Chapter Text
Mike wasn’t entirely sure what he’d been thinking when he offered for Vanessa to stay with them.
No — that wasn’t true. He knew exactly what he’d been thinking. Vanessa was the reason he and Abby were alive, and the gratitude that weighed on his chest was too big to be shaped into something as simple as words. It was a debt he didn’t know how to repay, and something he didn't even know how to begin processing.
How do you thank someone for saving your life? Your sister's life? For taking a fucking knife to the gut — from her own father — for people she barely even knew?
No amount of words would ever be enough. Thank you sounded so hollow when he'd think about it — when he thought about who she was beneath the badge and the guarded expressions, about what she’d carried her entire life, about the fear and loyalty and guilt that had been twisted so tightly together that she’d never known how to separate them.
Forgetting wasn't an option, and neither was staying away.
So, he didn't.
He visited her in the hospital almost every day.
Not her, exactly — not the real her — just the version of her the laid in the small bed, lifeless and pale, with a ventilator shoved down her throat and tubes running out of her arms. It was such a stark contrast to the version of her he'd met at Freddy's, the put-together cop who had seen too much and carried so much weight. The girl who, underneath it all, just wanted to be normal in the same way he did.
He would sit with her in silence, listening to the steady rhythm of her heartbeat from the monitor until the quiet began to crawl underneath his skin. Then he’d start thanking her — a million times, in a million different ways — but the words felt useless when she couldn’t hear any of them. The doctors told him he could talk to her, but the longer he spoke, the more his throat would tighten up.
Abby never seemed to care that Vanessa couldn't talk back. She was content to sit by her bed and ramble on about her drawings and school and all of her new friends — her old friends, too, the animatronics — and how she hoped Vanessa would wake up soon so that they could play together again. She spoke about it like she'd already decided Vanessa would be apart of their lives, that she would wake up and would get to see her often and do all kinds of fun things together.
Maybe that's where the idea initially came from.
It lingered in the back of his mind, a nagging voice that would speak up when the silence got too loud, but it was something he was afraid to touch directly. He didn’t let himself decide on it yet. It felt too big, too reckless, too weird to settle on while she still lay unconscious in that bed.
He wasn’t convinced it was smart to bring someone into Abby’s life in that way either. Not after everything they’d been through, not after how fragile their sense of normal still felt. Their lives were only just beginning to steady, and even that balance felt temporary, like it could tip at any moment.
So, he waited.
He sat beside her bed and let the thought hover while machines breathed for her and the days blurred together. He kept it tucked away, careful not to give it shape, because giving it shape meant commitment — and commitment meant the risk of getting it wrong.
He waited until the doctors started talking about discharge. Until conversations shifted from survival to recovery, from if to when.
They spoke in careful tones about physical therapy, about follow-ups and healing timelines, about how she’d need a stable, quiet place to rest once she was released. Somewhere safe. Somewhere she could actually breathe.
And suddenly, the question he’d been avoiding demanded an answer.
Where was Vanessa supposed to go?
The doctors never mentioned any family, any other visitors besides her boss from work, or anyone else for that matter. Did she even have anyone? Friends who would make sure she took her meds on time, that she ate, that she didn’t overdo it while her body was still stitching itself back together?
Every time he pictured it — Vanessa staying alone, forced to take care of herself, having to relive what she went through with no one to comfort her — something inside of him ached.
He still hesitated, though, because bringing her into their home meant changing everything. It meant learning a new person, a new routine, meant that the attention Abby desperately needed would have to be shared with someone else — and what if all of Abby's progress went down the drain?
He kept waiting, kept turning it over in his mind until Abby curled herself into Mike's side one evening, cheek smushed to his arm.
“Where’s Vanessa gonna go when she wakes up?” she'd asked, quiet and simple, like it had never occurred to her that there might not be an obvious answer. "Does she have someone to take care of her?"
Mike had sighed, long and heavy, his gaze lingering on the T.V. "I don't know, Abs. She doesn't have any other family."
