Cyrus did not tell her everything.

To explain how he'd gotten himself into that mess, he did have to backtrack a bit. This involved relaying a family-friendly summary of what Acheron had been planning and how Cyrus had made sure those plans did not come to pass. He watched Tuesday carefully as he spoke and she ran the washcloth over his bloodied skin. She did not meet his eyes, staring hard at her work as she cleaned him off.

Cyrus couldn't help but notice what a month away from him had done for her. Whereas before all the dark things about him hadn't seemed to phase Tuesday, she looked on the verge of throwing up, passing out, or both. Her hands shook as they touched him; her lower lip was held permanent hostage under her teeth as she chewed on it anxiously.

He began to say, "I told you you should have l--"

"Shut up," Tuesday muttered back sharply, scrubbing harder at a splotch of blood under his chin. She paused, hands falling down to her sides, and glanced up at him finally. "There's something you still aren't telling me."

Well, there were probably several somethings, so Cyrus remained quiet and waited for her to inform him just which one she was referring to.

She cleared her throat, turning to the sink and wringing the cloth out under the tap. The water ran red down the drain. "I saw on the news..."

It hung there between them, and Cyrus was unsure how to take it--as an accusation? He knew this would come up, inevitably; the media's coverage of Second Advent's downfall had mentioned just where they had been found. Coincidences didn't exist in Cyrus's world, and Tuesday wasn't stupid; it couldn't be hard to connect the dots between a bloodthirsty kid, a demon with a penchant for manipulation, and a group of faith-bound hostages.

He didn't know what to say, but a response wasn't necessary. Tuesday had begun speaking again. "I don't know what your uncle was doing with all those people, and I dunno if I want to." She turned to him again, eyes shining with tears that refused to spill. "Should I want to?"

Cyrus's shoulders slumped under the relief that came then. He didn't want to burden her. No, he didn't want to scare her away--that was the truth, because this truth very well may prove to be the last straw. Tuesday had wanted him to stop hurting innocent people, and Cyrus had gone ahead and done it anyway...all to earn the approval of a cold and twisted dictator.

He shook his head, and that was that. Tuesday nodded softly, dropping the bloodied cloth on the counter and shoving a balled-up article of clothing his way. Cyrus took it gingerly.

A faint blush creeping into her cheeks, Tuesday turned to face away from him. Her posture slumped, as if she could curl in on herself and disappear. She remained silent as Cyrus stripped off his stained shirt and replaced it with the new one, a crisp, long-sleeved flannel and fit snugly but not uncomfortably. Thinking it must be hers had a similar blush appear on his own face, though he couldn't fathom why. He cleared his throat when he was clothed.

Tuesday appraised him with emotionless eyes, and Cyrus looked over himself as well. His own jeans were black and if he hadn't been looking for the bloodstains, he wouldn't have noticed the very faint impressions they made on the equally dark fabric. All traces of the carnage had been wiped from his skin. Some of his hair was matted together, but it was as black as his pants and revealed no blood there either.

"You look like you could use a shower," Tuesday remarked. "And when's the last time you've slept in a bed?"

Cyrus shrugged, fiddling with the sleeves of his new shirt.

She sighed sharply, folding her arms tight across her chest. "Why didn't you ever reach out?"

"Was trying to protect you," Cyrus mumbled, not wanting to touch over the whole filled-with-dark-souls thing again.

"And you never thought to pick up the phone and tell me that?"

Cyrus met her gaze with raised eyebrows. Tuesday seemed to understand the meaning there: I just did. She laughed lowly under her breath, uncrossing her arms to wring her hands together. "My aunt isn't home. You could come back with me, get some rest..."

Cyrus's first response came quick and hard. "No." Met by the hurt in her eyes, how a single tear finally spilled over to trace a jagged path down her face, he added, "I can't...let my guard down around you."

"When is this ever going to end?" Tuesday whispered. When he had no response for that, she snapped, "Are you seriously telling me you don't have a plan? You're content to keep slumming it on the streets, fingers crossed another massacre doesn't happen?"

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Cyrus leaned away from the poison dripping from her tone, clenching his fists. They had begun to shake, but this wasn't from his urges. No, those were still blissfully quiet. Being able to look at someone without wanting to wring the life from them took some stress off his shoulders but inevitably weighed him down more in the process. She was right. He was destined to screw up again.

"You're coming with me," Tuesday said flatly. "That isn't a request."

He couldn't help but laugh, despite everything. It was nice seeing a little of her old self peering through the cracks of the person standing beside him now.

"Because, you see," she continued, expression blank. "That's how a friendship works, Cyrus. You don't get to call me up when everything goes wrong but totally ignore me the rest of the time. Maybe I need you too."

