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vidavalor · 2 months ago

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The Devil Takes The Hindmost

The Big Damn Post I've promised for ages on all the stuff suggesting that what we're watching in S2 is Aziraphale's mental health crisis leading to his fall...

...with a focus on a religious concept that intersects with secular ideas about mental health-- The Devil Takes The Hindmost-- that was unintentionally mentioned by Mrs. Sandwich and might be what's going on in The Final 15.

Plus, a look at the possible purpose of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association in the story and a dive into the symbolic role in Aziraphale's story played by Muriel... the most adorable Angel of Death anyone's ever seen.

@ao3cassandraic @komorezuki @kayleefansposts @masnadies -- This is basically what I was starting to talk about the other night, if you're interested. @ochre-sunflower -- the meta I mentioned.

TWs: suicide; depression; PTSD; negative self-thoughts... It's optimistic by the end but it's a look at some darker stuff in the story so please take care.

In GO S2, we have a lot of stressors building and overlapping for Aziraphale, with each episode adding new ones, all boiling hotter and hotter until we reach the The Meeting Ball. There, everything stops for the arrival of Shax at the door.

When she turns up, all the other plots cease to be relevant in the moment because the whole story's stakes upon her arrival now come down to a single, pivotal question:

Are these demons going to get into the bookshop?

On the surface, in our plot, Shax, Eric and the smallest number of completely ineffectual demons that a redemptive Furfur could get away with sending without looking like a traitor 😉 are interrupting Aziraphale having turned his first pass at hosting the monthly meeting of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers & Traders Association into a party.

Why is he doing that? For a dizzying number of reasons. So he can try to protect Gabriel by getting Maggie and Nina together and try to be part of his community by using the party to get Maggie and Nina together which is also so he can protect Gabriel... but, let's be real, it's really all so he can dance with Crowley...

Our heads are spinning as much as Aziraphale's is by this point and it's exhausting just to try to recap everything he's dealing with by The Meeting Ball... which is why it probably isn't surprising that all of that story just stops when the brick goes through the window and Shax is at the door. Because, symbolically...

...this is an anxiety attack.

Shax and the demons are Aziraphale's inner demons and they're trying to force their way past the threshold to take control of the bookshop the way that darkness can consume a person...

...as they're trying to take control of the bookshop that is what, symbolically?

Aziraphale, yes.

Aziraphale and Crowley. (And, as we looked at recently, also Maggie, on account of her family's history with it.)

Why this bookshop attack that is a metaphorical anxiety attack at this point in the story?

Because a lot of what Aziraphale wants out of life was happening before the demons that represent his inner demons showed up at the party.

For the first time ever, Aziraphale was no longer compartmentalizing his worlds and hiding parts of his life from people. He had Maggie and Gabriel under the same roof-- his human and angel families together. He had neighbors over and felt brave enough to call himself one of them by hosting the meeting. He was impacting the society around him in a big way by unifying Whickber Street's black market with its "legitimate" front by inviting Mrs. Sandwich to join the group. He was helping Maggie and Nina fall in love.

Most importantly, there was what the whole thing was really for: having all that happen with Crowley there, too, and everyone knowing they are together. Being able to dance with him and be a couple openly like everyone else. This Jane Austen cotillion coming out ball for ladies Maggie and Nina is really a coming out party of sorts for Crowley and Aziraphale. This is like the Christmas party of Aziraphale's dreams here. The one he's never, ever been able to have.

It's a wonderful thing when people who are in a great deal of emotional pain decide they've just had enough and want to break free of their misery and allow themselves to work towards being happier.

It's just a very delicate period because it can go either way, in a hurry. One minute a person can be thinking they're on top of the world and starting to live the life they've been dreaming of but the next minute find themselves freefalling emotionally. This is especially true of people who feel they have to present as cheerful and optimistic for everyone else and who hide their pain behind a smile.

They are some of the most at risk of their lives becoming like the Salinger short story about trauma and suicide referenced in S2-- "A Perfect Day for Bananafish"-- in which a man suffering from PTSD is believed to be fine by himself and those around him, has a nice day at the sea and chats with a symbolic daughter-like character and then, unceremoniously, goes to his hotel room and shoots himself dead.

As Maggie shows us during The Meeting Ball when she parallels Aziraphale's struggle, people get tired of being afraid and want to live-- want Nina, who is coffee, which is freedom-- but they can overdo it, if they're not careful, and wind up taking steps backwards.

Sometimes, the thrill of feeling like they might be on the edge of something good can cause someone to go too far, too fast, and, without the right support, they can find themselves going faster than a rollercoaster-- and right off a cliff as a result.

These people might look at their inner demons and think they're fine, now, actually, and that the darkness doesn't frighten them at all and they're all over their negative stuff-- all good now. No problems here.

Problem is that, sometimes, in the process, they might realize they're lying to themselves when they suddenly tell those inner demons that they can come in and say all that pathetic shit to their face... before they're really ready for that. Maggie, paralleling Aziraphale here, shows that with Shax during the bookshop attack. Not the best way to deal with inner demons, that.

And one person's inner demons can be an unintentional trigger for others, which is one of the things that started off Aziraphale's mental health crisis boiling up into a breakdown earlier in the season.

Aziraphale was already having a terrible week and then he projected his own issues all over his adopted goddaughter when she was having a moment and wound up accidentally saying something about himself that she took to mean about her and that came out sounding incredibly hurtful in a way that Aziraphale didn't mean for it to be. He then sought to make it up to her by finding a way to make her romantic dreams come true but was, all the while, silently berating himself for not having handled it flawlessly in the first place.

And when that got mixed in with trying to *checks Aziraphale's S2 list*... Jesus...

...recover from PTSD, manage all the anxiety and depression that comes along with it, deal with the fallout of his relationships with his abusive family, save his losing it brother from a religious cult/fascist regime trying to kill him and figure out why he's lost his memory, assuage his guilt over the memory-wiped angel that he feels he failed to save that showed up at the door, figure out wtf to do with the bookshop/embassy he's never wanted to run but that has become the M-25 that he's built and is now stuck in and that just reminds him that he hasn't any family to pass it onto, and, most importantly?

Tell his partner that he would like to live openly with him in the a little cottage by the sea in the South Downs...

I mean, by the time Mr. Vacuum showed up and suggested that Aziraphale add to the list that this week also be the first time he's ever hosted the monthly meeting of the business organization of the street he's basically founded but doesn't let himself really feel like he belongs to?

Sure, Mr. Carpet. Sure. Bring it on. Why not, at this point?

But Mr. Vacuum's idea actually caused Aziraphale to think he had the perfect solution-- continue to do what he was doing all week and combine this shit together! Protect Gabriel by tying him to Maggie and Nina and solve Maggie and Nina through the Whickber Street meeting and, well, if he's going to make it romantic for Maggie and Nina, well...

...maybe this is how Aziraphale can solve his biggest problem-- finding more of a way to just be forever near that one, particular person who makes everything okay.

So, by the time we get to The Meeting Ball? Aziraphale is pretty much losing his damn mind.

The heebie jeebies that Crowley gets in the street? It's not the low-rent demons. He knows what they feel like. He can't identify it but the thing that is really, really wrong is Aziraphale himself, in a dark reverse of Aziraphale feeling Crowley's love in S1.

Thousands of years of feeling a lack of enough control over his life have basically led Aziraphale to snap. Parts of it are very funny. Gabriel dressed up as Liberace circling with temptation trays of vol-au-vents is as hilarious as it is loony. Miracling the room so that everyone speaks like it's the 19th century causes a lot of humorous scenes, especially with Mrs. Sandwich... but is also a horror show. Justine loses her ability to speak English well and others have trouble understanding one another. It's like a zanier, more comedic version of Aziraphale's parallel antichrist, Adam, taking over The Them and deciding how, when, and if at all, they could speak.

It's a person in Aziraphale, who is normally very kind to others but not really to themselves, whose pain and anger have built within them to a breaking point and caused them to take that out on others and become, for a moment, almost the exact kind of person from whom he tries to protect others.

During this part of the season, Mrs. Cheng and Mrs. Sandwich have some dialogue that I think might be the whole rest of the season's plot in a nutshell. It happens here:

Mrs. Sandwich being unaware that "seamstress" is a 19th century-era euphemism for a sex worker means that she doesn't realize that she actually is, on one level, telling Mrs. Cheng what she does for a living. Her frustration is coming from the fact that Mrs. Cheng also doesn't know this euphemism and so thinks Mrs. Sandwich is a literal seamstress-- someone who sews and mends clothes-- and not a figurative/euphemistic one. While that and the rest of this scene is worth a whole deep dive in and of itself, it's not the bit I want to focus on here. That bit is what Mrs. Sandwich says as she gets increasingly upset.

Keep in mind as we look at this that the person who is the literal seamstress in this scene is not Mrs. Sandwich. It's the person whose magic is inhibiting her speech-- so, who is speaking, in a roundabout way, through her-- and who is the one changing everyone's outfits as they come through the door.

The seamstress really of note here is Aziraphale.

In the midst of her frustration, Mrs. Sandwich is trying to curse in 2023 terms but they are coming out in 19th century-era equivalents and this means that she says the following things when cursing:

She insists that she's not a godforsaken (abandoned by God; left to Satan) seamstress, that she's not a benighted (taken by darkness) seamstress, and, finally... while probably trying to say "what the hell"... winds up saying the whole season's plot in response to Mrs. Cheng asking her the also rather meta question of "what, in short" the problem is in that moment.

What, in short, is the plot?, asks Mrs. Cheng, on a meta level.

What the fuck is going on in this story?

To which Mrs. Sandwich replies:

"The Devil take it."

The curse "The Devil take it"-- meaning you give so little about something or someone that Satan can have it-- comes from a religious teaching (that works very well from a secular perspective, too) known as "The Devil Takes the Hindmost". It's this teaching that I think is extremely important to S2 and is arguably around what the story is structured.

This teaching argues that people who are excessively self-sacrificing are putting themselves at risk of being taken by darkness/Satan because of the cumulative effects of the anger, anxiety and depression that comes of denying that they are people with wants and needs of their own for too long.

It's about the people who go beyond kindness. It's about those who don't see themselves as part of the pack of people and think that the world isn't for them. They believe that their needs and wants don't matter as much as the need to prove to themselves that they aren't a horrible person-- which they do, in their minds, by denying themselves a full life of their own.

Sound familiar? It should. It's Aziraphale to a T.

Why are these people in "The Hindmost" for Satan to take when they're not terrible people?

Because they fall to the back of the pack of humanity.

Because they are left open to the darkness because they do not allow themselves to have what they work so hard to help others make for themselves.

The pain of that eventually renders them as bad off emotionally as those they counsel, or worse. The more they deny themselves, the more that pain builds and it can push them down dark paths.

They're in "The Hindmost" not because anyone left them behind, exactly, but because they've shut out the people around them.

They aren't letting people in.

It's about here that we can bring up that Good Omens is built around doors and all of S2 is basically about getting in the bookshop that is Aziraphale. It's here that we can mention Shax-- the darkness-- repeating demands to Aziraphale, to Crowley, to Beez to be let in. It's here we can mention The Final 15 and the world's most depressing kiss-- the literal embodiment of "let me in" as a theme-- and the horribleness that followed.

So, if S2 is The Devil Takes the Hindmost and he's headed Aziraphale's way the whole season with a large oat milk latte with a hefty jigger or dash or whatever of almond syrup and the job (the Job...) offer from Hell to tempt him, then we're watching (for now) the last days of the angel Aziraphale because a fall is a form of death.

It doesn't mean it's the end entirely because, as Gabriel discovered, everything goes down but flies? They go up.

Flies are the product of letting someone in and not shutting out the love and care you need. That can only be done through accepting, at least for a little while, that you are allowed to be a person and deserve to be cared for the way you care for others. If a person does that, they can fall but they'll have what they need to get back up and to help them stave off future falls.

Letting people in and talking to people about how you feel-- figuratively: feeding your fellow ducks your frozen peas and listening to theirs--- is how we all defeat the darkness together and make it so that Satan never shows up at any of our doors.

Yes, it is, Crowley. Would have been helpful if you had mentioned any of your own Hell-and-Book-of-Life frozen peas at all to anyone but the audience all S2 but this meta isn't really directly about you so you get a pass for now 😂 Back to your partner...

So, this The Devil Takes The Hindmost stuff? Almost immediately after Mrs. Sandwich says it, the story begins to have the characters literally act it out.

Shax is The Devil in that she's a devout diabolical minister of Satan so she's representing Satan at the door.

First up? Gabriel.

