinches but doesn’t answer. His eyes dart up for a second, then away again, like making eye contact is too much.

Nathan swallows hard. He can see the scrapes on the kid’s hands, the mud streaked across his face. He looks terrified, exhausted and far too used to it.

Nathan exhales, softer this time. “Alright, it’s okay. I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? Just stay still. I’ll get you out.”

Nathan carefully lowers himself into the hole, boots crunching against the dirt wall as he slides down. The boy watches him the whole time—silent, wary, eyes following every move.

When Nathan’s feet hit the bottom, he straightens slowly, raising his hands in a small, reassuring gesture. “Hey, bud,” he says softly, offering a faint smile. “What’s your name?” Then, after a beat, he adds, “I’m Nathan, by the way.”

The boy’s lips press together, like he’s deciding whether or not to answer. Then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, he says, “Abaddon.”

Nathan blinks. “Wow… that’s a cool name. Never heard one like that before.”

And it’s true—it sounds strange, otherworldly even, but kind of beautiful in a haunting way.

Abaddon’s eyes flick up at that, and Nathan catches the color properly this time—bright blue, wide, shining faintly in the flashlight’s beam. For a moment, they just stare at each other.

Nathan extends a hand. “Come on, Abaddon. Let’s get you out of here.”

The kid hesitates, staring at Nathan’s hand like it’s something foreign. Nathan keeps it there, patient, refusing to rush him. The last thing he wants is to scare him off again.

Then, slowly, Abaddon reaches out. His fingers brush Nathan’s palm, hesitant at first—then his grip tightens. Stronger than Nathan expected, almost painfully so.

Nathan bites back a wince but doesn’t pull away. “Easy there, bud,” he murmurs, forcing a grin. “You’ve got quite a grip for someone your size.”

Abaddon doesn’t say a word, just stands there quietly while Nathan moves closer. Gently, he grips the boy by the arms and lifts him to his feet. Up close, Nathan realizes just how small he really is—bony shoulders, thin wrists, like he hasn’t had a proper meal in weeks.

“Alright, let’s get you out of here,” Nathan mutters, glancing up at the edge of the hole. He crouches a little, hands firm under the boy’s arms, and lifts. Abaddon is light—frighteningly so. It’s almost unsettling how easy it is to pull him up, like lifting a bundle of clothes instead of a person.

Once abaddon is safely out, Nathan braces his hands on the wall and climbs up after him. His palms scrape against the rough dirt, and by the time he hauls himself over the edge, he’s breathing hard.

The kid stands there waiting, silent as ever, staring at the trees instead of Nathan. Moonlight spills over his pale skin and messy hair, giving him an almost ghostly look.

Nathan dusts himself off and straightens. “You okay, buddy?” he asks, trying to keep his tone light. “That was a nasty fall. You hurt anywhere?”

No answer. Just a small shake of the head, slow and hesitant.

Nathan sighs softly, rubbing the back of his neck. The forest feels too quiet now—no wind, no crickets, just the faint sound of their breathing. Something about it makes his skin crawl.

He clears his throat. “Alright… how about we get you back to the hotel? Warm you up, maybe get some food that isn’t half frozen lasagna, huh?”

That earns him the tiniest flicker of a reaction, abaddon’s lips twitch—like he’s trying not to smile.

Nathan grins. “There we go.”

They finally make it back to the hotel, the air inside colder than he remembers but still a relief after the biting chill of the woods. Abaddon now sits at the small kitchen dining table, legs swinging lightly above the floor. He looks out of place—mud-smeared, pale, still barefoot, his thin frame swallowed by those strange, tattered clothes. The flashlight Nathan had left on the counter throws soft shadows across his face, making the kid look even smaller somehow.

Nathan moves around the kitchen, opening cupboards, searching for something, anything, the boy could eat. There isn’t much. He hadn’t exactly been eating properly himself lately. Most nights he’d just stare at the food and lose his appetite. Cooking had become a habit, not a need. The only person who used to remind him to eat…wasn’t here anymore.

He swallows hard and forces that thought away. Not tonight. Not when there’s a scared kid sitting in front of him who probably hasn’t had a proper meal in days—or longer.

He finally finds some leftover soup from the night before. Not great, but warm food is warm food. He pours it into a small bowl and sets it on the stove, glancing back every few seconds at Abaddon. The boy sits unnaturally still, hands folded in his lap, watching Nathan like a wary animal.

“Soup’s not much,” Nathan says, trying for a light tone, “but it’s better than running around barefoot in the woods, huh?”

Abaddon tilts his head slightly, as if he’s trying to decide whether that was supposed to be a joke. He doesn’t say anything, just continues to stare at the steam rising from the pot.

When the soup’s ready, Nathan sets it in front of him along with a spoon. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Abaddon looks at the bowl, hesitant, then back up at Nathan as if waiting for permission.

“Go ahead,” Nathan says softly.

Slowly, the boy picks up the spoon. His movements are hesitant, almost delicate. He lifts the spoon to his lips, blows softly, and swallows the first sip. Then, all at once, the restraint shatters—Abaddon begins to gulp down the soup as if he hasn’t eaten in weeks, each mouthful too fast, practically gulping the soup down in desperate mouthfuls.

Nathan startles, half-rising from his chair. “Whoa—hey, slow down,” he says, one hand hovering in the air beside the boy, uncertain whether to intervene. The kid doesn’t even seem to hear him at first. He just keeps going, soup sloshing slightly over the edge of the bowl.

Nathan winces. “Buddy, careful. You’ll burn your tongue.”

At that, Abaddon finally pauses. His chest rises and falls quickly as if he’s remembering how to breathe again. He blinks a few times, the tension in his shoulders loosening just slightly, and leans back against the chair.

Nathan lets out a quiet breath. “There you go…good.” He takes the now half-empty bowl and sets it gently back on the table, making sure not to startle him again.

Abaddon’s eyes flick toward him—bright, tired blue eyes rimmed with shadows. He looks so young up close.

“Abaddon,” Nathan says softly, testing the name again, trying to sound calm. “I need to make a quick phone call, okay? Just for a minute or two.”

The boy tilts his head, confusion flickering across his face.

“I’ll be right back,” Nathan reassures, forcing a small smile. “You can stay right here. Don’t move, alright? It’s safe.”

Abaddon hesitates, then gives the smallest nod, his fingers still curled around the spoon. Nathan lingers for a moment longer, studying the boy—his messy hair, the faint tremble in his hands, the wary way he watches everything—as if any wrong sound might send him running again.

He turns and steps toward the hallway, the weight of worry heavy in his chest. As he picks up the phone, he tells himself this is the right thing. That calling Katherine is the first step toward figuring out what to do with a boy who looks like he’s been through hell.

Katherine picks up on the last ring, her voice groggy and heavy with exhaustion.

“Ugh, Nathan, why are you calling me at such a ridiculous hour?” she mutters, her tone that perfect blend of sibling annoyance and maternal fatigue. He can hear a faint rustle on the other end—probably her shifting in bed, trying not to wake the kids.

Nathan glances at the clock. Yeah, okay… calling her at nearly two in the morning probably wasn’t his brightest idea.

“Hey, Kat,” he starts, voice cautious.

There’s a pause. Then a soft groan. “Oh no. That tone. Nathan, what did you do?”

He winces. She knows me too well. “Okay, don’t freak out—”

“Oh, I’m already halfway there,” she cuts in.

She probably already knows whatever he’s about to say will be something incredibly stupid or mildly illegal. Like the time he “won” the hotel in a sketchy card game from a stranger. (Which, to be fair, still sounds like the start of a bad horror story.)

Katherine had told him back then, ‘Nathan, people don’t just bet entire buildings unless something’s wrong with it.’ He still kind of wishes she hadn’t been right.

“Katherine, you have kids,” Nathan begins, and immediately regrets his life choices the second the words leave his mouth.

“Yes,” she deadpans. “Your niece and nephew. Thank you for noticing.”

“Well, I have this kid—”

“You what?” Katherine cuts in, her tone snapping from exhaustion to alarm. “You have a kid?!”

“No—no, he’s not mine!” Nathan says quickly, running a hand through his hair as he glances toward the kitchen. Abaddon’s still at the table, staring at his hands, like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. “I found him. In the forest.”

There’s a pause on the other end. The silence stretches for a long, suspicious beat.

“…I’m sorry,” Katherine finally says. “You found a child—in the woods—at midnight?”

Nathan sighs, leaning against the wall. “Yeah. He was…in my kitchen first. Eating my lasagna.”

There’s another pause. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Look, I’ll explain later,” Nathan says quickly, lowering his voice. “He’s maybe seven or eight? Not sure though. Looked like he hadn’t eaten in days. I think—” He hesitates, watching Abaddon. “—I think he might’ve been abused. Or… something.”

Katherine exhales sharply. He can practically hear her switching from sister-mode to mom-mode. “Okay. First, make sure he’s safe. Give him food, water, a blanket—whatever you have. Then you need to call the police, Nathan. They’ll know what to do.”

Nathan grimaces. “Yeah, about that…”

“Nathan.”

