Archive of Our Own ^beta

In between burning down the High Table and moving in together, John said exactly three things to Redacted. (Redacted knew because he noted each and every time in his journal).

1. When it was all over, when they finally won, Redacted helped John up from the ground (suit drenched in red, everything burning, John’s face a canvas for fresh red and orange glow, everything, everything burning…). John said, “Thanks.” And John nodded in agreement when Redacted laughed at the blood on John’s face and said John looked like shit.

2. Redacted told John he had a place in Queens. John said, “Yeah,” before Redacted could even finish giving the invitation.

3. And, finally, and entirely unprompted, on the drive to the place in Queens, John asked, “What do I call you?” And Redacted laughed, then stopped himself, then thought about it. Then Redacted said, “I don’t know.” Then, thinking about it some more, added, “You don’t have to call me anything, though. Honestly you don’t have to talk at all. If you don’t want to.” John nodded.

Then, John stopped speaking altogether.

Redacted didn’t invite Caine to move in with them, but he didn’t not invite Caine, either. Caine was simply there, had been there, for everything. Every long night, every bit of carnage, Caine was there in the trenches with him and John. Caine was there at the end of all things, and he was there after the end. And when John moved in, Caine was there too.

So, when they made it to Redacted’s little house nestled in the heart of Queens, Redacted gave John the guest bedroom and gave Caine the futon in the living room.

“Sorry I don’t have a third bedroom to give you,” Redacted said.

“This is fine,” Caine said. “I’m not going to be here long, anyways.”

The first night, all three of them split a pizza on the futon. Then, John unpacked his knapsack in his new room and Caine counted how many steps across each room in the house was.

On the way out of the living room and headed towards the kitchen, Caine stumbled into a pile of boxes that had sat half-unpacked for probably years at this point.

Caine swore and gently kicked the sides of the boxes to judge what they were.

“The fuck is this shit?” Caine muttered.

“Just some boxes I haven’t unpacked.”

“Get this shit off the floor. It’s rude to block a blind man’s path, you know.”

“My place, my shit, my rules. Be nice to me, old man, or I’ll move the furniture when you’re asleep.”

Caine laughed.

Thankfully, the dogs got along. They liked the backyard well enough, even as small as it was. Redacted took them on walks a few times a day. It felt silly putting leashes on them as if they’d ever actually try to run off, but the dogs didn’t complain.

Some days he managed to keep the walk to just around the block and back. Most days he walked much further.

Redacted didn’t sleep. It was strange. No matter how bone-deep his exhaustion was, he could not sleep. Each night, he lay in his bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, watching the shadows dance and occasionally be chased away by lights thrown by some passing car. And he listened, like always, for the sound of someone approaching—footsteps, a creaking floorboard, a lock turning, a window sliding open.

But all Redacted could hear were one of the dogs' claws scraping against the floorboards as it wandered around the house. John’s snoring from the room over. Branches from the oak tree out back scraping against his bedroom window. Distant car honks, sirens.

Eventually, Redacted gave up trying to sleep. Started spending his nights out on the back porch. Caine usually joined him. He and Caine did not talk much. They just sat and enjoyed the wind.

Caine slept only in the form of sporadic naps throughout the day and night. “I never fucking know what time it is,” Caine explained when asked.

John slept for a week straight, it seemed like—waking only to go to the bathroom, sigh, take a piss, fill a glass with water from the bathroom sink, take a big drink, then go back to sleep.

Redacted did get his boxes and junk off the floor, ensuring that there were clear paths in and out of every room. Caine didn’t comment on it, but he did stop using his cane around the house.

After a week of John mostly just sleeping, Caine intervened. Caine woke John one morning by prodding John with his cane which he probably grabbed exclusively for this purpose.

“John, you have to eat something,” Caine said.

John dragged a hand across his face and sighed.

“Tracker,” Caine said. “Breakfast.”

“I’m not a Tracker anymore.”

“Then what do I call you?”

Redacted did not have an answer to that.

The three of them started eating breakfast together at the kitchen table.

Their first breakfast together was some McDonald’s that Redacted picked up from down the street. The food was cold by the time he got back to the house, but John and Caine did not complain. Would’ve been weird if they did complain, there was no food to be found in the house and delivery pizza each night was getting old fast.

“I’m going to the store later. Anything y’all want?” he asked.

Redacted glanced at John and considered asking the question more pointedly at John to see if John would say anything, then ultimately decided against it.

He grabbed a pad of paper and a pen and pushed them towards John.

John wrote coffee and eggs and dog food and nothing else.

“Get some cigarettes, too,” Caine added.

John went with him to the store. It was a little bodega on the corner that had been in the neighborhood for decades, though the ownership kept changing hands every few years. Not much in the way of fresh produce, but nice meals were a luxury Redacted had long lived without, so it didn’t really matter to him.

(Food must be small, easy to carry, possible to eat one-handed, fast to make if it were to be prepared at all, fast to eat, calorie-dense, leave no wrapper or crumb behind, there’s no time for anything nice, no time to slow down, just get the calories and keep moving, the hunger pangs will stop when he gets that fucking bounty, when he fucking kills—)

Redacted grabbed some Chef Boyardee, instant ramen, milk, butter, bread, and peanut butter. John got the coffee and eggs and dog food and Caine’s cigarettes.

John paid.

When they stepped outside, John paused for a moment. Looked up at the sunny sky turned hazy from smog. Closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.

“Nice day, huh?” Redacted said, to have something to say.

John nodded.

They ate the Chef Boyardee that night. Then the instant ramen the next day. Then scrambled eggs and peanut butter toast for a couple days straight.

Redacted took the dogs for a walk, and no matter how much he mentally shouted at himself to stop, he kept walking. He walked mile after mile. He walked until he was halfway to Brooklyn.

The dogs started complaining after a while. He had to carry them onto the bus for the trip home. He didn’t get back until past sundown.

It shouldn’t feel so strange, he thought, to return to the same place each night.

John stopped sleeping at night too. At least, not in his bed.

John joined Redacted and Caine out on the back porch. Redacted only had two chairs out there, so John sat on the concrete and leaned against the wall. The dogs would lie on him, and John would pet them and listen to the conversation. Never saying anything.

“So,” Caine said, breaking into the silence they had all been resting in for the past half-hour. “Why does a Tracker have a place in Queens?”

Caine took a long drag on his cigarette, waiting for a response. The glowing embers were the brightest thing in the night. (Caine had offered him a cigarette the other night. Redacted had turned him down, “I quit a long time ago.” “So did I,” said Caine.)

“This place was the first step in my retirement plan,” Redacted answered.

The first step in a plan long ago derailed and abandoned, and best forgotten.

Redacted looked down at his hand, at the jagged raised scar there. He flexed his fingers to see the skin stretch. After getting infected a few times, it finally healed—only took a month or so—but it healed keloid and impossible to ignore, impossible to forget.

Another step in that old, abandoned plan.

“You ever spend any time here, though?” Caine asked, pulling Redacted’s thoughts back to the present.

“Hell, no,” Redacted answered. “This is the longest I’ve been here. Or anywhere, for that matter.”

“Who was this second chair for?”

“My mother,” Redacted answered. And he did his best to ignore the tightness in chest that always came when he thought of her.

“Oh,” Caine said.

“It’s okay,” Redacted said. “She’s dead, now.”

Caine exhaled a great puff of smoke. Coughed a little at the end.

Time passed.

“Do you miss it?” Caine asked. “Tracking?”

“All the fucking time.”

When the job is all there is, you don’t have to worry about things like boredom or living with yourself or asking what you want. When the job is all there is, the only thing you want and need is to finish the job. Then you get the next one, and the next one, and—

“But you wanted this. Retirement.”

“Yeah,” Redacted said with a sigh. “But I guess I just thought there would be… more. Was so fucking excited about the idea of ‘nothing.’ No rules, no hierarchy, no jobs, no debts, no bounties… Nothing. And turns out—”

“It’s nothing.”

“Yeah.”

“Retirement’s not as bad as all that,” Caine said, crushing the butt of his cigarette in the ash tray. “Get old enough, tired enough… and ‘nothing’ starts feeling pretty good. Stop running everywhere. Slow down. Put your roots down. Find some good company.”

“You good company?”

Caine barked out a laugh. “Hell no. And John over there is even worse.”

Redacted glanced over at John. John was fast asleep on the ground, and so were both dogs on his lap. He wondered how John could do that, just fall asleep like that.

