THREE

Tristan gripped the handles of Dylan’s wheelchair outside their building, as Joan fumbled with the lock, her jangling keys loud in the silence. She was still very angry, Tristan could see, her back ramrod straight. He’d have to be careful.

Joan needed him – for now.

But she wanted him gone.

The hospital waiting room hadn’t been the ideal place to make a good first impression. Or the ideal time. He hadn’t prepared an explanation for his sudden appearance and, put on the spot, he knew he’d fumbled. There’d be some hard questions later.

Now…

Joan opened the door and he pushed Dylan’s wheelchair into the dark tenement hallway. The stairwell loomed above them – they would have to get Dylan up two flights.

“You pick her up – carefully – and I’ll take the chair.”

Feeling Joan’s eyes on his every move, Tristan bent down to help Dylan out of her chair.

“Put your arms around my neck,” he said quietly. Slipping one hand around her shoulders and the other, very carefully, beneath her legs, he lifted her, and felt the weight pull at his shoulders, his back, as he straightened up.

“Don’t drop me!” Dylan squeaked.

“I won’t,” he promised. And he wouldn’t – but either gravity was different in the real world or he’d changed. He’d been strong in the wasteland. Strong enough to fight wraiths, and haul souls of all shapes and sizes across the unforgiving terrain.

Now… he felt like a sixteen-year-old boy with a sixteen-year-old boy’s strength. Only pride and the fear of hurting Dylan stopped him from pausing as he took the steps up to the second floor.

Joan followed closely behind with the cumbersome chair, and helped Tristan place Dylan back down before unlocking their flat door.

Tristan had seen Dylan’s place, of course, in her memories. But it still felt unexpected: breathing in the faint trace of Dylan and the heavier smell of the damp creeping into the living room. He reached out with one hand and briefly brushed the raised pattern of the woodchip wallpaper lining the hallway. The tips of his fingers tingled. It wasn’t any different to any other wall he’d ever touched, and yet it was. It was real. Someone – quite a long time ago, he thought – had once lovingly pasted this onto their wall. Had chosen it from all the other options, to make their home.

He snatched his hand back and coughed as a swell of emotion tightened in his chest.

“Are you all right?” Dylan murmured, when Joan disappeared into the living room, leaving them briefly alone.

“I’m fine,” Tristan said. “Don’t worry about me.”

He was more than fine. He was alive. Blood was coursing through his veins; his heart was beating in his chest. He wanted to laugh, to sing and shout. He wanted to snatch Dylan out of her chair and throw his arms around her, swing her round in circles.

Instead he slowly, carefully, wheeled her into the main room where Joan was waiting for them.

“I need to get some things from the shop,” she announced. “I won’t be long.” Her eyes narrowed as they flicked from Tristan to Dylan and back again. “Dylan’s room is out of bounds when I am not in the flat. No exceptions.”

Tristan considered her resolute expression, her clenched jaw.

“All right,” he said. He’d no intention of following through on the rule, but if it would appease Joan and give him some time alone with Dylan, he’d agree to just about anything.

Joan seemed suspicious of his easy capitulation, but she swept out without further comment, only pausing to put a gentle hand on Dylan’s shoulder as she passed. Dylan wasn’t paying attention, didn’t see the relief and worry that went into that one small touch, but Tristan did. Dylan had told him that her relationship with her mum was often fraught and tense, but the love between the two of them was palpable.

The moment ended and Joan left.

At last, it was just Tristan and Dylan.

Unable to do anything else, Tristan folded himself over the back of the wheelchair and drew Dylan into a hug. Tucking his face into the crook of her neck, he let himself breathe her in. Feel her skin, warm and alive and in his arms.

“Tristan,” Dylan whispered. Her hands reached up to clutch him closer to her. It was awkward – the wheelchair digging into his stomach and his knee pressing into the rear wheel, but Tristan couldn’t make himself move. This was perfect. Heaven. He was half-convinced that if he moved so much as a muscle, it would all be snatched away from him. He’d blink and be back in the wasteland. Alone.

