Archive of Our Own

Breaking into Misty's house is easy, even though she's one of the most paranoid people Natalie's ever met. There are some obviously positioned pieces of litter that would reveal if someone had trespassed, and her back door is locked with a large industry-grade padlock. But Natalie doesn't particularly care if Misty knows she's here because she sure as hell won't press charges against her for property damage, so she just tramples over the strings and pebbles to smash the padlock in with a rock.

The door creaks when it opens. Fresh out of rehab, she's restless and angry and hurting, a caged animal finally freed. Any time she's clean for too long she starts to think about it again, and any time she's clean for too long she starts to hate herself too much to burden Travis. So, time and time again, she comes crawling back to Misty.

The house is dark, but Misty's car was parked in the driveway. Either she's home or she isn't, Nat tells herself as she walks upstairs, steps creaking softly under her feet.

If she's not here, Nat can rifle through her shit freely. Find everything hidden in every corner and crevice so she'll never get caught off guard again. Figure out exactly how Misty's living, how much their sins weigh on her, if she's still just as horrible or if she somehow managed to shrug it off the way Natalie could never.

Or, if she is here, Nat can tear her a new one. Rip into her. She knows it wouldn't be right, but the thought still fills her with a sick relief, because, again, she's rotten and poisoned, and sometimes it's easier to blame Misty than herself. And it's not like Misty doesn't deserve it after everything. She might be the only person on the planet worse than Nat.

Her hand hovers over the doorknob leading into Misty's room; her heart pounds with anticipation as she slowly turns it. There are possibilities. Unknowns. What does her room look like? It could be a serial killer's sanctuary. It could look like it belongs to a fourteen year old girl. Either is possible with Misty. Her unpredictability makes Nat feel alive, sates a hunger for something that she's never found a decent substitute for.

When she peeks inside, it's perfectly normal, borderline serene. Misty lies in the bed — or at least, she assumes it's Misty; the covers are pulled so high up she can only see the hint of blonde curls against the pillow.

With a sleepy little murmur, Misty rolls over, seemingly unaware of Nat's existence. She's asleep, then. The information sends a thrill down her spine.

She can do whatever she wants right under Misty's nose. Maybe she'll go through her drawers. Root around under her bed, leave her closet a mess. Anything to make her presence clear. To give Misty a taste of her own medicine and drive home the fact that no matter what happens, Nat will be watching. All of her own ghosts are Misty's fault; it's only fair she haunts her in return.

She decides to start with the nightstand. It's closest to Misty, after all, the most intimate and personal invasion of privacy possible. Natalie walks closer — slowly, careful not to make too much noise even as her footsteps are muffled by the plush carpet under her feet.

Almost there. Just a few steps away.

And then she stops, because Misty shifts again and makes a loud sniffling noise, coughing pitifully. Her feet kick the blanket down. And then she sits up.

Fuck.

For a moment, they just stare at each other. It's the first time they've seen each other in nearly a decade, and Misty looks a mess. Her eyes are unfocused, cheeks flushed an unnatural pink like she'd been out in a blizzard even as sweat sticks her hair to her forehead.

"Natalie?" she breathes, except it comes out as more of a hoarse mucus-muffled rasp. She tries to smile wide, but is cut off by a coughing fit. Still, even as her body shakes, her eyes never leave Nat's. "You came back. I knew you'd come back," she says, giggling in delirium and flopping back onto the bed.

"You look like shit." The words leave Nat's mouth without her say-so. A little too blunt, a little too neutral.

"Oh, I felt like crud, too, until now. I'm better now that you're here." Then she frowns. "Unless— You are here, right? I'm not—" She fumbles around desperately, voice shaky and quiet.

Nat reaches over and passes her the glasses on the side of the bed. Their hands brush; even the brief contact is enough to confirm that Misty is burning up. "Jesus. How long have you been like this?"

"Not that long. Only since…" Misty furrows her brow, staring somewhere around Nat's collarbone, "Thursday. I think. When Jenny came to work with the flu."

"That was three days ago. Have you just been, what, lying in bed? Have you even eaten?"

Misty blinks up at her. "Yes. I had leftover steak in the fridge from…" She sneezes and pulls the blanket back to her chin. "'m cold now. You are real, right? I haven't seen anyone since Thursday. I think people can hallucinate if they get lonely enough."