Gabriel mirrors Aziraphale's excessive self-sacrificing. It doesn't matter to him that he just met most of the people in the bookshop an hour or something ago. If that angry mob outside wants him for who fucking knows what reason as this poor bastard can't remember anything 😂 then Gabriel is happy to throw himself on his sword for them.

In reality, no one in the shop should have let Gabriel go out there alone. The whole point of "The Devil Takes The Hindmost" is that if everyone looks after each other the best that they can?

There won't *be* any hindmost.

There will just a pack of people who are all keeping each other safe from the darkness.

Jim is ultimately fine to tussle with Shax, though, because that is the part of the teaching that he exemplifies.

Gabriel has been protected. He's not completely fine-- who ever is, really?-- and he's still not really over this current bout of depression but he's safe from Satan and the darkness.

He's safe because he has Beez, Aziraphale, Crowley, and his new friends on Whickber Street.

Gabriel has a pack and is allowing himself to be part of it. As such?

The Devil can't touch him. Shax can't recognize him and sends him back inside. Gabriel is not in The Hindmost because he's been hidden, safely, by his group.

Gabriel goes back to the middle of the pack where he spends the rest of the attack, helping Aziraphale fight off his metaphorical inner demons by way of aiding Maggie and Nina to save the bookshop.

It's the next to the door, though, who is not so lucky, and gets to be the first example of The Hindmost.

From the way, way back of the pack that has formed of the humans, Gabriel, Crowley and Aziraphale in the middle of the bookshop pushes forward our beloved Mr. Brown of Brown's World of Carpets.

The President of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association-- the Gabriel of the humans-- feels it's his job to sort out this mess... only he has even less clue as to what's going on than Gabriel did... and he's much, much more vulnerable.

Mr. Brown tells Shax that he doesn't know why she is "interfering" with the people in the shop, unknowingly using the word used in religious circles to talk about The Devil coming after people. Mr. Brown is a guy at real risk here. Going into the circle and getting discorporated if you're not prepared? Facing The Devil at the door without preparation is the same, terrible thing. Mr. Carpet has no idea wtf he's up against here and his motivations for going to the door are the heart of The Devil Takes The Hindmost.

What does our lionhearted Mr. Brown do for a living? What is he, symbolically?

He sells carpets, right? What are carpets?

Well, they're rugs, for one thing. They're found in every business and home in existence. They are necessary for living and also an example of having comfort in your life. (They're also walked on and taken for granted, like our Mr. Brown is quite a bit.) You pick out carpets on your own or with the people with whom you are making a life-- and they tend to symbolize that life.

We see, in 2.06, the shot highlighting the lotus flower carpet that Crowley and Aziraphale have in the bookshop, that they use to cover up the Heavenly circle in the floor-- the one they put Gabriel on to do the protection miracle. It symbolizes the life Crowley and Aziraphale have made together to which they've now let Gabriel in.

What else are carpets? In Good Omens' use of language, they're also cars and pets. Rugs, cars and pets... three of the most common things owned by people living a life on Earth, with the word own itself in Mr. Brown's name.

Brown's *World* of *Carpets*... this dude is, symbolically, everyone.

He's life itself.

That's why it's Mr. Brown who gets taken by the demons and, later, saved by Crowley and left in the care of Mutt, who is human magic-- the character who symbolizes the wonder and mystery and joys of being alive.

Mr. Brown-- an extremely common name for a man whose pain is extremely common. He's lonely. He's overlooked. He's the president of this group of apostrophe and Christmas lights-obsessed, irritating and wonderful, typical, human people because he's unflappable and no one else wants to do it. No one else will do all the boring work and hear all the complaints the way he will and he's made that his role and he hates it. In that way, he's the Beez of Whickber Street-- as desperate for appreciation as Aziraphale. He's Burbage and Shakespeare, wanting an audience that isn't sleeping, drunk, or flirting their way through Hamlet. He's Crowley and Aziraphale:

Mmm, good job... Oh, do you really think so?

Mr. Brown of Brown's World of Carpets is a professional carpet salesman. He spends his days selling everyone what they need to make lives of their own but his own life is far lonelier and smaller than he would like it to be. He doesn't have a partner or true friends, just the people of the group into which he's struggled to really fit, despite running it. He's nerdy and awkward. His over-the-top, affected manner of speaking belies the fact that he feels like he's jiggery pokery, through and through. If I took Mr. Brown's name and profession out of this paragraph, I could be describing Aziraphale just as easily, but for the fact that Aziraphale does have Crowley, if not in the open way he wishes for. Because of that, Mr. Brown being taken by The Devil is also foreshadowing the end of S2 for Aziraphale.

Like most, Mr. Vacuum has got some surprising resolve-- some unexpected moxie-- but, fundamentally, this man has spent S2 showing that he is one more papercut away from a nervous breakdown.

So, when he tries to prove his worth to the group by putting himself at risk, it's excessively self-sacrificing. While there are some titters of alarm and warnings to him not to leave the pack, the one who objects the most is Crowley. Mr. Brown, though, doesn't let Crowley in. He doesn't recognize him because it's partially to look good in front of Aziraphale that Mr. Brown has jumped to the front of the pack. It's his loneliness, his lack of his own life, his need to be part of the group and appreciated. His need to be the hero.

Only, Mr. Vacuum is what happens when you aren't prepared for the darkness and you haven't let anyone in to help you. Shax, realizing that Crowley has been lying to her about the threshold by the way that all the humans have been backed into the living room, tests the theory and Mr. Vacuum gets taken by The Devil.

The Devil Takes The Hindmost.

Mr. Brown went from the literal hindmost of the pack inside of the bookshop up to the front to self-sacrifice excessively, got taken by Satan, and then, in a darkly amusing turn, got tossed back through to the hindmost of the pack of demons outside. He's also near the back of the line for coffee the next morning at Nina's.

If The Devil can come for Mr. Carpet, we see, he can come for anybody. Now this lingering and malignant sense of unease we've been feeling throughout The Meeting Ball tips here into real horror.

Crowley is up next to evacuate the rest of the humans in the shop. He's going to walk them all in a pack past The Devil. They go out in mini-groups within a larger pack. He tells them that they need to all stick together and mind each other, not the demons.

If they do that, they live. If they don't, they won't.

It becomes that simple because it is that simple.

Crowley doesn't just tell The Whickbers how to do this, though-- he leads them out. Because he's one of them, too... but really also because this is all a metaphor for Aziraphale's mental health breakdown getting going and what happens when you are having an anxiety attack or a depression episode?

What goes out the door?

The things that keep you alive, right? The good stuff in life. That is defined differently for everyone but a lot of it overlaps for many of us. Many of those things are what The Whickber Street group characters stand for in the story. Aziraphale owns the land for most of Whickber Street so, in addition to being characters in their own right, all of the members of The Whickber Street group represent Aziraphale.

They're all the things he loves the most-- his reasons for living, and what helps keep the darkness away for him. This is really why, symbolically, neither they nor Crowley (symbolically, love) can be present in the shop when Aziraphale is melting down at his worst.

Crowley leads the pack out with Mrs. Sandwich up front. He is allowing himself to be part of the pack here. He might be supernatural and the group human but it doesn't matter. They're all people and there's more to it than miracles. Crowley can't face the darkness on his own-- and neither can Mrs. Sandwich. Neither of them should have to. So, they don't. They choose to be each other's friends and let each other in and they're both better for it and so is the rest of the pack. This is an example of how to deal with darkness in a positive way.

Crowley trusts Mrs. Sandwich in general but for this task, in particular, because who knows best how to deal with the darkness?

Survivors of prior run-ins with darkness, that's who. His fellow "fallen woman", Mrs. Sandwich, has got her hat pin and his back and Crowley has hers.

So, out the door of the bookshop that is Aziraphale goes love, friendship, sex, romance, healthy communication, human magic, community, food, music, and so much more... because not taking care with our mental health issues rob us of what we love.

Left in the shop? Maggie and Gabriel-- Aziraphale's past and his family... and Nina-- the possibility of freedom (her American-themed coffee shop) and what's left of Aziraphale's hope for the future. Nina's decision to stay symbolizes Aziraphale hanging onto some hope.

After Crowley and The Whickbers leave and Maggie accidentally lets in Shax, the demons have gotten in and are advancing. Without those who are no longer in the shop and with Crowley missing, Aziraphale's anxiety ratchets up and the demons-- his inner demons-- gain ground. The goal becomes keeping them from getting into the residence floor upstairs-- to the place to which Aziraphale has let hardly anyone in. The parts of himself that are not public-facing or for acquaintances but only for those he allowed himself to get close to. Maggie and Nina can be on the landing up there. Gabriel can stay in the guest room. They're family. Only Crowley is allowed free reign in the whole of the bookshop.

For the first time, we have an angel not named Aziraphale teaming up with humans to fight for a place on Earth. The start of the 'all of us versus all of them' that Crowley foreshadowed as still to come at the end of S1? It isn't some big battle for the planet. It is a battle for the life of a single person in Aziraphale because every person matters.

It's The Commander of The Heavenly Host rooting around the upstairs rooms of the bookshop collecting all the fire extinguishers bought to help Crowley deal with his trauma that he can find to supply his troops-- the human Maggie and Nina-- on the front lines.

It's Aziraphale's loved ones coming together to fight to save the bookshop that is, symbolically, Aziraphale himself.

Ultimately, though? Crowley, Gabriel, Maggie and Nina can help hold off the demons that are symbolically Aziraphale's inner demons but it's ultimately going to come down to Aziraphale and Aziraphale alone whether or not these demons are going to overrun the bookshop.

We reach the point where Aziraphale has to choose-- is he going to let the demons take him over or is he going to send them back? He decides, in this moment, to blow up his halo.

We learn that Aziraphale's halo isn't divinity floating atop his head-- it's a tight, hard band around his mind. It's mental health issues, in physical form. He is in visible pain and breathing shallowly as he struggles to take it off. If you took away the halo from the picture, it's visually very much like someone having an anxiety attack. He uses it to discorporate the demons-- to send his inner demons packing.

Well, almost all of them...

Shax, the one that voices his darkest inner thoughts, remains. She's unconscious for awhile, lying dormant on Crowley's couch.

Aziraphale tells Maggie and Nina that he thinks blowing up his halo might have "just started a war" and, symbolically, it did.

Because when you blow up your halo, it can work for awhile but if you still aren't able to address the underlying, fundamental issues at the root of why you have a halo in the first place, those dark thoughts will come back.

Those demons are coming back and, sure enough, Aziraphale's bookshop is full of plenty of voices by early the next morning. While he won The Battle of The Bookshop, he loses The Battle of The Bananafish the next morning.

While Aziraphale stopped the attack on the shop-- his anxiety attack-- with the halo, we learn the next morning that then something else happened the prior night that we didn't see that is affecting the rest of 2.06. We hear about it from Aziraphale after Satan shows up in this bit here:

What's this, now? Aziraphale doesn't want to chinwag with The Metatron because they already chatted the night before and our angel doesn't think there's anything left to be said. Our angel says he's made his position quite clear.

So, The Metatron got on the circle thing zoom after Aziraphale discorporated demons with it and blew up his halo and, by that point, Aziraphale had had enough.

Aziraphale told The Metatron, in so many words, to go fuck himself.

This is really what Aziraphale is trying to say when he tells Crowley that he "did the thing with The Halo." Yes, he literally blew up his halo to discorporate the demons and stop the bookshop attack but the halo is his the weight of all of his cumulative trauma from Heaven... which makes it also, symbolically, The Metatron. Aziraphale blew up his ties to Heaven by telling off The Metatron. He told off the floating head hanging over his head as part of blowing up the halo crushing his mind.

So, Aziraphale then spent the whole night assuming correctly that, if you yell at Head Office, he's going to tell Satan that you're fair game.

Aziraphale doesn't want to fall. He doesn't want to be a demon-- not because he thinks of them as lesser beings because he doesn't think of them that way. Because being a demon is a terrible existence and Aziraphale would rather not have his soul be owned for all eternity by his partner's assailant who is also, literally, The Devil. He's a hard pass on that and had a plan to have Crowley help him avoid it.

Satan and other events made sure that he and Crowley couldn't communicate what they were thinking and feeling to one another openly from the time that Crowley left the bookshop with The Whickbers through the end of S2. If they had been able to and if Crowley had any idea what was truly going on, things would have been very different. The story is Aziraphale's fall, though, so it has to be bad for now to improve in S3.

Because it's Satan at the door with the coffee, he uses Crowley to identify him as The Metatron to everyone else and, so, has convinced Crowley that he *is* The Metatron and that Satan is nowhere in sight. Crowley doesn't see Aziraphale's fall coming, as can be the case with many people-- even those who know of the mental health challenges of those close to them.

