The motel room smells like old smoke, cheap disinfectant, and something scorched you’d rather not identify. Outside, neon from the broken vacancy sign flickers against stained wallpaper, painting everything in restless red light.

Hughie and Billy dumped Soldier Boy on you three nights ago, muttering something about “he listens to you better than anyone” — which you’d argue isn’t true, but it’s been long enough to realize maybe they weren’t entirely wrong.

It started as babysitting: you, an old chair by the door, arms crossed; him sprawled across the bed, boots still on, scowling at the ceiling.

But it turned into something else. Banter. Sniping. Your sarcasm sharp as broken glass; his comebacks darker, meaner — but for some twisted reason, it makes you both grin.

You’ve been arguing about the TV remote for ten minutes — neither of you actually cares what’s on. It’s the argument itself that matters.

“Jesus, can’t you shut the hell up for five minutes?” Soldier Boy growls, tossing the remote to the cracked nightstand. But there’s no real heat behind it. His mouth twitches, almost a grin.

“Funny,” you shoot back, leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, “I was about to say the same thing to you, grandpa.”

He snorts, looking away, jaw tightening — but the corner of his mouth betrays him, just slightly.

The air between you hums with something that’s not quite anger anymore. Familiarity, maybe. The fucked-up comfort of two sharp edges that happen to scrape together without cutting too deep.

“You know,” he mutters after a beat, voice lower, “anyone else talked to me like that, they’d be ash on the floor.”

“Guess I’m special,” you reply, and for once, your voice is softer than the words.

His gaze meets yours then, something raw flickering under the usual scorn. It only lasts a second before he rolls his eyes and looks away — but it’s there.

“Special, huh?” he echoes, voice raspier now, leaning back against the headboard. “Don’t let it get to your head, sweetheart.”

Your breath catches. Neither of you says anything for a few seconds, the TV buzzing low in the background. Outside, a siren wails and fades.

“You’re not half as scary as you pretend to be, y’know,” you say, almost too quietly.

He laughs — short, humorless, but real.

“And you’re not half as cold as you pretend, either.”

By now, you’re sitting on the edge of the other bed, facing him. Close enough to see the tired lines at the corners of his eyes, the way he keeps flexing his fist like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The insults taper off, replaced by silence that feels… less hostile than it should.

“Hughie and Billy trust you to keep me in check?” he asks, voice softer, roughened by something that isn’t quite a laugh.

“Guess so,” you shrug. “Don’t prove them wrong.”

His gaze lingers, then drifts down to your hands, then back up.

“Don’t worry,” he says, voice just above a rasp, “I won’t kill you. Yet.”

But there’s a hint of warmth in the threat — the twisted kind only you two seem to understand.

The TV keeps flickering. You’re both quiet, but the silence isn’t empty anymore.

Just two broken weapons stuck in a shitty motel, finding something close to company in someone else who understands sharp words can mean don’t leave as much as they mean fuck you.

“Don’t fall asleep first,” you tease.

“Wouldn’t dare,” he fires back — voice low, but softer than you’ve ever heard it.

And in the cracked red light, it almost feels like peace. Almost.