“I just… I don’t want to scare him, okay?” he mutters. “He’s already skittish—one wrong move and he’ll bolt.”

Katherine groans softly, rubbing her forehead (he can hear it in her tone). “You can’t keep a random child, Nathan. This isn’t some kind of rescue pet situation.”

“I know that,” he says quickly. “I’m just saying—I’ll wait until morning. Let him rest. Then I’ll… figure it out.”

“Fine,” she sighs. “But promise me you’ll take him to the police first thing. Promise me, Nathan.”

He hesitates, eyes drifting to Abaddon again. The kid’s gaze flicks up just as he looks, blue eyes sharp and haunted even in the dim light.

“…Yeah,” Nathan says quietly. “I promise.”

Katherine hums softly, unconvinced but too tired to fight. “Alright. Just…be careful, okay? And maybe don’t play Good Samaritan in the woods next time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he mutters, hanging up with a small smile.

When he returns to the kitchen, Abaddon’s still sitting there, staring at him like he’s trying to read something behind Nathan’s expression.

“Everything okay?” Nathan asks.

Abaddon doesn’t answer. He just nods once and returns his attention to the table. Nathan sighs, soft but tired. “Yeah… me neither, kid.”

Chapter Text

Nathan led Abaddon up the stairs, keeping a close eye on him. The kid looked like he was about to collapse—barely keeping his balance, eyes heavy with exhaustion. He clearly needed a shower, but Nathan doubted he’d be up for that tonight.

He made a mental note to help Abaddon clean up first thing in the morning—if the kid was comfortable with it. Abaddon didn’t seem to like being touched much, though that might’ve just been because Nathan was still a stranger.

They finally reached the floor Nathan was staying on. He picked the room directly across from his own so he could keep an eye on the kid if needed.

“My door’s right across the hall,” Nathan said, pointing toward it with a small smile. “So if you need me, don’t be afraid to shout, okay?”

Abaddon just nodded and stepped into the room. His eyes flicked around, wide with quiet wonder as he took everything in. Nathan tried not to laugh at the kid’s obvious excitement—it was kind of adorable, honestly.

“Thank you,” Abaddon whispered, so softly that Nathan almost didn’t catch it.

He smiled, warmth tugging at his chest. “You’re welcome, kid.”

Abaddon turns to face him instead of the room, his eyes unreadable. There’s something unsettling in his expression—too strange for a kid his age—and it makes Nathan’s stomach twist with unease.

“Uh… good night,” Nathan says awkwardly, the words stumbling out as a hint of anxiety creeps in.

Abaddon nods once, and Nathan starts to close the door. But before it can shut, something stops it—Abaddon’s foot wedged firmly in the way.

Nathan blinks, confused. “Hey, what—?”

“Why are you locking me up?” Abaddon blurts, voice trembling. His wide eyes glisten with fear. “Did I do something wrong?”

Nathan freezes, the words hitting him like a punch. Locking him up? His mind scrambles to make sense of it, but all he can think is; what the hell happened to this kid?

It takes Nathan a few moments to find his words, and even less to speak them.

“What makes you think that?” Nathan asks cautiously, a knot of fear tightening in his chest. He’s almost afraid of the answer—it could confirm every worry he’s had since meeting this kid.

Nathan had sensed something was off in Abaddon’s life, but he hadn’t expected a confirmation… and certainly not from the boy himself. A strange weight lifts slightly, though—relief mixed with dread—because now at least he knows.

Abaddon’s face remains completely blank, a mask with no hint of emotion.

Nathan is quickly reminded of a girl in his fifth-grade class, who always wore the same emotionless expression that Abaddon has now.

Back then, he hadn’t understood much about domestic abuse or its effects, but now, seeing Abaddon’s vacant eyes, Nathan feels like his eleven-year-old self again—watching someone trapped behind a hollow stare.

He knows, without a doubt, that he has to help…somehow.

“The…Leaders…they used to lock me up… for hours, sometimes days…if I disobeyed.”

Nathan’s stomach twisted. Abaddon actually thought Nathan was going to lock him up—just for closing the door? The thought made him pause. What kind of life had this kid lived that something so small felt like a threat of imprisonment?

Kneeling slightly to meet the boy’s level, Nathan kept his voice soft and steady. “Hey, hey… you didn’t do anything wrong, okay? You’re not in trouble here.”

Abaddon’s eyes flickered up at him, cautious and wary. Nathan gave a reassuring nod. “I promise… I’ll leave the door open. You can come and go as you like. Nobody’s going to lock you up here.”

But Abaddon didn’t seem to believe him. Nathan exhaled slowly, forcing himself to take things one step at a time. He stood up, hands clenching at his sides. The boy watched him for a long moment before finally creeping back to his temporary living quarters.

Laying his head back against the wall, Nathan took it as his cue to leave, giving the boy space.

The next morning, Nathan woke to the faint but unmistakable smell of food wafting through the air. For a moment, he was disoriented—half-asleep and trying to remember if he’d left the stove on. Then it hit him.

Someone was cooking.

He sat up, blinking the sleep from his eyes before dragging himself out of bed. The floorboards creaked softly beneath his feet as he followed the smell down the hall and into the kitchen.

There, standing on a chair to reach the counter, was Abaddon—stirring something in a pan with deep concentration. His hair was a tangled mess, and the sleeves of his shirt hung loosely past his hands. The sight made Nathan pause in the doorway, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“…Morning,” Nathan said gently.

Abaddon startled a little, glancing over his shoulder. “I—I made breakfast,” he said quietly, as if unsure whether it was okay.

Nathan stepped closer, peering at the pan. He leaned against the counter, crossing his arms, still half in disbelief that this tiny kid had managed not to burn the kitchen down. “Well… I’m impressed. What’re we having, Chef Abaddon?”

The boy hesitated, poking at the scrambled eggs in the pan. “Just… eggs. I found them in the fridge.”

Nathan smiled a little wider. “Smells better than anything I’ve made all week.”
That earned the smallest flicker of something from Abaddon—almost a smile—but it vanished as quickly as it appeared.

Nathan grabbed two plates and helped scoop the food out, setting one in front of the boy. “You cook a lot?” he asked casually, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

Abaddon’s hands stilled on his fork. “Sometimes,” he murmured, voice distant. “Priscilla taught me.”

Nathan frowned slightly. “Priscilla?”

Abaddon didn’t look up. “She’s… gone now.”

Nathan’s chest tightened. The tone said enough—he didn’t need to ask where or how. He swallowed the question that rose to his tongue, forcing a small, reassuring smile instead. “She must’ve been a good teacher.”

Abaddon nodded faintly, continuing to eat in silence. And Nathan just watched him for a moment, the quiet hum of the hotel filling the air between them—peaceful, but heavy all the same.

Nathan sat down across from him, letting the silence linger a bit before speaking again. “You know,” he said lightly, trying to keep things calm, “most kids your age would’ve gone straight for the cereal, not… an actual cooked meal.”

Abaddon looked up from his plate, frowning slightly. “What’s… cereal?”

Nathan stared for a second, caught between concern and laughter. “You know, the stuff in boxes? Little crunchy things you pour milk on?”

Abaddon’s frown deepened. “You pour milk on… boxes?”

That did it. Nathan snorted, trying and failing to hold back a laugh. “No—no, you pour it on the cereal from the box, not—oh, man, okay, we’re definitely fixing this. I’m buying you cereal tomorrow. You’re gonna experience the sugary disaster that is breakfast in the modern world.”

Abaddon just blinked at him, totally lost. “…Is it dangerous?”

Nathan grinned. “Only to your teeth.”

Abaddon blinked again, uncertain if Nathan was joking. “You eat things that hurt your teeth?”

Nathan grinned wider, leaning against the counter. “Yeah, well, welcome to civilization, kid. Half the stuff we eat is bad for us but tastes amazing.”

Abaddon tilted his head, curious but still wary. “Does it… make you happy?”

That made Nathan pause. The question was innocent, but it hit harder than he expected. He looked at the boy, at the way his messy hair fell into his eyes and how small he looked standing there.

“Sometimes,” Nathan admitted softly. “But I think it’s more about who you share it with.”

Abaddon stared at him for a long moment, then gave a tiny nod, as if he was filing that away like a secret.

“Then,” he said. “I will try cereal.”

Nathan smiled, genuinely this time. “You got it, kid.”

They eat their breakfast in relative silence, the only sounds being the soft clinking of utensils and the faint hum of the old refrigerator. The quiet isn’t uncomfortable—just unfamiliar. Every now and then, Nathan sneaks a glance at Abaddon, who sits stiffly in his chair, eating with the kind of care that makes Nathan’s chest ache a little.

Abaddon doesn’t say much, eyes focused on his plate like it’s the most important thing in the world. Nathan tries a few conversation starters—asks if he slept okay, if the food’s alright, but the boy only answers with short nods or tiny murmurs.

Still, Nathan can tell he’s listening. Every time Nathan speaks, Abaddon’s fork pauses midair, just slightly, before he continues eating.

They spend the rest of breakfast in relative silence. When Nathan finally mentions that Abaddon needs to take a shower, the boy’s face immediately twists into a scowl.

