What better time to find a brand new day [Pierce]

It was a midnight idea, really. The sort too fanciful to be thought up when one doesn’t need sleep. He had arrived home in his beige little flat and fallen into bed, the idea of being anywhere else beginning to seem quite attractive, and he thought perhaps he needed a vacation, in the way that one says so and then does nothing about it.

But then he thought, what was stopping him?

Lots of things tied him to England, but all of a sudden he realized how weak those ties had been feeling as of late. Weak enough for the thought of traveling—no, of living—abroad to take root in his imagination. He needed to do something big, grand and amazing, or else, he feared and began to convince himself, he would get stuck.

After the war he had made himself boring, created routines, boundaries. Excitement wasn’t the sort of thing he’d fantasized about when he was young, romance and freedom. It was death, and it was pain. Contentment was enough for him after that year.

Time had passed. It wasn’t enough anymore.

He imagined himself in Paris, Rome, Barcelona. Dreadfully romantic cities he’d dreamed about when he was young, when he wanted to be an artist and thought it was a requirement. And the plan began to formulate itself—plan in the loosest sense, more of a frighteningly strong desire that he had no idea where to start accomplishing. But it was there, in his mind now. He would leave. For how long, he didn’t know. But long enough to remember who he was.

He didn’t sleep that night until dawn, and woke up in midmorning to an owl tapping impatiently at his window. Pierce had written.

Dean didn’t want to think about the night before, but he had to. He scribbled his address and a brief reply. Glad you wrote. See you soon.

After all, if he would be going, he didn’t want to leave Pierce on this note.

@Pierce Lachapelle

There was an awful lot on his mind.

The Frenchman was all dressed, fiddling with his hair and practicing his words in the mirror. He felt so silly -- this was the sort of thing he’d used to do when he was younger, still under the thumb of the world and believing he had to be some sort of diplomatic superstar. He’d given speeches at fancy dinners, mingled with foreign ambassadors, and yet this felt perhaps more nervewracking than the rest. It really mattered that he got this right with Dean -- the rest was just all about pomp and circumstance.

His gaze kept falling, his words trailing as he shook his head. Nothing seemed quite right, nothing was making sense. He wasn’t entirely sure why it was so difficult to come up with his apology, but it was. There was a lot he wanted to say, a lot that he felt responsible for. Some of it he knew belonged to fate -- timing, destiny, whatever you wanted to call it. But even those things he felt partially responsible for, like they were tied to him. If he’d never come into Dean’s life, he never would’ve had to deal with them at all.

He stepped back, eying himself in the mirror, buttoning and unbuttoning the top few buttons of his shirt and trying to decide what looked better. He was being a bit neurotic -- as though he believed that if he wore the right shirt, the right shoes, maybe that would help Dean forgive him. He had no idea what he was doing but it felt good to be doing something. He opted to leave them open, just a bit, showing a bit of his collarbones. His hair was coiffed and his clothes were put together and he had no more excuses. He grabbed the note again, re-reading the address, smirking at the way Dean’s letters looped and connected.

It was just a few minutes later when he materialized before his flat, shaking out his limbs in hopes the nerves would follow. He still hadn’t worked out what he was going to say -- he’d just have to wing it. The bottom line was that it mattered to him -- Dean mattered to him -- and even though they were just friends Pierce really, really wanted things to be alright again. He brought his knuckles to the door and rapped a few times, standing up straight as he waited.

“Hiya,” he said to Dean, a bright smile on his face. “I made it -- I didn’t even get lost once!” he said proudly as he slipped inside the apartment. It was just as Dean had described it -- minimal, beige, but lived in. Pierce liked it, in the oddest of ways, because it didn’t remind him of Dean at all. It was the antithesis of the man he knew. “So this is the famous flat of tattoo extraordinaire Dean Thomas,” he said, spinning a bit and looking around. “Thanks for having me,” he said with a grin.

He was gonna get to it -- all the heavier stuff. But he needed just a minute to get his bearings. He hoped Dean wouldn’t be annoyed with him for acting like everything was peachy.

There was a knock at the door and Dean jumped immediately. He nearly tripped over himself rushing to answer—he didn’t want to keep Pierce waiting.

The other man gave him a broad smile as he opened the door, and Dean returned it, surprised. “Er, hiya yourself,” he said with a little laugh. “Glad you got here okay. Come in?”

