project hail mary is insane bc the first half is like oh my god the world is dying and there's alien bacteria eating the sun and there's some guy alone on a ship and he's having a breakdown and the flashbacks are getting darker and this is a tragedy the likes of which i have never seen. then BAM andy weir says fuck you actually. here's this pokemon guy he's here to save the day with the power of friendship. and it's the best thing you've ever seen in your life
The kraken told me the NHL keeps eating their goalies so I asked how many goalies they have and they told me they just go to the AHL and recall another goalie afterwards so I said it sounds like they're just feeding goalies to the IR and then Lane Lambert started crying
[a two-panel drawing of keegan and logan from call of duty: ghosts. in the first one, keegan is opening a door and peaking out from a dark apartment, looking dishevelled and visibly distressed. the text reads "...You came?". the second panel has a view from behind keegan, revealing that logan is outside the door. he's looking at keegan in silence, worried look on his face.]
---
a scene from a fanfic i've read two days ago and have been thinking about ever since. go read the entire series, it's So Worth It
Not pertinent to anything in particular but I do think it's kinda weird that we keep depicting cavemen in media crawling around on all fours covered in dirt with tangled, matted hair, speaking in broken, cobbled-together toddler language when like.
They were us.
Like literally genetically they were US, just like. A while ago.
Like
Would you trust a TV caveman with a baby? Probably not
A real life caveman though??? I think they'd be at least okay at it
This is actually really important and comes up in Anthropology classes all. The. Time.
As long as homo sapiens have existed, we have had the same emotional and mental capacity as you and I do today. You nailed it. They were US. Even Neaderthals existed alongside and had offspring with Homo Sapiens for many thousands of years.
There's much evidence that cavemen would have had complex spoken language, culture (learned information passed down), symbolic interpretation, and I think they most certainly would have been able to handle holding a baby. In fact I have my suspicisions that an ancient homo sapiens mother may be a more present, attentive, and knowledgable mom than I could be today.
Do not let media trick you into believing we are the pinnacle of humanity. Unilinial evolution theory (google it quick I beg) is BUNK, GARBAGE, and the root of so much evil.
We've been human for a long, long time, and we are not inherently better than all those who came before.
One the most profound experiences of my life was visiting Font de Gaume, which has 12 thousand year old paintings. They use a technique where the horses appeared to run across the wall when seen in flickering firelight. There was a bison the wall staring at us with such attitude, I could practically hear him. I had the most profound feeling of those ancient artists reaching forward to lay their hands on my shoulders. To say, "This was my world." It was a profoundly moving experience.
Some years later, I went to the Orkney islands where we visited a tiny family run museum of artifacts from the chambered tomb at the other end of the farm. They handed me a pestle once held by some neolithci human.They'd worn groves where the thumb and forefinger would be for better grip.
One time, in a French history class, my teacher randomly at the end of the class had all of us draw a sketch of a horse. And we were all like ??? Okay???
At the beginning of the next class, my teacher showed us a cave painting of a horse. And then he showed all of our horses, which he had scanned and put into the presentation.
He then pointed out all the ways that our horses looked similar to the prehistoric horse. Same features, drawn from the same angle, etc.
And then he asked us, "Isn't it cool that you draw horses the same way as someone who lived 20,000 years ago?"
In Spain, there's a cave full of ancient, ice age era drawings of bison and reindeer and other animals of that period... And one small section of chaotic scribbles just a little away from everything else. These scribblesv were so incomprehensible, they were originally just called the 'Panel of Enigmatic Signs'... Until it occurred to someone that drawings only three feet off the ground probably weren't made by adults.
Scientists are now pretty sure the scribbles were made by kids ages 3-6, more or less on their own. The adult cave artists were probably doing what any modern parent might do when they want to keep small children out of their hair for awhile: they gave the kids some drawing tools of their own and a small section of wall to work on, out of the way but still close enough to keep an eye on them, and let them have at it.
What's most charming about the whole thing is the way the cave scribbles look exactly like what you'd find on the wall of a preschool today. Artistic styles vary widely across different times and cultures, but child development is as near to a universal human experience as it gets.
Wisher made detailed 3D scans of the drawings, which helped her understand the uneven pressure applied to the charcoal and the direction the lines were drawn. The team then compared the panel’s composition with age-appropriate artistic efforts by modern children. Kids across cultures go through the same developmental stages, which influence their physical ability to draw, until about the age of 6, Amir notes.
The team compared the ancient art with the developmental stages exhibited by modern children: the furiously scribbled circles and push-pull lines typical of 3-year-olds just learning to control their bodies, for example, or the wobbly, right-angled figures of slightly older kids beginning to master fine motor skills.
Both are apparent in the cave, superimposed on each other as though two or more kids were drawing at once. That’s a clue the Las Monedas marks were likely made by “siblings or a mixed-age play group within the sphere of safety around adults, but also within their own space,” says co-author Felix Riede, an Aarhus archaeologist.
...
Adults at Las Monedas would have been aware of what the kids were doing and presumably had lit fires or torches; without ample firelight the cave is pitch black.
the non-hockey equivalent of the Canucks having a women in hockey night during the tank is when a guy dedicates a shot in basketball to you and then turns around, completely misses and hits a child with the ball
the u.s. women’s hockey team should get to throw rocks at the u.s. men’s hockey team and also beat them with hammers and baseball bats i am so serious rn
previous oneshot provides more context but isn't inherently necessary
Content: slow burn, mutual pining, undefined relationship walruss, mutual coping, military inaccuracies, emotionally constipated Keegan, Keegan is down bad, Logan is too he just doesn't know it yet
WC: 5,689
TW: PTSD from military service, rehabilitation (physical & mental), mute Logan, past child abuse (walker brothers), mild PTSD flashback(s)
"How've you been?"
Keegan's voice was a shot in the dark of Logan's steadfast resolve to keep to himself. Just a few weeks after Keegan had dropped him back off at his apartment and the two had silently mutually agreed to never mention the fact that Logan had woken up, peacefully, with his face buried in Keegan's neck and Keegan's arms around his ribcage like he was guarding something worth saving, Logan had finally returned to Dryar County's Veteran Support Group, or as they thankfully abbreviated it, DC Support, largely in part due to David's persistence. Logan tightened his grip on the mug in his hand and fought a grimace. There was no repulsion in him at Keegan's voice, or Keegan's anything, merely afterimages of his arms around him and the ache in his chest that reminded him he'd been the one that hadn't answered Keegan's texts since then.
Disbelief found its place in the space between his lungs, breath catching, when Logan turned to see Keegan stood just behind him with a soft smile on his face, brows creased with concern. He nearly felt sick at the sight. Undeserving is what he was, above all else, but the look on Keegan's face made him forget that for just a moment in the light of being observed by him. There was nothing there except a gentle consideration. No disgust. No hints of betrayal, nor any signs of hurt. Alright, Logan signed with his free hand.
The little creases at the corner of Keegan's eyes deepened. "I'm glad." He replied.
His eyes searched Logan's face for more, but he didn't ask any further questions. Instead, he reached out to place a gentle hand on Logan's shoulder and let it linger for just a moment before he moved to greet some of the other members of the association. The second he passed by David approached on Logan's other side, loud enough that Logan would hear him coming. "Ol' John brought donuts if you want any."
Logan had to force himself to look away from where Keegan stood across the room to address his brother. He shook his head when he met David's eyes. His brother looked more refreshed than he had before his little bit of time away with Casey, face brighter and body language more at ease. Just as those thoughts formulated, David spoke, "You look well, Logan. Seems like Colorado did you some good."
Before he could even help himself, to think to play the part of nonchalance, Logan nodded, the corners of his mouth pressing inward at a microscopic level. David still noticed, because he knew his brother. "You'll have to tell me about it after the meeting. Glad you're back, kiddo."
With this, they faded to their own corners of the room, greeting old friends and new members that looked a little unsure of themselves. Logan fell into place beside Gale, an older veteran that had seen hell and walked out the other side with just as many scars as he had. They were leaned against one of the walls, arms crossed over their chest as they observed everyone turn about the room, catching up with everyone they hadn't seen over the past week. They hardly spared Logan a glance, but nodded a greeting, anyway. "Survived another winter?"
Logan shrugged, the task of fingerspelling an articulation of how he was not worth the effort in his eyes. Most of the time he and Gale talked it was through typing on his phone or theirs, a common occurrence that he had to resort to when David wasn't around to translate, which was becoming more and more often these days. It felt right, to detach himself from his older brother, as if 26 years was some sort of breaking point where the codependence was finally over.
Rather, it was the fact that his therapist had expressed concern about his reliance on David and instead of understanding it was something to address on his own time, he figured he should cut the cord and brace for impact for the sake of saying he was making progress since that's all anyone ever really wanted from him anyway. The betterment of Logan Walker was a group project they'd all get an excellent grade on except for him. He showed up, read the script, and was slowly setting them free as he pretended it was all getting easier. It was the least he could do, to unburden them all. "One more winter is an accomplishment, son." Gale said, like it was fact just because they said so. And Logan believed them.
Keegan brushed by again like a winter draft carrying the scent of pine, slipping a bottle of water and one of the catered sandwiches David had ordered into his hands before Logan could register what was happening enough to protest. He stood there, arms full, confused and hesitantly appreciative, which apparently amused Gale enough for them to huff a laugh as they pushed themself away from the wall and glanced over him. "Did more than survive winter, I guess." They commented before moving to sit in one of the uncomfortable metal folding chairs that formed the DC Support's talk circle.
Whatever they meant by that, Logan wasn't sure, but he followed anyway if only to finally sit and be able to manage the bottle, his mug, and the sandwich he was holding. Eventually, everyone settled in and the meeting began. Logan stayed silent, as he always did, but he ate rather than staring at the wall trying not to choose between drifting away or picturing every traumatizing story the group brought up in the name of verbalizing their demons. It wasn't as if he resented them for it. No, it was just the way in which he seemed to collect their ghosts alongside his own.
They dispersed an hour later, as usual, a little wearier in the face, but lighter at heart. Logan had eaten most of his sandwich by timing bites in the most lighthearted moments; it felt a bit wrong to be gnawing at the thing while people were recounting the worst days of their lives no matter how used to it he was.
