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‘Twas the night before Christmas, and Saint Nicholas was in an abandoned safehouse, wincing as he twisted a pair of tweezers into the gunshot wound in his right shoulder.
Nick swore under his breath, wishing he was anywhere but here. In Hell, Christmas was the closest thing a conglomeration of devils and demons could ever have to a sacred holiday. To not be in his home plane on Christmas Eve felt wrong, like not being able to make it to his own wedding. But the magic that allowed him to create portals to and from the Infernal Plane was closed off to him—at least until he could get that goddamn bullet out of his shoulder.
It was a good thing he’d shaken off his pursuers, or he’d be well and truly fucked. They were running circles around San Dimas, probably chasing every flame like a bunch of overzealous moths, while he had a moment to catch his breath.
No one except him and one other person knew about this place and it wasn’t associated with D.A.D.D.I.E.S., like many of the other hideouts Nick remembered from the old days. Nick had reasoned that it was a good spot to lie low in. But now, as he breathed in the familiar air and let his eyes wander over the basic furniture that was there more as a formality than an actual purpose, he started to wonder if his subconscious had guided him here for another reason.
Long ago the safe house used to be a car repair shop, later it was repurposed into a garage and hangout spot. Nick had spent a lot of time here, once. He still saw the evidence his presence had left on this place, from the graffiti on the walls to the cheap multicolored Christmas lights he’d strung all around the room.
The couch he was bleeding on had dark brown leather pillows that pressed uncomfortably against his back and long-dried bloodstains, most but not all of which weren’t his. His long coat was tossed over the armrest next to him.
Nick grunted sharply as one of the metal tips hit a nerve he shouldn’t have hit. He muttered a soft string of curses as his fingers spasmed reflexively and the tweezers slipped from his grasp. They fell in between the pillows of the couch.
The pain blazing inside his shoulder joint formed too much of a distraction for his pointed ears to pick up the sound of footsteps outside. So when he heard a gun being cocked barely twenty feet from him, his heart almost leaped through his throat.
Angling his arm towards his katana, preparing himself to lunge, Nick slowly turned his head and stared straight into the barrel of a gun. Right behind that barrel was a familiar pair of dark brown eyes, simmering with intensity.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” Lark Oak asked, dangerously calm.
Nick parted his lips, inhaling a silent breath. He quickly hid any evidence of surprise and instead plastered a sarcastic, ‘happy to see you too’, grin on his face. “Could ask you the same thing. It’s Christmas. Don’t you have a family to be merry with or something?”
Lark’s frown deepened, and he ignored Nick’s question much like Nick ignored his. A silence stretched out between them as they sized the other up. Lark, no doubt, scanning him for weaknesses and vulnerabilities, while Nick was examining all the ways in which his old friend had changed throughout the years they hadn’t spoken to each other.
Lark looked as tired and annoyed as Nick felt. His hair was mussed and overgrown, falling and curling slightly towards his cheekbones. He lost weight. The bomber jacket he wore over his moss green hoodie looked worn thin and had holes in the sleeves. He didn’t have that magnetic allure like he used to, he just looked––human. Whatever remnants of Nick’s rose-stained memory there had been were washed away in one fell swoop. Whatever image he once had in his head was replaced with reality, perfections overwritten by imperfection.
It had been five years and four months. Finally, Nick could say with full certainty that he wasn’t in love with Lark anymore.
Nick wished he didn’t know the exact amount of days that had gone by since he’d last seen Lark, but sometimes it felt as though the timeline of his life had been split in two; the Before, and the After. It was his personal way of tracking time, like what the Christians had done after their baby-god was born. Only instead of a carpenter-slash-miracle maker, all Nick had gotten were severe trust issues and a noticeable lack of a limb.
The weight of Lark’s piercing gaze was heavy like a smothering blanket. To distract him, to distract his own thoughts, he asked: “Silent alarm?”
“Yes.”
“Fucking knew it.” He had checked for traps and alarms when he broke into this place. He hadn’t spotted any, but Lark would never just leave one of his safehouses unguarded. “Do you even still use this place?”
“On occasions.” Lark finally lowered the gun. “You got shot,” he said, jerking his chin at his shoulder and taking a careful step forward.
