He’s on the subway. Tucked himself into a corner as always, but the people surrounding him keep their distance anyway. He doesn’t mind. He needs space. His own pulse is loud in his ears but it pushes back against the low roar of the everything around, the voices, the shifting clothes, the squeaking shoes. It’s so quiet in the apartment he forgets the way life sounds, sometimes.
A blink, and he’s in a waiting room, distantly familiar. A secretary is speaking to him softly. He can’t bring himself to pay much attention, words sliding off him. She is afraid of him. Won’t look him in the eyes. Won’t look at the jagged scar along his cheek. Won’t look at the figure he knows is behind him, at the fog that wraps around his ankles like the shivering, small man that’s usually glued to him. But it’s fine because he won’t look at her either. He doesn’t mind.
He is ushered through a door.
He’s never paid much attention to decor, but the couch is nice. The texture is good under his hand. It is worn enough that he feels like he’s allowed to be sitting here. The room smells like cinnamon, a small fountain trickles in the corner. The sun filtering in from the window is warm and the light curtain gives it a soft glow. It is oppressively welcoming, as is the woman across from him.
She is young. She looks kind because she wants you to believe she is kind. Her hair hangs long, flairs out from her face. It reminds him of-
No one, because her hair is brought together in two neat, low pigtails that make her seem almost childish..
“It’s been a while since we last met.”
“Mm.”
“There’s just some things I’d like to go over...”
“...”
“I’ve been getting quite a few calls from your, ah, benefactors.”
“...”
“They’ve been wondering about your progress.”
He lets the silence hang for a moment. Why would they ask? They can see him.
“...And?”
“And what?”
She tries to make him talk in that roundabout way. He doesn’t like it, but also can’t find within himself the energy to hate her. Couldn’t she be more direct? Isn’t that her job? His finger grazes on the small scar on the bridge of his nose. Keeps his gaze down. Won’t give her the satisfaction of eye contact.
“What did you tell them?”
“Well, the truth. That you haven’t been coming. Have they been calling you as well?”
They had. He tore the phone out of the wall. The apartment was bugged anyway. He preferred it one-way. Didn’t want to hear them. He knows that when he gets home, the phone will be fixed.
“...How are you doing? Has the medication been helping at all?”
“...”
“How about that friend of yours? His name was... Allen, right?”
Allen is fine. He’s right behind her, scowling.
Today it’s the angry one. The two youngest are at the apartment, one by choice and the other by pleading reluctance. Charlie doesn’t like leaving him alone, but he needed to get out. He bites his lip thinking about the fragile form curled on the bed, pleading, one arm wrapped around himself and the other dripping on-
“...”
The old one, the one Charlie still can’t look in the eyes -- eye, he has to remind himself, because Allen has only one eye because Charlie-
The old one is outside because he has the decency to lend him some privacy.
A sigh. Legs uncross, cross again. She, he’s pretty sure her name is Lily but he can’t bring himself to care enough, takes a sip of water and leans in. The ice clinks against the side of the glass. There is so much space between them but he still presses his back to the couch.
“John, I can’t-”
He winces, breath catching in his throat. Squeezes his eyes shut, holds tight against the sleeve of his coat. The headache is already building at his temples.
Behind her, the angry one grins. He thinks he’s right to.
“Please-”
“Oh, right, I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I forgot-”
“Please, don’t call me by that name.”
It’s the name they put on all his papers. He didn’t exist anymore, not since he signed his life away back in the searing heat of June ‘56. Just one move of his wrist, black and white with an ink smear on shitty paper.
They built a new person for him after he quit. Gave him a quiet life to live once they were done with him. He just wished it had been any other name.
He blinks his eyes, his hand, the right one he has but Allen doesn’t, goes to wipe it. Her lips are pursed, eyebrows drawn up in what seems like genuine concern. She is truly sorry. His gaze focuses past her. The angry one sneers, a single cold eye fixated on his like an icicle. Charlie’s gaze travels down further, where the hole in his chest keeps dripping.
They all do.
“Can you tell me... Who are you, really? Or maybe, if it’s easier, who do you want to be?”
Her voice is so soft. It wraps around him. Suffocates. He breathes out that last bit of air.
“...I don’t think I want to be anyone.”
Another blink. Or maybe his eyes never open. A dream. A time before.
He’s at a payphone. This is a bad idea. Bug gave him a number. It’s crumpled in his hand, paper softened by the sweat coming off his palm, and the ink is smeared from when he’d written it down too fast. He can’t tell if the bloodstain on the corner is real or not. His head hurts.
“Judas, it’s-”
This is a bad idea.
“...Charlie? How did you- Oh my God, Charlie-”
Oh. He could live in that relief.
“Judas, they let me go.”
A sudden bark of laughter pierces right through his head. He doesn't mind. It’s good to hear Judas can still laugh, in that weird way he has with his distorted and twisted vocal chords.He knows he's the reason why those chords got mangled in the first place. He's been given a pardon he didn't deserve long ago.
