Chapter 122 : Normal Daylight – What George Understood
New York, Queens – Alex's POV
By the time I finally leave the hospital, the sky's already turning pale over the city.
Not bright yet.
Just that washed-out gray-blue stage right before sunrise fully commits to existing.
The streets look wrong at this hour.
Too calm.
Too ordinary.
A delivery truck rumbles through an intersection three blocks away. Somebody's walking a dog like tonight wasn't one of the worst nights New York's had in years. Steam rises lazily from a subway grate while traffic lights keep cycling pointlessly for almost empty roads.
The city kept moving.
Of course it did.
New York survives everything through sheer stubbornness and sleep deprivation.
I'm pretty sure at least half the population would continue buying coffee during an alien invasion as long as the line stayed under ten minutes.
Normally that thought would probably amuse me more.
Right now my brain feels wrapped in wet concrete.
The subway ride back to Queens is mostly a blur of fluorescent lighting and exhaustion. I spend most of it sitting motionless near the back of the car while early morning commuters pretend not to stare at the dried fatigue written all over me.
By the time I reach our building, my body feels weirdly heavy.
Not injured-heavy.
Shutdown-heavy.
Like every system that kept me functioning overnight finally noticed the emergency ended.
The stairwell lights buzz faintly overhead while I climb toward the apartment.
My legs feel mechanical in the worst possible way now.
Not efficient.
Just tired.
Really fucking tired.
I reach the door, unlock it quietly, and step inside.
The apartment is dim except for the kitchen light.
Warm yellow against the early morning gray filtering through the windows.
For a second nobody notices I'm there.
Wendy's curled sideways on the couch wearing one of my hoodies and sweatpants, one leg tucked under herself awkwardly like she absolutely did not intend to fall asleep there. Rosalie's sitting at the kitchen table with a mug in both hands, still awake despite the exhaustion written all over her face.
She looks up first.
The moment she sees me, something in her shoulders loosens immediately.
Not dramatically.
Just enough to tell me she'd been holding tension there for hours.
"Hey," she says softly.
Wendy wakes up maybe two seconds later.
I don't even think she was fully asleep.
Her head snaps toward the door so fast I'm briefly worried she's going to fall off the couch.
Then she's on her feet crossing the apartment before I can even close the door properly.
"You asshole," she mutters hoarsely the second she reaches me.
And immediately wraps both arms around me hard enough my exhausted brain loses track of thought for a second.
Right.
Human contact.
I forgot that existed too.
I let out a slow breath and pull her against me automatically.
Wendy's hands grip the back of my shirt tighter for a second before she forces herself to relax.
"You look like shit," she says into my chest.
"Getting that a lot tonight."
"Maybe because you objectively look like a corpse."
"Encouraging."
"You're welcome."
Her voice wobbles slightly underneath the sarcasm.
Barely noticeable.
But there.
I close my eyes for a second.
God, I'm tired.
Wendy finally pulls back enough to look at me properly.
The dark circles under her eyes are awful. Her blonde hair's a complete mess and there's a blanket mark across one side of her face from the couch cushion.
She was waiting up.
Both of them were.
Rosalie stands slowly from the kitchen table.
Unlike Wendy, she doesn't rush forward immediately. She just watches me for a second with that calm expression she gets when she's trying very hard not to make the atmosphere heavier than it already is.
"You should sit down before you fall down," she says quietly.
Honestly?
Fair assessment.
I kick my shoes off near the entrance with more effort than should be required for basic motor function and move toward the kitchen almost on autopilot.
The apartment smells faintly like coffee and fabric softener.
Normal smells.
Domestic smells.
My brain still hasn't fully adjusted to being back somewhere safe.
Rosalie slides a mug toward me automatically as I sit down.
Tea this time.
Not coffee.
Probably a deliberate decision after knowing me for this long.
I wrap both hands around the mug mostly because the heat gives my nervous system something simple to process.
Nobody talks for a minute.
The silence isn't awkward.
Just exhausted.
Morning light slowly bleeds through the windows behind us, turning the apartment softer by degrees.
Wendy drops into the chair beside me sideways, still too keyed up to fully relax.
