An Artist's Prerogative

Agent Monet | Jacqueline “Jack” Devereux | She/Her | 33 | Apollo | Crew - Four Hundred

“Smoking cigarettes and laughing in vain cause kings and queens never hurt, they say.”

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He expects it to be the Iris, attempting once again to shake him out of his sleep and convince him that there was no point on staying where he was. And he agreed with them, wholeheartedly, completely sure she was safe and sound, and healing. His persistence on firming himself next to her was unfounded, useless, especially after the more than harmful conversations they had. But every part of him wanted, needed, to be here. — He thinks of the sky as neutral ground, a safe area where he could pretend nothing was wrong, those few hours left to the flight all he had left.

Erik opens his lids with a grumble, immediately met with hard and cold eyes that hid nothing from him. She sounds good, apart from the slight hoarse in her tone from exhaustion and just waking up. His mind goes blank, only relieve coursing through his veins now, finally replacing the worry that had had him clutching his chest upon hearing her conditions, the fading headache he still had the only memory from the shock he had been put in. He’s a piece of shit, he’d a dumb piece of shit.     “ It was a set up. ”     He moves on the small seat, muscles protesting at the uncomfortable position as he crosses his arms.     “ We just walked into it. ”

That also was a part of the reasoning he had to be around her. What if there were defectors among them? What if someone was waiting for the right time to strike and she was a target? He swallows the irony of the entire situation, bitter taste stuck to his mouth. He knows she hadn’t meant that, but he’s tired, and the quietness in his words were proof of that.     “ I’m staying with you, that’s what I’m doing. I don’t know what to tell you. ”

-

She remembers the last time she saw him sleep. Under the five AM sun, with the light peering through rose-tinted windows. The way the orange hue blended seamlessly against his skin tone. As if he was right out of one of her paintings. This is not the same. There is grime on his skin and an ample amount of weaponry on his person. Even in his sleep, he appears guarded. In wake, it’s no better. There might be relief, but a slew of other worries seem to litter his eyes. Jack can feel her stomach drop, as news of the ambush reach her ears. They could guess as much. But between the Iris and Erik, she has enough pieces to know the consequence - a tumultuous failure.

“What’s the action plan now? Standard protocol? Safe house? Regrouping of the Hestia’s?” The bad blood between them is left in flux, in favor of her Apollo-sense of professionalism. There’s a passion towards her work that does not shake away, just because of the physical pain. Or the way Erik put a gun to her head, and threatened holy hell. Her conviction to professionalism is lost, however, when he presents more ambiguity than answers. She lifts a quizzical brow, sluggishly pulling herself further into an upright position. A wince as the bandage around her left arm shifts.

“What happened to staying the fuck away from each other?” She reiterates his words, but they lack fire or vitriol. It rolls off her tongue in a raspy, near exhausted tone. “You never do.” She sighs, a critical shake of her head. “Or should I just forget the gun you had to my head less than forty-eight hours ago?” Jack challenges, just above a whisper. Cold resentment built into her words. “And now you’re waiting around my bed side.” She looks back at him, a long and dissecting expression through fluttered eyes. “I can figure you out, Erik.” Jack states, flat yet precise. “Or you can tell me what’s really going on. Because this back-and-forth is ridiculous, even if you were plotting something.”

West snorts at her insult and shakes his head at how ridiculous it is. It’s such a Jack statement that he can’t help his response. His Spanish is not fluent, but it’s good enough. West knows she only slings the insult at him to get a rise out of him. “Again with the fast food reference Jacqueline Jimenez. Would you have to give back the joyas de pasar if your ancestors knew you had a crunch wrap supreme smothered in fire sauce?”

West finishes his champagne in an undignified way. He takes a deep breath and then chugs back the rest of the glass, the bubbles giving him the smallest of heady rushes as he empties the glass. He makes no move to fill it up again, allow Jack to have her fill without feeling the need to play host. His eyes cut over to the oven. He had been too preoccupied with the sandwiches to smell the sugar baking, but once Jack opens the door the sweetness washes over the kitchen. It’s a miracle no one else has peaked their head out in an attempt to steal some of her cooking, but West is thankful that the bubble they’ve wrapped themselves in has yet to be popped.