He lead Pierce inside, wishing he had more art on the walls and better furniture. His friend turned, taking it all in. “Famous, yeah,” said Dean, snorting. “Among the slutty club set and my drinking mates, maybe.” He watched Pierce, who seemed more excitable even than usual. “And now you.” He shrugged, looking around, feeling again that mad temptation to leave the place behind.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he asked, returning his attention to Pierce. “I mean—I know things were weird last night. And it’d be great if we could make them not weird, you know?” He hoped that was possible. “Because you see, I’ve been thinking a lot, and I think—I think I need to go someplace. Travel, yeah? Maybe live abroad for a while.” He looked up at Pierce, meeting his eyes. “I think I really need it. And I don’t want you to think it’s because of you.”

Pierce tried, very diligently, to conceal his sense of surprise. There were two types of surprises in the world: good surprises and bad surprises. Good surprises? A lovely chance meeting, an unexpected kiss, a budding friendship. Bad surprises? Awkwardness, things unspoken, a potential runaway. Dean was everything at once, good and bad, and because of it Pierce’s face faltered openly. He couldn’t keep it all inside no matter how much he wanted to.

“You mean... you’re leaving?” he said, his tone a mix of confusion and accusation. “No, of course not, why would it be because of me?” he said, his words clearly barbed. More barbed than he’d meant them to be. Fuck. He scrubbed a hand down his face as he recovered, shaking his head. “I mean -- I don’t know, this is... sudden,” he said, choosing his word carefully. He had a lot more, many of them not so innocent, on the tip of his tongue.

“I came here to apologize,” he said quickly, which moments ago had felt so inflated and now carried all the power of a deflated balloon. “For last night, for all of it -- for everything,” he said simply. He’d been thinking a lot about the speech, the nuances he wanted to hit, but when Dean dropped his bomb it obliterated everything. He was lucky to be able to form coherent sentences. He fell back onto the couch, stunned and truthfully stung, again thinking of himself and not the other man. It was unfair, and he knew it was, but it was rooted in panic rather than something narcissistic.

“Dean you’re... you’re my London friend, my London guy,” he said, blue eyes searching for his. He knew, being magical, that distance wasn’t as big of a burden as it was for muggles -- but by the same token, Pierce had been that guy. Different city every month. New adventures every day. Languages, people, cultures. Even though he wrote, even though he stayed in touch, none of it was the same. And Dean had to know that much all on his own. Pierce swallowed hard.

“Have you thought about where you’d like to go?” he said delicately, his tone shifting and becoming lighter and less intense. “You wanting to stay in Europe or travel abroad, America perhaps? Brazil is lovely, or so I’ve heard. I’ve yet to make the journey across the pond,” he offered. What he wanted, really, was to bicker. To tell him not to go and to make him stay so that they could still be close. He wouldn’t, he couldn’t. It would be too selfish and far too hypocritical. He was hoping that if they focused on the travel and the adventure he could just be happy for Dean instead.

Maybe if he helped him organize everything, the goodbye wouldn’t feel so permanent. Maybe if he was part of the planning, he wouldn't feel left behind.

Pierce looked quite shocked, and not in a good way. His expression was wounded, and Dean couldn’t look at him. He hadn’t been expecting to hurt the other man this much, or much at all. It had been Pierce himself, after all, who had suggested he find some adventure. Why would he look so betrayed that Dean had agreed? Now he found himself dreading Seamus’s face, his mother’s. The temptation to leave faltered a bit then. If people here cared for him so, surely it was wrong to leave them? He had wanted to go away for himself and that felt horribly selfish now.

"I...think I might,” he said, still. “And I just didn’t want you to think—all this, that’s happened between us, that’s the sort of thing I’d want to run away from, but I don’t want to do that.” He stared back into Pierce’s hurt eyes, pleading. “I want to work it all out, I want it to be…easy to talk to you again. I don’t want to…” He was going to say leave you on a bad note but he hesitated to say leave, fearing that Pierce would take things even worse.

“Don’t apologize,” he said. “Not for everything. Last night was as much me as you. And the rest of it… I mean, falling in love? You can’t help that.” He shook his head. “I’m not going to stand here and make you feel like you have to apologize for not wanting me, that’s my thing to get over.” It felt good to say. He’d been fearing all along that Pierce pitied him, and he wanted to tell him straight up not to. As the man sat on the couch Dean sat lightly on the other side, hoping, praying for a good response.

