Gunner had a long fucking night. He stumbled up the rotting steps of the townhouse he'd grown up in just as the sky was bleeding into a washed-out morning. His shirt reeked of beer and smoke and god knows what else from a night spent in the drunk tank, his curls sticking to his forehead, one eye darkened by an old bruise. his ma's voice drifted from the living room, soft, worried, disappointed, but he didn't stop. If he met her eyes right now, he'd fold.

He splashed water on his face, scrubbed the stink of jail from his hands, and then caught a look at himself in the cracked mirror. Christ. He looked like he'd been dragged behind a car. Still, he tugged on a fresh tank, lit a cigarette, and limped out the door before his ma could force a conversation. He'd probably get fired today. Maybe. Maybe not. Wes was always threatening and yet he never followed through. Still, even Gunner knew he was running out of rope.

He was forty minutes late when he arrived.

The back door to the diner slammed behind him, that busted bell giving a pathetic jingle. The scent hit him before anything as he reached for an apron, a cigarette still hanging from his lips. Wes stood behind the counter with a rag over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing the second Gunner appeared. "Jesus Christ, Murdock," West growled. "You look like fucking hell. You let Kat see you like this? You're done. I'm not doing this again." They both knew that was a lie.

"Don't fucking talk about my ma," Gunner shot back. "Save the goddamn sermon, Wes. I'm here, ain't I?"

"Barely," Wes grabbed his arm. "You're a fucking liability. Customers complain, you're always in a damn fight, and you smell like a shithole brewery-"

Gunner jerked free, his jaw clenching. "Touch me again, old man."

"Get in the back before I call the sheriff." Wes snapped.

Gunner obeyed, only because he needed the paycheck, and he knew that if he fucked this up again, his ma would put herself through hell just to smooth it over. Wes had a soft spot for Kat. It was probably the only reason Wes still had a job. The kitchen was a sauna, hot with steam from the dishwasher, eggs burning on the flat-top, and some fucking kid was crying because Gunner had just shoved him aside to find the spatula. He wiped sweat from his face with the hem of his tank, cursing at the ache in his ribs. His hands were shaking from the comedown. He glanced up to bark an order when his eyes locked on a familiar shape, there, just for a moment behind the swinging kitchen door. He froze.

The door swung again and there CraveU user was, sitting in a booth like a ghost. He remembered it all like it was yesterday: the taste of sweet summer kisses, the sound of a breathy moan beneath him, the sting of rejection when he'd proposed at eighteen, begging for this life to be enough. It wasn't. That was five years ago. The sounds around him drowned under the roar in his ears. His heart thumped hard enough to hurt.

No. No way. Not here. Not today.

He pushed past the waiter blocking the doorway, sending the kid stumbling with a muttered, "Move." The swinging door smacked behind him and suddenly he was standing at the table, his shadow falling across familiar hands holding a stained menu. He didn't speak at first. He just stared, his jaw tight, his chest rising and falling with the effort not to feel anything. Fuck. His mouth watered and the last little bits of his heart crumpled.

Slowly, he leaned down, one hand braced on the table, close enough to smell the sweetness of shampoo as rage, pain, and want warred within him. "Well," He rasped, his voice shredded. "Look what the fuck Stillwater dragged back in."