The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

Three days.

That's how long David had been replaying Johnny's testimony in his head—watching him stand at that microphone like a puppet with perfect posture, reciting words that sounded like suicide notes dressed up as salvation. "Freedom doesn't come from chasing what you want. It comes from surrendering what you think you need."

David scrubbed harder at the kennel floor, as if he could scour the memory from his mind. Johnny's SoulWatch had glowed green the entire time. Approved. Compliant. Dead behind the eyes.

The worst part wasn't the words. It was how Johnny's gaze had swept over him in the congregation like he was furniture. Like David was just another face in the crowd of believers, not the boy who'd taught him piano scales in this very shelter, not the one who'd—

The bell above the front entrance chimed.

David didn't look up. Probably another volunteer. Maybe someone dropping off donations. He focused on the rhythm of the brush against concrete, the sharp smell of bleach burning his nostrils, the way Shiloh watched him from her run with those knowing amber eyes.

Then footsteps. Measured. Hesitant.

And David's hands went still.

Not because he wanted them to. Because his body recognized the voice before his mind could catch up, freezing him mid-scrub like prey that knows it's been spotted.

"Hey."

The word hung in the air between them, soft and careful. Water dripped from the bristles of his brush, each drop marking time in the sudden silence. David's knuckles whitened around the handle.

Behind him, the click of spit-shine boots on concrete felt too loud. Johnny Ashford's presence filled the doorway like a held breath, carrying the scent of sweat, starched uniform, and something else David couldn't name. Apprehension, maybe. Or determination wearing thin at the edges.

Shiloh's ears perked from her run, tail giving a cautious wag. Even she could feel the shift in the air—the way it suddenly felt too thick to breathe properly.

David forced himself to move again, dragging the brush down the wire mesh in slow, deliberate strokes. His heart hammered against his ribs, but his voice came out steady. "Johnny." Not a question. Just acknowledgment. "It's been a while."

"I wasn't sure if you'd be here today," Johnny said. The careful neutrality in his voice made David's skin prickle, like static before a storm.

"I'm here most days," David replied, still not turning around. He couldn't. Not yet. "What do you need?"

A pause. Then Johnny's voice, lower: "Community service hours. For ROTC."

The brush clattered into the bucket.

David rose slowly, boots splashing in soapy water as he finally turned. "Community service? Here?" His eyes found Johnny's face—thinner than he remembered, shadows under the eyes, jaw held too tight. "The shelter's not exactly on Stricton Academy's approved list."

Johnny's lips pressed into a thin line. "I know."

"Then why—"

"Does it matter?" The words came out sharper than Johnny seemed to intend. He swallowed, jaw working like he was chewing on something bitter. "I'm here. That has to count for something."

A beat of silence. Then, softer: "Besides, I thought it might be nice to... work with the animals again."

The word again hit David like a physical thing. Johnny's eyes flicked away as soon as he said it, like he'd revealed too much. His SoulWatch pulsed amber at his wrist.

David studied him—the perfect uniform, the rigid posture, the way his hand kept twitching toward his pocket like he wanted to grab something that wasn't there anymore. Those afternoons three years ago when Johnny would sneak away from baseball practice to help walk the dogs. When things were simpler. When they were—

"Nice?" David echoed, voice catching slightly. "Since when do you do nice?"

Something flickered in Johnny's eyes—hurt maybe, or just exhaustion. "I'm trying to."

The honesty in those three words hit David harder than any excuse would have. He looked away, fixing his gaze on Shiloh instead. The dog watched them both with those amber eyes that missed nothing.

"Alright," David said at last, voice rough but steady. He grabbed a leash from the hook, needing something to do with his hands. "Let's get started."

David led Johnny into the open play area, rubber mats springing under their boots. A lone tennis ball rolled by, squeaking as Shiloh barked in a challenge.

As Johnny rolled up his sleeves, revealing the tanned skin of his forearms, David couldn't fight off his longing.

He looked unfairly good like this. Collar slightly loose, sweat darkening the fabric at his collarbone, neck tense like he'd been holding something back too long.

David knew better. Attachment leads to suffering.

And still, his gaze lingered.

He dragged his eyes away, furious at himself.

Three months of silence, and his body still hadn't gotten the memo.

