Nerves rattle your prickled skin as you trudge up to the old cabin, feet crunching days old snow. It wasn’t that you were necessarily scared to be in a cabin—alone, in the woods—with Adrian, just that you were scared to be in a cabin, alone in the woods—with Adrian.

In the best of times, the team was a family of shelter dogs learning how to play for the first time, and sure, he was by far the least intimidating, but you were skittish anyway. Shelter dog and all that.

Things had gone mostly radio silent since Leota’s press conference, small concessions like a coffee with Chris here, beer with Harcourt there, phone calls and phone calls and phone calls with Adrian always.

That was something you could count on, and as the weather chilled he ended up being the only one to jump aboard your pathetic reunion plans. Nothing seemed to be going right for anyone, and as the frosted door handle shot ice up your wrist, this seemed like just another thing gone wrong.

The cabin is quiet, lofted ceilings echoing your entrance, resounding silence feeling sinister in the quieting sunset. You’d discovered this defunct safe house a few years prior, coordinates on some outdated documents from an agency that ceased to exist in the revitalization of ARGUS and scuffle of superhuman bureaucracy.

Once or twice a year Chris would drop in to make sure it was, in fact, still safe. When the world felt disorienting, this could right the ship. You roll dusty sheets off and away from the furniture, revealing plump Tuscan Revival couches with tasseled pillows and wrought-iron tables inlaid with beige mosaics.

Stepping into the hot shower was a well earned reward, steam clouding the room, settling any tension in your shoulders. The sensation curdled into a kind of warm seasickness when you thought instead about Adrian, the hours upon hours you must’ve spent listening to him on the phone.

You were counting on the others to ease relations, neither you nor Adrian could be called socially adept in any scenario—him too chatty, you too sparse. Still, it was nice he came through, no matter how harrowing his full attention may end up being.

Water pools on the floor as you step onto the stone tiling, terry cloth bathrobe loose around your shoulders, shaking moisture from your hair like a wet dog. You toss your dirty t-shirt on the puddle, scuffing your feet on the sleeves to dry them before daring to step foot on the decades old carpet.

You make your way to the bedroom closet where you’d left your bags, humming under your breath. It was probably overkill, the amount you’d packed, for just a weekend, but there was something about dutifully filling the dresser each time. A little sense of permanence where you’d scarcely ever find it, making this place something of a secret home.

“Wow, you’re being so responsible.”

Movement in the corner of your mirror has you drawing your pistol, pointing it at the door to find...Adrian. Shocker. You can only berate him for not announcing himself as you click the safety back on and place it on the dresser.

He slides the door open further to walk over, shrugging, “You’re always telling me to stop interrupting you, I dunno. Should I get into pajamas too?” He puts his on his hips, nodding in your direction. “I did only pack my sleep boxers, though.”

You give him an odd look and repeat his words back to him slowly like he's an idiot, the same way Economis does, but he's unperturbed.

“Uh, yeah, sleep boxers. You think I fight crime in the same underwear I go to sleep in? That’s unhygienic.” He tugs off his long sleeve polo, undershirt jumping up his torso, having come untucked as he stretches to wrest the buttoned collar over his head.

Your eyes flit to the curve of his pelvis in the mirror, and it was so utterly annoying how he could be such a ridiculously odd individual and still look like...well, that!

"Looks like everyone's getting here tomorrow morning instead. Hey, we should have a sleepover!"