“I don’t need one,” Abaddon says firmly, crossing his arms with all the defiance of a stubborn child who’s already made up his mind.

“Yes, you do,” Nathan says, already standing.

“No, I don’t—!”

The argument doesn’t last long. Within moments, Nathan’s half guiding, half dragging the protesting kid toward the bathroom, Abaddon digging his heels into the floor with surprising determination for someone so small.

“Unhand me now!” Abaddon hissed, thrashing like a wild animal as Nathan tried to keep him from slipping on the wet tile. Water splashed everywhere—on the floor, the walls, and mostly on Nathan. He hadn’t expected the boy to be this strong or this determined to avoid getting clean.

“Abaddon—hey, hey, easy!” Nathan grunted, dodging a surprisingly sharp kick to the knee. “It’s just a bath, not an execution!”

Abaddon glared at him through soaked strands of hair, eyes blazing with something between fear and fury. His voice trembled when he spat out, “I said let go!”

For a moment, Nathan hesitated. This wasn’t just stubbornness—this was panic. The kind that didn’t make sense for something as simple as a shower. But he also couldn’t let the kid go another day covered in dirt and grime, so he worked as gently as he could, washing what he could reach, murmuring soft reassurances the whole time.

Eventually, the fight drained out of Abaddon. His shoulders slumped, breath hitching as he went still. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the quiet drip of water from the faucet. Nathan glanced at him—his face had gone blank again, expressionless and far away.

“See? Not so bad,” Nathan said softly, trying for a smile. “You’re clean now, and no monsters came out of the drain.”

Abaddon didn’t reply. He just stood there, small and shivering, before muttering a faint, “Sorry.”

Nathan blinked. “Hey—no, don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

By the time he finished drying Abaddon off and handing him a clean shirt, the boy’s mood had shifted again. The fire was gone, replaced by quiet obedience. He sat still, hands folded neatly, eyes unfocused.

It was strange—unnerving, even—how quickly he could change like that. From feral to fragile in seconds.

“I want my clothes back,” Abaddon muttered, crossing his arms like a sulking cat. His lower lip jutted out, and his hair—still damp and fluffy from the towel—stuck out in every direction. Nathan bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing, though the sight nearly broke him.

“After I clean them,” Nathan said, holding up the pile of tattered, mud-caked clothes. “Those things could probably walk away on their own.”

Abaddon frowned harder, glaring as if Nathan had just insulted his honor. “They’re mine.”

“I know, kid,” Nathan said gently. “You’ll get them back once they don’t smell like something died in a swamp, deal?”

The boy huffed, clearly unimpressed, but gave a reluctant nod. Nathan took that as a victory and set the clothes aside to wash later. He handed Abaddon one of his old shirts instead—it was too big, the sleeves nearly swallowing the kid’s hands—but somehow, it made him look smaller.

Nathan smiled. “There. Now you look like a proper hotel guest.”

Abaddon blinked down at the oversized shirt, then mumbled, “It’s… soft.”

“Yeah,” Nathan said, voice quieter now. “That’s kinda the point.”

They stood there for a moment in the soft hum of the hotel’s silence—just the two of them, the faint smell of soap still hanging in the air. Nathan didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, the kid was safe, clean, and fed. That was enough.

Chapter Text

“Here,” Nathan said, handing Abaddon the remote. The boy blinked down at the small plastic device like it was some kind of artifact. Nathan had already told him they couldn’t go to the store today—tomorrow, maybe. Abaddon hadn’t been happy about it, but he’d agreed, if reluctantly.

Right now, Nathan just needed to get a few things done without the kid trailing behind him like a quiet shadow. He didn’t mind having him around—it was just… a lot.

Abaddon turned the remote over in his hands, frowning. “What is this?”

“It’s a remote,” Nathan explained patiently, “you use it to control the TV.”

Abaddon’s eyes flicked to the black screen mounted on the wall. “The rectangular box?”

Nathan nodded. “Yup. Watch—press this button to turn it on.”

He tapped the power button, and the screen burst to life, flooding the dim living room with color and sound. Abaddon gasped, stumbling a step back like he’d just seen magic.

“It glows,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Nathan chuckled, trying not to sound too amused. “That’s the point.”

Abaddon’s expression stayed wary, eyes darting between the glowing images on the screen and the humming box itself. Nathan could practically see the gears turning in the kid’s head—equal parts wonder and suspicion.

He’d stopped being surprised by this sort of thing. Every day Abaddon revealed another gap in what he knew about the world—things any normal kid would take for granted.

“You can change what it shows,” Nathan said, reaching to point at the buttons. “These make the pictures move around, kinda like… books that tell stories, but faster.”

Abaddon’s brows knit together. “So it is… alive?”

Nathan blinked. “What? No, it’s not alive, it’s—it’s just—” He sighed. “It’s television, kid. It just shows made-up stuff. Pretend stories. Entertainment.”

Abaddon didn’t look convinced. His eyes stayed locked on the flickering figures moving across the screen. “Strange,” he murmured, tilting his head. “The glowing box tells lies for fun.”

Nathan snorted. “Yeah, welcome to modern civilization.”

He left the boy still staring at the TV as he headed toward the kitchen.

Nathan pulled up a chair and opened his laptop, settling at the kitchen table. He’d decided to do his digging somewhere close to Abaddon—partly so he could keep an eye on him, and partly because he didn’t feel great about leaving the kid completely alone with the TV. Besides, this way, if Abaddon needed anything, Nathan wouldn’t have to climb a whole flight of stairs every few hours.

The keys clacked quietly as he worked, the faint murmur of whatever cartoon was playing in the background mixing with the hum of the fridge.

Nathan was starting to piece things together, little by little. The more Abaddon talked, the clearer it became that the kid didn’t know much—about anything. He didn’t know his parents, or if he even had any living relatives. When Nathan had asked who’d taken care of him, Abaddon had said “the women of my group,” which at first had sounded like an orphanage or commune. But when Nathan tried to explain what an orphanage was, the boy had just stared blankly, as if the word itself was foreign.

That was when the alarm bells started going off.

He was beginning to think Abaddon hadn’t come from any normal “group” at all—but from a cult. And not the harmless, flower-crown type either. The way the kid flinched from touch, his fear of locked doors, and the way he talked about “Leaders” like they were gods—it all painted a very grim picture.

Nathan rubbed at his temples, sighing. “Jesus, kid… what the hell did they do to you?” he muttered under his breath.

He started his research with the basics—Abaddon’s name. Having a last name would’ve helped, but “Abaddon” wasn’t exactly common, so maybe he’d get lucky. He typed it in and hit enter, eyes scanning the results.

Nothing. No missing child reports, no foster system records, no hospital files. Nothing even close.

But one thing did pop up.

A biblical reference.

Nathan clicked on it, leaning closer as the page loaded.

“Abaddon,” he read aloud, voice low. “Hebrew for ‘destruction.’ The angel of the abyss… sometimes called the Destroyer.”

He leaned back in his chair, a chill running down his spine.

“Great,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “So either his parents were religious freaks or somebody named him after a literal demon.”

His eyes flicked up toward the living room, where Abaddon was now sitting cross-legged in front of the TV, head tilted, completely transfixed by whatever was playing.

Nathan stared at him for a long moment. The kid looked so small—so normal—in that second that the whole biblical-demon thing felt almost ridiculous.

But still… the name stuck with him.

Abaddon. The Destroyer.

He sighed, typing a new search query into the bar. “Recent cult activity in the area.”

Nathan scrolled for what felt like hours, going down one useless rabbit hole after another. Most of what popped up were outdated blog posts about doomsday preachers, sketchy YouTube documentaries, and the occasional tabloid headline about secret cults in the woods. Nothing solid.

He switched search terms—but it was met with Either dead ends, conspiracy forums, or religious sites quoting scripture.

He clicked out of yet another article, groaning under his breath. “God, there’s so much crap online.” He rubbed his eyes, the glow of the laptop starting to make his head ache.

Nathan leaned back in the chair, glancing toward the living room. Abaddon was still in front of the TV, sitting closer than he should’ve been, eyes wide and unblinking. He’d found some old cartoon channel, apparently absorbed by the over-the-top villains.

The faint sound of maniacal laughter drifted into the kitchen.

“Ha! I, the Dark Lord of darkness, shall consume your soul!” the TV blared.

Abaddon’s voice echoed softly a second later, mimicking the line almost perfectly. “I, the Dark Lord of darkness, shall consume your soul!”

Nathan froze mid-scroll.

Shit—he really should’ve been watching the kid. Nathan had completely forgotten how easily impressionable kids could be.

Huh… maybe this was exactly why Katherine never let him babysit Ben and Esther again.

He blinked, looked toward the living room again—and sure enough, Abaddon was standing now, copying the exaggerated hand gestures from the screen. His tone was serious, like he believed it.

“Oh, God,” Nathan muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I should’ve watched him.”

He shut the laptop with a sigh and walked into the living room. “Hey, buddy…”

Abaddon turned, eyes bright with excitement. “Nathan! Did you know they have demons on here too? But they’re not very accurate.”

