Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You know what you should study for your thesis? “Can people develop super powers over time?”

It sounds outrageous, but consider this case study.

Case: you.

Your life could be split into two very distinct eras, BR and AR (Before Roommate and After Roommate). Consider Before Roommate, when you had an average sleep schedule (well, as average as a college student was able to get). In your opinion, you had been a moderately light sleeper; you could still fall asleep when your previous roommate was downstairs talking on the phone, but you would not be able to sleep through the loud, thumping bass of your neighbour’s choice in music at god awful hours in the morning. Now consider After Roommate, when you’re still more or less on the same sleep schedule, but with one more major sensitivity to one specific sound.

Shing. (Or whatever the cool kids have decided is the sound effect of the year for metal noises.) Your eyes narrow and you jolt upwards out of bed at the quiet, almost indiscernible sound coming from the living room. It’s the sound of metal on metal, like someone carefully running two knives along each other. Or someone sliding a sword back into its sheath.

You slide yourself slowly out of bed, easing yourself off slowly to prevent it from creaking. You tread carefully over your carpeted floor towards your closed door, holding your breath all the while. Just in case the sound of you breathing is enough to alert him. You know he’s down there— it’s like he never sleeps— but you have never been able to catch him once in the act.

You pause at your door, mentally bracing yourself to open it.

3…

2…

1…

Your door is flung open with a bang right at the same time that a green blur races into the room across from yours and shuts with an equally loud bang.

“Damnit Genji!” you shout at the closed door. “What have we said about training at 3 AM?”

The door cracks open just the smallest sliver, enough so that you can see your roommate’s silhouette. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes, sincerity ringing loud and true in his tone though his voice is soft and quiet. “I really didn’t mean to wake you.”

“It’s fine,” you say like you always do, “I wasn’t really asleep anyways.” You don’t think you could exactly tell Genji that you might be developing supernatural powers able to tell you when someone was swinging a sword around your living room.

Genji bids you goodnight, and you mumble a “goodnight” in return as you backtrack into your room.

You’d have to say that the ability to be able to detect the sounds of Genji’s ninja training might have been useful anywhere else (hey, it pays off to detect would-be ninja assassins), but with your current roommate you were sure that if Genji wanted you dead, you’d only notice after you wind up in the afterlife.

...

Other than Genji’s need to practice his swordsmanship at strange hours, he is more or less the roommate you had been hoping for. He disappears sometimes for no reason, but he always made sure to leave his rent with you.

(Which was better than some roommates you’ve had in the past. Including one who you actually threatened with a whisk and told him to pay up your damn rent, you spineless shitstain, or face the wrath of He Whose Name Rules Supreme: The Landlord.)

So far, everything was good. Genji didn’t even take your food, which was more than you could say for your last roommate. (You weren’t even sure that your roommate ate, to be honest.) The most he asked of you was to be quiet during his meditation hours in the afternoon, bless this man.

But occasionally shit happens because it’s like some higher being carved the words “SHIT SHALL HAPPEN” on a giant stone slab and slammed it into the uncaring void with such fervent passion that the universe was spontaneously created from those three words. So, shit happens.

“Genji, you better tell me that’s ketchup stains on the couch.”

“That’s ketchup stains on the couch,” Genji says evenly, looking terribly calm and collected despite his swollen eye, bloody nose, and what you suspect are gashes on his arm (or a tattoo, but why would Genji want tattoos of bloody open wounds on his forearms? You were supposed to be the irresponsible decision maker). He had an air of nonchalance about him, as if he weren’t bloodying up the damn couch.

“You dirty liar.”

“To make you feel better,” Genji averts his eyes and turns his head away.

“Shouldn’t you be somewhere else?” you ask, squinting at him. “Like, you know, the ER? Getting yourself patched up? Sound familiar? Is that on your to-do list anytime soon?”

Genji shrugs casually with his face still averted, but when he spoke, it comes out softer than you expected. As if his voice would quaver if he raised it any more. “It’s still light outside. People still stare.”

You know. You know how it is with him, and how much he acts like he doesn’t see the side glances and whispering. You also know you should hold firm and insist that he get his injuries checked out right this instant, but you feel a swell of feeling inside you— damn you— and it feels suspiciously like empathy. You admire Genji’s acceptance of his appearance and condition, his collected attitude towards the stares he got… but some wounds run deeper than they seemed. And some scars don’t show on the surface.

With a resigned sigh, you drop your bag down on the couch before heading into the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit you keep stashed in the top cabinet. When you step into the living room again, Genji startles, as if he hadn’t been expecting you to come back down. “What,” you mutter, “did you think I would abandon you like this?”

Genji’s quiet as you sit down beside him, opening up the plastic box. Neither of you speak as you help Genji clean up his wounds. To his credit, Genji barely flinches when you clean a scrape with the anti-bacterial wipes.

“Did you get into fight with a wall?” you find yourself saying after cleaning up yet another patchy, scraped spot on the mottled and bruised canvas of Genji’s skin.

“At one point a wall was definitely involved.”

“Right,” you are burning with the question of what happened to him, but you’re not exactly sure if you would be stepping over some unseen roommate etiquette line in the process. How come school never taught you Roommate Etiquette 101? That would have been useful. And you know that certain past roommates could definitely benefit from Unit 5: What Constitutes as A Mess and How You Clean It Up.

It’s Genji who breaks the silence to tell you, “There was a fight. And omnics.”

He doesn’t look like he’s going to say more than that, but you’re just so… bowled over by this abrupt blurting and you guess that your bewildered expression must have properly conveyed the message of “What in the name of the almighty fuck, Genji? Please explain” because your roommate starts stumbling over his words to clarify. “I mean… there were these omnics and they were… well, they weren’t really doing anything. And the others— there were non-omnics— they just— and I couldn’t look away. I can’t just walk away and let it happen.”

“So you strolled up in the middle of that, and eventually got a wall involved?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“This might sound obvious to you, but I think you could use hearing it again: take care of yourself,” you say as seriously as you can, because it would be pointless to ask him not to let this happen again. Genji might be soft-spoken and soft-hearted, but he would throw himself back in there with no regrets if he were given a second chance. You smack him lightly with one of the couch cushions to emphasize your point, “And I want you to go get these injuries checked out tonight. Tonight, do you hear me, you ninja goober? Tonight.”

Genji nods in a placating gesture and holds up his hands in mock surrender. He doesn’t look like he should be moving around any time soon, so you gather up all the used tissues for his injuries and get up to throw them away. As you stand up, Genji takes a good look at the couch and he’s finally realizing how hard it’s going to be to clean the bloodstains (or he’s realizing that old blood really isn’t making the old couch look any more attractive) because he mumbles out a “Sorry about the couch.”

“Ah, piss. It was a piece of shit to begin with,” you mumble. That thing didn’t have much resale value to begin with. (Who in their right mind thought it was a good idea to furnish a room with a mustard coloured couch? Whatever were you thinking when you got it?) In the grand scheme of things, what was a bloodstain or two?

…

You heard the front door open and shut, as well as two voices talking quietly to each other. One you recognize easily as Genji’s, and the other one has that strange resonant quality that you remember belonging to Genji’s omnic friend. Sticking your head out from the kitchen, you call to the two of them, “Hey you two, care for anything to drink?”

“It is kind of you to offer,” the omnic—Zen something, you remembered vaguely— bows to you, “but we will not be staying long.”

“In more than one way,” Genji adds as he moved past his friend, and you see for the first time what he is carrying in his arms. Boxes? “It has been a pleasure being your roommate, but I won’t be here next semester.”

“You got a work placement somewhere else, yeah?”

“Yes. I’ll be working with Overwatch again for the next few months.” It’s the disaster relief organization that Genji had worked for a few years ago, and the one he’s really wanted to return to, from what you remember. It is also, sadly, the only placement of his that isn’t in the same city.

“A shame. That you’re leaving, I mean— damn— I’m real happy you’re going where you want to go, but… Aw, hell, I’m going to miss you. You were a damn good roomie, Genji,” you say regretfully. You were getting used to him. You were really going to miss Genji, probably the politest and most considerate roommate you’ve had in ages. You definitely knew you were going to miss his midnight ninja sword practice things (hey, it was fun to watch, okay?), and you would probably miss his lowkey enthusiasm for Naruto too.

Genji nodded, “A shame, indeed. I don’t suppose I’ll ever find someone with more questionable tastes in furniture than you. I do not know if that is good or bad news anymore.”

“You bastard, that couch has character,” you turn your head away because you need to focus on making your tea, damn it. And not because you were actually getting a little teary over the fact that your roommate would be leaving.

“Parting does not mean the end,” the omnic speaks up, startling you a little. You had forgotten they were even here in the first place. They tilt their head at you and even though their face does not seem to make any human expression, you get the impression that they are smiling. “You two will keep in touch, I assume.”

“Of course, Zenyatta,” Genji said. “We’re still friends.”

Something warm bubbles inside your chest and you try to stamp it down before you did something embarrassingly sentimental, but you can’t stop yourself from opening your damn mouth and saying, “If you need me for anything, just hit me up, okay? My sleep schedule is fucked over, so I can almost guarantee I’ll be awake whenever.” Wow, look at all this emotion gushing forth.

“Well… now that you mention it, I do need some help packing,” Genji winks at you, inclining his head towards the stack of boxes on the table.

“All this was a ruse to make me sentimental so that I’d be willing to help you pack, wasn’t it?” you grumble, but you pick up a box and head upstairs.

“Oh no, you’ve seen through my act,” Genji laughs as he and Zenyatta picked up a box each and followed you.

