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You're whistling cheerfully as you unlock the door to your tiny apartment, laden down with groceries. The weather is damp and gray, the winding staircase up to your floor stinks of bleach which drives both of you insane, and you've probably pulled a muscle in your shoulder trying to carry everything in one trip. You don't think you've ever been happier. You're always cheerful, of course; the Lord didn't give you this life so you could spend it in misery, but it's surprising how much better things are with them.
Whatever greeting you had dies in your throat as you step through the doorway to see blood streaked across the floor. You wish you had your gun. It was a mistake feeling safe enough to start leaving it at home; one you'll never be able to ask forgiveness for.
(And it is home now, isn't it? An barely furnished two bedroom flat you share with the person who tried to murder you. The person who saved your life. And you, the idiot who thought they might be safe from her.)
You walk slowly towards the living room, delaying the inevitable. Christ, you aren't strong enough to look at their lifeless body again, even if it wasn't you who hurt them this time. There isn't a lot of blood - you think numbly - it'll be easy to clean up. You follow the drying trail, looking for where the body might be, and carefully step over the small table laying on its side. The broken ceramic scattered nearby makes your heart clench painfully despite the lingering shock. They'd liked that mug.
A few smudged, red fingerprints stain the peeling paint on the bathroom door. There's nobody you need to look composed for, but you take a deep breath and steady yourself before nudging it open.
The hiker sits in bathtub, holding a bloodied handtowel to their left arm, and they're definitely still alive. In fact, they look fine. They're fiddling with the end of their braid so at least they're not too stressed out to stop stimming, and they don't seem more exhausted or nervous than usual as they stop glaring up at the ceiling to look at you, and with no visible injuries aside from what's beneath the towel.
"You're alive, right? I'm not having visions again or anything?" You ask, suddenly feeling out of your depth. You'd told them you were stupid, not insane, but right now you're doubting that.
They look at you with a mix of confusion and condescension. Same as usual, really.
"I would know if I was dead."
The tightness in your chest loosens a little as you slump down onto the toilet lid. This isn't the most sanitary place for a talk, but given the fact you thought you'd be disposing of a corpse right now, you'll gladly take this instead.
"Okay, right, good to know." You inhale shakily. "Mind letting me know why the fuck there's blood all over the place?"
Instead of responding, the hiker turns to scowl back at the spot they'd been looking at before. Perched atop the top of the curtain rail is a mass of black fur, lashing its tail violently. It seems to sense you watching, growling as you stand to get a better look.
"How did a cat get in here?"
"That's a cat? It tried to kill me." Brushing aside how fucked up it is they've never seen a real cat before, their indignation at getting scratched is kind of cute.
"Oh, I bet you're just a big sweetheart, aren't you?" You coo up at the lump of fur, trying to hide a grin. "You're a sweet little kitten who's never done anything wrong."
The cat and the hiker take on similar looks of outrage, but at least only the cat takes a swipe at you. It wobbles, claws gripping uselessly at the metal pole, and falls to the floor as it slices the shower curtain in half. God, that looked painful. The cat shoots into the little cupboard beneath the sink, shower curtain still tangled in its claws.
"I'm sorry, buddy, I'm sorry. Didn't mean to scare you." The cat flattens its ears, hissing bravely when you crouch down to its level. Not quite a sweet little kitten.
"You'll get yourself killed."
"Nah, cats are sneaky, they don't usually just decide to attack if you're just sitting there. How bad did it get you?"
Wincing, the hiker peels the towel from their arm. The cuts are pretty deep for clawmarks actually, and ragged around the edges, which means they're definitely getting a fun new addition to the collection of scars littering their body. You don't think they'll need stitches at least.
"Ouch. Give me a sec." You say, standing to root through the medicine cabinet for the spare first aid kit. It is not paranoid to keep one in every room, you just like to be prepared for when you're too hurt to move around much. Never mind the fact you haven't been 'helping' anyone since you met the hiker.
They stiffen when you snap open the box. You don't blame them; they don't talk about the failed rollbacks very often, but piecing together snippets with your own disjointed memories, you know the worst loops were the ones in which you brought the kit. And the gun.
(The muscle memory of slamming them into the car makes your fingers twitch. You can see them drop to the road again like a broken toy whenever you close your eyes; hear the same, choked pleas that stick in your dreams.)
