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“Are you ready to go?” Simon asked once Vic had signed discharge papers and gotten his belongings back. His clothing was too damaged to wear, but Simon had brought more from home.

“You’re gonna need a new helmet,” Simon told him as he helped Vic into the car. “I threw it in the trunk, but it’s too damaged to use. Fuck, Vic. That was too close.”

“I know. But those charms you insist I wear saved me,” Vic replied. “I just want to go home and collapse.”

Once he limped into the house and its protective wards, Vic felt lighter, like the lifting of pressure after a thunderstorm.

Simon made spaghetti with meat sauce and put it in the oven to stay warm. Then he poured himself a cola with a generous shot of rum and sat on the couch beside Vic.

“How are you doing? You’re sitting on the couch staring at the TV, which isn’t turned on,” Simon said.

“Anyone ever tell you that you’d make a good detective?” Vic joked.

“I think my husband has, once or twice. Or maybe he just said I’d make a good dick,” Simon joked, using the old term for investigator.

“Your husband was right on both counts. Smart man.”

“Want to tell me about it?” Simon asked. “Get it out of the way so we can eat and then ignore it for the rest of the evening?”

“Sure. Although I’m not sure about the ignoring part.” Vic felt frazzled, and he knew the pain medications were affecting him.

Vic recounted the events before the crash, including the fire-related deaths of Murphey and Ferretti; Ferretti’s comments about the mob, witches, the military, necromancy, and the FBI visit; as well as the truck fire and everything he remembered about the dark ghosts.

“Murphey’s widow is suing covert ops and threatening to go public? Ballsy lady,” Simon replied. “I’m afraid this whole mess is going to come to a head before it can wend its way through the bureaucracy, but good for her. And maybe it will put them just a bit on the defensive.”

“I hope she’s heavily protected. She’s going to make some enemies.”

“I suspect she already knew that,” Simon answered. “I’m worried more about you.”

“I knew it was a dangerous job when I signed up for it.” Vic shrugged, although he didn’t feel as nonchalant as he tried to sound.

“And the danger doubled when you hooked up with me and all the supernatural stuff,” Simon supplied.

“Best hookup I ever had.” Vic smirked. Simon didn’t chide him to be serious, and Vic knew it meant his husband realized Vic was using humor as a defense.

“Aw, thanks,” Simon replied.

Vic turned to Simon and took his hands. “Promise me that however this goes down, I want to be beside you for the confrontation. I don’t have magic. I can’t do spells, summon ghosts, or raise the dead. But I’m a damned good shot, and I’ll have your back. Promise me.”

Vic could see the strain as Simon’s thoughts warred between agreeing and keeping him safe.

“I promise,” Simon finally said. “But no heroics. No self-sacrifice. I want both of us to walk away from this, with the entity back where it belongs, and I want the mob and the military to crawl back in their hidey-holes and go away.”

“And a pony,” Vic said, despite the heaviness of the moment. “When you’re making wishes, always ask for a pony.”

“And a pony.” Simon shook his head fondly. He leaned in to kiss Vic, making it a lingering, affirming touch.

“Something’s hot,” Vic murmured.

“You sure are.”

Vic pulled away. “No, I mean burning.”

“Shit! The spaghetti!” Simon raced for the kitchen and removed a casserole container with a slightly browned crust. “It will still taste great. I rather like crispy cheese,” Simon assured him. “No more work talk. Let’s eat.”

As Simon finished doing the dishes, Vic came up behind him at the sink and pressed him against the counter. He reached around to loosen Simon’s pants and slide them down. Vic’s body ached, but he needed the connection and proof of life from feeling Simon’s body against his.

“What are you doing?” Simon murmured. “You’re supposed to take it easy.”