And if he were better at being a patient he'd mention to his therapist— a woman who was the only person on Earth who'd heard the worst of the extent of his torture and childhood trauma and hadn't flinched once—the fact that listening to the tales often made him feel like he was back in the field, fighting for his life against the weight of their traumas. If he was a better brother he'd participate like David so desperately wanted. But Logan was neither and so he stayed seated while everyone made their closing remarks, milled about the space giving quiet reassurances and packing up the leftover food that had been sitting out over the past hour, then left the building to go sit in their own misery until the next week where they'd unpack it in front of everyone again.
Keegan moved out of his seat on the other side of the circle and replaced whoever had been sitting next to Logan, elbows braced on his knees, shoulders squared in the silence. David was still cleaning up in the background, the rustling of him mulling around and tidying a comfort outside of Logan's field of vision. Logan leaned to the side, reframing Keegan within his vision, the chair underneath him squeaking in protest; Keegan twisted in his seat at the sound, lowering his right arm so it wasn't blocking his vision and bracing his chin against his left.
He looked tired. The dark circles under his eyes were deeper than Logan had seen before, or maybe it was just the first time he had the clarity to notice. There was a distance to his eyes, not cold but certainly not all there, like a wall had gone up in the silent aftermath of the groups reckoning with their own struggles. Logan let his gaze drift across Keegan's face, a quiet act of memorization, before he let it drop. He knew that look; felt the distance of it in his own mind thousands of times. He lifted his hand ever so slightly, as if to speak, then hesitated. There was nothing that he could say. Instead, he reached back over to squeeze Keegan's forearm awkwardly before sitting back and folding his hands in his lap. "Thanks, kid." Keegan said quietly, his lips pressed together in a not-quite smile that didn't crease the corners of his eyes the way Logan so enjoyed.
David's approaching footsteps broke the bubble of their non-conversation. He stuck to Logan's right side, a force of habit leftover from the days when Logan spoke on occasion. An airstrike that had landed a little too close had taken out the majority of David's hearing in his right ear, and with how soft-spoken Logan had been David had to keep him on his left if he wanted any chance of hearing him. The brothers didn't really mention the fact that Logan had stopped speaking altogether; it was easier to be grateful for the fact that Logan was still alive rather than consider the things he had lost.
It was only when Logan looked up at him, his head turning away from Keegan to do so, that David placed his hand on Logan's shoulder. "You okay to head out in thirty? I've got some cleaning to wrap up, but I don't want to make you wait if you're ready to get home."
Logan was halfway through an apathetic shrug when Keegan spoke up. His voice was quieter than usual. "I can drive you."
When Logan turned back to Keegan, he hadn't moved a muscle, still considering Logan like David hadn't said a word. It felt right to nod in response, despite the regret that still stirred in him over the way he hadn't contacted him since Colorado, as if he were somehow taking from him by accepting the offer after not managing to keep up communication. "Okay." Keegan nodded back, sitting up with a slowness, like there was an ache in him he was navigating around as he reached for the keys to his truck and stood.
Logan rose to his feet, pushing the dull throb of his hip out of mind, and turned to David. There was a bit of shock on his face, but it was quickly amended in the moments of silence when Logan reached out to pat him on the shoulder; a clear mirroring as Logan tried to display affection in the way it was given to him, an absence of words not the absence of the warmth he held for his brother. David returned the gesture, "If you're alright with that. Text me when you get back to your place. And thanks, Strix."
Keegan gave David a firm nod, the cut of the corners of his mouth the mustering of polite acknowledgement that his heart clearly wasn't in; muscle memory pulled forth for the sake of a friend while the corner of his eye twitched.
Logan followed Keegan through the empty space of the meeting room and out into the fresh air. It was a relatively sunny day, the temperature giving them a break from a cold snap enough that Logan had only needed a decent sweater rather than a full jacket. The gravel of the parking lot crunched under their boots and for a second Logan was back in that Colorado winter snow, following Keegan down the main street of Durango like he was a lighthouse beacon in the middle of the dark sea and it was a little easier to breathe.
When they reached the truck Keegan tugged the passenger side door open, leaning against it with an arm propped over the top of the frame as Logan pulled himself up and in. The moment he was secure, Keegan shut it, careful not to let it slam, and patted the top of the truck before making his way around to the driver's side.
California traffic was its typical type of atrocious, but it never really seemed to register with Keegan; he sat with his left arm stretched out over the top of the steering wheel and his right elbow on the center console, head leaned back against the headrest, eyes on the road but not really seeing it. It was moments like that that made Logan reach for his voice even when he knew he'd find nothing. He thought of what David would do. Maybe bring up the latest TV show that was making its rounds in popularity or ask questions about Keegan's training business. Regardless, he always seemed to know what to say and Logan sat in the passengers seat saying nothing at all.
After spending a good chunk of the drive listening to the rage of others around them and the rattling of Keegan's truck, he finally spoke up. "You're burning a hole in the side of my skull." He glanced over at Logan as he flicked his turn signal on, easing the wheel to the right. The moment the truck was righted again and he pressed on the accelerator, he sighed. "Nothing to worry about."
They both knew that was bullshit and the knowledge hung in the air between them, heavy but not oppressive. There was a hesitance in the tensing of Keegan's arm before he committed to reaching across the console and patting Logan on the knee, that same stiff not-smile on his face. Reassurance that despite whatever was going on with him it wasn't of concern. So Logan sat back and finally took his eyes off him, turning to the cars around them; he knew what it was like to have people hover when he so desperately wanted to just move on with life and pretend the hollowness in him wasn't gnawing at his chest.
Honking blared out on either side of them, drivers taking offense to the mere existence of others on the road, one nearly swerving into the side of Keegan's truck. Logan glared over the back of Keegan's seat out the window, fucking idiot possessing his hands before he could bother to suppress it. Keegan's eyebrows shot up and a laugh choked out of him. Logan narrowed his eyes at him, but the mire in his eyes dissipated the second they met Keegan's. You learned 'fucking idiot?' Logan settled back into his seat.
Keegan grinned, "Hesh taught me all the swear words first."
Now that added up and Logan couldn't help but to roll his eyes. "It's good to know that traffic brings out the worst in you like it does the rest of us." Keegan chuckled, casting one more glance back at Logan, the light back in his eyes for the moment.
And that was a strike to the heart. Of course, Keegan had only said it in passing, like he really believed that cussing out an idiot in traffic was the worst of Logan, but there was a warmth to it that Logan wanted to hold onto like it could save him from the truth of what was really his worst.
When Keegan drove up to Logan's apartment building he moved to pull around to the front of the curb to drop Logan off. The moment the truck slowed Logan inhaled, trying not to pick at a loose thread on his sweater. Instead, Come up?
Keegan eased onto the brake and stopped to look at Logan; really, really look at Logan, not the glances they had been throwing back and forth since that morning. "Are you okay with that?" He asked.
Yes.
"Okay."
Logan guided him into his designated parking spot, the one that David had used during the most contentious part of his recovery that had remained empty ever since he'd been left to live on his own, by pointing. As Keegan fiddled with his dash and turned the truck off, Logan shot a text to David so he wouldn't worry, a simple city building emoji to let him know he had made it back to the apartment safely. He tucked his phone back in his pocket and opened the passenger door as Keegan moved to get out.
Both were feeling the ghosts of their battle scars, the metaphorical and the literal twinge of being stretched too thin, as they made their way up the stairs to Logan's door. Logan fumbled with his keys before they finally made it in the lock; the small, metal ghost trinket on his keyring that David had given him clanging against the door and his keys as they swayed. It caught Keegan's eye as it glinted in the light, but the door swung open before he could comment and Logan stepped inside, holding the door open to let Keegan in with his eyes cast to the floor.
He knew how cold the space was. Knew how it looked. A few blankets were thrown over the back of the couch and his pillow was still crumpled in the wedge of the seat cushions and arm rest. His mug had left a ring on the coffee table. There was a thin layer of dust on most of the surfaces, some dishes in the sink, the curtains drawn closed from his own paranoia. The door to his bedroom was shut tight and had been since David had left; he'd slept in there more than Logan had.
There were a few boxes of his things in the living room, but most had been left in his bedroom. When he'd been found and lifted back to the ICU in the States, David had had to close out his old apartment that he'd picked due to its idealistic viewpoint of the city as a reprieve for when he wasn't deployed, pack up his stuff and move it to the new apartment that was better located for David to be able to take care of him after his hospitalization. That in itself had been a shot to the heart, the fact that David had so much faith in is ability to recover despite the odds that he'd rented out the apartment for Logan in preparation for his return home. The act of love had been the only thing holding him within those walls, but he'd never mustered the strength to unpack and pretend to be human.
Logan lifted his eyes from the floor and watched Keegan absorb the stillness of his living room. He provided no commentary, no thoughts, just turned and watched Logan close the front door behind him. Coffee? Logan signed.
"Sure, if you don't mind. That'd be great."
He shuffled into the kitchen, Keegan following close behind. He stayed on the other side of the island as Logan walked around it to pull mugs from the cupboard and pour grounds into the machine. He'd owned the maker since his old place, but the stool Keegan pulled out and settled into, elbows on the counter and his spine curved into a hunch, was a purchase David had made, alleging that it would make the place more comfortable. Logan had hardly felt conscious in his own body when David had that conversation with him; he wasn't thinking about how comfortable his apartment felt, more preoccupied with trying to remember that he wasn't being held captive anymore.
Logan pulled grounds from the cabinet, lifting the top of the coffee maker to measure them out and deliver them to the filter— his movements were slow to compensate for the permanent way his hands shook. It was only once Logan had tucked a mug under the coffee maker and set it to brew that he turned back around to face Keegan.
He had propped himself up on the counter, much in the way he seemed to have been barely supporting his own body at the DC Support meeting, temple leaned against his pointer and middle finger, thumb supporting his chin with his elbow on the counter. He wasn't quite looking at Logan, letting his eye-line hover in his vicinity rather than stare, but he wasn't really there; there was a blankness to his expression that Logan knew all too well. Being on the other side of it was entirely different, though. The question of whether or not to speak up made the skin over his spine itch.