Chapter Text

Were you his roommate or his babysitter? You had no idea when it came to Jesse McCree.

“IT’S HIGH NOON,” Jesse shouts at the sky as you try to drag his drunken ass inside. He’s been like this, apparently, ever since you got a call from Jesse’s drinking buddies asking you to please take this goddamn mess home and put his ass to bed. So now you’re saddled with good old drunken Jesse McCree, who can’t tell day from night and has been shouting at the moon for being on the wrong side of town.

“No Jesse, you idiot, it’s 1 AM. You’re going to startle the neighbours,” you grunt as you try to push him inside with one hand and pick up his ridiculous hat, which had fallen yet again, with the other. You are seriously tempted to just kick it into the gutter or something. Hey, he just got it tonight. Chances are, he’s probably too smashed to even remember buying it, and you’d be doing the world a favor by never letting it see the light of day again. “Where did you even get this thing, anyways? Did you guys raid a movie set?”

“HIGH NOON,” is all you get in reply.

You just sigh, taking Jesse and the hat inside. The hat goes on the dining room table while Jesse goes up into the bathroom to vomit heartily into the toilet. With your help, of course. Much like his sense of dignity, Jesse’s sense of balance seems to also have drowned in the bottle.

“You are going to regret this so hard in the morning,” you mumble more to yourself than anything as you drag your roommate’s ass back to his bed. You’re going to regret being up this late (especially since your sleep schedule has officially moved into the “Now You’re Fucked” zone), but at least goddamn Cowboy McGee is looking snug and happy in bed. At least one of you is comfortable.

“Regret’s for chumpsssss.”

“Mhm, and you’re a prime grade chump, Jesse. Now eat these damn saltine crackers,” you jam a few crackers into his hand and prod at him to get him to eat. He seems to have calmed down significantly, but now he’s about as cooperative as a wet sock filled with sand (unmotivated to move, and only makes a sad, wet thwack sound when hit). You practically have to force feed him crackers and water, and the damn cowboy wannabe has the audacity to whine and look at you with pitifully watery eyes.

He is going to be horribly hungover in the morning, so after you make sure that his deadweight ass is planted firmly in his bed, you make sure to leave a bottle of water on his nightstand. As well as his vitamins, because you know this damn bastard hasn’t taken them today and will likely forget to take them again in the morning if you weren’t up and nagging him to do so. Which you wouldn’t be. Because you were meeting a friend for lunch, and you weren’t going to miss it for his hungover ass.  

You don’t leave him any aspirin out, however. Fucker can get his own when he wakes up.

…

When you leave the next day to meet up with your friend, Jesse’s door is still closed. You knock on the door, but there’s no answer. He’s either still asleep or too hungover to care. You leave him a sticky note on his bedroom door with a few directions:

• Clean up the washroom. (It’s his turn anyways.)
• Do the laundry.
• Stay hydrated.

Jesse grumbles and whines when he sees the note, claiming that he’s too goddamn hungover for this kind of work. But he hunkers down and does it, partially as an apology for his hazy memory of you wearily marching him back home in the dark. (Ah, Dignity. When it returns, it does love to bring along its friend Mortification.)

Well, he attempts to clean the bathroom at any rate. But a hungover Jesse McCree is a perpetually tired Jesse McCree, and a perpetually tired Jesse McCree demands snacks and breaks. So when his stomach growls angrily at him, Jesse figured that he was due for a snack break.

Upon heading down the stairs, he’s met with a pleasant (to him) surprise.

“Wow! So it is real!” Jesse whispers happily to himself as he picks up That Goddamn Hat and sets it gently on his head like it’s a crown (a crown of dorks, maybe). He has hazy memories of stumbling into a convenience store and being completely enamored with this dusty old hat sitting on a shelf, but he had been willing to write it off as a dream.

He takes a moment to admire himself in the mirror hanging beside the downstairs closet before heading into the kitchen for food.

So that’s how you find him when you come home after lunch: your bleary-eyed roommate in the same clothes as last night, standing in the door of the fridge with a yoghurt cup in his hands. You’re about to ask him what flavour of yoghurt he’s eating (there is no doubt about whose yoghurt it is… you had been saving the strawberry ones damn it), but your eyes drift to the hat on his head and you decide right then and there that this is an Issue That Must Be Addressed.

“It’s tacky,” you say to his face.

Jesse pouts a little, “It’s grown on me.”

“Like a tumour, maybe. It looks like it was pulled right out of a bad Western movie, or a shitty FPS with terrible physics. Please tell me you aren’t considering getting boots with spurs on them and a belt that says BAMF.”

“You know, I hadn’t thought of that, but I think I’d like that look,” he shrugs as he plucks a spoon off the counter. You make a face at him because holy fuck how long has that spoon been out there? (You put a guess at anywhere between two weeks to a month and a half.)

“Oh Jesse McCree,” you say and shake your head sadly; that’s more or less how you deal with your roommate nowadays. But then you squint at the snack he’s holding because there are some things (like his sloppiness) you’re willing to let slide, but that better not be the strawberry yoghurt you’d been saving. “What flavour is that?”

Jesse swallows the spoonful he put into his mouth and frowns, “It’s strawberry. I thought it was raspberry. Did you want some?”

Internally, you sigh so hard that your soul temporarily leaves your body and ascends to the next plane of existence so that it can face-palm in the fourth dimension. Externally you calmly shake your head and tell him, “Nah. I’ll just have some blueberry.”

…

Loud guffaws from the living room greet your ear the moment you come home, alerting you that Jesse has already made it back from class. Or he never left in the first place. Either one is possible, really.

Jesse calls your name, motioning enthusiastically for you to come over to where he’s sitting on the couch. All the while, his eyes are glued to his phone’s screen and he’s positively delighted with whatever he’s watching.

“Look at this! Look at it,” he says, breathless with laughter.

You humor him and sit down beside him as he shows you the video. You recognize it immediately when it starts up. Jesse keeps giggling and trying to bite back his snorts, and his muffled giggles are contagious enough to make you smile even though you’ve seen this video so often that you’re able to quote the video in perfect synchronization. Granted, it’s only the two words “I’ve McFallen”, but you’ll take any accomplishment you can get when it comes to ridiculous Internet videos.

“You’ve seen this before!” Jesse says, only slightly put out by the fact that he’s late yet again to another party— metaphorically anyways.

“It’s an old video, Jesse. I’m surprised you haven’t seen it.”

“But it’s a gem! A true jewel discovered only once every thousand years underneath a lunar eclipse.”

“It’s honestly only kinda funny. Like on a scale from one to ‘person getting hit in the face with a limp eel’, this video registers somewhere near ‘three mimes holding baskets of ping-pong balls slipping on banana peels’.”

Jesse looks affronted by this and he defends the video with all the fervor he usually reserves for Shitty Movie Night, “This video changed my life. I will never be the same again.”

You snort and pat him on the arm, “The perfect excuse to drop your life, become a hermit, and write a book on it.”

“I’ll even include a sentence about you: ‘my roommate during this time was a person with no taste in furniture or humor and was unaffected by my revelation’.”

“Are you making fun of the couch? I’m telling you, it has character. Leave it out of our long and bitter feud.”

“Character. Well, I ain’t gonna lie, it’s… mysterious. Mostly these stains, I mean. What’s up with these spots here?” Jesse prods at the faded brownish stains to emphasize his point.

“It’s blood from when my last roommate got attacked by a horde of sentient bricks. You should’ve seen his face,” you say levelly. You had tried using laundry detergent, bleach, and even hand sanitizer to get rid of the stains but the stains held on with a steadfast determination worthy of any Hollywood war movie. 

Jesse snorts at your answer, “I’m sure.”

“Yeah, it’s totally ketchup.”  

…

“So how’s Jesse been?” Genji asks over the Skype call you set up for a friendly game. The game is paused on account of your laptop needing a break before it overheats, but in all honesty, it’s to give you some room to sulk because Genji is kicking your ass at this.

“Good, I suppose. I think he’s been attending class? I’m not too sure. Fucker still leaves his coat and hat around everywhere,” you say. You had snapped at him for that earlier in the day.

(“Have your eyes McFallen out, or does the table look like a coatrack to you?”

Jesse has the audacity to squint really hard at the table and look at you, completely baffled, “…No?”)

Genji huffs out a quiet laugh, bringing you out of your thoughts, “He’s always been like that. He means well.”

“I know that, Genji, but—“ you are interrupted by a knock on your door.

“Genji? Did you say Genji? As in, Genji Shimada?” Jesse’s voice might be muffled by the door, but his excitement carries through no problem. “Hey, it’s been so long! Let me talk to that wet noodle!”

You’re horribly confused, looking back and forth between the door and your laptop. The video function isn’t on, nor are you making any sound, but your confusion must have transcended space itself to make it known because Genji is laughing and explaining to you, “Oh, did I forget to tell you? Jesse and I worked at Overwatch together some time ago.”

You let your roommate in, and Jesse laughs at your baffled expression, “Did Genji not mention that we used to work together? Ahhh, that boy. He does that a lot, you know! I once worked with his brother, and I didn’t even know that they were related until months later. You’d think either of them would have mentioned it, but no.”

You turn on your video, and there’s a brief moment as everything loads before you see Jesse and your face on screen. Jesse breaks out into a large grin and he practically hollers at your laptop, “Is that you, Naruto?”

Genji’s quiet huffing laugh is distorted by the laptop’s speakers, “It’s good to see you again, Jesse. Nice hat, by the way.”

“Really?” Jesse touches his hat— the one that looks like it was blown off the set of a half-assed Western movie along with a handful of fake tumbleweed.