He'd felt her fingers tighten in the fabric of his sleeve. “Then… she’ll be all by herself?”
“Probably,” he'd admitted softly.
The word seemed to weigh on her.
After a moment, she had shook her head, determined in that way only kids could be. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he'd agreed. “It’s not.”
They had both gone quiet after that, until Abby suggested the one thing Mike had been trying not to think about.
“She could stay with us.”
He'd looked down at her then, really looked — at the innocence in her eyes, at the uncomplicated certainty — and he felt something inside him shift, a small crack in the wall of hesitation he'd built up.
He'd waited a second, jaw moving like he was chewing up his words before saying them out loud, like answering would rip off the band-aid that he'd been wearing for two weeks now.
"Is that something you'd be okay with?" he'd finally asked.
Her reaction was immediate. Her eyes had widened, lighting up with a mix of joy and relief, and she practically bounced in place on the couch, shaking Mike's arm a little too aggressively.
"Yeah! It'll be like a sleepover every night!" she'd beamed. "She wouldn't have to be alone, and we could take care of her! Plus, I'll have someone else to play with."
Mike had let a small, humorless laugh escape him, shaking his head at her boundless energy. She always made things sound so simple, so possible, even when they weren't exactly easy. He'd watched her for a long moment, letting her excitement fill the room, and allowed himself to imagine it too — Vanessa with them, healing, sharing their home and their life.
He had thought about it for another week until he got the phone call that she was awake.
He'd arrived at the hospital, his stomach twisting with nerves and anxiety and something else that buzzed underneath it all. It felt so surreal to walk into her room and see her awake, eyes open and speaking with a nurse, and to not have a ventilator covering half of her face.
When she'd turned her head and noticed Mike lingering in the doorway, the expression that had crossed her face was unreadable — maybe confusion, maybe recognition, maybe relief.
After the nurse left the two of them alone, Mike couldn't help but fill the uncomfortable silence. He told her he was glad she was okay — that she was awake, that she’d scared the hell out of him, even if he didn’t quite phrase it that way. He told her he’d been by almost every day, and that Abby had come whenever she could, leaving crooked drawings and folded paper hearts on the edge of the bedside table.
Vanessa had listened quietly, eyes fixed on his face like she wasn't quite sure he was really there. Her fingers worried at the edge of the blanket draped over her stomach, twisting the fabric between them as she processed everything he was saying. When he finally trailed off, all that was left was the confusion and disbelief that flickered across her face. The idea that he had been there, day after day, that Abby had too, clearly hadn’t settled yet.
She said she hadn’t expected it. Confessed she thought he would’ve kept his distance — that after everything, she assumed he would’ve hated her. And the way she said it, like she was apologizing for being someone worth worrying about, made something shift inside him. The decision he’d been circling around for weeks finally settled in his mind.
So, he told her he'd been thinking — about her discharge, about what comes next, about her recovery and how she would need some help for a while. And then, before he could overthink it or talk himself out of it, he asked if she would like to come live with them.
She practically refused before he was even done speaking.
She told him she’d be fine, that she didn’t want to impose, that he was kind and sweet and all of the nice things but there was no way she could accept something like that. Her words had come out careful and restrained, like she was afraid of stepping over some invisible line, like she was already preparing herself to be left alone.
It twisted itself deep into Mike's chest.
She shouldn’t have had to brace herself, he thought. Not after everything she’d done — not after everything she’d sacrificed.
Maybe that was why he didn’t back down, why he didn’t let her deflect or minimize or fold herself smaller than she already was. He stayed patient, grounding himself firmly in the decision he’d spent weeks circling around. He reminded her that recovery wasn’t simple, that healing took time, that no one should have to do it by themselves. He told her they had space, that Abby would be thrilled, that she wouldn’t be a burden — not even close. That if anything, it would be the smallest way to repay a debt he would never truly be able to settle.
Lucky for her, Mike could be quite convincing when he wanted to be.
