Who: Lina & Neal, the three (now deceased) Chicago survivors, with Pete and Garrus at the end. What: Teamwork leads to escaping, and a very near brush with death. When: Tonight! Where: Underground tunnels, somewhere in a far unincorporated area in the OC. Rating/Warnings: High for all things bad. Death, gore, hostage situations, language, etc. Status: Complete!
Lina didn’t know how long it’d been, what time it was, and she maybe sorta got her days mixed up - they had passed in what felt like a feverish haze, the gunshot wound never receiving proper medical attention, and prone to a slow infection. They’d been used as ashtrays, putting out their burning cancer sticks on their skin - whenever, wherever. They’d been kicked around, taunted with the basic necessities like food (eating in front of them, making them smell it, holding it by their mouths and never letting them bite). Water was the only thing they’d been given but it was enough so they wouldn’t shrivel and die.
Big Foot hadn’t been around much, suspiciously. Tiddles and No Name had been their friends through most of this, guarding them under man made tunnels beneath the ground. Dank and dark, the sound of pipes leaking somewhere, dripdrip. Rats digging through the trash accumulated from the greasy disfigured asshats, scavenging for leftovers.
And surprisingly, Lina hadn’t been noisy. Or all that much awake. Exhaustion had taken over a lot, despite being strapped down uncomfortably to wooden chairs, with prickly rope that made flesh raw if they so happened to be stubborn enough to struggle. They were still in the confines of Orange County, she knew that much, because their situation still did not stop those dreams from progressing.
The ones where they’d finally made it down to Hellmaster’s layer underground, a mosaic of crystals with the souls of the dead inside. And when their alternative attempts to take down that goddamn demonlord had failed, he retaliated. By killing everyone. All her friends, one by one. Amelia had been only fifteen for fuck’s sake, her eyes stayed open, she died in Zelgadis’ arms. Everyone else fell like flies, all Lina did was go numb and freeze up and she didn’t do anything. Martina had been the only one who had a chance to say her goodbyes.
Even if the world’s destroyed, it doesn’t matter, does it?
Gourry had been the final attempt, like Hellmaster intended, and she’d finally snapped. Hot winds, the white lights mixed in darkness, the talismans lit up, the summoning of chaos in the world. It’s what he wanted, and he got it. She’d chosen Gourry over the world, but now that it mattered then anyway, did it? Because coldness filled her veins, that sense of emptiness with a conscience had taken over, and she’d lost control of the spell right when Hellmaster attacked. The end.
When Lina woke up, still trapped under the tunnels next to Neal, No Name and Tiddles discussing something about gasoline and fire while they shared a flask of vodka, her eyes flashed something eerie and gold before they faded back to its usual red.
“I need to pee.”
No, those dreams hadn’t ceased. Not for Neal either. He was dead, buried six feet under in that little town in Maine, but he still got repeats unfortunately. At the very least, whatever was in the air here in their odd pocket dimension known as Orange County granted him a bit of reprieve in that he didn’t have to relive taking his last breath in Emma’s arms again, with his father kneeling near, face twisted up in unfathomable pain. The pain of losing a child. Neal couldn’t even imagine, especially not for his own father, who had moved the very realms themselves to get to the son he had abandoned. What was it like for Rumple after all that? He didn’t know. Couldn’t dream past the darkness once it closed in.
Here, his eyes opened and he was bleary - starved, thirsty, tired, exhausted, and sore. Everything was just kind of blending together at this point, the cigarette burns looked at now as one of the few reminders that he was still alive - the pain and sizzle of the embers against skin told him that. He’d been working on the knots, however. When he was first tied up he made sure to tense all his muscles - it was a trick taught during his days of the hard-knock life and also used by escape artists, because when you relaxed it made the rope looser. Didn’t give much room, but in the chair it was something, and he was working on it when Thing 1 and Thing 2 over there weren’t paying attention.
“She needs to pee,” he slurred, not really cutting an imposing presence looking the way he did. A diet of only water didn’t help but adrenaline would find a way. “Hey, Tiddle Dum, at least let her pee?”
Adrenaline would find a way. That’s what had woken her up, anyway; a strange carryover from the dreams, blood pumping angrily, the sound of her heartbeat thumping loud in her ears, on the verge of doing what could possibly be a catastrophic mistake but she didn’t care. Everyone was dead, she saw them die, and she’d bring it all to ruin for someone her dreamself was in love with.
What a way to romance at the worst possible time.