He was so lost in the moment that at first he didn’t notice the subtle shaking of Dylan’s shoulders. It wasn’t until he caught the quiet hitch of her breathing that he realised she was crying.

“Dylan? Am I hurting you?” He wrenched away, horrified. He spun round to the front of the wheelchair and knelt, peering into Dylan’s face. Sure enough, tears were streaking down her cheeks. “I’m sorry, angel. I didn’t mean to—”

The almost violent shaking of her head stopped his words in his throat.

“It’s not that.” Her voice was tight and shaky. “I just… I can’t believe it. You’re here. Really here.” She hiccupped a laugh. “You’re standing in my crappy living room.”

“Well, technically I’m kneeling.” Tristan went for a tiny smile, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind Dylan’s ear.

“Shut up.” She shoved at him playfully, then she leaned forward and planted her forehead on his chest. It was as close as they could get to each other from this angle, with her leg cast sticking out awkwardly in front of her. Tristan rubbed her back gently, making sure to stop well short of her bandages.

She was so battered and bruised. It had been more than he could bear to see her brought out of the train tunnel on a stretcher. Now here he was, whole and well, while Dylan was struggling with injuries that should have killed her. That had killed her.

And she’d suffered that for him.

“I love you,” he whispered into her hair.

Dylan made an inarticulate sound and lifted her head up to stare into his eyes.

“I love you, too.” She smiled, her eyes sparkling. “I told you so.”

“What?” Tristan blinked, confused.

“I promise I’ll only say it this once – well, twice,” Dylan laughed, “but I told you it would work!”

“Oh. Right. Yeah, you did.” Tristan’s lips twisted into a rueful grin. “On this one occasion, I’m OK with being wrong.” His grin stretched a little wider, “And at least you’re the only one who’ll know.”

He looked around the room, took in the slightly sagging couch jazzed up with new cushions.

“Let’s get you out of the chair.”

“All right.” Dylan put both hands on the arm rests, ready to lever herself upright, but Tristan halted her with a hand on her shoulder.

“I’ve got you,” he told her.

“I know,” she replied, smiling.

Once again, lamenting his new human body, he strained every muscle to lower her slowly, gently, down onto the cushions. He moved to straighten up, but Dylan snagged his hand and tugged him down to sit beside her.

He didn’t fight the pull – there was nowhere else he wanted to be. The closer the better.

“How do you feel?” Dylan asked him quietly.

“How do I feel?” He shifted round to shoot her a quizzical look. “I’m not the one who was just in a fatal train crash!”

“I know,” Dylan waved a hand in the air as if that didn’t matter. “I mean, how do you feel here? Is it any different? Do you… do you feel solid?”

The hold she had on his hand squeezed a little tighter, as if she also believed he might evaporate out of existence. He squeezed back reassuringly.

“I feel solid,” he agreed. “And…” He frowned, really considering it. There was a tightness at his temples, a heaviness behind his eyes. And a gnawing sensation in his stomach. “Tired, I think. but my stomach… I guess I’m hungry.” Another pang twisted. “Really hungry. God, that’s a horrible sensation.”

“You’ll have to wait till my mum gets back for anything decent,” Dylan said, “but there’s probably some biscuits or something in the kitchen.”

Following Dylan’s instructions, he managed to locate Joan’s old-fashioned shortbread tin above the microwave. He brought back as many as he could fit in one hand and passed half the stack to Dylan.

“Chocolate digestives,” Dylan wrinkled her nose. “These aren’t the best biscuits, but they’ll fill a hole.”

She stuffed an entire round into her mouth, chewed quickly and swallowed. Tristan watched her, then looked down at the three biscuits in his own hand. The chocolate coating was melting against his fingers.

Dylan watched him with interest before finally speaking. “You didn’t try eating in the hospital?”

Tristan shook his head slowly, his gaze still on the food.

“Your mum offered but I was just… I was too worried about you to think about it. I had some water but—”

“Do you know how to do it?” A sharp glance up assured him Dylan wasn’t making fun of him, that it was a genuine question.