"Mind if I help?" They nod, mouth set in a grim line. The look they give you is more of wariness than the abject terror they'd worn near permanently for the first few weeks. You're almost glad they were unconscious for most of the early days, you probably wouldn't have been able to treat their injuries while they were that skittish. They've made big improvements on that front. Sometimes you need to hurt people to help them, a fact which doesn't quell your guilt even slightly.
The hiker feels fragile even as you keep your touch as gentle as possible, hyper-aware of how scrawny they are. Their nose twitches at the smell of antiseptic. You wish they'd react to the pain itself, just a little. You know the antiseptic stings like a bitch, and their complete lack of response is never not going to be unsettling. You don't like the reminder of how much they've already endured.
You press a little kiss to the freshly applied bandage because you are insufferable. Their smile is, as always, little more than a twitch to their neutral expression; but it still makes you grin like a fool.
"Wouldn't recommend biting that arm for a while."
"No promises." They've been making an effort to stop, really. They're just not always... present, when they're doing it; turns out having exactly one coping mechanism your entire life makes it difficult to start doing anything else. Maybe you should get them one of those chewable necklaces?
The noise of scratching disrupts your train of thought, as the cat decides tunnelling through the back of the cupboard is a better idea than running away. Poor thing must be terrified.
"Hold on, I'm gonna get something to feed this guy." You spend the entire two minutes it takes to reach the kitchen telling yourself nothing could possibly happen to the hiker in that time. You're both safe here, she isn't going to find them. Still, you feel stupidly relieved to see them (relatively) unharmed, leaning over the edge of the bath to watch the cat.
"Getting along well?" You tease, narrowly avoiding the sponge thrown at your head. "I'll take that as a yes."
"I think it wants me dead."
"What the hell did you even do to piss off the first cat you've ever met?"
"I didn't do anything!" They meet your raised eyebrow with an exasperated expression. "I picked it up, gently, so I could put it back outside; and it attacked me."
Personally, you find that comparison more than a little funny, considering how you first met. You try not to look too amused, it's not like they have a big frame of reference for how to interact with people or animals. At least the cat doesn't have a scalpel.
"Yeah, that'll do it. Most cats don't like being touched unless they come to you first."
"I'm sorry." They tell the cat, in that deadpan voice that either means they're completely sincere or fucking with you. The cat stares back with baleful eyes.
You set down the plate of chicken and back away. The cat hesitates for a brief moment, before ripping into it like it's never been fed before. After it finishes, the cat mewls pitifully at you for more. Fuck. You're going to get attached, aren't you? Your apartment allows small pets, if you remember the lease correctly.
"Sorry buddy, but I don't want you throwing up. I'll get you more again later, alright?" The cat lets you scratch its ears for a whole 3 seconds before ducking away.
The hiker watches this exchange with fascination. It's cute, how curious they are, hypervigilance tinged with a genuine desire to learn and catalogue everything. They reach out slowly towards the cat, which bares its teeth. After a few moments of stillness, the cat sniffs their hand; and then pushes forward, smushing its forehead against their palm.
"Oh." The hiker blinks owlishly down at it in surprise. "You want me to pet you?"
The cat bites as soon as they start to move, not hard enough to pierce flesh, and continues its motions once they stop. They hum, pleased.
"Told you it was a sweetheart."
"Given the chance, it would try to kill me again."
"You're best friends now." The hiker's glare isn't quite as intimidating over the sound of rusty purring.
"Obviously."
(Listen, it's definitely dysfunctional and you'll be happy if it never happens again, but goddamn if getting murdered by them wasn't a fucking hysterical way to meet your companion.)
(By the look on in their eyes, they're thinking the same thing.)
"Do you want to keep it?" Even as you ask, the idea of giving the cat up feels awful. There's something so endearing about the sight of this scruffy little beast pawing at the equally scruffy hiker. You're already mentally running the costs of the vet fees. You'll get this cat taken care of if you need to kill for it.
They hesitate, studying your face. You know they're thinking of her, of carefully rationed enrichment, of entertainment treated as a reward and not an indulgence. They're not good at asking for things, a fact that makes your eyes water every time you relive the memory laying in the wreckage of your car and hearing them ask you for a story like it was all they'd ever wanted.
"You could name it?" You offer.
That earns you a tiny smile. They turn back to the cat, who is unaware of the scrutiny its under.
"Jason."
"Huh. Nice choice." Where the fuck did that name come from? You have no idea.
The cat, tired from the hard work of being petted, scrambles up the side of the bath and throws itself into the hikers lap. Looking at the two of them together, you feel a sudden surge of affection welling up inside you, chasing away the last of your lingering worry. You're glad to be home.