Lina’s gaze briefly went to Neal for an assessment. Now she was definitely awake, alert, a raw pinkness brimming her eyes. Squirming even a bit was a goddamn terrible idea - it set those shoulder nerves on fire, reminding her that, oh, yeah, she got fucking shot. It’d been a long time since that happened. It wasn’t pleasant.
He was awake. Not doing looking so good (and she was sure she wasn’t either), but awake.
Tiddles looked over, annoyed, tongue striking out to lick that bit of liquor smeared on his upper lip. He crumbled up tinfoil from a burger and pelted Neal with it. “How about you fuckin’ wait? You could say please, too, that’d be fucking nice, considering your options are limited.”
No Name looked hesitant, rubbing his once perfectly intact chin before whispering to Tiddles; “Big’s coming back with the gasoline, we’re about to have a fucking bonfire and roast some s'mores on their corpses, she ain’t gonna need to be worrying about pissing.”
“Let me clarify,” Lina interrupted, words hoarse and raspy against her dry throat. But she sounded like she had energy, compared to the wounded lethargy from before. Even battered, bruised, burned. “I actually don’t need to pee. I was being polite and ladylike, but you’re forcing my hand here. I need to do something a ton worse, I’ve been backed up for days thanks to you jackasses. You either take me somewhere to take a dump, or this place is going to stink up and you’ll witness something gross. Your choice.”
Tiddles and No Name looked a little irked, and Lina’s smile opened like a wound.
Damn. Neal had to hand it to Ms. Inverse over here. The ‘I have to take a dump’ ploy was smart, and a sure thing to at least get some movement going - there was something about human waste that really lit a fire under people’s asses. Or at least, it should. But he had a feeling that Thing 1 and Thing 2 weren’t exceptions to that rule, judging by the expressions on their ugly-as-sin faces. Not even their mothers could love them, boo hoo.
“Maybe they like rolling around in shit,” he snorted a weary laugh, but it was to goad them on into giving in. “Like other pigs.” And he was making progress with the knots too, so one of them taking Lina out of the drip-drop horrorshow would severely increase his chances of survival if he were to stage some kind of attack.
Lina wasn’t above using vulgarity as a tool to help them get the fuck out. All part of being resourceful, and her threat of dangerous bowel movements seemed to have hit a nerve. The more they simmered, the closer they were to whatever diabolical bullshit plan of vengeance the Ugly Trio had in store for them and, really, the urge to foil plans and make them shit themselves was strong. It was revitalizing, even with the colossal dread of knowing what had happened on the other side. What she’d done. That pooling sickness she shoved away because there wasn’t time to properly mourn or properly deal.
She had to chuckle some, but in more of the ‘I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown’ kind of way. “C’mon, let me--”
Sentence interrupted, when Tiddles went over and pistol-whipped Neal across the face with the glock that so generously threatened his temple the night of the kidnapping. “You, kid, need to shut the fuck up. You -” A reference to No Name, who still didn’t have a name for some reason. “Take the cuffs and take Little Tits.”
“Why do I have to do it?”
“Because you’ll be cleaning up her mess otherwise,” threatened Tiddles.
Watching Neal get nailed in the face made Lina scowl, squirm in her confinements despite the screeching pain of her shoulder, the soreness of her body. No Name had to remind her to behave, otherwise there was no potty-time, and the ropes were pulled apart. Only to have her trapped within a set of stainless steel cuffs, the hardcore cop kind, and tightened painfully around those bitty wrists. And he made sure to yank her off that chair by her more severely tender arm, yielding a hiss between grit teeth.
No Name dragged her along, but Lina managed to look back, eyes narrowed, and gave Neal a nod.
What that nod meant, well, it was a very open interpretation. But it was safe to say that plans were made and if he had any, to do them now.
A pistol-whipping made for a bloody nose, and Neal just glared. Heat emanated from his stare, it ballooned out and nearly suffocated the whole dank space with the force of it - and not simply ‘righteous fury’ or any of that bullshit. It was way past that. More like hedging on volcanic eruptions and pure darkness that was nothing but poisonous, shadowy tendrils of hate.
But he caught the nod from Lina. They were in sync, like always. Not to mention there was a very small window of opportunity.
