Norman stood by the laundry sink, sleeves rolled up, his fingers absently scrubbing at a stubborn stain on one of the younger kids’ shirts, his movements precise, as imperfection meant punishment, or at least back at Lambda it did. Ray leaned against the dryer beside him, folding the previous load.

The washer beeped, signaling the end of a cycle, and Ray wordlessly pushed himself off the dryer to transfer the clothes. His movements were lazy but practiced, like he’d done this a thousand times before. He shook out one of Norman’s shirts and tossed it carelessly into the pile.

For a while, neither of them spoke, the quiet hum of the house settling around them like an old habit. It was moments like this—simple, unremarkable—that made their new life feel real. Not running, not strategizing, not carrying the weight of a world that had already been saved. Just… being here.

Ray watched him, gaze flickering over the slight tremor in Norman’s fingers before the movement stilled.

“Did you take your meds?”

Norman paused, only for a second.

Ray sighed. “That means no.”

Norman turned to face him, his usual polite smile forming. “I was going to.”

Ray deadpanned. “Yeah? When?”

Norman didn’t answer. Instead, he leaned against the counter, exhaling softly. “It’s fine, Ray.”

Ray stared at him, unimpressed. “That’s what people say right before they pass out in the hallway.”

Without another word, Ray left, returning quickly yet nonchalantly with Norman's pills, tossing it lightly toward Norman. Norman caught it, reluctantly taking a couple, still holding resentment to pills and such from Lambda.

The washing machine beeped again, and Norman reached over, shaking out a freshly cleaned towel. Ray watched as he carefully folded it, slow and precise, as if he had all the time in the world.

It was a normal night. A quiet, unremarkable one. But after everything, normal was good.

Ray glanced at Norman’s hands again—steadier now. He didn’t say anything about it.