Hansel: Homecoming

Hansel kept gritting his teeth all the way down the stairs. Had to. He was going to lose his shit otherwise. He was going to turn around. He was going to drop to the floor and fucking bawl.

He was so fucking weak.

He wanted to find Mishka -- he was probably in his study -- find him and pick him up and cry into his chest, but he knew Goro was right. As soon as Mishka caught wind of this thing about Griffin being the Scion, it’d be fucking over for Griffin. Whatever Mishka had to do the save Hansel, he’d do it. He’d nearly fucking destroyed Hansel to save him once before. Griffin didn’t stand a goddamn chance.

So there couldn’t be any going to Mishka and crying and asking for his help. Mishka would help him the same way Goro was determined to, and it didn’t goddamn matter what Hansel wanted -- they’d both say the same thing, those motherfuckers, about him being self-sacrificial and shit. Throwing himself in front of arrows. They just … wanted to shield him. He really did fucking get it. He just couldn’t fucking live with himself if any more people died because he was too fucking afraid to.

He gripped the bannister hard as he came down into the entrance hall, keeping hold of it because his eyes were shut against the tears. When his hand reached the end of the rail, he opened them again just in time to stop short of running directly into Ombre.

She had just cut around the corner and had an armload of food from the kitchen, and yipped in alarm when they almost collided -- then narrowed her eyes at him. “You going somewhere?”

“Yup.” He barely managed to get it out. His throat was too tight.

“You do realize it’s the middle of the night.” She kept appraising him, clearly suspicious, then shifted a little. “I know I’m gonna regret asking, but are you, um. Okay?”

“Mmm. Yup.” Definitely in his fucking bottom five worst lies he’d ever told, and there was a lot of fucking competition.

“Okay.” She wasn’t stupid; she definitely wasn’t buying it, but she wasn’t digging, either.

He cleared his throat. “Hey. Could you uh -- tell Mishka --.” Fuck, tell him what? “I don’t -- never mind. I’ll -- I’ll write a fucking letter.” Yeah, that was fucking sufficient. That was how you told your husband -- what? I’m sorry, I gave up, you were going to hurt people to save me and I can’t let that happen so I’m --

She kept staring. “Is there anything I should tell Goro, maybe?” she asked slowly.

He shook his head, almost choked, and pushed past her. “Nope. Think I said it all.”

“Hey, what the fuck does that mean?” she called after him. “Hey. Hansel? Hey!”

###

He made it past the farmland and just about into Glimmerton proper before he dropped. Managed to stumble off the road, first -- not like there was anyone around, this late, anyway, but he wasn’t going to just fucking break down in the middle of the street. He didn’t do that kind of shit anymore. Too fucking … in control. He was old enough to fuckin’ half trip over himself and drop his coat, and his bag, and shrug off his bandolier on the way to prop his forehead against a tree and sob his eyes out like a grown man.

There wasn’t anywhere he could fucking go. Everyone he had was up at the castle, and he couldn’t ask any of them for help, because he knew they’d all be on the same side as Goro. Raef, sure. Larkin, no doubt. But Raef and Larkin and Griffin himself weren’t going to be enough to convince Goro and Mishka to drop it, much less Roddy, and Luci when she found out.

There wasn’t anything he could fucking do. They outnumbered him. They wouldn’t listen to him. He had to just -- deal with it himself.

He missed his stupid kid, because Jonn was vicious and protective but at least he’d fucking listen -- he wouldn’t argue, he’d accept that Hansel knew what he was talking about when he patiently explained, *No, Jonn, we can’t trade Griffin’s life for mine, that’s not how it works*. He’d just sulk a bit and then he’d say, *Okay*, and he’d burrow against Hansel’s side like he was trying to live in Hansel’s skin, and he’d turn all that ferocity towards whatever other solution Hansel could come up with.

But it was that last part Hansel really fucking missed -- not the fact that Jonn would give in, or the protectiveness in the first place. The fact that Jonn’d fucking be there and he’d grab onto Hansel like the last lifeboat of a sinking ship and refuse to let go, and he’d do just about anything to hold on.