Finally something went right, and the gnarly ropes began to crack and give way. The marks on Neal, where they dug in, were going to bleed too but he didn’t care if he was rubbed raw. He held himself there on the chair until the last possible second, summoning up enough adrenaline and putting everything he had into this. This being the sudden way he broke loose from the chair, but was still hanging onto it to use it as a weapon - to which he slammed it right into that Tiddles fucker, hard legs into a burned, scarred body, accompanied by a knee to the balls, and the scuffle only lasted a few more seconds. Just enough time to get the man in a headlock and sharply jerk to the left.
Neck snapped. Down he went. Very little mess.
Neal had no idea where all that rage came from, but he didn’t care. He was busy searching for a weapon on the corpse to use to go find Lina.
Legs buckled every now and again, but Lina stood her ground as best as she could while being rudely pulled and yanked around like a ragdoll. Jerk. No Name had taken her deep into the tunnels, made a left at an intersection and there it was, a graciously established port-a-potty (and it was missing the door, so there was very limited privacy) that reeked of the devil’s butt. There was no way in hell she’d go in there, but she had to play the part and act like it.
“Ummm…” One look at the sorry excuse of a toilet with flies swarming it, and then a somewhat offended look to the disfigured douchebag. “Do you mind?” Lina seethed, because what the fuck? Pervert!
No Name grinned widely, a couple teeth missing, and shook his head. “No way in hell, Little Tit--”
And there it was, an echo of something going on. Pained yell, it sounded like--
“Tiddles?!”
Distracted, No Name swiveled around, his back to Lina. Cue taken, then, because like the spider monkey she was, she mustered up one of the very few reserves of energy left to jump onto his back swing her arms over his shoulders, the chain of the handcuffs scraping against his neck. And she pulled, choking him. Restriction of air generated a frenzied response for desperation of oxygen and he struggled, as expected. By grabbing her arms, doing his best to pull and grab but Lina was damn good at dealing with pain. It wasn’t her first time getting her ass kicked ten different ways to Sunday and her dance with Garv had been much worse than this, thank you.
The veins in his neck protruded, his face expanded and went cherry-red, and soon No Name became a limp bag of scarred flesh that collapsed onto the dirty ground, with Lina landing on his back. “Neal!” Her intention was to be loud but the sound of his name was cracked and hoarse, not as boisterous as she’d like to alert him of her whereabouts. If that was him, if he was fine and he’d gotten free.
“Lina!” Neal heard her, he was coming. Voice also scratched and hoarse, but he’d grabbed the pistol from now dead Tiddles and stumbled in the vague direction of where he heard her. “Stay there, I’m coming to you!” Or he was going to try. There wasn’t any kind of direct clue to her location, other than following the dulcet tones of her voice, but he’d find her. Hopefully before the ringleader Big Foot got back with those materials for a bonfire.
People had to be searching for them too. There was no way their disappearance would go unnoticed - especially with as big of a show the thugs had put on with their townhouse trashing and butt plug calling cards.
There was a brief moment of weakness there, a shuddering gasp that ripped through her body - and to some ears it could be interpreted as the beginnings of a sob. Lina didn’t know if it was because of how fucked up things were at this very moment, held captive by ghosts of the past, or every single thing that unfolded to the culmination of what was possibly the end of the world in her dreams. It was all too muddled and too fresh. Senses and nerves were overwhelmed at the moment, so who the fuck knew which feeling belonged under what shitty thing.
Losing her shit, however, wasn’t an option. Sucking in a deep breath of what was putrid air, she untangled herself from No Name and did her best grab at his pockets. No gun, the fucking moron, but there was a switchblade she managed to pocket the best she could with cuffed hands. Something was better than nothing, and before she exited this particular wing of this underground hellhole, she took one last look at No Name.
And stomped on his head, mercilessly. Bones cracked beneath her feet at the second stomp, a third stomp, fourth and fifth, before all that was left was the sound of squish. Lina hadn’t checked for a pulse before but she made a mistake of leaving survivors in in what caused this entire thing. There was no way in hell he’d survive from that. “Rot in hell, asshole,” Spit. Croaky snarl. “I’ve got babies to make.”
Then she turned the corner into the main part of the tunnels. And from there she saw Neal, and it was like Christmas fucking morning! He was alive. Of course he was - why the hell wouldn’t he? They somehow orchestrated some sort of escape plan via funny looks, they were officially awesome. “Hey!” Her arms went up, never mind the electric current of pain ripping through her shoulder, but relief had been a more powerful feeling. “You don’t by any chance have a key to this thing, do you? Because otherwise you’re going to have to shoot the chains.”
