I tore my mind on a jagged sky

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I tore my mind on a jagged sky

When the ash falls, Max isn't ready for it. Even though he's been on edge for days, waiting for the other shoe to drop, when he steps out of McCormick's for a smoke break and the street's deserted and there's ash on the roads, there's a second before it registers.

Three years ago, Max almost died in the street. Three years ago, a soldier with no face pointed a gun at him and it was only luck that got him out of it. Fucking dumb luck and fighting like hell. He should be dead. He should have died back in the jungle, and he should have died that day in the street.

And now he's back to do it all over again.

"Shit," Max says, and he's trying to wipe ash off of his face, even as it continues to fall. But his heart is speeding up and he can't fucking breathe. The siren's going to start soon, and the next thing he knows, he'll be left in the dark again, thrown back into the jungle.

He wants to think that he's lost his mind, that he's out of his head and this is another one of the dozens of nightmares he's had about this place since he left it, but Max knows it's not. As fucked up as he knows he is, there are some things he's never forgotten, some things that he's pretty fucking sure of. And the feel of this place has haunted Max for long enough that he'd know it anywhere.

Max turns on his heels and heads back inside, even though he knows that waiting this out in the bar is risky. Last time, he spent a day and a half in a closet, and they still found him, dragging him out into the street by his ankles.

He sinks into one of the booths, and it's more fucked up than he remembers from just a few minutes ago, the leather of the seats old and cracked, the tabletop worn and dirty, Max tries like hell to catch his breath, to make his heart slow down and push the smell of humid air out of his head.

Three years ago, Max is convinced he left a part of himself in this place, and he sure as shit didn't want to come back to try and find it.

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There was blood on his shirt. It was fucking Armani, and blood was a bitch to get out. It didn't surprise him that he was more worried about a goddamn shirt than his bleeding head wound.

One thing at a time.

In the last twenty four hours... longer-- Christ, he wasn't even sure. The span of a day, daylight and then sirens and darkness, he'd seen things he didn't know how to begin to describe. In all his time in Darrow, seeing weird shit, living through hell... It was nothing like this.

Sometime during that first night, he found a crowbar. There was blood on that, too, but it wasn't his own. He'd never really killed anything in his life, but he didn't feel any regret, putting an end to the monsters in the dark.

But there was one particular monster he took one look at and ran from. If he was going to feel regret about anything, it might've been that, but so far, he hadn't let himself think about it.

So far, what he thought about, almost non-stop, was Gus. He went to the apartment, what was left of it, but the rooms were empty and covered in dust. Decay. He couldn't find his son.

What he thought about, with equal desperation, was Max. He stood in the center of their apartment, shouting his name until he was hoarse. He tore through streets, familiar haunts, nothing. Every face he saw, even the friendly ones, were a fucking disappointment.

And there was that one face in the dark that he couldn't let himself see.

A goddamn day, and he was no closer to getting the hell out. A goddamn day, and he found himself circling back around to the Winchester. The locks were rusted. The door creaked as he opened it, grey light filtering into the darkness inside.

Max hears the door creak open and his heart nearly stops. There was no siren. Last time, there was always that goddamn siren before the city went dark and they came after him.

Then again, he doesn't know how long he's been sitting in this booth, trying to piece himself together, trying to get his heart to slow and figure out what the fuck he's supposed to do now. But he lost track of time back in that closet last time, too.

At least then, there was a bag of golf clubs he could use to try and defend himself, even if it didn't do a hell of a lot of good.

Max scrambles to the floor, underneath the table, and there, covered in dirt, is a broken bottle. It's about as good as it's going to get when it comes to finding something, anything, to make sure he doesn't end up dead.

Though, staying under that table is a good way for that to happen.

"Shit. Shitshitshit," Max mutters to himself, and he starts to crawl out from under the table, hoping he can somehow make it to the back door without being seen or heard.

Inside, the tables were covered in dust. In the shaft of light from the street, he watched bugs scuttle across the floor. "Jesus," he muttered to himself.

Chairs were overturned. Behind the bar, there were broken bottles. Only a few stood upright. Parts of the city were intolerably hot, but inside the bar, it was unnaturally cold.

In the shadows, he heard a shuffle, the soft clink of glass. He gritted his teeth and held tighter to the crowbar in his hand.

"I already know you're there," he said flatly. The last twenty-four hours, and he'd been more terrified than he had in his entire fucking life, but he'd be damned if he let anyone know it.

It could be a trick, Max knows. And even though he's only been through this shit once, years ago, it's not his first thought, to think that it is. Because even though Max has the broken bottle firmly grasped in is hand as he starts to scramble across the floor, as soon as he hears that voice, he wants nothing more than to believe that it's actually who it sounds like it is.

Maybe this place has found a new way to fuck with him. Maybe the second he stands up, some faceless soldier is going to blow him the hell away.

His heart pounding in his chest, Max's mouth is dry as he scratches out the words, but Max pushes to his feet, not letting go of his makeshift weapon, just in case he's completely fucking wrong about this.

"Brian?"

For a split second, Brian seemed to deflate, all the tension he'd been carrying around with him for the last thirty-six hours draining out of him in an instant.

Putting on a smile, he held his arms out at his sides and said, "Surprise." Like it was all some fucking joke. Like he hadn't spent the last day and a half scared out of his fucking mind.