"Or it could be your fucking fever," Nat snaps. "Take Tylenol."

"I did!" Misty whines. "I told you. I'm better now." Another coughing fit disproves that statement. "I'm not hot anymore. I'm cold. See?" She burrows further under the covers, curling in on herself as the chills make her shiver.

It's an act, obviously. Misty isn't fucking stupid, she's a nurse, she knows how fevers work. But those big bleary eyes are glassy and distant in a way that's entirely unlike Misty. It sets off alarm bells in Nat's head; she can't help but test Misty's temperature with the back of her hand.

She's pretty sure human skin isn't meant to feel that warm. Misty sighs and leans into her touch, closing her eyes like a purring cat. Her forehead is clammy and damp. Fleshy.

Sleepily, she mumbles, "I missed you."

Nat pulls away. Misty tries to drag her back, but she's too out of it to do anything but grasp at air and whimper in protest.

This is a bad idea. This strange version of Misty, weak and vulnerable and honest, isn't the version that lives in her head; it feels wrong, reminding her of things she shouldn't linger on. She turns around.

"Nat?"

She keeps walking, heart pounding in her ears like a drum.

"Wait," Misty says, panic creeping into her voice. "Nat? Are you leaving?"

Natalie closes the bedroom door behind her, muffling Misty's pleas into an unintelligible hum. She walks away. Down the stairs, into her car, turns the key in the ignition.

And next thing she knows, she's at a fucking Panera Bread, buying shitty chicken noodle soup. Fuck her, she thinks as she drives back to Misty's house.

This was supposed to be about victory. Or closure, or something, a way to say "fuck you" to whatever she's trying to escape. But here she is. Hunting again.

She parks on the curb. In some awful way, it feels good, slinking back inside like a dog with a bird in its mouth, taking up her old role like nothing's changed. The sick satisfaction that comes from providing for the vulnerable.

That's probably how Misty felt back then too, taking care of people who probably didn't give a shit about her, reveling only in being useful. How many people did she kill to hold onto that slightest hint of purpose?

Worst of all, Nat understands. It's addictive and she knows it. She's never been able to match the high of being needed.

The bedroom door creaks when it opens, but Misty doesn't react at all. She's curled up in a ball, muttering unintelligible words to herself, punctuated with loud sniffs and sad sneezes.

"Here." She moves closer, holding out the bag.

Misty's head swivels towards her. She blinks, then squints, looking confused. "I thought you left."

"Yeah, to get soup."

"Oh. Well, you'll probably be more comfortable eating in the dining room."

"What? It's for you, dumbass."

She frowns and stares at Nat like she's speaking gibberish. "I'm not hungry."

"I'm not going to poison you, Misty. Just eat the damn thing."

Hesitantly, she takes the bag and removes the plastic bowl, staring at it like it's a bomb. She looks at the bowl, then back at Nat, then the bowl again. She takes a sip, then continues staring at her. It's unnerving.

"What?" Nat snaps.

"This is a lot better than belt soup."

"I should hope so," she replies, turning away so she doesn't have to associate that look of awe with the phantom memory of leathery water in her mouth. She hears Misty return to loudly slurping, and some of the tension in her shoulders evaporates.

"Nat?" Misty asks, quiet and hoarse. "I'm cold."

Of course she's needy even when she's sick. "I'll be right back." The words come out softer than she wants them to.

The upstairs hallways of Misty's home feels sterile and deserted. It's eerily similar to the cabin back when they first found it. Natalie half expects to find a literal skeleton in the closet, but no, when she opens it all she finds are warm winter blankets, coated in a fine layer of dust. A nearby door leads to a guest room, which Nat assumes has gone unused since 1996. Feels like a haunted hotel.

It's still nicer than anywhere Nat has lived in the past ten years, not counting the fancy rehab facilities that Tai sends her.

She returns to the bedroom and tosses a blanket at Misty. "Here." It's probably bad for her fever to huddle under that for hours though, right? Will the extra warmth make her fever worse? Nat doesn't have a clue. But Misty looks so miserable; she can't just leave her there shivering. "Just, uh, make sure not to overheat."