“It doesn’t have to be permanent," he'd assured. "Just a couple of weeks until you heal up. Until you’re steady again.”
Her gaze had lingered on him for a long moment after that, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the catch — the unspoken expectation, the hidden cost. She looked for so long that Mike was convinced he was going to have to resort to drastic measures — maybe even bring Abby here and let her work her unstoppable charm that Vanessa wouldn’t stand a chance against.
But eventually, something in her expression changed.
The rigid tension in her shoulders slightly softened. The careful guard she’d built around herself cracked open, letting uncertainty and exhaustion seep through. She still looked overwhelmed, still wary, but there was something else there now, too — a small, uncertain hope that she was scared to acknowledge.
She quietly admitted that the thought of returning to an empty house — to silence and memories and too much space to think — made her feel sick. That the idea of being alone with it all felt impossible.
So she sat there, staring down at her hands, like she was afraid that one wrong move might make him take back the offer.
And then, finally, she nodded.
"Just a couple of weeks," she'd whispered, meeting his gaze as she had said it.
"Just a couple of weeks," he'd echoed.
The tension finally eased, and Mike gave her a small, reassuring smile. She returned it quietly — nothing big or obvious, just a subtle curve of her lips, but enough to let him know that she was listening, that she felt it too.
Now, Mike felt the weight of that decision pressing in on him.
He didn’t regret it, not even a little bit, but everything about her being here made him acutely aware of himself — of the way he moved, the way he spoke, the way his house suddenly felt too small yet too big all at once. It was like he’d forgotten how to exist naturally with her around, like every breath and step required conscious effort. She had only been here for a week, and he was starting to feel like he was maybe just an idiot.
Mike had insisted that Vanessa take his bed, that she couldn't recover properly by sleeping on the couch. They had argued about it all the way home from the hospital, and even more when they finally got to his house — until Abby, blunt as ever, told Vanessa that she was sleeping there whether she liked it or not.
Mike had never been so grateful for her lack of a filter.
Because of that, though, Mike was stuck sleeping on the couch. He was pretty sure the lack of proper cushioning beneath him was slowly deteriorating all of the muscles and bones in his back. The clock on the table glowed at 1:42 a.m., and he felt that level of exhaustion that came when you were too tired to even feel tired — just an ache in his body and the heavy weight of his eyelids that burned with each slow blink. He let out a sigh and shifted again, trying to find a position that didn’t make him regret everything that had led him here.
Soft, sudden footsteps made him tense, and he leaned his head up to see Vanessa standing in the opening of the hallway. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her mouth was slightly open in shock.
For a second, they both just stared at each other, like neither of them knew what to say or if they should look away. Vanessa was the first to move, curling her blanket closer around her.
“Sorry,” she whispered, shifting awkwardly on her feet. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”
“No, no, you didn’t,” he said, a little too quickly. He pushed himself fully upright, rubbing at his shoulder. “I was already up. Did you need something?”
"My stitches are hurting. I was going to grab some water for my meds,” she replied.
He nodded, pushing himself to his feet with a soft groan as his muscles protested the movement.
“I'll grab it for you," he said, already making his way to the kitchen.
She sighed, reluctantly trailing behind, blanket lightly dragging along the floor. "I didn't mean for you to get up."
"It's fine," he assured, glancing back as he reached for the light switch. "I wasn't sleeping anyway."
The kitchen light felt blinding after the darkness of the living room. Vanessa leaned against the doorway, watching him fill a glass of water, blanket still clutched around her shoulders.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft rush of water and the faint ticking of the clock on the wall.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” she said eventually, her voice a little hoarse. “You’ve already done more than enough.”
Mike turned off the faucet and picked up the glass, holding it loosely in his hand. “It’s not a big deal,” he said, quietly. “Really.”
She didn’t argue, but she didn’t look convinced either.
He handed her the glass, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. The contact was fleeting, barely there, but it sent a strange jolt through him all the same. She murmured a soft thanks and popped the pills from her hand into her mouth, sipping the water and wincing as she swallowed.