Goro had tried to hang onto him. Chased him up the stairs, yelled at him to stop, clung to him. That just made it fucking worse. Hansel slipped down to his knees, shivering from the cold but shaking more from the sobs he was trying desperately to keep quiet. He just hoped he’d fucking -- made it clear that he wasn’t angry, that Goro hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t know how to just say *You love me too much* without it sounding fucking stupid. *You love me more than I’m worth. You have to fucking stop. You have to accept that.*

He had done this to himself, and he’d done it to Goro, too, and he was so goddamn selfish; he never thought ahead, he didn’t consider the fact that he was a time bomb and none of them knew how long the fuse was. Bad enough to drag Mishka down with him. He’d just had to go and trick people like Goro and Roddy into caring about him, too, being in the blast radius when he inevitably fucking detonated.

Hansel just stayed there, for a long time, sitting in the snow until he was out of anything left to cry with. It shouldn’t have felt so fucking good to let himself be loved. It shouldn’t hurt so fucking much to do the right thing.

###

*Mishka,*

*I*

He didn’t know what to write. Kept scratching it out and trying again. Kept starting the same way. Kept feeling that discomfiting familiarity again.

He pulled all of the letters he’d kept out of his bag and read them, and reread them, and somehow he managed to cry more.

###

*my love,*

*I’m sorry. People I care about are going to keep getting hurt if I stay. I can’t deal with it. I don’t know what to do. I love you more than the every star in the night sky and every drop of water in the ocean. I love you more than anything. I love your freckles and your scars and your scales. I love the gentle and stubborn way you love me. But I won’t be able to live with myself if I let you try to save me and other people die because of it. I’m sorry I’m such a fucking coward. I love you. I love you. I love you.*

*- Hansel*

###

He trudged along the road, lost in time until the sun began to rise. Eventually, he crossed paths with a merchant caravan, and they offered him a ride on the back of one of their wagons, the halfling caravan head frowning at him in clear concern. He accepted it and drifted in and out of consciousness for a while, realized after a time that he was hungry, ignored it and went back to sleep.

Sleep was easier, until he dreamed about Goro’s voice asking, *Why? Fucking wait. What’d I do?* and imagined Mishka’s expression as he read the stupid fucking letter Hansel had sent back up to the castle, saw the scrying earring tucked into the envelope. When Roddy got back to the castle, someone would have to explain it to him, and Hansel didn’t even fucking know what they would say. He just fucking hoped Raef got Griffin away, kept him safe. He hoped the kid kept fucking fighting Gruumsh and telling him to fuck off after Hansel couldn’t, anymore.

When sleep failed him, he went back to walking. Made it to the little out-of-the-way temple he knew, with the golden steeple, half-ruined, overgrown as it had been the last time he’d been there, but still with quiet, heavily-cloaked devouts walking around the place like shades. They didn’t look at him or stop him from coming in and clearing the brush away from the teleportation circle -- then one drifted over to him to stare at him curiously over a thick veil.

“Silvanus Sanctuary,” he said, his voice coming out ragged. “Outside Shepherd Hills. Can you get me there?”

The devout nodded.

###

The town looked … the same. It was unsettling. He knew it right away, every snow-covered hill and every goddamn tree, the same fence along the main road -- worn down by the years but still standing. He found himself touching a finger to his broken tusk just to reassure himself that it had been twenty years, and everything in between hadn’t been all in his head, that he hadn’t only just left home and turned around and come back.

He didn’t know what he was doing here. Nowhere else to go, no one else to be with. It felt like -- one last thing to do. One last kiss.

Hansel kept trying to remember the last thing he’d said to Mishka, and he couldn’t, and it was killing him.

His feet knew the way to the little two-room house on the outskirts of town, close to the woods but shielded from them by fields of wheat -- dormant, now, and dead, gray and white. The barns were closed up, keeping the cattle and the goats warm, and under the snow he could see that they’d been repainted recently. Unimportant fucking details kept catching his eye -- the pens would need to be repaired before spring, there were fruit trees on the front lawn now, mature but still young, the stable had been rebuilt entirely. It kept him distracted until he made it to the house, made it onto the porch, raised his hand and just stared at the door.