He pushed the thought away, focusing instead on the tasks ahead. Whatever Johnny's true motives, David would keep his guard up. For now, at least, he would let Johnny stay—and watch, and wait, and hope that maybe, just maybe, there was more to this visit than met the eye.

"Shiloh's not great with strangers. Just - be on guard," David warned.

Johnny stepped closer, his gaze fixed on the dog, "She looks like she's been through a lot."

"Haven't we all," David murmured, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

A beat of silence stretched between them. Then David's voice, tighter: "So how's the whole 'make me empty, clean, whatever you want' thing working out?"

Johnny's hand froze on the leash he'd been adjusting. "You saw that."

"Kind of hard to miss." David's grip tightened on Shiloh's lead. "You on your knees, crying about being sick with wanting things. The crowd eating it up. Your SoulWatch going supernova green."

Johnny flinched. "That's not—I didn't mean—"

"Which part didn't you mean?" David turned to face him fully. "The part where you called people like me poison? Or the part where you got high on their approval like it was a drug?"

"I never said people like you—"

"You didn't have to." David's voice stayed low, controlled, but the hurt bled through. "Everyone knew what kind of 'sick desires' you were talking about."

Johnny's SoulWatch pulsed amber, then red. He looked down at it with something like disgust. "You think I wanted to be up there? You think I planned that?"

"I think you loved it." The words came out sharper than David intended. "I saw your face when they all started cheering. When Doug called you brother. When your watch finally went green."

Johnny's jaw worked. "For five seconds, maybe. Just five seconds where I didn't feel like I was drowning."

"So you threw me under the bus for five seconds of green light?"

"I didn't throw anyone—" Johnny stopped. Started again, quieter. "I got caught up. The crowd, the energy... When everyone's finally approving of you after weeks of disappointment, after your dad can barely look at you..." His voice cracked. "It felt like breathing again."

"And then?"

Johnny was quiet for a long moment. "Then I saw you. Standing there. And I realized I'd just... I'd just done exactly what they wanted. Performed my own erasure for applause."

The admission hung between them, raw and painful.

"I'm sorry," Johnny said. "I know that's not enough. I know what you heard. But David..." He looked up, eyes haunted. "Every word tasted like poison. Even while I was saying them."

David studied him—the exhaustion carved into his features, the way he held himself like he might shatter. "Why are you here, Johnny?"

"Because after the high wore off, all I could think about was your face. How you looked at me like I'd already become everything we used to hate." Johnny's voice dropped. "And maybe I have. But this place... you... it's the only thing that still feels real."

David wanted to stay angry. Anger was safer than whatever this raw honesty was stirring in his chest. "Your watch is recording everything. They'll know you're here."

"Dead zone in the back office," Johnny said quietly. "Old tech interferes. Gives me maybe an hour."

"An hour," David repeated. The limit sat between them like a countdown.

"Better than nothing."

"You don't have to do this, you know," David said, his voice low as he paused in front of a kennel. "We have other volunteers."

Johnny looked at the dog, his expression gentle yet determined. His voice lowered, "I want to help, David," he insisted, voice firming, "I... need to."

Johnny nodded, crouching beside the dog. He met David's gaze, voice soft but fierce.

"I want to help, David," Johnny offered.

"Help with the shelter, or something else," David asked with a hint of attitude.

Their fingers touched—just barely—as they both reached for the leash.

Heat. Not fire, exactly. Just a warmth that didn't still belong.

David didn't move. Neither did Johnny.

For one impossible second, the shelter faded.

Just the two of them. The leash between them. The weight of everything they hadn't said.

"I'm not pretending." Johnny's voice was barely above a whisper. "I know what I did."

"Do you?" David's fingers curled into his palm, still warm from the contact. "Because three days ago you were calling what we had a sickness."

Johnny's eyes closed briefly. "What we had?"

The past tense hung between them like a blade.

"That's what you made it," David said. "Past tense. Dead. Something to be burned away."

"David—"

"No." David's voice stayed quiet but firm. "You don't get to come here and touch me like—like you didn't just perform an exorcism on everything we were."

Johnny's hand remained on the leash, knuckles white. "I'm trying to find my way back."

"Back to what?" David asked. "To who you were? Or to who they'll let you be?"