Nick rolled his eyes at Lark’s astute observational skills. “Wrong. I got my ears pierced and the Claire’s employee missed. By a lot.”
“Who?”
Nick liked to imagine there was anger in his voice when he asked that, but there was always anger in Lark’s voice. Most of it was likely directed at him, not the soulless feds who’d used him as target practice.
“Final Boreanaz Initiative. Remember those duds?”
He put his gun back in his holster and crossed his arms. “We still have run-ins with them from time to time, yes.”
“You’re not here to finish their job, I take it?”
Lark’s laugh was hollow—bitter too. “It’s Christmas, Nick. Peace on Earth and all that shit.”
“Peace isn’t really a thing at my type of Christmas,” Nick said. “Don’t think I feel the same restraint.”
It was an idle threat. Nick wasn’t gonna hurt him.
…or, well, maybe he would. Who knew. He’d see what the night would bring.
Lark’s eyes flicked to the katana Nick had dropped at the base of the couch, then back at the wound in Nick’s shoulder. Maybe he decided Nick wasn’t a threat to him. Or maybe he was wiser than that. Whatever conclusion he had drawn, his stance relaxed.
“Why come here? Why not just portal back to Hell?”
“I tried, smartass. The bullet they shot me with got some kind of anti-magic field. I can’t get it out, and now I can’t cast shit.” No magic, no portals, no healing. Not even a simple sending spell to let his family know the reason why he was running late.
That reminded him. He ran his hand through the groove of the couch until he found the pair of tweezers. Nick blew at it, sending a few motes of dust spinning in the air.
“You should probably disinfect that first.”
“Shut up, I was about to,” Nick lied, and put the flat end of the tweezers between his teeth. He grabbed the small bottle of disinfectant from the first aid kit, and put a bit of the antiseptic on a piece of cotton. Begrudgingly, not liking that Lark was right, he started cleaning the tool. With only one arm, it looked clumsy, but Nick was used to clumsy.
“Do you want me to–” Lark started, raising a hand and walking forward.
“Lark, I think it’d be better for both of us if you just leave me to it.”
It came out sharper than Nick intended. Panic flitted through him for a flash of: Don’t touch me. He couldn’t tell if it came from the fear of Lark hurting him again, or from the terrifying thought that despite everything, the presence of Lark’s skin on his was still something he craved.
“I think you’re gonna give yourself an infection at this rate,” Lark scowled, but he stopped his approach. There was now about five feet between them—not that Nick was counting. Lark was close enough that Nick could pick up the scent of Lark’s cheap 2-in-1 shower gel. Seemed like he still used the same brand he had all those years ago.
“Yeah, well, I’m sure I’d be doing a much better job if only I had both of my fucking arms.” He mirthlessly exhaled through his nose. “Sucks that that’s not an option! Remember why?”
“Nick…”
“That’s right, you took that shit from me! So don’t you fucking tell me what you think, ‘cuz you don’t have any fucking right to give input on my life.”
Nick used to daydream a lot about tearing into Lark, like this. More than he should. He fantasized of saying just the right thing that would barrel straight through the wall of purpose Lark had constructed as a barrier around himself. (And then what? If he could make Lark actually understand, actually feel an ounce of empathy for the first time in his life, then what? His fantasies always stopped when he got overwhelmed just trying to articulate that One Perfect Speech to get through to him.)
But like so many things involving Lark, it would be a waste of time. Lark refused to see things from Nick’s perspective, and Nick would do everything in his power to never let Lark’s version of ‘the-end-justifies-the-means’ take root in his brain. And so the satisfaction of those dreams got sucked right out of it. Reality was cold and dry, and Lark let out a quiet grunt like he had been jabbed with something sharp.
“...I’m sorry.”
Nick looked away from him. “Never stopped you from committing, though.”
“No,” Lark agreed quietly, a hard edge to his voice.
Nick knew Lark was sorry. Even though they hadn’t spoken in years, he had never doubted that. But being just another thing Lark felt guilty for was not enough to make him feel better. It was not enough for him to forgive.
They both knew guilt didn’t fix things. Maybe regret could, but Lark didn’t feel regret. The way he saw it, the hurt he caused was a necessity. What he’d done to Nick was a necessity.