"How's MJ?" she asks eventually.
"Stable."
I still hate that word.
"She woke up briefly earlier apparently. Sedated again after."
"And the baby?"
"Still okay."
Wendy visibly exhales.
Rosalie closes her eyes briefly in relief before taking another sip from her own mug.
No one says anything after that for several seconds.
Because honestly there isn't much else to say.
MJ survived.
That's the center of the universe right now.
Everything else can wait.
Eventually Wendy studies my face more carefully.
"You sleep at all?"
I stare at her for a second.
She stares back.
"…Right. Stupid question."
"Little bit at the hospital maybe." I rub a hand over my face. "Not really."
"You need food."
"I need unconsciousness."
"That too."
Rosalie reaches out quietly and brushes dried blood off the side of my sleeve before I even realize it's there.
The gesture is so gentle and automatic it catches me off guard slightly.
"You missed some," she says softly.
I look down at the faint reddish stain.
Huh.
Apparently I did.
For a second the apartment goes quiet again.
Not tense.
Just tired enough that conversation requires actual effort.
Wendy eventually breaks it first.
"So…" She gestures vaguely toward me. "You gonna tell us if half your organs are falling out or are we doing the mysterious suffering thing again?"
I let out a breath that almost turns into a laugh.
"Mostly just exhausted."
"Mostly?"
"My ribs are probably going to hate me later."
"That sounds concerningly casual."
"I'm setting realistic expectations."
Wendy mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like:
"Idiot."
Rosalie lightly nudges her shoulder without looking away from me.
"You don't have to stay awake because of us anymore," she says quietly.
It takes my exhausted brain a second to process what she means.
Then I realize she's right.
There's nothing left tonight.
No targets.
No rescues.
No emergencies.
MJ's alive.
The mutants are alive.
Everyone who made it out is already out.
For the first time in hours there's genuinely nothing demanding immediate action from me.
And the second that realization fully settles into my nervous system, exhaustion crashes into me hard enough I physically feel it.
Jesus Christ.
I lean back slightly in the chair and suddenly my entire body feels heavy.
Not metaphorically.
Actually heavy.
Like gravity got stronger while I wasn't paying attention.
Wendy notices immediately.
"Oh wow," she mutters. "You're actually shutting down in real time."
"Feels accurate."
"You can barely keep your eyes open."
"I'm trying very hard to prove otherwise."
"You are failing impressively."
I consider arguing.
Honestly don't have the energy.
Rosalie stands first.
"Come on."
There's something weirdly grounding about following her and Wendy through the apartment after everything that happened tonight.
Tiny domestic routines.
Lights turned off automatically behind us.
Wendy picking up the abandoned blanket from the couch on the way.
Rosalie checking the front door lock out of habit.
Normal human behavior.
My brain keeps latching onto it like it's relearning something.
By the time we reach my room, staying upright feels increasingly optional.
Wendy watches me sit on the edge of the bed and folds her arms.
"You know," she says, "usually when people disappear into the night covered in blood, I prefer slightly fewer homicidal cultists involved."
"Reasonable standard."
"Thank you."
I pull my shirt over my head with significantly more effort than should be necessary.
There's a dark bruise spreading across my ribs already.
Wendy's expression immediately sharpens.
"Oh for— Alex."
"Looks worse than it is."
"That statement has literally never reassured anyone in human history."
Rosalie sits carefully beside me and touches the bruised area lightly.
Even that much pressure hurts.
I try not to visibly react.
Apparently unsuccessfully.
"You should have someone look at that properly later," she says quietly.
"Probably."
"You say that like you absolutely won't."
"…Probably."
Wendy points at me immediately.
"See? This is why I worry."
"Pretty sure tonight gave you several better reasons."
That earns me a look somewhere between exhausted irritation and reluctant amusement.
Good.
That expression means she's calming down slightly.
I finally lie back against the mattress and immediately realize I might not physically move again for twelve hours.
The room's dim except for pale morning light slipping through the curtains.
Everything feels distant around the edges now.
Like my brain's finally letting go of combat readiness one piece at a time.
Wendy sits near my legs while Rosalie remains beside me.