Crowley thinks that the biggest threat to Aziraphale in The Final 15 is The Book of Life-- and, I suppose, in a symbolic way, it is.

The Book of Life-- in the way that Crowley thinks it exists-- is not real. It's his and Beez's anxieties from when they were angels manifested as a ghost story to tell more impressionable angels. Yet, as a concept? It kind of is sort of exactly what Aziraphale goes through in S2. He feels erased into non-existence by Heaven already and he's fighting for his life.

Right, so, a hundred years ago lol, I mentioned that Muriel is key to this idea. Let's look at how their presence is highlighting Aziraphale's issues and ushering him closer to death/falling.

While two angels with memory issues show up at Aziraphale's door in S2, Gabriel is a tale of hope while Muriel is a cautionary tale.

If your memories are "all your you"-- your sense of self, formed through your history-- then, while Gabriel was preserved in The Fly, the example of what can happen without one?

The horror show of a total and complete, catastrophic loss of a sense of self? So... death?

That's Muriel.

There is an angel named Muriel in some Western Christian traditions who becomes a figure called The Abaddon, which is The Angel of Death. The Abaddon factors into different takes on Revelations and apocryphal Biblical stuff. There are several different ideas on who The Abaddon is, though my understanding is that their role as The Angel of Death who brings souls to their final judgement is pretty universal throughout.

In some traditions, The Abaddon is seen as the antichrist. In others, it's Satan. In S1, Good Omens played around with some characters seeing the role of The Abaddon in these ways during Armageddon: Round One through how the Satanic nuns referred to the antichrist baby and Satan as "The Angel of The Bottomless Pit", which is the descriptive phrase given to The Abaddon in multiple different religious writings.

In other religious traditions, though, The Abaddon is thought to be an angel of Heaven or a trio of angels of Heaven. It's these ideas that I think Good Omens is playing with in S2 with, I feel, the heavier emphasis on the true Abaddon being the one most frequently referred to that way-- Muriel. Also supporting the idea of Muriel as Death is that there is also that a character in Salinger's "A Perfect Day for Bananafish" with that name. Muriel is the one set to inherit the main character's wealth and property after he kills himself at the end of the story.

So, how is our lovebug Muriel The Angel of Death?!

For that, we have to look at what a fall is.

Consider that The Metatron can tell Satan that an angel is fair game but, in order for that angel to actually fall to Hell, they have to fail to resist Satan's temptation. What the show is subtly saying is that every angel who is a demon is not just an angel who got caught out saying or doing something that threatened The Metatron's power but, also, an angel who was also already falling into despair and, so, couldn't resist Satan when he came to claim their soul.

The literal fall that happens-- the "freestyle dive into a pit of boiling sulphur", as Crowley called it-- is a symbolic thing that happens after an angel has been unable to resist Satan and, so, is now considered by Heaven and Hell to be a demon.

If you consider that the way the literal fall has been described-- going off a cliff; the parallels to Gabriel nearly jumping out a window-- all of these are images of ways that people sometimes kill themselves. Heaven and Hell come at angels and demons from a place of abuse that pushes them towards suicide. Even in S1, it wasn't straight out murder that Crowley and Aziraphale faced-- they were both forced into what, to Heaven and Hell, would have seen as committing forms of suicide. Crowley getting into a bath of holy water; Aziraphale stepping into hellfire.

So, we're saying that the physical fall happens after an angel has already fallen, and that, in order to fall to Hell, an angel has to have already first fallen into despair.

If the show wants Aziraphale to fall in the Heaven/Hell sense of it, he has to have a mental health breakdown and I'm reminded that the opening credits of this show are Crowley and Aziraphale walking the Earth with all of their history layering up behind them and following along with them and then they go up and up and up on a track in S2 and stop just prior to?

Falling off the edge. The literal fall is what we've stopped just short of but, all along so far, we've been watching the fall in progress build.

The reason why we've never been "shown a fall" on Good Omens is actually because the whole story to date is Aziraphale's fall. It doesn't even really start with S2-- it started long, long ago. It also, though, really kicked into gear just prior to the start of S2, as is noted a bit in this moment here:

Nina asks if everything being weird started the prior week when the power went out and Aziraphale replies:

Trauma is like that. It can be things that happened in your metaphorical 2500 BC that are coming back to bite you in your 2023 AD. It's cumulative. It builds and pushes. You can go and go and go and then, one day, your power just goes out. Your energy to fight is just gone and a storm is brewing. A series of events can push someone who is in an already vulnerable mental health state towards a full on fall into despair and that is what I think S2 is fundamentally about.

S2 is a suicide narrative. Our Clarence Aziraphale is going a bit George Bailey. Even as, on the one hand, he's taking big steps forward to claim more of the life he wants, it's the underlying trauma that he hasn't yet been able to fully deal with that is making him also, at the same time, begin to quietly wonder if those around him would be better off if he were not in their lives.

This is why the most dangerous character in S2 is not Satan or The Metatron.

It is, quietly, Muriel.

How so?

Because when people begin to have more frequent suicidal thoughts, their reasons for living that usually keep them going begin to change to being more of a list of obstacles that are preventing them from death. As a person falls into depression to a point that they begin to feel like maybe everyone around them would be better off if they weren't there, they begin in their minds to try to "solve" the problems that are keeping them from dying. They try-- not always super-consciously-- to set things up in such a way so as to convince themselves that their ties to the Earth will be neatly resolved with minimal bother for anyone else and, more importantly, that all their loved ones will be set up to be fine without them.

People in despair can-- and will-- come up with what are, objectively, absolutely bonkers rationales because, ultimately, they want coffee but they are in such despair that they thinking about ordering death.

Muriel's arrival means that Aziraphale then basically has a solution to every obstacle in his mind in such a way that he clears a path straight to taking his life. They help solve two of his "obstacles": Crowley and the problem of the bookshop.

Muriel is dangerous because they show up at the door with the same curious, upbeat, enthusiastic personality and sense of wonder at the magic of the world that Crowley both loves in Aziraphale and needs in his life.

Muriel is also who can take the bookshop. They're an angel who needs an escape and who loves books and Earth. They're perfect for it. Aziraphale is also horrified to realize that Muriel doesn't recognize him and what the implications of that are and he feels guilty about not having saved them somehow. They begin to represent his self-determined failures and giving them the shop would be, in his mind, making some of that right.

To Aziraphale, Muriel is the cheer and hope that Crowley needs in his life and they've taken to each other like ducks to water, which is then also coming after Aziraphale has subtly been pairing up his partner with the also-immortal-and-traumatized archangel with whom Crowley has much in common and whom we are told in S2 that Aziraphale knows that Crowley finds attractive.

Shax pops up throughout to help show some of Aziraphale's dark thoughts about himself.

What are you, Aziraphale? Crowley's emotional support angel? The one who went native? Do you need more big, human meals, Aziraphale?

The comments in Edinburgh that are not really about the car. It's really more like Aziraphale calling himself "an old piece of junk" and thinking Crowley deserves the chance to get an upgrade to someone better. Gabriel's good-looking and has been through much of the same as Crowley. Muriel is upbeat and makes Crowley smile. Crowley having friends who are supernatural is a great thing but, under the surface, it's also leading Aziraphale to create an inner narrative where he's telling himself that he's replaceable in parts by Gabriel and Muriel and that he wouldn't be leaving Crowley alone if he were to take his own life.

Aziraphale is telling himself that maybe the best way to love Crowley is to make it so that Crowley doesn't have to deal with him.

What did Crowley say about his stars once? The first time they met?

Six thousand years-- that's nothing.

Engine won't even have properly warmed up by then.

Crowley's borderline-immortal. He'll live forever. Six thousand years is a blink of the eye to them. He'll get over me, Aziraphale is telling himself, and find someone worth spending eternity with.

Aziraphale didn't see a path towards death until Muriel's arrival because he didn't fully have a solution to the bookshop and Crowley. That's what makes that adorable moppet of an angel the deadliest character in S2.

The reason why Muriel leapfrogs over every other character and makes it down to the last, pivotal minutes of Crowley and Aziraphale's story in The Final 15-- in a part of the story where even Gabriel is gone-- is because Muriel is death.

It's because this is all about whether or not Aziraphale is going to take the freedom of coffee from Mr. Six Shots of Espresso and live or whether he's going to take the false freedom of the lies he's telling himself from Satan and die.

Is he going to try to take his own life or is he going to find a way through this time, as he has before?

"It's just you and me, Aziraphale." What a statement that is.

It's both true and a complete lie.

Crowley and Muriel are both still in the room when Satan says that so, objectively, it's not really just him and Aziraphale... except that he is controlling Muriel and Crowley in different ways. In that way, it really is only Satan and Aziraphale left by this point. It's down, by that point, to just whether or not Aziraphale is going to live and since Satan is here for him, it's not looking great.

Satan is the embodiment of Aziraphale's life or death choice here and that choice, in many ways, is the only two other beings left in the shop at that point.

It's Crowley or Muriel. It's life or death.

Satan also as Aziraphale's darkest thoughts, really... as Aziraphale's internal dialogue playing out.

What about my bookshop? he asks himself.

Really: What about my life?

Muriel, replies Satan... replies the darkness... replies Aziraphale to himself.

You could entrust it to Muriel.

They need an escape. You'd be doing them a great favor. You'd be sacrificing yourself for them and redeeming yourself for failing to save them. It'd make what you're thinking of doing noble, actually. It'd make it okay. It'd make you a good person.

Aziraphale struggles, right? He almost doesn't do this. He almost says he thinks he's making a mistake because he knows he is. It's just that his every conflict has come up all at once and overwhelmed him.

Even still, the darkness has him pretty solidly-- but not completely-- until this moment right here:

Aziraphale is no fool and he's questioned the idea that this is The Metatron; he's actually trying to tell Crowley that he thinks it's Satan for much of That Scene in the bookshop and to get Crowley to see it and help him, in case it is. Aziraphale hopes he's wrong, though, because he wants it to be The Metatron because he thinks that is the way to fix things but it's not and he knows it, deep down. He doubles down because he's embarrassed, because he feels foolish and afraid and like he has nothing to offer Crowley without the power he thinks he lacks.

Satan's temptation, though, ultimately works because of the final of the death by a thousand cuts here in the whole "Second Coming" moment.

After Satan gets Aziraphale to leave the shop with him to head to Heaven, he, as The Metatron, flatters Aziraphale a bit. He says the things that Aziraphale has always wanted someone in Heaven to say to him. He tells Aziraphale he's needed and that they specifically need and appreciate who he is-- an angel who knows how things are done on Earth. It's validating who Aziraphale is and who is he proud of being in the way that Aziraphale has always wished would happen.

Aziraphale is hurting so much that he starts to wonder if maybe he was wrong about all of this. He was pretty sure before but, maybe, just maybe, he was wrong and he wants to be wrong because then it means maybe that he'd know who he is. Maybe it would mean he would no longer have to be an angel who goes along with Heaven as far as he can because Heaven would be finally starting to see the light.

Maybe this isn't Satan. Maybe it really is The Metatron. Maybe all of this is real. Maybe he can go to Heaven and take this job and really have the power to protect Crowley and they won't have to be afraid anymore.

Then, Satan drops the bomb. He fires the killshot.

He lets Aziraphale hear him say "we call it 'The Second Coming'" while pretending he didn't mean for Aziraphale to hear it.

This is the moment that Aziraphale knows it was all a lie.

He knows for sure who that is now. He has gone from being 98% sure to a full 100%. He knows that it's not The Metatron but Satan holding open the elevator.

Satan had to tell him, as it's the only thing Satan has to do in some form at the end-- because it has to be Aziraphale's choice. Satan sure as fuck doesn't have to be fair about it-- and he definitely wasn't-- but it's at this moment that Aziraphale knows with absolute certainty that there isn't a job offer.

How could there be if The Second Coming is on the table? They'll never put Aziraphale in charge of Heaven with Armageddon as the agenda. He's the angel who stopped it the last time. It means that Aziraphale knows for sure that, if he gets into the elevator, he's effectively killing himself, because this is all to entrap and kill him, not to promote him.

Satan sets it up so that the final things Aziraphale is thinking about when he makes the choice are that there is no chance that Heaven will ever improve and that they're going to do Armageddon again and just keep doing it until it happens and it's all hopeless and Aziraphale will never have the power to protect Crowley and they're going to just keep living this nightmare forever and he's been doing this for thousands of years and he can't take it anymore.

People who are suicidal are stuck in cycles of their lives they feel they can't get out of and that's exactly what Aziraphale is reminded of in the moment before he gets into the elevator.

He doesn't want death-- he wants coffee.