“Well, at least you seem to really appreciate it,” Genji says. His video is off, but you think that he sounds like he’s smiling.

Jesse squints suspiciously at the screen, “Wait, what did you—”

“You have a very particular taste, Jesse McCree.”

“Particular,” you snort while Jesse pouts. “It’s a travesty. I’ve banned him from wearing it outside.”

“Look, if we’re going to talk about travesties, can we mention Genji’s hair colour two years ago? What the hell was up with that?”

“Green is a nice colour—“

“Genji, you looked like a fucking carrot.”

“—and at any rate, I’ve grown out of that style. You haven’t been as lucky, I see.”

“Hold up a minute, you’ve grown out of it? I’m going to need proof of this because I don’t believe it. Let us see.”

There’s a moment of silence, and you and Jesse both give each other that look. You know, the one that says shit I think we crossed a line; he’s still sensitive about his appearance. You’re about to stomp (lightly) on Jesse’s foot (because he’s fucked now), but you’re interrupted by static crackling on Genji’s end that signals a copious amount of stuff shifting on his end.

Another confusing moment (and confused glance between you and Jesse) later, the two of you are surprised to see Genji’s video function blink on and his heavily scarred face to come into view. He smiles tentatively, “Had to go and get the webcam.”

“Oh uh, I’m sure glad you did,” Jesse says.

There’s another beat of awkward silence before Genji coughs, “Well, Jesse? Is this enough proof for you?”

Jesse startles at that, as if he weren’t expecting it, but he does his part and squints at the screen, “Huh, can’t believe my eyes, but it’s true. Never thought I’d see the day where I would miss your green hair, partner.”

“And I’ve missed your movie references, Jesse, as questionable as your tastes are.”

“Hey… those were classics.”

“It’s called Shitty Movie Night for a reason.”

You find yourself relaxing as you shake your head at them and wonder why your roommates have such strange interests. It’s like they sprang straight out of a video game.

…

“Hey, c’mon down and have dinner!” you hear Jesse shout from the kitchen. You’d known he was cooking from the overpowering smell coming from down there (Jesse McCree loves his spices, yes he does), so it would only have been a matter of time before he would call you down. Jesse didn’t believe in eating alone, so he’d always make at least two servings each time.

It’s nice of him. And the food is… edible, at least.

It’s Spaghetti Sunday, he claims. You aren’t aware that you guys have a meal schedule (mostly it’s just whatever leftovers you can scrounge up). Jesse grins and tells you that, yeah you guys don’t have a meal schedule. He just thought that it’d be nice to finish off the remaining spaghetti, and it just happened to be a Sunday. And according to him, alliteration rules.

You just nod and do your best to stomach his (slightly undercooked) pasta. At least he warmed the sauce correctly this time around.

“So, how is it?” Jesse asks, eyes glittering hopefully.

“It’s good; you’ve improved a lot,” you tell him. It’s not a lie; he is improving. “I like it.”

Jesse McCree beams at you, and you smile back at your roommate as he pulls out his phone to show you a Vine that you had already seen a few months ago. You promptly take this as your cue to laugh at how out of the loop Jesse is.

Chapter Text

You feel like a dump truck ran over you, put itself into reverse, ran over you again, and then unloaded all of its rotting contents on your trampled corpse. You literally roll out of bed and ooze your sorry, sleep-deprived body over to your desk and check the time.

6:54 AM.

Two hours of sleep and a half written essay are the fruits of your labour.

Knowing that you wouldn’t get anything done if you just rolled yourself back to bed (and this essay is due… soon. As in soon), you tromp tiredly down the stairs to the kitchen for something that can wake you up. Like coffee. Coffee is good. Sweet, sweet caffeinated bean juice.

“Good morning,” someone calls from the doorway, startling you. Either it’s a really courteous robber in the house, or you’re just in time to catch your roommate going off to work.

“Morning,” you say back. Fareeha is already dressed and ready to head out the door and you’ve just woken up from a restless, essay-induced sleep. She is polite, however, and doesn’t comment on how your hair looks like it could easily house a few small woodland creatures if you tried hard enough. “I’ll lock the door for you.”

“Thank you.” She nods at you, most of her focus on straightening out her jacket one last time before she leaves. She pauses for a moment when she’s done, brow furrowing in thought. She calls your name, and you grunt a vague noise of acknowledgement. “Is there anything you need from the supermarket? I’ll be going to the one down the street on my way home and I can pick it up for you.”

You’re a little surprised by this, because while Fareeha is polite and respectful, she is also a teensy bit intimidating and up until now the two of you didn’t really act like you were even living together. Just courteous neighbours at most (who happen to share a fridge. And a bathroom). But you’re not about to pass up this generous offer for a grocery run. You glance inside the fridge and take note of what you’re low on and you give your order to Fareeha with the promise that you’ll pay her back when she gets home.

She might be the one with a well-paying job, but you’d crawl to Hell and back on your bare belly (over broken glass) before you’d let yourself be slapped with the reputation of a freeloader.

You catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror hanging on the wall opposite to the door and your brow wrinkles in mild disgust, “Damn. My eye bags are so bad, you could use them to carry my groceries home.”

Fareeha laughs quietly, an amused little chortle that hums in her throat. You delight in the small smile that your roommate gives you as she leaves the house.

…

After Fareeha left for work, you decided to use your day off from class to buckle up and do some work. Gird your loins and all the other sayings. All this buckling, girding, huffing, and puffing over your essay manages to do something for you because at 7:34 PM after so much sweat, tears, and caffeine drinks you sit back in your chair and look in awe at your completed assignment. Completed assignment. Completed.

You send out a jubilant text to your group of friends, exuberantly announcing “yes I’ve finished MY ESSAY AND SINCE IT’S THE WEEKEND YOU KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. CELEBRATORY DRINKS. Who’s up to celebrate this fine hour w me?”

You get a chorus of replies ranging from “aww lucky”, “fuck u bastard”, “eyyyy that’s the life”, to “no, I’ve still got to finish mine. You have fun tho : )”.

The last message from your friend is duly noted and you do as you are bid. You have fun. If fun was packaged inside glass bottles, that is. In that case, you’ve had a quite a bit of fun.

You’re just mostly buzzed when Fareeha comes home, and the alcohol makes your tongue looser and your affections warmer because if you’d been completely sober, you would not have swung your arm around the tall Egyptian lady and given her a hug.

“You’re drunk,” Fareeha notes, but it’s mostly amused and not mildly disgusted, like you had expected. This delights you for some reason.

“I am tipsy, but in full control of my facilities— faculties, I mean,” you correct yourself.

“I am certain you are,” Fareeha says lightly, in the way that conveys quite clearly that she thinks you’re a lot more gone than you really are.

“Yes, but it’s a Friday. And you know, in all her wisdom, the great philosopher Rebecca Black once said, ‘gotta get down on Friday’. Such sage knowledge. So here I am. Getting down. On a Friday,” you collapse into the couch. “You should join me.”

“This looks endlessly entertaining, but I have much to do.”

“C’mon Fareeha,” you give her your best attempt at puppy dog eyes. “Don’t you have weekends off? Can’t you accompany your dear, sweet roomie on the blessed road to intoxication in the safe confines of your home?”

“Isn’t this the sort of thing one does with their friends?”

“All my friends are working their asses off to escape the looming threat of school. And,” the alcohol is starting to get to you a little bit more and you look Fareeha in the eye and blurt out the honest truth, “I really would like to know you well enough to call you a friend.”

Fareeha sighs and your stomach twists a little at how it sounds a little… disappointed to you. “Remember to stay hydrated. You are already inebriated,” she says flatly.

“Of course I know to stay hydrated… I used to parent Jesse’s drunken ass,” you grumble. Fareeha moves to walk past where you’re sprawled out on the couch to get to the stairs, and in that split second, your tipsy mind decides to say aw fuck it and throw caution to the wind along with its clothes. It feels like you’re streaking madly into the unknown, but you reach out and grab Fareeha’s arm lightly. “I really meant what I said,” you say quietly, “and there’s no better time to get to know someone than the present, right?”

“You’re inebriated,” Fareeha reminds you. Firmly but not unkindly.

“Drunk mind, sober thought,” you tell her, tapping on your skull. You don’t really know if you’re accomplishing anything at all— or what you’re trying to accomplish, even— and it’s getting rather awkward with Fareeha looking down at you with an unreadable expression on her face as you grip her arm like you’re holding onto a lifeline. The dizzy, warm feeling that you associate with being tipsy fades a little. Embarrassment, you think, is a sobering feeling.

“Fine. So be it,” Fareeha finally says as she sits down primly beside you, on the edge of her seat. “Someone has to make sure you don’t drink to excess.”

You scoff, “Oh ye of little faith. But you’re here now, s’what matters.”

And you pour her a drink.

…

Jesus fucking Christ on a pogo stick, you think, I’m smashed. This thought is absolutely hilarious to you and you’re not one for questioning the why so you just end up cackling with laughter. You’re sprawled out on the couch because at some point you decided that gravity was too much work to figure out.

Fareeha holds her liquor better than you do, but not by much. She’s propped up by the couch, smirking at you as your giggling spasms subside. “I don’t know what I expected when I first saw you as my roommate,” she confesses to you.

“Aww,” you coo, patting her face. “It’s okay, we’re never sure how a new roommate is gonna be like. I thought you were kinda fridge. Frigid.”

She snorts, “Everyone assumes that. Successful woman in law? Must be a cold bitch.”

“For the record, I would like you to know that I am very pleasantly surprised by how non-cold and non-bitch you are.”

“Mm, thank you. I, too, am pleasantly surprised that you’re not completely off your rocker.”