Misty pouts at her. She looks better than before she had the soup, but she's still in rough shape. Her eyes are watery and glassy; she doesn't even seem fully aware of where she is. She mumbles some sort of complaint under her breath, flopping around on the bed like an uncomfortable fish. Natalie stands in the doorway, shifting her weight awkwardly. She can't help but feel as though she's intruding. If Misty weren't completely out of it, she'd be upset that Nat's here, seeing her weak and delirious. Even during the worst of it in the wilderness, she hated letting people see her cry.

"…Is there anything else I can get you?" she finally asks, awkward and out of practice being responsible for anyone other than herself.

Misty makes a contemplative noise, wrapping the blanket around herself and burying her nose in it. "Are you going to leave now?"

Nat doesn't respond. She should leave, shouldn't she?

"When we got back," Misty says, speaking almost more to herself than Nat, "I was sick for like, three weeks. I didn't get sick at all out there, so I guess my body had been storing it up until it knew I had proper medicine and then sprung it all on me at once. I wish it had happened out there. At least there would've been people around."

"What about your parents?"

"They were already gone when we got back. So it was just me, alone in this house. And I couldn't move, and there was no one I could call, and I just—" Her voice is crackly, maybe just because she's sick, but it sounds close enough to tears to tug at Nat's heartstrings.

Even if Misty hates being weak, she hates being alone more. Nat can imagine her, lying in bed all alone for days, desperately hoping someone would finally notice and save her. The same way Nat's lived the past decade of her life. But even she had Travis to break up the isolation. Shauna had the Taylors, Tai and Van had each other. Who does Misty have?

"I'll take the guest room."

Misty sits upright so quickly that it triggers another coughing fit. When she's done, her eyes are shiny, so full of emotion that it almost makes Nat turn around and run again. "Can— Can you stay here?" She sniffs, wrapping the blanket tighter around herself. "'m sorry. I just… I'm so cold, and I can't help but worry, and remember—"

"Yeah, fine, sure," Nat says, cutting her off, because she knows exactly what she's thinking about and it makes her stomach twist uncomfortably; the rest of that sentence might make her just as sick as Misty. "I'm not sharing a bed with you, though."

"Why not?" Misty asks, then sneezes all over her blanket.

Natalie stares at her pointedly.

"Oh. Fair." She grins, manic and delighted, like a burst of flame. "Gosh, my first sleepover!"

"You've had plenty of those," Natalie says as she curls up in the plush chair Misty keeps in the corner of the room. "Go to sleep."

"Mmkay." Misty does not go to sleep, though. She rolls onto her side, blanket still held up to her face, staring directly at Natalie with those eerie wide eyes.

"What?"

"I'm just happy you're here," she whispers.

Nat closes her eyes. "You need to rest," she says, suddenly hoarse. She hopes she isn't catching whatever Misty has. "And I'm tired."

"Okay. Good night, Nat. Sleep tight."

"Good night."

She doesn't get much sleep, too busy listening to the sounds of Misty's coughs and sniffs and sneezes, the raspy breaths and whimpers she lets out in her sleep. The chair isn't exactly comfortable either. Still, the familiarity of sleeping in a room with another person calms the restlessness in her bones, and when the light of dawn peeks through the curtains, she feels more rested than she has in a long time.

After she forces Misty to take Tylenol with breakfast in the morning, her fever breaks, but she's still wiped and Nat isn't convinced it won't come back. So she takes a trip to the store and picks up ingredients to try and make an actually decent soup instead of the overly-salted bullshit Panera pretends is edible.

The soup comes out pretty shitty, in Nat's opinion. But Misty drinks it happily, all of the apprehension from the day before replaced with a sort of vicious eagerness. "You're a really good cook, Natalie." Her voice is raspy. Her throat must be sore. The soup should help with that, hopefully.

"Not really," she shrugs. "I just followed a recipe from a cookbook I found in your cupboard. I don't really spend much time in the kitchen." She barely remembers to eat most days.

"I can teach you!" Misty says, nearly bouncing out of her seat. "I like to make meals for people. Y'know, they say sharing food is a love language, of sorts. It's a classic show of human camaraderie. And—"

"You're not getting anywhere near my food."