He wants Crowley, standing appropriately in front of Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, with the coffee art and the blues and greens of Earth all around him. The canopy plants in the backseat. This is what Aziraphale wants but he just doesn't know how to get there anymore and the darkness wins out. The villains always win a battle at this part of the story or else there's no plot left going forward and there is a forward because it's Aziraphale. There are ways back from this but that's for S3.

Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death, as we know, is substituting the word coffee for the word liberty in the original quote and that's exactly what happens in Aziraphale's decision to get into the elevator. The truth is revealed-- there is no job, which makes him feel like there is no way to ever be free while living. He's exhausted by fighting the same battles, over and over, with no way to escape in sight, and takes what he thinks is the freedom of not suffering anymore.

He chooses the false freedom of death over the true freedom of living-- Satan's coffee over Mr. Six Shots of Espresso in a Big Cup-- because Aziraphale loves that espresso more than anything but he struggles to love himself. He thinks, in that moment of despair, that the best way to love Crowley is to set him free by leaving life.

It's the Job minisode foreshadowing all of it and going back to the start of his story for the end.

It's nothing important, Aziraphale, don't worry...

Just your kids, your house, your businesses, your money, your neighbors, your street, your car, your books, your friends, your community, your Earth and the love of your life.

Just all the love and magic of the world.

Just all your you. Just your life...

When the first shot of the season was the skies sweeping down towards the front of the shop door... and the final shot of the shop in S2 is The Angel of Death-- Muriel-- entering it alone, claiming it and closing the door? When the light goes off in the bookshop window?

When Aziraphale-- after running around with a paralleling clipboard for half an episode-- leaves a note on the dash for his wife, like International Express Delivery Dude did in S1? When his "I love you, Maud" is the car playing Crowley "A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square"? That's when we can see why Death appeared to Aziraphale at the end of S1 and has been headed his way since.

Satan's temptation, yes, but executed with the help of The Angel of Death, who helped push Aziraphale into the lift with The Devil and not towards Crowley and The Bentley, where Aziraphale's love has always been willing to give him a lift, anywhere he wants to go.

In a show where people are symbolically what they profess that it is that they do-- midwifery/cobblering, conjuring, "seamstressing" and so on... all of those things are positive. They're about helping others and loving the world. With that in mind?

Go back and look at Muriel's arrival at the bookshop again...

What is adorable is, also, a fucking horror movie of a declaration:

Muriel is a human police officer.

Friends... that's Death.

Muriel is the only one with a horrible self-declared profession. They're not helping birth ideas and babies and art and mending everyone's pain. They're not a working, professional magician helping to develop the street. They're not a healing seamstress. They don't sell old films and records and books. They don't feed anyone at their restaurant or sell musical instruments to nourish their lives. They aren't the best guy on the block-- Mr. Brown and his World of Carpets, giving people what they need to outfit a life of their own. They're the not a member of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association-- like their paralleling Jim becomes as he begins to regain the will to live.

Crowley is worried about caring for Gabriel being too much for Aziraphale but it's really Muriel that is a walking trigger for him.

Gabriel is a character people think is a villain who is really a lovebug; Muriel is a character people think is a lovebug but who is, symbolically, the worst possible thing to ever show up on your doorstep.

Gabriel is saying books are keen and hot chocolate is amazing and live, live, live, live, Aziraphale...

He's the part of Aziraphale's mind that is trying to save himself while Muriel is the part that is luring him towards death.

Muriel is saying the best part of a cupperty is to look at it, Aziraphale.

It's not for you. You're an angel. You aren't supposed to want to live your own life. You aren't supposed to have wants and needs at all. Even if you go into that back room to be with Crowley alone and try to shut me out, I will break down the door and come after both of you before too long is up.

Muriel is cosplaying Earth's most invasive and violent profession and they're so sweet about it that it tends to bury the eeriness of their arrival. In Muriel, Aziraphale is confronted with his paralyzing perfectionism, his negative self-worth, his rampant imposter syndrome, and his excessive self-sacrificing-- all at once.

All his negative feelings are here at the door in the form of this fun house mirror version of himself-- a cheery and also clinically depressed angel, who is actually cosplaying humanity the way Aziraphale always feels like he is, even if he knows at the core that he's every bit as human as the billions on Earth.

The world is for the professional conjurers, for the humans, for everyone but Aziraphale, in his mind. He is supposed to be above needing any of it. He is supposed to never be angry, anxious, tired, depressed, hungry. He isn't supposed to need the home and books and music and food and sex and magic that he lives for. This angel isn't supposed to be a member of The Whickber Street Shopkeepers and Traders Association but he founded the street, let alone the group, and he'll die trying to host a meeting because nothing makes him feel more himself than when he lets himself be a part of the world.

Muriel's presence worsens his depression spiral, which we've seen is what happens when the negative thoughts get to be too much.

In S2, he goes a sherry-and-stomach-settling-drop diet. He doesn't eat the eccles cakes. He doesn't slow down and enjoy much of anything. Part of the joy of the ox rib scene is that Aziraphale isn't really enjoying himself that much in the present in S2 and it's the only thing like it in S2. Aziraphale, in S2, has put himself and his demon on half-rations and talks about his frozen peas to his fellow duck less. He goes back and forth between trying to self-care (Shostakovich and going to the Gabriel statue and brief moments of flirting with Crowley) and self-neglect (the entire rest of the season lol). Mix in too many additional stressors like what S2 had and it goes from the anxious period of fasting in 1967 to the cause for big time alarm that is S2.

Intellectually, Aziraphale knows that mindful human living is prescriptive. He saves Gabriel by starting to teach him what he knows about it. There's always been a little voice whispering at Aziraphale, though, that it might be right for others but that doesn't mean he's supposed to feel or need those things. He should be above it because that, apparently, would make him the good person that he doesn't often believe he is. His feelings aren't even about being an angel in the Heaven sense so much as in the human anxious perfectionist sense, in that he's excessively self-sacrificing because he doesn't fundamentally believe he's a good person.

There's nothing wrong with being as kind and generous to people as you can. It's when you're doing that while also not acknowledging that you are a person with wants and needs at the same time that you can self-sacrifice yourself right off a cliff as a way of trying to convince yourself that you're not a bad person.

You can deny yourself the life you want out of the excuse that it's your purpose only to care for everyone else but it's not really virtuous. It's a form of self-harm.

What hurts so much about S2 is 1941 because the minisode then gives us Crowley and Aziraphale slaying demons left and right. It gives us what a good day looks like in a whole season that is, otherwise, a series of bad days mixed with things that are also not within their control that then lead to the worst, possible ending.

We see, really, how good they are at caring for one another. The kiss scene is made infinitely more painful by us having seen in the 1941 minisode another conversation in the same spot in bookshop when Aziraphale was struggling with these same issues that went so very differently.

Crowley is very good at gently reminding Aziraphale that, not only is he wonderful, but that he's a person, too, and that everyone feels like they are jiggery-pokery sometimes. Everyone struggles with the voices of others and themselves trying to judge them and how that impacts a sense of self. That fighting through that to be able to live and love is, unfortunately, a pretty common experience of being a person.

This is not new for Aziraphale. It's so very old, stirred up hardcore in S2, now that it's been four years since Heaven contacted him. Aziraphale doesn't know that it's because Gabriel is trying to protect him. He thinks he's so inconsequential that Heaven couldn't even be assed to send someone to formally fire him and take the bookshop embassy that, despite being something of an albatross around Aziraphale's neck, he's also really proud of having built.

Aziraphale wants Heaven to fuck off but he also feels embarrassed by the fact that Heaven could fuck off so easily and that he feels like he doesn't have a friend there to speak of after thousands of years. He is ashamed of it needing to be Crowley who gets them a contact for info in Shax because he sees it as more dangerous for Crowley to need to be in contract with the demons and as a failure to protect him-- the thing that's at the core of Satan's temptation at the end of the season. (Also why Crowley is trying not to tell him about Shax taking his job and his conversation with Beez, which is a huge mistake but it's coming from a good place.)

Surely, Aziraphale thinks, if he hasn't fallen and he's still an angel... if he still is one, he's not really sure, as what is a non-working angel?... then, if he were good, there'd be some angel up there who would still be talking to him. He knows Heaven isn't good, exactly, but not all of the angels are terrible. As anyone who has ever had to go no contact with an abusive family knows, the illogical doubts that creep up can make a person think that maybe they're the wrong ones. At your worst, you can wonder: if the whole family thinks you're wrong, are you really right? Aziraphale knows he is right but it gets complicated.

Add to that the stress of worrying that something will happen to Crowley every time he goes out the door (part of Aziraphale's own trauma for millennia, made worse by 1827), and Crowley's PTSD exacerbated by the fire in S1, and Aziraphale's negative self-thoughts are being triggered even worse than usual. He's blaming himself for them not being safe, when that's not fully within his control... which, in Aziraphale's mind, is the whole problem and an example of how he is failing Crowley.

This is all long before Gabriel shows up at the door and the season gets started with a series of events that then worsen Aziraphale's state of mind. By the time Muriel shows up at the door, these negative kinds of thoughts out in full force in Aziraphale and Muriel represents them.

Muriel might be cute as a button and, as a character in their own right, being used left and right by Heaven, but it doesn't change the fact that Muriel is, symbolically, a mashup of the human and supernatural cops trying to kill them that Crowley and Aziraphale have been outrunning their whole lives.

The Angel of Death is a cop because of course they are, right? What other group of people has been existing to entrap, imprison, torture and kill people for eons?

From the book: If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.

S1 was summer. It was the nightingales.

S2 is the lingering doom of preparations for Christmas lights. It's the days getting shorter and colder. The nightingales have flown to warmer climates. Because this is Good Omens so the season of Aziraphale's fall is set in the season of... well, the fall.

The good news is that, both literally and metaphorically?

Summer is always just around the corner.

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pastafossa · 7 months ago

Text

Haunted (Matt Murdock x TRT!Reader, Fic, SFW)🌧️

Right, so close to 3 years ago, I had an ask in my box: 'what would happen if TRT!Reader/Jane Hind lost her memory just before returning to Matt after her three months away', aka: just before point where they both confessed their love and got together in mainline TRT. So I wrote up a fairly angsty, no happy ending sort of fic about it, which you can find here. But there just felt like there was more to the story, and the idea of a sequel wouldn't leave me alone, so I've worked on it in little bits and pieces over the past few years and I'm finally ready to unleash that into the world now that it's been edited to my satisfaction.

This will have a happy ending and hurt/comfort, once we swim through a lot of Matt Suffering. <3 Ship: Matt Murdock x F!Reader

Chapter Summary:

Leaving him like that shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. You didn’t know him. This man should have been nothing more than a stranger on the street, one you wouldn’t glance twice at, much less feel some ridiculous sense of attachment or obligation to. Yet the memory of walking out of his apartment still left you shaken whenever you allowed yourself to think too long on it. He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow. There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting. Matt was alone. You’d left him alone. It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back. So… why did you feel so very sick?

Wordcount: 11, 805 words so, hilariously, about 3 times the length of Part 1

Warnings for this chapter: angst, alcohol, matt spiraling fairly badly, he throws some things, LOTS of TRT references and spoilers so I wouldn't do this one unless you've finished the Miami arc in TRT.

Sad Matt gif as a reminder that the angst is pretty heavy here because I'm really going to emotionally beat on this poor man for a bit.

At Ciro’s insistence, you gave yourself one month in Hell’s Kitchen.

A month wasn’t much time, granted, but it would hopefully be enough to see if there was a chance of bringing back the memories you’d lost: memories of friends, of your life here, and of… of whatever it was that you’d had with Matt Murdock. Based on his grief over the loss of Jane Hind—not you, but her surely, the role, the mask you’d worn while here—his attachment to her had been deep and fervent, and those feelings appeared to have been at least partly reciprocated. The dangerously intimate photo you’d found in your memory box was all the proof you needed of that.

Your past self had already been accustomed to his touch when the photo was taken, based on the way she’d allowed him to press his head tenderly to her temple, his dark eyes warm and fond as he'd smiled in her direction even if he couldn't see her, his arm draped over her shoulders. She should have been put off by the proximity, by such a blatant show of physical intimacy, but instead of looking distressed, she’d been relaxed and comfortable where she’d confidently tucked herself up against his side. Try as you might, you hadn’t been able to find any hint of discomfort, any clue that signaled the obvious affection she’d felt was an act, her shoulder angled in a way that made you think she’d wrapped her arm comfortably around his waist, her grin bright and so very real.

This couldn’t be you.

When was the last time you'd looked that happy?

When was the last time you’d let someone hold you close?

And when was the last time someone had looked at you like… like they might…

“Did I… love him, Ciro?”

