Ashton wasn't sure how long he sat there after putting Mad Dog's glasses back on—seconds, maybe—but it felt stretched, pulled thin by adrenaline and something else entirely. The TV flickers in quiet black-and-white flashes beside them, the sound low and grainy. The night pressed at the windows like a second presence, heavy and waiting.
Mad Dog sits on the edge of the couch, one hand braced on Ashton's wrist, the other rubbing at the spot on his forehead where Ashton's skull had collided with him. His breathing was slower now, steadier—human again. Or as close to human as he ever got.
Ashton swallowed, trying to calm the echo of fear still vibrating in his chest. His hand shook slightly at his side, betraying him.
Mad Dog notices; he always notices.
"You're still trembling," he said quietly.
"I'm—fine," Ashton lied. His voice cracked. "Just… you know. Peachy. I-. Fuck. I'm fine."