“Most generous host,” Caine said, pulling Redacted’s attention back. “When was the last time you slept?”

Maybe Caine had read his mind. Maybe he could do that.

Redacted had been falling into naps throughout the day the past few days. Sometimes even in the middle of conversations with Caine. But he hadn’t even lain in his bed for…

“I can’t remember,” he confessed.

By the time they had all gotten sick of instant ramen and scrambled eggs and peanut butter toast, they ran out of food again.

Redacted put actual vegetables and shit on the next grocery list.

Turned out John could cook.

“Did you know he could cook?” Redacted asked Caine.

Caine laughed. “Yeah, he used to be the best. Should’ve gone into the restaurant business, Helen always said. But Helen also couldn’t cook worth a damn.”

Surprised by Caine’s words, Redacted glanced over to judge John’s reaction. He had assumed John’s late wife was a forbidden topic. But John simply smiled fondly as he tended to the soup on the stove.

That night, on the back porch, half-way done with his cigarette, Caine asked, “Is it because you’re listening?”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re trying to sleep,” Caine clarified. “You can’t, because you’re listening.”

“…Yeah.”

“I could listen for you,” Caine said.

Redacted didn’t know why he said yes. Maybe because he figured if he went much longer without sleep, he’d start hallucinating. (The shadows on the ceiling were dancing more and more, sometimes in the middle of the day, and always at the corners of his vision…)

Crawling into bed as Caine settled into a chair in the corner, facing him, was exactly as strange as Redacted thought it was going to be.

Not a single part of him felt relaxed. Every muscle was tense, his jaw was tight, teeth clenched.

“How is this supposed to work?” he asked with a sigh.

Caine shrugged. “You go to sleep with the trust that if anyone comes in here, I’ll kill them immediately.”

“And if you kill me?”

“That’s where the trust comes in.”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you.”

Caine shook his head in what seemed to be a mixture of indignation and disbelief. “Why the fuck would I kill you?”

Redacted shrugged before he realized that Caine couldn’t see it. So, he added, “I don’t know.”

“And how would I kill you, hmm? You’ve got that knife under your pillow. I assume you sleep with your hand on the handle the entire night. If I make a single step towards you, you’ll jolt awake and you’ll slit my throat.”

Redacted didn’t know how Caine knew that, but Caine also wasn’t wrong.

“Could shoot me,” Redacted said.

“Do you snore?” Caine asked.

“No.”

“Then it’s going to be a pain to figure out where to put the bullet.”

Redacted seriously doubted that would be enough to stop Caine.

“Besides,” Caine added, “if I kill you, John’ll kill me.”

“No, he won’t.”

“Yes, he will. He likes you.”

“No, he doesn’t.”

Caine cocked his head to the side like Redacted had said something silly. Maybe he had.

“Look,” Caine said at last, sounding a bit exasperated, “if it’ll make you feel better, call your dog in here so she can bite my dick off if I move an inch.”

That… yeah, that was a pretty good idea. So, Redacted did.

Then, Redacted lay back down, dog curled up at his feet, pulled the covers up over himself. Stared at the dancing dancing shadows on the ceiling. The dog was already snoring.

“Why are you helping me?” Redacted asked softly.

“You’ve been a good host to me and John,” Caine answered smoothly. “I owe you.”

“Oh,” Redacted said. He supposed that made sense. He understood debts. “Okay.”

Then, Redacted closed his eyes. Stopped listening so much.

When Redacted woke up 10 hours later, Caine was still there.

He was there for the next two nights, too.

John kept making soups but began making grilled cheese sandwiches to go with them.

Redacted found a chessboard in one of the many boxes cluttering his room.

So, he started playing Caine at chess. Each game lasted days. Every so often, while Redacted would be whittling or journaling or lying on the floor staring up at the ceiling, Caine—usually not even bothering to find Redacted in the house—would holler out his next move so Redacted could update the pieces on the board.

Redacted kept the board on the kitchen table. John would chuckle at it sometimes—usually if Caine was winning—and occasionally wordlessly point out a suggested move to Redacted.

“I’m not going to do that,” Redacted said at one of John’s suggestions that reeked of a poorly thought-out gambit.

“Good,” Caine said, “don’t listen to John. He’s shit at chess.”

John nodded in reluctant agreement.

Caine was fond of gambits, too, but he could actually back them up, wresting control of the board and forcing Redacted back on the defensive.

They drew stalemate about a third of the time.

Redacted could sleep for a few hours at a time on his own now, without Caine’s company. Mostly between 2am and 5am. By 5:30am he usually gave up trying.

Some early, early mornings Redacted found John asleep on Caine’s futon in the living room, and Caine out on the back porch, smoking.

Redacted didn’t know what to make of that, but he decided it was none of his business.

John still did not speak. Redacted would have been concerned, if it were anyone else, that perhaps the silence was weighing heavily on John. But in this silence, John seemed lighter than ever (relatively speaking). He was moving faster (relatively speaking), establishing routines for himself, little rituals, habits that seemed to be the first steps towards a hobby of sorts, if men like him were allowed such banalities.

Redacted figured John had earned the right to have a little normal. Or, rather, he’d killed everyone who could have kept him from this normal. And now, all there was left was… well, it wasn’t quite nothing.

John’s main ritual: sitting on the back porch to watch the birds in the morning, up in the oak tree.

As of a couple days ago, there were a pair of doves there, building a nest.

Redacted tapped on the glass of the sliding door to gently announce his presence, before joining John on the back porch. John turned his head slightly in Redacted’s direction, but mostly kept his eyes on the doves.

“Made some coffee,” Redacted said, offering John a mug, which he accepted with a grateful nod.

Redacted sat in the empty chair. Watched the doves above and the clouds in the sky beyond. The sun kept rising, the breeze kept blowing. He lost track of time for a little while.

When he was about halfway through his own cup of coffee, he asked John, “Do you think you’ll ever speak?”

John looked at him with mild confusion, his eyebrows bunched together.

“I know, I know,” Redacted added. “I said you didn’t have to. And that’s still true. Just wondering, is all.”

John downed the rest of his coffee, then set the mug down on the patio table.

“It’s just…” Redacted continued, “Even if you don’t speak, I hope we can still talk. If that’s something you want. Could be notes or texts. Or, fucking, I don’t know… sign? Do you sign?”

John sat back in his chair and sighed. Then, he slowly raised one hand, formed an ASL s hand shape and signed, YES.

And in Redacted’s mind echoed, plain as day, a memory of John’s voice, “Yeah.”

“Cool,” Redacted said. Then, he realized he didn’t have much else to say.

So, they fell into a comfortable silence. The neighborhood, the city, was waking up. The rumble of cars, doors opening and slamming, distant honks. Children racing each other to school. And above, the dove’s nest was coming along nicely.

Redacted wished he had brought his pocketknife out with him, then he could have whittled. But the breeze was pleasant enough and the chair comfortable enough, that he figured staying put was good, too. Idly, he wondered if he was a tree now. Taking root.

Some indeterminate eternity later, and Redacted finished his coffee. Then he remembered a question he had:

“How have you been talking to Caine?”

I NOT, John signed with a shake of his head. “I don’t.”

Caine talked to John all the time, though. But perhaps ‘at’ might be more accurate.

At breakfast each morning, Caine carried most of the conversations. Redacted chimed in sometimes, if he had something to say—but he often found that there was nothing to say, because nothing was happening, nothing had happened. Caine did not seem to have that same issue.

Sometimes Caine carried two conversations at once.

“Pawn to e4,” Redacted said in between bites of his breakfast taco, moving the piece with his free hand.

“Boring,” Caine chided. “Knight to f6.”

Alekhine's Defense. Great.

As Redacted considered his next move, Caine continued his one-sided conversation with/at John.

“I was thinking about Edinburgh the other day,” Caine said. His face was tilted towards John, and he paused between sentences as if waiting for a response. But he had to know—he had to—that a response was never going to come.

“Pawn to e5,” Redacted said softly.

“Knight to d5,” Caine chuckled. Then, to John, “Do you remember that week?”

And again, that pause.

And Redacted suddenly felt a creeping dread that he was present for something he really shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be here right now. This conversation was not for him to hear.

Caine continued, partly to Redacted this time, pulling him into the story, “Fucking freak blizzard hit the first night we were there. Our target was on the other side of the city, but all the roads were closed. So, at least he wasn’t going anywhere, but neither could we!”

And Redacted looked at John who was looking at Caine who was listening in John’s direction.