Nathan just stared at him, torn between laughing and worrying. “Yeah,” he said finally, dragging a hand down his face. “We’re… definitely setting up some screen time rules.”

Abaddon frowned, tilting his head. “Rules?”

“Yeah. Like how much hours you can spend on the TV,”

Abaddon blinked once, then nodded obediently, not arguing like most kids probably would.

Nathan grabbed the remote and switched off the TV, setting it carefully on the stand before turning back toward the boy.

“Hungry, bud?” he asked casually.

Abaddon shook his head. “No. I do not require any food right now,” he said, voice calm and oddly formal.

Nathan blinked. “Uh… require?” he repeated, raising a brow. “What are you, a robot?”

Abaddon tilted his head, confused. “Is that… bad?”

“No, no,” Nathan said quickly, trying not to laugh. “Just—normal kids don’t talk like that, y’know? You can just say you’re not hungry.”

Abaddon stared at him for a moment before repeating the words back. “I’m not hungry.”

Nathan smiled a little before ruffling the kid’s hair gently, earning a small, startled look from Abaddon before the boy relaxed just a bit.

Nathan leaned back against the wall, sighing. “Man… you really are something else, huh?”

Abaddon blinked up at him. “Is that… good?”

Nathan chuckled softly. “Yeah, kid. It’s good.”

They spent the next few hours sitting comfortably in the living room, the soft glow of the television lighting up the space. It was mostly Abaddon watching, completely absorbed, while Nathan kept an eye on him for a while before turning his attention back to the laptop he’d brought from the kitchen.

Nathan had given up trying to find any real information about Abaddon and instead started searching for tips on how to care for a clearly traumatized kid. Most of the advice boiled down to the same thing—be patient, take it slow.

He sighed, leaning back in his chair as he read. The more he thought about it, the more he realized Abaddon didn’t really have anything of his own—not even a spare change of clothes. If the kid was going to be staying for a while, Nathan was going to have to go shopping for him sooner or later.

He figured tomorrow would be a good opportunity since he was already planning a grocery run for the house. Nathan glanced over at Abaddon, who sat unusually still—watching the TV like it held the answers to life itself.

A small smile tugged at Nathan’s lips as he took in the sight. Abaddon sat cross-legged on the floor, hands neatly folded in his lap, his bright eyes glued to the screen. He had insisted on sitting there instead of on the couch, claiming the cushions were “too soft.”

Nathan had tried to change his mind, but it was no use. The kid could be surprisingly stubborn when he wanted to be.

It was getting dark, the sky fading into deep blue as the moon climbed higher. If you actually stopped to look, it was a beautiful sight. But Nathan didn’t have much time to admire it—he was too busy trying to convince Abaddon to go to bed.

The kid, however, seemed determined to resist.

“I don’t need sleep,” Abaddon said flatly, though the exhaustion in his eyes betrayed him.

“Of course you do. Now, up,” Nathan said, voice heavy with fatigue.

Abaddon stayed planted where he was, arms crossed and jaw set. Trying to lift him would’ve been pointless; the kid could be surprisingly strong when he didn’t want to move.

“Abaddon,” Nathan tried again, softer this time.

Abaddon paused, arms still crossed and a stubborn scowl fixed on his face. He was listening—that much was clear—but the kid looked like he was weighing whether Nathan’s words were worth agreeing to.

“If you go to sleep now, you’ll have more time tomorrow to watch TV or do whatever you want,” Nathan said, trying to sound reasonable.

Abaddon tilted his head slightly, clearly thinking it over. His expression gave absolutely nothing away. Man, this kid’s got a poker face, Nathan thought. It was nearly impossible to tell what was going on behind those sharp, unreadable eyes.

“Fine. It’s… agreeable,” Abaddon finally said, pushing himself to his feet with a small, reluctant sigh.

Nathan blinked, biting back a grin. “Agreeable? You sound like a fifty-year-old lawyer, kid.”

Abaddon shot him a mild glare, clearly unamused by the teasing.

“Yeah, yeah,” Nathan teased, reaching out to ruffle the boy’s hair. Abaddon immediately ducked away with a quiet noise of protest, though the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting not to smile.

“C’mon, Mr. Fancy Pants, off to bed before you turn into a pumpkin or something.”

Abaddon crossed his arms but obediently started walking toward his room, muttering, “That is not how pumpkins work.”

Nathan snorted. “Oh, my bad, Professor Pumpkin Expert. I’ll make sure to check the science next time.”

The boy shot him a look over his shoulder—a half-hearted glare that only made Nathan smile wider. There was no real bite to it, not anymore. Yeah… this was nice.

He guided Abaddon down the short hallway toward his room, their footsteps soft against the carpet. The kid rubbed his eyes once, clearly losing the battle with exhaustion but trying so hard not to show it. Nathan bit back another smile, shaking his head.

When they reached the doorway, Abaddon hesitated, glancing up at him like he was waiting for something—permission, maybe? Reassurance?

Nathan gave a small nod. “Go on, kid. You did good today.”

Abaddon lingered for a second longer before stepping into the room. He didn’t say anything, but Nathan caught the faintest flicker of something warm in his expression—trust, or maybe just relief.

“Goodnight, Abaddon,” Nathan said quietly.

Abaddon turned slightly, the dim lamp light catching his pale hair. “Goodnight… Nathan,” he murmured before disappearing inside.

Nathan leaned against the wall for a moment, letting out a slow breath. For the first time in a while, the quiet didn’t feel so heavy.

Chapter Text

The next morning was…eventful. To say the least, they were running out of food and it was becoming more obvious with each passing day. Nathan hadn’t exactly planned ahead when he brought Abaddon in. He hadn’t thought about groceries, money, or the fact that technically, he had zero legal rights to be taking care of a kid.

He rubbed a hand down his face, sighing. The fridge was nearly empty, the pantry wasn’t doing much better, and Abaddon had the kind of appetite that came from weeks—maybe months—of never knowing when his next meal would be.

Nathan leaned against the counter, staring at the meager leftovers. “Yeah, genius move,” he muttered to himself.

Still…when he thought about sending Abaddon away, to some police station or faceless agency, his stomach twisted. No, he couldn’t do that, not after seeing how scared the boy looked that first night.

He’d figure it out. Somehow.

The first thing he should probably do, Nathan thought, was a grocery run—preferably before they both starved to death.

From the kitchen, he could hear faint sounds of movement in the living room. Abaddon was sitting on the floor, playing with a few old toys he’d found left behind by previous hotel guests. The sight made Nathan smile a little. He was at least glad the kid hadn’t gotten too addicted to the television yet—small mercies.

Nathan pocketed his keys and stepped out of the kitchen, heading toward the couch where Abaddon sat. The boy looked up at him, expression as unreadable as ever.

“Hey, buddy,” Nathan said, leaning against the doorframe with a faint smile. “You ready to head out?”

Abaddon blinked slowly. “Head out…where?”

“The store,” Nathan explained, jingling the keys a little.

Abaddon tilted his head. “I thought you acquired food from the hotel.”

Nathan snorted. “Yeah, I wish. No, kid—I’ve gotta get it myself, the old-fashioned way.”

Abaddon frowned slightly, as if deeply betrayed by this revelation.

“So that means…I have to leave the hotel?” Abaddon asked quietly, his tone edged with unease.

“Yup,” Nathan said, popping the “p” playfully—but the lightness faded when he noticed the kid’s shoulders tense.

Abaddon’s gaze dropped to the floor. “Then I wish to stay,” he said simply, turning back toward the toys like the conversation was over.

Nathan blinked, thrown off. “Wait—what? That’s not how this works, bud.”

But Abaddon didn’t respond, pretending to be deeply invested in his toys, clearly hoping Nathan would drop it.

Well, Nathan couldn’t exactly just drop it. He wasn’t about to let the kid stay holed up in the hotel forever. But when Abaddon decided to be stubborn, convincing him otherwise was practically impossible.

“Abaddon, you can make this easy by getting up, or I can drag you out myself,” Nathan warned, tone firm and leaving no room for argument.

But Abaddon didn’t budge. He stayed glued to the floor, expression blank, as if Nathan’s words hadn’t even reached him.

Alright, fine. Hard way it was

Nathan stepped behind him and hooked his hands under the kid’s arms, lifting him with some effort. Abaddon squirmed and kicked, clearly not a fan of being manhandled, and it was quickly becoming clear they weren’t getting anywhere like this.

Nathan huffed, tightening his hold just enough to keep him still. “Abaddon,” he started again, this time softer, “is there a reason you don’t wanna go outside? You were fine with it a second ago.”

The boy froze mid-struggle, small shoulders stiffening. His fingers twisted into the fabric of Nathan’s sleeve, as if debating whether to hold on or pull away.

“I don’t like outside,” he muttered, barely above a whisper.

Nathan blinked. “You don’t like it?”

Abaddon nodded, but Nathan could tell that wasn’t the real reason behind his hesitation. There was something else—something that sat deeper, like fear curling just beneath the surface.

