Chapter Text
When Ethan and Mia get home, they're greeted by an unlocked front door. Not just unlocked, either—it's open, slightly ajar. There was a time in Ethan's life when he'd have laughed it off: called himself a klutz who couldn't even lock his door properly behind himself when he went out. Not anymore: Ethan is very sure that door was locked when they left.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Beside him, Mia shifts Rose in her arms, already reaching for her phone. "I'll call Chris," she begins, but something in his face makes her hesitate. "Ethan?"
There was a time, not so long ago, when calling Chris would've been the first thing he'd have done, but Ethan's days of willingly trusting that man to safeguard his family died a sudden and painful death on his living room floor beside Mia's body. Even knowing all he does now about what really happened that night, Ethan's had it with leaving his family's safety to people like Chris.
There's a loaded gun in the glovebox of their car, its weight uncomfortably familiar as Ethan checks and reloads it. (God, he never wanted to be the kind of reckless asshole who raises a daughter in a house full of guns, but it seems like those days are behind him now too.)
"Stay in the car," he tells Mia. "Keep the engine running. If I'm not back in ten minutes; if you hear gunshots—anything that scares you, just go. Get Rose away from here, call Chris, you know what to do..."
"Ethan," Mia stops him, a hand on his arm. For a moment, Ethan thinks she's going to try to make him be sensible about this, but she says only, "Be careful,"—whispering the words like a prayer.
"Of course," Ethan nods. Thinks about adding, "Don't worry—we both know I'm pretty hard to kill," but it'd be pretty cold comfort to Mia, even if he's mostly come to terms with the fact it's true.
Gun held at the ready, moving as quietly as he can, Ethan edges the front door open and steps inside. There's nothing amiss in the entrance hall, but he's not more than two steps inside before the smell hits him. It's smoky, pungent, and instantly familiar, though it's a moment before he can place what it is.
Cuban cigar smoke. Oh sweet Jesus, there's no way...
But one look through the door to his living room proves that Jesus (or whichever deity you blame for this kind of shit) has absolutely found a way. Heisenberg is sitting with his feet up on Ethan's dining table, lit cigar held loosely between his fingers, as relaxed and pleased with himself as you like. His grin says he knows exactly how close he just brought Ethan to a heart attack, and enjoyed every minute of it.
"Heisenberg?!" The forewarning of the smell isn't nearly enough to temper the surprise. Ethan lowers his gun, feeling suddenly, horribly tired. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too, Ethan." Ethan's first name practically drips out of Heisenberg's mouth. He's been using a dinner plate as an ashtray, Ethan notices—the kind of minor detail the mind focuses on in moments of extreme stress (god, he's probably lucky the bastard bothered to find himself an ashtray at all). But Heisenberg's still talking: "Dropped by, you weren't home, so I let myself in. Wouldn't want me loitering around your porch, bringing down the neighbourhood, would you?"
Ethan grits his teeth. He'd actually forgotten just how annoying Heisenberg could be. "Which still doesn't explain what the hell you're doing here."
"Whaaaat, after all we've been through together, I can't just drop by to see an old friend?" Heisenberg drawls, and Ethan is at real risk of popping a vein somewhere when he barks out a laugh and switches tack. "Nah, I'm just messing with you. Need somewhere to lie low for a while. Your buddy Redfield's still on my tail."
"He's not my buddy." Ethan's not really sure what Chris is these days, but 'buddy' doesn't really fit. Something closer to 'parole officer', maybe. "But I still nearly called him to send in the SWAT team when I realised someone was in my house!"
Heisenberg raises an eyebrow at that information. "But you didn't, did you?" he says, as if that proves something.
Ethan thinks he just might have called Chris, if he'd known who he was going to find in his living room, but he's never getting out of this conversation if he lets himself sink to that level. "You don't think he'll look for you here? He knows we worked together! I'm probably at the top of your list of known associates!"
"Oh?" Heisenberg grins. "Sounds to me this is right where I'm supposed to be." Kicking his feet off the table, he leans forward on his knees. "Besides, you can handle him. You'll cover for me, won't you?"
"No promises."
"Ethan, come on." Heisenberg gets to his feet, approaching. "You owe me."
"Do I?" Ethan's not that much shorter than Heisenberg, but up close, he still makes an imposing figure. Ethan refuses to be cowed.
"Look at you," Heisenberg croons, "safe—alive—reunited with your wife and your daughter." In his voice, that sounds far too much like a threat. "You really think you'd be here now, without my help?"
Oh how very altruistic of him. "The way I remember it, I was the one doing you a favour."
Heisenberg raises that eyebrow again, something lascivious in his grin. "Doing me a favour, were you?"
Damn him. "Don't—fuck it, Miranda's dead! We both got out alive. We're square. We both got what we wanted."
Heisenberg's other eyebrow joins the first. He opens his mouth.
"Don't even," Ethan cuts him off.
The awful truth of it is that the bastard is right. They may have helped each other, but Ethan had so much more to lose. Maybe he'd have gotten out alive without Heisenberg's help—he's pretty hard to kill, after all—but Rose? Mia? God, he hadn't even known Mia was still alive to save. And even if he didn't owe Heisenberg so much...
"Fine," Ethan bites out. "You can stay. But only if Mia agrees."
The grin that spreads out over Heisenberg's face isn't reassuring. "That's all I'm asking, Ethan."
"How long are you going to be here for?" Ethan sighs, defeated. It's not even that he doesn't trust Heisenberg (he doesn't), it's that he doesn't want to have to deal with him, or anything he represents. There's no 'normal' with a man like Heisenberg living in your house. There's no putting this shit behind you when it follows you home.
"Not sure yet," says Heisenberg, which Ethan really should have expected. "See how it shakes out." He looks around the room, presumably taking in his new home. "To tell the truth, I'm surprised you're still in the country at all."
"Yeah," says Ethan, a whole other kind of bitterness seeping into his voice. "So am I." At Heisenberg's look, he adds. "Long story. We're still leaving, it's just... been more complicated than we expected." And if he gets started talking about it now, Mia will be on the other side of the country by the time he's done.
Ethan takes a deep breath. "Now I have to go explain all this to Mia before she calls in the troops. And if she's okay with you staying, the first thing you're doing is taking a shower. You reek." The fucker does, too, and not just of those cigars.
Heisenberg only laughs; he doesn't seem offended. Idly, he taps some more ash into the dinner plate.
"And no smoking in the house!" Ethan throws at him, before turning to leave.