So Nick didn’t accept his apology, and decided that if Lark wasn’t going to kick him out of his safehouse, then Nick could very well ignore him.
He reached over with the tweezers tight in his right hand, and tried again to get it in deep enough to get a hold of the magic bullet. The angle was awkward—he had to twist his arm in a way that gave him cramps if he had to hold it for too long—and he needed to uncomfortably crane his neck so he could see what he was doing.
Lark gave him two whole minutes before he huffed loudly. “This is ridiculous. I’m not letting you do this.”
Against Nick’s protests and swears, he closed the distance between them and grabbed the tweezers out of his grasp. He sat down on the couch on Nick’s right, knees tucked under his body. One of his hands grabbed Nick’s lower bicep to hold him in place, gentler than Nick was used to. He seemed diligent not to hurt him.
Fuck. Five years, four months, and Nick still felt his pulse quicken and his breath catch at his touch.
Nick’s now-empty hand twitched.
With the speed and abruptness of a lightning bolt, he reached inside his pocket, where he found the familiar weight of his blue-hilted switchblade—a birthday gift from Glenn—and pressed it against Lark’s throat. Not too hard, barely touching his skin, but clearly implying his course of action if Lark did anything untoward.
“Little precaution.”
Lark eyed the blade impassively, and shrugged. “Okay,” he said, and his voice stayed calm — a kind of calm that Nick didn’t know what to do with. A broken calm, an accepting calm. A doing what you want me to do-kind of calm.
Lark settled his gaze on Nick’s wound, acting like the knife didn’t even exist. Nick hissed reflexively when the cold metal touched a nerve as it entered the hole in his shoulder.
“Sorry,” Lark mumbled.
“Stop saying that.”
He didn’t say it again.
They stayed quiet. Nick watched his focused eyes and the tight line of his lips. With this little space between them, it took a lot of effort not to think back to all the times he had kissed those lips, desperately imagining that what they had was real.
He supposed now he could finally get his answer to that. Not like there was anything he had left to lose.
He bit on the inside of his cheek before he unsealed his lips. “I loved you.”
For the first time, he was glad he’d never said it out loud before. Because if he had admitted it back in the day, when those inexplicable feelings were at an all-time high, he would have said it softly and genuinely, with stars in his eyes. Now he could say it with a blazing fury that burned hotter than the sun. A renouncement. The cruelest euphemism for I hate you.
Lark had the decency to look uncomfortable. He didn’t move his gaze from Nick’s injury.
Just when Nick thought Lark wasn’t going to reply, he mumbled: “I know.”
Nick stared at Lark. Indignation twisted up painfully inside him.
“No,” he scoffed after another stretch of silence. “No, you motherfucker! Don’t you fucking Han Solo me. I deserve more than that, and you fucking know it!” He removed the knife from Lark’s throat, not trusting the shakiness of his hand, and moved his face closer to Lark’s. “Did you ever, in your miserable, guilt-ridden existence, feel anything for me back?”
“I…” Lark faltered. He still didn’t meet Nick’s eyes, which only fed his resentment. “I don’t know.”
“Bullshit.”
“It’s not.” He paused the arthroscopic removal of the bullet, probably because Nick was moving around too much, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s getting harder to remember. The easier times. Nowadays I’m just… directing myself at the things that matter. The rest kinda blurs away.” He worried his lip between his teeth; Nick caught himself staring, and quickly looked away. “Wish I could give you more,” Lark added belatedly.
Was Lark having memory issues? That worried Nick, but voicing that concern felt too much like admitting he cared about how Lark was doing. He didn’t. He had better things to not-care about.
“That sure is convenient for you,” he mumbled instead. Lark hummed noncommittally, and resumed his self-imposed task.
“Almost got the bullet. Don’t move.” The relief in his voice most likely was related to the fact that the end of this encounter was in sight for him.
Nick faced the wall and kept his body still, but not his mouth. “Remember when we fought the fish guy? You explained something to me then.” He grunted as something under his skin moved, grabbed by the metal prongs. He nevertheless continued talking, letting his own voice distract him from the discomfort. “You said that when someone gets the sauce, they can only think about one thing. Everything else stops mattering to them, except their goal.”