This wasn't entirely new. Keegan had gotten that look on his face many times before, often after meetings where things had gotten particularly heavy. It usually took just a few minutes for him to pull himself out before he was able to put that easygoing lightness back in his eyes and pretend he was coping with the weight of his own past better than the rest of them. Maybe that last part was a projection of Logan's own rose-tinted view of Keegan, though, the part of him that hoped if he wished hard enough that Keegan was above the mess that came to the surface in VA meetings, that somehow he wasn't as tainted by his time in the service like the rest of them. For his sake, more than anything; Logan would still be in awe of him either way.
It was evident that wasn't true, though, that he wasn't above it all. Logan didn't try to interrupt whatever was going on in Keegan's head while the coffee brewed, just let him muse over what he needed to, leaned with the base of his spine braced against the counter's edge. When the coffee machine sputtered to a stop, Logan turned and grasped the mug's handle carefully before taking the few steps to reach the opposite side of island and set the mug gently in front of Keegan.
Only with this did Keegan stir, blinking a few times as he looked up at Logan, then down at the steaming cup of coffee in front of him. There was a momentary pause as he processed, then a press of a flat row of fingertips to his chin before he moved his hand outward, a thank you in sign language done with an ease that sent something spinning in Logan's chest. He couldn't help the delight that sparked in his veins, an electric arc that jumped from neuron to neuron, warming his blood. Keegan's tension eased in the most minuscule fashion, "It's good to see you smile."
—
Delight on Logan would've been the subject of countless oil paintings if only he had been alive hundreds of years prior; hell, it should've been the subject of oil paintings at that very moment, but Keegan had never been very artistic and it would've taken one of the greats in order to capture Logan exactly as he was. Instead, Keegan would try to memorize the way he looked in that moment, his eyes still creased with the dregs of how pleased he still was, braced against the counter sipping at his own cup of coffee.
Sleep had been sparse over the last week. It'd always been a point of contention with him, evidence that no matter how much time he spent in therapy he would never be immune to the effects of his time served. It came back like a seasonal plague, leaving him heavy with the burden in ways he could never articulate to anyone around him.
When he had been in the depths of his own recovery, fighting against the destruction of his own typhoons, it had almost been easier. He'd been expected to falter. He had more bad days than good ones— no one was shocked by it. Now that the evidence of his devastation had been delegated to nearly-entirely internal—a silent drowning, not the thrashing and screaming battle against the waves he'd navigated for so long—everyone was a little more uncomfortable with the idea of him struggling. Like the problem should've been solved once and for all and the fact that Keegan was unfixable was far too wearisome to confront.
The coffee, he was sure, didn't help his sleep issue, but it procrastinated his confrontation of that particular battle and sometimes there was only so much he could handle at once. So he braced himself against Logan's countertop, forearm flat to the cool surface, and sipped at the cup hardly tasting it. He knew it was warm, though, like that look in Logan's eyes when Keegan had mustered up one of the few signs he knew as a gesture of gratitude. Seeing that had made him feel like he could still do something right. Logan shifted his mug onto the counter and broke the stalemate, How's your mom?
Keegan chuckled, dry, like he was out of practice in doing so, but trying regardless. "Good. She's good. I left Riley in Colorado to keep her company for the next little bit. She asks about you, y'know."
Logan tilted his head at this. Really?
"Yeah. I, uh… told her you were busy so I didn't have any news. But she'll be glad to hear we got a chance to catch up." He wasn't trying to make Logan feel guilty. He just wanted him to know that his absence was noticed; that he was missed. Wanted. "I'm glad we got a chance to catch up."
Catching up, to them, was sitting in silence with rare exceptions of updates they wanted to give the other. Sorry I disappeared, I… Logan's hand stilled over his chest as he tried to find the words.
"It's alright, Logan. I get it."
And he did. Intimately. Painfully. He had his own vanishing streak, the kind that emerged when the days grew shorter, the nights grew longer, and gray skies dulled his ability to think outside of surviving the next five minutes. There was no blame in his commentary, just a wisp of a message he couldn't say directly, the emotion of it stuck in his throat. An, "I notice when you're gone. I miss you."
At some point, the pair came to an unspoken agreement to move to the couch as the counter no longer provided any comfort. When Keegan crossed through he glanced toward the shuttered windows. Logan stilled beside him. I'll open them.
Keegan could've spoken up, could've said he didn't need to bother, but having himself so unbelievably closed off all the time couldn't have been good, and if Logan was willing to take that step on his behalf maybe it was better he didn't discourage him. Instead, he took a few steps to follow Logan. "This feels like a grand reveal. Do you have a view of the entire city out there you're setting up to brag about, or what?"
Logan shook his head in mock annoyance and Keegan tried hard to keep his attention from zeroing in on the curl that fell above his eyebrow. The shift of his own curtains was a sound Logan hadn't really heard before, or if he had the memory lived in the depths of the touch-and-go times David had been there, and he instantly discovered the sound of the grommets against the curtain pole was a thing he wasn't fond of. If he cringed, neither of them mentioned it. Instead, Keegan looked out the window.
The view was decent; a well-maintained lawn of the complex and the fields beyond it dotted with brush and trees, roads in the distance creating a light drone. There was a peace to the movement, the building just far enough that it didn't suck you in, but reminded you that there were other people out there living their lives and that had to count for something. David had situated him as far outside of the city he could get without it being terribly inconvenient to get to his plethora of doctor's appointments.
Keegan moved from the window after a prolonged glance, an attempt to memorize the view like picturing Logan seeing it could get him through the rougher days when they were apart between group meetings. He thought of a version of Logan a few years down the line where he could sit on that couch with the curtains open drinking coffee and not feel like he was risking something; a desire to be there when it happened curled in the pit of his stomach like a sleeping guard dog. He pushed it away as fast as it came over him and sank into the couch.
It was comfortable, plush and wide enough that he knew he didn't have to worry too much about Logan's back in the absence of his ability to sleep in a proper bed. He fought away the image of Logan curled into his side back in Colorado as soon as that crossed his mind, too, and cleared his throat.
They talked for longer than they had before at one time. Small talk about how Keegan's mother was doing turned into Colorado history and bits of Keegan's childhood, which led to Logan actually giving an anecdote of his own childhood, carefully chosen moments of the few and far-between bits of lightheartedness— he framed their bouts in the woods as adventures of two ruffian kids rather than Elias' conscious acts of neglect treated like a life lesson. The hesitance in Keegan's reactions, the way his eyes nearly narrowed and the microscopic seconds in which his jaw twitched might've given away that he didn't quite believe Logan was telling the whole story, but he let him get away with it; he would never take for granted that Logan was giving him a piece of himself in that moment, even if it acted as a mirror maze Keegan would have to navigate to figure out what he was actually handing over.
The hours crept forward. At one point, Logan got up to turn up the thermostat; he kept his place chilly as a side effect of his own neurosis, a grounding comfort and a self-torture, and though Keegan didn't say a word Logan watched him fold in on himself as time went on as the chill set in. Another bit later, Keegan got up to use the bathroom, and didn't comment when he returned on the obvious fact that there had been a mirror above the sink, at one point ripped off and disposed of if the absence of paint and uniform holes in the drywall from the supports were anything to go by.
Once night set in they were both struggling to keep up with the thin veil facade that they were both functioning people. Logan's eyes darted around a bit more, Keegan's speech slowed more with every passing half-hour, but it was nice to pretend that they were keeping up the illusion like it was a bit they were both in on rather than a fruitless delusion.
Shouting from outside halted their already stilted back-and-forth. There was no darting of Logan's eyes anymore; they were firmly locked on the window and its curtains that hadn't been shut yet. Keegan looked at him, then the window, then back at him. "Do you want me to shut the curtains?" He asked, voice low to avoid breaking whatever fragile grasp on the current moment Logan had still.
But that grasp had already broken. Logan's muscles coiled with tension as he straightened on the couch, gaze now beyond the window and instead looking into something else entirely. "Logan?"
It wasn't sign language that Logan used next, but hand signals that Keegan had last seen years ago when he was still enlisted. A command to stay low and stay still. The motion gave Keegan pause for more reasons than just the way Logan had slipped back into his military days. He listened anyway, though much more casually than he was sure Logan would've preferred if he were conscious enough to register that Keegan had merely slouched down on the couch a bit and was watching him carefully.
Logan approached the window with a smooth ease, not quite so guarded as if he were in the depths of his memory; if he had sidled up to the window using the wall as a cover Keegan would've felt immediately cause for concern. Instead, he moved with silent footsteps and a tension threat assessment called for. He looked out the window for quite a while, the argument on street level not dissipating under his observation, though eventually he let out a heavy breath and drew the curtains close and began walking back.
He had almost made it back to his side of the couch to settle in when someone slammed a car door just below the window in the parking lot. Logan's turn was immediate; the squaring of his shoulders, the alertness in his eyes deadly serious in a way that Keegan had never seen before. His steps were methodical as he moved backwards, body positioned so he was directly between Keegan and the outside world, narrowed eyes still focused on the scene outside like he were preparing to react at a moment's notice. It was only until a few minutes of uneventfulness passed that Logan crossed the room and checked that the lock on the front door was secured.
When he returned Keegan still didn't quite recognize him. This was someone else, some other version of him, but one that was wanted all the same. The neutral vacancy in his expression left Keegan uneasy, though, and so he did what seemed to work for Logan; he began to talk even though it felt like the words would drag razor blades up his throat as they came out.
And he continued to speak; he talked Logan through the most mundane memories from Durango and how his mom got into fiber arts after he moved back home and anything that had nothing to do with the military. He watched Logan sink down on the couch, watched his muscles loosen again, watched him settle into the corner and his eyes begin to drift closed no matter how hard he fought it. And when Logan fell asleep, Keegan hardly dared to move a muscle. That night, Keegan may not have slept, but Logan did and to him that was what counted.
TW: PTSD from torture, rehabilitation (physical & mental), mute Logan, past child abuse (walker brothers)
The only light in the room emanated from the stove’s overhead light, a warm and dull yellow that barely reached outside of the kitchen. The radiator hummed quietly as it did its best to put a dent in the chill that had taken root in the air. Other than that white noise and the occasional passing car outside, the house was silent.