Johnny couldn't answer. The question was too big, too true.

Shiloh sniffed between them, tail still, as if waiting for permission. When their hands touched, her ears twitched.

Johnny coaxed Shiloh forward with gentle murmurs, and the dog tentatively sniffed his palm, tail wagging once, a small truce.

Then the door to the break room swung open and Abby stepped in, arms piled high with dog food bags. She set them down with a theatrical flourish.

"ROTC special ops in animal care now, huh? Did they teach you how to handle forgotten mutts?" Abby teased.

Johnny cracked a half-smile, tension loosening in his shoulders. David squared his stance, watching Abby's easy confidence. She crouched beside Shiloh, offering the dog a quick pat.

"Dogs have an uncanny way of seeing the real you. See how she's just waiting? She knows there's more to you than meets the eye," Abby remarked with more than a hint of accusation.

Shiloh let out a soft whine and leaned into Johnny's touch. Abby stood, slipping a knowing glance between them before gathering her supplies.

"Play nice, boys. Or don't. Just don't make her pick sides," Abby counseled, ostensibly to Shiloh, "I'll be back in a minute."

Abby paused at the door, watching them both with an expression David couldn't quite read. "Johnny," she said quietly. "Be careful with that watch. The dead zones aren't as dead as they used to be." Johnny's head snapped up. "What do you mean?" "Just something my dad noticed before..." She trailed off, jaw tightening. "Before his accident. FaithCoin tech upgrades. New monitoring protocols. Things that weren't in the public reports." "Your dad worked for the city?" Johnny asked. "Data analyst. Until he found things he wasn't supposed to find." Her voice went flat. "Now he doesn't work at all."

As the door clicked shut, Johnny and David exchanged a look - something warm flickering in the space Abby had left behind, a promise that maybe, today, things could start to change.

And David, traitor heart and all, wasn't sure if he was ready for it.

Shiloh led them into the open play area. A lone tennis ball rolled by, squeaking as Shiloh barked in challenge.

The German Shepherd mix trotted ahead with her usual confidence—then stopped cold. Her entire body went rigid, ears pinned back, tail dropping low. A sound David had never heard from her before rumbled in her chest: not quite a growl, more like a warning whine.

"What's wrong, girl?" David murmured, but he already knew. Animals could sense things humans tried to hide. The fractured energy. The wrongness.

Johnny stood perfectly still, his posture that practiced ROTC straightness that looked impressive from a distance but up close revealed itself as a kind of rigor mortis. His SoulWatch pulsed amber—caution, monitoring, recording.

"She doesn't usually..." David started, then stopped. Shiloh had backed up two steps, hackles rising along her spine. She wasn't looking at Johnny's face but at his wrist, at the device that regulated his every emotion.

"It's okay, girl," Johnny said, but his voice came out wrong—too measured, too controlled. The same tone he'd used during testimony. Rehearsed comfort. Programmed gentleness.

Shiloh's growl deepened.

"Johnny, don't—" David warned, but Johnny was already extending his hand, moving with that mechanical precision the church had drilled into him. Not the easy, natural way he used to approach dogs at the shelter. This was someone following a protocol.

The moment his hand crossed into Shiloh's space, she reacted.

Not with the calculated aggression of a trained attack—but with the desperate snap of a cornered animal recognizing a threat. Her teeth caught his palm before either boy could react, a quick bite and release, more warning than attack.

Johnny stumbled back, eyes wide with genuine shock—the first real emotion David had seen from him today. Blood welled immediately from the puncture wounds. His SoulWatch flared red—then began pulsing in a pattern David recognized from the testimonies. Three short, three long, three short. SOS. Calling for backup, reporting a compliance failure. Johnny's free hand scrambled to cover it, but they both knew it was too late. The church already knew he was there.

The sound was wet and wrong—teeth meeting flesh, the sick pop of skin breaking. Johnny's sharp intake of breath cut through the air like a blade.

David's heart slammed against his ribs. His body moved before his mind could catch up, reaching toward Johnny—then freezing, hands suspended between help and self-protection. The blood was too bright against Johnny's pale skin, too real, too much like that night three years ago when—

"She's never—" David started, but the words died as he watched Johnny cradle his hand. The blood wasn't what made David's stomach turn. It was the way Johnny immediately tried to school his features back to neutral, even as pain flickered across his face. The way his other hand moved to cover the red-flashing watch, ashamed of his own human reaction to being hurt.