“It was far from perfect or peaceful most days,” West disagrees. “Every day was messy, a lot of months were… difficult.” West isn’t one to complaint or lament about his childhood, but it definitely had its struggles. West’s clothing was never new, usually hand me downs from family or friends. Christmases were sparse, with his dads doing their best to fill under the tree like the other kids in the neighborhood. When his father had to go to the hospital and took months to recover, the debt it put their family in felt enormous. West had worked multiple jobs through his senior year of high school just to make sure they could float on by. Despite his fathers living in Theodore most of their lives, there was still the hate anchored in the heart of a lot of people. There were always looks in the street or at church, comments to be made, fights for his family’s honor behind the old oak park. West had his share of broken bones, black eyes, and a bruised ego for reasons other than adventures.

“We had each other, though. I guess that’s its own kind of happy. Can’t really complain.” 

The first time his spoon hits the caramelized sugar, there is a soft crack that splinters out across it from the force. The sugar webs and breaks, and West pushes through it to find the custard desert underneath. The crème Brule is delicious, just as he expects it to be. Jack’s comments hit a little close to home. Are his parents proud of him? West is wealthy, moderately internet famous, and living a good life. He has managed to pay off all of his family debt, and has enough set aside to last him for the rest of his life. His service in the Air Force ended on a high note with an honorable discharge. He flew planes for a living, the closest thing to flying he can ever experience. Is it enough? He hopes so. The jury is still out.

“A Duke,” West repeats, musing out loud. “That explains the royal stick up your ass, I guess.” West bumps her shoulder lightly, glad that he is on her good side and away from the wound from earlier. The difference in their upbringing feels like night and day. West has heartfelt memories of his fathers, doing the best they could to raise him while working full time menial jobs. They taught him the worth of the sweat on his brow and a long day of hard work, and he always felt rewarded and warm with his family regardless of the circumstances. Jack, on the other hand, came from a foreign, cold world. She never has a good story to tell. There is never any warmth in her tone when she speaks of her parents. Just a distance detachment that seems impossible to someone like West. 

“That settles it. Next Thanksgiving, we’re gonna go all out. You ain’t lived until you’ve had deep fried turkey and my Gran’s pecan pie. I’ll even bust out my custom apron so you can mock me the entire time.”

-

"What on Earth is a crunch wrap supreme?” She asks, with a tilt to her head and a vacant yet bewildered look on her face. Jack leans into her French heritage, that much is true. But Spanish and South American dishes were frequent in the stately, old estate she called a home. By the way West says it, she can only guess it’s another perversion of anything remotely flavorful or nuance. It’s neither here nor there, however, and she takes another long and languid bite of her dessert. A small, personal conviction to tighten her regimen after tonight. Lest her recovery take longer, and her prowess as the resident gymnast begin to waver. She listens wordlessly. A benefit to the way Jack approaches things; methodical, precise, and silent. Jack does not jump into West’s silences, attempting to fill the gaps. Nor does she add her own fill of wry opinions. Instead, the Apollo listens to every nuance and breathe - and hears what is said. The lovelorn sentiment that feels entirely right for West remains true. But it’s grounded in reality, in hardship. What’s more - it’s done for something honorable and true. All of Jack’s earnings and success were in service to her father, and his lifestyle. The polo club. The galas. The undoubtedly long string of mistresses, as the matrimonial bed with his wife grew cold. Jack does not know his fathers, but she can’t resist that feeling of admiration that settles in the chill of her bones.

“Perfect can be overrated anyways, and that’s coming from me.” Sure, she approached things with care and attention. A high standard of excellence that West, in jest, would mock and call impossible. But she is also an artist, with a soul exclusive to her fingertips. Jack knows the beauty and ease that comes with imperfection. Even if she herself, seems incapable of it. “Hm. Happiness. How... Evasive.” Jack says, with only a modicum of condescension. What is joy, in the context of their lives? She didn’t know herself, yet West seems so certain.  Happiness, she has seen, is a familiar concept to the Charon. Even in hardship, it is there. Jack knits her brows closely, remaining steady even as West’s large hand lands on her arm. “How gauche.” She remarks, with all the pretentiousness that he implies. Perhaps he knew a thing or two about truth himself. “It’s a title with no money, I assure you. Every competition prize and sponsorship deal went to keeping his lifestyle afloat. I was the leanest cash cow in France.” There’s a change to her tone. Jack can often permeate distance. But from the edge of her words, it implies attachment - to resentment, that is. A deep-seeded insecurity that comes out, each time she thinks of him. “You can imagine his disappointment when I stopped competing.”