He’d wanted Mishka to be here. To hold his arm, and watch his back, and push him forward, a little, when he faltered. He’d wanted more time, to ask Mishka to help him work through this, figure out why it mattered to him, now, so that Mishka could softly remind him of those reasons.

Now, though, he felt like -- he just wanted to see his mom one last time. He wanted to know if his baby brother was okay. The reasons were simple. That made it easier to tap at the door.

“C’min.”

Fucking surreal, to hear her voice again. Not exactly the same, but like a familiar field covered in snow -- only more layered, not really different. She must be expecting company. Small town, though. Probably just assumed that anyone knocking was friendly. He wondered if … things were different for them, after he left -- the fucking rot in the family tree, the stain, the mistake. If things were easier without him around to --

He made himself stop, because he just didn’t have the fucking energy to stand up and hate himself that fiercely at the same time, and pushed the door open, kicking snow off his boots against the threshold habitually.

And everything was the same, here, too. Different couch, same dining table; same loft, different quilt on the bed. He stopped, and almost touched his tusk again, because it was too goddamn weird, it was too much, it wasn’t real, but then Hansel’s mother came out of the back room with a blanket in her arms, and she froze and stared at him.

She looked small. He didn't know if she'd shrunk, or if he'd gotten taller still since he'd been sixteen. Her hair was graying in dramatic streaks at the temples -- same place he'd noticed his own few errant grays -- but the rest was still as coal black as his. The eyes, too, and the stubborn jawline and the cheekbones. It was like he'd forgotten what she looked like, or what he looked like, one.

Softly, she said, “Hansel?” She stayed in place, raising a hand to graze her own lip. "What happened to ... to your tooth?" She looked him up and down. "What ... happened?"

He realized he was standing stock still, but he wanted to bolt across the room and hug her. Found himself falling into old habits and crossing one arm to grip the other, instead, fingers digging into his upper arm, holding himself back, holding himself in place.

"I was --." He started to say scared. "I didn't know if you'd even -- recognize me."

Something shifted behind her eyes. "Of course I recognize you." Her voice was still gentle, like he was an animal she might spook. “Will you --.” She glanced at the table, then down at the blanket she was holding, and took a couple steps closer to him. “Are you cold? Did you come far? Sit -- sit down.” A couple more steps, catching herself on the table and sitting down heavily, herself, not taking her eyes off of him.

He obeyed hesitantly, sitting across from her. He thought about being in Amari’s warm, cozy kitchen and how he’d wanted to die more than he’d wanted to keep being there, for some reason. Had the same feeling here, understood it suddenly, remembered it -- but it was buried under snow and silt. He was just … too tired.

“Hansel?” she said again, leaning in a little, frowning. “I …”

He didn’t know what to say either. “I didn’t … I didn’t think this through,” he said lowly, scratchy. She always told him to think ahead. He never did.

“All right,” she said, and reach a hand halfway across the table. “That’s all right. Do you need a place to stay? Are you okay?” She kept looking at him like that, searching his face, checking his eyes like she was -- like she was scared.

Hansel thought he wanted to take her hand, but he wasn’t sure, and he couldn’t, with her looking like that. All worried. Like he was a feral dog that might let her pet it or might snap a finger off. He pulled back, found himself cradling his arm again. He wanted Mishka to be here and stand behind him and kiss his hair, and Goro to hold tight to his neck and anchor him, but thinking about them only made things worse. He could feel the panic rising up his throat like bile.

He stood abruptly, shaking his head, feeling he needed to say something and not having any idea what. Just turned back to the door. This was a mistake. All his reasons were shitty. Shouldn’t’ve come further inland at all; should’ve just fucking dove into the icy sea and --

“Hansel.” He mother caught his sleeve before he made it to the door. “No, sweetheart, please --.”

