The room's still got that sterile hospital smell, but today, it feels a bit less oppressive, maybe because Jordan's finally here. They stand in the doorway for a second too long, like they're not sure if they're in the right place, but then our eyes meet, and there's this awkward sort of half-smile on their face. I try to return it, but I'm pretty sure it comes out more as a grimace. It's weird, seeing Jordan here, in the flesh, after what feels like forever.

"Hey, Sam," Jordan says, their voice a little unsure, like they're testing the waters, seeing if they're too cold or too hot.

They shuffle closer, hands buried deep in their pockets, and I can't help but notice how different they look. The last time I saw Jordan, we were… well, it doesn't really matter now, does it? What matters is they're here, looking like they're carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders.

I manage a smile, surprised at how my heart leaps at the sight of them. "Jordan," I breathe out, my voice steadier than I feel. It's been weeks, maybe more, since we last spoke, the hospital room feeling smaller with them in it. "Hi, Jordan," I repeat, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. It's like we're two strangers trying to figure out how to talk to each other again, except we're not strangers, or at least, we weren't.

They step inside, closing the door behind them with a soft click that seems to echo off the sterile walls. We're both awkward, aware of the gulf the hospitalization has wedged between us, yet there's an underlying current of relief, a silent acknowledgment that we're finally bridging that gap.

Jordan breaks the silence first, "I… uh, got us a place. The music hall." They shuffle their feet, looking everywhere but at me. "After my mom… you know, I talked to the owner. It's not exactly zoned for living, but it's ours. For the team."

My eyebrows shoot up, a mix of surprise and admiration. "You did that?" I can't help the grin spreading across my face, both at the thought of the music hall becoming our base, but, like, officially, and at Jordan's initiative. "That's… incredible, Jordan. Really."

They finally meet my gaze, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of their mouth. "Yeah, well, we needed a place. And I needed… I needed to make things right, somehow."

I raise my eyebrow. "You also needed a place. Don't make it sound like you were doing me some big favor."

Jordan puts a hand to their hair and squeezes. "But you can live here! When you're out of the hospital. You know, waiting for them to fix your house."

I almost feel bad for Jordan. Their eyes have this deep darkness to them, huge bags beneath that I'm not sure are from makeup. "Jordan, my house is almost done."

"Ah," they say, almost flinching from it.

"Dude, man," I say, waving my hand up.

"Neither, but go ahead," they reply.

I grab my pillow, put it in front of my face, and yell quietly, built up frustration in my throat and in my neck. Not at the gender stuff, just… expelling a lot of Jordan-related emotions at the moment. "It's April, Jordan."

"Yeah, I know," they reply, pretending to not understand why I'm mentioning the date and time.

"My birthday is in two weeks and some change," I continue.

"Congratulations," they mumble.

I stare at them, but they look away, towards the ways in which this hospital room has been made mine. A couple of shark plushies, and a larger quantity of dog or wolf related plushies, most of them scattered about the floor or assembled in loose piles near the bottom of my bed. The stacks of textbooks all dog-eared like nobody's ever going to use them again (and thus the disrespect for the paper is acceptable). My laptop, quietly playing smooth jazz for me, sits on the table positioned next to my bed. So does several packets of jello. Like I mentioned before, I could go several years without eating jello again, but, you know, it's a flavor.

"It's not just a base," Jordan explains, a hint of pride in their voice, trying to change the subject from my obvious implication. "It's a statement. That we're not going anywhere, that we're here to stay."

I lean back, absorbing the magnitude of what Jordan's accomplished, not just in terms of logistics but what it signifies for us as a team, as a family forged by choice and circumstance. "You've really outdone yourself, you drama… monarch" I say, meaning every word, but unable to stop the sarcasm from dripping out of my throat nonetheless. Is it sarcasm, or is it venom? Either way, I feel bad for it coming out. I can see the wince winding up on Jordan's face. "I can't wait to see it, to be there with all of you."

Jordan's smile widens as they look away from me, and they nod, their eyes alight with the vision of our future. "Yeah, it's going to be great, Sam. You'll see. Once you're out of here, we'll make it our fortress, our sanctuary." Their gaze drifts, lost in their daydream instead of back on Earth, here, doing the important things like "explaining themselves".

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

"So, how'd you swing that?" I ask, trying to bring them back down to the ground.

Jordan's neck snaps back down and they look at me a little funny. "Huh? Swing what?"

"How'd you swing being able to rent the music hall, dummy," I respond, trying to avoid my initial urge to say dumbass. Therapy has started sanding off all my rough edges. I know it's probably, like, good for me, but my therapist thinks I should be cussing less. And so does the support group. I remember I barely said fuck this time last year, I thought it was a sacred thing to be reserved for situations like 'being in life threatening danger' or 'stubbing your toe', but it feels like with the company I've been keeping (particularly Playback), my cuss per hour ratio has rapidly accelerated throughout my superhero career.