Shoot the chains? Not a thing Neal had ever done, but it looked like he had to give it a try now. Their lives were a Michael Bay movie anyway, so why not add a little extra pizazz? “Unfortunately not. Tiddlesticks only had the pistol on him,” he grumbled, which made him wonder who had the goddamn keys - the ringleader, probably. Big Foot and his nasty face.
It didn’t require that much thought and consideration. The sooner they got out of here the better. So he’d get on with it. “Watch out for shrapnel,” he cautioned, because Lina was probably going to get pelted with some of it anyway. First he found the right angle, so he wouldn’t shoot her, and then bang - the bullet itself blasted into bits, and so did the chains upon impact.
“Let’s go, I’m fucking starving.” Not to mention they both needed medical attention, stat, and to be above ground in the real world in order to get life back on track. Food, clean clothes, a toilet that wasn’t teeming with contagion and flies. Important things.
Yes, shoot the chains! Lina wanted some kind of freedom, thank you, even if the metal was still constricting her wrists in a particularly painful way. These fuckheads didn’t care much for their comfort, obviously, and made sure every single little thing gave them that unbearable itch of discomfort they couldn’t fix. In its own way, it was actually pretty damn maddening.
Eyes were shut tight, head turning to the side with a scrunched up nose to break herself, and then freedom. It cut a bit, but it was cakewalk compared to that scorching ache she felt in her goddamn shoulder. A bit of fresh blood bloomed from underneath her shirt, the wound re-opened from all the finagling and movement. Lina didn’t have a clue what it looked like, but she knew it was the definition of not pretty.
“Every time they leave, they go this way,” she motioned with her mostly freed hands, a bit out of breath. Lina started leading towards that direction anyway, and they could see a rusted ladder leading to a metal hatch with a couple holes. Light poured through it. The surface, practically in sight. “Up there, before the other one shows up.”
How long had Big Foot even been gone? She couldn’t remember, she’d been sleeping when he’d left, but it was safe to say hurrying the fuck up would be in their best interest. So up the ladder she climbed, one arm more useful than the other, but she was able to push the hatch up and--
“Hey there, Little Bitch.”
A clean break. That would have been nice, wouldn’t it? Big Foot had impeccable timing, and so generously helped the redhead up that hole in the ground. By the hair, but one couldn’t afford to be too picky, could they?
Damnit, this asshole again? Neal was behind Lina on the ladder, climbing up toward salvation, bruised and burned and still bleeding. His face felt like it had been pounded with a meat tenderizer and then had acid poured onto it as well, but that was neither here nor there. He did momentarily feel a flare-up of panic in his gut, because he wasn’t sure this was going to end well - but maybe two against one, and he had a weapon, he’d be pleasantly surprised.
Seeing Lina dragged up by her hair didn’t really fan the flames of hope, however.
“Motherfucker,” he snarled, and to hell with it - if he was going down, he was going to go down fighting. That was the way it always was with him. For the both of them. “Surprise, bitch, bet you thought you’d seen the last of us.” Then he catapulted himself up through the hatch right after Lina had been pulled out, guns a’blazin’. He was going to shoot this dipstick in the kneecaps.
It was barely a scream that she had let out. Mouth too dry, it felt like every noise she made were knives to a throat that felt rough like sandpaper. Like a blessing in disguise, it was the tiny one that emerged first - she just made it that much easier for him to yank her up, arm wrapped around her throat, gun to her head.
Because as if Big Foot wasn’t prepared. As if he didn’t know.
“Shot her her once and I’ll fucking do it again!” He shouted with spit. All cool was lost now, them escaping met the other two were likely dead underground, but never fucking fear. Behind him were the gallons of gasoline, an impressive amount, like he’d promise.
And a Wal-Mart bag with ingredients for s’mores. They weren’t joking.
“Fucking DROP it,” he roared, his grip around her neck tightening to the point of suffocation, the mouth of the gun digging into her cheek. “Empty your fucking pockets. ALL of them. Because I’ll promise you, Cassidy, I’ll make sure to shoot her right before you let a bullet sing in the air.”
Roles were reversed now. How full circle of these assbags.
Neal had no choice. He wasn’t about to gamble with anything, especially when Lina was trapped in the unforgiving grip of a madman who realized that plans had been thwarted, and ‘family’ members were dead. As much as it pained him, he made a visible show of tossing the pistol aside, letting it fall to the ground. “I don’t have anything,” he grumbled, mostly despondent, but also emptied his pockets anyway - just so the fucker could see.