Logan laid stiff on the couch in the Russ family living room, arms flat at his sides under the quilt he’d been provided as he stared up at the ceiling, the pillow that had been given alongside it discarded on the floor. Remnants of his time in the service had left him unused to the comforts of a home. Adjusting to it all over again was more painful than pushing it away, and so he’d chosen to forego anything that eased his rest despite the promise of a crick in his neck in the morning due to the awkward angle his head was at. That, at least, would be familiar.
He recalled how Keegan had hesitated in the doorway before retreating to his own room, having asked at least a million times if Logan needed anything else for the night and only receiving the shake of a head in response. It’d been a long time since someone had been so concerned for his comfort, but it seemed second nature for Keegan to consider him, like it followed his every inhale and exhale. The moment Keegan had disappeared from sight Logan had withdrawn under the quilt and settled in to listen to him get ready for the evening.
The floorboards creaked as Keegan moved into the hall bathroom; the combination of the white noise of the shower running and the knowledge that he was around, that he was safe with the other man conscious, had almost lulled Logan to sleep. Then, the water had turned off and eventually Keegan had retreated to his own room and Logan was left wide awake again. He wasn’t sure how many hours had passed, but it had been at least a few. The quilt was plenty warm, luckily, but the chill he was feeling had started deep in his chest and begun emanating out as he’d ruminated on everything that had occurred earlier in the day.
It was David’s fault that he’d ended up there, really. His brother had gained a noble streak after leaving the service and started a support group for veterans that he, alongside Logan’s mandated therapist, had insisted he join. Logan felt more like an ornament than a member; he spent more time fighting the urge to wholly disconnect mentally and drift somewhere else during the meetings than he did actively listening. Keegan had joined a few months after, bringing a dog with him; he trained service dogs to support veterans and his membership with the group was partially for his own support, but also an agreement with David to better train the dogs. A win-win, according to the pair of them.
In Logan’s eyes, it wasn’t anything he’d done that had earned the way Keegan treated him like a real member of the group and not just a silent spectator. At first it was just polite attempts at small talk. He could only assume that David had briefed Keegan on the fact that he didn’t speak eventually, as those attempts turned to quiet commentary with no response expected. Keegan offered up anecdotes about his time in the service, the lighthearted things that most of their group members felt were safe to share in the beginning, then moments from his childhood. Tidbits of safety that Logan could borrow, anecdotes of baking in the kitchen and sunlight filtering through the trees and windowpanes, for when he felt unsafe. Then, Keegan had begun learning sign language. It was mostly him stumbling through finger-spelling, but it was still something. And it meant more than Logan could ever bear to think about for longer than a few moments lest his chest begin to ache like it did as he laid on that couch.
Neither of the brothers went home for the holidays, not anymore. The obligation they had once felt deep in their bones, that family was something you remained loyal to no matter what, had died slowly while they’d each been in the service. The opportunity of excuses had given them an escape route until they no longer felt the need to drum up some obligation to get them out of going home. The moment Logan was given a medical discharge their father had fallen to the wayside; David had been so focused on Logan’s hospitalization and what life after service might look like for him that it had been two weeks before he’d realized that despite being informed of what had happened to Logan, Elias had never contacted either of them. Months later he’d called to ask if David had any intention of getting in contact with a buddy who’d wanted to sponsor one of their meetings. Mentions of Logan had been regulated to the last seconds of the call; a brief, “Is he walking yet?” David had hung up without another word.
With David’s own familial obligations–a new wife and a baby on the way–and Logan’s unexpected spike of restlessness, discussions of the holidays had been laced with an underlying tension. Logan tried not to acknowledge the distance he felt so viscerally internally, the way he couldn’t help but assume that David was exhausted from the weight of Logan since his hospitalization; the miracle of narrow survival being eclipsed by the constant night terrors, PT routines, what his therapist had labeled acute PTSD, and the shift of his mutism from selective in the way that he used to have quiet conversations in privacy with David with occasional one-word responses to others to selective in the way that he knew his therapist and David were simply leaving room for the hope that he’d speak again one day.
Keegan had been around when David had broached the topic in passing, asking Logan if he’d decided whether or not he wanted to join himself and Casey–his wife–for the season. Logan had made his mild resistance known the first time it’d come up a month before; not resentment for David and Casey’s home, but for the holidays themselves. The back half of the year had been spoiled by memories of their childhood, spending Thanksgiving running training courses that Elias had built and Christmas in the snowy woods with no supplies but their wits and each other. Surviving. The only time they saw holiday lights were on their walk to and from school through neighborhoods with families much happier than their own, Christmas trees through windows with the curtains left open. No, Logan wasn’t very fond of the holiday season.
Keegan had inserted himself in the conversation gently, casually, by mentioning that he and his mother didn’t really do the holidays, but he was headed back to Colorado and they were always glad for another body in the home. He hadn’t even looked up from the cup of coffee he was stirring far too much powdered creamer into, the look on his face a grimace at the way it clumped together to form an unappetizing island in the center of his disposable cup. David had paused, but Logan could tell he loved the idea just by the way he inhaled, his head tilting slightly. And that itch under Logan’s skin, the desire for change despite the way he’d clung to routine since he’d been discharged from the hospital, had compelled him to agree a week later.
The drive had been quiet, predictably so. Keegan never pushed. He left the radio quiet, droning in the background; sometimes he hummed along, but most of the time he just tapped the steering wheel, always slightly off-beat. His truck was large enough to tolerate the Colorado winter, but older than Logan had been expecting– an early 2000s Chevy that was so classically American that Logan could picture Elias driving it when they were kids and the thought made his stomach turn.
Throughout the drive Keegan had scattered in comments about what Logan could expect of the trip and his childhood home, soft comments like, “My mom likes to fuss, but if you need her to back off, she’ll listen. She’s good like that,” and “The neighborhoods quiet, we’re far enough away from other houses that you can sit in the yard if you’d like,” and “Riley is pretty well trained, so if he wants to play and you don’t, just give him the down command.”
Logan had appreciated it, nodding along from the passenger seat and filing away the information for later. The mundanity of seeing the same apartment walls for the last half-year meant that seeing the scenery driving through back to Durango rendered him contentedly stunned. Being in the Delta meant getting scattered across the world at random times; Logan had seen some of the most beautiful places anyone could witness, but doing so under gunfire meant he hadn’t really cared where he was at the time, just how close evac was and if their mission was successful.
The drive out of California was the first bump in the road they’d experienced; a car speeding past had backfired as it’d sped down the highway, out of sight before either of them had even recognized what the source of the noise had been. Logan had seen Keegan’s grip on the steering wheel tighten as he’d cast a glance towards Logan’s crumpled form in the passenger seat. After he flinched he hadn’t moved a muscle, simply continued to stare out the windshield to watch cars go by. Internally, he was in the heat haze of the desert, gunfire in the background as he and his team crept across the sands. He couldn’t quite remember the objective, but he knew it was important and he knew what direction he was going. He stayed in those sands until Keegan spoke again a few hours later, “Getting hungry yet?”
Logan blinked and the setting sun came into focus. He looked at Keegan, then shook his head. They’d stopped for lunch around noon and he still didn’t have much of an appetite anymore. Keegan didn’t question him like David would’ve. “Okay, let me know when that changes. I’m not feeling it yet, either, so it’ll probably be an hour or two before I think about stopping, myself.”
They fell into silence again.
Arrival at the Russ family home had been in that hardly-lucid time period between the middle of the night and the wee hours of the morning. All was silent on the outskirts of town, the crunching of snow under the truck’s tires only accompanied by the distant hoot of owls as they rolled up to the front of the house.
It was small and warm-looking, from what Logan could tell. Two chairs on the porch, so they didn’t often have much company. The garden was a bit overgrown, a few shingles on the roof needing repair, like Keegan was the only one who did handiwork and he hadn’t been around for a bit. The ripple on the edges of his vision joined the weight of his bones to signal exhaustion; he pressed his eyes shut to push it away for just a few moments— the whistling of a bomb overhead shot through his ears just as fast. He inhaled, then exhaled. Just as he’d been taught a million times before. He opened his eyes.
Keegan was looking at him carefully, a consideration without wariness. He didn’t bother to ask if he was alright. He already knew the answer and had accepted it just as readily. Despite the fact that they were parked and both exhausted, Logan didn’t move. He needed a minute. Just a minute. Keegan scanned him one more time before he let his hand fall from the wheel, relaxing back into the driver's seat as he turned back to face the house. The radio was still playing in the background when Logan mustered the energy to lift his hands. Homey. He finger-spelled.
With how new Keegan was to ASL Logan mostly stuck to finger-spelling. He snuck in new signs on occasion when the context was right, adding puzzle pieces to Keegan’s vocabulary gradually. Keegan’s responding laugh was breathy, low and warm in a way that contrasted so sharply to the cold deep-autumn air outside. “That a good thing?” He asked.
Logan nodded.
“Then good. I’m glad.”
Logan reached over to unlock the passenger door, signaling that he was ready to leave the truck. Keegan followed suit.
The move into the house was one done with much struggle to stay quiet alongside much failure. Between their luggage and the way Riley had begun to weave between their legs, sniffing at their clothes and everything they’d brought into the house, they were practically falling over each other as they moved through the doorway, trying to track in as little snow as possible. They’d just managed to get the door shut and seal the cold outside when Keegan’s mother had emerged from the back of the house.
She looked tiny, wrapped in a fluffy robe and blinking against the soft yellow of the kitchen’s range light. Her hair was dark, like Keegan’s, a jaw-splitting yawn causing a tremor to run through her body. “Y’two make it in alright?” She asked.
“Yeah, mom, we’re good. Just got in. I’ll get us settled, you go back to bed. We can do introductions in the morning.” Keegan crossed the room to drop a kiss on the top of her head.
“Alright. Make sure you give him plenty of blankets,” She turned to Logan briefly, her eyes warm despite the bleariness, “Welcome to Colorado, Logan.”