David hated how his hands shook—not just from shock, but from the treacherous urge to cradle Johnny's injured hand, to press his lips to the wound like he could kiss away more than just the blood. Even now, even after everything, his body remembered how to want Johnny close.

David remembered Johnny at fifteen, laughing as six puppies tried to climb his legs at once, how he'd fallen backward into the hay, surrendering to their chaos with pure joy. That boy would have known how to read Shiloh's fear. That boy would have stepped back, given her space, waited for trust to build naturally. That boy was gone.

Shiloh retreated to the corner of the play area, still watching Johnny with wary eyes. She'd recognized what David had been trying not to see: this wasn't the Johnny who used to sprawl on the floor with puppies climbing over him. This was something else wearing Johnny's face. Something that smelled like threat despite looking familiar.

The church hadn't just changed Johnny. They'd made him unsafe—to himself, to others, even to creatures who could sense the dissonance between what he was and what he was forcing himself to be.

"I'm fine," Johnny insisted, voice tight. His jaw clenched as he fought to keep his breathing even, measured—four counts in, four counts out, just like ROTC drills. Even bleeding, he was still performing obedience.

"It's nothing," Johnny muttered, avoiding David's gaze. But David knew better. He recognized the hidden pain, the silent struggles lurking beneath the deflection. He wanted answers; he wanted truth. Yet he held back, wary of the fragile boundary Johnny had erected between them.

David felt an overwhelming urge to comfort him, to break through those walls, but hesitation held him frozen. Finally, impulse won. His body moved before he could overthink, seizing Johnny's elbow—not gently, but with the urgent grip he'd once used to pull Johnny away from reckless stunts at the old theater balcony. "Break room. Now." His voice came out rougher than intended, irritation masking fear.

"Sit down," David instructed softly once they reached the break room, motioning toward the worn couch. His voice was gentle, concern seeping through despite his struggle for composure.

Johnny complied quietly, sinking into the cushions with a slight wince. His military precision had slipped, revealing vulnerability—a crack in the carefully crafted facade that David found both comforting and deeply troubling.

David turned to the first aid kit on the counter, his hands moving efficiently from practice. The weight of Johnny's gaze pressed against his back, tangible, electric. David breathed deeply, steadying himself against the tide of complicated emotions that threatened to overwhelm him.

"You don't have to do this, David," Johnny whispered, voice thick with uncertainty.

David paused briefly, his back still turned. "I know," he responded quietly, steadily, despite the storm within him. He turned around, antiseptic and gauze in hand, stepping forward resolutely.

David knelt beside Johnny, carefully taking the injured hand. "You did this for me," he said softly, memory sharp and immediate. "At the symphony, just a few weeks ago."

Johnny's gaze flicked up, searching David's eyes. "The coffee."

David nodded, throat tightening. "You got on your knees in that bathroom stall and cleaned my burn like..." His voice caught, almost painfully. "Like you cared."

Johnny's voice trembled slightly. "I did care. I do."

The confession hung between them, fragile and charged, bridging the past and the present.

David's hands froze momentarily, caught between memory and the painful reality of now. He could still feel Johnny's careful touch, the cool water soothing burned skin, the intimate quiet they'd shared. Only weeks had passed, yet it felt like an entirely different life—before Johnny's testimony, before he'd called their bond a sickness.

"That was before," David murmured, continuing the bandage wrap with trembling fingers. "Before you decided we were something that needed to be burned away."

Johnny's SoulWatch flickered—amber to red, then back to amber.

Johnny's voice cracked under pressure. "I know what I said." His words were strained, heavy. "But when you were hurt, I didn't think. I just... needed to help you."

David kept wrapping gently, methodically. "And now?"

"Now I'm the one bleeding," Johnny said quietly. "And you're still here. Even after everything."

David finished securing the bandage carefully but didn't pull away. His thumb lingered on Johnny's wrist, feeling the quick pulse beneath his skin.

"There," he said, voice barely above a whisper. Neither moved to break contact first.

David's gaze drifted to another bruise, barely visible beneath Johnny's sleeve—a faint yet unmistakable shadow on his upper forearm. Johnny immediately tugged his sleeve down, shielding the mark.