“I believe that… you might have, yes. Him, and this city. That is why I encourage you to stay, for a time at least. See if the memories return to you. Even should you leave, it would be wise to know of the life you led here.”

Ciro had sent a check to your office, booking you for the month and clearing your schedule. Just like that, you were free to focus on looking for something that might trigger the return of your memories. Though what that something might be, you weren’t really sure. A more thorough examination of the apartment had been your first step. Unfortunately, there’d been nothing there that seemed familiar beyond the same cheap decor and calculated set pieces you’d always used. You’d quickly ruled those out. They were meaningless distractions meant to reinforce the lie of whatever pre-planned identity you’d taken on. In this case, that identity was Jane Hind—practical, professional, detached, likes sailboat paintings and the color grey. Based on the fine layer of dust you'd found coating everything but the kitchen counter and a neat stack of mail, no one else had spent much time here during your months away. That, at least, fit your pattern. You weren’t in the habit of making friends or putting down roots. There was no point in doing so when you’d just wind up cutting them loose and running again.

What had unsettled you far more were the hints of connection you’d found quietly tucked away:

A fleecy stuffed bear holding a plush crystal ball, the threads connecting the two uneven as if hand-stitched. That kind of time and effort wouldn’t have been spent on anyone but a friend, and the bear’s prominent position on the counter lent it far more importance than any of the other decorations.

A tacky ‘Handsome Devil’ coffee mug, the curling red script and clichéd devil horns design bizarrely out of place amongst the rest of the plain white mugs in the cupboard. An identity like Jane Hind wouldn’t have been caught dead drinking from it, which meant someone else was here with enough regularity to have a mug of their own. Further digging revealed a second decorated mug, this one adorned with the name of the law firm co-run by Matt. You could have written off one mug, but two? Two was a pattern.

An entire drawer in the dresser devoted solely to a pile of dangerously soft shirts that clearly didn’t belong to Jane Hind, the fabric threadbare and worn. They looked about the right size to be Matt’s, though, the faint traces of scent a match for him. The fact that they took up an entire drawer indicated he’d visited often enough to need a space for his clothes.

You’d… made space for him in your false life. That wasn’t something you did.

Or had you been the one wearing them?

Maybe…?

You’d spent a long moment holding one of the shirts in your hand, rubbing at the fabric in hopes of stirring something. When that hadn’t worked, you’d even brought it up to your nose to inhale slowly, just in case the traces of scent brought some memory back.

Clean soap. Salt. Copper. Faint cinnamon.

All it had done was remind you of holding a grieving Matt in his kitchen after he’d realized your memories weren’t coming back. It was a gloomy enough memory, but ultimately unhelpful.

You'd tossed the old shirt on top of the dresser and moved on.

While you didn’t know who exactly you’d been here in New York, the longer you searched, the more it became clear what had happened. You’d started to slip, your years of isolation forming a crack in your layers of armor. That fracture had allowed an attachment to form, an insidious connection worming its way in through the open gap like poisonous roots through crumbling pavement. You’d grown weak, and careless. There was no other explanation for why you’d broken so many of your rules, dominoes tipping one by one until it cascaded into a waterfall of mistakes. You’d slipped before, of course—loneliness was natural and expected, which was why you had so many contingencies—but you’d never let yourself get in this deep. Not until now.

What you didn’t know was…

Why?

Why here?

Why these people?

And why the fuck hadn’t you followed your rules and run?

If there was an answer to be found in Jane Hind’s apartment, you couldn’t seem to find it, no matter how hard you look, no matter how many of her belongings you dug through. Even your memory box had failed you, the photo of you and Matt at the back of your stack of pictures an outlier you couldn’t explain, this fruit of an as-yet unidentified poisonous tree. You had no real leads, no faint ringing of memory to guide you beyond a vague sense that, somehow, this started with Matt. You didn’t even know where to begin.

At least, not until some shaggy-haired guy named Foggy—what the fuck kind of nickname was that?—showed up entirely and rudely unannounced at your front door, dressed in a cheap suit and wearing a bizarrely determined look. Despite your doubts, you reluctantly allowed him in. He made it pretty clear he knew you, and if you were lucky he could tell you more about your life here.

“So I know you usually skedaddle when things get uncomfortable, which I imagine they are at the moment. How long are you trying to stay?”

“One month.” You shrugged casually, a cover for just how warily you were watching him as he paced in your—in Jane Hind’s living area. He knew far more about you than you knew about him, a reversal you were uncomfortably aware of. That vulnerability was almost enough to trigger a retreat beneath that cold, brittle shell you’d used long ago, though you quickly caught hold of that instinct and buried it back down deep where it belonged. Still, you couldn’t quite hide the cool clip to your voice, your walls firmly in place. “Leaving after that. Don’t see the point in staying if the memories are gone. Truthfully I’m not sure why I stayed in the first place, especially once it was clear I was getting attached. No offense.”

“None taken, my hopefully-still-friend-when-your-memories-come-back.” He abruptly swiveled on his feet to face you, squinting at you thoughtfully. “How badly do you want your memories back?”

You thought of out-of-place mugs and hand-stitched psychic teddy bears; of faint cinnamon and a worn photo frame; of the way you’d held a broken Matt in his kitchen until he’d carefully pushed you away and asked you to leave, his face closed off and distant despite the tears on his cheeks and yours.

You’d… been someone here. Someone cared for. Someone whose loss was mourned.

Even if you left, you needed to know just who that someone had been, if only so you could make sure this never happened again. Not until you reached your island in the sun.

“Badly enough to stay for the month,” you said quietly.

“Then put some shoes on. We’re going on a memory hunt.”

Over the next few weeks, Foggy took you all over Hell’s Kitchen.

You visited Jane Hind’s office, abandoned warehouses, and empty rooftops covered in thick blankets of snow. He reintroduced you to Karen, to your upstairs neighbors, and to a bartender who didn’t seem all that inclined to be introduced to anyone. You drank crappy beer and slightly less crappy vodka, played pool, and went to the zoo to stare for far too long at penguins, which Foggy refused to explain no matter how much you pressed. He had you focus on sights, on smells, on sounds that might trigger a memory. He joked with you in between, and he was just funny enough, friendly and clever enough, that for the first week or so, you were consistently cracking a smile. Hell, you even laughed now and then, much to your surprise. He really did know you, enough so that you gradually began to relax around him, just a little. He was likely hoping the addition of a friend’s voice would bring back what you’d lost, especially when paired with all the other sensations.

But no matter how much you both tried, your memories remained lost.

God, you hadn’t thought this would… would hurt as much as it did. Yet with every day that you failed to find your way back to who you’d been, the more that fierce ache, that old longing inside you grew. Your smiles became brittle, your laughter fading, until both finally dried up like withered, crumbling leaves beneath a bitter frost. You couldn't help pulling away really, not when your soul curling up in the dark might protect you from the agony of knowing that maybe, just maybe, you’d finally found what you'd always wanted. How fitting that it had been ripped away from your bloodied, desperate hands like so many times before, one more square for the filthy patchwork quilt of shredded lives and possibilities you’d been forced to leave behind. What was worse: even your memories of that seeming joy had been stolen, too, leaving you with nothing left to carry but the tattered scraps of a ghost and the photograph of a stranger wearing your skin.

It shouldn’t have been possible to miss what you couldn’t remember. Yet here you were missing it all the same.

It didn’t help that Matt was avoiding you in every way that mattered. You’d thought about calling him if only to ask him questions about your life here, but you could never quite work up the courage to do it. He must have felt the same since he hadn’t reached out to you, either. And why would he? He knew as well as you did that your memories likely weren’t coming back. It made sense to cut that connection, tear it away like a weed before the roots could do more damage—something you should have done sooner, for both your sakes. What you hadn’t expected was just how good he was at dodging you, somehow absent no matter how many places Foggy took you to, places he swore Matt frequented with you when you’d lived here, as if Matt’s mere presence might be enough to trigger some memory in you. Had he been that important? Either way, it didn’t matter. You hadn’t seen Matt once since you’d walked out, doing your best to ignore his hitched breath as you’d opened the door. You’d forced yourself to ignore, too, the broken, agonized sound of grief that he’d let out as you quietly shut the door behind you, leaving him alone.

He… shouldn’t have been alone. That was wrong, somehow.

There was no memory attached to the thought, no blinking sign you could point to that would justify your growing unease. You just knew it. You knew it in the way you knew how to breathe, how to blink, knowledge etched into your very bones over and over by an unfamiliar hand. And no matter what you did, no matter where you went, you were unable to escape the feeling that… that you’d made a terrible mistake, broken something good, tilted the world on its axis until the whole of the city, the earth, the very sky hung just a little crooked like an off-center painting.

Matt was alone.

You’d left him alone.

It was the right choice, one you’d made dozens if not hundreds of times before. Hell, it should have been even easier this time since there were no memories to hold you back.

So… why did you feel so very sick?

Sympathy.

That was all you were feeling. Matt was grieving a woman he’d cared about, one who’d died and left a cold stranger in her place. It was normal to feel for someone in that much pain, and no one should be alone while grieving. Maybe this was for the best. The sooner you were fully out of his life, the sooner all his friends and family could step in, and the sooner he could move on. He wouldn’t be alone, then. And even if he was, his loneliness wasn’t your goddamn problem. You had more than enough troubles of your own.

Protect yourself.

Protect what you might one day have.

All else was irrelevant.

You just… hoped he was doing alright.

He did his best to avoid you, but that only grew more difficult once your ghost began to haunt his every step.

Even Josie’s quickly became off-limits—something he discovered one night when he stepped through the front door where he was promptly met with the familiar, comforting scent of you floating like a haze beneath the smell of cheap beer and sour sweat. His body went rigid the moment he recognized it, your presence across the room a sharpened knife that only widened the wound carved into him by your death. And if the scent of you was a knife, then your bark of laughter was a cruel twist of the blade, one that left him gutted and shaking there in the doorway. He drank in his apartment after that, waiting for that blessed moment when he would feel nothing, waiting for the very second the glorious shroud of night fell. Only then could he finally escape to the streets and drown himself in a far better kind of pain, taking his rage and his grief out on whatever piece of shit had the misfortune of falling into the Devil’s path.

But Foggy seemed determined to shove the specter of you directly into his face.

“You need to talk to her!” Foggy snapped, his voice only just shy of a shout. Matt ignored him as he headed for his office, desperate to retreat from your scent lingering on Foggy’s clothes. Foggy had taken you to a coffee shop that morning, one you’d frequented when you’d lived here, and now each inhalation was a vicious torment. It felt like breathing in shards of glass, the sharp pain of it throbbing with every stuttered, choked breath he drew in. If Foggy noticed, he didn’t seem to care. “Christ, Matt! You love her and we both know it. If you talk to her, it might trigger something—”

“Stop,” Matt grit out, reaching up to scrub his hand angrily over his face. He stalked his way over to his desk, still desperate to escape somehow, even if it was into his work. “Just stop, Foggy. I did talk to her, and you know what happened? Nothing. She didn’t remember anything at all. She’s gone, and you dragging this out is just making everything worse for all of us.”

“So what, you’re just gonna roll over?” Foggy scoffed, crossing his arms as he planted his feet in Matt’s doorway. “Are you sure you actually loved her? Because I’m pretty sure she loved y—”

Matt slammed his fist down on his desk, the furious crack of it echoing through the office like a gunshot as he shouted, “Don’t you fucking dare!”

Tension hung thick in the air as Matt’s chest heaved, his teeth bared, blood and adrenaline running hot in his veins as if Foggy were some sort of-of threat. Everything in him shook with rage, or maybe unshed grief, the burden of them both impossibly twisted and tangled beneath the sea of his guilt and his self-loathing until he couldn’t tell which was which. He just couldn’t—how was he supposed to force it all down when Foggy had just come so close, so dangerously close to shattering what few pieces remained of Matt’s crumbling armor?

It was bad enough loving you the way he did only for you to slip through his bloodied, desperate grasp like whispering grains of sand. What was worse, this entire disaster was one of his own making, a series of mistakes whose snarled, winding paths led inevitably back to him just like they had so many times before in his life. This loss of someone who’d truly understood him, accepted him, cared for him had already broken something inside him he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to repair. But that fracturing inside him would surely rise up to consume him if Foggy were right, if you’d truly cared for him that deeply before your memories were taken, so deeply that you might even have…

I miss you, sweetheart.

…loved him the way he loved you.