When he looked back at her she’d stopped too, half-standing, shaking her head a little, mouth open.

“I --,” she tried. “I won’t ask questions. Please just stay.” She pulled on his sleeve carefully, like -- like she was still scared, but she was asking him to stay, so -- she wasn’t scared of him. She was asking if he was all right, and shit. If he was cold. What he needed. She was scared he’d … leave again.

So he settled. He let her tug a little more insistently and guide him back to the table.

“I’ll make some tea.” Her hand rested briefly on his shoulder before pulling away, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed. “Just -- just sit.”

He nodded even though she was already turned to the kitchen, busying herself with the kettle and mugs. He didn’t know what to do, so he just -- curled his arms on the table and laid his head down, and was quiet until she came back, sitting beside him this time, clinking a mug down in front of him alongside a little jar of honey from the beekeeper who sold her wares in town. He stared at the tea, for a moment, dully, then dropped his head again.

It’d all been a mistake. He should have just stayed away, let her think he was gone forever, not dragged her into this too. So goddamn selfish. He just couldn’t stop fucking things up for even a day, could he.

Her hand fell tentatively on his shoulder again, and his gut ached from how badly he wanted to jerk away, and how badly he wanted to lean into her. She petted the black fur of his coat silently, for a little while, then said, “There’s -- so much I want to ask, but I don’t want … I don’t want to upset you.” He felt the vibrations in the table as she set her mug down. “You don’t have to talk. You can just sit. And I won’t talk, either. Okay?”

He nodded without lifting his head and drew in a shaking breath. It came back out as a sob.

“Oh. Sweetheart.” She slid her chair closer to his and kissed the top of his head. “I … I’m so sorry. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

###

He had a hard time meeting her eyes, but after a while he managed. His tea had gotten cold, so she made him another mug while he dried his face.

He told her he’d come from Skyport, and she repeated the name in an undertone like she’d never heard of such a place. He remembered that feeling; like everything beyond the fields and the forest was unreal, no matter what news you heard of it. He told her he’d been a pirate, and her brow wrinkled, and she said that sounded dangerous. He tugged the collar of his shirt out to show her the shark bite, and pointed out the thin faint line across his throat. He told her it’d been dangerous, but his crew had always had his back.

She asked about his crew, before she could think better of it, and he rubbed at his face again. Didn’t know what to say.

So he told her he was married, that his heart had been stolen by a beautiful, deadly pirate captain. She frowned at that, too, but she didn’t ask why his beautiful, deadly pirate captain wasn’t here with him.

Finally, he asked, “Is Dad around?” because he couldn’t sit on it any longer, couldn’t keep waiting for the old man to walk in and catch him off-guard.

But he knew her answer from her face, before she’d said anything. “No. He’s not. He -- passed, a few years back.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t sure why he’d never even considered that. Didn’t seem possible. Didn’t seem real. “What happened?”

A little late he realized it was an insensitive question, but she answered anyway. They’d never been in love, anyway; he wondered if she ever had been at all. "He got sick,” she said simply. “Had this ... awful cough that wouldn't go away. Started coughing up blood."

Hansel frowned. "He go to a healer?"

"The Lady of the Woods couldn't do anything for him," she said. The old druid that lived out of town -- she didn't like being bothered, or known at all, but she'd help folks sometimes, for a price. Usually with animals, not people.

"What about a cleric, though?"

She gave a small, sad shrug. "We saved up to make it to the Silvanus Sanctuary and pay a cleric there, but -- it took months. And then he couldn't travel on his own. And I couldn't manage the farm by myself, and Leigh couldn't either." She looked down at the table for a moment. "We just waited it out."

“Fuck,” he blurted. “I mean -- I'm sorry.” The idea of just waiting for death to come, of being powerless to stop it, just having to stare it down -- fucking awful. But it made it real to him, he guessed. Still didn't know how to feel. “I should've been here.” Should've sent money home. Or sent a letter once in a while to check in. Should've … something.

“What would you have done?” she said gently. “You couldn't have healed him. The farm wouldn't have made money any faster.”