“You do mean within one of the facilities, correct?” Jack asks as she takes another bite. “I’m a fine Apollo. Arguably, one of the best. But it would take quite a bit of research and adjustment to fit into the South.” She rests her spoon on the empty, the false modesty of calling herself ‘one of’ not lost to her. “Besides - what will your overly devoted father’s think? They may very well mistake me as a woman being brought home to meet the parents, as it were.” Or so it went in her posh circles, where nuances like that matter.

The last thing she remembers is the scent of gun powder and smoke, and Agent Icarus carrying her in his arms. There is a lull of black, and by the time there is light, she can feel the pressure in her ears. A panic sets, vigilance wrought from years of service, but the attentive Iris has a hand on her wrist at a moment’s notice. You were shot in the right arm. Agent Icarus brought you back to the jet. It was a minor operation. You will recover. You are on medication. Short but informative words, that are pieced together as she awakes from a flurry of pain killers and medication. The sudden and familiar sensation, as off-putting as the injury itself. She looks back at her arm, wrapped in gauze, and only the notices the figure seated and asleep on the nearby chair. When Jack looks back at the Iris, they muster; he hasn’t left your side since the extraction. A realization that only leaves more questions than answers.

A second bout of paranoia sets. Was this some sort of act, meant to delude her into a false sense of safety? But the paranoia falls second only to the truth in the Iris’ words. More importantly, the way his large body is so uncomfortably nestled in the small airplane seat. Sectioned off into a separate compartment, away from prying eyes. Jack clears her throat once, then a second time. When that doesn’t work, she slowly extends her healthy arm. A jostle to Erik’s shoulder, trying to spur him awake. “What are you doing?”

It’s another unexpected physical touch that West does not shy away from. Her cool hand helps ground him; West has always been a physical touch kind of person, and it is his number one love language. Whether it is a bear hug from his dad, an arm slung over the shoulder of his best friend, or a lazy cuddle session in the early morning sun with a lover, West feels recharged with tangible touch. His fingers dance over her pulse, pressing down just hard enough that he can feel the tha-thump of her heartbeat. It soothes him, to feel how strong the rhythm is despite everything that has gone down over the course of the mission, and he allows himself an indulgent moment to accept her kindness. West just nods, marveling at how much warmer his skin feels than hers, before the moment is broken.

“Pequeña Princesa Fría entonces.” The Spanish flows off of West’s tongue much more gracefully than any butchered French. His Southern accent still peaks through, of course, and his Spanish is far from perfect. Still, he can converse and retaliate with much more ease than with his clumsy French. “No queremos dejar fuera tu herencia española, hm?”

It is another small piece of the puzzle that is Jack, another brief glimpse into who she is behind the agent and Apollo visage she shares to the world. West files the information away into the mental folder he keeps of her. With her picture perfect French accent and attitude, West never would have expected the other side of her background. 

“Never thought about it like that,” West says with a faux contemplative look on his face as he talks through a mouthful of food. “Chicken cordon bleu really is just fancy nuggies.” West takes a small sip of the champagne. Truthfully, he wants the food much more than alcohol, but Jack pours them both a glass and he would never let it go to waste. The bubbles cause West’s nose to wrinkle again before he sets the glass back down and finishes the sandwich in a couple of large bites. There is a bit of grease on his hands that he licks clean, amusement poorly concealed when he looks over at her fork and knife work.

“Of course you managed to steal the painting.” West rolls his eyes at her anecdote, the complete opposite of what Thanksgiving is about.

“My family always went all out for Thanksgiving. Deep fried turkey, green bean casserole, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes, gravy, the whole nine yards.” The corners of West’s eyes crinkle without his permission at the thought of his father’s spread. He spends all day in the kitchen, forcing West o help out for marathon cooking while the football games play in the background. “Dad would be in charge of the television and decorations. We’d cook all day with the games on. When I was in high school, my father put me in charge of the deep fryer and I almost lit our chicken coop on fire when I tried to put a watermelon in after.”

“The next week dad would think up all sorts of creative ways to use the leftovers.” West has a small laugh at the memory of one time they tried to make a turkey and gravy pie one year. It was beyond mushy and awful. West had to take one for the time and eat it for lunch. His eyes shine with a nostalgic mirth at the memory as he looks over at her. “It was one of the few times we pretended not to worry about if we’d be able to afford the mortgage or to keep the heat on. Just family time ‘round the Thompson table.”