Abruptly Matt’s surge of rage drained away and his head fell, leaving him feeling all the more empty and broken. He braced his arms weakly against his desk, drawing in a shaky breath as he forced himself to confess, his voice gone hoarse and ragged with grief. “I loved her, Foggy.” He lifted one shaking hand to his face. “God, I loved her so, so much. I can’t… I don’t know what to do without her now that she’s gone.” “I know, Matt,” Foggy said gently. “I know.” “I loved how she always smelled a little like coffee, and the way she always managed to wind up climbing into the oddest places for a case. She had one of the foulest mouths I’ve ever heard, but I swear she could use it to talk her way out of almost anything or to bring someone up out of whatever dark hole they were trapped in. She was… far kinder than she’d ever admit.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it, the expression miserable and gutted. You’d have likely argued with him about how kind you were if you’d been here. But there was no chance of that now, no matter how much the scent of you on the air told him otherwise. “Some days it felt like she was the only thing holding me together, like the only time I could breathe was when she held me in her arms. She was always there when I fell apart, or when it all… when it all started to hurt too much. And I tried to give her whatever pieces of me the Kitchen hadn’t already taken, to be there for her like she was for me, to keep her safe. We were finally going to make our relationship official when she came back, her and me, even if there’d… already been something there for a while now if I’m honest.”

And it had, it had been there, this soft, tender thing that had developed slowly but surely between the two of you, a tangling that came by degrees rather than all at once. It had sprouted, grown, and blossomed so gradually that even now he struggled to point to any one moment where it had truly begun—the night he found you in the warehouse, maybe, or that first game of Devil Hunt, or when you’d both almost taken the leap before he’d realized you were drunk. But the question of where it began didn’t matter. All that mattered was that it was there, something nameless yet still so good and warm and perfect, a connection nurtured in the low light and the blood-soaked soil of the Kitchen. You’d felt it just like he had, and you’d been willing to take that chance with him despite the baggage he carried behind him like an anchor destined to drag him down. You never would have agreed to kiss him when you came back otherwise. Now that chance was gone.

“How much did she know before she left?” Foggy asked quietly, leaning against the doorframe.

”She knew that I-that I wanted to be with her, but I never told her that I loved her.” Matt blew out a slow, heavy breath. “I was too scared of chasing her away, I guess. I thought maybe when she came back, if she still wanted me, I would… I decided that I would tell her. But I waited too long. Now she’s gone and I’ll never be able to tell her. All because of me.”

He finally lifted his head, tipping it at Foggy. Neither of them dared mention the wetness on Matt’s cheeks. Even speaking about this—about how much he’d loved you only for him to ruin it—was almost more than he could bear, the edges of the wound still fresh and raw. Then again, maybe he deserved that pain after how miserably he’d failed you, just like everyone else in his life. “I miss her. And what’s worse is even when she’s right there in front of me, she’s not. She’s not, Foggy. Because I-I fucked up. I’m the reason the woman I knew, the woman I loved, died. I’m the reason she’ll never remember what we had, why I’ll never hold her again, and why she’ll leave New York at the end of the month like she does whenever she’s afraid of forming a connection.” He let out a bitter laugh, waving towards the windows, towards the place you’d once held dear. “I couldn’t even keep her here before. She almost ran last summer and the only thing that stopped her was being kidnapped. That was what slowed her down long enough for our thread to turn red, not me. She won’t let that happen a second time, not now that she’s seen what happens to people I care about. Do you understand?”

The door to Nelson and Murdock creaked open, Karen’s voice making its way in first. Her voice was followed only a moment later by another’s, one still so familiar.

“—I mean, winding up in a pool while chasing a kid sounds about right for me, so even if I don’t remember, I won’t argue—”

“I had to keep you here somehow.” Foggy’s voice remained quiet, but there was no disguising the ferocity in it now, the fervent belief. “Get out of your own head and talk to her, Matt. Fight for her. She would want you to.”

No.

No, no, no.

Your body may have been here, whole and real, but the woman who’d known him wasn’t. The song of your voice, your sweet scent, the flames of heat and stirred air currents around you flaring into a familiar shape: all of it was nothing but a lie, a snare for his senses, a ghost of his own making, and he wasn’t about to be caught by it again.

He darted back around his desk, shoving his way past Foggy on the way toward the front door, his heart racing. If he was quick, if he just put up enough of a front, he could get out before they trapped you here with him like they’d planned. He wouldn’t relive this grief again, he couldn’t, not without falling apart. The moment he’d had with you in his apartment had been enough agony for one lifetime.

“Hey, Matt.” You cleared your throat, shifting awkwardly on your feet where you’d stopped by the front door. Your stance was cautious and guarded, almost wary of him. It was just one more reminder of how uncomfortable he made you now. “Are you—”

“Heading out,” he said stiffly, only belatedly remembering to trace one hand along the wall as if his heightened senses hadn’t given him a clear map of the room the moment his adrenaline spiked. That spike was a curse all its own. It made the scent of you so much stronger, the lie of it fresh and present as it twined around him. His chest hitched just once before he forced himself to breathe his mouth. But that route of escape had been cut off, too. All it did was shift his focus to the taste of you on the air, and the taste of familiar fabric once so tenderly given.

You were wearing one of his shirts.

He fumbled for his cane, his hands starting to shake before he finally found it where he’d left it against the wall. He couldn’t let you see him like this. It wasn’t your fault that you didn’t remember him, nor was it your fault that he’d lost you. He’d done enough damage without adding a layer of guilt to what you were dealing with, too. But despite his attempts to hide what he was feeling, his face a hard mask, your fingers still brushed gently against his arm a moment later. It was an offer of help, or maybe an attempt to reach out, to slow him down, to connect. It was a kindness, a sympathy he didn’t deserve. Even now, you read him far too well, this touch the same as it had been that first night he’d met you when you’d gently brushed your hand against his arm. “Hey, do you need… I could walk you home.”

He shied away from your touch, finally managing to roughly unsnap his cane before going for the door. “I’m fine. I just—I have things to take care of. Excuse me.”

He went straight home and showered, but no matter how many times he scrubbed, he couldn’t seem to wash the ghost of your scent away.

You slowly wandered around Matt’s office, taking it in. This was another place you’d supposedly frequented, a place that should have been familiar, and one you'd avoided until now.

Even though Foggy had assured you it was alright, it felt… almost wrong to explore a stranger’s space like this without them present. But you couldn’t help but brush your fingers across the battered desk and the small labels in braille you couldn’t read, run your hands along the chair for clients that you might have sat in once, and trace curiously the small seashell next to Matt’s laptop. The base scents of Matt were stronger here where he spent so much time, only partly erased by the smell of coffee and paper. The room was clean, cared for, and well-organized despite how rundown the office was. Important to him. You could tell that much, even if the scents and sights had failed to spark any memories.

Maybe… knowing his space wasn’t enough.

This was about more than just figuring out who you were, now. For some reason, you needed to know who Matt was, too: this man Jane Hind had cared so much about and who’d cared so much about her. You told yourself it was practical. Matt was your best bet when it came to remembering who you’d been. But some part of you deep down recognized the lie. No, there was something in you inescapably drawn to him, a pull you couldn’t quite explain. Maybe that strange, unnatural gravity was what had started this whole mess in the first place. What was it about him that was so different, that had driven you to break every last rule you’d lived your life by for over a decade?

And why… did you spend so long wondering if he’d ever climbed out his office window?

It had been twenty-nine days, and not a single memory had returned.

Oh, there were beats now and then when you thought that maybe, just maybe something was coming back, but those moments were painfully few and far between. Even in those moments, you couldn’t say remembered anything, exactly. It was more a frustrating sense of deja vu, a fleeting little itch at the back of your mind like you’d forgotten something important, flashing road markers to warn you of the dark, empty gaps in your memory. That sense was probably driven at least in part by Foggy’s growing desperation as he frantically hunted for something that might trigger a return of your memories.

But the rest of that feeling… the rest was all you.

There was no denying a traitorous part of you wanted to remember no matter how ill-advised it might be. You wanted to remember this bizarre little family you’d stumbled into and then lost, just like in Los Angeles. You wanted to remember the love you’d had for this place, this city, this taste of mutual affection that had grown up around you after going so long without. After endless ages and ages of drought, of starvation, you hungered for even these bare crumbs of connection, something to tide you over until you found safe haven on the distant horizon. What a tempting thought it was to slither back into the life of this woman who’d been so cruelly murdered and replaced by a stranger wearing her skin.

Was this what a demon felt like when it took over a body? To walk around with someone else’s face, to speak with the unnatural voice of the dead, tormenting the loved ones that remained?

That, ultimately, was why it didn’t matter what you wanted. Your presence in this city only spread rot and suffering. It would be better for everyone involved if you left like you should have long before now. Then they could all grieve without you tainting the very soil around them.

Especially Matt.

You’d seen him once or twice in passing as your time in New York wound down. Even at a distance, you’d marked the growing circles under his eyes, dark enough to be visible despite the glasses he always wore. The rest of him wasn’t doing much better. It seemed like every time he crossed your path, there was another bruise, another cut across his face or knuckles, a shifting canvas of pain painted across skin grown pale and drawn. He didn’t just look tired—that wasn’t what this was. This was something far worse, a haggard exhaustion, a weariness that couldn’t be solved with sleep, if he slept at all. This was someone being haunted.

Probably because the ghost of Jane Hind kept crossing his path. But that would be solved soon enough.

You’d already packed up your things, not that you had much to take. Just your bag and your memory box. You’d be leaving the next day. Foggy was still convinced he had a few more days, but you had other plans. You couldn’t give Matt back the woman he’d lost, nor could you give him a body to bury, a grave to lay flowers across, but you could give him what Jane Hind had carried with her until her dying breath.

“I thought you might… want these before I left tomorrow,” you said quietly. “I… sorry, it’s… it’s a bag with my—with her things.”

Matt took it carefully from you, the motion mechanical and stiff. He hadn’t really invited you the rest of the way into his apartment, the two of you now stalled out in the hallway just beyond the closed front door. He hadn’t taken his glasses off, either. It made it harder to read him, his face closed off and impassive, a wall of red glass placed firmly between you. Come to think of it, you hadn’t seen his eyes even once since that day you’d first come back, and you didn’t blame him. You didn’t like feeling vulnerable, either, though that was just a guess when it came to what he might be feeling.

“It’s the shirts from her apartment, which I think are yours. And the stuffed bear.” You bit your lip and released it slowly, shifting uncomfortably on your feet. “And the… the mug, which Nelson said was yours, too. The one you used at her place. I also put the hoodie in there, the one she had with her while she was traveling. And…” You reached into your pocket, fumbling for a moment. God, you were bad at this, unsure of just how to do this without hurting him any more than was absolutely necessary. It wasn’t a concern you usually dealt with since your goal was almost always the exact opposite, a precaution meant to destroy any threads of connection they held with you. Unfortunately, he wasn’t giving you much to work with, though you didn’t miss his subtle flinch when you drew the key from your pocket. “I thought you might want this, too.”

You cautiously edged forward, daring to breach the ring of radiant heat that surrounded him, the closest you’d come to him in almost a month. He went stiff as you approached, his jaw growing tight as the gap between you both closed. Another step, and his head cocked as if he were listening to your footsteps, or maybe… maybe he was just waiting to find out what you had to give him. But he wasn’t telling you to fuck off or just set your gift aside, which was a good sign. So you hesitantly reached out and brushed your fingers lightly against his bicep, a signal so he knew you were about to pass him something.

A breath.

He remained absolutely still amidst the sudden, crackling tension in the air as your fingertips skated gently down and around his forearm, stirring all the little hairs, his skin shockingly warm. All you’d intended to do to take his arm and guide it up so you could place the key in his hand, but you quickly found yourself distracted by a ragged scar along the back of his forearm, one your fingers seemingly made their way to on instinct. It was a deep scar, the original cut likely made by some sort of blade, the edges of it rough and uneven from messy stitching. Your curiosity got the better of you, so much so that you missed the way Matt had begun to hold his breath.

“Who fucked up the sutures on that?” You furrowed your brow, your thumb smoothly marking out the jagged line of it. “They did a terrible job. No offense.”

Matt’s face fell and you only realized too late just who it was that must have patched him up.

Before you could blink, he’d yanked his arm out of your grip as if your touch had burned him. “Don’t,” he grit out, his chest heaving as he put a few steps distance between you both. “You can—just put your key on the bench.”

“How did you know—” “Because there’s only one thing left it could be.”

You nodded weakly, taking a few steps back towards the little bench beside the door. That unfamiliar ache, that sense of wrongness was back, the weight of it settling uneasily in your chest like a stone until you almost wanted to retch. It didn’t help that Matt was just barely holding himself together while you were here.

Best to say what you’d come to say and leave him be.