“Wow why does everyone say that to me?” you try to shake your head in disappointment, but that just ends up making you dizzy.

“You have, ah, interesting tastes in furniture. The last person to have a couch similar to yours was my teeta. My grandmother,” Fareeha clarifies as she takes another sip from her drink. How many has she had by now? Shit, how many have you had by now?

“Wow never speak to me or my couch ever again. It’s got enough character to have several shitty sitcoms be based off of it,” you take another swig of your drink even though something (your liver most likely) is telling you that’s probably a bad idea. “Plus, I wasn’t even the one to get it. One of my past roommates bought this and just… never took it with her when she left.”

“She made the right choice. The couch is a disaster.”

“It’s just survived a lot, I’m telling you,” you pat the couch soothingly, stroking its ugly cloth hide lovingly. “There there, my sweet. They don’t know what you’ve been through.”

Fareeha snorts, “And I took you for the type to name inanimate objects.”

“I don’t do that,” you claim. “Not furniture anyways. Plants, maybe. I mean… if you’re going to take care of a living thing you might as well name it. Doesn’t matter if the name is terrible like… like… Phineas or something. Slap a name on it. Make it your child. Send it to school and reprimand it gently but lovingly when it’s not giving its best effort on its English homework.”

“Phineas,” Fareeha snorts. “Phineas?”

“Please. Who wouldn’t name a plant Phineas? Plant starts with a p. Phineas starts with a p. Alliteration! Alliteration is good. There are so many people out there wanting to name their houseplants Phineas that the government had to create a special department to issue licenses. It’s a two month waiting list, plus a $50 deposit.”

“How precise and descriptive.”

You try to bow while you’re lying down, but all you really accomplish is a sort of convulsion. “So. Weren’t we supposed to get to know each other?”

“We were,” Fareeha agrees. “But someone kept making me do shots. I won’t point fingers.”

“It was totally Phineas the houseplant.”

“We don’t have a houseplant,” Fareeha reminds you.

You look around the living room, “Aw shit, really? We don’t? Man, what a crushing revelation.” You hum in the back of your throat as you lean back on the couch. What to ask Fareeha? “Sum up your life,” you say suddenly. “You have 150 points. Each word is negative five points. Go.”

Fareeha quirks an eyebrow at you, but she’s in a good mood or the alcohol has mellowed her out because she doesn’t question it out loud, “Came from large family. Very strict. History of military service. Mom served too. Not liked in school—too scary. Wanted to do good.”

“So you went into law?”

“There’s good being done somewhere in there. Justice is being served,” Fareeha tells you dryly. “So how many points was that?”

You shrug and grin cheekily at her, “I lost count.”

“Your turn, then.”

“Okay,” you take a moment to think about what you want to say, “Grew up uncertain. Not sure of where I would end up. Still unsure. Just want to be certain. Makes me jealous of you and your composure. I just want to be more certain of where I’m headed.”

“With the way you’re chugging your drinks, I’d say you’re on a one-way trip to hangover alley.”

“Y’know what, that sounds like an excellent idea in my current state. I’m just going to drown my worries in another shot,” you choose the fruity strawberry drink because life is all about living and nothing says “living it up” more than this fruity cocktail. Wow slow down, you don’t want to get a ticket for all the fast lane driving you’re doing here.

Fareeha watches you down a few shots of the strawberry drink, “I’ve had my doubts.”

“Doubts of what? Between which top-ranked law firm to work with?” you don’t mean to sound bitter, but it’s so hard to sound neutral when you’re drunk off your rocker. Or, well, your couch in this case.

“No, between going into law like I wanted or going a route that would appease and keep my family happy,” Fareeha smiled wryly. “You can guess where that went. Here’s a hint; there’s a trail of disapproving relatives behind me.”

“Shit,” you say empathetically because that’s what it is. “Well, you’re happy with what you chose, right? Fuck those who’re trying ta drive your life. It’s not their car. It’s yours. You drive. Ride shiny and chrome. Drive like you’re Furiosa on Fury Road. But not really. Because you’ll get a ticket, and that’s like a bad record or something.”

Fareeha scoffs, but she’s at least smiling a little more, “Nobody would give Furiosa a ticket.”

You lean over and push one of the bottles on the table closer to Fareeha, “You know what this calls for? Shots. Drown your worries, Furiosa. Drown them in shots.”

Fareeha listens to your terrible drunken advice and takes a shot.

…

Mornings are the bane of your existence, even when your head isn’t a mass of pain.

You are tired. Everything is terrible. And microscopic leprechauns crawled in your ear last night and are mining your precious remaining brain cells with shitty rusted pickaxes (or that’s what it feels like, at any rate). But at least your essay is done.

“Aw crap,” you grumble as you turn over in bed. At least you don’t have anything immediate to do except stay in bed and whine pitifully at the wall in the vain hope for a shred of sympathy. For the record, the wall doesn’t really give you any sympathy (on account of it being a wall and thus— to your knowledge— inanimate) but at least it’s not judging you. You’ll take what you can get at this rate.

A quiet knocking (which goes in time with your throbbing headache) sounds at your door. You mumble a sound that can either be interpreted as “Come in” or “I’m dead”. You leave it up to the person on the other side of the door to decide.

“Someone had a little bit too much,” your roommate notes dryly as she steps into your room and gives you an impassive look.

You whimper and attempt to glare at her, but the effect is somewhat lessened by the fact that you’re still in bed wrapped up in your blankets, giving you the unique look of burrito and laundry basket hybrid.

“I figured that you’d end up like this, since I’m more or less in the same boat you are,” Fareeha sets something down on the nightstand beside your bed. She does it gently to minimize the noise it makes, for which your pounding, aching head is rather grateful for. “Remember to stay hydrated.”

You pick up the little carton of coconut water and take a sip. Immediately your nose scrunches up, “This tastes like a rabid raccoon drowned in it.”

“Drink,” Fareeha orders sternly. “It will help.”

“Yes mom,” you mutter, but you do your best to take deep gulps of the terrible beverage.

“Any vomiting?” Fareeha asks you when you’ve more or less finished the coconut water.

“Not since late last night.”

She nods, “You are able to remember at least a little bit. That’s promising.” She reaches out and puts her hand on your forehead like she’s feeling for a fever, “Temperature feels alright. A little warm. Can you tell me the date today?”

“Uh,” you say intelligently. “Not without my phone, I can’t. It’s Saturday, I think? I mean, unless I slept for an entire day it should be Saturday. I didn’t do that, did I Fareeha?”

Your roommate shakes her head and gives you an order, “Breathe for me.”

You are bewildered beyond belief but Fareeha doesn’t look like she’s going to budge, so you take a few breaths as Fareeha counts underneath her breath. She seems satisfied with whatever she was counting and nods at you, “I will be checking up on you periodically to make sure you haven’t passed out.”

“Um. Thanks?”

Fareeha gets up and leaves your room, and you take that as the end of your early morning (it’s actually past noon, but who cares? It’s Saturday) interaction with your roommate. But barely seconds after you’ve settled yourself back into your bed burrito, you hear steps coming up the stairs as Fareeha practically marches into your room with a glass of water in her hands and a plate of small snacks and fruit slices.

“Eat this,” she says, shoving the plate in your face and setting the water down on your nightstand. “You need nutrients.”

“You are prepared, Fareeha,” you say in awe.

“I am responsible,” she corrects you.

You pick at the snacks she brought you and down a gulp of water under her watchful eye, “I’m starting to get the feeling that I may have been a little too enthusiastic last night.”

“Yes, you definitely were,” Fareeha states dryly.

“I’ll leave the hard-core driving to you next time, Furiosa,” you mutter under your breath, partly because you’re not sure if what you remember actually happened and partly because you’re not sure how Fareeha would react to you calling her that when she’s not under the influence of alcohol.

She smiles and even makes that quiet laugh, “Your misgivings will last for about a week.”

“You’re probably right about that,” you admit. Your fiddle around with your water, tapping at your mug and twisting it around in your hands as you try to figure out what to say next. You decide to go for honest. Mostly because your head hurts too much to figure anything else out. “Thanks Fareeha. You’re pretty great.”

Fareeha gives your shoulder a reassuring squeeze, “As are you.”

…

School passes by in a hazy blur that you can’t be bothered to keep track of. You can smell the rancid stench of finals around the corner (or maybe that was the neglected trash of your neighbours… no judgement) so Fareeha generously offers to take over a portion of your chores. Because she’s much, much better at keeping her life together. You, on the other hand, are held together by little more than spaghetti sauce and an unhealthy amount of Minute Rice.

So now grocery shopping falls solely on Fareeha’s shoulders. But even so, it shouldn’t take her this long to get home. Your somewhat frazzled brain wonders if you should call someone, just in case.

Before you set the police on the city looking for your absent roommate, you decide that maybe you should call her. Because cell phones are a thing and you’re pretty sure that’s what they’re designed for. (You can’t be sure, though. Who uses cell phones purely for calling anymore?)

You are, worryingly, sent straight to her voicemail. With a frown, you begin to leave a brief message, “Hey it’s me. Just calling to see if— “

The sound of keys turning in the lock makes the rest of your sentence die a cold and miserable death. Oh god, what if Fareeha was mugged on the way home? Tortured by a rival for information on where she lived so they could sabotage any chance of Fareeha living a peaceful life even if she were to survive the brutal beating? How were you going to take on this merciless monster?

“I’m home,” a familiar voice calls out. A familiar voice that does not sound like the owner has been dragged through a ditch and beaten halfway to death with a crowbar.