“Do you remember what you said to me, then?” Caine asked.

And Redacted didn’t know who was worse here—himself for staying and listening to a conversation he shouldn’t? Caine for asking a question to a resolutely mute man? Or John for answering a blind man with silence?

And that silence stretched far longer than was comfortable. But Redacted didn’t move.

“Are you going to move?”

“In a bit,” Redacted replied. He finished his breakfast taco, instead.

John was staring down at his own hands where they rested on the table.

“John,” Caine said.

This hadn’t happened before, in all the other breakfast conversations. Caine usually moved on by this point, instead of pressing.

John’s fists clenched on the table.

Caine reached out a searching hand. After a moment, he found John’s sleeve, then John’s forearm. Caine’s hand rested there. And Redacted noted with interest how John relaxed under the contact. His fists unclenched.

“John,” Caine repeated, softer.

John covered Caine’s hand with his own, patting it twice. Then, he pulled away. Caine let him go.

Redacted watched as John put away his dish in the sink then headed to his room.

“Pawn to d4,” Redacted said.

John started branching out from soups and sandwiches and started making pot roasts.

“Is this all there is?” Redacted asked.

Another late night on the porch. Caine was on his third cigarette of the night. Turning into a chain smoker, probably.

“If you want it to be,” Caine said, “then, yeah.”

“There’s nothing,” Redacted said.

“If you want there to be,” Caine said, taking a drag. The smoke curled around his fingers. After a moment, he exhaled and more smoke rolled out his mouth, obscuring his face in a gray haze.

A long stretch of nothing.

“I think I’ll go crazy,” Redacted said, after what could have been minutes or hours.

“Lucky you,” Caine said.

Another long stretch of nothing.

“Do you think John will ever speak?” Redacted asked.

“I don’t know,” Caine answered. “Probably not.” He stubbed out his cigarette in the ash tray. Then, he added, softer, “I wish I could hate him.”

And that was Redacted’s problem too, wasn’t it? The old plan derailed as soon as he realized that no matter how high the bounty got, he could not bring himself to hate John enough to pull the trigger.

“What happened in Edinburgh?”

And that was definitely none of Redacted’s business. But it was late, and it was dark, and he could not see Caine’s face, and he was tired. And after all the shit they’d been through together, maybe there was no point in secrets anymore.

“Nothing,” Caine answered.

And that irritated Redacted in some unnamable, unexplainable way. It pricked at his skin, made him tense.

“You don’t have to lie—"

“I’m not lying,” Caine cut in. “Nothing happened. That’s the whole point of the story. Just like now. There’s nothing now. There was nothing then. Edinburgh was the first time we spent that much time together doing… nothing. John and I were stuck in a bed and breakfast for a week with a blizzard outside. He got the flu. And I can still—” Caine laughed “—I can still remember what he looked like! He looked like absolute shit; you should have seen him. His face was 10 shades paler than it usually is. I could barely keep his fever down. We lost power halfway through the storm. I kept him fed. And one day when he was on his deathbed with a 104°F fever, he looked at me and asked: ‘Is this who we’d be to each other, if we had different lives?’ and then he threw up on me.”

“And you couldn’t hate him.”

Caine sighed. “Nope.”

Redacted felt like he had an answer, then. But he wasn’t sure what the question was.

He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Caine sleep. He checked the time on his phone. Nearly 3am.

“Caine,” Redacted said.

“Yeah?”

“Do you need someone to listen for you.”

“… yeah.”

There still wasn’t much furniture in the living room beyond the futon and coffee table, not that there would have been space for more furniture anyways.

Caine lay down on the futon, and Redacted sat on the floor next to it.

As he always did before bed, Caine pulled out his pocket watch, set it next to his pillow, and listened to the tinny little music play. His own little music box. And in the heart of the pocket watch, his daughter Mia. She was alive, as far as Redacted knew. But he didn’t know if Caine had ever reunited with her. Not his business, he reminded himself. Caine would either tell him or not tell him.

Caine reached out a searching hand. Redacted gave him his hand immediately.

“My friend,” Caine whispered, “can I look at you?”

“Yeah,” Redacted replied, “yeah, of course.”

And Redacted lifted up Caine’s hand until Caine’s fingers brushed his cheek. Redacted closed his eyes and sat very still as Caine’s fingers traced the contours of Redacted’s face. Caine brought his other hand up too, and Redacted shivered under the touch.

Caine’s fingers followed Redacted’s brows, then brushed gently over Redacted’s closed eyelids. Then down his nose, under his eyes, danced in circles over his cheekbones. His thumbs traced Redacted’s top lip. Then his bottom lip, catching a little on the skin there. Redacted shivered again, but he did not feel cold. There was a hideous, embarrassing heat blooming in Redacted’s chest.

The cigarette smoke clung to Caine’s breath, his clothes, everything. Redacted hated that he did not hate it. It was familiar. And it was Caine.

And it would be so easy, Redacted realized, for them to kill each other right now. Caine could strangle Redacted to death. And Redacted was tired and mesmerized by the touch—he just might let him.

And the music box kept playing, but Redacted could barely hear it over his own breathing.

Caine’s fingers trailed through Redacted’s beard—it was getting long these days; he hadn’t shaved in ages—and then down his jaw.

“You’re so young,” Caine whispered.

Redacted laughed, much louder than he intended.

“I’m really not,” Redacted said. He was well past 30. “Maybe compared to you, old man.”

But Redacted suspected Caine did not mean it entirely literally. Caine did not find in Redacted’s face the wrinkles, the lines, the scars, that he had expected. Perhaps Caine thought Redacted retired unscathed.

“Here,” Redacted whispered. Redacted grabbed one of Caine’s hands and brought it to the scar on Redacted’s left hand.

Redacted’s arm erupted into goosebumps as Caine’s fingers danced over the keloid scar.

Caine hummed.

The music stopped.

“Do you miss your name?” Caine whispered.

“I still have it,” Redacted said. And it sounded like a lie, even to him. “I just figured it’d be better if I became ‘Nobody’ before they could name me something else.”

The first price each Tracker must pay—their name. Which was then followed by a lifetime of ever-growing unpayable debts. The Guild always somehow managed to fail to mention that part of the deal to new recruits.

“When was the last time you heard your name?” Caine asked.

Not since his mother… Redacted felt his throat begin to close up.

He reached down and patted Caine’s hand twice.

Caine pulled his hand away.

“I understand,” Caine said. “Sorry.”

“It’s—” Redacted croaked out. He cleared his throat. “It’s okay.”

“Will you still listen for me?” Caine asked.

“Yeah,” Redacted said. “Of course.”

And he did.

As John’s recipes grew more elaborate, he began taking long trips around the city, visiting all manners of specialty grocery stores in search of the ingredients he needed.

Redacted finally got a third chair for the back porch. It didn’t match the others, and it was a rocking chair. But it was on sale and John seemed to love it, even though it was slightly too small for him.

They had dinner on the back porch one evening. Redacted sat in the middle, with Caine to his left and John in the rocking chair to the right.

John made a fucking Beef Wellington tonight, just because. Took him all day. When they finished eating, they set their empty plates on the patio table and sipped their beers.

The sun was setting, and they sat and enjoyed the last of its rays. The last bit of warmth before the chill of the night came. The burst of orange and pink and yellow before the blues of night sank in. Even the dogs were there, napping on the little bit of grass the yard had.

And maybe this was why trees did not move, Redacted thought. Why should they move, when they could stay put and enjoy this feeling day after day after—

John swatted Redacted on his arm.

“Ow!” Redacted said, hurt more by the surprise of it than the actual pain. “What the hell—”

But John was pointing at Caine.

“Oh,” Redacted said, catching on. “Hey, Caine. John wants you.”

“Yes?” Caine said.

Then John pulled out his phone, fiddled with it for a moment, and then… Bursting from the cheap phone’s even cheaper speaker, a robotic woman’s voice with unnatural inflection: “I’m sorry.” John’s words in the robot’s voice.

Caine threw his head back and cackled. “Really?! That’s the voice you chose?! It sounds nothing like you!”

And John was laughing, too. And John laughed even harder when Caine called him an asshole.

John started joining Redacted when he took the dogs for walks. John let Redacted lead, following behind him by a few steps. John did not ask where they were going or for how long, he just followed. An amusing switch from the countless nights Redacted had spent following John.

And it made Redacted wonder how long and how far John would follow him. If Redacted hopped on a train heading out west, would John follow? Would John ask any questions? Would John try to stop him? Or tell him to wait for Caine to join? Would Caine even want to come with them if they did leave?