Misty's face falls and for a moment, she looks like the scorned seventeen-year-old girl Nat remembers. "Oh. Okay."

"Because of the germs," Nat elaborates, even though she doesn't really have to, and it's only half of the truth.

"I'm really feeling better. I think you scared away the virus." Misty snorts, except with all the mucus in her throat it sounds more like she's failing miserably at blowing her nose.

Natalie checks her forehead again. Warmer than before. "I think your fever's back. You should go rest." The words feel awkward and clunky in her mouth.

Misty glances between Nat and the staircase. "I'll be okay. I'd rather stay here with you."

"Calm down. I'll be here when you wake up."

"You promise?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever. Pinky promise." She reaches out with her hand, but to her surprise, Misty flinches away. That seems like the exact sort of thing that would cheer her up. What gives?

"Germs," Misty explains, even though that's obviously a lie because she clearly does not give a single shit about contamination. She ducks her head, and it seems like she's starting to shake, the chills coming back. "Come check on me? In a bit?"

It's cute and a little flattering how much Misty seems to crave her presence. Cloying, almost, but her desperation is palpable and thick and suffocating, tragic in its density, so Nat can't fault her for it. She just nods, only hovering a little as Misty ascends the steps to make sure she doesn't fall.

Nat doesn't want to spend all day sitting in Misty's armchair watching her sleep. That would be pathetic. So instead she snoops around.

Misty has a lot of things in her house. By sheer volume and eccentricity, it would be enough to mark her a hoarder, but she's surprisingly neat about it. Everything is exactly where it belongs. The vast stores of canned goods in the basement, the trinkets littered around on carefully dusted shelves, books organized by author and title and probably Dewey Fucking Decimal Number. A lot about birds and a lot about soccer, as well as some medical textbooks.

It's mostly all mundane and boring, until Nat stumbles across a mysterious folder, tucked in the back of a kitchen cabinet.

There are multiple files inside the larger accordion folder. She takes out the thinnest one first and flinches upon opening it. The first thing she sees is a picture of Travis. It's an older picture, probably taken closer to when they were rescued, but it's him nonetheless. Underneath are listed things like addresses, phone numbers, employers… The whole shebang. It isn't surprising to know Misty's been stalking them, not by a long shot, but seeing the proof listed out in tiny little font still makes her feel a little violated.

She traces the phone number. It doesn't seem like Misty's been updating this file meticulously — she can recall a few addresses that are missing — but still, it's worth a shot, isn't it? She could find him. Get out of this creepy house and this weirdly domestic lifestyle and go back to the comfort of self-destructing with company. It wouldn't be good for either of them, but it would be familiar, at least.

But she promised Misty she'd be here in the morning, so she puts Travis's folder away and reaches for the others.

Melissa and Lottie have larger files than Travis, but theirs are still tragically short. Van's isn't much better, but there's at least some amount of detail. She's running a video store in Ohio. Good for her. Seems like she's doing better than the rest of them.

Tai and Shauna's are fairly thick, which makes sense, considering Tai is a public figure and Shauna lives pretty close by. Nat doesn't look at their files too carefully. Marriage, family, who gives a shit?

That leaves the last file. The largest by far. Nat bites her lip as she opens it, thoroughly unsurprised to see her own mugshot from three years prior staring back at her.

There are the phone numbers and addresses, just like everyone else's. But this record is perfect, and it doesn't just contain Nat's residences, either. There's the information for the closest hospital to every place she's ever lived. And every rehab Tai's sent her to, with phone numbers listed next to admittance and discharge dates.

Then there are the pictures. Every god awful tabloid picture, the mugshots, her driver's license and passport photos, and a few other candids Nat can only assume Misty took without her knowledge. Printed out threads from those creepy-ass stalker forums. Every single derogatory comment about her has an email address and a string of numbers written next to it in red.

And then, the smoking gun: her discharge date from her most recent rehab facility, listed next to a copy of the receipt for her plane ticket to Wiskayok.

There are also some brochures on the side effects of drugs. Overdose symptoms. Risks. What to do if you suspect an overdose. Who to call, remedies, treatments. And mental health advice for fighting addiction. One brochure recommends getting a pet to force responsibility through keeping something else alive, although the online responses tend to say that's bullshit and most addicts are too selfish to think about anyone other than themselves.