“Jesus Fareeha,” you sigh out, “you scared me there. I thought something had happened.”

“Ah,” your roommate replies in a light tone that would have been considered sing song with anyone else. “Something did happen, but I assure you it is only good news.”

“Did you beat up your heartless rival and leave them in a ditch to stew in their own mistakes?”

“Nothing as extravagant as that.” Fareeha walks into the living room, giving you an amused glance as she passes by. “I got the promotion.”

“Damn,” you say. And then you say it again for emphasis, “Damn.”

“My thoughts exactly.”

“You know, I still have drinks left over from that one night… I was originally going to drown my exam frustration in them, but y’know, a celebration is a much nicer way to finish them off. I’m just saying,” you wink in what you hope is a charming manner as you head into the kitchen and swipe the cleanest drinking glasses off the counter. You waggle one in Fareeha’s direction, “Victory deserves to be celebrated.”

Fareeha looks unimpressed by your suggestion. Her expression is enough to make you balk even without the flawless eyeliner emphasizing her stern look. But perfect eyeliner or not, you don’t let yourself be intimidated and continue waving around one of the cups. “Don’t you have class in the morning?” she asks you dryly. “And here I’ve been trying to shape you into a model adult.”

“Oh I have no doubt you’re doing something,” you say, “but I’m young and in college. It’s practically tradition to make slightly regrettable decisions at this time of my life; whatever will I reminiscence about when I’m heading into my mid-life crisis? Don’t think of this as ‘you’re making bad decisions again’ but rather ‘you’re making memories that you will treasure for the rest of your life’. Or ‘memories that you will definitely cringe when recalling but everyone else thinks is hilarious’.”

“That’s only if you remember them in the morning,” Fareeha scoffs, but she does take the glass from your hand.

“You underestimate me, dear Fareeha. Truly you do.”

“And you overestimate yourself.”

Fareeha is right, of course.

…

It doesn’t really hit you what Fareeha’s promotion means with respect to your daily life until you shuffle home one day and find Fareeha standing in the living room stacking boxes into neat piles.

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I’m required to work at the head office, which is almost an hour’s drive away from here. I told you a week ago; did you forget?”

You grumble, avoiding answering her question, “I suppose everyone must disappear in the end. Go on, go your way. I shall never forget you.”

“I thought you only get melodramatic when you’re drunk.”

“I’m full of surprises, Fareeha. Full of them. In fact, I’m about to surprise you with something right now,” you waggle your eyebrows at her as you head for the stairs. “Right now.”

The item you’re looking for is sitting on your desk, half hidden by one of your textbooks. You meant to do more with it (and give it to Fareeha earlier), but things got hectic at school. Plus, you didn’t expect your roommate to be moving out so soon.

You zip down the stairs to where Fareeha is waiting for you, a perfect eyebrow arched in skeptical amusement. You bow to her and make a flourishing gesture with the item in your hand before presenting it to her.

“A card,” she notes.

“Not just any card,” you correct her, “a shitty dollar store card.”

Fareeha flips it open and reads out loud the single sentence you wrote underneath the generic “Congratulations!” message, “Ride eternal, shiny and chrome, Furiosa.” She quirks an eyebrow at you, but the corner of her mouth lifts into a smile, betraying her amusement. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”

You try to shrug nonchalantly and avoid her gaze, “Yeah. Well. Didn’t want too get to mushy and stuff. Originally I was going to go with ‘I’ll find you through the trail of disapproving relatives you leave behind’ but it’s too wordy.”

“Oh yes, I am sure. Well, you’ve reminded me of something. I got you a going away gift.”

“But you’re the one going away.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“Aw hell, you didn’t have to.”

“But I did.” Fareeha motions for you to follow her upstairs. In her room, which has been mostly cleared out already, sits a lone potted plant that you don’t remember seeing before. Fareeha picks it up and presents it to you.

“Thanks Fareeha? I mean I really appreciate the gesture, but I can barely care for myself— how am I going to keep another living thing alive?”

“You are more capable than you give yourself credit for.” Fareeha directs your attention to a little tag hanging off the stem of the plant. “Plus, this plant is very hardy. I asked someone knowledgeable about this and they confirmed that this one can grow in almost any condition. It won’t be a total disaster if you forget to water it now and then.

“So, now that it’s in your care, aren’t you obligated to name it?” There’s a glint of faint amusement in Fareeha’s eyes as she watches you inspect the plant.

“Damn, you’re putting all this pressure on me to come up with a name right now?” You look at Fareeha and she nods. Damn her, she’s amused by this. “Well, shit, all I can think of is ‘Phineas’. I guess this shall be Phineas.”

“Good. You made the correct choice.”

“Correct choice? You mean, if I named it anything else you would have reprimanded me?”

“Gently, but lovingly,” she quotes you. “Like when you’re not putting in your best effort with your English homework.”

You clutch the potted plant to your chest and your vision gets a little misty, but you do manage to say (in a mostly even voice), “I can’t believe I’m getting choked up over a meme, Fareeha.”

“Yes, you tend to do that.”

Chapter Text

Your luck had officially run out. After a string of agreeable roommates, you had fallen into the false sense of security that maybe the human race was mostly decent. But no, eventually you would have to see the light.

Or rather, the dark.

More specifically, Edgelord McDouche, commonly known as Gabriel Reyes.

“Am I a bad person?” you gripe at a friend. They look like they’re actually going to answer so you reach over and clamp their lips shut. “Don’t answer that, really. Just shake your head for now.”

They roll their eyes, but comply.

“If I were terrible, I’d consider this karmic retribution. But I don’t think my horribleness is grave enough to justify sending him as my punishment.” You angrily take a bite out of your lunch. “I wouldn’t wish him on anyone.”

“He can’t be that— “

“Hold up there, partner. You’re treading dangerous waters here. You haven’t seen the horrors I speak of— and I would keep it that way— but I’m really at the fraying ends of my patience here.”

They give a sympathetic wince, “Ah. I’m really sorry about your roommate. If it’s any help, my place is always open to you if you need a place to hide and get away.”

The remaining bits of your irritation melt away in the light of their sincere declaration, “You are the sweetest. But I’m okay. I can toughen up my skin for a little while. It’s only going to be four months.”

Yes, only four months. But at what cost?

…

Your patience, spread as thin as it was like watered down stale jelly on toast, was more or less depleted by the first few weeks of the second month of living with Gabriel. Your collective living space is slowly turning into a disaster zone that probably only Overwatch would dare to brave. And sure, maybe Gabriel has things on his plate that he needs to work through and you are willing to be gracious and understanding… but really, everyone has their own damn problems and you are quickly running out of compassion.

You let out a bone deep sigh at the limited sink and counter space. Next week, you tell yourself wearily. You’ll clean it up next week once you’ve handed in your latest assignment. For now, you’ll have to make do with eating noodles straight out of your pot because someone made spaghetti in your bowl and hasn’t cleaned it in what seems like five days. 

Goddamnit. You are probably going to have to be the one to throw it out.

There never was a major problem between you and (most) of your previous roommates sharing plates and utensils. Because you were all decent people and knew it was your own responsibility to clean up your own mess.

You’re too tired and hungry to deal with this mess right now and a snack sounds like the best remedy for hunger pangs and annoyed grumbles. Nothing like the sweet, sweet taste of strawberry yogurt to forget the sour taste you get at the back of your throat when you think of your current roommate.

Despite how long you’ve been living in this cesspool, you still take a deep breath to steel yourself for what’s coming next. Look, you’re just a regular person with a regular amount of intolerance for stale food in Tupperware containers that Gabriel never throws out. How this man even survives is beyond you.

All the preparation in the world is not enough to prepare you for the sight that greets your eyes. It’s come to the point that you consider moldy month old sandwiches as tame, normal, and expected compared to the pair of boxers sitting casually on the lowest shelf of the fridge, dangling casually over the produce.

“GABRIEL!” you screech, slamming the fridge door closed. Cold shock and warm anger creep through you; your face feels warm and your hand trembles when you clench it into a fist. “GABRIEL. WHAT THE EVER-LOVING FUCK IS THIS? CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE. FOR ONE. GOD DAMN. SECOND. AND EXPLAIN WHAT THEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE FUCK?!”

There’s a pause of silence where you struggle to take deep even breaths and not do something regrettable like punch the table and hurt yourself (or throttle your roommate, which is starting to sound like a really promising idea even with the charges of homicide). The pause makes you think that Gabriel is going to go about this much like he does with all your other quarrels—by ignoring it. And really, what did you expect?

But surprisingly, this time around, he actually does heed your enraged screeching. He trudges downstairs just to stand in the doorway to the kitchen, glaring at you balefully. “What,” he demands in his gravelly voice, crossing his arms over his chest and regarding you with no shame in his eyes. As if he didn’t breach at least fifteen health violations and destroy whatever shreds of respect you had left for him.

You practically rip the refrigerator door open and jab an accusing finger at the offending item still dangling from the shelf. “Is that yours?” you hiss out.

Gabriel glances at it and shrugs, “Yeah?”

“Reyes,” you practically snarl out. A headache is starting to throb angrily behind your eyes, pounding at your skull as if your brain is itching to break out of its case and give good old Gabriel Reyes a wallop. “Your goddamn underwear is in the goddamn fridge.”

Gabriel just watches you impassively, and irritation surges through you like a tidal wave.

“Is this some sort of sick joke to you?” you demand, punctuating your question with another angry gesture at the fridge. You’re never quite sure, but you think he enjoys it when your annoyance tips over. (Why else would he do it?) Snapping at him does neither of you any good (it raises your blood pressure and shortens your meager lifespan, and for Gabriel, you think his face has frozen into that permanent scowl), but you aren’t about to back down now when he’s goading you on.

