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Thorne focused on Rylan's voice, even though he couldn't look the other man in the eyes. His father might have scolded him for being shameful. He'd been proud, once, of the person he'd been. Here, now, he was just a shadow, and he knew it. And he knew Rylan saw it, because he'd been there and he understood. And that steadied Thorne, but it made the bitterness in the back of his throat even more scalding. Even worse, somehow.

He pressed his hand to the skin of his forearm, the tattoos that sometimes helped ground him in this reality. The other he rested on Fidget, aware not to squeeze too hard, grateful that the canine sat so still and peaceful while he worked through something he'd never let anyone else see before without sprinting for the nearest exit.

Hell, he still felt like sprinting. It lingered in the afterthought, present in his mind like a timer waiting to go off.

Instead, his voice crackled harshly to life. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back and said, "There's this cat I adopted because no one else wanted her. The other night - she found a crumpled up sketch that had missed the trash can. I only saw it out of the corner of my eye but I thought it was an IED." He opened his eyes and smiled crookedly at Rylan, his expression terrible. "I knew - logically, I knew that it wasn't. But the rest of the night I couldn't eat, couldn't sleep. Every single headlight, every damn neighbor making noise set me off."

He pressed his hand against his neck now, the scar that cut from earlobe to collarbone, unable to be hidden by ink. "I think the worst part for me is knowing that I'm here. Knowing, in the back of my head that I'm not on the front anymore, and still being paralyzed." Thorne paused, hating himself for admitting these things out loud. But he owed Rylan for sitting here after being carjacked and handing over the parts of himself that were probably as terrible for him to remember as Thorne's were. He owed him. "And I'm tired. Sometimes it seems like it's easier to give up."

Thorne gave a wry laugh at the mans commentary and tilted his head, scrubbing his fingers through his hair, restless and full of anxiety. "You mean accosting carjacked men with dogs isn't a hobby enough?" He joked, the words rubbing raw in his throat. He paused, sucking his lower lip between his teeth for a long moment before releasing a shaky breath, sliding down from the nerves still clustering and frayed inside of him. "I owe you one though," Thorne added, "For entertaining - this - all of this."

And Fidget, of course. Dogs made everything better, even nervous breakdowns.

Thorne pressed his fingers against Fidget's side, giving the dog a good pet for how well he'd behaved. His mind still reeled from the concept of talking - actually talking - to some stranger he'd met on the street about things his family wasn't even able to get out of him. And maybe it was the fact of their unanimous anonymity towards each other that spearheaded the decision - but in a place like Ashdown, Thorne doubted anyone stayed strangers for long.

"It's funny," he commented, his voice raw and quiet, and he looked at Rylan like he was looking at someone he wasn't sure existed, wasn't sure had ever been there - because really, how was this happening? "It's true sometimes what they say. It's easy to put into words, but it's different - to handle it. To be there, and come back and you can't fit that into a textbook therapy session."

He shook his head, drew his hand restlessly through his hair. His mind circled fractured images of where he'd been and what he'd seen, all of them patterned against the simple backdrop around them - Ashdown. A pithy, unimportant place no one knew. One foot in two separate places. And he was supposed to come back to one - but what if he fell and fell the wrong way?

Thorne's lips twisted, and he worked his jaw until it popped, trying to think of how to respond. It wasn't that he hadn't had someone reach out with words like that before. But he'd always run away.

Shameful, his father would have said, and if he denied the offer Rylan was giving him now, he was just hiding again. Hiding until his fears swallowed him whole.

Finally, his mouth curved into a slow, tentative smile, just as raw and dry as the rest of his vocabulary. "Are you really sure you want to stick your hand into this ******** flame? I can't promise that I won't burn you by the end." He shifted, offered his slim phone to Rylan, balanced on the tips of his fingers. An offer for acceptance. He paused, the grin falling to a more grim expression, his eyes shadowed and unknowable. "I have nothing to offer in return. And I won't be your charity case. But if you want - I'll give you what I can. Whatever I am, anymore."

It was easy. It should have been easy.

And Thorne knew this was a commitment that might hurt. But some insignificant, tiny, cruel part of him wanted it. Wanted the challenge. Wanted it because what if this was a step forward? What if?

His laugh was wild, and Thorne looked at Rylan with a grin that erred on wicked - a shadow of who he'd been. Before.

"That was terrible." He pushed himself to stand, glancing down at the other man. "You'll have to work on your terrible lines before we run into each other again. Maybe next time without a carjacking involved."

His expression sharpened into something else. Something fearful and hopeful at the same time. "Well then," he said, "it's a deal."