Horrifically, pathetically, Nat starts to tear up. This fucking folder, proof that her life has accounted for absolutely nothing at all, that she's a waste of space and doomed to blow up everything around her and everyone knows it, every one of her failures and crashes documented for Misty's perusal. Why the fuck wouldn't she know? She's Misty. It was stupid for Nat to come here and expect to have the upper hand, stupid to feel bad for her time and time again, to look at her lonely and sniveling and horribly sad and try to do one fucking good thing in her life.

She should leave. She should fuck off and drive her car into a lake. Have Misty be fully and truly alone. That'll show her.

The kitchen tile is cold under her knees. The AC is blasting like it might do anything for Misty's fever. It's been a colder March than usual. She's been cold for a long time.

She slides the file back into the accordion folder and then places it back in the cupboard where she found it, shutting the door. She paces around the kitchen until the sun sets, images of numbers and pictures and articles floating behind her eyes, simultaneously weary and wired.

Finally, darkness settles over Wiskayok. And she makes up her mind.

The stairs creak as she slowly climbs, giving herself time to come to her senses, but she's never been good at making choices.

Misty's door is open. She's wrapped up in the same blanket Nat gave her yesterday, shifting around trying to get comfortable as she shivers.

"Are you cold?" Nat asks, quietly so as not to wake her if she's somehow asleep. Giving herself an out.

Misty opens her eyes and blinks sleepily. "Hm? Natalie?" Her teeth are chattering.

Nat walks closer. One step. Another. Until she's standing right at her bedside, one hand on the mattress. Misty squints at her, glasses absent.

Slowly, Natalie places a knee on the bed. "Is this okay?" she whispers, almost hoping Misty will say no and force her to be sensible.

But a tiger can't change its stripes. With a sudden wave of lucidity, Misty nods, eyes wide, hands reaching for Nat seemingly without her control. "Of course," she says with quiet reverence and a lifetime of longing.

Nat crawls under the covers and wraps her arms around Misty, tugging her back against her front. Misty makes a squeaking noise, and for a moment Nat prepares to back off, but then Misty melts against her with a satisfied little sigh. "You're comfortable," she murmurs.

It's better that they aren't facing each other. Her skin is damp with sweat, a little clammy but still warm and fiery. Undoubtedly alive. Nat presses her nose to the junction of her neck and collarbone; more than anything else, she smells alive.

They slept like this sometimes, out in the wilderness, before the huts came up and while the cabin was still burning bright. All of them were terrified of the fire suddenly blowing out, leaving them to freeze in the snow. She always wound up next to Misty on those nights. It always seems to be Misty, doesn't it?

This can't be good for her fever. It can't be good for Nat to be this close to a living, wheezing germ factory.

But Misty seems to settle down, tossing and turning less than she had before. And Natalie sleeps better than she had the night before, lulled by the gentle pounding of Misty's pulse.

When she wakes up, Misty is staring at her face, and her eyes visibly soften when she notices Nat open her own. They must have moved in the night, because now they're face-to-face, with Misty's arms wrapped around her waist.

"Good morning," she says.

Nat doesn't reply. Just studies the parts of her face that are usually hidden by her glasses, searching for any possible explanation as for why she's always just so happy to see Nat, despite everything she knows about her. Or maybe a reason why Nat is still here, despite everything she knows about Misty.

"I wasn't cold last night," Misty smiles. "I think my fever broke. Good thing I got the flu shot, right? Did you get yours?"

"Yeah," Nat lies, rolling her eyes. "I get it every year."

"Good! It's really important for your health. You should come to me next year, actually, I could probably pull a few strings and give it to you for free."

She checks Misty's forehead — miraculously, she really isn't burning up. "Maybe. Thanks for the offer." It's never going to happen. But for some reason, today it's easier to pretend it might than shove Misty away.

Later that morning, while they eat breakfast, Misty reaches for her hand. Nat lets her, staring at the cabinet and picturing the catalogue of her sins buried within it.

Misty suggests they watch a movie, so they do. They don't cuddle on the couch or anything. But Misty sidles closer and closer until their legs are pressed together, and then Nat leans against her. Misty rests her head on her shoulder. And even though she's not burning up anymore, her touch still feels warm as a fire.