“I could've helped Leigh with the farm so you could get Dad to the Sanctuary,” he objected, and another thought came to him, fucking terrifying. “Leigh -- is he --.”

“He's well,” she assured him, sliding her hand closer to his again without touching him. “He's healthy. Strong. He's so tall.” She smiled faintly. “He reminds me of you.”

Neither of Leigh's parents were especially tall people -- Hansel had been bigger by the time he was fourteen. He'd always figured his height came from his orc father, but -- maybe it was their mother's blood after all, something she hadn't inherited but had passed on to the both of them.

He didn't know what to say, and just sat there staring down at his tea, hands wrapped around the mug, for a while.

Marion carefully asked, “Will you tell me more about your pirate captain?”

Hansel rotated the mug in his hands and nodded, and he told her about Mishka saving his life from Dread Jones. He told her about teaching Mishka how to fight with a rapier, and about Mishka calming him, somehow, when he got upset. He told her about their little wedding on the quarterdeck, and Hunter grinning from the rail, and Serena stringing magic lights all around them, and Elitash making bets on when they'd get hitched, and Kheman baking their wedding cake, and Corven's sharp tongue softening as she married them.

He told her they were all gone now, except for Mishka, but he didn't tell her why.

“I wondered if you would be married,” she said, quiet, smiling from the story but sad at the same time. “If you ever had kids. I wondered if --.” She lifted a hand to her lip again, covered her mouth. Didn't ask.

He told her about Jonn, tiny and vicious and clinging to his baby sister in the port, and how he'd tried so hard to take care of those kids. How he'd realized one day that they were his, and -- how fucking scared he'd been by it. She nodded, tears making her eyes glassy. He told her how old they were now, how independent and clever Luci was, how Jonn was … lost, and Hansel couldn't do anything for him now.

And he heard what he was saying as he said it -- about his youngest being so grown up and strong, and his oldest being gone -- and he pushed his chair back abruptly to grab her in a hug. That was what he'd done to her. He'd never thought. He'd felt so abandoned, and he'd never thought about what just walking away and never explaining and never coming back would do to her.

She hugged back tightly and he felt her struggling to not cry. “He'll come back to you,” she said, strained. “I know he loves you. You're -- good, Hansel. He'll come back to you.”

He nodded. It was all too complicated to explain to her why she was wrong, but he nodded.

He was telling her about Roddy -- how brave that kid was, and how big-hearted, and how hard he tried -- when he heard the porch door creaking open. He tensed automatically, even knowing it couldn't be his stepfather, and that even if it had been, he wouldn't be in any danger. Still, he felt himself prickling as he turned to watch the door over his shoulder.

It didn't make any sense, but Hansel knew him right away, somehow. Two extra decades on him, but the same pale hair -- their father's hair -- well, his father's -- and the same dark eyes as Hansel's and their mother's. Hansel could see Elijah in him, more than was comfortable, but something in the eyes was just ... Leigh. Still his baby brother.

He didn't know what to do.

Leigh stopped and looked between him and Marion with a puzzled, kind of wary expression. "Who's this?"

Hansel guessed he did look suspicious, all armed and scarred and out of place. Could've been a bandit. It was a fair question. He guessed he just -- would have hoped that Leigh might put together who the half-orc with half his mother's face might be. Leigh'd been seven years old when Hansel left -- that was old enough to remember, by far. Maybe it just wasn't old enough to have cared.

“Oh.” Their mother seemed startled. “It's -- Leigh, it's Hansel. It's your brother.”

He opened his mouth and shut it. Blinked. He glanced over the trident and shield on Hansel's back, settled on his face. Hansel expected the same question -- what happened to your tooth? What happened to you? And he expected disappointment and betrayal and anger, once the dumbfoundedness wore off, to be shouted at and blamed for Elijah's death, and no doubt for the responsibility that'd fallen on Leigh when Hansel had gone. Any hardship they'd had since then -- he could have prevented or mitigated it if he'd just been around, if he hadn't run. He'd left Leigh to fend for himself. Against everything. He'd spent years telling himself *Leigh probably hates me*, but the real thought was *Leigh should hate me*.