“Hm-hmm.”
“Tell me. Did it get you?”
Nick wasn’t sure what he hoped the answer to be. Silently wishing Lark had been on the sauce all this time made him feel like an awful half-human being, but on the other hand, it would provide such a deliberating excuse. If Lark wasn’t responsible for his actions, if he’d been driven to a madness that Nick had so often observed but never thought too deeply about, then the reason why Nick couldn’t get Lark to change was because something else had changed him first. There’d be something else to blame, something that wasn’t just that they had never stood a chance in the first place.
Lark didn’t answer.
Maybe he didn’t know himself. Nick suspected he did, though.
It made for a noticeable, awkward silence. Nick’s question hung in the air like a heavy mistake.
“There,” he said after a few seconds, and he pulled the bullet out. Nick gasped, his breath shaky.
The bullet was inscribed with blue-pulsing technorunes, emitting an aura that put a barrier between Nick and his infernal magic. Though it wasn’t lodged in his skin anymore, Nick was still in its radius. Lark rolled the bloodied bit of metal between his fingers, inspecting it closely, then slipped it inside his pocket.
He pulled away to stand and leave. The second he did, Nick’s knife returned at his throat, brushing the skin above his adam’s apple. Lark froze, but there was no observable spike of fear in his eyes. Just… curiosity.
“Stay there. Don’t move,” Nick ordered, feeling his pulse pound in his chest. Lark already wasn’t moving, save for the way one eyebrow shot up to his hairline. “Throw that thing to the other side of the room.”
Lark didn’t say anything. Underhand, he threw the bullet into the corner of the garage, where it clattered on the cold concrete floor. Magic returned to Nick’s fingertips, and it felt so goddamn good. Like a piece of his soul had been restored.
“Alright, you son of a bitch, healy heal,” he said, imbuing his words with magic. A wave of cool energy rippled through his flesh, extracting a content sigh from him. The torn skin in his shoulder stitched itself back together, leaving only a dark red spot like a bruise amidst the remaining blood sticking to his skin. The pain ebbed away.
He turned to Lark, determination flaring now that there was nothing to distract him anymore.
“What were you planning to do with that thing?” he asked, nodding his head at the discarded bullet.
For the first time since he’d sat down on the couch, Lark’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I wanted to take it to D.A.D.D.I.E.S.. See if Terry could figure out how to reverse-engineer it.”
The easy confession of the truth didn’t come as a surprise to Nick. Lark didn’t care enough about Nick’s feelings to lie.
Still, Nick swallowed back indignation before it could boil over. “What, you copying the FBI’s tricks on how to take me down, now? Don’t you already have enough magic bullets to hurt me with?”
Lark hesitated, then reached his calloused hand out to gently cup Nick’s jaw. Counter to his own touch, he said: “It’s not about hurting you. It’s about not missing again.”
Nick barked out a laugh. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t believe it. This was Lark Oak being soft.
He shook his head, still in bitter amusement. “I’ve seen so much fucked up shit in my life. Sometimes I think you scare me the most out of all of them.”
Lark acknowledged that with a light nod.
“Maybe you should just kill me then.”
He leaned in a little closer, as if to emphasize his point. The blade of Nick’s knife dug deeper into the exposed skin of Lark’s throat, until a single drop of blood formed at the tip of the blade. Lark didn’t flinch. His eyes were on Nick, transfixed. The amusement Nick had previously felt fled, and he was left with an aching emptiness in his chest.
“This is so messed up,” Nick muttered, not knowing whether to be horrified or fascinated.
“Maybe,” Lark said with utter disinterest.
Nick considered it, just for a moment, and felt irredeemable before the thought could fully crystalize in his mind.
“You’re really not bothered by any of this?”
“No.” It was only because Nick was so close to Lark that he saw the tiny crease between his brows. As if that question confused him. “It’s good that you hate me,” he said with a clarifying tone. “I’m glad someone finally does.”
Nick could only stare.
Slowly, like in a dream, he removed the knife, folded the blade in again, and put it back in his pocket.
“Pathetic,” he mumbled numbly. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Lark or to himself.