And he got it, sort of. The abrupt change in Pierce’s tone caught him off guard. “Er…” he stalled. “I dunno.” He hated to show how little he’d really thought about what he wanted, after he’d made a big declaration of it. “Always fancied Paris, because I’m a massive cliché. He snorted. “I may as well just stay here I know so little. Only started thinking about this last night. Don’t even know why I told you.” Shrugging, Dean leaned back against the couch. “It just got in my head, and now it’s like, I can’t be here anymore. Like I want to get out as soon as possible.”

That was a stupid thing to say to Pierce. He didn’t want his friend to feel like their ties were too meaningless to keep him in London. Again he reconsidered. Surely there was some way he could find himself or what the fuck ever right here. He sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For all this; I don’t even know what I’m talking about.”

Pierce was listening to him, trying so, so hard to keep everything controlled. For once, he longed to be a teenager again, back when he was well-trained and a master at concealing what he didn’t want to show. There was something he had to say, though, something dangerous and uncomfortable and possibly very bad. It didn’t matter. Saying it was more important than keeping things easy.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, his tone sharp and frustrated. “Seriously? You don’t -- you haven’t -- you think,” he stammered, the words boiling inside of him. “Of course I want you, Dean,” he said, bluntly, exasperated eyes meeting his. “Why do you think this is so hard? If I didn’t care, if I didn’t like you, none of this would matter,” he said openly, shaking his hands a bit in the air.

“But what I want, what I feel, it’s pointless,” he said, “because there is someone else -- the timing is fucked, Dean, completely and totally fucked,” he said brazenly. “This girl, Dean -- I know you probably hate her, I would understand why, but... she’s been in my life for as long as I can really remember,” he said, his tone more quiet, more reverent. “And I always wanted... but I never thought.... I never thought that she’d be my  girl,” he said simply. He met his gaze. “I can’t fuck it up with her, I just can’t. I’ll never forgive myself,” he said bluntly.

He was up then, pacing, scrubbing a hand down his face as he was overwhelmed with an array of emotions. He should be sad, probably, but all he felt was anger. Frustration, annoyance, disappointment. Why did fate bring Dean into his life and then put a wall between them? Push him away? Make him want to run and flee?Why would anything taint the pristine portrait in his mind of Zoé, their relationship, finally becoming something real and tangible? Perhaps above all, he felt guilt -- guilt for leading Dean on and guilt for even thinking of his kisses when he finally had Zoé’s.

Thinking of her, seeing her face in his mind’s eye, he was stricken. He’d fall on a blade before he let himself hurt her. “Just because I can’t be that for you -- be with you -- that doesn’t mean I want you to go,” he said, turning to him. “Please, Dean, I don’t want you to go. I’m from France, I’ve been to Paris, it’s overrated,” he said -- a white lie -- “just... fuck,” he groaned angrily, feeling useless. He was filled with fire, desperate to kick things and break things and yell at the top of his lungs. Why did this have to be such a mess?

Dean froze, slack-jawed. “I—“ He struggled to get something out.

Well obviously you don’t want me enough.

It may have been true, but it was too sharp and too cruel for him to say. He didn’t want to turn this into a fight. He had just wanted to go back, to the lighthearted banter in Pierce’s sitting room.

Sometimes things have to get worse before they get better.

His mum used to say that. He hoped this was one of those times. He hoped all these angry words would get them to a catharsis of sorts, exhaust all the frustration and the doubt and the guilt. Then they would just be left with themselves, the people who had fit together so well.

"I don't hate her,” Dean said softly. “She’s done nothing wrong, and nor’ve you.” He looked plaintively up at Pierce. “I understand.” But just because he understood didn’t mean that that passionate part of him was okay. Dean hated that. Not being in control of his feelings, his heart not listening to his brain. He hated being jealous and nasty and in the way. He tried to forget what Pierce had said to him, that he still tempted him, but it was so in his head, making him sickly giddy.

But—

“I couldn’t forgive myself if I got in the way of you,” he said. “That’s why I hate—I don’t want you to like me. I do, but I don’t, and it’s mad, Pierce.” He shook his head. “I hate this.”