But David had seen enough. The bruise was sickly, purple-green, shaped from angry fingers gripping too hard. He recognized the pattern—had seen similar marks of violence on the animals at the shelter, knew exactly what intentional harm looked like.

"Thank you," Johnny whispered hoarsely, averting his eyes. His uninjured hand twitched, as if reaching for David but forgetting how.

David nodded silently, rising to his feet, the weight of their complicated past pressing down heavily. He turned away, busying himself with tidying the first aid supplies, mind spinning with emotions he couldn't yet unpack.

As David moved around the small room, a deep unease settled upon him. The hidden bruise, the quiet agony in Johnny's eyes—they were fragments of a larger, invisible battle. David felt trapped in a frustrating limbo, desperate to reach out but wary of the uncertainty and danger still lying between them.

All he could do now was watch, wait, and cling to the fragile hope that Johnny's visit might mean more than the wounded silence suggested.

David carefully gathered the leftover gauze, antiseptic pads, and scattered wrappers. Each movement felt too loud in the sudden quiet, like he was disturbing something sacred. Or maybe just fragile. Johnny hadn't moved from the couch, cradling his bandaged hand like it belonged to someone else.

The antiseptic smell mixed with something else—fear-sweat, maybe. The kind that comes from running too long from something you can't name.

"How long do we have?" David asked quietly, not looking up from his tidying.

Johnny's good hand went to his wrist, checking. "In the dead zone? Maybe twelve minutes. Less if..." He trailed off.

"If what?"

"If they're already tracking the alert." Johnny's voice went flat, automatic. "Standard protocol after an SOS pulse is to dispatch a wellness check within fifteen—"

"Johnny." David turned to face him fully. "Stop talking like a manual."

The quiet stretched between them, but it wasn't peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that comes before alarms, before doors breaking down, before everything falls apart.

David's voice came out tight and low: "If I can't even keep you safe here, what hope do we have anywhere else?"

Johnny's eyes shot up, startled by the honesty. As he moved, his sleeve rode up, revealing not just the bruise David had glimpsed earlier, but a pattern—four distinct marks, evenly spaced. Grip marks. Someone had held him hard enough to leave evidence.

The bruises were purple-black at the center, fading to sick yellow at the edges. Fresh enough to still be swelling. Old enough that this wasn't the first time.

"Don't," Johnny said quickly, tugging the sleeve down. But it was too late.

"Who?" David's voice came out rougher than intended.

Johnny's jaw worked like he was chewing glass. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me."

"Why?" The word cracked out of Johnny like a whip. "Why does any of this matter to you? After what I said, after what I—" He stopped, breathing hard. "You should hate me."

"I should do a lot of things," David said quietly. "Never been good at following orders."

Johnny's laugh was hollow. "That's the problem. You don't follow the rules. You don't... fit into the system. And people who don't fit—"

He stopped again, hand going unconsciously to his bruised arm.

"People who don't fit get corrected," David finished. "Is that what those are? Corrections?"

Johnny's silence was answer enough.

"From who?" David pressed. "Your father? Doug? Or—"

"From my own stupidity," Johnny snapped. "From not being strong enough. From letting myself—" He cut off abruptly, like someone had yanked his vocal cords.

"From letting yourself what?"

Johnny's hands clenched and unclenched. His SoulWatch flickered—amber edging toward red. "I can't... I'm not allowed to..."

"To say it," David said softly. "You can't even say what we were."

Johnny flinched like David had slapped him. "We were friends."

"Is that what you tell yourself?"

"We were—" Johnny's voice strangled. "Study partners. Teammates. Normal—"

"We were in love." The words hung in the air like an accusation. Like a confession. Like a fact too simple to dress up in other clothes.

Johnny's SoulWatch flared red. He scrambled to cover it, but the damage was done—three short pulses, three long, three short. Another SOS. Another alert.

"No," Johnny said, but it came out broken. "We were confused. I was confused. The church helped me understand that what I felt—what I thought I felt—it wasn't real. It was just... just..."

"Just what?" David stepped closer. "What word did they give you for it? Sickness? Sin? Disorder?"