Neither of them speaks for a little while.
I can feel exhaustion pulling at me hard enough thoughts are starting to blur together.
Rosalie brushes a hand slowly through my hair once.
The gesture is soft enough it almost hurts emotionally.
"You came home," she says quietly.
Simple sentence.
Simple meaning.
But after tonight it lands somewhere deep in my chest.
I look toward her.
Then toward Wendy.
Both of them exhausted.
Both still awake because they were waiting for me.
Because somewhere in the back of their minds there was always the possibility I wouldn't walk back through that door.
Something tight twists unpleasantly behind my ribs.
Not guilt exactly.
Just the sudden horrible awareness of how close tonight came to becoming something else entirely.
Wendy notices the look on my face immediately.
"Hey," she says softly this time. No sarcasm now. "Don't do the brooding thing. You're too tired to brood correctly."
A tired laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
"Is that a medical diagnosis?"
"Yes. I'm very qualified."
"Terrifying."
"Thank you."
Her hand finds mine briefly.
Warm.
Real.
Human.
The last thing I really register clearly is morning sunlight slowly reaching the floor through the curtains while exhaustion finally drags me under hard enough to erase the rest of the world completely.
Waking up feels weird.
Not painful.
Not panicked.
Just… disorienting in a strangely quiet way.
For a few seconds I don't move at all.
Sunlight filters through the curtains in pale gold lines across the room. The apartment's mostly silent except for distant traffic outside and the faint hum of plumbing somewhere in the building.
Middle of the day.
My body feels heavy in the unpleasant way that only happens after sleeping too hard following extreme exhaustion.
Every muscle aches.
Not catastrophic damage.
Just accumulated consequences finally collecting payment.
My ribs hurt the most.
Apparently Wendy was right.
Tragic.
I stare at the ceiling for several long seconds while my brain slowly reassembles itself into something functional.
The concert comes back first.
Lights.
Music.
Gunfire.
MJ falling.
Then the rest follows behind it in fragments.
The warehouse.
Blood.
Steel.
Screaming.
The awful empty calm afterward.
My jaw tightens automatically.
Still no regret.
That part hasn't changed.
If somebody put me back in that moment again knowing MJ would die otherwise?
I'd do the exact same thing.
Worse, probably.
That realization should probably bother me more than it does.
Instead it just sits there heavily in the back of my head like a fact I already accepted hours ago.
I exhale slowly and finally push myself upright.
Immediately regret moving that fast.
Jesus Christ.
Everything hurts now.
There's a glass of water on the nightstand beside the bed along with painkillers and what looks suspiciously like a handwritten note from Wendy.
I pick it up.
Drink the water first, dumbass.
Underneath it:
Also if you died in your sleep after surviving all THAT I was going to kill you myself.
Yeah.
That tracks.
A tired laugh escapes me before I can stop it.
The sound feels strange after everything.
Human.
Normal.
I take the painkillers, drink half the glass in one go, and sit there for another minute while my nervous system finishes rebooting.
The apartment beyond my room sounds empty.
Not abandoned.
Just lived-in empty.
People gone during the day empty.
For some reason that detail feels oddly surreal after the nightmare atmosphere of last night.
The world continued moving while I was unconscious.
Classes happened.
People went to work.
Somewhere out there somebody's probably arguing about coffee orders while half of New York is still trying to process what happened at the concert.
Life refuses to stop even when it probably should.
Eventually I stand carefully.
My legs still feel slightly unstable beneath me, but at least my brain no longer feels like it's vibrating under my skull.
Improvement.
Technically.
I throw on a shirt and step out into the apartment.
Quiet.
The kitchen's clean except for a couple mugs drying near the sink and a folded blanket Wendy apparently abandoned on the couch earlier.
Sunlight fills the apartment completely now.
No more fluorescent hospital lighting.
No more blood.
No more screaming.
Just daytime.
Normal daytime.
It almost feels wrong.
I move toward the kitchen mostly on autopilot and open the fridge.
There's actual food inside now instead of the usual chaos of energy drinks, leftovers, and whatever Wendy randomly decides counts as nutritional science that week.