Who would they even be if they left?

Redacted didn’t even look much like a Tracker these days, as he continued to settle into some semblance of suburban life. He no longer looked like a vagrant, which meant he no longer stood out in the way that made people want to look away. No one liked looking at a vagrant, so they do what they can to never look at them—useful for a Tracker. But now he was no longer Nobody; he looked like no one in the kind of way that made him visible (or, at least, as visible as everyone else).

John had long ago retired his nice suits; these days he wore jeans. Caine wore sweats.

At the dog park, Redacted and John sat on a bench and took the dogs off the leashes so the dogs could run and play like the others, but the dogs stayed close.

Redacted slouched against the bench and looked up at the trees and the sky beyond them. And he realized he was not a very good tree if he was thinking about leaving again. If Redacted left, John probably wouldn’t be able to find him even if he wanted to. And he suspected that Caine probably could find him but wouldn’t want to. Yet, if either of them left, Redacted would have no problem finding them, but he didn’t know what he wanted.

“How long do you want to stay here?” Redacted asked.

John shrugged.

In the distance some children were playing fetch with their Labrador Retrievers. A Yorkie was yapping away. And a very tired Saint Bernard labored by, prompting curious sniffs from both of Redacted and John’s dogs before it wandered off.

“If I left, would you come with me?” Redacted asked, and he hoped John understood he wasn’t talking about the dog park.

IF YOU WANT, John signed.

Redacted hummed. Hell, if he knew what he wanted.

John, as he often did as he thought, ran his fingers back and forth over what remained of his left ring finger.

The Labrador Retrievers were arguing over the ball. The puppy refused to let the older one steal the ball and bolted across the dog park to better hoard it.

“Caine’s going to leave, isn’t he?” Redacted asked.

John nodded.

After dinner, Caine asked Redacted if he could talk to John alone. So, Redacted left them on the back porch and hung around by the door to eavesdrop.

Caine spoke to John in Cantonese. John, of course, was silent. But maybe John signed to Caine, his hands in Caine’s, Caine’s fingers roving over John’s hands as they moved so that Caine could feel John’s words.

Or maybe John said nothing at all.

Caine probably chose Cantonese because he figured Redacted did not speak it. That was largely true, but Redacted still knew a little. He understood enough.

It was going to be her birthday soon.

Redacted listened for Caine again. Even though Caine did not ask him to. And Caine traced Redacted’s face again, even though he did not ask if he could.

And when Caine’s thumb dragged across Redacted’s bottom lip before pulling away, Redacted’s mouth followed. He placed a kiss on that thumb.

Caine made an amused little sound deep in his throat. That thumb returned to Redacted’s lips. Redacted wrapped his lips around the tip of that thumb for a second, then let the digit fall from his mouth.

Caine hummed. His thumb rubbed gentle circles into Redacted’s cheek.

“Bad idea,” Caine whispered.

“We’ve had plenty of those,” Redacted whispered back. “What’s one more?”

“True,” Caine said. Then, he paused, as if considering his options. His thumb tapped contemplatively against Redacted’s cheek.

“Caine,” Redacted whispered after a minute.

“Okay, okay,” Caine said. “Get up here.”

Caine resituated himself on the futon so that he was on his side, his back pressed close to the backrest. It was a small, and frankly shitty, couch, and it barely fit Caine let alone both of them. Redacted ended up throwing one leg over Caine’s so that he could fit. Caine made an appreciative sound that sent that heat blooming in Redacted’s chest again and—

Then Caine captured Redacted’s mouth in his.

And it was, perhaps, the simplest thing Redacted had done in a very long time. Nothing else on his mind, no agenda, no debts, just a simple press of lips. The world narrowed to just the feeling of Caine’s mouth against his, the breath on his face, the lingering acrid cigarette smoke—but underneath that, the smell of something else, something human.

Caine held Redacted’s jaw steady with one hand then turned his head to deepen the kiss. He darted his tongue against Redacted’s mouth which parted willingly—with a sigh, with a shudder.

And making out like this, pressed close, in the dark, in the quiet, but slowly, without hurry… Redacted felt like he was a new recruit again. Train hopping through Appalachia with nothing but a backpack and a stray dog. Sharing a train car with another Tracker heading to the same state on a different hunt. Stealing liquor and each other’s cigarettes in between kisses in the dead of night. He’d have company until the train stopped. Then each Tracker would go on his own path. And neither would learn each other’s name—that first thing paid to the Guild, to the Table—but they would know each other’s debts.

There was a man in flannel who swore in Greek and recited poetry in Turkish and he called Redacted beautiful in both languages and he rolled cigarettes for both of them to share. His debt was $800,000 and he killed his targets with a butterfly knife. And he got a new name, scribbled in the margins next to Redacted’s sketches of him—a name Redacted will never say.

Redacted would never see him again. It was best for Trackers to keep out of each other’s way.

Caine’s thumb rubbed circles into Redacted’s cheek, and Redacted shuddered again. They both pulled away from each other for a moment to catch their breath. A memory of John’s words, in Caine’s voice, swam to the front of Redacted’s mind. “Is this who we’d be to each other? If we had different lives?”

Redacted opened his eyes and tried to judge the shape of Caine in the dark. There was just enough streetlight filtering in through the blinds for Redacted to see him.

They never would have met, he realized, if it weren’t for John. They never would have known each other. But they were living different lives, now. And this is who they were to each other, now. In this new time, in this new world they’ve built for themselves, sculpted out of the ashes of the world they burnt down together. And they had each other for today and soon Caine would be gone.

Redacted leaned forward to recapture Caine’s lips in his own. Caine hummed and allowed Redacted to take the lead and set the pace. Then Caine’s hand was on Redacted’s waist, pulling him closer until they were flush against each other. Redacted pulled away from the kiss to make an embarrassing surprised sound.

Caine’s hand wandered lower, his fingers spreading wide over the small of Redacted’s back.

“Come to bed with me,” Redacted whispered before he realized it.

“In a bit,” Caine whispered back. “Need to do one thing first, though.”

Then Caine lifted his head and said, much louder, “Evening, John. Staying or going?”

Heat rushed to Redacted’s face. He hadn’t been paying attention, he hadn’t been listening—but of course Caine had been. Redacted craned his neck over his shoulder to look behind him and, squinting in the dark, he was able to just barely make out the shape of John, caught in the doorway.

If John was signing anything, it was too dark for Redacted to be able to tell.

Time stretched over an unbearable breathless silence.

Then, John’s words in John’s voice, hoarse from lack of use: “Going.”

“Alright then,” Caine said.

But John did not turn around to return to bed. Instead, he stalked past the futon to go to the kitchen. At the same moment, Caine dove his head forward to place a kiss to Redacted’s throat.

“Fuck,” Redacted hissed.

But Caine tightened his grip on Redacted’s waist and brought him even closer. And—oh—the contact and the pressure were delicious. Redacted rolled his hips experimentally and Caine grazed Redacted’s neck with his teeth.

Redacted gasped, but the sound was drowned out by the fridge opening and closing.

“Fuck, fuck,” Redacted hissed again. “He, he’s—” John was there. Listening. He had to be listening. He was barely 20 feet away, he—

“He’s been listening a while,” Caine chuckled into the crook of Redacted’s neck, before dragging his teeth over that same spot. Redacted shuddered again.

But then Caine pulled away.

“Come on,” Caine said, and even in the little light filtering in through the blinds, Redacted could tell Caine was wearing a huge stupid grin. “Take me to bed.”

A moment later, they stumbled into Redacted’s room and tumbled onto his bed. They fumbled with their pants and underwear, pushing them down until they were bunched around their thighs. Caine got a hold on Redacted and Redacted threw back his head and whined, then covered his mouth with his hand when he was surprised by how loud he was.

It’d been a while for him. An embarrassingly long while, in fact, and he had forgotten how loud he could be.

Caine twisted his hand. Redacted bit down on his knuckles in an attempt to muffle himself.

“Let me hear you,” Caine laughed against Redacted’s throat.

“But—”

“Yeah, let John hear you too,” Caine said, gently nipping at Redacted’s neck.

God, that was so fucked up. But even more fucked up was how much harder Redacted got at the thought that John was listening. He pulled his hand away and out of his mouth fell a strangled unbidden moan.

Caine’s kisses wandered up from Redacted’s throat, up to his jaw, then under his ear, then Caine was pulling Redacted’s earlobe between his teeth.

