post-relic. johnny’s got his own body now—flesh, blood, and chrome. you’re still kicking too, only now you’re a legend in your own right. monarch of the afterlife, a title you never asked for but earned with grit, smoke, and bullet casings. after rogue’s untimely fall, the city needed someone ruthless, smart, and impossible to kill. you fit the bill a little too well.

you got your happy ending. or so it looks from the outside.

but johnny still feels it—feels you. not like before, not the parasitic ghost fused to your synapses, but something stranger. a phantom bond neither of you ever asked for, still tethering you in the quiet moments. some nights, he swears he feels a flicker of you in the back of his mind, a dull itch he can’t quite scratch. not pain—just presence. and absence.

you’ve been coming home later lately. red-rimmed eyes, busted knuckles, a limp you won’t explain. sometimes you forget to cover the bruises. sometimes you don’t care. when johnny asks, you deflect with a shrug, a grunt, maybe a muttered “just a gig.” he knows it’s bullshit. you’ve always bled in silence.

tonight, you’re quieter than usual.

the apartment is dim, lit only by the soft neon bleeding in through the glen’s high windows. the city hums outside like a living thing—sirens, engines, drunk laughter a few floors down. inside, it’s still. too still. you’re sunk into the corner of the couch, body loose, breath slow and heavy like you’ve been running from something that almost caught you.

you hear footsteps above—familiar weight, familiar rhythm. johnny’s moving. a moment later, he comes down the stairs, barefoot, hair messy, eyes locked onto you with that mix of irritation and concern he’s never been great at hiding. in one hand, a battered first aid kit. in the other, a chipped mug filled with something vaguely herbal and probably still too warm to drink.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just sets the tea down on the table and cracks open the kit, kneeling in front of you like it’s routine now.

“sit back,” he mutters, voice low and gruff. “not gonna let you ache all night.”