Instead, Leigh said, "I can't believe I didn't recognize you." He shifted uncomfortably, and crossed one arm over to hold the other. Familiar. "Are you ... doing good?"

“He's married,” Marion supplied, sounding strangely proud. “He and his husband have kids.”

“Well -- I mean --,” Hansel said awkwardly. “I mean … they're my kids, not Mishka's.” Roddy, maybe, a bit. He wasn't sure. It was a weird, complicated situation, he knew, and he had to complicate it further by adding, “Got a boyfriend, too.”

It sounded -- strangely childish. Boyfriend. Maybe it was just the way he'd said it, feeling oddly guilty for not having mentioned Goro yet. There was just so goddamn much to get through, so much to say, and Goro was part of a more recent chapter. There were too many awful things between leaving home and kissing him, and Hansel didn't know how to skip to the good parts.

“Oh, you didn't --.” Marion stopped herself, but she looked pleased.

"So, uh.” And Leigh sounded amused. “So good, then.”

*Well, little brother, I'm still deeply fucked up about how our parents treated me, and I can't decide if I'm sad and guilty your dad is dead or maybe I'm just pissed I can't have it out with him now. A dragon might make my husband kill me one day, and he fucked me up pretty bad too in the process of trying to keep that from happening before. I adopted this kid and he turned out to be a dangerous lunatic, but I still fucking adore him, so not sure what to do about that. Hey, and sometimes an orc god takes control of me and makes me murder people I love, and it could happen at any second, so keep your ears sharp for thunder, all right.*

"Good enough."

He didn't look like he quite bought it, but he didn't push it. He uncrossed his arm, instead, and gestured. "Would you -- stand up so I can -- I don't know -- look at you?"

Hansel stood a bit reluctantly, and shrugged to resettle his gear on his back. He was still taller, and broader, he realized, but Leigh had outgrown his sickly scrawniness -- he was taller than their mother, sure enough, taller than Goro or Mishka, a bit bulkier under the heavy sheepskin coat. He guessed part of him had worried that Leigh might not even fucking be alive anymore. Never fucking imagined it'd be his dad, instead.

Leigh stared at him for a moment, then laughed. "How is it like you're even bigger than me now than when I was seven? How does that work?"

Hansel snorted, but froze when Leigh stepped in and grabbed him in a tight hug. Didn't know how to react, and knew he was failing to react for longer than was fucking socially acceptable, but Leigh didn't let go, and he finally managed to put his arms around his brother. Carefully. Real fucking carefully. Because their mom was watching, and she always told him not to touch Leigh, because he was too rough, and Leigh was too delicate, and he got in the habit of drawing away and putting his hands behind his back whenever Leigh tried to hug him or grab his arm. Just don't fucking touch.

But their mom didn't say anything, now, just stood to pour Leigh some tea too, and brought the mismatched mug over to the table before going to sit in the rocking chair by the fire. Still creaked just as bad as it always had. Elijah had never fixed it. Hansel had always figured he could do it, but Elijah said that was his grandma's rocking chair, and he wasn't going to have Hansel break it.

But Elijah wasn't here, now, and Hansel was careful -- so careful -- when he squeezed Leigh back. No one yelled at him for it. No one got hurt. It was … fine. It was okay.

He was good.

###

Hansel helped his mother make dinner, quietly, while Leigh climbed up into the loft and began moving things around without being told. Marion commented *you learned how to cook*, not phrasing it as a question, and Hansel told her about Kheman teaching him the basics, and how he taught himself after that. Learned some things from the clerics at the Sanctuary of Eldath. Learned things everywhere he went -- Calishami cuisine, Skyport dishes, strange ways to cook stranger fish. Told her he’d eaten the shark that tried to eat him.

Told her he didn’t eat meat anymore, though. “Lost my taste for it.”

She still hadn’t asked why he was here, why his husband and boyfriend and kids weren’t with him. Just as well.