Nat doesn't sleep in the chair that night, either.

By morning, Misty's fever still hasn't returned. She's still coughing and sneezing and leaking mucus like she's standing in a field of pollen, but it seems as though the worst has passed, so Natalie reluctantly accepts Misty up on her offer for them to cook together.

Misty decides they're making stew; thankfully she takes it upon herself to prepare the meat while Nat chops the vegetables. It's startlingly domestic in a way that makes Nat nauseous, but Misty is humming some stupid musical theater song (something from Phantom, maybe?) and she keeps smiling at Nat looking more full of life than she has the past couple days, so, whatever.

When it's done and the table is set, Nat takes a bite. Surprisingly, the stew is actually quite good, and her reaction must be clear on her face because Misty grins and says, "See? I told you we'd teach you how to cook!"

"You did most of it," she murmurs.

"Nuh-uh. We're a team. We did it together."

Natalie kicks at Misty's feet under the table. "…When do you go back to work?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, you're feeling better, right?"

Misty fakes a loud cough. "Well, I'm not entirely better, obviously," she giggles nervously, high-pitched and airy. "But they won't let me go back for another week. Because, y'know, working with the elderly, the flu is very serious. They don't want to take any risks. Actually, they told me I could take longer off, but I declined, because they're a mess without me. I don't know how they're still running at all." She tilts her head, eyes wide and owlish. "Why do you ask?"

Natalie shrugs. "No reason."

She can survive another week. That's fine. Then she can slip out the back and return to her old life. Downward spirals, flaming wrecks. Misty will be left with her files and patients, the way she wants.

Days pass in that haze of strange domesticity. Misty keeps touching her, casually — their hands brush when she walks by, or she'll steady herself after a coughing fit by grabbing Nat's shoulder, or she'll sit a little too close on the couch. After a while, Nat catches herself reaching for Misty, too, almost subconsciously: a hand on the small of her back to help her up the stairs, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. It's too tender. She can't stop.

She doesn't know what's happening. She doesn't know why she's still here, why she hasn't said anything about the folder she found, or why Misty keeps forcing coughs and pretending to sneeze. This entire situation is fucking bizarre, borderline horrific.

They keep sleeping with their bodies curled together. Misty goes to bed earlier and earlier, and sleeps in later and later, but Nat doesn't call her on it, because for some godforsaken reason, she's grateful for the extra time to block out the storm in her head with Misty's quiet snores and the comfort of soft sheets. The room doesn't smell of sweat anymore; all that remains is the subtle scent of Misty's shampoo, so sweet that Nat almost misses the comforting staleness. Still, she stays.

Nat isn't used to routine like this. She's lived her entire life in spontaneity, with nothing constant or stable to fall back on. Live every day like it could be your last, that's her motto, but this week has been solid and steady, thoroughly unwild, and it's starting to feel like a cage. Like she's waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The early morning light acts as a curtain blocking out the real world; the hazy glow makes everything appear dreamlike. It's easy to be vulnerable here with Misty, when both of them know seemingly everything about the other. And it's easy to forget those things, too, in the quiet of unconsciousness. It's almost addictive.

Why is she still here? Why is she letting this happen? She's used to self-destruction. This is something entirely different. It scares her.

She burrows her head in Misty's curls and asks, suddenly vulnerable, "What are we doing, Misty?"

Misty pulls away just enough to caress her cheek. "Whatever you want."

Nat flinches, just slightly, but enough to make Misty's face fall. "You're fine. You don't need me here anymore."

"No!" Misty shakes her head quickly, desperately. "I… I'm still sick, they say the flu can rebound. You should stay. Just in case. I still need you."

The words strike Natalie right in the chest. Somewhere soft and bruised. She rolls over, standing from the bed, and starts to pace. She needs air. "That's not what this is really about, is it? You're up to something."

Misty frowns and reaches for her glasses. "I'm not. Really. It's just nice to have you here, that's all."

"Bullshit. I saw your folders. You were stalking me. You knew I was in town."

"You broke into my house," Misty says, wrinkling her nose. Which. Touche. "And so what? All of that stuff is public information. Compared to the secrets we have, it's nothing."