“Does it hurt bad?” he asked, before he could stop himself.
No, you fucking idiot. Her stab wound doesn't hurt at all.
"It's just… uncomfortable," she sighed, pressing herself firmer into the doorway. Her hair was slightly tousled from laying down, and her eyes were rimmed with an exhaustion he was sure couldn't be described. "My whole stomach is sore, and my stitches are itching like crazy. I'll probably feel better once those come out."
“Yeah… that makes sense,” he said softly. He glanced down at her hands, curled lightly around the glass, and then back up at her face, trying to gauge how much he could say without overwhelming her. He leaned against the counter and crossed his arms.
“You’re doing okay, though,” he continued after a moment. “I mean… you’re awake. You’re moving. That’s good.”
Her eyes flicked toward him then, a faint, doubtful smile brushing her lips. "Yeah… I guess so. I'm just really tired."
He cleared his throat. “Do you want to sit down for a bit while your meds kick in?" he offered, watching the way her lips pursed before she nodded.
They moved back toward the living room together, and Mike reached to flick off the harsh kitchen light. He sighed in relief at not having to squint his eyes anymore, but the darkness that lingered felt weird, almost too intimate. He walked over to the end table and flipped on the lamp, letting its warm, dim light fill the room, then offered Vanessa help sitting down.
“It’s okay, I got it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him, but she still let out a pained sound as she lowered herself down. His hand hovered instinctively near her back, careful not to touch unless she needed him to. She didn’t — not quite — but the effort clearly took more out of her than she wanted to admit.
“Y’know,” he said gently, sitting on the opposite end of the couch once she was settled. “You can ask for help. That’s what I’m here for.”
She let out a long, deep sigh, setting her water down on the end table quietly. Her shoulders sagged just a little, the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay finally showing through.
“I’m already taking your bed, Mike,” she said quietly. “I don’t want you to do anything else.”
Calling her stubborn felt a bit rude, but good god she was so stubborn. He'd learned that very quickly, and it drove him insane.
He scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked back at her. “You’re not taking anything from me,” he said. “You’re healing. That’s different.”
She shook her head faintly, gaze fixed somewhere past his shoulder. “It doesn’t feel different.”
Silence settled between them — the kind that came from two people thinking too much, feeling too much, and not knowing quite how to untangle it all. It made him squirm inwardly a bit. He had been wanting to talk about it — her father, Freddy's, Garrett — but it never felt like the time was right. She had only been awake for a week, and he didn’t want to overwhelm her with questions or demand answers, even as his mind kept racing with everything he wanted to say.
“You saved Abby's life,” he said eventually, his voice softer than before. “You saved mine. If letting you sleep in my bed and getting you water is the most I can do, then… yeah. I’m gonna do it.”
Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, fingers tightening briefly on the blanket now resting in her lap.
“I didn’t… save you,” she murmured, looking down at her lap. "I don't know, Mike. I think everything is finally catching up to me."
He nodded slowly, letting the weight of her words settle before responding. His eyes traced the tired lines of her profile — the faint shadows beneath her eyes, the tension she still held in her jaw, like she was bracing for a blow that had already landed. Vanessa had been unconscious for three weeks after everything that happened. Three weeks lost to a sterile hospital room and muffled voices, only to wake up with a stab wound in her stomach and the crushing memory of everything waiting for her on the other side. He wondered how much she remembered from that night.
After he'd managed to drag her out of the collapsing building, he had set her down on the pavement long enough to pick her up so that he could carry her to the car. The memory burned in his mind — her blood streaked across the both of them, Abby asking if she was going to be okay, the way Vanessa had whispered an apology just before she passed out.
Mike had never driven so fucking fast in his life.
“You did save us,” Mike said quietly, shaking the thought from his head.
She frowned, finally lifting her eyes to his. “Mike—”
“You tried to stop him,” he interrupted gently. “You told me the truth. You risked your life.” He swallowed. “That matters. It all does.”