Rosalie probably reorganized things while I was asleep.
Honestly impressive considering the circumstances.
I stare at the contents for several seconds before realizing I'm not actually processing any of it.
Right.
Food requires decisions.
Eventually I settle for leftovers and lean against the counter while the microwave runs.
The apartment remains quiet around me.
Too quiet maybe.
Not in a bad way.
Just enough space for thoughts to exist properly again.
And now that the adrenaline's finally gone, the emotional reality underneath everything settles differently.
Not the violence.
Not the Purifiers.
MJ.
The image of her collapsing hits harder now than it did during the actual crisis.
Because during the crisis there wasn't room for fear.
Movement replaced fear.
Action replaced fear.
Targets replaced fear.
Now there's nothing left between me and the realization that I almost lost her.
That the baby almost—
I stop the thought there before it finishes.
The microwave beeps loudly enough to yank me back into the present.
Good.
I needed that.
I eat slowly at the counter while sunlight spills across the floor tiles near my feet.
My body still feels slightly disconnected from the rest of me.
Not dissociation exactly.
More like the strange stabilization period after surviving something intense enough your nervous system temporarily stopped behaving normally.
Everything's quieter now internally.
Not calm.
Just quieter.
The memories from last night still feel too sharp around the edges. Too immediate. Like my brain hasn't fully decided whether they belong in the present or the past yet.
I rinse the plate afterward and stare absently out the kitchen window.
Queens looks painfully ordinary in daylight.
Kids walking home from school.
Traffic.
Someone carrying groceries downstairs across the street.
Normal life continuing a few hours after mass murder and mutant terrorism dominated every news channel in the country.
The contrast still feels surreal.
My phone buzzes once against the counter.
Gwen.
MJ's awake for short periods now. Still exhausted but doing better.
Something inside my chest loosens immediately.
Not enough.
But enough to breathe easier.
I type back before I can overthink it.
Thank you.
How are you holding up?
The response takes longer this time.
Honestly?
Still processing.
Fair.
Another message appears a few seconds later.
I made Dad sleep for like three hours earlier. He's pretending it didn't happen.
That actually gets a small laugh out of me.
I can picture it perfectly.
George Stacy operating entirely on coffee, stubbornness, and unresolved stress while Gwen quietly ignores his objections and forces basic human maintenance onto him anyway.
My thumb hovers over the screen for a second before I type:
I'm gonna come talk to him.
No response immediately.
Then:
Okay.
Simple.
But I can almost feel the understanding behind it.
Gwen's smart enough to know exactly what conversation I mean.
And honestly?
George probably expects it too.
I set the phone down and lean both hands against the kitchen counter for a second.
The idea of that conversation should probably make me more nervous than it does.
Instead I mostly just feel tired.
Tired enough that hiding feels pointless.
George already knows something happened.
Maybe not every detail.
Maybe not the exact scale.
But he's a veteran detective, not an idiot.
And the strange thing is…
I don't really want to avoid the conversation.
Partly because Gwen matters too much for that.
Partly because George deserves better than lies after a night like this.
But mostly because if he decides he can't look at me the same way afterward—
That's his right.
I don't regret what I did.
But I also understand exactly what it says about me.
That distinction matters.
I push away from the counter and move toward the front door slowly.
My body still feels sore and heavy, but at least functional now.
Outside the apartment, the hallway smells faintly like old carpet, dust, and somebody cooking too much garlic three floors down.
Normal building smells.
I stand outside the Stacy apartment door for a second longer than necessary before knocking twice.
A few seconds later I hear footsteps approaching from inside.
Then the lock turns.
George opens the door wearing jeans, an old NYPD t-shirt, and the exhausted expression of a man who's lived through approximately three separate emotional disasters in the last twenty-four hours.
For a second neither of us says anything.
Then George steps aside quietly.
"Come in."
The Stacy apartment smells like coffee.
Fresh this time.
Not hospital coffee.
Actual human coffee.
The familiar smell hits me weirdly hard the second I step inside.
Maybe because this apartment has always felt strangely stable.
Not perfect.
Not untouched by life.
Just stable in the way long-lived family spaces become over time.