"Shit," Max says, and maybe Brian deflates, at ease, but even the familiar face isn't enough to keep Max from feeling on edge. He knows that the sirens are coming, that even though it's not something about to kill him that walked in through the door, that doesn't mean that there's nothing behind him.

Still, he's been flipping out ever since Brian disappeared, not sure if he was sent here or home, or if he'd ever even see him again. As much as he knows that neither of them are out of the woods here, not when the siren could kick in at any minute, there's a moment where it doesn't fucking matter. And in that moment, even though he still hasn't let go of his grip on the bottle, convinced he might still need it, Max crosses the room and throws his arms around Brian.

"Jesus, I thought you were gone," he says.

This was the kind of shit that made Brian recoil, retreat into himself, hide behind pompous fucking lectures about only needing yourself. They were too reliant on each other, they'd made too many promises, and Brian's key to success, the key to his survival, was distance. The only person he'd ever needed was himself.

People left. They let you down. They hurt you. Because of that, he'd learned, he could only ever count on himself. If he got hurt, then, he'd only have himself to blame. And Brian never, ever let himself get hurt.

That's what he said, at least. That's what he wanted to believe, and it had been easy for so fucking long. But he was getting old and weak and soft, and the lie was slipping through his fingers.

"You know I'm not getting rid of you that easy," Brian said, smirking against Max's temple, his own arms sliding tight around Max's waist.

"I've been looking for you," he admitted, heaving out a sigh, "Ever since I fucking got here. I kept hoping I wouldn't find you." He lifted a hand to Max's face, smearing ash across his cheek and slipping his fingers through Max's hair. "You shouldn't be down here. Not again."

"Yeah, well that's not how it works," Max says, and his voice comes out shakier than he expects, because even though he knows he's not alone down here now, he doesn't feel like he's out of the woods yet. And when it come down to it, he doesn't know if it's better or worse that Brian's there. Maybe this is better than being alone, hiding in a closet for fuck knows how long, but he doesn't know what's going to happen when they come back.

When the soldiers with no faces come after him again.

He can only relax for a second, pressed again Brian, before he pulls away, a frantic expression on his face.

"We've gotta find some place to go," he suddenly says, and there's panic in his voice, "Before it starts and they come back."

Brian took a step back, uncomfortable that he'd said something so sentimental, especially when it wasn't something Max needed to hear. It was bullshit, and so far from Brian's norm, that he couldn't explain where it had come from, except that he'd been slowly unraveling since the ash started to fall. So much shit in his head was muddled, hidden under layers of panic and denial, but one thing was becoming startlingly clear.

"You were here before. What do you suggest?" He arched a brow, and while his tone wasn't as sharp as it could've been, it was a little colder than it had been before.

If Brian's tone changes, Max doesn't notice in the moment, too struck by the idea that he's supposed to know what the hell he's doing here. It was dumb luck that he didn't die last time, that he didn't get blown away in his ashed out apartment, or in the street, and he doesn't know how he's going to manage it again.

"Someplace indoors. With a good lock. Shit, I don't know," Max says, and he knows barricading themselves in McCormick's would probably be a mistake. And he's gonna need a weapon. Brian's got that crowbar, but Max doesn't know if it'll be enough.

Out of habit, Brian glanced at his watch, but it hadn't told accurate time since the ash started to fall. Those fucking alarms, and the vague fluctuation in light outside, were his only indication of how much time had passed.

"There's the old loft," Brian suggested, with a heavy sigh. "There's no telling what condition it's in, but the doors are heavier. It's not as easy to get to."

Lifting his arms in an uncharacteristically defeated shrug, he said, "Do we really want to box ourselves in?"

"Better than being out in the goddamn open. At least for the night," Max says, though he remembers what happened last time he hid. He was dragged out by his ankle to be shot in the fucking street. At least, this time there's the two of them. At least this time, he won't be left alone in the dark.

At some point, after all the bullshit, Max realized that he could actually count on Brian. Not that he'd had much of a problem with it in the beginning, finding Brian fucking some guy after standing him up for dinner, but when the shit hit the fan, now he was sure didn't have a fucking thing to worry about.

"Then let's go," Brian said, stepping forward and offering Max his hand. "I found the Jeep. It was parked near the office but I couldn't get to fucking start. So, it looks like we're walking."

It wasn't too far, even on foot, but the prospect of walking through the grey dark, with night looming near, wasn't exactly filling him with fucking excitement.

"This place fucks with stuff that's electric," Max says, and takes Brian's hand without hesitation, his mind temporarily preoccupied with thoughts of the first time he got stuck in this place, of static on the TV and his cab crapping out on him.

The idea of heading off through the ash brings a feeling of dread, something heavy in the pit of his stomach, but he doesn't to think about what happens if they end up stuck somewhere they don't wanna be when the siren starts.

"Yeah, I got that," Brian said flatly, even as his grip on Max's hand tightened, his thumb brushing mindlessly over Max's knuckles.

Outside, it was eerily silent. There wasn't a hell of a lot of comfort in the feeling, but it seemed like they were the only things moving for miles. Like every ounce of life had been drained from the entire fucking city.

As quiet as it is between the sirens, as much as Max knows from experience that nothing's gonna happen just yet, he can't keep himself from scanning the road, expecting something to jump out at them.

"Couldn't even get the lights in my apartment to turn on the last time," Max says, and as much as he's hoping that maybe he can stop thinking about what's probably gonna happen late, he can't quite keep that creeping feeling of dread at bay.

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I tore my mind on a jagged sky

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