Her lips trembled, just barely.
“I should’ve done more,” she whispered. “I had years. Years to stop it. And I didn’t. I just—” she cut herself off as a slow tear rolled down her cheek.
Mike was never good at dealing with his own emotions, much less someone else's. The urge to reach for her, to pull her into a hug or offer some kind of comfort, flared instinctively — but he forced himself to stay still. He didn’t want to cross a line, didn’t want to risk making her feel worse or overwhelming her when she was already barely holding herself together.
"I don't know," Vanessa finally continued, sniffling and wiping her cheek with her knuckle. "I'm just sorry, Mike. I'm sorry I didn't say anything sooner, and I'm sorry you got dragged into this to begin with."
Something in his chest tightened painfully.
“You didn’t drag me into anything,” he said quietly. "Whatever your dad did or made you do… none of it is your fault."
He watched her mouth pull to the side, a silent effort to keep the rest of her tears at bay. A pained breath escaped her, and she raked her fingers through her hair to steady herself.
"It feels like it," she murmured, lip tugged between her teeth. "Every time I close my eyes, I just… I remember everything. All the excuses I made, all the times I did what he asked.” Her jaw clenched. "I can't even sleep without dreaming of that night. Of me pointing my gun at him… I almost didn't pull the trigger, Mike. I almost dropped my gun."
Mike swallowed, his grip tightening slightly against the couch cushion.
“But you didn’t,” he said softly. “You didn’t drop it.”
She shook her head faintly. “I hesitated.”
“You still did it,” he insisted, gentler now. “When it mattered. When it counted. You chose to show up knowing what might happen.”
Her shoulders trembled as another breath hitched its way out of her. She stared down at her hands, like she didn’t trust herself to meet his eyes.
“That doesn’t erase everything else,” she whispered.
“No,” Mike agreed quietly. “But it doesn’t erase the good, either.”
Silence settled again. This one felt necessary — a pause to let the weight of everything sink in.
The only sounds in the room were the faint inhales and exhales from Vanessa collecting herself, each second stretching longer than the last. Mike let them pass, let her breathe, let her exist in the space without trying to fill it with words that might only make things worse.
Eventually, Vanessa inhaled slowly. Her shoulders lowered a fraction, some of the rigid tension easing from her posture. She dragged the heel of her hand across her cheek, wiping away any stray tears, though her eyes still glistened in the low light.
“I just don’t know how to live with it yet,” she admitted, voice quieter now. “All of it. The guilt, the hurt, the memories. I've spent so long pushing all of it down and it’s like… it’s all just hitting me now that he's gone.”
Mike nodded, understanding more than he wanted to. He’d spent years doing the same thing — staying busy, staying distracted, anything to avoid the way grief and regret could ambush him in the quiet — only to fully submerge himself into it each and every night.
“You don’t have to figure it out right now,” he said. “You don’t even have to figure it out soon. Just… take it one day at a time.”
She gave a small, humorless huff of a laugh. “You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not,” he admitted. “But it’s doable.”
Her eyes finally lifted to his then. Something vulnerable flickered across her face, like she was debating whether to let herself believe him.
He held her gaze, steady and unflinching, hoping she could see the sincerity there.
"You never really talk about how you’re doing,” she said after a moment, shifting the conversation away from her. “How are you holding up? After everything.”
Mike hesitated, jaw tightening as he considered brushing it off — the way he always did. But something about the way she watched him, open and earnest and still hurting, made deflection feel wrong — especially considering what she'd just admitted.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Some days are easier than others. Abby helps… keeping things normal for her helps, and she's actually been doing a lot better in school. But… yeah. It’s a lot sometimes.”
She smiled faintly, a genuine curve that softened her features, and she slowly angled herself to face him. “She’s really great, y’know. You’ve done good with her.”