Nathan sighed softly and set the kid back down, crouching so they were face-to-face. “Hey, I get it,” he said gently. “But it’s just a quick trip, okay? We’ll grab some food and come right back. No one’s gonna bother you. Promise.”

He held out his hand, pinky extended.

Abaddon blinked at it, confused. “What is that? Some kind of ritual?” he asked flatly, tilting his head in that eerily calm way of his.

Nathan snorted, trying not to laugh. “No, no, kid—it’s a pinky promise. It means I can’t break my word.”

Abaddon hesitated, then slowly hooked his much smaller pinky around Nathan’s. His grip was hesitant but curious, eyes fixed on their joined fingers.

“What happens if I break it?” Abaddon asked after a moment, his tone so serious it almost made Nathan choke. “Do I have to cut off my pinky finger?”

“What—no!” Nathan said quickly, eyes wide. “Jeez, kid, where’d you even get that idea?”

Abaddon just shrugged, expression unreadable. “That’s what happens when you break promises where I’m from.”

That made Nathan go quiet for a moment. His hand lingered, steady and warm against Abaddon’s. “…Well,” he said finally, voice softer now, “not here. Here, it just means you’re stuck with me until we get groceries.”

Abaddon nodded slowly, seeming to take Nathan’s words to heart—or at least trying to. His shoulders relaxed just a little, and for the first time that morning, he didn’t look like he was ready to bolt.

But just as one dilemma was solved, another problem seemed to arise.

“I’m not getting in that monstrosity,” Abaddon declared, eyeing the car like it had personally offended him.

Nathan blinked. He was starting to get used to Abaddon’s strange way of speaking—it was oddly formal for a kid his age—and hearing words like monstrosity still threw him off.

“Come on, Abaddon, it’s just a short ride,” Nathan said, trying to sound reassuring. “Won’t even take that long.”

Abaddon looked between Nathan and the car, weighing his options with a sigh. “Fine. But the cereal had better be worthy of the sacrifice I’m making.”

Nathan snorted, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, your royal highness.”

Grumbling under his breath, Abaddon  reluctantly climbed into the back seat. He leaned over to buckle the kid in, though he had to improvise since he didn’t exactly have a car seat for Abaddon—hadn’t really planned on suddenly becoming a guardian, after all.

Abaddon eyed him the whole time, suspicion written all over his face. Nathan just rolled his eyes and grinned. “Relax, kid. I’m not plotting your demise.”

Abaddon huffed, crossing his arms as the car started. “We’ll see about that.”

Rolling his eyes, Nathan made his way to the driver’s seat and slid in. The engine rumbled to life a moment later. It wasn’t going to be a long drive, but he still preferred not to sit in silence, so he turned on the radio—just low enough to fill the quiet.

As soft music played, Nathan hummed along under his breath, fingers tapping lightly on the steering wheel. While Abaddon sat quietly, gaze fixed out the window, watching the world rush by with a mix of curiosity and unease.

When they entered the store, the bright, artificial lights hit them hard. Abaddon blinked, looking a little overwhelmed by the sudden brightness and noise. Without realizing it, he reached out and grabbed a handful of Nathan’s sweater.

Nathan glanced down and smiled softly before resting a hand on the boy’s head. Then, he grabbed a cart, earning a curious look from Abaddon.

“Wanna ride in it?” Nathan asked, half-teasing.

Abaddon frowned and shook his head firmly.

“All right, suit yourself,” Nathan said with a shrug, starting down the first aisle. “Let’s see… we need eggs, fruit, vegetables—oh, and maybe something sweet. Dessert never hurts.” Nathan muttered absentmindedly, realizing he probably should’ve made a list.

Abaddon walked quietly beside him, small footsteps echoing against the tile as they turned down another aisle.

Nathan pushed the cart forward, eyes scanning the shelves while his mind ran through a mental list of what they were low on. The soft hum of the store filled the air—shopping carts squeaking, quiet chatter from other customers, the distant beep of registers.

Beside him, Abaddon trailed close, his small hand brushing the side of Nathan’s sweater every so often as if to make sure he didn’t wander too far. His wide eyes darted around, taking everything in—the bright lights, the endless rows of colorful boxes, the hum of the refrigerators.

Nathan tossed a few things into the cart—bread, milk, eggs—occasionally glancing down at the kid. Abaddon was tense, shoulders drawn tight, his expression unreadable but his movements too stiff to go unnoticed.

Nathan slowed his pace, trying not to make it obvious he was watching. He could tell this was all too new for Abaddon. The world outside the hotel… loud, bright, unpredictable. It was no wonder the kid clung to silence like it was safety.

Eventually, they reached the freezer section—the air colder, their breath faintly visible against the glass doors. Nathan reached for a box of frozen vegetables, shivering a little as he tossed it into the cart. He was just about to move on when a familiar voice called his name.

He turned, blinking in surprise. Standing a few feet away was a woman with blonde hair, pushing her cart toward him and Abaddon, smiling easily.

“Oh, wow, it’s a surprise to see you here, Nathan,” she started. Nathan smiled faintly—he hadn’t really been talking to anyone much lately, aside from his sister over the past few weeks.

“You’ve been taking care of yourself, haven’t you?” she continued before interrupting herself. “How have you been? Oh gosh, it’s been such a long time since we spoke. How’s your sister?”

She rambled on. Sadie looked the same as he remembered, only a bit happier, more confident.

“Good,” he replied. “Same for Kathy, but she could tell you herself.”

Sadie nodded, blinking in surprise before glancing around.

“Um, where’s the kid that was here? I thought he was yours since, you know…”

Nathan suddenly realized Abaddon wasn’t beside him anymore. Panic prickled his chest as he scanned the aisles—no sign of the boy. Oh no…had he already lost him?

“Sorry, Sadie, I’ve got to find Abaddon—the kid you were just talking about,” Nathan said, halfway turning the cart toward a different aisle, hoping the boy hadn’t wandered too far. Sadie nodded, giving him an apologetic, concerned look.

Nathan wove through the aisles, glancing behind shelves and between stacks of products. His heart thumped faster with every empty glance. He asked a few shoppers nearby, their faces sympathetic but shaking their heads, telling him they hadn’t seen a little boy.

Nathan’s chest tightened, and he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He paused in the middle of the aisle, scanning once more for any sign of Abaddon, willing the boy to just peek out from somewhere familiar.

He took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “Okay…think,” he muttered, scanning the faces of shoppers and glancing at every corner.

With renewed focus, he pushed forward, scanning every aisle until he found the boy.

Abaddon hadn’t meant to wander so far from Nathan, but something had caught his attention—enough to pull him away without realizing it. By the time he looked up, Nathan was nowhere in sight.

He tried retracing his steps, though every aisle looked the same, and his efforts only left him more frustrated. Still, he was sure this was where he and Nathan had been just a few minutes ago…wasn’t it?

A flicker of unease crawled up his chest. What if Nathan had left him? The thought was ridiculous—he knew that—but the longer he stood there, the harder it was to shake the feeling.

It was just a thought at first, but the longer he searched without finding Nathan, the more it started to feel real. His chest tightened as his eyes drifted to the shelves stacked with box-shaped food and strange shapes that all blurred together in his vision. He didn’t recognize any of it.

He was in a different aisle now, and still, no sign of Nathan. A faint dizziness crept in, followed by a heavy, nameless dread that made his stomach twist. He told himself he was being ridiculous. Nathan would come back for him.

His hand felt clammy, but he ignored it, forcing himself to focus on the movement around him. A little girl about his age walked by, holding her mother’s hand. The woman met Abaddon’s eyes briefly and offered a small, kind smile before turning back to her daughter.

He didn’t know how to react to that—a stranger smiling at him. It felt strange, almost uncomfortable. Philip would probably be amazed that Abaddon even got to see the “outside world” at all. The thought made his chest tighten. Thinking about Philip and the others only stirred the anger he tried to bury—anger that they’d left him.

But Nathan had changed that. Living with him was…different. Easier. He didn’t have to deal with those stupid rituals anymore—the forced touches, the embraces he never agreed to but was expected to accept.

He wasn’t sure why the thought made his chest feel tight. Maybe it was just the anger talking. He was mad—furious, even—but buried somewhere beneath that fury was relief. Relief that, with Nathan, he didn’t have to let anyone touch him if he didn’t want to.

Abaddon sat on the cold, hard floor, his back pressed against the wall. The only reason he’d been left behind was because the ritual had failed—well, partially failed. It had worked, just not the way they wanted. And maybe that was his fault. He’d knocked over one of the scriptures mid-chant, sending it crashing to the ground and breaking the circle.

He ran a finger along his teeth, wincing when he felt the sharper edges. They hadn’t been like that before. He’d been trying to hide it from Nathan, forcing himself not to smile too wide or speak too much.

Curling his fists, he dug his nails into his palms until he felt a sting. The pain grounded him, made it easier to focus. it was something real, something he could focus on instead of the strange, growing wrongness inside him.

Abaddon didn’t realize his breathing had turned shallow until his chest began to ache, each inhale tighter than the last. It felt like something heavy was pressing down on him, squeezing the air from his lungs. Panic clawed its way up his throat as he tried to stand, his vision tilting slightly. What was happening? Why couldn’t he breathe?