The next thing he knew, he grabbed Lark’s hair and yanked him close, crashing against his lips so hard it made his teeth hurt. A wave of want washed over him—possessed him—so strong it could have knocked him down if he had been standing upright.
Of course this was happening. As soon as Lark had closed the distance between them, Nick knew this was going to happen. Because even after everything that happened, the two of them were like a set of magnets, drawn to each other, neither of them strong enough to pull away.
It was an excuse he told himself, of course; he was the acting force here. But Lark was so fucked up that it didn’t matter if Nick was the one to push things. They were long since broken.
His heart slammed against his ribs like it was trying to break through, probably on its way to beat the shit out of Lark. He grabbed Lark’s side and wrestled him underneath him. Nick pressed up to him, rough and assertive, straddling his thighs. Denying him the space to pull back. Making him lean back against the back of the couch; tilting his head and parting his lips insistently.
Lark returned the kiss without a fight. He was pliant and soft in Nick’s grasp, surrendering autonomy to him as if he trusted him. It was new and thrilling. Like they were on a tipped scale, and all the power slid to Nick, unrestrained.
It was only an illusion, of course. Lark would never truly relinquish control. He had never let himself be vulnerable around Nick when they were younger, and he certainly wasn’t going to do so now.
Then again, Nick had just pressed a blade to Lark’s throat, and Lark had dispassionately accepted whatever fate Nick had in mind for him. Maybe this time the situation really did play out the way it looked like. Maybe the guilt that was eating away at his once-lover had some benefits for Nick after all.
Nick chuckled gravelly into Lark’s mouth. There he went again, wondering what parts of this were real or not. He truly never learned, did he?
At least the kissing was nice. Lark was running his fingers over Nick’s jaw and neck, pulling him closer with increasing desperation. Pleasure and passion coiled tight in the pit of Nick’s stomach, like a fire waiting to catch.
It’s good that you hate me. I’m glad someone finally does.
Fuck, that shouldn’t be hot. It should be nauseating. It should be the unmitigated proof that whatever this was, this attraction between them that for some reason still hadn’t died out yet, was toxic and wrong.
Hate shouldn’t be a substitute for love.
But, well. Nick didn’t have a lot else left.
Lark took off his jacket and tossed it aside. One of his hands snaked around Nick’s neck and the other grabbed his left shoulder, still pulling at him as though any inch of distance between their bodies should be promptly eradicated. There was something dizzying in the way his fingers pressed into his skin. A silent demand for more.
Nick was hyper-aware of the soft pop of their lips when he pulled back to breathe. He was about to move lower, to drag his sharp teeth down Lark’s neck, and lower still, when with all the suddenness of a slap in the face, Nick’s left arm screamed out in pain.
For a flash, Nick remembered the agony of burning, of his flesh searing away while he watched, and he was stabbed with regret of letting Lark get this close. Then his brain identified the sensation not as the licks of fire, but as the throbbing of a limb that wasn’t there.
He let out a loud curse at the utter unpleasantness of the experience. Lark made a concerned noise, sounding like it came from far away.
Nick immediately pushed himself off of Lark and fell back against the back of the couch. He squeezed his eyes shut and rode it out like he’d taught himself to, jaw clenched shut, trying to focus on his toes instead of his upper body. The stabbing sensation dwindled, turning to pins-and-needles, until it felt like his missing arm was asleep.
Nick dropped his head back and tried to regulate his breathing for a minute.
“Phantom pains,” he muttered eventually, still panting a little. The sound of his voice sounded strange and flat to his own ears. He wasn’t sure why he was explaining this to Lark. His tone wasn’t accusatory as he shared this uncomfortable insight into his daily life, so he couldn’t be doing it to twist that knife of guilt deeper into Lark’s chest. And yet Nick kept talking, pointedly refusing to meet his gaze. “Gets triggered by touch, sometimes. Has something to do with the rewiring of neural pathways, or so the doc said.”
Apparently it also got triggered by bad decisions.
Whatever fog of lust had clouded Nick’s mind cleared up, leaving him to feel as though he’d been shoved off a steep cliff. The high was gone and now he was just freezing in the collapse. He sighed.
Jesus fucking Christ, he was an idiot.
