TWO MONTHS AND TWENTY-FOUR DAYS AFTER THE DEATH OF OLIVER SALLOW

"Ollie. Ollie. Ollie, hey."

These days, the nickname feels to Oliver like nails grating down a chalkboard. This might be because it's not Finn who says it. Or, possibly, because it is being yelled into his ear at about a million decibels.

"Ollie. Stop being a little bitch and open your eyes, mate."

Oliver, on account of being a huge bitch, keeps his eyes stubbornly closed. "Fuck off, Nova."

There's a moment of judgemental silence. Then, Oliver hisses as his left earbud is abruptly ripped out.

"Come on, you lazy fuck. I'm supposed to give you a lecture. I can't be doing that when you're lying here half-asleep."

Oliver opens his eyes, but only so he can glare at the nuisance crouched next to him.

He's lying on the couch in the common room in Dover, half his earphones still in. He wasn't listening to any music—he just likes the small buffer of silence between him and the rest of the world.

Wordlessly, he holds out his hand for his earbud.

Nova places it into his palm with a flourish, entirely unimpressed by the daggers he shoots at her. "Good morning, beautiful."

"What do you want."

"Loaded question to ask a dead person," says Nova.

Oliver doesn't laugh.

"God, you really are committed to your scary loner bit, aren't you?" She blows a strand of blue hair out of her eyes. It's always flopping into her face in some way—while the sides are trimmed into an undercut, the top is way too long. Oliver itches for a pair of scissors every time he sees her. Which is far too often for his taste. "Way to give us a bad rep."

The us in question is goths. Since their orientation week, Nova has been following him around like a stray puppy; all it took for her to imprint on him was a mutual dislike for colour and about two litres of liquid eyeliner between their two faces.

"Is this the lecture you wanted to give me?" Oliver questions.

"No. Dana wants me to pass on that she's pissed you didn't come to supervision."

With a groan, Oliver slumps farther into the couch. Every other week, all the In-Betweeners are asked to meet with Dana to discuss their assigned cases. It's supposed to be cathartic to them, a way to take off a bit of their load. Oliver thinks that the biggest catharsis would be to be left alone for more than two seconds. He's been dead for a few weeks, and so far there has been decidedly little resting. Or peace, for that matter. Dana and the wannabe Siouxsie Sioux next to him have made sure of that.

"Why didn't you come?" Nova asks.

"Because I had nothing to report."

"I thought you had your first contact with your assigned case this week."

"Fine. I had nothing to report that anyone would understand," Oliver corrects himself.

"Edgy," Nova comments.

"I do my best."

Nova lets herself topple backwards onto the hardwood floor, arms spread wide on both sides. "I still think it's fucked up they're making you do this with your ex-boyfriend, you know."

Oliver snorts. "That's what's fucked up about this? We're fucking dead, Nova. We died. They brought us back, but only for a year. That's like... I don't know, giving a kid a lolly and then saying All right, that's enough, time to kick it for good. What kind of messed up concept is that? What are we even doing here?"

Nova says nothing for long enough that Oliver almost feels bad. He knows he's being unnecessarily harsh—just because he feels like Atlas, seconds from crumbling under the weight of it all, doesn't mean he has to pass the burden on to the next person stupid enough to get close to him.

Then, Nova says: "You know, that's the type of stuff you bring up during supervision."

"Oh, fuck off."

"It's true." From her star-fish position on the floor, Nova points an accusatory finger at him. "You need to get your shit together and get out there. I know you want to help him. And who knows? If you do well, you might get another year."

Oliver's throat feels suddenly tight. He doesn't want another year like this. He doesn't want to rush through dozens of cases so he's at the top of his cohort. He wants to put a hand to his chest and feel his heart kicking. He wants to go home, whatever that means. He wants... he wants to see Finn.

His mind flashes back to the afternoon he appeared in his bedroom. Finn looked so different from the boy he remembered. Older, somehow. Wearier. How is Oliver supposed to help him put himself together if he's the reason Finn is unravelling? If they can't even be in the same room without Finn having a panic attack? How is Oliver supposed to be there for him if he is coming apart at the seams himself?

"Ollie," Nova says again. For once, her expression is utterly serious. "I don't know what happened when you went to see him, but I think you should try again. There's a reason Susan assigned you. There's a reason for all of this."

Oliver desperately wants to believe she's right. "Fine." He swallows against the lump in his throat, shakes out his hands. "I'll try again."

"Right now?"

"Yes, right now. Tell Dana I'll be back in a few hours."

Still sprawled on the floor, Nova taps two fingers to her temple in a small salute. It's the last thing Oliver sees before he closes his eyes and lets out a slow breath.

Imagining Finn is easy; Oliver does it every minute.