Redacted gasped and jerked up into Caine’s fist. Caine laughed.

“Want to taste you,” Caine whispered in Redacted’s ear.

“Fuck, fuck,” Redacted hissed. He clenched his eyes shut and tried to focus on calming his breathing. Caine’s hand twisted and— “Fuck, okay, okay, yeah. Please.”

“Yeah?”

“Please, please, come on. I want you to—”

Caine laughed as Redacted trailed off into nonsense rambling pleading. Then Caine got on his knees and was kneeling over Redacted’s body and moving down and—

As soon as Caine got his mouth on him, Redacted threw his head back and groaned as if he had been punched in the gut. Caine was unfairly good at this.

And he realized his eyes were open because he was looking up at the ceiling and the shadows dancing there. Then his head rolled to the side as Caine took him deeper. And Redacted was looking at the door, and fuck, he had forgotten to close it. And it was too dark in the house, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t tell—

But maybe. Maybe instead of just listening, John was watching. And there was no way for Redacted to know for sure, but the thought alone had him clenching his eyes shut and arching his back and then he was gone.

An hour or so later, Caine lit a cigarette for himself, but Redacted stole it immediately. Caine laughed and lit a second one for himself.

They lay in bed and smoked for a long time. The sun was about to rise. They had forgotten to sleep. (And Redacted kept thinking about what Caine sounded like when Redacted got a hand on him—what he said, how he looked…)

After a while, Redacted asked, “Did you and John ever…”

“A few times,” Caine answered, “but never when we were friends.”

Enemies, then. Or maybe as strangers.

Redacted thought about that. Tried to picture that. Then he realized he quite enjoyed picturing that and was back to fully hard in an instant. He put out his cigarette in a glass of water he had on his nightstand. Then, he plucked the cigarette from Caine’s mouth and put it out too.

“Hey!” Caine started to protest, “I was hmmph—”

Redacted cut him off with a kiss to the mouth.

“Tell me,” Redacted whispered between kisses. “Tell me everything, I want to—”

Caine laughed into every kiss. But then Caine rolled them over until Caine was on top, kneeling over him. And Caine leaned down and whispered into Redacted’s ear every single detail. He didn’t even touch Redacted, but he didn’t have to. Redacted’s hand jerked himself furiously as Caine told him about Manila, about Oslo, about—

“In Buenos Aires,” Caine said, his voice a low dangerous rumble, “he was supposed to kill me. It’s a long story.” Caine chuckled at that. “Anyway, we met at the Continental. He didn’t say a fucking word, but he got on his knees and ate me out until I came without a single hand on me—”

“Oh my God.”

Caine laughed when Redacted came.

Redacted fell asleep with Caine’s arm on his waist.

Breakfast the next morning was surprisingly not as awkward as he had expected it to be. Caine acted as if nothing had happened, and so did John, so Redacted did the same.

John made them all omelets. Then he set up the chessboard. Then he made the first move and gestured for Redacted to respond.

This was new. He and John hadn’t played before.

So, Redacted mirrored John’s move.

Then his mind wandered to Buenos Aires, and it was suddenly much more difficult to sit still.

After chess and over coffee, John told Redacted, TODAY I GO-TO CHURCH. “I’m going to church today.”

“Do you want company?” Redacted asked.

John nodded.

Caine did not go with them to the church.

Neither of them had much in the way of church-appropriate attire, so they made do with their nicest jeans. John silently led the way through the neighborhood, on the bus, and to the subway. They rode the subway to Brooklyn, took another bus, then walked a few blocks until they arrived at a small Orthodox church in Brighton Beach.

When they arrived, Redacted was not sure what to do with himself, but he understood to be company was to stay. So, he sat in a pew and watched as John lit a candle at the candle stand.

It must kill him, Redacted realized, that not even in death would he be able to see Helen again. Heaven didn't exactly have space for men like John.

John sat next to Redacted on the pew. He folded his hands on his lap with his eyes closed. His lips moved in a silent prayer, likely in Russian. Redacted looked away and fixed his eyes to the gold ornamentation on the walls and ceiling.

He thought about nothing in particular, but he felt like crying. He wasn’t sure for whom. There were plenty of people Redacted could have talked to, but he did not know what to say. It’d already been so many years since he last prayed, maybe they had already forgotten him.

Time passed.

After an hour or so, John stood, and Redacted followed. Before they stepped out of the church, however, John stopped Redacted with a hand on his shoulder. John had that strained look to him he got when he tried to push himself to speak.

Redacted wrapped John into a hug before he could say anything. The tension in John’s shoulders fell away immediately as he sank into Redacted’s arms.

They stayed like that for a little while.

Caine was gone when they got back. Perhaps Redacted should have seen that coming. John didn’t seem all that surprised by it.

Redacted and John spent the night on the futon drinking possibly too many beers. John’s face turned a little red from the alcohol, his eyes turned glassy.

And Redacted found he couldn’t shut himself up.

“I remember my first million dollar kill,” he said. “It was surprisingly easy. He wasn’t even running anymore. He didn’t bother hiding. And I don’t even remember why he had the bounty on him. I just took the job and didn’t ask questions. And you know what?”

John arched an eyebrow, encouraging Redacted to continue.

“It didn’t even fucking matter.”

John’s eyebrow arched up higher.

“I made one million dollars that night, but my debt was three. And it was six by the next month.”

John nodded with understanding.

“You were going to be my way out,” Redacted said. And he must be very drunk, he realized, because he was telling John shit John already knew. “I guess you still were, in a way. I should probably thank you.”

John laughed at that, a deep warm laugh that made that embarrassing heat return to Redacted’s chest. John probably didn’t get thanked very often, especially not by his friends. That thought made Redacted’s stomach turn.

“Thank you,” Redacted said.

John nodded and signed THANK-YOU back.

For what, Redacted thought, but did not say.

Not long after and they finished their latest beers and did not reach for more. John looked about as tired as Redacted felt. It was late. Way too late.

“Do you want company?”

John looked away and wiped his palms on his thighs. He seemed caught up in carefully picking his answer. But finally, John settled on a nod.

John’s room was mostly empty. There was a bed, and on the floor next to it, a lamp. Next to the lamp was a framed, slightly singed picture of Helen and an old coffee can that John kept his wallet, keys, and loose change in. In the closet, John kept his old knapsack and the few clothes he had. Nothing else. No desk, no chairs, no books, no papers, no boxes. But under his pillow was a knife much like the one Redacted kept under his own pillow.

John slept with the lamp on.

They stripped down to their underwear and crawled into bed. John lay down, and Redacted sat up. Then, John fell asleep.

Nothing happened. And somehow Redacted was surprised that he was not surprised that nothing happened. John snored, and Redacted pulled out his journal and pen, the lamp providing just enough light for him to sketch by.

He started to sketch John’s sleeping face—one of the few expressions of John’s face he did not already have in the journal. He got as far as John’s nose but could not bring himself to continue.

He switched to doodling what he could remember of Caine’s face. He should’ve sketched Caine when he had the chance. Now all he had to work with were his memories. To his frustration, his lines were looser, less precise, than usual. His vision was blurry. Too drunk, still. Too tired.

After a while, both dogs wandered in. John’s dog curled up at John’s feet. Redacted’s dog settled on Redacted’s lap, gently bullying Redacted’s journal out of his hands so that Redacted would pet her. Redacted set the journal to the side so he could get both hands scratching under the dog’s chin. After a moment, another hand joined Redacted’s, scratching behind the dog’s ear.

“Hey there,” Redacted said to John.

John just gave a sleepy lopsided grin in response. Then his hand was on Redacted’s.

But there was a lump in Redacted’s throat. And he wasn’t thinking about Buenos Aires, he was thinking about John in that church today, hands folded in his lap, mouth moving in a silent prayer. The way John sank into Redacted’s arms as if Redacted was the only force keeping him from falling straight through the earth.

“I don’t know…” Redacted started, then trailed off when he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say.

John’s eyes darted back and forth over Redacted’s face, looking for something.

Then, John’s eyes widened. His hand tightened on Redacted’s.

“What is it—”

“Someone’s here.”

They sobered quickly, tumbling out of bed, and grabbing their nearest knives. They didn’t have time to pull their pants back on, so they went without. Clad in nothing but their boxers, they left the bedroom as a unit, back-to-back. John took the lead and Redacted watched his back. From the other side of the house, there rose a high pitched screech, cutting through the otherwise silent night.