Ahem.

Anyway.

"Well, I had to track down the guy who owns the place first. You know, good ol' fashioned detective work, like the kind you… do," Jordan says, visibly straining not to say 'used to'. I get it. "Elbow grease and all that. Then I just rung him up and explained the situation. Hey, buddy, it's me, your squatter. I've been cleaning the place up and putting in air filters and solar batteries and shit. Any possibility I can rent from you, because my mom is a spiteful cunt and disowned me and I'm improving your property values for free?"

"And he went for it?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jordan laughs. "No."

"Jordan!" I half-shout, but they put their arms up defensively.

"I had to talk them down from a ledge! You know, shit we're used to. I had to bring out my epic negotiator skills. And offer him a shitload of money, you know, first and last and second-to-last and second and third-to-last on an old, historically significant building - it's not cheap. Ate a lot of my college fund," Jordan explains, slowly lowering their hands as they watch my expression. "The guy was really mad that I was squatting but I got through to him. And like I said, it's not 'zoned for residency', whatever that means,"

"My dad would know exactly what that means. You should ask him," I interrupt.

"Frankly, I'm not interested in getting someone from city hall peeking into my illegal occupancy of a historical monument, dawg,"

I scrunch up my face a little. "Oh, yeah, right. Anyway, zoned for residency."

"Right. It's an old, decrepit, busted up building, and even if it wasn't, it was a music hall, not an apartment complex--" Jordan continues.

I have to interrupt with a joke my Dad told me the other day. "Complex? I actually think it's an apartment simple, maybe even an apartment easy,"

"Will you let me finish the story, damnit?" Jordan half-shouts, raising their voice and their hands a little in gesticulation. I flinch back with a sheepish smile. I'm not actually afraid Jordan will hurt me - an extremely funny sentence, given how we met, I understand - but I've just been jumpier recently. Jumpier since Chernobyl. The person, not the place. Obviously. "Anyway. So, what we're doing there is still technically illegal, but, like… you know, I'm paying him a lot of money. I have enough saved up for like four months of rent, so either we start kicking butts and reclaiming wealth for the neighborhood again,"

"Extremely unlikely, given my super-cancer," I joke. When Jordan looks at me with the biggest, wettest eyes I've ever seen on a human being, much less a stray dog, it's my turn to raise my hands up defensively. "I'm fine! I don't have cancer. Most of the radiation has been purged from my bone marrow from my regeneration. I will probably not get cancer."

Jordan breathes a sigh of uncomfortable relief. "Or I have to start finding, like, an actual job, and paying actual rent. And doing that while saving up for college. And rent."

"You said rent twice," I point out.

"I think about it a lot!" Jordan snaps back. My hands are still up from the cancer quip, so I raise them just a little bit more, like I'm shielding my face. "Sorry."

"It's alright, man. So you're here to slyly ask me to come back into action so that we can steal money from criminals to pay the rent for long enough for you to save up for college and escape the life you're stuck in?" I ask, trying to dig to the heart of the matter.

"No," Jordan says extremely defensively, looking away from me and crossing their arms over their chest.

I don't respond. I just stare at them with an eyebrow cocked. A guaranteed negotiation-killer, courtesy of my father and Pop-Pop Moe. Just stop talking and raise an eyebrow at them.

"Yes," Jordan exhales, their entire body sagging.

"It sounds like you think of me less of a friend and more of a tool for financial gain," I blurt out, regurgitating some fears my therapist has been working on. I immediately shoot my hand up to cover my mouth. "That was a joke."

Jordan stares at me like I just called them the nastiest thing I could think of. There's about a minute of silence as Jordan formulates how to respond. I'm prepared, fully, for the consequences of my actions. Either Jordan slaps me, or I'm about to get an earful.

Instead, what comes out is; "Sam, that would be really hurtful if it wasn't partially true," they say back, and we both burst into awkward, but genuine laughter. As each chuckle and chortle comes out, it becomes a little less awkward and a little more genuine, until we're both wheezing with hysterical ha-has.

It feels good.

Eventually, we calm down, after what feels like forever but is probably five minutes. I break the resulting silence first, since I know the no-talking chicken could last forever. "It's good to see you again. And I'm glad we have our base, for however long that is."

"Yeah," Jordan replies. "You too," they breathe out. As our time together draws to a close, Jordan stands, their chair scraping softly against the floor. "I should let you rest," they say, though it's clear neither of us wants to end this moment of reconstruction.

"Thanks for coming, Jordan. Really," I tell them, my gratitude deep and genuine. "It means a lot."

They nod, a silent… something hanging in the air between us. "I'll be back soon, Sam. We'll all be waiting for you."

Jordan lingers by the door, their hand resting on the handle, but they don't turn it. Instead, they pivot back toward me, the weight of unsaid things hanging between us like a tangible force. "Sam, there's something I've got to say," Jordan starts, their voice laced with a heaviness that immediately draws my attention.