The two of you stare silently at each other, you glaring with all your might and he with his permanent icy frown. Turn around and leave, you think at him with all the venom and malice you can muster, I dare you.

Gabriel makes a dismissive noise in the back of his throat, leans forward and snatches the article of clothing out from the fridge. You recoil from it as if it’s diseased and if you let out an ungodly hissing noise in the process, then that’s no one’s business.

God, maybe it was time to invest in a personal fridge.

…

You must be a masochist. There’s no other explanation for why you keep trying to enforce the chore schedule that you and Gabriel had “agreed” on. Alright, it was less of a mutual agreement and more of you writing up a loose schedule for chores and asking Gabriel if it was okay with him (to which he had only grunted). So, in hindsight, maybe you should have asked for his signature in blood.

“Gabriel,” you call from the kitchen. And because this man never comes the first time you call for him (or the second… or the third…), you decide to speed up the process by using the sheer power of annoyance. “Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel! Gabriel Reyes!”

“What,” he snaps, from behind you. Startled, you whip around to see him leaning against the dining room table. How had you not seen him there? It was like he emerged from the air, or oozed out of the fridge like week old gravy. (Or maybe you are just very unobservant, but honestly? He could have oozed from the fridge. You’re not discrediting it.)

“Oh, nothing much really. Just reminding you that there’s dishes that need cleaning,” you say casually. You decide to leave out the part where most of the dishes are actually his. He’ll notice soon enough. You’re just doing him a favor by helping him remember.

“I’ve already done my dishes,” he tells you.

Your eyebrows automatically rise with skepticism, “You mean to tell me that this great big congealing mess in the sink isn’t there?”

Gabriel smirks at you, that infuriating little one he uses to taunt you when he knows something you don’t. Instinctively, you brace yourself for whatever excuse he’s prepared this time (you’re definitely not falling for the “It’s actually your turn this week” excuse. You double checked the schedule before you confronted him this time). “I’ve already done my dishes,” he says again, with the same infuriating smirk.

What kind of excuse is this?

Seeing your expression not changing seems to delight Gabriel. He nods at the sink, “I did my dishes earlier today. The ones in the sink are yours.”

This throws you for a loop. You hadn’t had too much time to eat at home this week, due to a string of group projects keeping you at school at later hours, but the few times you did make food you knew you cleaned up everything (because you didn’t trust Gabriel to do it for you). Confused, you take a good look at the dishes in the sink.

And, Goddamnit. He got you.

These are your dishes in the sink. Gabriel did not lie. Your dishes. Covered in his leftovers. Week old leftovers. Ugh, there’s almost an entire pot of spaghetti just sitting out on the counter.

“You bastard,” you hiss, “what did I say about using my stuff?”

You whirl around, heat rising in your cheeks, ready to cuss out Gabriel. But he knew the effect this trickery would have on you, and he’s already long gone. Maybe back to his room, maybe out with his friends. Maybe he just oozed on back into the goopy gunk at the back of the fridge. Who knows.

You struggle to take deep breaths to calm yourself as you roll up your sleeves and get ready to clean up Gabriel’s mess on your plates. As you’re gathering cleaning supplies from the cupboards, you snatch one of Gabriel’s chocolates that’s almost stowed secretly away. It’s recompense, you tell yourself.

Only one more month. Hang in there.

…

There’s noise coming from the living room when you come home practically oozing exhaustion from your late night class. It sounds like the TV, and you heave a tired sigh. If it’s on this low volume that means Gabriel probably has forgotten all about it. You force yourself to drag your tired, leaden feet to the living room to shut it off.

Instead, you’re startled by the appearance of Gabriel coming out of the kitchen with a bowl (you eye it suspiciously… you don’t think it’s yours, but it’s hard to tell in this lighting) of what is presumably his dinner. He gives you an unimpressed look right before seating himself on the couch and ignoring your presence in favor of his food.

Fine. He can be that way. You yourself would rather eat in the living room than the kitchen due to the growing mess that’s the responsibility of a certain person who we will not name. But whose name definitely rhymes with Maybriel.

You’ve got better things to do than clean up after your sour-faced roommate, so you just toss a half-hearted reminder at him, “Remember to clean up after your—“

Your words trail off into a strangled, horrified noise as you catch Gabriel literally using the couch to wipe his hands. The poor, battered object. Literally battered. You think you see a grease mark on the ugly yellow surface of the couch.

“What the hell, Gabriel?” you snap. “The couch isn’t a dishrag.”

“No kidding,” he replies. “If we used it to clean our dishes, it would probably just make them dirtier.”

“Okay yeah I can’t disagree with that, but don’t do that. It doesn’t like you!” you fight down the irrational urge to pat the couch and thank it for its patience.

Gabriel gives you a look that questions your state of mind (and honestly, at this point, you’re not entirely sure if you’re completely here). “It’s not as if anyone will notice,” he shrugs. “Seems like someone else got ketchup stains on here.”

“Hey,” you protest. “That was one of my earlier roommates. He bled out on that couch. Right where you’re sitting.”

It’s dark in the living room, and yet you just know that Gabriel Reyes just gave you a massive, irritatingly exaggerated eye roll. “Uh-huh,” he says dryly, “bled out indeed.”

You just sigh wearily and mumble, “Try not to forget the plates on the couch.”

All you get in return is a non-committal grunt. You don’t have the most complete grasp on the varied grunting that makes up the bulk of your interaction with Gabriel, but you’re pretty sure this particular grunt just suggested something rude at you.

You find yourself shaking your head wearily as you trudge up the stairs. No energy to deal with this right now. You pull out your phone as you climb the stairs to your room and fire off a text to your friend. Ugh someone, anyone out there, please give me strength.

Aw, roommate troubles? Your friend texts back.

You know it.

You know… I did say that my place is always open to you. I do mean every word of it, if you need to hide away from your roommate for a while.

Something warm and bubbly wells up in your chest at the sincerity they convey, even over text. You’d really love for nothing more than to spend time with them, but you don’t want to give Gabriel the satisfaction of annoying you out of your own home. Thanks, hon. I really appreciate that but this fight ain’t over yet.

…

Sunday morning, you awaken to the muted noise of voices in the living room. You blink groggily up at your ceiling as you try to gather your wits about you. Did Gabriel have people over? You were operating under the assumption that he had no friends.

Normally you’d resent being woken up before noon on a Sunday, but as it is, you have an hour or so before you’re going out to meet Jesse when he drops by the city for a visit. You suppose you could scrounge together some crackers or bread to tide you over until Jesse arrives.

Dragging yourself downstairs, you can’t find it in yourself to care about your disheveled appearance, even though you know Gabriel will definitely judge you for it. And probably his friends too, because birds of a judgemental feather flock together and all that, you know.

As you descend the stairs, your brain (which is still slowly sputtering its way back into consciousness like a particularly lethargic snail) registers that the sounds coming from the living room doesn’t exactly sound like a conversation. Sure there are voices, but there’s a certain muted quality to it that indicates it’s coming from the TV.

Curious, you can’t help yourself glancing into the living room. There’s a nature documentary of some kind playing on the TV, and Gabriel seems to only be half paying attention to it. Most of his attention is focused on the pool of black fabric in his hands as he methodically works a needle. He’s focusing hard on his work, deep enough in concentration that he doesn’t notice you immediately when you stick your head through the opening to the living room.

Feeling as though you’ve intruded on a scene you weren’t meant to see, and your curiosity mostly satisfied, you pull away from the doorway. You must have made some sound you weren’t paying attention to, or Gabriel is a lot more perceptive than you had assumed, because Gabriel’s head suddenly snaps up and meets your startled gaze with a look of mild disinterest.

“G-good morning,” you stutter out. Just because you’ve been caught off guard doesn’t mean you’re going to lose your manners. You weren’t raised a heathen.

Gabriel inclines his head in an acknowledging gesture, which is more than what you expected of him.

“Nice, um,” you nod at the TV screen, “documentary? Gotta love the classic David Attenborough.”

Gabriel and you watch as a barn owl swoops down and snatches its prey from the ground in glorious slow motion. “It’s a good one,” Gabriel tells you, returning his attention back to the fabric in his hands. “Gave me the idea for my Halloween costume.”

“What? But Halloween is still months away.”

Gabriel snorts, “Rookie.”

There’s no malice in his tone, which is a pleasant (if unexpected) occurrence. You give him a small smile that he does not see. “Not all of us have the time to make our costumes from scratch, Gabriel.”

He looks up at you, and although he doesn’t smile, there’s something good-natured and relaxed in the way he teases you. “Like I said. Rookie.”

Your phone pings you, a message from Jesse telling you he’s arrived. You bid farewell to Gabriel, and he reciprocates for once.

You don’t give the interaction much thought after that, until Jesse asks you about your new roommate. “Not as charming as I am, surely?” he says with an exaggerated, saucy wink.

You roll your eyes at Jesse, “At least I haven’t had to carry his drunk ass back home at 3 AM. Almost worth the dirty dishes in the sink all the damn time.”

Jesse steals a sip of your drink, and you punch him lightly in the arm. “He was insufferable most of the time,” you admit. “Besides this morning, I can’t remember if we’ve ever had non-hostile interactions before. I think watching owl documentaries is good for his health, either that or working on his Halloween costume.”

“Now that sounds more like the Gabriel I know.”

“You mean he wasn’t a raging douche all the time?” you say automatically before you process what Jesse has said. “Wait, Jesse, you know him?!”

Jesse gives you a “well duh” look. “He worked with Overwatch the same time I did. He was my supervisor.”