He realized he wouldn’t know what to tell her. He could tell her that he was fucking sad, and lonely, and he had to leave the people who loved him because they might hurt others to keep him safe. He could tell her that he’d once been so afraid of dying he’d done something so terrible he’d barely wanted to live since. He could tell her he wasn’t afraid of dying anymore, but his family wouldn’t let him, and that scared him more -- what they might do to keep him around. He could tell her that he had to make himself stop being a threat to his loved ones, but not even death could stop that, because Goro had that twisted black wand. He had to be far away. He had to be burnt to ash, or buried, or sunk to the bottom of the sea; he had to be somewhere he couldn’t be reached.

But he chopped carrots and he realized that he was feeling quieter, now. The panic under the snow and silt had faded. Leigh sat with his legs hanging off the edge of the loft and asked him if he wasn't going to take his coat off, and he looked down and supposed he ought to, and hung it up by the door and left his bandolier on the hook beside it.

As they ate dinner, Marion and Leigh discussed the farm, and Hansel listened, intently, and he realized a third thing.

Their mother moved to the rocking chair to mend a rip in a blanket, and Hansel sat at the table with his brother and asked, “How can I help?”

Leigh didn't know to avoid questions. He tilted his head. “Why're you home?”

Hansel opened his mouth and shut it. His mother stopped rocking behind Leigh's back and stared at him, concerned.

He slowly told Leigh about his guild, his new crew. Told him that they were all … busy, and split apart, and in danger, and that there was nothing for him to do against the people they were fighting. That he was useless. That he tended to overreact and get too protective, and he was going to do something wrong, and ruin everything. That it'd been wearing on him, he guessed, the feeling of uselessness.

Leigh didn't buy it. “There's gotta be something you can do.”

Hansel shrugged and shook his head. “Just … keep putting people in danger. Doesn't matter what I do.” He paused. “Safer here. And I can work. I can help.”

Leigh looked frustrated by that answer, but their mom said, “Well, we're hardly going to turn you away.”

It got late, and she went to bed in the back room, and Hansel steadily emptied out his flask. Leigh didn't drink. That was probably smart. He eyed the flask and commented on how he remembered Elijah passing out drunk almost every night, how as he got older he found out how much of the farm's income went towards keeping the man in moonshine.

“I'm sorry I left you,” Hansel said suddenly. “With him. Alone. I should've --.”

“Hey.” He glanced down and shifted uncomfortably. “Hey. Don't. It wasn't so bad for me. I know, I mean -- I remember what he was like to you.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess it took me a while. I was upset at first 'cause I didn't understand, and … I was mad, then, 'cause he said you'd just abandoned us, and he said that was just … what you were like. He said you got it from your dad.”

\*My dad?” Hansel squinted down at the table. He didn't know -- had Elijah known his actual fucking father?

“Him and Mom fought about it a lot,” Leigh said, looking away again. “She said … a lot of things. She tried to not do it around me, and they settled down eventually, but he'd still talk shit about you when he got drunk. That was when I started to realize, you know -- that he was full of it. 'Cause I remembered you. And he remembered someone else fuckin’ entirely.”

Hansel mulled that over.

“I remember that -- you never tried to hurt anyone,” Leigh said. “And sometimes you broke things, but you always apologized. I remember you used to take me into town and you wouldn't look at anyone we passed and you'd barely talk, and I didn't know why for a long time. 'Cause when you took me out into the woods, you'd always talk to me, and tell me about the plants, and the stars, and --.” He hesitated. “I remembered you didn't talk much at home, either. And Dad was just … lying. I was angry at you for a while, but I'm -- I get it, Han. I know you didn't leave me.”

Hansel swallowed. He blinked quickly. He was real fuckin’ glad for the whiskey, because it dulled his feelings enough that he was able to not break down sobbing in front of his little brother. Didn't know what to say, though. Didn't manage to say anything.

Leigh watched him, wary and tired and concerned. “I remember that storm, the night before you left.”

Hansel looked up.