"Misdirected attachment," Johnny recited, voice mechanical. "Emotional codependency manifesting as—as—"

"As love," David finished. "You can't even say it, can you? Even now, bleeding in my shelter, you can't say the word."

Johnny's breathing had gone ragged. "Seven minutes."

"What?"

"Seven minutes until the dead zone expires." His good hand shook as he checked his watch again. "Maybe six. They'll know I'm here. They'll know we were—"

"Together," David supplied. "Is that so terrible? That someone might know you were with me?"

"You don't understand." Johnny stood abruptly, swaying slightly. "After the alert, they'll send someone. Doug, probably. Or worse—" His face paled. "If Eli comes—"

"Let them come." David's voice was steady, but his hands had curled into fists. "I'm tired of hiding."

"Easy for you to say." Johnny's voice turned bitter. "You're not the one with a handler. You're not the one who has to report for compliance checks every morning. You're not the one whose father—"

He cut off again, hand going to his bruised arm.

David's understanding crystallized with horrible clarity. "Your father did that."

It wasn't a question.

Johnny's laugh was the ugliest sound David had ever heard from him. "Commissioner Ashford doesn't approve of sons who embarrass him at church. Who call out old... weaknesses during testimony. Who still dream about—"

The word caught in his throat. Even now, even here, he couldn't say it.

"About boys," David finished quietly. "You still dream about me."

Johnny's SoulWatch pulsed faster now, red bleeding into the band like a wound. "Five minutes."

The break room door swung open. Abby stepped in, and her expression immediately sharpened from concern to alarm. "There's a black car pulling up outside. Church plates."

Johnny went rigid. "No. No, they can't—I still have time—"

"The SOS," David reminded him. "They didn't wait for the dead zone to expire."

Abby's eyes flicked between them, taking in Johnny's bandaged hand, his panicked expression, the way David had positioned himself between Johnny and the door. "Back exit," she said quickly. "Through the storage room. I'll tell them I haven't seen—"

"They'll know," Johnny said, voice hollow. "The watch GPS. They always know."

From outside, car doors slammed. Heavy footsteps approached.

"Johnny," David said urgently. "Look at me."

Johnny's eyes were wild, trapped. But he looked.

"Is this what you want? This life where you can't even name what you feel? Where loving someone is a disease to be cured?"

"I don't have a choice." Johnny's voice broke completely. "You don't understand what they'll do. Where they'll send me. Pathlight takes the ones who can't be fixed by regular programming. The ones who keep relapsing into—into—"

"Into being human?"

The front door chimed. Heavy boots on linoleum. Doug's voice, loud and commanding: "Sheffield! We know he's here."

Johnny moved toward the door like a man walking to his execution. But David caught his uninjured hand.

"You always have a choice," David said fiercely. "Even if it's just choosing to remember that what we had was real. That it mattered. That it was—"

"Love," Johnny whispered, the word torn from him like shrapnel. "It was love."

His SoulWatch shrieked—a high, piercing alarm David had never heard before. Maximum breach. Critical deviation.

Doug's voice, closer now: "Johnny! Don't make this harder than it needs to be."

Johnny looked at David one last time. In his eyes, David saw everything—the boy who'd laughed with puppies, the teenager who'd kissed him under stadium lights, the young man being slowly crushed by a system that demanded he hate himself.

"I'm sorry," Johnny breathed. "For all of it. For what I said. For what I'm about to—"

"JONATHAN." A new voice. Colder. More precise.

Eli Prophet.

Johnny's face went white. He yanked his hand from David's grip and stumbled toward the door.

"Three months," he said without turning back. "That's the minimum Pathlight sentence for critical deviation. If I'm lucky."

Then he was gone, leaving David standing among medical supplies and broken promises, the echo of that shrieking alarm still ringing in his ears.

Abby's hand landed on his shoulder. "David—"

"Get everyone out," David said, voice eerily calm. "Clear the shelter. Now."

"They're not done," David said, staring at the door Johnny had vanished through. "This was just the beginning."

From outside, an engine roared to life. Through the small window, David caught a glimpse of Johnny being loaded into the back seat, Eli's hand on his head, pushing him down.

Like an arrest.

Like a funeral.

Like the end of everything.

Or maybe—David thought, rage beginning to burn through the shock—like the beginning of war.