You gently set the key down, and the quiet click of the brass against the wood seemed to echo in the hallway, a graveyard bell tolling with a looming sense of finality. What you were about to tell him would hurt, you knew it would, but maybe one day he’d find comfort in it. This—a sign of what she’d felt—was the real gift you’d truly come to give, the only true token of her you could offer. Your words, when you spoke, were almost as hoarse as his. “I thought you should know I… she wore it. The key. I asked them. She wore your key and she never took it off. Not once. Whatever you both had, she treasured it, and all she wanted was to get back to you. She didn’t leave you by choice, Matt. I hope that… that helps.”

Of all the things you’d said and done, it was this that finally seemed to break him. His face twisted in a sudden wave of grief, and regret hit you all at once. You quickly took a step towards him, one hand out, though you weren’t sure what you’d do if he reached back—it wasn’t like you knew how to comfort him, and you sure as hell didn’t know if he’d tolerate you holding him again, nor whether he was someone that needed some sort of touch when he was hurting. But before you could take another step he’d flinched away from you, retreating quickly back into the darkness of his apartment, his voice ragged. “Just go. Get out.”

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, backing away towards the door. “I’m… I’m so sorry.”

It shouldn’t have hurt as you closed that door one last time. But you cried all the same.

Somewhere within the apartment came the sound of splintering furniture and a hoarse scream wracked with grief.

“Look, Nelson.” You tiredly adjusted the strap of your duffle bag over your shoulder, reaching up to pinch at the bridge of your nose as if it would stem your growing headache. “I know it’s a day early. But another twenty-four hours isn’t going to make a fucking difference.”

“I don’t need another day!” he pleaded, his arms spread wide where he’d blocked your front door, ensuring you couldn’t leave your apartment until you’d heard him out. You’d had no idea he even had a key until today and, not for the first time, you cursed Jane Hind’s apparent lack of common sense. You did not give out keys, or at least, you hadn’t before coming here to this ridiculous fucking city. “Just five minutes. That’s all. I’ve got one last thing to try.”

“Maybe I don’t want to try one more thing!” you snapped bitterly, dropping your hand. That anger was a good cover for the way something sharp and prickly had begun to catch in your throat, the incident with Matt still fresh in your mind. “I’ve tried for a month, and it’s gotten me nothing. Fucking-fucking bars and random rooftops and a shitty little duck, goddamn penguins and keys, and none of it did shit! Jane’s gone, ok? She’s dead. And I’m sorry, I know you all cared about her, but I’m done—”

“Have you climbed inside a thread?”

“...What?” you asked in sudden bewilderment, your rage abruptly faltering in the face of pure confusion. “What the fuck does that even me—”

He let out a whoop, practically dancing on his feet. “Yes! I knew it! I can’t believe no one told you!”

“Told me what?!” You chucked your bag back onto your couch in sudden exasperation. If this was thread-related, at the very least you could stay long enough to listen. “There’s nothing to climb!”

“Ok, so stick with me.” He rubbed his palms together eagerly, a bright light in his eyes. “Because I’m about to get really metaphysical.”

It took you what felt like hours to climb inside the shimmering honey-colored thread that lay between you and Matt—a thread that sang with his sorrow and your reluctant sympathy.

It wasn’t right having your soul constricted like this, all of who you were narrowing down into something so small as you squirmed through a barrier that tasted and felt like dirt and earth, chasing after the sound of trickling water. There wasn’t supposed to be anything on the other side. It was an emotional connection, nothing more.

And yet here you were, standing in a place that had no reason to exist.

“Holy shit,” you whispered in amazement, spinning on your heels to examine your surroundings. “Holy shit, he was right.”

Despite the late hour, the air was full of a muted light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once, tinting the world a hazy, eerie green. High up above you roiled thick, sullen black storm clouds, silent flashes of red lightning carving their way between swirls of charred smoke. It wasn’t much light, but it was enough to see by.

And what you saw was heartbreaking.

You stood in a dry, stony riverbed. The ground beneath you was cracked and brittle where the water had receded, leaving behind nothing but dust and broken branches. The river itself remained though just barely, the thin trickle of flowing water down the center of the riverbed a far cry from whatever immense force had carved its way through the landscape until the banks were a good ten paces from one side to the other. The terrain beyond the river didn’t look much better, wilted, drooping cattails dotted up the bank before giving way to endless forest that stretched farther than your eye could see. Like the cattails and scrub, the pine and fir trees stood withered and brown, casting their empty branches up toward the sky.

If it had been beautiful here once, whatever had happened to you had destroyed that beauty.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

“Can you hear me?” Foggy’s voice sounded distant and far away, tinny like he was talking through a long tunnel.

“Yeah. Can you hear me?”

“...Ok, if you’re trying to respond, I can’t hear you. But according to Matt, whenever you were here, it felt like memories. So poke around, see what you can find.”

You sighed and started down the riverbed. “Not super helpful, but ok. Let’s give it a shot.”

The water was the most obvious place to start, and you made your way over to the thin stream that ran raggedly across the parched soil. Much to your fascination, you quickly discovered that what you’d thought was one current was actually two, one layered over the top of the other, each flowing in the opposite direction. The first of those currents hiding on the bottom was fairly calm, steady if a little restless, swirls of pale color that almost felt like curiosity, though how you understood that translation was a mystery. The second current seemed far rougher where it roiled atop the first, its section of the stream cloudy and thick with swirls of black and the red of an open wound. You hovered over the second current for a long moment, working up your courage, before you finally knelt and hesitantly brushed against it with one finger. It was just water. How bad could it be?

The moment your skin made contact, your chest seized on a sudden swell of agony. Your mouth filled with the taste of grief, with the sound of an empty home, the lack of some familiar scent that meant affection and warmth and softness and safety, the ache of an old wound reopened just when it had started to heal. Alone, always alone, I deserve it, so many gone, he was right, when will I learn? There was no hope for comfort from that pain, no escape from the darkness into tender arms that could hold you just right when it all hurt. All you had to look forward to was more—

You threw yourself backward, scrambling away from that terrible current as if what you’d felt might rise up and chase after you, snapping its teeth the whole way. You didn’t stop retreating until your back slammed against the dry soil of the riverbank. Only then did you stop, panting, your eyes wide in shock as you cradled your hand against your heaving chest.

Emotion. It’s emotion.

That was what the water was. Matt’s emotion. Which meant the other current—one now shifting back to yellow despite a momentary surge of twisting, roiling black—was… yours.

Right. So you could rule the water out. But if that was emotion, where was memory?

Examining the rest of the river was the most obvious next step now that you’d ruled out the water. Based on what you could see, the original riverbed had been a mix of silt and stones of varying sizes, a firm foundation beneath a once-powerful river. Now, though, the grey, dried-out silt was covered in a strange sea of divots and dips, as if something—a lot of somethings—had been plucked up and removed. You traced one of the indents in the soil curiously, lifting your hand back up to consider the grit as you rubbed it between your fingers. Another glance around revealed the answer.

The stones.

There were still plenty of stones remaining in the riverbed, but the divots in the dry silt told you there’d once been far more. If that was what you’d lost, then maybe…

You rocked up eagerly to your feet, pacing around breathlessly as you searched for a promising stone to start with. Eventually you made your pick, plucking up a stone just small enough to fit in your palm, flat and smooth save for a little groove in it as if someone had run their fingers over it endlessly. Strangely, it smelled like honey and herbs, the surface oddly warm against your hand like the brush of a thumb against your mouth. You waited for a long, impatient moment, and when nothing else happened, you tapped it a few times.

Still nothing.

And something inside you… cracked.

“Fuck!” you screamed, hurling the stone back down the river in a sudden rage. The pain and the loneliness you’d been suppressing for the last month, the last year, the horrible, endless eternity since leaving your family in Los Angeles began to claw its way up your throat, the clouds churning wildly above you in response. A wild rain came next, each droplet sharp and cold and edged like the blade of a knife, bitter and biting as it beat against your skin. You grabbed another stone, one that tasted like shitty beer—Josie’s beer. You threw that rock, too, then another and another, throwing stones that smelled and tasted and felt like your shriek of laughter as he grinned and caught you against his chest, like torn flesh and a needle held by tender hands, like your face nuzzling fearlessly against Matt’s throat as he whispered comfort into your hair and held you close, like synced breathing and hearts and dances between binary stars as you both fell into sleep, fell into safety, fell into one another, phantom sensations that only made the fierce ache in you grow stronger because with every stone you snatched up it became clear that…

You’d been loved.

Not your identity.

Not the image you showed to the world.

Not the walls you’d put up in front of him before he’d found some way past them.

You.

And he’d loved you with every part of him.

You weren’t sure when you started crying, a violent, vicious stream of tears that was just as much a product of rage as grief. Here was someone who’d loved you fully, loved you despite every asterisk and bit of baggage and sharpened edge that came with being a broken hound, with being a former experiment still on the run. But you barely noticed your tears, spitting up at the unforgiving clouds and the howling wind, because you could howl, too, just as violent, just as much a threat as any storm in this place. “I want my fucking life back! I want him back!”

You hadn’t wanted it before, or maybe you had and you’d just been too afraid to ask for it. But now? Oh, oh, now you were furious, furious and hurting and screaming, because you’d denied yourself connection all these years only to find it in the last place you’d expected. That was what this had been—home, family, love. That had to be why you’d stayed in New York, why you’d risked everything for these people, for Matt. You weren’t an idiot. You’d have run the numbers and the math, made your calculations.

You couldn’t bear to lose this. Not… not again.

You threw stone after stone, hunting frantically as your fingers bled dry, desperate fury into the air, reddened drops disappearing before they ever hit the ground. The trickle of water in the center of the riverbed had churned itself into a frenzy, but you ignored it. There had to be something here that would trigger a memory, something that would let you remember being loved again, something big enough, important enough, so you grabbed and you grabbed and grabbed and grabbed and grabbed until at last, you found a stone the size of your fist. You snatched it up with a ragged sob, cradling it greedily against your chest as if doing so might let you carry it out of here, because you wanted it, you wanted him, wanted to remember more than anything in the world.

“Let me have it!” you snarled, snapping your teeth at the howling winds of the storm as if you might catch this place between your jaws and tear it open until you at last found what belonged to you. “Give it back!”

And with a blink—

He tore one of his bloodied gloves off, his hand shaking as he reached out to you.

You stilled the moment his fingertips brushed tenderly against your cheek, so very gentle, affection layered over blood and earth and hurt. And god, your skin was so terribly dry and cold, the beat of your heart uneven as it struggled to pump blood through your body, but he could feel you react to him, the barest parting of your lips as you dragged in a startled breath. He didn’t want to startle you further or risk you fighting him, so he let his voice drop into a whisper, soft as the brush of a feather.

“It’s me. I’m here.”

‘I heard you,’ he tried to say. ‘I heard you. I’m here.’

And your weakened heart… skipped.

He wasn’t sure if he reached for you or if you reached for him. All he knew was it was the sign he’d been looking for. In a heartbeat, he scooped you up off the floor, stealing you back from that dry, filthy cement and crusted blood that had tried to take you from him. He cradled your cold body against his chest, then, held you there where it was warm and where you were safe. You made the softest little noise, the sound choked and dry, but there was no disguising the heartbreaking relief in it. He pulled you in further, pulled you up until you were curled up in his lap, not an ounce of air left between your bodies, your head laying against his shoulder.

He would never let you touch the floor of this place again.

“D…” you mumbled, not one hint of fear in you despite what he’d just done, the blood on his hands and the burning heat of violence that still lingered in his bones. You wearily slid your head over, inch by inch, until you’d buried your face against the sweat-slick line of his throat, nuzzling in against him with a hoarse sigh that only made him hold you tighter. You inhaled slowly then, heedless of the blood and dirt and sweat that coated his skin, your fingers coming up to hook weakly in the collar of his shirt. “You came.”

And you… smiled.

He buried his face against your hair and let out a shaky breath. As he did, he dug down past blood and dust and dirt, dug and dug until he found the sweet, familiar scent of you, a scent he never wanted to leave him again.

The stone fell from your limp hands, a ringing in your ears you could barely hear beneath the sound of the water nearby, frothing and wild.

The increased sensory feedback had been bizarre, and there was… there was no reason he should have been covered in so much blood, his body burning as if he’d been fighting before coming to you. But…

“Hey, you in there?” Foggy called.

“D.” The letter felt strange, and yet… natural, as you cradled it on your tongue. “D?”

And you knew what came after that letter, shaping the word again in your mind.

You knew.

You… remembered.

“Always,” he’d said.

“Always,” you whispered, casting your eyes up the riverbed towards another large stone. “Always, D.”

He didn’t know what you were doing or why you’d climbed inside the thread.

“Always, D.”

All he knew was that it hurt.