He heard footsteps approaching—slow, hesitant. The faint scuff of shoes grew louder until he could feel someone’s presence nearby. A moment later, a girl with high pigtails came into view. She had offered him a small, nervous smile.

“Can you focus on your breathing?” she asked softly, her hands hovering uncertainly in the air between them. She hadn’t touched him yet—and it was a good thing too. He was pretty sure if she had, he might’ve bitten her.

“Um… is it okay if I touch you?” she asked after a pause, meeting his eyes for permission.

Abaddon shook his head quickly. The girl nodded, understanding, and lowered her hands to her lap.

“That’s fine,” she murmured. “Just concentrate on your breathing, okay? In… and out.”

Abaddon tried to follow along, his chest rising unevenly. The sound of the store faded into a distant hum—the squeak of carts, the buzz of lights, the faint chatter of strangers.

She kept her voice calm. “You’re not in trouble. You just got lost, right? Happens to everyone.”

Abaddon didn’t respond, only exhaled shakily. The air still felt too thick to breathe, but her tone—gentle, certain, helped anchor him just a little.

Once his breathing returned to normal, the girl seemed to relax too. She smiled a little, reaching into her pocket. The pink tips of her hair caught the light as she pulled something out.

“Here,” she said, holding out two small items.

Abaddon blinked, confused. “What’s this?”

The girl tilted her head, giving him a look like he’d just asked whether the sky was real. “Wait—you don’t know what a sticker is?” she said, half teasing, half genuinely baffled.

Abaddon frowned. “No.”

She sighed dramatically but smiled again. “Okay, watch closely.” She gestured for him to hand one over, and he did so—reluctantly. She peeled off the backing with a kind of practiced care and held it up for him to see.

“See? Once you take this part off, it sticks to practically anything.”

To prove her point, she pressed the sticker onto her name tag, where it clung proudly. Abaddon’s eyes widened slightly in curiosity.

“Here,” she said, handing him the rest. “You can keep them all.”

She pointed to the other thing in his hand. “And that one’s a lollipop—you eat it.”

Abaddon nodded slowly, standing up as she did. The lollipop felt oddly heavy in his palm.

“Come on,” she said gently. “Let’s get you back to your parents before they start panicking.”

He didn’t correct her. It wasn’t worth explaining that Nathan wasn’t exactly his parent.

When they finally found Nathan, relief washed over his face so clearly that Abaddon couldn’t help but pause. He didn’t really understand why it mattered so much—but seeing that look made something in his chest loosen. Maybe Nathan hadn’t planned on leaving him after all.

The girl gave Nathan a once-over, her expression guarded for a second before softening as she took in how worried he looked. She handed Abaddon over without a word, and Nathan immediately took his hand, gripping it tightly as they walked toward the exit.

Outside, the air felt warmer compared to the chilly aisles inside. Nathan led him across the parking lot—that’s what he’d called it earlier when Abaddon asked why people didn’t just park their cars anywhere.

“Man, I am never letting you out of my sight again,” Nathan muttered under his breath, sounding half-exhausted, half-relieved.

Abaddon ignored the comment, deciding it was either some strange human curse or just Nathan’s way of talking to himself. Either way, he stayed quiet.

The rest of the trip passed without incident. When they finally made it back to the hotel, Nathan popped open the trunk and began hauling out bags full of groceries. Abaddon stood nearby, just watching him struggle for a bit before Nathan shot him a look.

“You could, you know… help,” Nathan said, panting slightly.

Abaddon sighed, stepping forward to grab one of the lighter bags. “Fine,” he muttered. “But only because you look utterly pathetic.”

Nathan gave him a look but didn’t comment.

Once they’d hauled the bags inside the hotel room, Nathan began unpacking them one by one. Abaddon helped—though not out of obligation, more out of curiosity about what Nathan had brought back.

“Here, your cereal,” Nathan said, setting the box on the counter. “You’re probably starving after that trip. Though cereal’s not exactly dinner, so I’ll make you something proper after, alright?”

Abaddon’s eyes drifted to the box. He could read the words well enough—he’d been taught the basics—but it wasn’t the letters that drew him in. It was the bright, swirling colors, the cartoon shapes almost leaping off the surface.

He poured the Fruit Loops into a bowl, watching the colors tumble and clatter against the porcelain, and took a bite. The sweetness was startling—almost too much—but he didn’t stop eating.

“Whoa, you’re just gonna eat it like that?” Nathan asked, watching him with an amused grin.

Abaddon paused mid-bite, frowning. “Is there…something else I was supposed to do?”

Nathan chuckled, shaking his head. “Most people eat it with milk, you goofball.”

Abaddon blinked at the box, then back at Nathan. “Mm. I’ll keep that in mind,” he said simply, before returning to his cereal.

Nathan laughed under his breath, but Abaddon didn’t notice—he was too focused on the crunch and sweetness, deciding this was probably the best thing he’d ever tasted.

When Abaddon finished eating, Nathan was already done unpacking the groceries and was twisting open a small bottle. Abaddon’s stomach dropped when he realized what it was—pills.

He froze, watching as Nathan casually swallowed one whole. Nathan caught the boy’s intense stare and raised a brow, half-confused, half-amused.

“What’s up with that look?” he asked, reaching out to ruffle Abaddon’s hair.

Abaddon frowned, eyes flicking to the bottle now resting on the counter. “What’s that for?” he asked, pointing.

“These?” Nathan lifted the bottle. “They’re pills—and they’re not for you, kid.”

“I know what they are,” Abaddon snapped, sharper than usual. “Why do you need them?”

The sudden flash of anger threw Nathan off. Abaddon was a lot of things—quiet, stubborn, occasionally a little bratty—but not angry. Not like this.

“They help me sleep,” Nathan said gently, softening his tone. “Nothing scary, promise.”

Abaddon’s expression didn’t change. His gaze stayed locked on the bottle like it was something venomous. Nathan had a strange feeling the kid knew exactly how dangerous pills could be—just not that they could also help.

Still, he decided to make it crystal clear.

“Do. Not. Touch. Them.” Nathan said firmly, tapping Abaddon’s nose for emphasis.

Abaddon scrunched his face in annoyance, swatting at his hand with a glare that screamed how dare you, but Nathan just chuckled under his breath, relieved the kid wasn’t spiraling.

“Got that?” he asked.

Abaddon crossed his arms and muttered, “Got it,” though his eyes lingered on the bottle a moment longer.

Chapter Text

Abaddon woke before the sun, the room still pitch black. The darkness told him everything—he had stirred from a bad dream, though it felt more like a nightmare. Unlike most dreams, this one was painfully real.

He stayed awake long after, watching the faint glow of the horizon slowly creep across the blinds. Normally, he didn’t rise before Nathan—except for the very first time they met—but today was different.

Abaddon rarely slept, only collapsing after hours without sleeping. If Priscilla were here, she’d scold him for it, tell him he needed rest…but she wasn’t. and that thought only made him angrier.

He wiped at his tears roughly, angry at himself for even letting them fall. He didn’t need her. He didn’t need anyone.

He got out of bed; wallowing in pity sounded awful. Besides, he was hungry.

Abaddon made his way into the kitchen, heading straight for the Fruit Loops he had eaten yesterday. Nathan had told him it would be better with milk—but hadn’t mentioned how long to let it soak.

He waited until the cereal was fully saturated. Taking a bite, he grimaced. Too soggy. It felt weird on his tongue. Dry was definitely better.

A noise on the stairs made him look up. Nathan was coming down, still looking tired. “Good morning, bud.”

Abaddon just nodded, still a little annoyed that Nathan had lied about the milk making it better. He shoved the soggy cereal aside; there was no way he could stomach another bite.

Nathan sat down across from him, glancing at the bowl of cereal that had been set aside. He grimaced.

“Why did you let them dissolve in the milk for that long? Nobody likes soggy cereal,” he said, looking up at a grumpy Abaddon.

“Somebody forgot to mention that,” Abaddon replied, deadpan. Nathan laughed. The kid could be so dramatic sometimes.

They finished breakfast with Nathan making pancakes for Abaddon, along with a side of eggs, after the boy admitted he had never had pancakes before. Nathan had to stop him from pouring the entire bottle of syrup on at once, though.

Now Abaddon sat in the living room, playing with the toys Nathan had found for him and some he’d ordered online, along with the new clothes Nathan had bought. Though Abaddon hadn’t tried the clothes on yet—he wasn’t sure about trying something new.

Nathan had left for a few hours, saying he needed to get some work done. Abaddon felt restless, though he couldn’t say why—Nathan’s absence just made the emptiness more noticeable.

To keep busy, he picked up his drawing materials, but even that soon grew dull. His eyes wandered around the hotel, realizing he hadn’t explored all the rooms or hiding spots yet. Curiosity nudged him forward—maybe a little adventure would help pass the time.

Abaddon decided to explore from the bottom floor up. He discovered plenty of interesting things—a staircase leading somewhere he hadn’t checked, two hidden passageways, and even a vent he somehow managed to crawl into.