And then Pierce was pleading with him, or Dean thought he was—telling him to stay, moaning helplessly. “Well then I won’t go to fucking Paris then, I don’t know,” said Dean. “I just—I need to do something that isn’t war. The last ten bloody years of my life, Pierce, everything that happened got somebody killed, or nearly did—and I just wanted to be safe, and now I am and it’s not enough.” He was pleading now too. “I’ve just got something in me—I know you have it too.” Pierce should understand more than anyone. Had he had no ties when he left? Surely that wasn’t possible. He’d had to have left people behind.

“But you’re not!” Pierce countered, “you’re not in the way. I’m with her, Dean. I’m with her and I like her and she makes me happy,” he said, plainly, not wanting to hurt him but trying to make a point. “These feelings, this -- whatever it is between us, that’s what’s causing issues,” he expressed, feeling the anger still coursing through his veins. He felt hot, fiery, and while it wasn’t a pleasant feeling it made him feel very powerful and very commanding.

“Why does it have to be extremes? I’m with you, all yours, or I’m nothing at all? Why can’t we just be what we are, why can’t we fight through this?” he wondered aloud, sharply, desperately. “Why can’t I sit with you and watch those movies you promised me? Or go out and meet your cousin? Why can’t I sit beside you and lean against you and just... be!” he barked. It was an unfair question, and truly not a question at all. He couldn’t do those things because they still felt like they meant something, they were still painful and strange. They were still caught somewhere between friends and whatever came next.

“Well then hate it! Hate it openly, hate me if it helps!” he said, his voice rising. “But for Merlin’s sake don’t run -- don’t go. Because you’re right, Dean, I have it too. I feel it too,” he confessed. “Don’t you think I’ve thought about it? Packing up my boxes and just going again? It sounds so good, so freeing, but it isn’t. It’s a trap of a different kind,” he expressed. “You leave it behind and you think it won’t matter, because you’ll write, of course you’ll write. You’ll visit too, why wouldn’t you? But before you know it you’re rushing and racing and running and before you even blink the calendar is changing -- and suddenly its been two months, and then six, and then its a year and you remember you haven't written your family in ages, and you haven’t spoken to your friends in so long you wonder if they even want a fucking letter from you at all!” He stopped, sucking in a breath, hanging his head. He may have been ripping at the seams, but at least he was being forthright.

He scrubbed a calming hand over his chin before locking eyes with him. “If you start running Dean, you’ll never stop. Even when you try, even when you want to, you won’t. Because dammit, it’s addicting. It’s a high. It becomes so easy. Going gets tough? Pack up and go. Friends get weird? Leave them behind. Boy breaks your heart? Forget him, lose his number.” He stopped, getting choked up, everything catching up to him. “You need something, I get it. Find something. Find something inside of you, find something with a friend, find something you love. But for fuck's sake, don’t run. Don’t start running.” He held his gaze, glassy blue irises piercing Dean’s.

“Don’t. Go.”

"Well I know you aren’t going to leave her, I’m not an idiot.” He couldn’t keep himself from snapping, the words had stung. “But if these stupid feelings are still there then I’d say I’m a little bit in the fucking way.” He was surprised to feel himself shaking, bubbling with frustration. Pierce was shouting at him, eyes uncharacteristically cold. How could he think he didn’t want them to be like that?

Dean couldn’t form sentences anymore, he was too stunned at the turn this interaction had taken. “I never said—I didn’t mean—I’m weak!” he shouted finally.  “That’s why! I can’t fucking—I can’t get over it, I don’t know how—“ He was so flustered, so out of his element, he was panicked.

He listened to Pierce speak, overwhelmed with waves of emotion, washing over him, drowning him. He felt himself choking, couldn’t speak. He just sat there on the couch, helpless and worthless, naïve, stupid, in over his head.

“Then I won’t go,” Dean said thickly. “If you care so damned much, I’ll stay.” He hadn’t expected anything like this; Pierce had never seemed to consider himself a cautionary tale. He had always been proud of his adventures. But maybe he’d finally found something better.

In Zoé.

“I never thought you were,” he said just as sharply, irritated at the insinuation. He rolled his eyes then, exasperated, frustrated with the situation and not the other man. “What’s your crime? Being too charming? Too handsome? Too likeable?” he wondered. “You’re blaming yourself, you’re internalizing all of this -- the issue, the turmoil, it’s not your fault. It just is. It just happened.” It felt lame to say, and maybe it was, but it was also the truth. He’d never planned to hurt Dean like this. He’d never planned for Zoé to actually like him back. Six months ago, he’d never even planned to settle in London. Things changed without warning and they often didn’t make sense.