“You’re stuck with me, unfortunately for you.”

He’d thought catching your scent, hearing your laugh, being forced to take back the key he’d given to you had been the worst of it. But no. It was far, far worse having to relive these memories of your time with him over and over and over without pause, his senses filled with you: with your touch, with your scent, with the taste of you on the air. He heard you whisper, laugh, and sigh; felt the brush of your fingers in his hair and your body shaking with laughter when he snatched you up during a game of Devil Hunt and the safety of you as you’d held him so tenderly after his fight with Foggy. All of it was a reminder of what he’d lost, what he’d never get back.

“Don’t you give up on me, Matt. Ok?”

He was in agony. There was no blocking you out like this, no escaping your memory no matter how much he tried to push back or retreat, until he wound up trapped and spiraling in his kitchen.

“Kiss me when you come back.”

On and on it went, memories snapping at his heels until all he had left to hide behind was rage. He swept his arm across the counter, glass shattering as he screamed himself hoarse. Eventually he found himself backed up against the wall, sinking down as he hitched out something like an agonized groan, his hands over his ears, his eyes shut tight. “Don’t do this to me, sweetheart, please—”

“Adoringly yours, because I do adore you, you ridiculous man...”

“Leave me alone,” he whispered. “Just leave me alone.”

“...Remember that. if nothing else.”

In hindsight, it was a really bad idea to give back your key.

“Matt!” you shouted, pounding frantically on his front door. “Matt, let me in! It’s me, I swear, I can-I can—”

Silence.

And you weren’t willing to wait any longer. This wasn’t something you could explain through the door, out here in the hall where the neighbors could hear. You needed to get inside. You knew he was in there somewhere.

Red threads never lied.

You wiped the blood away from your nose and took off for the stairs. It was only one flight up to the roof, and sometimes he left the rooftop door unlocked. Even if it wasn’t unlocked, you’d use the key under the mat. You didn’t remember everything. But you remembered that. And if the key wasn’t there? You’d break that fucking door down.

He sat unmoving in his meditation pose on the floor, the sound of your attempts to get into the apartment distant and far away. Meditation had been the only thing left he could think of that would allow him to escape the pain and the memories of you that had flooded his thoughts. Like this, with his mind and his focus withdrawn until it lay deep within himself, he’d hoped he’d be far enough away from the world that the ghost of you couldn’t reach.

Yet even deep in meditation, his instincts were set off by the crack! of his rooftop door slamming open.

He was on his feet in a heartbeat, his heart racing as he bared his teeth, his body prepared to face whatever threat had just broken in. The sensations of you, at the very least, had quieted during his meditation, which should have left him enough space for some small margin of peace as he threw himself into a fight. But that peace was nowhere to be found, because you were here again.

He recoiled from that thought the second it crossed his mind. This wasn’t you, that much had become painfully clear. You’d passed away somewhere far beyond his reach, away from the home, the life you’d lived here. The woman that stood on his landing now was nothing but a ghost, a fading memory and a terrible reminder of what he’d had and lost, what he’d earned by daring to reach for something good. There was no undoing it, no washing away the blood on his hands. If anything, how he felt for you had doomed any hopes of you staying long enough for him to reform that connection with you. He knew how you operated—hell, you’d tried to run on that hot summer night so many months ago after seeing just how much he’d cared, even if you’d ultimately changed your mind. At the time, he’d thought it was Destiny, the hand of God ensuring you remained in the Kitchen where Matt could keep you safe from the Man in the White Coat, here in this place where you both might… might shape something good out of all the broken pieces you’d both been left with. He knew better, now. Even the hand of God couldn’t break the curse Matt placed on those he loved. You would leave, leave like all the others, and he deserved it.

The only question that remained was why you seemed so, so fucking determined to make him suffer.

“Matt.” Your voice cracked as you stumbled down the stairs. “Matt, I—”

“Why can’t you just leave me alone, sweetheart?” he grit out, reaching up to fist his hands tightly in his hair. He’d never known you to be unnecessarily cruel, but there was no other explanation. “God, I-I can’t—you can’t keep doing this to me.”

“Matt, just let me—”

“Do you even care how much you’re hurting me?” He hitched out a broken laugh, something bitter and tormented, the sound absent all humor as you made it down the stairs. “All those months, all I wanted was for you to come back. I begged. I prayed to God, over and over again, that he would bring you back to me. And now that you’re gone, you just won’t leave. I can’t get away from you no matter what I do. Do you know what that’s like? To lose someone you love only for their ghost to haunt you every time you turn around?”

A soft intake of breath.

There it was. Now that he’d said it, you’d leave. There would be nothing more frightening to the You he’d first known than a word like love.

“I just…” His breath hitched again, something thick building in his throat. It was just another sign of his weakness, the same weakness that had gotten you killed.

‘I warned you, kid,’ came Stick’s voice, so smug that Matt bared his teeth. ‘I fuckin’ warned you the night I opened up her eye. But you didn’t listen.’

He started to pace wildly, ignoring your voice as he hunted for some opening through which he could escape, flee from Stick’s voice hiding in the corners of his thoughts, from your ghost. With every step his movements grew more frantic, more furious as his rage built like a rising wave: rage at himself, at God, at the monster who’d taken your memories and the possibility of a life for you here with Matt, and at you, too, because you just didn’t get it. “I just want to grieve, and God can’t even give me that much, can he? Is that what this is? Punishment? Revenge? Congratulations. Job well done. You can go.”

You tilted your head as you watched him pace, the same cock of your head you got when considering your potential routes forward. As far as he was concerned, the only route he’d give was a route out the door.

“I don’t know why you came back, and at this point, I don’t fucking care,” he told you hotly, nothing but burning smoke and thick venom in each word. “We don’t have a red thread anymore. There’s nothing to keep you here. Leave. Now. I’m not asking.”

Your soft response was a single letter, one that struck directly at the open wound inside his chest.

“...D.”

He snatched up an empty beer bottle from the kitchen counter in a sudden rage, turned, and hurled it past you.

You didn’t so much as flinch as the bottle came within inches of your head. Nor did you react to the distant shattering of glass, the sound of it barely audible over his anguished roar.

“Leave me alone!”

And then he froze in sudden horror at what he’d done, his heartbeat almost drowning out the soft sound of your steps. All he’d wanted to do was scare you away, frighten you away so he could break where you couldn’t see, because it had hurt, it had hurt to hear you call him—

Wait.

You’d… you’d called him…

“My Devil Man, my Saint Matthew,” you whispered, the touch of your hands cool and endlessly gentle as you cupped his face. His skin was wet, damp beneath your thumbs as you swiped them across his cheeks, when had he started crying? You brought his head down until you could lay your forehead against his, the taste of salt hanging in the air. Your voice grew achingly tender, so longed for that he swayed helplessly on his feet, wanting nothing more than to be held like you’d held him so often before when he was hurting. “I’m so sorry, D. I’m so sorry I left you alone, sweetheart.”

He closed his eyes tight, his breath growing shaky. You couldn’t know that he was two steps away from crumbling in your arms, fractures widening with every breath. He had no energy left to fight your touch, your misplaced mercy, but giving into the lie was another thing entirely. He couldn’t bear to hope again, not when it would crush him if he were wrong. “Foggy told you to… he told you to call me that, didn’t he? To see if you’d remember. But I can’t—you’re going to leave me, you’ll—” “Do you remember what I said before I left? Because I do.” You swiped your thumb gently against his cheek, your uneven breathing skipping and falling into rhythm with his as his hands shakily rose. They hovered hesitantly a few inches away from your face, terrified that you might vanish beneath his hands like a ghost. “I don’t leave my box behind, and I won’t leave you behind, either. I told you that you were stuck with me after Nobu. I meant it. It’s really me. I know you’re tired and hurting, sweetheart, but listen to my heart. What does it say? Truth or lie?”

…Steady.

Truth.

Could it really be you?

He held his breath as he dared at last to touch your cheek, stirring the fine hairs as he stroked his way along the familiar shape of your face, one he’d traced so often in his dreams. Your skin was damp with tears just like his, another sliding down to bump against his thumb as your lips quirked up into a brilliant smile. And the moment his trembling fingers passed your lips, you kissed the tip of each with a warm fondness, a mirror of that night you’d held his broken, torn body and he’d kissed your fingers and palm.

“How much do you… do you remember?” There was a ringing in his ears as the world beneath him seemed to roll beneath him. “Everything?” “Not everything. Some pieces are still missing, with Foggy and Karen and my job, but I-I remember enough. I remember you, and what I had with you.” Your voice grew fierce and fervent then as you drew in a sharp breath, preparing yourself. “I remember you, D. And I remember that I love you. I love you, Matt Murdock, all of you, so, so much. And I will never leave you alone again.” You loved him.

You loved him.

The weight of it—being forced to let you leave the city, the ensuing months alone, the agony of the past few weeks thinking he’d lost you entirely, and now this, this, knowing you loved him like he loved you—hit him all at once, and with a sudden groan he started to drop. You caught him in your arms, the two of you sinking to your knees as you held him tight and he wound desperately around you in return. Only then did he start to fall apart in your arms, shaking in your hold, his grief, his hurt, his relief spilling out in choked gasps where you’d tucked his head down against your neck. He fisted his hands in your shirt as you both rocked, and a ragged moan tore free from him, spilling against your skin when you lifted your hands to trail your fingers lovingly through his hair. You knew, you remembered just how to hold him when he was hurting, a balm across every last wound. His shivering, touch-starved body remembered your touch, too, drowning beneath the sudden surge of good, warm, safe, soft after months of nothing but pain, so much so he couldn’t help but gasp out your name.

“I’ve got you now, D,” you whispered, burying your face against his shoulder until he could feel the heat of your tears against his shirt, too. “I’m here, now. You’re not alone. I’ve got you, Matt.”

“I thought you were gone.” There was no way for him to truly sync his breathing with yours, not with the way you were both crying, but still his body tried on instinct, tried and failed over and over again. He closed his eyes tighter, burying his face deeper against your throat as he pulled you in even closer, until there wasn’t an inch of space between your body and his, where he could feel every beat of your heart against his skin, as if to make up for the way he’d almost… almost chased you away. “I thought you’d left me and I was alone. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t try harder, and that I didn’t-I didn’t go with you, but I couldn’t—I’m so, so—”

“Hey, hey, it’s ok.” You kissed shakily at his hair, his shoulder, and whatever other parts of him you could reach, your breath, your tears, your absolution washing over him like rain. “It’s not your fault, D. It’s not your fault sweetheart. None of this was your fault.”

“But—” “Hey. Listen to me, before you get any further down in that hole.” You lifted his head from your shoulder, cupping his tear-stained face in your hands again. For a moment you both simply breathed with one another, your forehead to his, soaking in the contact, the affection that you’d both dearly missed and needed. “What happened to me outside New York, my memory loss… all of that is not your fault. It never was, D. There are-there are a lot of things we’ll have to deal with in the future, things I need to tell you. Consequences of what we’ve done, and—but this isn’t one of them. Never this. You’re what helped bring me back.” “How? I didn’t…” He let out a breathless, watery little laugh. “I didn’t do anything but try to chase you away.” “Some part of me couldn’t help but be drawn to you. I remembered, deep down, I think.” You gave an amused little huff. “And once Foggy showed me how to get into our thread, all your memories are what brought me back, helped me remember, because I could feel it, how you loved me. That was the key. Speaking of which…” You leaned in to nuzzle up against his cheek, your voice lowering to a whisper. “I think I made you a promise, you ridiculous man. And it’s one I intend to keep.”

And with one small tip of your head, and a single slow breath…

“Kiss me when you come back.”

…your lips brushed against his for the very first time, tender and achingly soft, and so full of love that it would have stolen his breath away if he’d had any left at all.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d envisioned months ago just before you left, something triumphant and wild. Nor was it anything like the first kisses he’d imagined before that, the first kiss he’d thought this journey with you might lead to. And God only knew he’d considered kissing you for the first time more than was healthy.

Your first kiss with him was, instead, shaky and gentle, tasting of salt and tears and the fading shades of grief retreating like streamers of night before a welcome sunrise. Slowly, and then more surely, his lips began to move against yours, finally allowing himself to truly taste you for the first time, his eyes slowly falling closed as your fingers ran fondly through his hair, you, it was really you, you remembered. With a quiet moan, he breathed you in deep, calling your grace, your love deep into him until it settled there against his heart, knowing that, no matter what else might come, he would never lose it again, one of his hands rising to tenderly wind around your throat, his other hand finding yours so he could lace his battered fingers tightly with yours.

It wasn’t the first kiss he’d expected, but it felt perfect all the same.

Because all that was left was him…

And you.

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