"What were you trying to do, get me sick? So you could spoonfeed me soup while I lie in your bed? Make me your new Coach Ben?" Nat winces as soon as the unnecessarily cruel words escape, but it's too late.

"No," Misty hisses, sitting upright. "Don't say that. You don't— I would never do anything to hurt you. I just licked Jenny's spoon so I'd catch whatever she had. That's all."

That's all? "What the fuck is wrong with you?"

"Don't be mad. I didn't do anything to you. I just thought you might visit since you just got out of rehab, and if I was weak, you might stick around."

Natalie grits her teeth. She can't even be mad, because Misty wasn't wrong, was she? One look at Misty, desperate and needy, was all it took for her to fold like a card table. "That's fucked up."

"I was lonely," Misty admits. "I— There hasn't been anyone in my life since we got back. Not seriously. Some distant friendships, a few salacious affairs, but nothing meaningful. Nothing real. I just… missed it."

Nat gives her a look. Misty doesn't express vulnerability that easily. Not unless she's trying to get something out of it, or hide something worse.

"Okay, fine," Misty sighs, pushing her glasses up. "I mean, that's all true, too, but… I worry about you, sometimes."

"You don't have the right to do that," Nat hisses. Misty wilts.

"Well— I just thought— It helps me, having people to look after. That's why I'm a nurse. And you were always so good at it, out there, and you've been alone. Like me. So—"

Her frustration reaches a boiling point. She hates Misty's stifling pity. Who is she to look at her that way? She's not any better than her; they're both equally fucked-up gangrenous wounds left untreated too long. "You don't help people, Misty! You never have!"

It feels good to watch the tears well up in the corners of Misty's eyes. Good like pressing on a bruise, or the burn of a cigarette.

Still, Misty doesn't back down. She's resilient like that, always has been. She walks around the bed, over to the side of the room where Natalie is pacing. "You were happier here. Don't lie."

A frustrated noise slips loose from Nat's lips. "Fine, sure, but—"

"See? I was right! I can take care of you, and you can take care of me, and we'll both be better off for it!"

"Why do you even bother? You've seen the shit I put people through. The way I'm the fucking failure of the team. Take your fancy-ass house and bury your own skeletons. You'll do fine on your own."

Misty's expression darkens, suddenly intense. It doesn't belong here in this softly lit pastel-colored room. She gets in Nat's face; grabs her tightly by the shoulders. "Don't talk like that," she whispers. "You are not a failure. They don't know shit."

Nat can't remember the last time she's heard Misty swear. It stuns her into silence as she stares into those eyes, so bright and fiery and alive.

"You're the only person who's ever been there for me," Misty continues, a quiet confession, as the tears finally start to roll down her cheeks. "You're the best of us. I know you. And I want you here."

This can't be good for her. For either of them. Two Yellowjackets in the same place is always a recipe for disaster, the set-up for a relapse on the worst of the murders and depravity and all the shit Nat tries so hard to block from her mind. But Misty's devotion is hypnotizing, an illusory promise of a better world, and Nat can't look away.

She swallows hard, making up her mind, then wraps her arms around Misty in some imitation of a hug. Her head drops onto Misty's shoulder. "Fine."

She's weak. Always has been. Too susceptible to easy answers and false hope.

"What?" Misty's hands flutter uselessly in the air as she startles like a frightened horse.

"I'll stay. For a while."

"…Really?" Her voice is quiet, like she can't bring herself to believe there's a possibility Nat's telling the truth.

"Yeah. If you want." She looks up to see Misty staring at her with a starstruck smile that makes her stomach flip.

"Of course I want you. I always want you."

How does she keep doing that? Speaking with such blatant, undisguised honesty? It's too much for Nat to handle; if she confronts this head-on she'll fall apart. "You look awfully flushed," Nat says, trying to deflect. "Your fever back?"

"Nope." Misty presses their foreheads together. "Just happy." She giggles softly, hands reaching out to stroke Nat's hair, as if looking to confirm that she's still here, physical and present. Nat feels the warmth of her breath against her face, the thrum of her heart pounding loud and quick inside her chest.

It's nice. To be present with Misty instead of the ghosts she's used to. It can't last forever. But, for now, she'll stay.