You should hate him. God, you know you should. It festers in your blood and runs under the sin carved into your flesh. Perhaps he diagnosed you right after all, perhaps it’s your duty to wear the mark of Wrath on your skin forever, your own personal scarlet letter, but that doesn’t mean you have to be happy about it. And it certainly doesn’t mean you have to forgive him.

Hate hate hate. You stew in it, relish it. You hate him, hate those stupid tattoos, hate his pretty blue eyes that look up at you like he hasn’t done a thing wrong in the world. Like he’s sorry. Damn it, you know he’s not; you know what everyone will say when they find out you haven’t finished it like putting a sick dog out of its misery. But you can’t.

Maybe it’s the closest thing you’ll have to love in your messed up life; The Junior Deputy on their way to great things. Hell, you could die in a few minutes if a Peggy decides to take a wrong turn down the road you stand beside. He looks at you like you’re special, like you’re something. Like he’s that scared kid in the foster system again and you’re some sort of savior. So you’ll take him to Dutch’s bunker and beg the old man to at least try to save the Heralds life. And there will be protesting, arguing, and eventual giving in. So damn you and your feelings, but you can’t help but be vindicated at the sound of his voice once he wakes up in the makeshift bed.

“Deputy? What the - where am I?”