His eyes flitted between Keegan and his mother. This was one of those times where he wanted to respond, the words clogging his throat and choking out his desire to not seem ungrateful for the fact that she’d opened her home to him. He pressed his fingertips into his palms and settled on an awkward smile and polite nod, but she took no offense if her smile was anything to go by. “Blankets, K. I mean it. Goodnight.” She patted Keegan on the arm before retreating back into her room.
The dim lighting was a filter that cast a fog of unreality onto the room, the glow of an air softer than what Logan was used to. The lights in his own apartment often remained off, the potential for them to remind him of the harsh hospital lighting he'd lived under like a spotlight too much of a risk in Logan's mind. That warmth over the stove was another comfort Logan had a hard time acknowledging.
Keegan cast Logan an apologetic smile for the introduction to his mother and separated out their luggage. “I’ll go throw my stuff in my room and grab you some bedding. You can change in the bathroom—can’t imagine you want to sleep in jeans.”
With that, Keegan did an awkward shuffle down the dark hallway, trying not to bang his luggage against himself or the walls as he moved. Logan was left staring after him, as if he’d sucked all that warm light out of the space as he left. His joints were stiff as he leaned over to grab his own overnight bag—which was essentially a more luxurious version of the go-bag he’d kept when he was still part of the Delta. The sound of his own footsteps bothered him as he trekked toward the bathroom, the first door on the right in the hallway. Before his discharge, he would’ve been deathly silent as he walked despite the heavy boots he often wore. Now, his limbs never quite cooperated with him, no matter how much he longed to get that easy embodiment of himself back. Previous versions of himself, ones that no one would ever see again, haunted the space between his steps.
"Broken ribs, a punctured lung, dislocated vertebrate, his right femur is broken and his left leg is practically shattered... burns, lacerations, six surgeries so far– to be completely transparent with you, Mr. Walker, I don’t know how your brother’s alive."
There was a dilemma the moment he found himself in that unfamiliar bathroom. The need for spacial awareness told him to turn the light on, but he found any sort of overhead lighting often sent his mind spinning back into that space where he was strapped down to a stiff bed surrounded by beeping machines, breathing through a tube and fighting sedation. The former won out. He grimaced as he flipped the light on and shut the door behind him, turning the knob so as to avoid the click of it settling into place, twisting to engage the lock. First, he checked for a window– small, frosted, just to the left of the sink–, then the shower–no lurking strangers to be found. He was satisfied with this. He turned the light back off.
It was easier that way, to avoid his own reflection. Catching glimpses of the way he looked now, the wreckage of his appearance evidence of what had been done to him, was another item on the long list of things that often sent him spiraling. His visage was a vague concept that lived in the foggiest of his memories; a crooked nose, blonde lashes, a gnarled scar running down the side of his face that would be healing for years to come. Somewhere in the distance he felt as if the last time he’d seen his own face he’d had a panic attack, but he wasn’t sure if that had been real or not. Images of David holding him on the bathroom floor, the shower water running in the background, his own screams in his ears flashed through his mind as he pulled one leg through the fabric of his pajama pants. His balance waned and he gripped the edge of the sink, the porcelain cold against his skin. Then, he pulled the other through.
Logan didn’t sleep much that night, but that was a breath of familiarity in the unfamiliar space. In the hour just before sunrise, Riley crept out of Keegan’s room and approached the couch; Logan hadn’t shifted a muscle since he’d first laid down. After a moment of huffing, ears at attention as the German shepherd stared him down, Riley rested his muzzle on the edge of the couch cushion just next to Logan’s elbow, blinking up at him. Carefully, slowly, Logan shifted and brushed the pad of his thumb against the soft, fawn-down fur between Riley’s eyebrows. At this, the dog sighed and dropped his haunches to sit next to the couch, the quiet thumping of his tail against the hardwood breaking the silence.
Logan could feel the weight under his eyes, the heaviness in his limbs that was his body begging him for sleep, the kind he hadn’t gotten in years. Instead, he rotated carefully so he was facing Riley, ignoring the aches that had settled in his hips and knees and the shooting pain that radiated down his back. Sometimes Logan spent so long with his mind in another place his body paid the price; a lack of movement in awkward positions held far too long, paralysis from the irrational fear that if he moved he would be discovered by the things that plagued his mind, the remnants of the torture he endured coming back as ghosts to drag him back into that place.
But there had been no dogs in that place, no softness, no warmth, no big brown eyes blinking up at him as if he held the answers to what trust could be. Riley's soft breaths against the slightly chilled skin of his palm kept him grounded, his soft huffing likely a result of the fact that Logan hadn't moved to get him breakfast. If Riley had emerged, however, it was highly likely that Keegan wouldn't be long after, and just as the thought entered Logan's mind there was a creaking down the hall, a loose floorboard giving Keegan away no matter how quiet he tried to be.
When Logan looked up Keegan was lingering in the doorway. His hair was scattered across his face, eyelids heavy with the remnants of sleep. He took a deep breath, as if summoning what energy he had, to speak. "Sleep alright?" He asked, the gravel in his voice undoubtedly a dragging weight left behind by their late night drive.
Riley's ears twitched backwards, but his attention remained fixated on the man in front of him. Logan lifted his hand from Riley's muzzle and shook it back and forth, a so-so gesture that Keegan saw right through judging by the way he squinted further, but he didn't comment. He snapped his fingers once to catch Riley's attention; the pup whirled around, ears up and eyes bright at the prospect of his breakfast. Logan's eyes followed Keegan's silhouette as he crossed the living room to the kitchen, Riley's nails clicking against the floors as he followed close behind. That same warmth flooded through his veins, the overwhelming need to sleep while the coast was clear; there was someone on guard and for once he was safe.
Logan hadn't ever brought it up before, not to Keegan. It felt like if he verbalized that, the way sleep danced just out of his grasp like wisps of smoke, he was turning those distant memories of curling up on the cold tile of the bathroom floor with his head in David's lap, his brother reassuring him that he could sleep because he was on watch, into a concrete reality. Like his weakness would somehow be reaffirmed, the baring of his soul and the source of his sleeplessness would finally swallow him whole the way it so often threatened to do.
He had spent many days and nights like that, though. Aches settled in his joints and didn't leave for months at a time. When he'd been discharged from the hospital and returned to his apartment sleeping in a bed had felt intrinsically wrong, like if he fell asleep comfortable he'd wake up with that tube down his throat again, restraints cutting into his wrists. David would attempt to set him up in his room, remind him that he deserved to be comfortable, that it would just take time. If Logan ever managed to get to sleep he'd wake up screaming, the kind of guttural screams that resulted in the cops being called for fear that someone had died, but it was just him and the overwhelming burden of survival like a weight around his ankle. Sometimes he awoke so afraid of David that he'd retreat into the depths of his own closet, arms around his shins, cornered and shaking and so full of disbelief that David wasn't there to hurt him. Other times he awoke on the defense; hands around David's throat or throwing punches fueled by a voice in his subconscious that told him to break something before he could be broken again.
Logan wasn't sure when it'd started, wasn't even positive he was fully aware of himself the first couple times it happened. He began crawling out of bed before the thick fear of sleep could pull him under and retreat to the cold tile of the bathroom floor, curling in on himself, the discomfort a familiarity much more preferable to the soft blankets and airy feather pillows that David had built up his bed with in preparation for his release from the hospital. Something had broken in David the first time he'd found Logan like that; Logan had watched it shatter in him, driving shards into the softness he held for his little brother, from his vantage point on the floor through the haze of exhaustion that clouded his vision. But for the first time since he'd been found, Logan slept for longer than a handful of minutes at a time.
So David sat on the floor next to him, spine curving away from the wall in discomfort as he watched over Logan. It was a torturous ritual every night, one that lasted months, but it was the only way Logan could sleep. Eventually he graduated to tolerating a blanket over him, then a pillow under his head. He stopped waking so disoriented. David got him a bed roll. Then, he began sleeping on the couch. He still couldn't quite tolerate his bed every night; if he awoke flat on his back he'd be reckoning with the trauma it stirred for days afterward, but it was progress.
Logan wasn't quite sure how much of that David had told Keegan, wasn't positive if the way Keegan saw through his sleeplessness was due to conversations with his older brother or his own intuition that seemed innately tuned into the things that wracked Logan's actuality. Logan wasn't so disconnected that he didn't realize Keegan was reckoning with his own weights, that his leaving the service and the occasional distant look in his eye had its own source, but they didn't talk much about the things that kept them up at night. Perhaps they both enjoyed the illusion that they were people outside of the things that had happened to them, that there was conversation and common ground to be had outside of Keegan's habitual emotional apathy and the haunted look in Logan's eyes.
So when Keegan emerged from the kitchen with a cup of coffee, Riley now absent from his side due to the sound of kibble pouring that had occurred moments earlier, and settled in a recliner nearby silently, Logan was only half surprised. That knowing wasn't unusual for Keegan, but it still took Logan aback that the kindness that sprouted from it was directed at him. Somehow, Keegan had decided that Logan was deserving of mercy, and it knocked the breath out of him. He didn't say a word as he settled in, just sipped at his coffee and stared straight ahead to the opposite wall. Logan fell asleep to the sound of Keegan's breathing and the thick scent of coffee drifting through the air.
Logan wasn't sure how many broken bones he had, what gouges had been carved into him or by who. He'd lost count. The biting cold of the cell he was in had only served to further disorient him. He was sure there was water in his lungs, that the last time he'd been waterboarded was going to be the reason he'd finally die, but he wasn't opposed to the idea. He'd done what he was supposed to. Held out against inhumanity. Served his country. Perhaps if he died in that cellar, surrounded by his own blood and the smell of mildew, his father would finally be proud. Maybe he'd be free from the disapproving stares, the push to always do more. Maybe, if his father spoke at his funeral, he'd omit Logan's failures and shed a tear. Or, perhaps, if his body were somehow recovered against all odds and the man discovered that he'd succumbed to pneumonia rather than blood loss, he would accuse Logan of being weak-willed at his grave. Maybe his resistance would never matter at all.
"Come on, Logan. If we keep up the pace we can make it by the time it gets dark."