He returned the smile, unable to hide it. She really was something — resilient, bright, and so unique, even after everything she’d been through. Mike had to remind himself constantly how lucky he was to have her, to get to take care of her and watch her grow up.
“She’s glad you’re here,” he said quietly. “Every morning she talks about you and about how excited she is that you’re here. She really likes having you around.”
Mike kept watching her, giving her time to process it, to let the words sink in. “She’s really happy,” he continued softly. “And… so am I, that you’re here.”
He swore, for just a fraction of a second, that he noticed her cheeks color, a faint warmth creeping across her face. He told himself he was imagining it — a trick of the light, or maybe just the lamp reflecting off her skin. But something about the way her gaze flicked away made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t ignore.
“I… I’m really grateful for you guys,” she admitted, her voice soft, almost barely above a whisper. “Even though I feel like I'm in the way.”
“You’re not in the way,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “We both want you here.”
She gave a small, tentative smile, the kind that was shy but honest.
“Thank you, Mike. For everything." She swallowed before continuing. "I'm not trying to be… difficult, just so you know. I just feel bad you have to stop your life for me."
"I'm not stopping my life," he insisted, adjusting himself on the couch. His eyes flicked to the clock that now read 2:17 a.m., and it made him acutely aware of how droopy his eyes felt.
“It’s… different, sure,” he continued, “but having you here doesn’t stop anything, I promise."
Vanessa smiled then, almost like she hadn't been listening and was lost in her own thoughts. Her gaze drifted over the living room, landing on a stray stuffed animal Abby had left on the floor.
"I really adore her," Vanessa hummed in a fond tone. "Abby, I mean. I'm glad that she's been doing better."
Mike let a small smile tug at his lips. “Yeah,” he said. “She’s… a lot sometimes, but she’s really great. She’s good for all of us, honestly.”
Vanessa smiled faintly and hummed in agreement, letting her gaze drift back over to Mike.
"You should sleep," she sighed, straightening her back some. "You look tired."
Mike let out a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "You do too. We both should sleep."
She nodded, shifting a bit on the couch like she was bracing herself to stand. "Yeah. I think my meds have kicked in anyway."
Mike stood and held out a hand. “Here,” he said gently. “Let me help.”
She hesitated for a moment before taking it, letting him guide her to her feet. The movement was slow, careful, and she winced slightly as she adjusted her stance.
“You sure you don’t want the bed?” she asked quietly, glancing at him. “You’ve been sleeping on the couch all week.”
“Vanessa.”
She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth tugged into a smile. “You’re going to have back problems by thirty, and I’ll get to say 'I told you so.'"
Mike let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. As she moved toward the bedroom, careful but steady, his thoughts drifted to the possibility — the possibility of knowing her for that long, for having her in his life permanently even after she moved out.
The possibility of having a real friend.
It made him smile, small and private. The thought of that kind of stability, of a life with her woven into it, of having somone that understood the weight of the past without making it feel heavy or hard. He exhaled softly and let the feeling settle, turning his attention back to Vanessa as she stopped at the opening of the hallway.
"Goodnight, Mike," she whispered, voice even quieter now that she was closer to Abby, fast asleep in her bedroom. "Sleep well."
"Goodnight, Vanessa. You too." He watched her for a moment, taking in the careful way she moved, the quiet thoughtfulness in her expression, and the faint shadow of a smile tugging at her lips.
Once she disappeared down the hall, he sank back into the couch, and it felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. The tension he’d been carrying loosened, and the knot of worry and awkwardness that had wound itself into his chest finally began to loosen.
Things felt a little lighter, like maybe this new situation wouldn't feel so weird anymore. Like maybe, they could find something comfortable in the quiet nights, in the shared space, in the simple act of just existing around each other.
The house settled back into silence, broken only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the quiet chirp of crickets outside the window.
Mike stared up at the ceiling, exhaustion finally taking over him, his eyelids heavy and thoughts slowing down. His back twinged as he shifted to lay down again, the cushions beneath offering about as much support as a slab of concrete.
He really needed a new couch.