Same framed photos on the walls.
Same bookshelf near the couch.
Same old Knicks mug sitting beside a stack of paperwork on the kitchen counter.
The world changed overnight and somehow the apartment still looks exactly the same.
George closes the door behind me quietly.
No dramatic tension.
No aggressive posture.
Just exhaustion.
Real exhaustion.
The kind that settles deep into people after too many hours without rest and too many things happening too quickly.
"You want coffee?" he asks.
"Sure."
He nods once and heads toward the kitchen.
I follow automatically.
The apartment's quiet without Gwen here. Afternoon sunlight spills across the table near the window while a muted news channel runs in the background low enough to barely qualify as sound.
The captions are enough.
|CONCERT CASUALTIES|
|ANTI-MUTANT EXTREMISM|
|FEDERAL INVOLVEMENT EXPECTED|
Yeah.
There it is.
Federal involvement.
Translation: "this situation already stopped belonging to NYPD hours ago."
George pours coffee into two mugs without speaking for a while.
I can tell he's choosing his words carefully.
Honestly?
So am I.
He slides one mug toward me once we sit down.
"You look better than this morning," he says.
"Low bar."
"That's still technically improvement."
I nod slightly and wrap both hands around the mug.
The warmth helps.
For a while neither of us speaks.
The silence isn't hostile.
Just heavy.
George studies me across the table quietly.
Not like a detective.
Like a father trying to understand something difficult.
Eventually he exhales slowly.
"Gwen told me MJ's stable."
"She is."
"She also told me you stayed at the hospital all night."
I nod once.
George looks down briefly at his coffee.
"When Helen died," he says quietly, "the guy responsible got picked up before I found him."
The statement lands softly.
No dramatic emphasis.
Just fact.
I stay still.
George stares into his mug for several seconds before continuing.
"If they hadn't gotten there first…" He lets out a tired breath through his nose. "I honestly don't know what I would've done."
There it is.
Not justification.
Not confession.
Recognition.
I don't interrupt.
George finally looks back up at me.
"I was a cop already," he says. "Good one too, supposedly." A faint humorless smile crosses his face. "Still didn't matter."
The apartment goes quiet again afterward.
Because we both understand what he's actually saying.
There are moments where fear and grief hit hard enough to crush clean moral distance flat.
Moments where the person you are and the person you could become suddenly stop feeling separate.
George studies me carefully.
"MJ almost died."
Not a question.
"She did almost die." I answer quietly.
The words settle heavily between us.
George nods slowly.
His expression tightens slightly at that.
Not because he disagrees.
Because hearing it stated plainly makes it more real.
Outside the apartment somebody walks down the hallway laughing faintly about something completely unrelated to either of our lives.
The normality of it feels surreal.
George leans back slightly in his chair.
"The official reports already don't make sense," he says eventually.
There it is.
Not direct accusation.
Just movement toward truth.
I stay quiet.
George continues calmly.
"Half the witnesses are contradicting each other. Crime scenes are disappearing into federal custody before my people even get through the door. SH—" He stops himself midway through the word automatically. "People above NYPD level are already involved."
His eyes stay on me.
"That usually means one of two things."
I wait.
"Either the situation's bigger than the public knows." A pause. "Or somebody important wants it controlled before the truth spreads."
Neither of us mentions names.
We don't need to.
The muted television keeps cycling through sanitized language in the background.
|TRAGIC INCIDENT|
|EXTREMIST VIOLENCE|
|ONGOING INVESTIGATION|
The machine's already rewriting reality in real time.
George notices me looking at the screen.
"That fast bothers me," he says quietly.
"It should."
His gaze sharpens slightly at the answer.
Again:
not because of what I said.
Because of what I didn't deny.
George leans back slightly in his chair.
"I've been doing this long enough to know when a case stops belonging to local law enforcement." His jaw tightens faintly. "This one stopped sometime during the night."
I wrap both hands around the coffee mug again.
The warmth helps keep my thoughts anchored somewhere simple.
"You could've avoided this conversation," George says after a while.
I look up.
"You could've stayed silent. Let the city invent whatever version of events it wants." His eyes narrow slightly. "Instead you came here."