Christmas day had rolled around faster than Logan could've anticipated; it felt like his middle school had just let out days prior. But no. Any amount of relief from academics was swiftly followed by Elias' usual tests. He'd driven the boys out into the snowy woods that morning, before dawn, and dropped them off. Said he'd see them in a week and left without another thought. They'd gotten smart over the years, though. Slept in their warmest clothes when it got close to that time of the year, tucked blades in their waistbands, matches in their socks, and wire in undershirt pockets. Their determination to survive and the game of outsmarting their father had become law for them.
It made the exercise no less exhausting, however. It'd snowed more than usual that year and Logan was smaller; he had to fight harder to make it through the powder that piled up to his knees. Internally, he cursed the fact that it had waited til that exact night to dump another foot of snow across their small town. David had taken the lead, as he always did, to get them back to the same clearing they set up shelter in every time. It was a home away from home, their own little vacation far away from their father, and David was the fearless leader that knew the way every time. They'd buried tarps they'd found a few years ago that now were uncovered annually to assemble their shelter. The boys would set up, re-engage old traps, and start a fire. It was like their own holiday tradition.
"David seems to be much more into the holiday spirit this year." Keegan commented, his breath forming a fog that drifted out of sight as they walked.
The neighborhood was quaint, the road lined with one-story homes imbued with character that told infinite stories of the people who lived there; children's toys in front yards, twinkling lights lining porches and footprints in the fallen snow. It was quiet out and when Keegan spoke it was low in his chest so as to not disturb the peace. Wife, Logan spelled, his fingers stiff from the cold.
Ever since he'd gotten married, David had gotten more willing to indulge. It suited him, Logan thought, to be softer around the edges with someone who saw the depths of him and joyfully dove in headfirst. Keegan hummed in acknowledgement, squinting up at the sky to judge the possibility of more snow. The quiet was a change of pace Logan would have to get used to, a stark contrast to the constant traffic outside of his apartment. Neither was particularly advantageous or offensive, they simply were. "I'm glad he has someone." Keegan finally said.
Me too.
The conversation dropped from there as they continued walking. Logan was bundled in one of Keegan's coats, his own that he had brought more suited for the California winters much to Keegan's chagrin, fully zipped into it to fight off the bite of cold. On the rare occasion one of the Russ' neighbors were in the yard they'd lift their head at the pairs crunching footsteps and give a polite wave. Keegan would respond in kind and Logan would continue, either unnoticing or uncaring.
Snow began to fall, lightly drifting through the breeze. Keegan fumbled in his own jacket pocket, withdrawing his hand with a lighter and a pack of cigarettes in his palm. With the smoothness that only muscle memory could provide, he tapped out a cigarette and was quick to light it. Despite Logan never taking a liking to it, the smell of smoke was incredibly familiar—it seemed everyone in the armed forces picked it up at one point or another and the odor had become a sort of theme to his time served. Familiar. Comforting, even. "Not a smoker?" Keegan asked.
Logan shook his head.
"An anomaly, then. Or were the budget cuts to the Delta so bad they couldn't get you guys cigarettes?"
The lighthearted glare Logan cast him sparked a through-line of satisfaction to the suppressed crooked smile on Keegan's face. Not a fan. Logan responded.
"Yeah. Me neither." Keegan blew out a puff of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold.
Keegan switched his cigarette from his left hand to the right, shoving his now-free hand into the pocket of his coat to try to fight off the persistent chill. Logan slowed his steps and turned, holding out his own hand, staring insistently at Keegan's left. Slowly, curious and a bit confused, Keegan withdrew his hand and held it out for Logan to take between his own two. While Keegan puffed on his cigarette, Logan blew hot air onto Keegan's hand to try to thaw it, persistently ignoring the way Keegan stared down at him. After a moment, Keegan flexed his fingers, having found relief from the chill that was making his joints stiff. When Logan finally looked up at him, he was watching him with an unreadable expression, a soft upward tilt to his eyebrows. "Thanks."
Logan gave a brisk nod and turned to continue walking, his own hands shoved deep into the pockets of the coat Keegan had given him. "When I was a kid my best friend and I would have competitions of how long one of us could stick our bare hands into the snow, like somehow being dumbasses would prove we were tough."
Logan snorted at that. David licked a light pole when he was eight.
The burst of Keegan's laughter bloomed a staticky joy in Logan's chest, like he had done something right; he felt like a hunting dog in the woods, longing to chase that feeling over and over again. "Did he really?"
Logan nodded. Elias was furious. Had to call the fire department.
"Ah, classic Hesh. I'm holding that one over his head until the end of time."
He had omitted the part where Elias had made David sleep outside when it was below freezing as a punishment, "since he liked the cold so much." Didn't mention the fact that he had crawled out of his bedroom window in the dead of night to check on his brother, the solidarity between them far too strong for Logan to want to sleep somewhere by himself, even if that meant leaving the warmth of the house to curl up in the shed outdoors with his brother. Couldn't find the words to spell out how when Elias found them the next morning and realized just how deep Logan's loyalties ran to his brother rather than his father, he'd beaten them both. Those truths stayed buried in the backyard of the Walker household back in California, now only occupied by the alleged patriarch.
Their return was done quietly, a re-emergence into the warmth of the Russ household that felt like taking refuge. Keegan's mother was busying herself in the kitchen; she'd insisted on making them breakfast to "get some meat on Logan's bones," and Keegan had suggested they take a walk to give her plenty of space— he didn't acknowledge aloud that the banging of pots had the potential to set off Logan's habitual mental disappearing act, that it had been his own greatest enemy when he himself had returned home from the Marine Corps. Keegan reached to help Logan out of his coat without another thought, steadfast but silent in his consideration for the man. "Alright?" He asked, a check-in that had become instinct with how often Logan's mind drifted.
Logan nodded once, shifting to allow Keegan to pull the coat from his arms carefully. Keegan lingered over Logan's shoulder, scanning his face, and if his hand lingered on Logan's elbow neither of them commented. Logan reached down as Riley passed by to brush his fingertips over the dogs ears. He turned to nose at Logan's pant leg, investigating any new scents that may have clung to him on their walk. Whatever he found wasn't interesting enough to stick around for, apparently, because the dog bounded off into the kitchen, tail wagging at the prospect of being thrown scraps. "I'll start a fire," Keegan commented, "That way you don't have to keep my hands warm forever." He joked.
Logan flexed his hand, biting back the urge to spell out, I don't mind.
Breakfast with Keegan and his mother was a delightful thing for Logan to observe, his eyes bouncing back and forth between the two as they conversed. Keegan and his mother bantered as if it were second nature, the teasing shooting discomfort up his spine until he realized they were joking with each other, close in a manner akin to him and David. Never had a meal been so entertaining to him— every meal at the Walker home had been done in complete silence so as to not bother Elias after work. Once the boys had become teenagers, Elias didn't even bother insisting on the structure of family dinners. He ate at the table and the boys ate in the kitchen at the island, still in silence. Russ breakfasts, apparently, couldn't be further from that reality. "You boys should go see the markets before they close! They're quite charming and downtown is so lovely this time of year." Keegan's mother suggested.
Keegan's eyes darted to Logan for just a brief moment and he knew immediately what Keegan was thinking. Crowds. Loud fanfare. A public setting with little room to duck away and get a break from it all. Dangerous territory for Logan. "We'll see." Keegan commented noncommittally.
"Logan, honey, is there anything in particular you want to see while you're here?"
His mind was blank. If it were up to him, he would've been content to sit and stare at the fire the entire seven days of their trip. Not sure, he signed before busying himself cutting up waffles. Keegan verbalized his reply. "Completely understandable considering how last-minute the trip was. If you need any suggestions, I'm happy to help, but I'm sure Kay has you two covered." Keegan's mother beamed.
"Thanks, mom."
The conversation drifted into topics like what Keegan's high school buddies were up to, tourists clogging up traffic for ski season, and developments popping up around town. Logan tried to commit the way the overhead lights in the small dining space cast a glow against Keegan's face to memory. There was a weightlessness in his eyes that being home seemed to bring out far more than California, that intense sun just slightly too harsh in comparison. His mother told stories about her work, a hotel manager for one of the ski resorts, and Logan listened intently to her words but paid rapt attention to Keegan's expressions when he asked his mother clarifying questions. At one point he caught Logan's eye and his brows creased for just a second, a silent alright? Logan gave a hardly discernible nod. Yes.
"You know, Riley was in with me towards the end of my deployment. They let me bring him home because it was about time for him to retire, too. If you want, he can keep guard for you at night while you sleep." Logan's immediate inclination was to reassure Keegan that he was fine, that it was unnecessary, not worth fussing over, but Keegan cut in before he could. "He still does it out of habit for me sometimes. You deserve to rest, Logan, and I think he'd appreciate the task. He doesn't do well not being occupied. Takes after me, I guess."
He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders where he was curled up in the corner of the couch. Keegan's mom had already gone to bed, bidding them goodnight with reassurances that if Logan ever needed anything he could wake her and ask. She seemed worried about him in that quiet way that Keegan had apparently inherited, warmth in her eyes but a crease in her mouth that wanted to give way to a light frown. Logan would carry the weight of an internal concern that he'd inconvenienced her by sparking that worry back to California with him. Fire flickering across the room, Keegan's eyes were trained on Logan, searching in the quiet. What for, Logan wasn't quite sure. He lifted a hand. Okay. The tension in Keegan's shoulders eased a bit. "Okay. Good." Keegan said softly.
The hour crept later as they spent intermittent periods in silence or with Keegan explaining tidbits about Durango, growing up in a town that saw so much movement, fond memories of the holidays, summers spent exploring and evenings returning home to chatter endlessly about his day to his mother. Silence stretched on before Keegan finally pulled himself out of the armchair, placed a glass of water on the coffee table for Logan, then gave a gentle gesture to Riley toward Logan and said, "Guard."
Riley circled in front of the couch and laid down, a fluffy imitation of a sphinx with his back to Logan. "If you need anything…"
All Logan could do is nod as if he believed he had any right to ask that of him, to intrude in the way of disrupting Keegan's sleep, to ask for the undeserved mercy of his company amidst the terrors that night often brought out in him. Instead, he collapsed sideways into the cushions and curled into himself, drawing the blanket that had been draped over the back of the couch over his body as he went. Riley didn't budge, just watched as Keegan drew in a breath, then thought better of whatever he was about to say, tapped the door frame as farewell and disappeared down the hall.