“Let you go? What does that- What is that supposed to mean?”
“...”
“Charlie-”
Deep breath.
“I don’t know, Jud. They just…”
“Where are you?”
“Closer to him.”
He can nearly hear Judas’ frown. He doesn’t mind.
“What are you... They just set you loose? I don’t-”
“I heard you... They said you have a family now.”
“I- Yeah, you could say that. Who-”
“Bug.”
Sharp inhale.
“They’ve been... They've kept me in the loop. Tried to, anyway.”
“I. Yeah. Yeah, they’d do just that, wouldn’t they? My wife- Ex-wife, we have... We have a daughter.”
“I think they- They had a point. They wanted to prove something. To me.”
“What does that mean, Charlie?”
“I’m really happy for you, Judas.”
“...”
“...”
“It’s been a while, hasn’t it? Since we’ve seen each other.”
“Jud-”
“There’s-”
“Judas.”
“Charlie, listen. There’s a space for you, you don’t-”
“I’m glad I got to hear from you.”
“I-”
A sigh.
“Yeah, me too. Charlie, if there’s anything you need...”
“Thank you, Jud.”
He hangs up and opens his eyes.
The apartment is dark. He didn’t mean to get home so late. He’ll make it up to Allen. He doesn’t move from the couch, too exhausted or perhaps in too much pain for it, but he hears the shifting of fabric and the steady drip of-
He flips a light on and his friend is sitting in the living room, a soothing hand resting over the sleeping form of the exhausted, battered body of that barely older version of himself. He’s wearing his old bomber jacket, and blood is seeping in through the fabric from the hole in his heart. His fingers are bloody too, scratching little patterns into the leather of the recliner. His sunglasses stay on.
“Hey,” he says, smiling. “How was your day?”
He smiles back, weary.
“It was alright. Sorry for being out so late.”
“Oh, it’s okay! We kept each other company.” He leans down over the couch. He looks so relaxed. Blood is spilling over onto the floor. “It was nice to be only the two of us.”
He’s already opening the first aid kit when he remembers. He breathes out. His hand comes to rest against his abdomen and he can feel where the scars raised in his own skin. They’ve been healed for a while now, but they stay, ugly and gnarled. It was back when- Before they… His head hurts.
The first aid kit goes back in the bathroom. He washes his hands, washes his face. Washes again. The mirror was broken soon after he’d moved in. Allen hadn't lost his right hook, even impaired as he was. Charlie never blamed his anger. It made it easier, in the end, not to look at the face of a murderer, but he still doesn’t feel clean. His face is raw.
He gets on the couch with Allen like they used to; when they were both young and Allen wasn't in so much pain and Charlie hadn't betrayed him and abandoned him. Before they’d both gotten so gray. Long before that last cup of coffee that smelled of gunpowder and blood. He presses his face into the crook of Allen’s neck, feels the beat of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest. He was neither here nor alive nor warm, but even that can’t chase away the ghost of fingers against his neck.
They are sitting in his kitchen, Charlie with his head out the window looking at the city, and Allen nursing a cup of coffee in his one hand. Like old times, except they’re both too old and there is no time.
The edge of the window and the autumn breeze feels comforting against his skin. Soothing. Allen says nothing. It is pleasantly bright and with the soft wind comes the sounds of life, muted, manageable. It’s a beautiful day.
“Your hair is getting long.”
Just like yours, Charlie doesn’t say. Allen takes another sip. Puts the cup down on the counter. It’s not empty, but it’s not as full as before.
Allen had never finished that last cup either.
“It suits you, but I think you’re due for a trim.” A hand goes to Charlie’s face, trails down his cheek. The stubble is persistent, but he tries to keep it in check.
Allen isn’t angry. Not this one, anyways. It’s difficult to say if this is another display of his patience or his means of an apology for sticking around. Charlie curls a finger into the hair framing Allen’s face, gentle. Tucks it back behind his ear, lets calloused fingertips skim against his cheek.
There is nothing worse than the cold disappointment in that single eye.
“This suits you, too.”
Allen smiles at him, tired and thin. Age hadn't been kind on him, but he never really cared. At least never expressed so.
He was hard to read, when he was old.
Charlie hadn't come for him when he was needed most.
He smiles, lopsided. His hand reaches out to fiddle with the radio on the table.
The music isn’t familiar but it’s nice.
“Do you still have your tapes?”
Spoken so softly.
“I do. They let me keep the music and a few others.”
Tapes with voices he would come to miss. He was thankful for that. They are tucked in a box with old pictures that have traveled with him after all this time, photo paper long since worn with creases and the worry of fingertips.
“I’m happy to hear that.”
“...Allen.”
“Mm?”
“Why do you think they sent me?”
A sigh.
“Charlie.”
The cup is back in the ghost’s hand.
His eyes close.
When they open, he is on the floor. It is morning, with the young face of his dead friend staring at him behind opaque sunglasses, and his back is killing him. He gets up with a groan.
The phone rings.