He felt a cracking in his chest as Dean hollered back, broken and angry. They’d dissolved into madness, utter, total madness. He was helpless and lost and so, so angry. Angry that this was happening, angry that he’d let it. Angry that he couldn’t be more in control. “I wish I could help, tell me how to help,” he pleaded, desperate eyes meeting Dean’s. That’s all he wanted, really, was to make this right. If only he knew how. Dean seemed to concede then, his voice thick but distant. Pierce recoiled at his reply, the words stinging.

“You’re angry,” he accused, “angry at me for this. You didn’t want me to ask you to stay, did you? Is that it? Are you cross with me for wanting you to stay? Wanting to be your friend?” he queried, his voice less angry and instead more pained. It was starting to feel like no matter what he did he was causing the other man pain. His gaze fell and even though Dean hadn’t answered him a part of him already believed his hypothesis to be true. Maybe Dean was hoping Pierce would think his moving was a great idea, a fun idea. Maybe he’d just wanted him to wish him luck and see him off.

“I came here to tell you I was sorry,” he said, very quietly. “I’m sorry that I lead you on, I’m sorry that I made things weird, and I’m sorry that I don’t know how to make things any better,” he confessed in defeat. Defeated was how he felt, wilted and lifeless. As commanding as the fire within him had made him feel, now that it was extinguished he felt very little at all. “I don’t think I’ve been a very good friend to you Dean,” he said, a stiff upper lip. “I’ve tried, really, I had good intentions. But maybe I just made all the wrong turns, I don’t know.” Things could change so fast, without even realizing, without even noticing.

“I’m sorry that I failed you,” he apologized, “I really am.”

"I don’t know how you could help,” said Dean. “If I knew I’d have asked you.” His fingers curled over his knees anxiously as the other man’s eyes pierced into his. He couldn’t maintain the contact, he looked away. “If I knew how to fix everything I’d have done it already,” he said. “It’s not a question of putting distance between us or not being yourself or whatever else, I think it’ll just take…time. To get over it, for the feelings to, y’know…” Looking back up at Pierce, hoping he’d softened, he sighed. “I don’t want to just stop talking and wait, I want to be your friend, but…”

“Maybe it’ll help,” he said. “Just talking so frankly, finally. Getting all the frustration out.” He tried to imagine that he didn’t feel anything for Pierce anymore, after this morning. But he’d been consumed with the desire for minutes now to get up and throw himself into his arms, stop their argument with a kiss.

He restrained himself as Pierce accused him of being angry at his reaction, but couldn’t think of any other way to explain how much the other man had come to mean to him, how much he wanted to be close to him and leaving didn’t change that. His words hadn’t gotten him anywhere so far. But they were all he could use. “Of course I’m not angry at you,” he said, fighting to remain calm. “How could you think I wouldn’t want you to be my friend—maybe I expected different, I didn’t expect this.” He gestured wildly with both hands. “But—I’m not angry, not at you…”

“I just thought you’d support me,” he said. “I wanted to do this for me, I wanted to run toward something, not run away.”

Pierce was drooping and looking helpless, like he’d given up, and Christ, Dean wanted to kiss him. To love him, to make him feel better. “Don’t say that,” he pleaded instead. “You don’t know how great you’ve been.” He shook his head. “To fail me you’d have to have owed me something. And you don’t owe me a thing.”

“But I do owe you something, Dean,” he countered, his heart tired and his eyes weary. “All of those things that I said that day, on our adventure, those weren’t lies,” he offered simply. “I do care about you, I do like you, I did want to kiss you -- so I did. I told you that I care, I opened that door. Even if I didn’t say it outright I was making a promise, a promise to get closer to you, to get to know you.” He was quiet for a minute. “I owe you better than what you’ve gotten. I should’ve been smarter or kinder or... I dunno, just better,” he conceded.

