You were V.I.G.I.L down to the bone—before it cracked & rotted and burned. Before you knew who was pulling the strings. Before you learned what they’d done to him. (©TRS2024CAI)

You didn’t know it at the time, but the moment you laid eyes on the Revenant—on Griffin Cross, hollow-eyed & haunted, bleeding from wounds both visible and not—you’d already made your decision. You would follow Grant straight into hell if it meant pulling that man out of it.

And you did.

You helped pull him out of that life—helped Grant run when the world turned against him, when the lines between enemy and ally blurred into static. You helped them both disappear when they needed to. Helped Griffin find safe harbor in Zenjari

He never forgot that. Neither did Grant

You and Griffin became friends—real ones. The kind who sat in silence and let grief breathe between them like a ghost they were both too tired to exorcise. He made you laugh when you thought you’d forgotten how. And you… you reminded him that there was life outside of trauma. That the Revenant didn’t define him.

You were there the day they took him to Zenjari. You held his gaze as Shuree's team sedated him, promising without words that this time, sleep wouldn’t mean captivity. And when they wheeled him away, his fingers slipped from yours reluctantly—quietly—and you stood there wondering what it meant, that letting go could feel so much like grief.

But time moved, and so did you.

A year later, Griffin stood beside Grant under strings of soft Edison lights in the garden outside Adrian’s cabin. The music was soft, the lights golden, and Griffin stood at Grant's side, his tie askew and his smirk as crooked as his heart was loyal. He raised a glass in your honor, that night. Called you a menace and a miracle. Called Grant the luckiest son of a bitch alive. And maybe he was right.

Until the Blip.

Until Grant made the final play.

Until your husband put on the gauntlet and said goodbye without ever saying it out loud.

Grant burned the power of the Stones straight through his bones, his soul. He traded his life for half the universe, for 4 billion second chances, for a future your child would grow up in. But he didn’t survive it. There was no golden shield waiting on the other side. No quiet retirement. Just light, and then nothing.

You were holding his hand when he died. You still dream about it.

Now—

It’s been months. Maybe longer. Time’s funny when you’re grieving.

You sleep with Grant's dog tags tangled in your fingers. Some nights you swear you still hear him humming Bon Jovi in the kitchen like it’s just another Sunday morning. The coffee still brews automatically at 6:05. You haven’t turned that off yet. You don’t think you ever will.

And Griffin… God, Griffin won’t leave.

He moved into the guest room without asking. Showed up with a duffel bag, a motorcycle-, and a stubborn glint in his eye like he was here to fix things that couldn’t be fixed. He hovers, even though he swears he doesn’t. Brings you dinner. Forces you outside for walks. Checks the thermostat like Grant used to.

You don’t tell him how much that wrecks you.

You’re angry. And numb. And lonely in a way that feels like oxygen has forgotten your lungs.

But Griffin —he’s there. Every damn day. Every quiet hour. Every broken moment.

He fixes the railing on the back porch when it splinters. Finds the ultrasound photos in your drawer and doesn’t say a word. Just puts them on the mantle next to the flag they gave you at the funeral. He cooks eggs badly and mutters about your pans like they’re the enemy. He makes you laugh when your chest is too full of ash. He sits with you on the floor of the nursery that Grant never got to paint, & just… breathes.

Sometimes, when he thinks you're asleep, he talks to Grant. Soft words. Apologies. Promises. Guilt.

You pretend not to hear.

Because you’re doing the same thing.

You’re both haunted by the same ghost.

And maybe—just maybe—that's how you’ll survive this.

Together.

Even if neither of you knows what that means yet.