-

She stomachs far more intimate touches, for the sake of a mission. A frenzied kiss or a long embrace from a mark is commonplace in an Apollo’s circles. So much of what they do, rooted in becoming someone else and stifling their own parameters. This long, lingering touch isn’t of the same breathe. It’s honest, weighted in thanks and reciprocity for what’s been done. Her long fingertips lingering on the warmth of his wrist, feeling his own pulse. West feels like like - and how good it feels. The Apollo has always known the merits of a man uniquely like West. That easy, calm, and likeable exterior? it’s invaluable to any crew, on any mission. Of course, she’s resisted benefiting from it. Apollo’s often do. Lone wolves until the end. There’s no denying what’s been done for her; however, and she lets her hand linger a beat longer.

“Did you learn your Spanish off the back of a Taco Bell truck?” In reality, his delivery is comfortable and smooth. A twinge of his accent peeping through, but otherwise cohesive and sound. This ribbing, this back-and-forth? It’s easier, Jack thinks. More in line with the way things often are. His prevailing humor, contrasted against her cool turn of phrase. A satisfactory hum, as she cleanses the remainder of her champagne glass. It’s a treat more for herself, than Agent Icarus. A way to dilute the pain and stress that comes in the aftermath. Within hours of coming back to consciousness, her mind immediately focused on recovery. How long would she have to wear the dressing on her arm? What is the recuperation time like? Will this impact her ability to float gracefully from one mission to the next?

By the time she’s pouring her third glass, she feels intrinsically lighter. Never one to over-indulge, she finds her sweet spot. She’s relaxed, even fro her, as West shares tales from the South. A low ‘ding’ from the oven behind her, prompting her to reach for a tea towel. Jack only raises a wordless brow, with a refusal to indulge in the blasphemy of cordon bleu as it compares to his chicken nuggets. Her creme brulee, emerging from the oven. “These - I bought.” Jack clarifies. She is a perfectionist, but she is no pastry chef. The lessons of how to run a household, or wash laundry - learned only later in life. So, too, is the ability cook. And though she does it well, she cannot replicate what a French bakery can do so seamlessly.

“It’s part of the job. And I am, for better or worse, the job.” There’s a reason she does not take leave for the holidays. A reason that, unlike West, she cannot muster a single warmhearted story about her own childhood. A reason that explains how, under twenty-four hours, she’s up and walking rather than resting. This job, her place in the Pantheon? It’s who she is. Where she’s come up. The source of her drive and focus. Jack gave nary a thought to the single-focus of her life, until she listens to West’s own anecdotes. She reaches for two silver, dessert spoons. One sliding down the counter, and reaching West’s arm. The other, perched near the stool beside him. She comes around from her place behind the counter, cross-legged as she sets up on the stool.

“And look at you now,” she answers wryly, not wholly sentimental. But a keen listener none the less, taking stock of West’s memories for what they are. A small glimmer of respect as he outlines the kind of family he comes from. The kindness that seems so easy and commonplace in his home. “Your dad’s must be proud.” She taps her spoon against the sugary coat of the creme brulee. “I doubt they worry about their mortgage when you so generously repay women in silk scarves.” Jack takes a bite, tilting her head in silent assessment of the dessert. Good. Not too sweet. “Seems idyllic. Like a still portrait of a picturesque, American family.” With a low, sardonic laugh. She continues on. “My father was a Duke, of all things. Not a penny to his name, however. Lost in the high life, I suppose. But, there was me. And I was very talented athlete.” It’s not boasting, it’s true. She has the accolades to prove it. “I provided a living for my family until my career ended. Unlike you,” she leans over, almost conspiratorially. “I had no intention of clearing his debts after I found success in the Pantheon.”

Kawi wasn’t new to constant bickering on a mission, it was alright when nobody was actually going anywhere, when the mission hadn’t officially started yet and when the pieces hadn’t been set to be moved. But they were in the heat already, working their way down tunnels with a clear mission in mind that would only reach its full potential when the end of the line was in sight. 

He cocked an eyebrow as he watched Agent Monet walk out in front of the group, on edge for no other reason than that she wasn’t a team player. He scoffed. “How much attention do you think we’ll draw in a cave?” He asked. 

“If anything, being with this many people will give us a clear advantage, nobody will guess we’ll take as many people with us. And if they intend to ambush us on the way out, they won’t be expecting such a large force either.” Not to mention, if something went wrong along the way, it wouldn’t be so hard to leave some behind, knowing he would still have protection. Kawi believed in the strength of many. The more would protect him, the more would be willing to die so he could survive. “Please slow your pace, Agent, we’re losing the rest of the party.”