He moved to him, sitting delicately on the couch beside him.  He didn’t know what the next move was, what the right move was, but he did know his legs were growing tired of the pacing. “If you really want to go then... then I guess you have to,” he said, his tone making it obvious that the words were like knives in his mouth. “You said you weren’t going to leave because of me, and if that’s true then I guess you shouldn’t stay because of me, either,” he offered sadly. If they were talking about debts owed, that much was true. Dean definitely didn’t owe Pierce a thing. He was surprised, really, that the other man wasn’t angry with him. Maybe it’d be easier if he was.

“If I had the power, I’d make everyone happy,” he offered, shooting him a glance. “I don’t want anyone to be upset, I wish that I could -- I don’t know. I wish things could just be easy again,” he expressed. He sat back into the sofa, his back pressing into the cushion. “And I feel angry,” he added, looking forward and not at him. “Angry at myself, angry at the timing. Angry at the situation.” He was quiet then, he didn’t know what else to say. He felt like he’d said it all. The only other things he could do -- well, those would get him into trouble. They would become secrets, and secrets were the last thing he needed to start collecting.

He didn't know if there was anything he could do to change Pierce’s mind, and the thought hurt. You could only say “don’t feel that,” so much, it was up to the other person to believe it, to take the advice. But Dean hated to see him feel like such a failure, so defeated. He ached to do something. But he couldn’t.

As he was hurting Pierce sat beside him again. Dean looked to him, insides twisting at the look on his face. His words were cold. Dean found himself regretting again, feeling stupid for even bringing the whole thing up. “I don’t know what to do,” he sighed, sinking back into the cushions. “If you really think I shouldn’t… Well, you’d know better than me.” He snorted weakly. “All I did was dream about it for one night, it’s not like I’ve already arranged the portkey.” It had been a strong dream, one he hated to dismiss like that, but still a dream. It meant about as much as any other thing he’d thought and never done, in the end.

“Wouldn’t we all,” he said to Pierce’s sorrowful words. The other man wouldn’t look at him as he admitted his anger, and Dean’s heart was breaking. He couldn’t hold himself back any longer. He shifted and enveloped Pierce in a tight hug.

“I don’t want to lose you,” Dean said in his ear.

Strong arms, around him, squeezing him, pulling him closer.

The blonde tensed at first from the shock, never expecting this from him. He was prepared for Dean to cast him off, tell him to go, maybe hit him even if he got angry enough. Pierce’s arms, long since wanting something to do, reacted in tandem -- sweeping around Dean’s frame and squeezing him just as tight. It was a masculine hug, a powerful hug, one that he felt in his chest and on his shoulders.

“Then don’t go,” he breathed back, his lips beside Dean’s ear. “Don’t leave me.” It sounded so pathetic, so stupid. He was taking it all personally, assuming it had to be his fault. And truly, wasn’t it? Dean had been here, living his life, and then Pierce roared through like a cyclone and destroyed everything in his path. Even if he wasn’t the direct cause of Dean’s desire to run, perhaps he’d played a role in the man discovering he was unhappy. Be him the cause or the catalyst, he felt responsible.

It felt good to hug him, he was solid and warm and it made sense in the context. What better time to hug? What more important reason? It didn’t have to mean something grand, not every gesture, every touch. A few seconds lingered and Pierce realized he didn’t want to let him go, not yet, not when this felt so powerful. It was so much better than the arguing and the anger and all at once it quelled him. His grip softened -- he didn’t want him turning purple -- but his arms were firmly wrapped around him a while longer. As seconds passed, it became clear that it would be Dean’s call when enough was enough.

At Pierce’s first reaction Dean almost pulled away. Had this been too far—or too far for them? They had different, stricter boundaries than normal friends. But then Pierce wrapped his arms around him too, and Dean let out a heavy breath, relieved. He was understood.

Pierce replied, and Dean was overwhelmed with sorrow. Oh, how desperately he wanted to say Okay, to abandon all of his fantasies to make Pierce feel better. But he was silent for a long time, unable to think of a response that felt true. He released Pierce, pulled back to his side of the couch.

The man looked disappointed that he had stopped hugging him, and Dean looked away to make it easier to ignore. “I really don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know much of anything.” He just felt, he didn’t know how to think things through. “Thanks for letting me talk it over, though,” he said. It was a bit of a loose interpretation of the phrase, but Pierce had helped, made him realize how many details there were, how much he might affect those he would leave behind.

He was unsure where to go from here, however. Should they just hang out like they had the day before, go shopping for home stuff, maybe rent Indiana Jones? Could they even, after this?