CHAPTER 18 #3
Then her voice carried through the hallway, cheerful and light, “If you’re awake and not dead, I made… something that might be food.” I smirked, running a hand gingerly through my hair, pushing it back out of my eyes.
“Can’t wait to be poisoned,” I called back, my voice rough. She leaned around the corner with a spatula in one hand, wearing an apron I didn’t know Chester owned. It was tied around her waist and read "Kiss the Cook" in faded red. Her expression lit up when she saw me sitting up.
“Look who’s alive,” she grinned.
“Barely.” I looked to her through my brow, “I feel like roadkill.”
She chuckled, “You look like it too,” she vanished again. “Come on, you’ve got about ten minutes before I burn the rest.” She was acting like my mother, not my sister.
I dragged myself up slowly, one foot in front of the other, body heavy as if it had been filled with concrete.
Every step through the hallway felt earned.
But when I reached the kitchen, there she was—plates out, two mugs of something hot, and a smile that wasn’t forced.
It felt like the old days, before Chester left.
She used to be so happy here, and lately it seemed like her light had faded.
There's no doubt it was because of Danny, but it was nice to see.
A small smile spread across my face as I lowered myself into the single chair at the table. It was scrambled eggs. Overcooked, of course, and toast that looked like it had survived a war. But it smelled like safety —something close to normal.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I muttered, looking over to her now perched on the countertop.
“Yeah, well. Couldn’t let you starve.” She picked at her toast, grinning. “Plus, I wanted to see if you’d make that face again when you taste my cooking.”
I took a bite, my face twisting with a smile. “It’s like chewing bricks.”
She chuckled, “Fuck you!”
I met her eyes over the rim of my mug. Behind her playfulness, I could still see it, the worry.
The guilt. The tension she was holding just beneath the surface.
Squeeks’ phone buzzed against the counter, loud in the quiet kitchen.
She glanced at it, the smile she’d been holding onto flickering, then disappearing completely.
Her shoulders stiffened before she even picked it up.
I didn’t need to see the name on the screen to know who it was.
“Danny,” she muttered, confirming it anyway. I watched her answer, eyes cast down. “Yeah… I know. I was just seeing a friend.”
A blatant lie, in a way, I didn’t blame her. A pause. Her jaw tightened.
“No, I didn’t. I’ll do it now.” Another pause. “I’ll be back soon.” She hung up without saying goodbye.
I stood up slowly, “You don’t have to go,” and for a second, I saw that war behind her eyes again.
“I do,” she said quietly. “He’ll ask questions if I don’t.”
I nodded, even though I hated it. “Tell him nothing.” Her lips parted, as if she wanted to say something else, but she didn’t. Instead, she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around me. “Don’t move too much. Don’t be an idiot.”
I nodded. “Can’t promise either.”
That made her smile, a faint and reluctant one as she backed away from me, removing the apron. Then she stepped out into the rain without another word, hood pulled up, and shoulders hunched.
The silence closed in around me again like a slow fog, but it didn’t last long. The front door slammed open with a force that rattled the frame. I barely had time to turn before Misfit stormed into the flat, fury carved into every step.
“You absolute piece of shit!” She snapped, “You just bolted, leaving me there. Are you brain dead or just like signing your own death warrant?”
My head lolling forward as I leaned against the counter, placing my plate into the sink. I just blinked slowly through the haze of pain clawing at me. My body felt like it had been tossed down four flights of stairs and run over for good measure.
“Misfit…” I tried, but she was already pacing.
“No, don’t ‘Misfit’ me.” Her voice cracked a little on it. “You think I didn’t have cuffs on me the second you took off? Fucking prick.” She stalked closer, soaked to the bone, “Well? Don’t fucking ignore me, Screech! That was a real classy move.”
Her chest heaved with the effort of holding it all in, the betrayal, the sheer audacity of me running.
She stopped cold. Her eyes widened to the bruises decorating my face, scanning lower to the abrasions on my arms. She jolted my shoulder, pushing me from the counter to look upon me properly as I winced at the forced movement.
“What the fuck happened to you?” she said, her voice quieter now. Her brows creasing as I lifted my top, checking to see if I had split my stitches, revealing the bloodied gauze and purpling bruises spiderwebbing across my ribcage.
“Long story,” letting out a hard breath as I worked through the pain.
She scoffed, crossing her arms, “That better not be you brushing me off again.” Raising an eyebrow to me as I offered her a cocky half smile, “You’re a dick!” she said bluntly.
“Yeah,” I didn’t argue.
“But my kind of dick, apparently.” That got a twitch of a smile out of me, and she rolled her eyes like it pissed her off to see it.
“Oft, talk dirty to me why don’t you,” My eyes falling onto her with my tired attempt at sarcasm.
“Alright, you idiot, you should be laid down.” She gestured vaguely towards the bedroom of the flat.
“Why do you care so much?” I asked, the words a rough whisper. She ignored the question, her jaw tight.
“Just move it, Screech. Before you embarrass yourself and actually fall over or something.” She moved to my side, her hand hovering as if to support me, then thought better of it, her fingers twitching with restraint.
Getting to the bedroom was a slow, painful shuffle.
Every step was an effort, and the world tilted precariously with each movement.
Misfit watched me with narrowed eyes, making sure I didn’t stumble, though she offered no physical help.
Once I was finally stretched out on the bed, my head against the pillow, a groan escaped my lips.
She knelt beside the bed, her usual fiery energy subdued.
Tentatively lifting my top, she reached out, her fingers ghosting over the bandages on my ribs.
Her touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to her earlier tirade.
She peeled back the gauze carefully; her brow furrowed in concentration as she examined the purpling bruises and stitches.
It was a strange moment of quiet intimacy between us, a contradiction to our usual chaotic exchanges.
The air hummed with unspoken things, the usual barbs and tension replaced by a fragile vulnerability.
“How do you know what you’re looking at?” I asked, my voice barely audible.
She paused; her gaze still fixed on my wounds.
“Used to want to be a doctor, read a lot of books,” her voice softer than I’d ever heard it.
“Before…um.” She trailed off, the word hanging in the air, unfinished, a silent curtain falling over a part of her past she wasn’t ready to share. She carefully replaced the gauze.
“I’ll be back soon with some medical shit and strong painkillers.”
My curiosity, despite the pain, was piqued. “Where are you getting them from?”
She stood, a ghost of her usual defiance returning to her eyes. “I live with a doctor.” And with that, she turned and left, the quiet closing in once more.