“What?!” you remember Jesse’s stories about his supervisor who really helped him out and looked out for him. You had felt a rush of affection by proxy every time Jesse talked about his supervisor! And it had been Gabriel, insufferable roommate extraordinaire all along?!

“Yeah. He was different back then,” Jesse says in a quiet voice, looking off to the side but not focusing on anything. “Things changed a lot in Overwatch. People changed a lot.”

That strikes an odd chord in you, and you reach out a hand to Jesse to give him your best reassuring squeeze. “He’s not… all that bad, really.”

Jesse doesn’t look back at you, but he reciprocates the hand squeeze. “Yeah. He isn’t.”

…

Gabriel finally, finally moves out. There’s no fanfare to it: he fits all his valuable belongings into a large black suitcase, mutters a curt goodbye, and leaves you to deal with his rotting food in the fridge.

Even though you’re elbows deep in questionable substances and your discomfort level is slowly rising, you can’t help but breathe a deep sigh of relief at his departure. (And then promptly sputter and cough for a good minute because your fridge smells ungodly.)

“Hey, this probably comes as no surprise to you but your washroom garbage can was overflowing,” your friend calls out from upstairs.

“Seriously? I just took out the garbage yesterday,” you groan.

“It was all old candy wrappers. Don’t worry, I’m taking care of it.”

“Very, very appreciated.”

“I felt bad seeing you struggle with Gabriel these last few months. You were fighting a losing battle out here.”

“Well,” you shrug and toss a rotting crown of broccoli at the garbage can beside you, “I’ve survived it now. This space is officially mine again. No more week old spaghetti.”

“Amen to that.”

Chapter Text

You’re pulled from your sleep by the sharp, restrained knocking of your latest roommate. It’s a harsh little sound that straddles the line between insistent and polite. Sighing, you glance over at your alarm clock on your desk.

9:45 AM.

On time, as usual. Jack Morrison lived and died by schedules.

All in all, he doesn’t seem that interesting to get to know (or that interested in getting to know you, anyways), but what matters is that he gets his chores done. A pretty decent roommate overall, considering that you found him through Craigslist. Even if he does turn out to be the axe murder you were expecting, at least he never leaves his dirty dishes out.

The knock resounds again, a smidge faster and more impatient than it was previously. “I’m coming Jack, I’m coming!” you call out. “Keep your trousers untwisted, please.” You throw on a shirt and run your fingers through your hair a few times to give yourself the semblance of looking presentable.

You’re greeted by Jack’s impassive, carefully neutral expression when you open the door. It’s so constant and unchanging you’ve often wondered if he practices it in the mirror. “Good morning, my lovely roommate. What brings you to my humble abode?”

“It’s Saturday,” he states, right to the point. “Laundry day.”

“No warm-hearted greeting? Is this all just a business transaction to you, Jackie?” it’s never early enough for your theatrics, but Jack only raises an unimpressed eyebrow at you when you pretend to be heart-broken. “Right, right. Which ones do you need again?”

“This week is light colours. Make sure nothing’s darker than an Ash Grey.”

“Of course,” you say, even though you’re still not sure what an Ash Grey is supposed to look like. You drag out your hamper of clothes, rifling through it briefly to make sure there’s no dark coloured clothing (Jack wouldn’t have a fit, but he would squint at you accusingly and you don’t like feeling judged) before you hand it off to Jack.

Jack thanks you in his dispassionate way and heads for the stairs, as he does every other week, but this time he pauses before he descends. He looks back at you as you’re going to close your bedroom door again and gives you a nod that’s a few degrees less restrained than his usual one. “Have a good rest of your morning.”

“Eh, I’m probably just going back to sleep.”

“Sleep well,” he bids you.

---

You don’t really know much about your roommate. Besides him being ex-military (which really explained his strict adherence to schedules), Jack hasn’t shared anything about his life to you. You’re not even certain if he has a job. But he pays the rent on time and always remembers which days are recycling days and which days are garbage days, so that’s all you’re really asking for.

Hearing the TV playing in the living room as you’re making yourself an afternoon snack, your curiosity is piqued. Jack doesn’t watch TV often, so you had assumed that he doesn’t include it in his schedule. What could be so interesting to him that he would break his daily routines for? You’d always pegged him for a Real Housewives kind of person, or at the very least, into The Bachelor. Realistically speaking, it’s probably something mundane. The weather most likely.

You stick your head into the living room just to sate your curiosity, foot poised on the first step of the stairs and hands balancing your recently made snack, but what you see on screen momentarily confuses you so much that you forget to move. “What the hell?”

Jack pauses the TV and turns to look at you, “What is it?”

“I’m asking you,” you nod at the screen, considering that your hands are currently occupied. The TV is currently paused on some grainy security footage of an Omnium core. Something was circled in red in the corner, an indistinct darker blob. “What is that?”

Jack sits up straighter, if it was even possible. “This is a documentary. You’re familiar with the Omnium cores, right? You know how it’s in charge of Omnic development, and how sentience was an unexpected result of the Omnium cores? Well, all of that is a blatant lie. The Omnium cores were placed where they are by current world leaders as an excuse to plunge the world into an age of chaos and terror. The Omnic Crisis was just the beginning of it all—a way for them to test the waters. They know the cores are alive and malevolent, and the elite want to wipe the world, or crush it, so that they can rule over the broken masses.”

“A conspiracy theory,” you deadpan. “You’re watching conspiracy theories.”

“The truth,” Jack insists.

“Alright,” you say, looking around the living room for whatever Jack must be drinking, “that’s enough alcohol for you.”

He gives you a strange look, “I don’t drink.”

“What?” you look between Jack and the conspiracy theory documentary paused on the TV. “You mean to tell me you’re watching this stone-cold sober?”

Jack nods slowly, a little incredulously, as if you’re the odd one in this situation. As if you’re the one with the weird conspiracy theory boner at 4PM on a Wednesday afternoon.

“Jack,” you shake your head, “you’re something else entirely.”

---

It’s been a long time since you’ve had a proper talk to Fareeha ever since she’s left. Her work has taken her international, and the time difference was hell to keep up on. But on occasion, she’d be back in the country to visit friends and family, and the two of you make the time to at least get coffee together before her work whisks her away again.

And it’s on one of these casual get-togethers that you learn your ex-roommate is considering a job offer from Overwatch.

“It doesn’t pay as well as my current job, but I’ve always admired their work and my mother helped start it,” Fareeha tells you over a blueberry muffin.

“What, really?” you take a sip of your coffee and can’t stop yourself from making a face. “God, what do they make this out of?”

“I told you it was strong,” Fareeha says mildly and slides two sugar packets over the table. “My mother wants me to continue at Helix. She says relief organizations are stressful to run, and I know that. I watched her run herself into the ground trying to manage that organization back around the Omnic Crisis. She keeps saying she needs a life long vacation after the whole ordeal between Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison.”

“Wait, wait, what?” you cup your hand to your ear. “Did you say Gabriel Reyes and Jack Morrison?”

Fareeha arches an eyebrow at you, “You really don’t keep up with the news, do you? This was a big thing a few years back, right before you would have started coming to the University.”

“What is with Overwatch people and my place?” you wonder. “Gabriel Reyes was my last roommate, and Jack Morrison is my current roommate.”

This time, it’s Fareeha’s turn to look surprised, “I haven’t heard from him in ages. And how is he as a roommate?”

“Well, I can’t complain about him. I don’t know him too well since he keeps to himself, but he does the chores on time.”

Fareeha nods and takes a sip of her drink, “I don’t know how much he’s changed, but I remember him as a charismatic leader, if a little bit of a stickler for rules.”

“This coming from the law person,” you tease. “But really? He’s charismatic? I don’t see it. He’s too much of a shut-in.”

“He tried to hold Overwatch together when everything started falling apart. I admire him for that.”

“Okay, yeah that does sound impressive. I’ll give him that. Still, though. Him? I really can’t see it. It’s like finding out your neighbour moonlights as a vigilante superhero or something equally ridiculous.” You sip your coffee, determined to finish it. “He’s meticulous and organized. But charismatic? Jack? Are you sure?”

Fareeha rolls her eyes, “Is it that surprising? But yes, Jack. I am sure. Be nice to him. He is old.”

---

The turn of the season comes hard, fast, and with all the power of a metal knee to the chest. You wake up one morning with a telltale pounding behind your eyes and your limbs feeling leaden. “Oh crabsacks,” you grouse, and your voice comes out much more nasally and lower than expected.

Your alarm chooses that moment to go off, and the noise is like subtle needle pricks to your skull. You grumble incoherent noises of displeasure as you shut it off; you would complain much more vocally if you could, but your throat feels like it’s grown a layer of moss.

Slowly, you push yourself into a sitting position. Classes, sadly, would march on without you and you really didn’t want to fall behind any further than you had already. With that less than comforting thought, you manage to force yourself through your morning routine without dragging your legs too much.

Jack is in the kitchen, washing his dishes, because of course Mr. Boy Scout would already by done breakfast by now. He greets you when you walk in, and his brow furrows in some sort of emotion—concern? Surprise? Disbelief? —when your greeting sounds stuffier than a Thanksgiving turkey. “Caught a cold?” he asks.

“Something like that,” you reply. “Do we have any Tylenol?”

Jack opens the medicine drawer—the one he organized in week one, in case it wasn’t obvious—to check and grimly shakes his head, “We’re all out.”

You only have the energy to make a bleating noise of discontent. You’ll have to try and remember to pick some up at the campus drugstore.

Jack’s eyebrows furrow again with that same emotion, and turns away from you. “Get something warm into your system, at least.”