Logan turned onto his stomach and draped an arm over the edge of the couch, resting his hand against the dog's back. The quiet was almost peaceful.
By Logan's best estimation it had been a few weeks since he had been captured. Everything had been falling apart from the start; bad intel, new recruits and inadequate supplies meant Logan knew something was going to go wrong, it was just a matter of time. His silent guidance of his team had always been a blessing, though not without it's flaws. It required team members to be ready and attuned to his every move to the duration of their missions. The higher baseline of attentiveness meant every one of them was overall faster to react and more observant. Until a few slipped through the cracks and made him an unwilling sacrifice.
He remembered landing a few lucky shots on his captures, a handful losing their lives in the fight to bring him in. At least he had that to hang onto. The setup had been deliberate, a psychological tactic he had been prepared for many times over in his ascension of the armed forces and final settling into the Delta Force. Tools had been laid in front of him on a surgical cart, placed slowly to encourage his eye line following each and every object that would soon become intimately familiar with his skin.
"I was thinking if you wanted to try going into town we could make an attempt. If it doesn't work out that's completely fine," Keegan paused and scratched the back of his neck, not making eye contact. The pressure he placed upon himself to make sure Logan was comfortable, that he wasn't pushing him beyond his limits, was making articulation difficult. "I just… want to make sure you enjoy your time here." He shrugged.
Logan looked him over, taking in the way the snow reflected light onto his face, the way his appearance was so unguarded now that he was home, the self-assuredness that had come from a history of military authority melting away to show who Keegan might've been before he was forced to make decisions while holding countless lives in the palms of his hands. Thanks LT, Logan signed, making a poor attempt to hide the twitch upward of his lips, a hint of smugness that was so unlike Logan nearly making it into his expression. Keegan scoffed at the title, casting a sideways look at Logan, fighting both affection and exasperation.
"If you're pulling that card then I'll make the executive decision that we should attempt to go." Keegan rolled his eyes, though his face softened when he looked at Logan again. "Really. I want this to be good for you, Logan."
Logan hesitated, chewing on the idea of vulnerability before he could force himself to swallow it. It has been. Thank you. For everything.
Rather than replying, Keegan looked down at their boots as they walked, two pairs of parallel footsteps, reaching an arm out to wrap around Logan's shoulders and pull him into his side. Awkward in his own unfamiliarity with expression, he carded his hand through Logan's short, blond hair, dropped it to squeeze his shoulder, then allowed him to walk upright again. "A'right. We'll check it out tomorrow, then. Sound good?"
Logan nodded absentmindedly, more focused on the ghost of the warmth Keegan had left behind and resisting the urge to grab his arm and pull it over his shoulders again. To be close to someone was a privilege he didn't grant himself outside of David, physical contact a thing that felt like he was sacrificing an innocent body at the alter of his mental damage, emotional connection the front lines of a battle field mapped out through the scars on his body he could not ask someone to enlist in. His desperation for it, however, was a talon that refused to relinquish its grip. He took the extra inch closer that Keegan's pull had brought him as relief enough.
Logan had known it was inevitable. A change of location, California to Colorado or California to the middle of the fucking ocean wouldn't help him outrun the muscle memory that came with terror. He awoke to the sound of screaming ricocheting in his ears, adrenaline driving him upwards. His own legs betrayed him, something they often did in that era post-service, and his attempt to stand from the couch to find the source of whatever had awoken him so cruelly. The rawness to his throat gave him pause, the vibration of his chest an earthquake in the wake of his distress.
A figure rushing down the hallway toward him sent him backwards, scrambling into a corner of the couch and nearly up and over. "Logan. Logan, you're fine, everything's okay." Keegan's voice hardly overpowered his screaming.
He came to a stop on the other side of the couch, kneeling, hands outstretched to show he meant no harm. Logan's chest heaved with the effort of drawing breath, his throat raw from his own shouting that he barely managed to silence. Shadows dancing on the edges of his vision were his torturers, his father, his brother, his task force, then his torturers again. Keegan was too good to be true, a lighthouse past the ink-black, crashing waves of his own memories. His fingertips dug into the back of the couch, just in case he had to pull himself away, eyes blown wide with fear. "Logan, you're in Colorado. We're just outside of Durango. You've been here for four days. It's just me, you, Riley and my mom in the house. You're safe. I won't let anything happen to you." Keegan soothed, his own breaths coming fast and sharp from the abrupt awakening and intrinsic fear that had shot through him when he'd awoken to Logan's screaming.
All Logan could do was shake his head in disagreement, hair falling in his face as his mouth screwed up in a flinch of disbelief. It wasn't real, couldn't be, a false promise that his mind had conjured up to take refuge in safety for just a moment before he was pulled back in by the violence of all he had endured. It'd happened before; dreams while he was passed out from the pain, memories of being outside, of his time in boot camp, of when David first told him about Casey. It had been an unrelenting false promise that he was terrified of believing in again, so when Keegan reached out, Logan flinched. Hard. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want you to touch my hand, so you know that this is real. You're here and you're okay."
A leap of faith was something he figured was outside of his capabilities, beyond reach after everything. And yet, Keegan brought out that willingness to try in him, that delusion that maybe it would be real this time, that he could crawl out of that pit of hopelessness and keep taking the risk that came with getting better. His hand was shaking so hard he could hardly move it, his face screwed up so tightly it hurt the muscles in his cheeks. When he made contact with the warmth of Keegan's skin, he folded. Collapsing inward on himself, Logan was caught readily by Keegan who, wracked with his own memories of soldiers shot out of his reach that he'd been forced to watch die, had felt deeply in his bones that his world would shatter if he couldn't help hold him together.
Logan's face found the crook of Keegan's shoulder like he was magnetized, his fingertips digging into the flesh of Keegan's arm and thee fabric of his hoodie where it covered his ribs. Keegan dragged his hand over Logan's back, rubbing back and forth, his other hand coming up to cradle the back of Logan's head. "You're alright, Lo'. You're okay, I've got you." He murmured, nudging his jaw against Logan's temple.
Riley was stood by the coffee table, eyebrows working an expression of worry as he glanced between Logan and Keegan. "Breathe, Logan. You need to breathe." The warmth of Keegan's breath on the skin of his neck pushed wisps of calm through the panic that had clouded his reality.
The shifting of Keegan's chest as he inhaled and exhaled was the slow rocking of a ship on the seas of Logan's hurt, a vessel that carried the promise to be lifted above it all. Logan sought refuge there for an indiscernible amount of time until his breathing returned to normal and the slow sway that he hadn't noticed Keegan had even started was leaving his eyelids heavy, sleep trying to drag him kicking and screaming into the waters. Keegan brushed a thumb over his temple before pulling away slightly, bringing his hands to cradle Logan's face and get a good look at him, reassuring himself that the man was still there in one piece, that he hadn't broken apart and been lost while Keegan wasn't staring at him. His eyes roamed over Logan's face, taking in every crease, every scar from his youth and the ones from the devastation that had wrought his body, the crows feet forming by his eyes and the chapping of his lips. "You still with me?"
The nod Logan gave in response was slow, foggy, but he managed it and that was something to the both of them. Keegan's smile was sad, intertwined with the melancholy of watching someone fight to keep their head above the water. Carefully, Keegan moved his hands to Logan's biceps and shifted him to lean backward on the couch. He stood from where he had been kneeling on the floor and moved to sit on the very end of the cushions before reaching for Logan's elbow and tugging him to lay back down. With Logan's head on Keegan's lap and Keegan's hand returning to his hair, Logan let out a long, heavy exhale. "Rest. I'll keep watch."
He listened, shockingly, and his eyes drifted shut. Right on the cusp of sleep, Logan was barely aware of speaking.
"Is he alright? I didn't come out because I didn't want to—"
"You did the right thing, mom. He's okay. Or, he will be. I've got him. I'll make sure of it."
"Do you need anything?"
"No, I'm alright. Thank you. You get your rest."
"I just— he's so young, Kay."
"I know." And maybe it was the weight of exhaustion, but it almost sounded like Keegan's voice cracked.
Logan tried not to catastrophize as they drove toward the historic downtown of Durango, Logan once again bundled into Keegan's spare coat, fingerless gloves pulled over his hands. The truck was low enough it was struggling with its heat, Keegan having made a comment under his breath about how he really needed to get it fixed one of these days. It was a pattern, Logan was noticing, that he'd drop everything to fix whatever was inconveniencing his mother, but failed to prioritize the things that affected only him. Maybe if he spent the drive psychoanalyzing Keegan in the exact way he hated people doing to him he wouldn't be panicking at the potential to panic.
Logan hadn't done crowded spaces since his hospitalization. He had the support group, sure, but they were uniquely aware of how not to set off veterans considering they knew exactly what it was like to be on the other side of the tiptoeing. He was running through every possibility of what could go wrong— what could cause a noise that may or may not set him off, the potential for crowds to be a trigger he wasn't aware of, and the distinct fear that perhaps he had made a mistake in his persistent avoidance of his appearance. How bad was his scar now? Would people stare? He knew what David would say, that he shouldn't care if other people care or if they stare, but it didn't change the way he so desperately wanted to run and hide from the confrontation that was reintegration into the public.
Keegan glanced at him every now and then from the driver's seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on the gear shift out drumming along to the beat of whatever 90s rock song was playing on the radio. Logan fought to recognize whether or not he had music he liked anymore. Before he'd been a big fan of all the same things David was, like 80s grunge and early 2000s alternative, because it was the closest thing he could've gotten to inheriting his music taste from a father. Now, he never really listened to music. David wore headphones whenever he was at the apartment with Logan, so as to not disturb his peace and acknowledge that Logan was often listening attentively for any potential disturbances in case they were a threat to their safety. Keegan always seemed to have something playing in the background, though, soft and low enough that if Logan hadn't heard the song before he didn't recognize the words, but the melodies were soothing nonetheless. "Something on my face?" Keegan asked, glancing at Logan once again with a raised eyebrow.