“I know how to do it,” he said. “It’s just—”

“It’s a big moment,” Dylan finished for him. The left side of her mouth quirked up. “Sorry it’s not something more impressive than a McVities.”

“This is great,” he said. “And anyway, I’ve heard lots of good things about chocolate.”

Not wanting to put it off any longer – because then he’d be forced to admit to himself that he was a little bit apprehensive – Tristan lifted the biscuit to his mouth and bit off a chunk.

It crumbled against his lips. When he began chewing, sweetness burst across his tongue. Saliva pooled and mixed with the pulped-up food until he felt the need to swallow. He paused, expecting to feel the lump in his throat, odd and uncomfortable, but there was nothing except the demand for more. Before he realised it, he was licking the remnants of chocolate from his fingers.

“Well…?” Dylan prodded, watching him carefully.

“I think I like chocolate.”

That made her throw her head back and let out a peal of laughter.

“We should have started you on something more boring. Everything else is going to be an anti-climax now.” She tilted her head to the side, a tiny furrow between her eyebrows as she considered. “I think you’ll like pizza, too. And crisps. Crisps are amazing.”

A moment of silence passed before Dylan reached out to take Tristan’s hand again.“Are you glad you’re here?” She paused. “Did we do the right thing, do you think?”

“Is that a real question?” Tristan waited until Dylan met his gaze. She gave him a hesitant nod. “There is nowhere else I’d rather be, Dylan. I swear it to you.”

She rewarded his words with another sweet smile, the one she always gave him when she forgot herself. It was a while before she spoke again.

“What have you said to Joan? About us, I mean. When I was having my X-ray?”

“I said I was your boyfriend,” Tristan replied. “She asked why she’d never heard of me and I kind of mumbled something about you not being ready to tell her yet. She wasn’t happy.”

“She won’t let it go, you know,” Dylan said. “She’ll push and push until she gets proper answers from us. I don’t know what to tell her. I mean, what the hell do we say? The truth? Can you imagine?”

“Shhh,” Tristan soothed. He could see that Dylan was getting upset, agitated. “Angel, it can’t be the truth – you know that. We’ll think of something. It’ll be all right.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” Tristan drew her to him, resting his forehead against the top of her head. “We’ll figure it out later. Right now, I just want to hold you.”

“Is that all?” Dylan breathed. She twisted, lifting her face, and Tristan was already dipping down to meet her when pain ripped through her expression.

“What’s wrong?” Tristan pulled back, his eyes raking over Dylan’s body, searching.

“It’s nothing,” Dylan protested, though her face was bone white. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re injured and you need to heal. Here.” Rising, he rearranged the cushions on the sofa and gently pushed Dylan back onto them. “Rest.”

“I don’t want to rest,” Dylan pouted. “I want you to kiss me.”

“I will,” Tristan said. “When you’re better.”

“That’ll take ages!”

He laughed. “I’m not going anywhere. We have all the time in the world now.”

Dylan’s disgruntled snort, the adorably put-out look on her face, almost had him giving in, but at that moment Joan came banging back into the flat. She appeared at the living-room door a heartbeat later, her face flushed like she’d run the whole way.

Her eyes narrowed as she took in the two of them on the sofa.

“You,” she barked at Tristan. “Help me with the groceries.”

***

“…I just don’t think it’s the right time … No, I think you’re being selfish … Do you have any idea what she’s been through? … Don’t you dare turn up here! You can’t just force your way into— No, I don’t care that she contacted you before; things are different now … She is not old enough to make that sort of decision, she’s only fifteen!”

Dylan hovered in her wheelchair outside Joan’s bedroom, listening to her mother hissing quietly into the phone. It wasn’t hard to work out who she was speaking to.

James Miller. Dylan’s dad. The man Dylan had been heading up to see in Aberdeen when she was in the train crash that took her life… then gave it back again. She remembered how she felt when she got on the train; nerves and excitement had been champagne in her blood. What would he be like? What would they do together? Would Dylan be able to see echoes of her face in his?