Together, they secured the bathroom, Redacted’s bedroom, the living room, but in the kitchen—

A woman sat where Caine normally did. She was clad in black and busy pouring herself a cup of tea. She looked vaguely familiar to Redacted and he racked his mind to place her—

“Akira,” John said, his voice a rasp.

“John,” she said in return, setting the kettle down on a trivet. Her gaze flicked to Redacted. “And you are…?”

“Nobody,” he answered automatically.

Akira hummed.

John looked down at himself and then at Redacted.

“Let us… get dressed,” John said slowly, straining to get his words out.

Akira nodded.

John set down his knife on the table, so Redacted did the same.

Back in John’s room, they hurriedly pulled their jeans on and grabbed whatever shirt was closest—which happened to be each other’s. Redacted’s shirt was a little loose on John, and he could not help but laugh at the sight.

But then he caught himself.

“John,” he said in a low voice, “what’s the plan here?”

“Tea,” John said. Then, he led the way back to the kitchen.

They had tea.

John pulled down two coffee mugs from the cabinet and poured tea for Redacted and himself. They sat down in their usual spots at the table, while Akira quietly drank. The tea was good, better than anything Redacted knew was in the house. Akira probably brought her own just for this.

“He’s not here, is he?” Akira asked softly.

“No,” John answered.

“You told him I was coming,” Akira said.

John said nothing.

If he wanted to live, Redacted thought, Caine would have stayed. But even if Caine had stayed, Redacted doubted Caine would fight very hard to save himself. Caine smoked like a man who had no intention on living much longer.

“Sometimes a man lingers a bit before he finally dies,” Caine had said one late night.

They were talking about other things then, but Redacted realized that Caine was also talking about himself. Caine was living on borrowed time. Maybe they all were.

But Redacted knew with certainty that John would have protected Caine just as fiercely as Redacted would. Caine probably knew that, too. So, he left.

Akira slammed her teacup onto the table with enough force that Redacted was surprised it did not shatter.

“Why does he get to live?” She asked through gritted teeth.

“Because you’ve allowed him to,” John answered.

After all, she was here when he was not.

Akira fixed John with a fierce glare. “What about you, hmm? Why have you allowed him to live? You burned down the Table to avenge everything they took from you, but you won’t avenge your own brother? When his murderer is under the same roof as you?”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitched.

Akira continued, “When you look at him over breakfast each morning, do you not see my father’s blood on his hands? Or do you see the blood and choose to look away?”

John’s hands clenched into fists on the table.

Akira turned her gaze to Redacted next.

“And you, Mr. Nobody,” Akira said, “what price would it take for you to give him up? Believe me, whatever your price is, Caine’s is lower.”

“I’m retired.”

The edges of Akira’s mouth turned up into a cold smile.

“Akira,” John said, pulling her attention back to him. “After you kill him, what’s next?”

Akira threw her head back with a mad cackle. “John Wick, do you mean to lecture me on the hollowness of revenge? You?! Of all people?!” She wiped her eyes. “Of course, there’s nothing ‘next.’ There’s nothing else. This hate of mine is all I have.”

She dragged her hands over her face, and Redacted was struck by the heavy exhaustion that pulled at her features.

“Who knows? Maybe I’ll retire to the countryside,” she said. “I’ll have a big house and a couple dogs and I’ll spend my days pretending I haven’t outlived myself and spend my nights waiting to die. What kind of life would that be?”

“A life,” John said.

“Maybe so,” Akira said softly.

They fell into a long silence, then. Redacted drank his tea even though it had long gotten cold. Then John asked if Akira had eaten, and Akira said no. So, John got up from the table and grilled a grilled cheese for everyone. Redacted made another pot of tea.

They ate their sandwiches and drank their teas in silence.

It happened slowly. Akira’s shoulders fell. Her face twisted up. She rested her head in her hands. Then her whole body shook as she was wracked with gentle sobs.

“I wish I could stop hating you,” she said quietly, her voice shaking and strained. “I know it’s what my father would have wanted.”

“It’s okay,” John said.

Akira was gone by dawn. John’s voice went with her, it seemed like.

As the sun rose, Redacted and John went back to bed. When John guided Redacted’s arm to rest on his waist, Redacted said, “Okay. Okay, yeah,” and held John close.

The futon still smelled like Caine’s cigarettes.

They didn't talk about him.

The next few days blurred together. Each day was too similar to the one before for Redacted to be able to really tell the days apart. They had coffee and watched the sunset. They played chess. John made them food. Redacted took the dogs on walks, and John followed. Redacted whittled. Each night, they slept together in John’s bed.

Redacted tried to keep the days apart in his mind.

On Monday, Redacted unpacked a few more boxes, and in them found books. John flipped through a few of them until he found a sci-fi book that he was interested in. John finished the book on Tuesday.

On Wednesday, Redacted helped John wash the dishes in the sink. John dried his hands on a dishtowel, then rested a hand on the small of Redacted’s back. Redacted shivered, and he leaned into the touch and into John’s side. Then he turned his head and John captured Redacted’s mouth in his own.

Redacted never would have thought this is who they could be to each other.

John kissed like there was nothing else in the world. Maybe there wasn’t. Maybe this was all there was.  Everything else melted away until the only thing Redacted could focus on was the feeling of John’s mouth moving against his own. John’s hands rose to gently hold the sides of Redacted’s face. He tipped Redacted’s head back as he deepened the kiss. Redacted shuddered and his knees threatened to give out as John’s tongue slid against his.

On Thursday it rained.

It was still raining when Caine came back a few days later.

It was late morning. John had decided to sleep in, Redacted couldn’t really blame him with as gray and dreary as it was outside. Redacted let the dogs out to the backyard for a few minutes, then crawled back in bed.

Redacted returned his arm to John’s waist as soon as he was back under the covers. Then John was snoring again, and the sound pulled Redacted back to sleep.

Minutes or hours later, and Redacted was rudely awoken by—thwack—a sharp strike to his calf. He jolted upright, knife in hand, heart pounding out of his chest.

“Caine, what the fuck?!”

And there was the asshole, grinning like mad, his cane tapping the bed innocently and inquisitively.

“This isn’t your bed,” Caine said, smirking.

“It’s not your bed either.”

And, God, Redacted wished he could hate him.

John was up then. He reached out and grabbed Caine’s wrist, tugging him to bed.

“John?” Caine said, but he went willingly. John and Redacted shuffled to the sides so that Caine could lie in the middle, between them both.

“You look like shit,” Redacted said once Caine was settled.

There were deep purple bags under Caine’s eyes. And across his throat, a jagged closed wound, bright red and angry with a threatened infection.

“I promise I feel even worse,” Caine said with an exhausted laugh.

Redacted believed him.

John and Redacted lay on their sides so they could get their arms around Caine.

“Did you find her?” Redacted asked.

“Yeah,” Caine said.

John’s fingers were tracing the outline of the wound on Caine’s throat. Caine shivered under the touch.

“How was she?” Redacted asked.

“Great,” Caine answered, “as always. Just… perfect.”

John’s fingers were on Caine’s face now, tracing over his chin.

Caine continued, “We had dinner together. A little café she goes to all the time. I told the waiter it was her birthday and they brought out a strawberry shortcake for us.”

John’s thumb rubbed circles into Caine’s cheek. Redacted’s thumb rubbed circles into Caine’s hip.

“Then, while Mia was in the restroom, Akira slit my throat. And the only thing I was thinking was that it was a perfect time to die.”

He was here now, though, so Akira must have spared him.

“But I had to go,” Caine said, “I couldn’t let my daughter see me like… that.”

Redacted could picture it clear as day what that would have looked like—Caine slumped over the table, face in the shortcake, blood soaking the white tablecloth with red.

“Will you meet her again?” Redacted asked softly.

“I don’t know,” Caine said. He let out a long shuddering sigh. “I don’t know.”

Redacted stopped asking questions, then.

John leaned forward and placed a gentle kiss to the side of Caine’s face.

Redacted and John got dressed. They all had breakfast and coffee. Then, after a while, John and Redacted hauled Caine to the bathroom—which was definitely too small for all of them, but they made it work best they could. There, they sat him down on the wall of the bathtub. Redacted gently washed Caine’s wound with soapy water and a soft washcloth, while John grabbed the first aid kit.

As John fumbled with the antiseptic, Redacted finished rinsing off the soapy water and dried blood. Then he couldn’t help himself, he leaned in and placed a kiss to the side of Caine’s face.