Cyrus nodded when words failed him. His attention was pulled to the bloody shirt still in his hand. What the hell was he supposed to do with it, with the chaos in the living room? He didn't have a demon to clean up his mess this time; he didn't know what he could do with half a dozen bodies. They would be found, sooner or later, though Cyrus wasn't sure what would happen after that. How could his crime be traced back to him? He'd been living off the grid for so long...

Maybe it would be attributed to that serial killer theory he'd seen on the news, even if it didn't fit the original pattern. People evolved, right? Carnage on this scale was possible from one human being, right?

It still didn't sit right with Cyrus. Another idea came to him, one that would hopefully do away with any evidence he could have left behind and mask some of the destruction he'd caused upon the bodies in the other room. But it had a cost. Everything worthwhile always did.

Even if Tuesday just so happened to have a lighter on her, they had no accelerant; there was no natural way to set the place ablaze quickly enough. Cyrus didn't want to tap into his energy reserve, didn't want to tempt his demons into returning too soon, but he couldn't leave the place in its current state.

He couldn't risk debating it any longer; there was a target on his head--Raziel had emphasized the need for haste. Cyrus led Tuesday outside again, her eyes covered; he hesitated in the threshold of the back door.

"What?"

Cyrus took a deep breath. The frosty air stung going in. "I...need a minute."

She narrowed her eyes, not moving from her spot several feet away. "Uh-huh. Go ahead, I'll stay right here."

Sighing, biting back the retorts that leapt to his tongue, Cyrus turned back into the house. He gave the scene one last look--the sight of it sinking in his gut, twisting a burning hand around his heart and suckerpunching his stomach--before letting go of all his remorse. There was nothing he could do to change the past. He could only try to be better.

A spark lit into existence, and that spark fed into a raging fire that crawled along the thick shag carpet and licked up the curtains. It spread across the room in seconds, devouring everything in its path in a haze of furious red and orange. When the heat raged forward to exhale its smoke over Cyrus's face, he slammed the door shut and stumbled down the porch.

These things seemed to take no effort to do anymore; it was like everything that happened with Acheron had broken the one thing keeping him from his full potential, and with the dam burst, everything came flooding out. It always took its toll on Cyrus's health, however, and he wasn't eager to face what would come for him. He ignored the open-mouthed look of shock on Tuesday's face and began walking, shifting his gaze in all directions, searching the shadows.

If he didn't know better, he could have sworn he felt the presence of another person--or thing--tangible on the air. The hair rose on the back of his neck and arms; a shiver wracked his spine. He did know better, though...if there were anyone out there, they had a clear shot at Cyrus. He was still a shaky, panicky mess, and now he had a companion's safety to worry about. Nothing came for them. It was just paranoia, Cyrus reassured himself. No one was out there after all.

They didn't speak again. Upon reaching Tuesday's new house, she quickly and silently showed him to her room and shoved a stack of towels into his arms. Taking the hint, Cyrus showered, revelling in the steady pressure of warm water against his back but knowing he couldn't hide in there forever. When he emerged from the bathroom, Tuesday was sitting at the desk pushed to one side of her bedroom, staring at nothing. She didn't look up at his entrance, but jabbed a finger in the direction of her bed. "Sleep. I'll wake you up before my aunt gets back."

It was hard to refuse the offer. He was out cold as soon as his head hit the pillows, but had a rather rude awakening. Cyrus was in a constant state of unease, and normally slept pretty lightly; he must have felt the new presence in the room, because when he struggled to open his eyes he was greeted by the sight of Tuesday's aunt. She was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, eyes cold and narrow. Cyrus glanced back to the desk to see Tuesday had passed out, hunched over the desk.

"I'm going to ask this once, and it's in your best interest to answer very carefully. What are you," the woman said calmly, "and why are you wearing my clothes?"

The way she was looking at him knocked the air from Cyrus's lungs and he couldn't form a response. Her stare was so focused and hard, it felt like she was staring straight into his soul--unfortunate choice of words and all. Perhaps strangest of all, he couldn't read what he was feeling from her at all--it wasn't dark, like Pastor Hale or Acheron, and it wasn't light, like the woman's niece. There was some grey area at play there. Before Cyrus could put much more thought to it, Tuesday stirred.

She lifted her head from the desk, then saw her aunt and blanched. She started to talk, words clashing together into an incomprehensible tangle, but the other woman held up a hand, never taking her eyes off Cyrus.

"This boy is just oozing bad karma. Get him out of here or I will."

Cyrus didn't need to hear that twice. He scrambled up from the bed and edged past the woman, who regarded him with that same spine-tingling stare. Tuesday watched him go with wide eyes, but she didn't seem to know what to say either.

Seconds after his feet left the porch, the front door slammed behind him, and Cyrus was once again alone.