The more secret paths he uncovered, the more his excitement grew. What had started as a restless day quickly turned into a small adventure.

Abaddon perched in the vent, plotting his next move. Maybe he could scare Nathan—it sounded fun and thrilling.

He crawled through the maze of vents, searching for the one that led to Nathan’s room. Most vents connected to every room, with a few exceptions, but finally, he spotted the grille.

Peeking through the slats, Abaddon saw Nathan sitting on his bed, headphones on, absorbed in whatever was playing on his computer.

Hmm…how was he supposed to scare Nathan if he couldn’t hear him? A sly grin spread across Abaddon’s face as he grabbed one of his toys—a small plastic sword from an action figure—perfectly sized to fit through the vent.

Abaddon tossed the plastic sword down, landing it just inside Nathan’s line of sight. Nathan glanced up, confused, then went back to his screen. That wasn’t going to work.

Next, Abaddon flung a plastic bag from one of the dolls. Nathan looked up again, this time more annoyed—he probably thought it was a bug.

Nathan got up from the bed and yanked off his headphones. Abaddon rattled the vent, making a soft clattering noise.

He caught a faint murmur from Nathan: “Wait… do I have rats again?” Nathan paused, then moved away from the vent.

Abaddon grinned to himself. deciding he’d repeat this little game again, letting Nathan’s anxiety build…and then he’d strike.

Once he’d finished his mini prank, Abaddon returned to the living room. His next plan was to watch TV while Nathan finished his work, though he doubted nathan would be very focused after being terrorized.

Abaddon spent the next few hours sprawled across the couch, watching whatever cartoon happened to flicker on the screen. The colors blurred together—bright shapes, and exaggerated laughter. He didn’t fully understand what was happening, but he liked the noise. It filled the silence that settled whenever Nathan wasn’t around.

He absentmindedly kicked his feet against the couch cushions, eyes half-lidded as the glow from the TV painted the room in soft light.

It was still bright outside, the sunlight tinted with a soft orange hue as noon crept closer. Abaddon sighed quietly, the sound barely audible over the cartoon’s chatter. He shifted on the couch, inching closer to the television, his frame leaning forward. The screen’s glow reflected in his eyes as he tried to balance himself—careful not to slip off the edge of the cushion.

Abaddon glanced toward the window near the kitchen, his gaze drifting past the glass to the stretch of woods behind the hotel. The trees stood still and endless, their shadows tangled together in the fading light. He wondered, just for a moment, if Nathan would let him go there—if he asked.

He looked away, turning his attention back to the cartoon flickering across the screen. The noise filled the quiet room, soft and distant, like background chatter to his wandering thoughts.

He curled up on the couch, pulling the blanket Nathan had left there over his legs. The warmth was comforting, even if he’d never admit it aloud. His eyelids grew heavy, the colors on the screen blurring together.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows through the window. The woods behind the hotel darkened, the last streaks of orange fading into grey.

By the time Nathan came downstairs again, the TV was still on—but Abaddon had already drifted off, the faint sound of laughter from the cartoon echoing through the quiet room.

That’s how most nights ended now.

Chapter Text

Abaddon followed as Priscilla’s sister, Dorothy, held his hand in a firm grip. Her expression was unreadable—calm, maybe even a little excited—but her hold on him was anything but gentle.

After Priscilla’s death, Dorothy had taken her place, overseeing everything about Abaddon’s care and routine. He tried to pull his hand free, but she only tightened her grasp, giving him a sharp, disapproving look.

He huffed quietly, irritation bubbling beneath his calm exterior. He didn’t need anyone to hold his hand. He could walk just fine on his own.

But Dorothy didn’t seem to think that. Maybe she believed he’d run off if she let go. Still, she had nothing to worry about—Abaddon was one of the most devoted to the cause, even if he didn’t always act like it. This was his purpose, after all—to become a vessel for their god.

He stopped dragging his feet and started walking properly, which seemed to please Dorothy. Her tense shoulders eased, and she no longer looked ready to smack him on the back of the head for his attitude.

Todd stood at the center of the hall, waiting for them to approach. Abaddon’s gaze drifted past him to where Philip sat near the edge beside his father. His mother was absent again, her seat empty, her presence missed. It seemed her condition had worsened, perhaps beyond recovery.

Abaddon turned his attention back to Dorothy, who was leading him up toward the altar and toward Todd. The man’s hand landed heavy on his shoulder, pushing him forward. Abaddon stiffened at the touch; he hated it, but he’d long since learned to endure it.

“Today,” Todd began, voice bright with false cheer, “we gather to witness the new beginning of our god and to celebrate his return.”

It was a stark contrast to how Abaddon felt. He wasn’t exactly scared, or so he told himself but doubt gnawed at him all the same.

What if he messed it up? What if they realized he wasn’t enough?

If that happened…then what was he even for? The thought twisted in his chest, heavy and cold. Abaddon clenched his jaw, forcing his expression blank as Dorothy stepped back, taking her place behind the altar like the other higher members.

“Abaddon,” Todd said, his tone soft but unmistakably firm, “give me your hand.”

It almost sounded like a request but Abaddon knew better. Wordlessly, he lifted his hand, offering it out because refusal wasn’t an option.

Todd brought the knife closer to Abaddon’s palm before dragging the blade across it in one smooth, practiced motion. Abaddon didn’t flinch, he never did. He only watched as blood trickled down his hand, dark drops splattering against the floor. The cut was deeper than usual. It stung, but the pain was familiar—almost comforting in its predictability.

Then hands seized him. One person pressed down on his shoulders, forcing him to his knees, while another began winding rough ropes around his wrists and arms. The sudden restraint made his muscles tense, his breath hitching.

Todd, noticing the stiffness in his posture, reached out and brushed a hand over Abaddon’s hair in what was supposed to be a soothing gesture. “Easy now,” he murmured, his tone falsely gentle. “It’ll be over soon.”

“This is just to make sure you don’t run away,” Todd said lightly, though the words did nothing to ease Abaddon’s growing unease. The ropes bit into his skin, coarse and unyielding. When they finally stepped back, he noticed the strange markings painted beneath him—intricate symbols spiraling outward from where he sat. They weren’t like any of the old runes he’d been taught before. These were new…

The chanting began soon after, echoing through the room. Abaddon sat still in the center of it all, trying to ignore the rising dread in his chest. Their voices blurred together, old words that no longer made sense to him. Instead, his focus stayed on the bindings, on the way they bit into his arms whenever he shifted.

He just wanted it to be over.

It took several minutes before the chanting finally stopped, fading into heavy silence that filled the room. Nothing seemed different—no divine light, no voice from above just the dull ache in Abaddon’s legs from sitting in that uncomfortable position for so long.

He opened his mouth to ask if it was over, if they could untie him already when a sudden wave of agony tore through his body. It hit fast, white-hot, burning from the inside out. Abaddon cried out, collapsing onto his knees as the pain twisted through his veins like fire.

He tried to push himself up, his arms trembling, but his body gave out again. The third time, he somehow managed to stand, his breath ragged, eyes unfocused. Around him, the leaders began to stir—panic flickering across their faces.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Abaddon staggered forward, desperate to escape the burning pain crawling under his skin. His vision blurred as he stumbled out of the marked space, knocking something over with a sharp clatter. He barely registered it everything hurt too much. His teeth ached violently, like something sharp was forcing its way through them, splitting bone and flesh.

A pair of hands seized him roughly, dragging him out of the half-circle of symbols. The sudden contact made him jolt, a strangled sound ripping from his throat. Only then did he realize he’d been screaming the entire time raw, hoarse, his voice cracking from the effort.

“Abaddon! Abaddon!”

Abaddon shot up from the bed, nearly colliding with Nathan’s chest. His eyes stung, and he could only assume he’d been crying in his sleep. Nathan looked terrified—his wide eyes locked on Abaddon and only him.

“Abaddon, are you all right? You were screaming in your sleep,” Nathan said, his hands gripping Abaddon’s shoulders tightly.

Abaddon stared ahead, unfocused, breathing shallow. Then, instinctively, he reached out and clung to Nathan, seeking comfort in the only warmth he could find.

After a few minutes of silence, Abaddon finally spoke. “Can—can you stay?”

The words came out rushed, like he was afraid that if he hesitated, Nathan might say no.

“Of course,” Nathan said softly. “Even if you hadn’t asked, I would’ve stayed.” He gave a small, tired smile. “You look like death, by the way.”

He tried to joke, hoping to lighten the heavy air between them.

But Abaddon took the joke literally, his brows furrowing as he stared up at Nathan in concern. The kid never really understood humor, or when Nathan was joking. To him, words always meant exactly what they sounded like.

“Do I… really look like death?” he asked quietly, glancing down at his hands like they might be proof.

Nathan blinked, guilt flashing across his face before he sighed and ruffled Abaddon’s messy hair. “No, bud. It’s just an expression. You’re fine—promise.”

Abaddon nodded slowly, still uncertain, and leaned against Nathan’s arm. He didn’t say anything else, but the way his grip tightened slightly around Nathan’s sleeve said enough—he didn’t want him going anywhere.