Not hostility.
Confusion maybe.
Or curiosity.
I exhale slowly.
"Because Gwen matters."
George's expression shifts almost imperceptibly.
"And because you deserve honesty," I continue quietly. "Or as much of it as I can give right now."
The apartment goes quiet again.
George studies me carefully across the table.
"What exactly does that mean?"
Fair question.
I stare down at the coffee for a second before answering.
"It means I know you're not stupid."
George says nothing.
"You saw what happened at the concert. You saw me afterward. And whatever reports are crossing your desk today probably already feel wrong."
His eyes stay fixed on me.
"And if I decide that's a problem?" he asks quietly.
There it is.
Not legal.
Personal.
I meet his gaze directly.
"Then it's a problem."
No defensiveness.
No threat.
Just acceptance.
George watches me for several long seconds after that answer.
Probably looking for manipulation.
Or fear.
Or some attempt to talk my way around the subject.
I don't give him one.
Honestly, I'm too tired for games.
More importantly—
He deserves the choice.
"I don't regret stopping them," I say quietly after a while.
The wording matters.
George notices immediately.
Not: "killing them."
George rubs tiredly at one eye.
"You know what's bothering me?" he asks eventually.
I wait.
"You didn't look angry afterward."
That lands harder than I expect.
George studies me carefully.
"You looked…" He searches briefly for the word. "Empty."
Not cruel.
Not monstrous.
Empty.
Yeah.
That's accurate.
For a few seconds neither of us speaks.
Then I answer honestly.
"I think if I'd stayed emotional in that moment…" My voice comes out rougher than intended. "I wouldn't have stopped."
George goes completely still.
Not because he misunderstands.
Because he understands perfectly.
The television keeps murmuring softly in the background while sunlight continues drifting across the kitchen table.
Eventually George exhales slowly.
"You know what the worst part is?" he mutters.
I stay quiet.
"I understand."
Simple sentence.
Heavy enough to settle into the entire room.
George stares toward the window for a few seconds.
"When Helen died, if I'd found that man first…" He shakes his head once slowly. "I honestly don't know if I would've stopped either."
I don't answer.
Because there's nothing useful to say to that.
George isn't asking for absolution.
And I'm definitely not qualified to give it.
A long silence settles afterward.
Not comfortable.
Not hostile.
Just honest.
Finally George looks back at me.
"You scare me more now than you did yesterday."
Fair.
"But not for the reason you probably think."
I stay quiet.
George folds his arms loosely.
"I don't think you enjoy hurting people."
"No."
"I think you decide certain things are necessary…" His eyes stay locked on mine. "And then you commit completely."
That's probably true.
"And honestly?" George exhales quietly. "That might be worse sometimes."
Maybe.
Probably.
I don't argue.
Outside, somewhere beyond the apartment walls, New York keeps moving normally.
Traffic.
Voices.
Sirens somewhere in the distance.
Life continuing while two exhausted men sit in a kitchen discussing the shape of violence without ever fully naming it aloud.
George eventually reaches for his coffee again.
"So where does this leave us?"
I stare down into my mug for a second before answering honestly.
"I don't know yet."
George nods slowly.
Apparently honesty matters more right now than certainty.
Another silence follows.
Softer this time.
Less sharp around the edges.
Not resolution.
Just acknowledgment.
Eventually George speaks again without looking at me.
"You should get some actual sleep tonight."
A tired breath escapes me that almost turns into a laugh.
"That obvious?"
"You look like somebody dug you out of a shallow grave."
"Encouraging."
"You spend too much time around my daughter. Your sarcasm's getting worse."
"That feels statistically impossible."
That finally gets the faintest actual smile out of him.
Small.
Exhausted.
But real.
And somehow that feels heavier than if he'd yelled at me.
Because it means the conversation changed something without completely breaking it.
The apartment falls quiet again while afternoon sunlight slowly continues drifting across the kitchen table.
Nothing's resolved.
Nothing's forgiven.
Nothing's forgotten.
But both of us understand the same thing now.
Something fundamental changed during the night of the concert.
And there's no putting it back the way it was before.