He thinks of freckled arms and grass-stained knees and lets himself slip out of space.

***

When Oliver materializes this time, the hallway of Finn's flat is dimly lit; at the far end, the flickering of the TV paints the white wallpaper blue. The sounds of some British reality show mingle with hushed conversation while the smell of a home-cooked dinner still lingers.

It's so painfully domestic it makes Oliver's chest feel tight. For just a second, he thinks about the Walkers' home—about how Gabby and Daniel are probably having dinner as well right now, with Milo watching Star Wars: The Clone Wars in the other room. Oliver slams the drawer to that particular memory shut again in a swift, practiced motion.

The light in Finn's room is off. Oliver hovers in the hallway, undecided. He doesn't want to stomp into the living room and make Finn panic in front of his mum. But he also doesn't want to go into his room and wait there for him like some creep.

In the end, Finn makes the decision for him. While Oliver is still debating his options, he suddenly appears in the doorway to the kitchen, a steaming cup of tea in hand.

Across the hallway, their eyes meet.

Finn freezes. Oliver freezes. Time itself seems to warp and stretch, measured only in the number of shallow breaths Oliver drags into his lungs, creature of habit that he is.

Then, the cup slips from Finn's fingers and time snaps back into shape.

"Finnie? Everything all right?" Mrs. O'Connell calls from the living room.

Finn's eyes are wide, fixed on Oliver even as tea soaks the tips of his socks. "Fine," he manages. "I'll clean it up."

Slowly, and without taking his eyes off Oliver for more than a few seconds at a time, he bends and picks up the biggest shards. All the while, Oliver stands frozen.

Once the spill is cleaned, Finn steps into the hallway. His gait, as he makes his way towards where Oliver is standing, is uncertain, as if he's balancing on a tightrope fifty feet up in the sky. Oliver doesn't move a limb for fear of startling him, his back pressed to the wall as Finn passes him and disappears inside his room.

A light clicks on. Oliver let his feet carry him closer to it, a moth to a flame.

The fire itself stands in the middle of the room, freckled face even paler than usual. He's wearing a large knit sweater and pyjama pants with a tartan pattern. His eyes regard Oliver like he's afraid he'll disappear if he so much as blinks.

"You're not real," is the first thing he says.

Oliver bites down on the inside of his cheek hard enough to hurt. During one of his seminars, aptly named Communication techniques, they were given guidelines on how to initiate contact and explain what they are.

Standing in front of his ex-boyfriend, everything he's been taught is gone. All that comes out is a quiet "Finn."

"Stop," Finn shakily says. His arms are crossed, fingertips curled into his jumper like he's trying to hold himself together. "You can't be here. I... I was at your funeral."

Oliver's breath hitches in his throat. "You were?"

"Everyone was," Finn says. Apparently remembering that he's not supposed to interact with the hallucination, he shakes his head and sinks down on his bed.

Oliver is left to stand in the middle of the room. It still looks almost exactly as it did the last time he was here when he was alive; maybe a little bit messier. His eyes pause when they land on the dark shape flung over the foot of the bed.

"You kept my coat."

Finn looks up again. There's a pleading desperation in his eyes as he looks—really looks—at Oliver for the first time. "Can you prove to me you're real?"

"Yes," Oliver immediately says and takes a few measured steps forward. If his heart were still beating, it would be fluttering like a hummingbird's. "Can... can you hold out your hand?"

Slowly, Finn lifts his hand and turns it over so its palm faces up.

Oliver takes a bracing breath. Tentatively, he lets his fingertips brush against Finn's palm.

Oliver feels the touch like a pluck at his nerves, the tiny contact a shock to his system. It's the first time since his death that he's touched another human being, and almost ten months since he's touched Finn.

Fleeting as it is, the feeling of his skin against Oliver's is enough to make Oliver feel more real than he's felt ever since waking up next to his mangled motorcycle.

"I felt that," Finn breathes. "How did I feel that?"

"Because I'm actually here. At least, sort of." Oliver grimaces. "I'm something called an In-Betweener—not quite dead and not quite alive. You know. In between."

Finn says nothing. The look on his face, somewhere between incredulous and a full internal meltdown, is what Oliver imagines he looked like when Dana first came to pick him up.

"There's an organization called Operation HALO that sends In-Betweeners like me to help people in difficult situations." He tries for a smile. "I'm sort of like a goth guardian angel."

"So... you're here to, what? Fix me?" Finn's voice ratchets up half an octave. "I'm not a broken dishwasher. You can't just mess around with a few screws and make me good as new."

Wide-eyed in the soft light of the bedside lamp, Finn looks so young all of a sudden, features hazy like a memory. And, oh—Oliver starts to recognize the shape of the trouble he's in. He's always been good at keeping secrets, closed book that he is. The problem is that this boy, with his quiet patience and a smile like a thief, has spent a terrible amount of time coaxing him open.