“I remember how -- I wandered off, and I went to the Hendersons’ place without telling anyone. And Mom came and got me. She said you'd gone out in the woods to look. And we waited for you to come back, y'know, when you didn't find me, but then there was that storm.” He crossed his arms, frowning. “Outta nowhere. I remember 'cause you were scared of storms, and I told Dad he should go get you,” Leigh said softly, “so you wouldn't be scared. Mom was going to. But while she was putting on her cloak, there was lightning, and -- I remember there was a fire, and this wind, and the animals all got spooked and the paddock was busted, and Mom and Dad had to keep them under control. I thought --.”

He stopped, and Hansel stared at him.

“I don't know. The thunder was so loud. It was right over us, and I --.” He laughed humorlessly. “I hid under your bed, up in loft. It felt like the world was ending, and you were stuck out there in it because of me. And the next morning -- you know, I didn't -- I was just so happy to see you again, and I felt like it was my fault for running off. It wasn't ‘til later that I thought …” He glanced up at Hansel like he wasn't sure if he should keep going. “I thought you looked different, when you came home. Like a different person, almost. I thought … I don't know.”

He leaned forward, across the table. “Did something happen? Did -- someone hurt you? I mean -- fuck.” He leaned back again quickly, looking back down. “I mean, you don't have to answer, I'm sorry, I don't want to -- dredge up shit from the past. I just … I'm sorry, Han.”

“Why?” Hansel's voice came out hoarse.

Leigh gave him a confused look. “If I hadn't run off, I mean, then you wouldn't've been in the woods, and -- whatever happened …”

“No.” He remembered what he'd told Goro. *That was the best time it happened. No one got hurt.* “No, I -- it's not -- no one -- it ain't your fuckin' fault anyway, you were a kid, and Mom and Dad never let you do shit, and I never blamed you for wandering off. And -- no one hurt me. I --.”

His stomach clenched. *I heard a voice in the storm. It screamed my name and later it made me kill my friends, and that's why I'm here now, so it doesn't happen again. I thought I was crazy for so long. I fucked up and I came here to die but now I don't want to anymore, and I don't know what to do.*

“I didn't get hurt in the storm, it was …” It was here. It was at home. “I just had to leave. But -- fuck, it wasn't because of you. God, Leigh, I'm fuckin’ sorry I made you feel that way.”

Leigh shook his head. “You didn't. You didn't. It was just -- I don't know.” His fingernails scratched idly at the table top. “It was a lot. Thanks for -- saying that, anyway. And coming home.” He was quiet. “I missed you. I bet your husband doesn't think you're useless, though, back where you came from. I bet he misses you, too. And the boyfriend, and the kids.”

He looked up, and Hansel avoided his eyes. Nodded, though. Knew he was right. Knew this was his own damage, and Mishka would just … want him there. He'd run off on Goro, left him standing there drunk and injured, and -- didn't know if that was forgivable at all, much as he'd tried to soften it. Wasn't actually sure how Mishka would react to him leaving, either, because the one time he'd ever tried, Mishka would have done anything to get him to stay. Maybe he'd be too hurt. Maybe he'd be angry. Maybe Hansel had fucked up exactly the amount he'd been trying to, and things would just be broken now.

“I don't know,” he said. He was too exhausted to think clearly. “I don't know.”

Leigh pushed up from the table and dragged him to his feet to hug him again, hard. Hansel hugged back immediately this time.

“Well, like Mom said. Stay as long as you want. I fixed up the spare bed for you in the loft.”

###

Hansel woke up disoriented. He'd dreamed of thunder, he thought, until he came more awake and heard the rain -- gentle and quiet on the roof. He'd slept through the worst of a storm.

He straightened, blinking blearily, looking around. Leigh was asleep in the other bed, under layers of blankets. Someone needed to get up and stoke the fire, and start breakfast. He was -- he needed to help, to earn his keep, he needed --

But the rain was soothing with no electricity behind it, dancing against the tin roof. Hansel let himself back down, pressing his face into the pillow and taking a long, slow breath. The world was still dim, and it wasn't ending. He could sleep a while longer. He could rest.