Nope, nothing. Just some lint.
Normally he’d have a quip ready, some smart remark, turning the knife in deeper because he was glad those other two were dead, even if he knew the trauma that came from literally killing someone with his bare hands would haunt him for awhile. But he didn’t now. He just let his shoulders slump, without a second glance toward the discarded weapon.
With a little bit of reassurance, Big Foot looked a bit more calm. More put together, with a low chuckle and a sinister grin to show those yellowed teeth. “There ya go. Glad we could reach a compromise.”
Before letting Lina off the hook, he made sure that discarded weapon had been kicked a little further. Then he released her, a not-so-gentle shove into Neal, and she rammed into him with a hacking cough and an oof. “Shoulda taken that gamble,” she swallowed harshly. Her vision went hazy and she met the dirt ground with her knees and hands. Don’t mind her, she needed to sit for a bit. Sit and glare while trying to make an attempt for a smart remark too, because what were shitty situations without sarcasm?
Pete would say something funny if this were him. In his accent, of course, it made things ten times better. And if last thoughts were a thing, then...
His gun was pointed at them a little longer, and then without tearing his gaze from them, he undid the caps of the gallons. And then splash! Gasoline, fucking everywhere! On them, on the ground. Lina spit and spat and it stung horribly once it met raw wounds. “Going to make this a little poetic, yeah? But unlike you two, I’ll make sure the job’s done right. No survivors. Tit for tat.”
He’d finish the job, after lighting and smoking that last cigarette. The very cigarette that’d set off that chemical reaction.
Neal tried to help Lina up, when she was pushed into him, but he was weak and tired too. Instead, he had to follow suit and sink to his knees before they both were doused with gasoline, a pungent aroma that stung his nasal cavities and seared not only his raw, open wounds but all his nerve endings. This wasn’t really the way he expected to go either, but all he could say was, “To hell and back, I guess, together,” because that was he and Lina, and he had no choice but to accept this - they’d meet again on the other side, whatever it was, whatever was meant to be.
If last thoughts were a thing, his were of the winter carnival. Henry. Playing that stupid ice cube relay race, with Lina grinning broadly and using a spell to cheat so she could win those stick-on tattoos. The pride he felt when he saw how happy Henry was in Boston. The pride he also felt when Emma told him that he was theirs. Emma. Emma, Emma, Tallahassee, baby, close your eyes and point, we promised to take care of each other.
He was still alive, weirdly enough. And he opened his eyes just in time to see what looked like claws of searing energy rip into Big Foot from behind, hooking him like he was a fish. Straight through, from spine to navel, and he was yanked backward with the cigarette still in hand, mostly dead before he hit Wisdom square in the chest - who smiled cruelly, and twisted the knife in the wound. Literally. The last remaining Chicago survivor, who wouldn’t be able to come back from being torn inside out.
The body was dropped unceremoniously onto the ground. And the long blades that he’d extended from his fingers began to fade, the glow dimming.
“That ought to do it,” Pete noted, and through the haze of shock Neal could also make out Garrus’s familiar silhouette.
“To hell and back,” she almost laughed, but not much came out. Nothing with genuine happiness anyway - their situation greatly sucked, their options were limited, and being doused in gasoline by someone with the very intention of starting a bonfire with their corpses was something that wouldn’t bode well. Eyes shut tight, face buried into Neal’s shoulder, she thought of the gaseous nights in the van thanks to Taco Bell (torturing Neal with her farts was still a cherishable memory, you can’t convince her otherwise), the morbid memory of everyone who she saw die in her dreams a short time ago, her and Pete’s silly baby talk on stuff they wanted to do, and then…
Something smelled burnt, like flesh and blood and for a second Lina thought it was them. But the absence of pain eventually made bleary eyes blink, because she didn’t know if that voice was wishful thinking or -
Garrus stepped forward, rifle in hand, not knowing whether to look disgusted or impressed at Pete’s display of revenge. “That would definitely do it,” he concurred. Okay, the feeling was more impressed than anything, and he’d never deny him of that kind of satisfaction anyway. With every day that had passed, Wisdom’s desire to tear someone apart rose. “Rescue’s here. With that beer you bought, by the way. I salvaged it.”
Lina looked to Neal, a clear expression of holy shit written over her face. So much that she squeezed his arm like a hug, and then then looked back to the glorious, glorious image of her very dangerous and somewhat scary boyfriend, and did the notion of grabby hands in Pete’s general direction.