She hadn’t gotten any answers that day. Instead, fate had sent her on a completely different adventure – one that had taken her to Tristan, so she couldn’t regret it, not even for a moment. Now, several days after her return home from the hospital, she was left feeling… a sense of loss at not having reached her dad that day. She’d fought hard to get so far on the journey to meeting her dad, had to work to break down the barriers Joan had thrown in her way, and she needed to finish what she’d started.

Seized by a sudden rush of determination, she wheeled her chair into Joan’s room, bashing the half-open door out of her way with her plaster-clad foot.

“Dylan!” Joan jolted out of a reverie where she sat on the bed.

“Who was that?”

“What?” Joan blinked, blindsided.

“Who was that on the phone?”

Her mother cradled the phone to her chest. “Just a friend from work.”

“Liar!” Dylan used her hands to shove the chair further into the bedroom, cursing as she scraped the knuckles of her left hand against the doorframe.

“I beg your pardon?” Standing, Joan braced herself. “Just who do you think you’re talking to, young lady?” She shifted her narrowed gaze over Dylan’s shoulder. “Where’s Tristan?” Joan avoided saying Tristan’s name as much as possible – in the same way that she did her best to avoid looking at him or speaking to him – and she spat it out now.

“He’s in the living room, watching the telly.”

“He’s supposed to be helping you, that’s why he’s here, staying under my roof.”

That was another dig Joan had never failed to get in during these first few days. He’s staying under my roof. He’s eating my food. And, the one that somehow angered Dylan the most, I put the clothes on his back. Her snide little comments never failed to rile Dylan, but this time she refused to be side-tracked.

“You were talking to my dad, weren’t you?”

“Dylan—”

“Tell me. I know it was him!”

Backed into a corner, Joan came out fighting. “And if it was?”

“What did he say? Why was he calling?” Dylan leaned forward hopefully. “Does he still want me to come up and visit?”

“As if you’re in any fit state to be doing that!” Joan made to sweep past Dylan, but the wheelchair was too wide. She put her hands on her hips and stared her daughter down, waiting for her to move, but they’d been fighting since Dylan could remember – she wasn’t going to be cowed by Joan’s angry face.

“I could manage if Tristan came with me.”

“Absolutely not!” Joan’s snapped. “You and that boy are not disappearing anywhere!”

That boy. Her usual way of referring to Tristan.

“Well, my dad could come here then.”

A flash of something in Joan’s eyes.

Dylan immediately jumped on it. “That’s it, isn’t it? He wants to come here.”

“Now wait—”

But Dylan was right, she knew it. “When’s he coming?”

“There aren’t any plans for that right now, darling.” Joan’s voice had dropped from sharp anger to coaxing, almost pleading. “It’s not something that can just be organised overnight.”

“Yes, it is! He’s only in Aberdeen, not the other side of the planet.” Dylan stared at Joan accusingly. “You told him not to come!”

“Yes.” At least she didn’t deny it. “You’ve been through a massive trauma. You just… you need a little time to heal, Dylan. We’ll talk about your dad – I promise we will. After.”

Dylan considered her mum’s words for the length of several fast, angry heartbeats. “No.”

“Dylan—”

“No. I don’t want to wait any more. If you won’t invite him down, I’ll do it myself.”

Quite how Dylan would do that she wasn’t sure, as the only contact number she had for him was in the phone she’d lost on the train. She held her mum’s gaze, in case she called her bluff.

Seconds ticked by at half speed. One, two, three, four…

“Fine.” Growled out from between lips tightened in fury, letting Dylan’s heart soar. “Fine, I’ll ring him. But you won’t be meeting him alone. I’ll be going along with you, and that’s non-negotiable, Dylan.”

“Fine.” It was, actually. Because while she was looking forward to meeting her dad, looking forward to it desperately, there was no small amount of nerves mixed in with that excitement. With some fumbling, she shifted her wheelchair so her mum could exit. Joan swept past with as much dignity as she could muster.

“Mum,” Dylan called after her. Joan inclined her head, but didn’t turn back. “Thank you.”

A sigh, then she did turn to face Dylan, her smile a little watery.

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”