Ignite

Sixty-two || Welcome to McDeath Cave

Hello! How are you all? Good, I hope.

Sorry for not updating, I just really want to kick this whole thing in gear and give you actual, well written chapters.

Anyway this chapter is in Coal's pov! Huzza for my baby dork son. (Also that LOVELY INSTAGRAM THING THAT I'M STILL NOT OVER IS FRENCHOWL'S DOING THANK HER YOU GUYS)

Okay so that long-been-missing plot reappears in this chapter, don't get too excited or you'll scare it away. But you know, yay for me finally gathering some semblance of a plan.

Dedication goes to SaxophoneObsessor bc lovely comments and messages and voting and such. (my computer is being a soggy banana poptart rn and won't dedicate so I'll figure that out tomorrow)

I'M ALSO SORRY I HAVEN'T BEEN REPLYING TO DMS AND COMMENTS I'M TRYING THANKS FOR HANGING IN THERE okay so yeah, I'll try to get my ass in gear and actually interact with people for a change bc you all are so lovely, and I thank you very much for your support.

So that's that, I hope you can forgive the lateness, and I hope you enjoy the chapter and have a happy existence for the foreseeable future!

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40 Batterymarch Street.

Everything is burning. I'm in a nightmare.

These are the stale ones, trapped between heart stopping horror and dull pain. I know I'm asleep. I can't wake up, but I know I'm asleep.

Tide screams. Buildings flash past in front of my eyes, moving fast, like I'm running, driving, falling.

40 Batterymarch Street.

It's fuzzy, the light, the sounds, my thoughts. I can't gather the autonomy to run away.

40 Batterymarch Street.

This is different, something crisp and cleaner than my nightmares, though no less horrific. It's white and sharp, the snap of rubber gloves and clattering of sterilized tools. It breaks through in flashes; directions, turn right, turn left, turn

40 Batterymarch Street.

Everything is burning.

I wake up.

The hospital blankets are tousled, a sobering shade of green. Functional. Grounding. I'm cold, the back of my neck prickling with a growing chill. It makes my breath catch, sends a shudder through me.

"Coal?"

Tide's voice is croaky and thick, laced with sleep. She's gazing at me with half open eyes and concern in the crease between her eyebrows.

"I'm fine," I assure her. "I've had worse."

She purses her lips in thought. "You kept saying–" a yawn breaks her sentence in half- "an address. Forty Batterymarch Street, I think."

I push a smile as she yawns again. "I'll tell you in the morning, okay?"

She wants to argue, but her better judgement demands sleep after spending another day training uncoordinated adults belligerent about being taught by a sardonic teen. So she nods, and her hand finds mine under the covers and squeezes before she turns over and settles back down.

Her back is pressed into my side, due to her curling up into a ball. I can feel her spine digging into my ribcage.

Now, usually, when Tide wakes up she looks awful. Her eyes are dark and she squints a lot, her skin is a bit paler than usual and she is generally very slouchy. I'd add that her hair is a mess, but her hair is always a mess. A pretty, golden mess, but a mess nonetheless.