Pete was there, stooping to lift Lina up in his arms to carry her bridal style, and she was bloodied, injured, covered in gasoline (no one light a cigarette now, good thing he’d quit) but he was just so relieved she was alive and that they’d gotten to the place in time. It had been a whirlwind, around-the-clock searching involving a variety of people, either back at the home base or out scouring tunnels - and a successful search, thank everything.
“I love you,” he told her, close to tears which was rare for him. But what would have happened if he lost his redheaded firecracker? “We’ve got a few healers on standby, looks like you both could use them.”
Neal reached for Garrus, struggling to his feet. Beer. “And I love you,” he informed his Cuddlefish. “For salvaging the ambrosia.” Healers, yes. Healers were most excellent - how he hadn’t passed out by now was a mystery. Sheer stubbornness, most likely, knowing Cassidy.
Arms flew around Pete’s neck to latch onto and hug so tight, even if every single cell in her body was screeching ow ow ow ow over and over, it didn’t matter. That was close, that really fucking close, and - what?
Did he just…what?
Martina’s voice echoed in her head, like a ghost too stubborn to leave until business was finished. Be honest. You love him, don’t you?
The context was different. She’d been talking about Gourry, seconds away from dying, in all her attempt to make Lina actually do something aside from standing their like a frozen idiot because she mentally couldn’t handle watching everyone she knew drop dead. Though her words still applied here, to this world, to this man.
But all she could choke out was, at the very verge of a subtle whimper, “I owe you a new TV.”
Never fear, Neal, Garrus was there to heroically help his Best Man up, wincing alone at the physical damage his friend had gleaned. “Don’t get sappy with me, Neal,” he smirked a bit, trying not to let the sight and reality of everything get to him. They’d gotten here on time. They were alive. No use in thinking about the ‘what if’ scenario if they’d come a minute later. “We’ll get you patched up in no time. Couldn’t let you miss your wedding or mine, you know. Is there anything left down there?”
His head motioned to the entrance underground, azure eyes flickering back to Neal. Because there were three all together. One down, where were the other two?
“No...” Neal stumbled a little, woozy, disoriented, and leaning a bit on Garrus just so he could find his bearings. While stinking like he’d bathed in a can of gasoline because that was exactly what happened, for the most part. “We took care of them.” A shadow crossed his features, and it wasn’t one of mourning - it was more like fear of himself, fear of where that brutality had come from because he didn’t think he had it in him. Apparently he had been wrong, though maybe it was simply the thought of being without his family that made him do unspeakable things.
Pete looked fondly exasperated at the mention of his bloody television set, of all things. He also wasn’t going to pry about the hidden meaning in that claim, or unpack it at all right now. They had to get out of here. “Then if business is done, I say we get these two off to something resembling a doctor,” he noted, because any medical professional would have their work cut out for them. Burns, bumps, bruises, internal injuries. It wasn’t extremely dire, but they’d all feel better when health things were back on track again.
Garrus had him. Even holstered his rifle on the back strap and grabbed Neal’s arm, draping it around his neck to be used as a alien human crutch. That strange look on his face hadn’t gone unnoticed either, but he wouldn’t bother him right now. They needed to get looked at, healed, probably some sustenance and hydration, how much ever their body could stand. And sleep. “Considering the circumstances, you two did damn good,” he said, a half-grin of relief.
Doctor. Healer. Zee, probably. She was good with that kind of thing. Her gaze went to Neal, her sibling-in-crime, her to hell and back buddy. She owed him drinks. Several, in fact. Actually, she owed all these men drinks. But she gave him a weak sorta smile, filled with a quiet apology. Not that it’d make up for this. Not that it’d make up for them almost dying.
“Can we go home after that?” It was a raspy whisper, cracked and quiet, more for Pete’s ears than anyone. “You know, your place…?” Lina didn’t want to be anywhere else. She wanted home, and Pete was exactly that.
Home.
Neal returned the smile, a weary tilt of the corner of his mouth upward - it was genuine, tinged with relief, and of course gratitude and appreciation for loved ones (family) working tirelessly to find him and Lina. They’d both be going through some internal shit after this, it seemed, dealing with the aftermath - but he knew, in the back of his mind, that they wouldn’t be alone and that was probably the little push of strength he needed. So, still using Garrus as a crutch, he set off - for home.
“Home,” Pete agreed, fear and worry still clouding the bright blue of his eyes, but he had to put one foot forward and so that’s what he did. “Always, love.”