Caine’s shoulders slumped, like the last of his tension was falling away.

“Missed you,” Redacted murmured against Caine’s mouth as Caine turned his face into the kiss.

“Fuck off,” Caine said in between kisses, but his voice was fond.

John snapped his fingers to make them part. Reluctantly, Redacted pulled away. To make up for it, he rested his hand on Caine’s. Caine turned his hand over so they could hold onto each other. Redacted’s thumb rubbed back and forth over the top of Caine’s hand. And what a simple thing, Redacted thought, to be so warmed by.

Caine hissed as John dabbed at the wound with an alcohol-soaked cotton ball. His fingers tightened around Redacted’s hand, probably involuntarily.

Then John was done. He threw the used cotton swabs away.

“Thank you, John,” Caine said.

Some unnamable emotion washed over John’s face, then. He raised a hand and grabbed the front of Caine’s shirt in a gentle grasp.

“Yeah,” Caine said, like he was answering a question.

Then Caine and John closed the distance. And they moved together so perfectly, like they knew every inch of each other—yet there was a hesitance to them, like they weren’t sure if they were allowed to do this, to have this.

But slowly, ever so slowly, that hesitance melted away. They sped up, the kiss heated up. John dragged Caine’s bottom lip between his teeth.

“Fuck,” Caine and Redacted breathed out at the same time.

They tumbled back into John’s room not long after.

Caine pushed Redacted to bed and set to work pulling Redacted’s shirt off. John settled on the end of the bed and watched.

Redacted was very, very okay with the way everything was turning out, but he was also quickly realizing that he had no idea how this was going to work. Sure, he had thought about it—a lot, actually—but his fantasies were often filled with all kinds of impossible things, too, they weren’t exactly to be trusted.

Caine’s mouth latched to the side of Redacted’s neck. Redacted shuddered as Caine worked Redacted’s skin between his teeth. Caine’s hands roamed down Redacted’s chest like he was trying to memorize every inch, every dip and curve and scar.

“Caine,” Redacted gasped. “Caine, slow down—"

Caine pulled away immediately. His hands paused in their roaming.

“Good?” Caine asked.

“Yeah,” Redacted said quickly, breathless, “yeah, all good. It’s just…” Redacted turned his head so he could see John over Caine’s shoulder. “How…” Redacted swallowed heavily, “how are we gonna do this?”

Caine chuckled. “Did you and John not…?”

“No,” Redacted answered. They had kissed. They had held each other. And Redacted had thought about him—often (and usually in the shower so he could drown out the sounds he made as he fucked his fist and imagined…)

But they hadn’t done more than that.

Caine chuckled again. “John’s going to watch.”

John nodded.

“Oh,” Redacted said, and he felt a bit dizzy as heat rushed to his groin. He was so hard it was starting to hurt.

“Good?” Caine asked again.

“Yeah,” Redacted said quickly, “yeah, that’s—”

Caine silenced him with a quick kiss. Then, in Redacted’s ear, a whispered, “Let’s give him a good show.”

Caine sat at the head of the bed, with his legs spread wide and Redacted settled between them. Caine wrapped an arm around Redacted’s chest and pulled him back so Redacted’s back was flush with Caine’s chest and Redacted’s ass was flush against Caine’s groin. Caine was still wearing his pants, but Redacted could still feel the outline of him, could feel how hard he was. It made him flush with heat.

Caine nibbled on Redacted’s earlobe. “Is he watching?” Caine whispered.

“Yeah,” Redacted answered breathlessly.

And he was. John sat fully dressed and perfectly still, his hands resting on his knees as his eyes tracked every movement of Caine’s hands on Redacted’s body. The fingers of one hand teased over one nipple while the other hand rested on the inside of Redacted’s thigh. He fanned his fingers out, and his fingertips just barely brushed against Redacted’s still-clothed erection. Redacted tilted his hips to try to get some more contact, but Caine pulled his hand away.

“Patience, patience,” Caine tsk-ed.

John’s gaze flicked up to study Redacted’s face. Warmth washed through Redacted’s body under the attention. He grew impossibly harder. His legs shook.

This… this was new for Redacted. Mind you, he was no blushing virgin. But sex had never been like this before: both exploration and performance; both serious and play; both slow and ravenous. Every sweep of John’s gaze over Redacted’s body made him shiver. Every graze of Caine’s fingers against his skin made him burn.

Caine’s hands returned to between Redacted’s thighs, palming Redacted through his jeans. Redacted bucked up into the touch. He felt ridiculous to react so strongly to the smallest of contact, but this was a performance too, he reminded himself.

Caine’s fingers traveled to the fly of Redacted’s jeans.

“Please,” Redacted whispered, but he wasn’t sure if he was directing it to John or to Caine.

John’s fingers twitched almost imperceptibly where they rested on his thighs.

“I’ve got you,” Caine said softly.

Redacted relaxed, sinking further against Caine’s chest.

“There, there,” Caine said. Then he popped the button to Redacted’s jeans and slipped a hand in to grasp Redacted through his boxers.

Redacted clenched his eyes shut and hissed as Caine palmed at him gently but deliberately.

“Isn’t he pretty, John?” Caine asked.

Redacted forced one eye open just in time to see John nod, which made Redacted groan. John remained silent, so Caine couldn’t have known John’s response, but Caine did not seem to mind terribly. He probably knew John’s thoughts—or perhaps more likely, Caine just liked the sound of his own voice.

Caine continued, “I’ve told him about Manila…” Caine twisted his hand gently, making Redacted gasp “I’ve told him about Oslo and Buenos Aires…” Redacted’s breathing was turning ragged “…but I just remembered I forgot one.”

Redacted’s eyes flew open, and he found John smirking, matching the smirk Redacted could hear in Caine’s voice.

“Where was it, again?” Caine asked.

“Bucharest,” John answered.

It’d been days since Redacted last heard John speak—and even longer for Caine, he realized—and he hadn’t realized how much he had missed John’s voice until that exact moment. John’s face still looked a little strained, the way it always did when he spoke, but his eyes were no less intensely focused on Redacted’s body than they were before.

“Ah, that’s right,” Caine said conversationally, even as one hand slipped under the hem of Redacted’s boxers. “Bucharest.” Then, to Redacted, “Do you want to hear about Bucharest?”

“Please,” he answered in a pleading whisper. And he was aware that his cock was still largely hidden from John’s view—which somehow made him feel even more exposed with how intently John was watching. All part of the show, he realized. Damn, Caine was much too good at this.

Caine leaned forward so he could whisper directly in Redacted’s ear, his hand keeping the same pace on Redacted’s cock.

“We were sharing a safehouse with a few others,” Caine whispered. “We had to be quiet. We couldn’t get found out. But when I had him down my throat—” Redacted groaned again, his mind running wild with recreating the scene “—there was a knock on the door. I couldn’t remember if I had locked the door or not, but John told me to stay put. He told them that everything was fine, until they finally left.” Caine laughed darkly when he continued, “Then he pulled me up by my hair, threw me on the bed, and fucked me ‘til I almost screamed.”

“Oh my God,” Redacted groaned like he had been punched in the gut. “Oh, my fucking God. Caine. Caine—”

Caine twisted his hand on Redacted. Redacted’s eyes clenched shut. He was so close.

Caine continued, “John tried to keep me quiet, but it wasn’t easy.”

“Please, please,” Redacted said, voice turning close to a whine.

Caine’s hand sped up.

“You begged me to choke you,” John added.

Caine laughed, and Redacted could hear—could feel—the sound rumbling through his chest.

“And you hated me enough that you actually did,” Caine said.

Redacted’s back arched, his head fell back onto Caine’s shoulder, his vision went white. And then he was gone.

John and Caine were saying something, but he couldn’t really follow. His heart rate and breathing were all over the place, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear. And he was floating, floating, somewhere high up and—

He crashed back to earth, his eyes opened. And John was climbing over him, knees bracketing Redacted’s legs on either side.

“John,” Redacted said breathlessly.

Then John kissed him, stealing what little air he had left. Redacted melted under John’s attention, sinking further into Caine’s arms even as he tried to lean into the kiss. He was caught between them both and he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else.

“Pretty,” John said, pulling away.

The affection in John’s voice made Redacted want to turn away, hide his face, disappear. Which was truly ridiculous when he literally just came in front John. But Redacted didn’t have time to explore that feeling because—

John pulled Caine’s hand from Redacted’s jeans, and—

“Holy shit—” Redacted said, voice tight, as John’s tongue swiped at the come on Caine’s hand.