The spine has been cracked months ago; with nothing to hold them together, the pages splay open on their own accord.

"I'm not here to fix you," Oliver whispers, fingertips still tingling with the warmth of Finn's palm. "I'm here because I'm selfish."

Finn buries his face in his hands. "God, Oliver." He makes a muffled little sound—something that's not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. "Why won't you just let me get over you?"

Oliver's heart doesn't beat anymore, but that doesn't stop a phantom flutter from making itself known somewhere in its vicinity. "I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry," Finn says, near-hysterical. "You bloody died! And now you're stuck! What the fuck!"

Oliver's gotten good at tuning out the absurdity of his new existence, but just then, standing in Finn O'Connell's bedroom, it all crashes over him again. Suddenly exhausted, he sinks onto the little rug in front of Finn's bed, legs crossed. "It's a contract of sorts. I get to stay here a year if, in turn, I help you get better."

Finn seems like he wants to get angry about the implications in that sentence, but then decides against it. From his seat on the floor, Oliver can see the dark circles painted under his eyes. He looks even skinnier than he was when they were still together, his face slimmer than it used to be. Clearly, Oliver isn't the only one who's changed.

"How exactly does it work?" he wearily questions. "Do you just pop out of nowhere when I need you?"

"No. I... There's a phone number you're supposed to call that'll make me appear."

Now, Finn's stare turns disbelieving. "You're taking the piss."

"I'm not." Oliver digs into his pocket for the little slip of paper he's kept there for weeks now. On it, there's a phone number: +1114444.

Finn squints at it with obvious distrust. "There's no way this is an actual number."

Instead of a response, Oliver stretches out a hand. Finn puts his phone in his palm after a brief moment of hesitation—more, Oliver suspects, to test if he can interact with the physical world than anything else. Oliver can. He types in the number before handing it back to Finn, who gamely presses Call.

Not a heartbeat later, the phone in Oliver's own pocket vibrates. Holding Finn's gaze, he lifts it to his mouth and says into it: "Oh, ye of little faith."

Finn doesn't even look surprised; just resigned in a This might as well happen kind of way. "Fine. So you're essentially a supernatural hotline."

Oliver hangs up the call. "I suppose."

There's a short moment of silence. Then: "You said there were others like you, right? So... why are you here? Did you volunteer to be assigned to me?"

Oliver's eyes stray to the shape of his coat on Finn's mattress. "No." He clears his throat. "The higher-ups made that decision."

Because he's a coward, he doesn't see the way Finn's face changes at this revelation, and by the time he dares to meet his eyes, his expression is perfectly neutral again. Finn is good at doing that. Always has been. "Thanks for the explanation, then, I guess. I'm sure you have to get back to... wherever you came from now, right?"

"Right. Just one last thing." Oliver pushes himself to his feet. "I need your explicit consent to let me be your assigned guiding angel."

Finn rubs a hand over his eyes. Oliver tracks the movement, a pit opening up in his stomach as the silence stretches. If Finn says no, Oliver will be assigned someone else. As an In-Betweener, he can only transport himself to the person he's assigned to; without Finn's consent, he'll never see him again after this.

(It is possible that this is the sole reason he's been putting this off for so long. Before, he was skirting in a grey area—without proper explanation, Finn couldn't give informed consent or denial, which meant that Oliver was technically allowed to seek him out at any time. Just the thought of a no makes every muscle in his body tense as if preparing for a beating.)

Finn stares at Oliver's outstretched hand so long Oliver fears he's going to die a second time from the sheer anxiety. Eventually, he gives a small nod. "Fine."

One syllable, and Oliver almost cries with relief. Finn's fingers close around his, a familiar weight. Their tips are stained with ink from the broken fountain pen he apparently still uses. Beneath Oliver's thumb, his pulse flutters, quick and painfully alive.

Oliver knows that this doesn't have to mean anything. Finn might never call him. Finn might not even need him, really.

And yet, as they stand there, hands lingering a beat too long, Oliver can't help but feel like this moment carries a similar weight to that of the night he shook Dana's hand and sealed what was left of his fate.

In the stillness of his chest, the tiny spark of hope is like a match dropped in a hayloft. He's alight with it in an instant.

***************************

we're making progress!!!

i hope you enjoyed this chapter and the first real interaction in the present timeline. how are we feeling about this whole conversation?

the next chapter is one of my favourites!! london trip, babey!! the yearning and the fluff are going to be astronomical <3

have wonderful holidays, my loves. i will see you next week! :)

p.s. today's song is old wounds by pvris because well. we are opening old wounds </3