“Not hungry.”

“Doesn’t have to be solid. Milk? Tea? I’ll make it for you.”

“Thanks Jack?” you give him your preferred beverage choice and he nods.

“Should you really be going to class?” he asks as you sip from your steaming mug.

“Not much of a choice. I haven’t done the readings yet; if I don’t go, I’ll be even more lost for next week,” the warmth of your drink does soothe your throat—makes the scratchy fuzziness much more bearable.

“You come straight home once you’re done class,” Jack tells you sternly, brow still scrunched up.

You roll your eyes, “Fine, dad.”

“Don’t make this weirder than it needs to be,” and with that, Jack Morrison sends you off to school.

The day passes by in a blur. You really do try to pay attention in class, but after twelve o’clock, your mind immediately crashes and all you can think about is how warm and cozy your bed sounds right this moment. You don’t even have early classes tomorrow, so you could get in a solid chunk of snoozing if you just hurried on home as soon as your last class ends.

Of course, in your haste to leave, you forget to pick up cold medicine from the campus drugstore.

It doesn’t even occur to you until you’re unlocking the front door of your residence. You curse under your breath; guess you’ll just have to sleep this one off.

Jack isn’t home when you walk inside, but there’s a pile of items on the counter and a note left for you in his neat, meticulous lettering.

Get some rest –Jack.

There’s Tylenol, Advil, honey lemon tea, cough drops, tissues, soup, and even warm, fuzzy socks. God bless that man.

Soup sounds like a good idea, but sleep also sounds like a better idea. An hour long nap for you to get your bearings, and then you’ll make some soup for yourself. You set an alarm on your phone and collapse gratefully onto the sagging cushions of the mustard yellow couch. “Hold me in your sweet, sweet embrace,” you recall yourself telling the cushions right before you pass out.

After what feels like no time at all, you’re pulled from your nap by someone running their hand over your forehead. You focus your bleary eyes on Jack’s concerned expression—yes, that’s concern alright. “Do I have something on my face?”

“You’re burning up,” he tells you.

I’m always hot as hell, you think to yourself. Jack snorts and you dimly realize that maybe you hadn’t just been thinking it. “Is it four o’clock yet?”

“It’s already seven,” Jack informs you. You groan. How could you have slept through your alarm? That thing never fails to give you a minor heart attack each time.

“I’m up, I’m up,” you mutter, bracing yourself against the couch’s back. Jack’s large, warm hand stops you from rising, pushing firmly on your shoulder.

“You can still sleep for a while. You really need the rest if you’re coming down with a fever,” Jack explains. He tugs something up from your lap—a blanket? Since when had you gotten a blanket? —and tucks you into the fuzzy material.

“But—“

Jack gently shushes you, patient but firm. “No protests. You need rest. I’ll get dinner ready.”

Your eyelids are already heavy, and the blanket he picked out is just so good and soft. You think Jack might have said something else while you were falling asleep, but you don’t catch it and you’re much too tired to even pretend to care.

Your dreams are disorienting. Too bright and incoherent, even for dreams, and it aggravates your headache. It’s all the fault of the green kangaroo. It won’t let you catch it, and that means… something! Probably something devastating, that little bugger.

Something is gently nudging you, getting more insistent the more you ignore it. In your dream, it’s a giant dog headbutting your arm, eyes big and golden and looking for comfort. It opens its mouth, and you get a feeling that’s too many teeth, but it’s calling your name again and again. It just won’t leave you alone—

You’re startled from your dream by a slightly rougher shake courtesy of Jack. “Uh?”

“Dinner’s ready,” Jack helps you to sit up and brings the bowl of steaming soup to your hands. “Be careful, it’s hot.”

“Muh,” your thoughts are cloudy and feels distant, like they are being beamed to you from a satellite floating over Russia. You mechanically take a few spoonfuls of the soup, but your stuffy nose means that you don’t really taste it.

“Drink,” Jack instructs you, taking your bowl of soup and replacing it with a bottle of water. Once you’ve taken a few sips, he hands you your soup back and you take a few more automatic spoonfuls.

You pause about halfway through your soup just so you can inform Jack, “I feel like shit.”

“That’s a symptom of being sick,” he agrees.

You set the soup down on the table and drop your head between your knees to try and fight off the sudden rush of dizzying nausea. “God. I think I’m going to die.”

“Don’t be melodramatic.”

“I’m serious, Jack,” you mumble out. “If I die, you have to promise me something.”

Jack isn’t the kind of person to roll his eyes, but you can see he’s mighty tempted. “You won’t be dying any time soon.”

“Promise me.”

“Fine, I’ll concede. What do you want me to promise?”

You ran a hand soothingly over the couch’s cushions, “If I am to pass on, you have to promise me that you will make it your life’s mission to get this couch to a good home. It’s gone through so much, Jack. We will never fully comprehend the horrors it’s witnessed. It deserves a loving home and family to look forward to.”

Jack nudges you again to pull you out of your couch patting stupor and to get you to drink some more soup. You resist initially, demanding that he promise you to look after the couch. He sighs and in a carefully gentle voice reassures you, “Yes, I’ll do my best.”

“Good, good,” you mumble, settling into the couch. “It has character, Jack.”

“It sure does,” and yeah sure he sounds like he’s only saying that to pacify you, but you feel like you’ve already got a foot in the grave—or more likely, your entire left leg—and he’s been kind to you. You can let this slide. Just this once.

---

Jack Morrison is a deeply private person. Some people keep their secrets and interests close to their heart, and then there’s Jack Morrison who keeps any and all information about himself encrypted, locked away in a box that’s packed away in a safe and then set on a heavily guarded ship… you get the picture. If you ever tried to really know Jack, you would probably be stuck trying to decrypt hypothetical emotional passcodes for the next fifty years.

You don’t know much about your roommate except that he used to be one of the founders and leaders of the top emergency relief organizations in the country, and that he avidly follows the Omnium Cores Conspiracy.

And, most recently, you learned he plays video games.

Exams are winding down for you, so you’re spending more time at home rather than at the study rooms in the library surrounded by the despair and confusion of your fellow students. You’re not usually home at 2 PM on a weekday, so up until now you were oblivious to your roommate’s schedule. You just assumed he went out to work or… something.

Muffled, distraught screams from the living room were the last thing you expected. Actually, that’s exactly what you had been expecting when Jack first started living with you (Craigslist? Watering hole of axe murderers? That sound familiar?), but had you been lulled into a false sense of security?

“He better not be getting blood over the couch,” you mutter as you descend the stairs. Over the sound of screams, you hear the rhythmic retort of... guns? “Jack?”

The sound cuts out, suddenly abruptly, and when you turn around the corner and into the living room, you see some sort of Menu screen on the TV and Jack lounging comfortably on the couch, controller in hand. “Was I being too loud?” he asks you when you make eye contact with him.

“No, not at all,” you say hurriedly. “I didn’t peg you for a video game sort of guy.”

“Too old to know his way around a console?”

“I wouldn’t say it like that,” you consider your roommate. Stoic, reserved, and a stickler for rules, you weren’t even sure if Jack had interests. “This just seems like the kind of thing you’d call a frivolous waste of time. Especially Call of Duty.”

“Ironically, in my youth, I did consider it a waste. What changed?” he echoes the unasked question in your mind. “For one thing, I tried it. And there’s a certain satisfaction in scoring kills.”

He holds out the controller to you, “Want a try?”

You accept the controller and sit down next to Jack as he selects a game mode for you. You nod absently at his instructions for how to aim and shoot as the game loads.

“One last thing,” Jack says as your character spawns. “If you’ve never played this before, it will go really fast. Quite frankly, you’re going to get your ass handed to you.”

“What?” you ask as you step outside the spawn room and immediately get taken out by the enemy sniper. “What just happened?”

“You died. Try not to let that happen again.”

“I didn’t even see what happened.”

“Like I said, it goes fast,” he directs you around the map, and you manage to score one (lucky) kill against an unwary enemy. Your heart thuds painfully in your chest, and the moment you stop to rejoice, you’re immediately taken down by your target’s teammate.

But Jack definitely was right about it being fun.

You spend the rest of your afternoon like that, you just trying to survive as long as possible outside of spawn, with Jack barking out tips and instructions like he’s a drill sergeant, and occasionally Jack taking a moment to report an angry, swearing teammate for “insubordination”.

---

Jack never tells you exactly when he’s moving out. You only find out by chance when you trudge downstairs one morning and realizing that he’s already packed his bare minimum possessions and ready to go. He looks almost startled to see you, before schooling his expression into its customary neutral look.

“You were going to leave without saying goodbye,” you accuse him, crossing your arms.

He at least has enough sense to look embarrassed. “I’m not good with goodbyes. I would have left a note.”

“And let me guess, it would have said something like ‘Moved out. Rent’s paid. Thank you. Signed, Jack’.” The few times he left you notes, they had been notoriously short and succinct messages scribbled on Post-It notes.

“Maybe not those words exactly,” he says.

You roll your eyes and lean against the wall. “Right, well, I’m not much good with goodbyes either, but it was alright being your roommate, old man. You didn’t kill me in my sleep, so that’s something,” you smile at him to let him know that yes you’re joking, and no you really don’t want him to attempt homicide in the middle of the night. “Look, I don’t know where you’re going—and I don’t expect you’d tell me anyways—but if you’re ever around, and want to watch me own ass at CoD, you know how to contact me.”

“I’ll take you up on that,” he nods, “except the part about you ‘owning ass’. The way I see it, you’re more likely to get trounced.”

“You can let me dream, at least.”