Next to him, Lark righted himself, running a hand through his hair. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Instead of saying anything, he lowered his chin to his chest like an apology he knew Nick didn’t want to hear. He was slouching, almost comfortably, with his arms loose, hands clasped together on his lap. Like he didn’t even mourn the loss of contact.
Nick did. He mourned the heat they so easily ignited in each other, the tangible assurance that all of Nick’s many flaws didn’t matter. He also mourned the friend he once had. The adventures of their young adult years felt so far away.
“How’s Cassie?” Nick asked, as though the kiss hadn’t happened. As though the tension between them had dwindled, instead of still being so painfully present.
Lark plucked at a smear of Nick’s blood on his sleeve as he spoke, voice flatter than usual. “She’s good. Her deal with Netflix got canceled, but she went into voice acting.” Nick nodded. He already knew that. He had convinced Jodie to install Wi-Fi in Hell just so he could stalk his ex-wife on her social media. But he wasn’t about to tell Lark that.
“And Taylor?”
Lark shrugged. “Annoying.”
“Lark.”
“He’s fine,” he sighed. “I guess. Don’t know how he’s doing like, mental health-wise, but the FBI still hasn’t found out you’re his dad, or whatever.”
“Thank you.”
“Not like I had anything to do with it.”
“I meant thank you for telling me, shithead.”
Lark just grunted in reply. He was eyeing the exit, though he wouldn’t leave until Nick had portaled away. Probably still had some secrets in this safehouse he didn’t want Nick finding out about.
Nick pictured his family he’d left behind, and the danger he’d spared them from by doing so.
“Tell me something. Hero and Normal. You wanna keep ‘em safe, right?”
Lark turned his head. Something in his expression shifted. A shadow spread across his face, and he pushed his shoulders back to make himself look bigger. “Yes,” he said warily.
“Jesus Christ, Lark, I’m not trying to threaten your kids.” Nick rolled his eyes. Like he would ever stoop that low. “What I mean to ask is, you keep an eye on them, right? Knowing you, you’ve got cameras on them, some kind of tracker—”
Lark relaxed. “I have injected a metal ball filled with nanobots into the top of both Normal and Hero’s spinal cords that monitors their adrenaline and cortisol levels.” His face was of stone as he said all of this. “If they are in significant amounts of distress, I receive an alert.” He crossed his arms and rubbed a hand through his beard. “Oh,” he added as an afterthought, “and I have live feeds on their residence and trackers sewn into most of their clothes, yes.”
Nick blinked. “Right.”
Figured. Paranoid bastard.
He rose to his feet. Lark followed, as though they were attached to each other with invisible strings. “Those nanoballs,” Nick inquired. “You got two more of those?”
~~~~~
They came to a deal. Well—a deal implied that both sides got something out of it. Nick was coming out as the winning side by far.
Lark would give Nick a set of biomonitors so he’d be able to keep an eye out on his ex-wife and son, even if he was on another plane. What Nick feebly offered in return was that he wouldn’t show up unannounced at Lark’s safehouses anymore, but it was clear to both of them that he’d break that promise the second it’d become convenient for him. Still, Lark had made no demands, had not involved D.A.D.D.I.E.S.’s goals in any way. It sparked a little contentment in Nick that Lark really did see them on a tipped scale. He should.
And then the moment arrived when Nick no longer had any excuses to keep him here.
He put his leather coat back on and put his katana back in its scabbard. He purposefully dragged it out as long as he could. “I’ll see you around, racebird.”
“We’ll see,” Lark snorted, arms crossed again, expression closed off.
Nick turned his back to Lark and put his hand, feeling the stretch of the barrier between the planes the Forgotten Realms was stacked on top of. He instinctively felt where the border was thin and tore right through it, creating a flaming portal that would bring him to Hell.
Don’t look around. Just leave, Nicky.
“Lark?”
“Yeah?”
Nick didn’t have words prepared to make a sentence, to form a question. We were good once, weren’t we? came to mind, and he almost asked it. But he didn’t have to. They had been good once. They had been great once. Nick and Lark, angry and bitter and broken and eager to unleash it all on the world.
He forced himself to exhale. He let go.
“Merry Christmas.”
He stepped through, never turning around to give him one last glance, and left the plane and the man that he’d once attempted to make his home.