“Fuck,” Caine said, and his voice was affected, turning breathy. Redacted felt how he hardened against Redacted’s backside. “Fuck, you’re still as filthy as ever, aren’t you, John.”

John said nothing, he just sucked Caine’s index and middle finger—dripping with Redacted’s come—into his mouth.

“Fuck,” Caine and Redacted breathed out at the same time as the fingers fell from John’s mouth.

Redacted’s cock made a valiant, albeit painful, effort at getting hard again. Thankfully, Caine and John finally had mercy on him. They repositioned themselves on the bed so that Redacted could lie on his side, catch his breath, and watch.

John and Caine crashed into each other immediately, kissing furiously. Caine got his hands on John’s arms so he could feel John as he moved. Caine fell back onto the pillows, laughing, as John caged him in with his hands planted on either side of Caine’s head.

“Been a while, huh?” Caine said, wearing that big stupid grin.

Instead of answering, John slotted his knee between Caine’s thighs. Caine hissed and threw his head back at the contact. John pressed his thigh against Caine with enough pressure to surely be vicious, but Caine whined and thrust up against the contact, rolling his hips to rub himself against John’s thigh.

But Caine still didn’t shut up.

“What do you say, John?” Caine said, voice turning breathless and near hysterical. “Think you hate me enough to fuck me like in Bucharest?”

John frowned. “I… I—”

But Caine cut him off, “Oh come on. Don’t tell me you’re not jealous.”

Redacted was confused, then. Was Caine talking about him? But, they hadn’t—

But then Caine was turning his head, baring his throat to John—the long, jagged slash there from Akira’s blade.

“Should’ve been you, John,” Caine breathed out. Like he was talking about fucking someone else, and not about how much he wished it had been John who had slit his throat instead.

“No,” John said quietly. But he did not move away.

Caine’s hands tightened on John’s shoulders.

John cut his eyes to Redacted, then, with a silent desperate plea. Redacted shook his head. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do. What could he do? John’s eyes widened with a greater plea, and Redacted didn’t even know what he was being asked but he had to do something.

Redacted reached out and grasped a loose fistful of Caine’s hair. Caine made a satisfied sound and leaned up into the touch. Redacted guided Caine’s face towards his own. Caine’s mouth opened, searching for Redacted’s. Redacted leaned down and placed a quick kiss to Caine’s lips. But he pulled away when Caine tried to deepen the kiss. Redacted trailed his kisses down the side of Caine’s face, along his jaw, then up to Caine’s ear. Caine shivered when Redacted blew air into his ear.

“What happened to the man who wasn’t afraid of anything?” Redacted asked. And maybe his words were harsh, but he tried to keep his voice gentle. And it was a gamble, all of it. He didn’t have a plan here. He was running off guesses and gut feelings.

Caine’s eyebrows knitted as he listened to Redacted’s words.

Redacted continued, “You’re not running this, Caine. John is. And you’re gonna take what’s given to you. Even if he wants to give it to you slow—” he nipped at Caine’s earlobe “—and sweet.”

Caine’s face twisted up.

“Never when we were friends,” Redacted remembered. Caine didn’t know how to do this.

“Does that scare you?” Redacted asked in a whisper. But he wasn’t going to make Caine answer that question. This game was getting dangerous fast.

Redacted moved on to a different question. “Do you really think he’s made you breakfast everyday for months because he hates you?”

Caine shook his head.

But Redacted knew that wasn’t necessarily the issue here. Caine knew perfectly well that John didn’t hate him. The problem was that Caine wanted John to hate him. Every morning, Caine felt Koji’s blood dripping from his hands. And every morning, John let him live. Hell, John even made him pancakes.

“It’s okay, Caine,” Redacted said, kissing Caine’s forehead, “we’ve got you.”

“Okay,” Caine whispered, “okay.”

And Redacted realized then that John probably wasn’t running this, either.

They took it slow, but they eventually got Caine’s shirt off him and got him situated between them, lying on his side. Redacted was at his back, John at his front. Redacted wrapped his arm around Caine’s chest like Caine had done for him. And just like Redacted had, Caine sunk into Redacted’s chest.

Redacted helped John work Caine’s pants and underwear down to around his thighs.

Redacted checked in with Caine. “Good?”

Caine nodded. “Yeah.”

Redacted rested his head on Caine’s shoulder so he could get a good angle to watch. John wrapped a hand around Caine’s cock, pumping him slow and steady.

“Fuck,” Caine breathed out in a long shaking exhale, burying his head into the pillows.

Redacted placed a kiss to Caine’s shoulder. “You’re doing good,” Redacted said. And he realized he meant it for both Caine and John. Both men shook a little under the praise. Redacted filed that detail away as important information for later.

“So good,” Redacted said, just to see Caine shiver again.

Redacted was fully hard again, and he rocked against Caine’s ass gently to get some pressure.

“Please,” Caine breathed.

“Need more?” Redacted asked.

Caine nodded his head quickly. “Please, please—”

Redacted shared a glance with John, who nodded.

Redacted reached up and tapped his fingers against Caine’s mouth. Caine’s lips parted immediately, and Redacted slipped two fingers in Caine’s mouth. Caine’s lips wrapped around the fingers immediately, tongue laving at the digits. Redacted felt himself throb.

“Goddamn, Caine,” Redacted muttered, which John chuckled at.

Then Redacted pulled his spit-covered fingers from Caine’s mouth and brought down and back—

Caine shivered when Redacted prodded at his hole. And gasped when Redacted gently pushed one in, just to the first knuckle. He was sure that Caine could take more, and faster, but that wasn’t the point. The point was to do him like this, slow and steady and—

Caine arched his back, as his hips began rocking back onto Redacted’s finger and up into John’s grasp.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck—” Caine hissed.

“You still take it so well,” John said, hushed and rapt.

Then Caine was gone, gasping and shaking and spilling over John’s hand.

John got a hand around Redacted, who only needed a few strokes before he came. And as he collapsed onto Caine, who was still coming down his high, too, Redacted realized something: John was still fully dressed and hadn’t come.

“Do you want—” Redacted started, but he wasn’t sure how to ask.

John shook his head. “No.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry,” John added.

“It’s okay,” Redacted said. “If that’s what you want.”

John nodded.

(Caine would tell him later, much later, that John only liked being touched about half the time).

Caine reached up and grabbed John’s arm, hauling him down to lie in front of him. Caine wrapped one leg around John’s and an arm around John’s waist. Caine buried his nose in John’s hair while Redacted tightened his arm around Caine’s waist.

“Thank you,” Caine said.

It finally stopped raining by the time they hauled themselves out of bed and got dressed again.

John set to work on lunch.

Redacted wiped down the three chairs on the back porch so they could sit.

Caine took the chair next to him.

Redacted pulled out his pocketknife and the piece of wood he had been whittling off and on the past few weeks.

“What are you carving?” Caine asked.

“Dog,” Redacted answered.

What he did not say though, was that it was a gift for Caine. Seemed only fair that Caine should get to have a dog, too.

Caine hummed and lit a cigarette.

Time passed. The world woke up. The clouds parted and the sun returned. The rain on the ground dried. And up in the oak tree, the doves were singing—and their chicks were hollering for a meal.

“Got any plans today?” Caine asked as Redacted dragged his knife along the wood.

“Nope,” Redacted said.

“Does that bother you?” Caine asked.

“Used to,” Redacted answered. “But I think I’m figuring out this retirement thing. I’ve got roots, now.”

He was going to be an oak tree.

“And good company?” Caine asked.

“Nah,” Redacted said.

Caine laughed and called him an asshole.

They fell into a comfortable silence, then. Caine smoked, and Redacted whittled a face for the little wooden terrier.

And Redacted thought about this little home of theirs, and everything they could do with it. They could get some bookshelves. A record player. Maybe some art for the walls. Dog beds for their dogs. They could have a garden. A piano. A slow cooker.

This too-small house… they could fill it with a million wonderful things. Redacted could move from whittling to carpentry. On this porch he could build them more furniture. Like a nightstand for John’s room. Or another table. Or…

Redacted realized he was smiling then. He was grinning like an idiot at all the endless possibilities.

They should name this place, he decided. He had no idea what it should be called, but it should be called something.

And he could…

His smile deepened as his heart quickened as he dared to allow himself to dream about something that had been impossible for so many years…

He could give himself a name.