Rowan’s eyes widen, quickly followed by a rush of sadness, pride, and fear mixed all together in an ugly cocktail that makes Rowan’s stomach lurch.

“Jesus.”

“Mmm. Got a few good ones in on him at least.”

At least. As if a few punches were worth whatever hell Larry put him through both before and after Mal’s confession. Even though he’s still practically a fucking stranger, that instinct to want to protect him—even retroactively—surges up and makes Rowan’s fingers shake.

“I’m so fuckin’ sorry, Mal.”

Mal simply rolls his eyes, but not unkindly. “It’s fine, Dr. Phil. Was a long time ago, and I’ve already been to therapy and shit for it. ’M good.”

The therapy comment surprises Rowan, but pleasantly so. When he thinks about it for a moment longer, though, it makes sense. Mal seems remarkably levelheaded in the way that only working through your childhood traumas with a professional can achieve.

“HAVE ANY plans this week?” Rowan asks idly on their walk back.

There’s a warm breeze drifting between them, and the stars are out in full force, the sprinkling of dim lights as bright as they can be in the light-polluted Boston sky.

Mal quips, “Yeah, icing my damn ass.”

“Oh, fuck you! You asked for it.”

“Got a bag of peas callin’ my name.”

“I’ll bet you twenty bucks you don’t actually have a single vegetable in your house, Bunnicula.”

“You’re one to talk, Casper. Do you got anything that comes in a box or can?”

“Think I have some bags of mixed nuts layin’ around.”

“You’re a bag of nuts.”

If only Mal knew how close to the truth that statement actually was, he might not be joking around with Rowan like this.

“Great comeback. I see your talent stops with numbers, Shakespeare.”

“Shakespeare was a douchebag,” Mal states definitively, like he knew the guy personally, and he went to the grave owing Mal money.

“What could possibly make you think that?”

“Anyone who wears frilly collars and leggings is a douchebag in my book.”

“So everyone in the sixteenth century, then?”

Mal snorts in agreement.

“And besides,” Rowan continues. “Pretty sure all your jeans are leggings with how fuckin’ tight they are.”

“Can’t deny they look good, though.”

“Got me there.”

Mal stuffs his hands in his pockets, and Rowan idly wonders if he’s cold in only his joggers and tank top.

“You?” Mal asks.

“Me what?”

Rowan doesn’t have to turn his head to see Mal’s eye roll. “Plans?”

He chooses to not acknowledge that Mal didn’t actually tell him if he had real plans or not.

“Working. Seven to three every day.”

“What, no one’s allowed to get hurt outside those hours?”

Huffing a laugh, Rowan says, “Nah, if they do, they’re fucked.”