It took a few minutes before he heard Abaddon’s breathing even out again, slow and steady—the kid was asleep. Truth be told, when Nathan had first heard him screaming, he thought something terrible had happened, that Abaddon was being hurt or attacked. But no—it had just been a nightmare. A bad one, by the looks of it.

The way the kid had clung to him, trembling and crying in his sleep, made it clear this wasn’t just an ordinary dream. Whatever he’d seen had left its mark. Nathan exhaled softly, rubbing a hand over his face. He was too exhausted to start unpacking whatever trauma that might’ve been, not tonight.

Abaddon had mumbled something about him staying, and Nathan hadn’t had the heart to say no. The kid had even offered his bed—though Nathan wasn’t sure either of them was ready for that kind of closeness yet.

So instead, he’d dragged over a chair from the corner of the room, setting it beside the bed. He leaned back, crossing his arms as he watched Abaddon’s chest rise and fall in the dim light.

“Guess I’m not getting much sleep tonight,” he muttered under his breath, but his tone was soft—almost fond.

“Abaddon, how about you step away from the TV and help me cut these vegetables?” Nathan called out, half amused by how easily the kid got sucked into whatever cartoon was playing.

It was early afternoon, hours after the nightmare—and Nathan had spent most of the day trying to keep Abaddon distracted. He suspected the boy knew exactly what he was doing but was kind enough to play along anyway. Abaddon had even agreed to take a shower, though “reluctantly” was putting it mildly. The kid still hated the idea of being drenched in water, claiming it felt “unnatural.”

“Why?” Abaddon said without looking away from the screen. “You look like you’re doing fine on your own.”

Nathan tried not to laugh at the deadpan delivery. “Why, you ask? Simple. I need your expert assistance. You seem exceptionally skilled at cutting and chopping.” He kept his voice serious, like it was a matter of national importance.

Abaddon blinked, clearly considering it. Then, with a dramatic sigh, he stood up. “Very well. It seems like you’re in desperate need of help,” he said smugly, sauntering toward the counter.

Nathan rolled his eyes, a grin tugging at his lips. “God, this kid,” he muttered under his breath, but there was warmth in his tone.

He watched as Abaddon neatly cut the vegetables, his small hands moving with surprising precision. It was such a contrast from a few weeks ago, when the kid could barely hold a knife without looking like he’d stab himself by accident. Nathan liked giving him small tasks while cooking; it made the whole process more enjoyable, more…homey.

Moments like these made him wonder what it would be like to have kids of his own. Maybe even a girlfriend. The thought always caught him off guard; having kids had never been one of his priorities. Sure, he liked spending time with them, but they could be exhausting.

Abaddon, though, was different. He had this strange mix of maturity and innocence—like an old soul stuck in a kid’s body. Lately, though, Nathan had seen more of his childish side peek through. Like right now, as he watched Abaddon poke at the vegetables he’d just cut, pretending they were tiny soldiers lined up for battle.

Nathan couldn’t help but chuckle, shaking his head as he turned back to the stove. He sprinkled some seasoning into the simmering beef stew, the kitchen filling with the warm, savory scent of dinner.

“Okay, Abaddon—bring your vegetables over,” Nathan called, glancing over his shoulder with a small grin.

Abaddon didn’t move right away, just stared at the neatly arranged vegetables on the cutting board like he was contemplating whether to actually give them up. Nathan raised an eyebrow.

“Abaddon…” he warned lightly, that amused tone slipping into his voice.

The kid finally sighed, scooping up the vegetables with exaggerated care as if they were priceless treasures. “You better not ruin them,” he muttered under his breath while walking over.

Nathan chuckled. “I promise I’ll treat them with the respect they deserve,” he said, reaching out for the bowl.

Abaddon handed it over, still watching suspiciously as Nathan dumped the vegetables into the pot. When the stew began to sizzle and the smell of onions and herbs filled the air, Abaddon’s suspicion softened into curiosity.

He leaned closer to the pot, eyes wide. “It smells…good,” he said, almost surprised.

“Well, thank you—that’s because you helped too,” Nathan said warmly, flashing Abaddon a grin as he gave the stew another lazy stir.

Abaddon looked at him for a moment, like he wasn’t sure whether to believe that or not. Compliments still seemed foreign to him—like something he didn’t quite know how to react to. Eventually, he looked away, mumbling a quiet, “…I guess.”

Nathan chuckled under his breath. “No guessing about it, kid. You’re a natural chef in the making.”

“Maybe we should open a restaurant,” Nathan said with a teasing grin.

“Maybe…your hotel isn’t doing that well anyway,” Abaddon replied, blunt as ever.

Nathan paused, hand over his heart in mock offense. “Ouch, kid. You really know how to hit where it hurts.”

Abaddon just shrugged, completely unfazed. “I’m just being honest.”

Nathan laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “Yeah, yeah, remind me never to hire you for public relations.”

Abaddon looked at him curiously. “What’s that?”

“Someone who’s supposed to make a business sound good,” Nathan explained with a grin. “Something you’d be terrible at.”

Abaddon rolled his eyes. “Then I’ll just be the chef.”

“Deal,” Nathan said, smiling. “As long as I get to be the taste tester.”

Before they knew it, they were done cooking. The smell of stew filled the kitchen, rich and warm, clinging to the air like a comforting blanket. Nathan moved around the counter with practiced ease, setting out bowls and utensils, while Abaddon busied himself arranging the table.

He took the task seriously—maybe a little too seriously—straightening each fork and plate with laser focus. Nathan couldn’t help but notice how careful he was, how he kept glancing back to make sure everything looked “right.”

The soft clatter of dishes, the faint bubbling from the pot on the stove, and the fading hum of the TV from the other room made the moment feel strangely domestic—ordinary, even.

For a fleeting second, it felt like a home. it was home.

They’d finished eating and were now relaxing in the living room—Nathan lounging on the couch while Abaddon sprawled on the floor, quietly drawing. The steady scratch of pencil against paper filled the calm space.

Nathan had already decided he’d bake cookies later—something sweet to end the day. Maybe they could even watch a movie afterward, make a whole evening out of it. A movie night sounded…nice.

It would be fun, and maybe even something Abaddon could look back on fondly. Maybe it could become a little tradition between them—if Abaddon stayed that long. The thought made Nathan’s chest tighten. He had no real authority over the kid, no legal claim. Eventually, he’d have to call the police or CPS.

But for now…he just wanted to pretend none of that existed.

Nathan leaned his head back, watching the faint light from the windows shift across the room as the sun began to dip lower. It was peaceful, the kind of stillness he hadn’t realized he’d been craving. Abaddon seemed content too, brow furrowed in concentration, the little crease between his eyebrows appearing whenever he was deep in thought.

Before he knew it, night had fallen. Nathan was in the kitchen, gathering the ingredients to bake cookies, while Abaddon sat on a chair by the counter, his half-finished drawing resting beside him. He watched Nathan move around the kitchen, quietly curious, the faint flicker of excitement in his eyes betraying how much he was looking forward to the warm, sweet smell of cookies filling the room.

The kid had only eaten cookies twice in his entire life—and that, Nathan thought, was a crime in itself. No child should go through life barely knowing the taste of something so simple and sweet. As Nathan mixed the dough, he glanced at Abaddon, who was now leaning forward slightly, watching every step with intense focus. The boy’s eyes followed the spoon, the flour, the chocolate chips, as if memorizing each movement.

After they finished making the cookies, Nathan carefully slid the tray into the oven while Abaddon stood by, eyes fixed on the glass window as if watching the cookie dough rise. The smell of sweet dough and melting chocolate slowly filled the kitchen.

While they waited, Nathan started preparing popcorn for their movie night. The microwave hummed, and the first few pops made Abaddon flinch in surprise before curiosity took over.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing at the microwave as the bag puffed up.

“Popcorn,” Nathan said, tossing him a grin.

Abaddon tilted his head, unconvinced. “But it looks nothing like corn,” he said flatly, like his observation was some kind of undeniable truth.

Nathan just laughed under his breath, shaking his head as the popping grew louder. The room was filled with the rhythm of popcorn bursting, the soft glow from the oven, and for a moment, everything felt calm—simple.

Before he knew it, everything was ready—the cookies were cooling on the counter, the popcorn bowl was full, and all that was left was choosing a movie.

“The classic or the modern version?” Nathan asked, scrolling through the options.

“Mmm… this one,” Abaddon said, pointing at random. Nathan chuckled, already knowing what that meant.

“Classic it is,” he decided. And so, The Lion King began to play, the golden light of the opening scene flickering across the room as they settled in for their first real movie night together.

Halfway through the movie, Abaddon had drifted off to sleep. Nathan noticed but kept watching until the credits rolled, the quiet hum of the TV filling the room. Abaddon was curled up against his side, breathing steady, his face soft and peaceful in a way Nathan didn’t often see.

Nathan sighed quietly, glancing down at the kid before leaning back against the couch. Dragging them both to bed felt like too much effort, and honestly, he didn’t want to disturb abaddon. So he turned off the TV, got comfortable, and decided to sleep right there—fully aware he’d regret it in the morning when his neck inevitably locked up.