Logan longed to respond by spelling out joy, envious and admiring at the exact same time. Instead, he shook his head. Ugly as always, LT. Keegan groaned. "I regret telling you my rank. Is it too late to take it back?"
Yes.
"Damn. Just use it sparingly."
That motion of poking the bear brought out a long-buried lightheartedness to Logan that everyone thought had died in the jungles of South America. Yes, sir.
"Good Lord." Keegan breathed out.
Luckily, Keegan knew how to time things well. When they arrived there was still parking, not quite the level of busy that seasonal tourism would beckon in later in the afternoon. The streets had been cleared of snow and the charmingly aged buildings were decorated for the holidays with twinkling lights and plenty of greenery, many of the windows containing snowflake art advertising sales for the holiday season. The streets were closed to traffic to make way for the influx of pedestrian foot traffic; old fashioned lamp-posts had been decorated with greenery and ribbons of various colors. The hills in the background were dusted with a light coating of snow that made everything slightly dreamier
There had been a cold snap overnight, sending the already chilly temperatures plummeting; Logan had become intimately aware of that knowledge the moment he awoke, his shoulders, back and hips aching in every place metal plates had been inserted for stabilization. It was an unspeakable relief when Keegan had asked only once if he felt he was still able to go out, taking Logan's yes at face value; a reassurance that he trusted his judgment without a second thought, wasn't infantalizing him and questioning his self assessment. Instead, he had dug one of his own canes that he no longer needed out of storage and tucked pain killers into his jacket pocket in case Logan needed them and off they went.
Keegan parked the truck and exited swiftly, pulling open Logan's door and pausing to offer an arm for him to get out. He took no offense when Logan forewent the offer, concentration creasing his face as he carefully leaned his weight onto the cane, other hand clinging to the grab handle above the door. Once both feet were on the ground he released a breath. "All set?" Keegan asked. Logan nodded.
A handful of various groups of people were milling about, bundled to the nines in their coats, gloves and scarves. They stepped out of the parking lot, Logan unnoticing of Keegan's hand hovering over his back just in case he misstepped coming down from the curb, and joined those walking down the street peering into shops and pointing out buildings. Keegan dropped his hand before speaking up, "We'll do a lap of the street just to get a lay of the land and then we can go into whatever looks interesting to you, okay?"
Another nod. Logan was more focused on the strangeness of blending in with the public after the length of his recovery had left him isolated for nearly half a year at a time. Sure, he had the veteran's group with David, but he'd always felt like a phantom rotating on the outside of it, acknowledged on occasion but left to ruminate on the ways in which he couldn't join the conversation more often than not. It had been long enough before Keegan had broken through his disconnected exterior that rather than that becoming a sign that he wasn't as closed off as he was perceived, Keegan was congratulated on being brave enough to try. As if Logan was a rabid dog that Keegan was taming, a mutt left out in the cold that only Keegan had been kind enough to give a home.
Logan had found he didn't mind that so much most of the time. Being standoffish and therefore skirted around meant there were fewer instances where he had to navigate others discomfort at the way he was. There weren't many people out there that would come running when Logan awoke screaming and meet him with patience rather than anxiety, not many that would look at him and see the impression left behind of the bright grin he used to wear so often rather than the scars that had cut right through it. So maybe that's just who he was now, someone made for the few rather than the relaxed social-tactician that had ascended through the armed forces.
They walked to the end of the street, taking in the sight of the town backed by those snow-covered mountains and the warmth of the sun, before Logan held up a hand to indicate he needed a break and leaned against his cane. Keegan stopped readily beside him and shoved his hands in his pockets, staring out past the end of the road into the mountains. "Y'know, California has its beauty, but no place compares to this. Sometimes I think living out in California serves to remind me of how much I have when I come out here."
Logan hummed in response, shifting back and forth to try to relieve some of the tension in his joints as he followed Keegan's sight line. It really was beautiful in a way that couldn't be compared to anywhere else, but maybe that was because he was seeing it past the silhouette of Keegan's back to him.
Eventually, Logan was ready to move again. They walked more slowly this time, Keegan explaining the history behind some of the buildings and tales of how the landscape had changed since he was a kid. Some owners had sold and moved somewhere cheaper, some had passed and their family had taken over the business to continue their legacy, and some had been priced out of their small business and closed shop against their wishes. He recounted stories of getting cheap candy and darting down the street with friends, riding their bikes far too fast considering the amount of car traffic around, and getting home past dark to a porch light turned on and the back door left unlocked. Logan tried to imagine himself there, even for just a moment, as if that could rewrite every memory he had of his own childhood.
They ducked into a few shops Logan listened as Keegan made small talk with those behind the counters and wished them well for the holiday season. They each picked out something for Keegan's mother; Logan chose a new mug and some preserved wildflowers from the local area while Keegan decided on the practical— new gloves that his mother would never splurge on and her favorite chocolates.
Keegan handled the purchasing; Logan hung back and watched as he interacted with the cashier as if trying to remember the motions of doing so he'd once known. They were motions that were foreign to him now and Keegan was giving him a window into the normalcy he forgot to crave. The interaction ended and the pair returned to the street.
The crowd had swelled while they were in their own bubble within the shop contemplating their purchases. Keegan's hand returned to hovering as they descended the steps to return to street level, Logan flinching bodily at the sudden noise level. After a seconds hesitation, Logan continued forward and turned toward the other half of the street they had yet to double back over. The moment his weight shifted forward a large crowd rounded the corner and he stepped backwards once again.
Keegan had shifted around him before he'd properly registered his own fear response, Logan's deep breath to brace himself serving to flood his senses with Keegan's cologne, light and overwhelmingly familiar after the week spent in his proximity. The man stood at just an angle to block out Logan's view of the crowd that was walking by, leaving only the chattering to try and overwhelm him. Instead, Logan was looking up at clear blue eyes. Regardless of the fact that he knew what Keegan was doing, Logan couldn't protest that it worked, his back in comfortable contact with the brick building facade behind him, his head tilted up slightly. "Go ahead and rest for a moment. I've got you." Keegan requested quietly.
Logan sat hunched over on the couch, elbows on knees, fingertips pressed to his mouth as he breathed deep. Sleep would be elusive once again now that he had awaken in a way that was so familiar; the fear of doing so often created the vicious cycle of a self-fulfilling prophecy. Laying down required a brace for the worst. The lights had already been turned out, that same stove-head light casting the only glow in the room as it had the first night he'd stayed with Keegan. His time in Colorado was coming to a close and the thought made his chest hurt in a way that was unfamiliar.
The creaking of a floorboard made him lift his head. Keegan lingered in the doorway. There was a moment when he said nothing, looking over Logan like he was trying to take him apart layer by layer to figure him out. "Gonna be alright out here?" He finally asked, leaning against the wall.
Hesitation. Logan didn't respond right away, inhaling sharply as he looked back down at his hands. There was vulnerability in that pause, vulnerability he didn't necessarily want to give but bared its teeth regardless. Keegan pushed away from the wall and crossed the living room to reach out for Logan, pausing at a distance that made rejection an easy option for Logan to choose, if that was what he wanted. Something possessed him in that moment, however, and despite his best effort to choose the safe option, Logan braced his forearm against Keegan's palm and allowed him to haul him up from the couch.
Keegan's hand cupped Logan's elbow as guidance down the dark hallway, ensuring that he wouldn't trip in the unfamiliarity of the space, and guided him down toward his bedroom. When they entered Keegan clicked on a standing lamp in the corner to reveal the space. His room was relatively plain but cozy, an indicator of how sporadic his time in the space was, all of the decorations that may have indicated personal touches obviously from Keegan's youth; ribbons from science fairs, old photos of him and his mother in front of tourist locations around Colorado, a photo from his enlistment, a crocheted pillow patterned like the Colorado state flag, and a few nick-nacks scattered over his shelf. Logan's eyes merely scanned over these things in the search for any shadowy spots he needed to be wary of and the window over Keegan's desk as a potential exit point.
And Keegan knew, as he always seemed to, when he left Logan's side to open up the closet doors and left them that way so as to soothe his paranoia. When he passed by him again he brushed a hand over his forearm and gestured for Logan to at least sit on the edge of the bed, to which he listened. The cushion of Keegan's mattress felt like sinking into unwarranted safety. Keegan went around the room doing a security sweep, checking the window and pushing against the security to show it was solidly locked, doing a sweeping visual of the inside of his closet, every corner, and each side of bulky furniture, and it knocked the breath out of Logan.
With that, Keegan slid into the other side of his bed, peeling back the comforter and tucking his legs beneath it with his back against the cushioned headboard. He pulled a book off of his nightstand and, before opening it, looked up openly at Logan and patted the space net to him. "Worst that happens is you relax a bit. Best case scenario you get some sleep knowing someone has your back."
Without really thinking, Logan listened. He let himself fall backwards against the pillow, eyes locked onto Keegan in the low light. With Logan resigning himself, albeit willingly, to the comforts of a bed, Keegan turned his attention back to the book in front of him and Logan was left to admire him uninhibited. Black hair nearly in his eyes, soft sweater bunched around his wrists, the neckline hanging slightly loose, stretched out from long-term wear. The curve of his nose cast a shadow onto the slope of his cheekbone, lips slightly pressed together as he flipped through pages to find his place in the novel. Logan laid there, gazing up at him, until the weight of his eyelids drifted them shut.
He shifted within that haze of sleep, turning on his side toward Keegan, his forehead brushing against the fabric that covered Keegan's side. A hand landed on the curve of his spine, his thumb brushing back and forth against the fabric of his t-shirt. "I've got you."
Two days later Logan was dropped off just outside of his apartment building to the sound of well wishes and the suffocating quiet of things left unsaid. He ascended the staircase in silence, fumbled his key into his door in silence, and entered the cold of his apartment in silence. It was entirely untouched, predictably so, chilled from when he'd turned the heat off before he left for the week. Logan entered, toed off his boots, and made his way to the couch. He sat with a clenched jaw and stared across his otherwise empty living room at the white wall in front of him. A police siren whined in the distance, then faded out completely. Once again, he was alone.
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