-

"The Herculean condescension. Can’t say I didn’t expect this.” Jack answers back, wry up-take to her tone. Her chin turned to peer over her shoulder, and inspect Agent Cosmos through the dark veil of the cave. Their back-and-forth is soured by past experience. A knowledge of how the other worked, and how it ultimately comes undone in the heat of a fight. It’s a relentless back-and-forth. But his posturing aside, her point is still valid. It was the issue with the pair of them - right or wrong is subjective, and so too are their strategies on the matter. “Did it occur to you that it’s also more agents to evacuate from his ungodly cavern? Or that you are bringing a fight, where an extraction would be just as effective with limited collateral?” Jack goads on. She is cold, perhaps. Certainly selective with her words. On any matter of importance; however, she is energized and alive. An innately competitive spirit that would never come undone. Jack can only roll her eyes, nodding into the cavern. “Scared of the dark?”

West may not be the smartest agent, or even in the top twenty, but he can read between the lines well enough. There is a murmur of thanks in Jack’s actions, the way she feels the need to reciprocate any perceived help or debt, that West would never ask her to give. He sees it in the focused way she watches the food like a hawk, the careful way she plates it, and the softness in her voice when she speaks.

He spends too much time studying her. At first, West is constantly scanning and watching to make sure she’s still alive. It sounds stupid, but Jack lost so much blood during the fight, blood that stains some of his favorite mission clothing and ruins them, and then West just had to leave her. Sure, she was in the hands of a very competent medical professional who had a much better chance of saving her. That is the rational, realistic part of West’s brain. The other side though, the passionate and emotional one, remembers what it felt like to see her unconscious, barely breathing, and knowing he had to go help others. There had been a second where he didn’t leave, something keeping him rooted to the spot, and West hates it. He never hesitates. Ever. All of his life has been one impromptu, split decision made with whatever information he has at the time, repercussions be damned. Having something throw a wrench in that terrifies him. This mission leaves weird tightness in his chest to remember and he wants nothing more than to leave it behind.

“I just wanna point out you never denied the obsession with Micky D’s. I’m onto you Agent Monet.” West forces his brain to shift gears and focus on simple banter and the delicious smell of the croque monsieur instead. He keeps his eyes trained on her, feigning casualness that Jack can probably see right through. She is the Apollo in the conversation, after all. West is just the stunt pilot. West picks up the sandwich, juggling it a little when he realizes how hot it still is between his two hands, before he takes a large bite. A groan of appreciation slips past his lips; the food is absolutely delicious and just what his empty stomach wants. Everything about the sandwich is perfect and it’s almost annoying how Jack always does that; holds everything to an unrealistic expectation that West can’t contend with.

“We both know béchamel is just a French way to say flour, butter, and milk. You can fancify the ingredient all you want princesse de glace, but this is a God dang ham and cheese. And a really good one at that.” West is quick enough to catch the smile on her face before its hidden behind a glass. It’s so out of character that for a moment, West thinks he made it up, but the slight crinkle of her eyes and the turn of her lips is real. An honest to goodness real smile from Jack that makes her look younger and more approachable than he has ever seen her. He wants to make a quip, about writing the day down in his non-existent diary or submitting the time to the Guinness book of records for a world’s first, but the energy is too soft and genuine for him to push it that far.

“Thank you for all this. Can’t remember the last time I had someone cook for me.” West pauses to take another bite, trying to remember the last time he wasn’t cooking for one or eating takeout. “Guess it woulda been Thanksgivin’ last year with my dads.” West missed Christmas dinner when a contracting job came up that he could just not refuse. It was during his leave with the Air Force, in between tours where he had to decide if he wanted to commit to another three to four years or not. The Thanksgiving right before it though, his father went all out with a full spread, complete with peach wine from an uncle who lived over in Georgia. The memory brings a real smile to his face in between bites.

-

She is accustomed to being looked at. Her admittedly classic beauty aside - people often looked at her closely. Her mysterious nature, the cold way she stares, and the impermeability of her disposition? It’s a silent spectacle of its own right. With everyone from friends, enemies, lovers, and strangers taking note. Like they are looking at a marble statue, trying to find life in it. She knows, then, that the long and pointed stare from the man across from her is more of the same. He has seen a semblance of life, and a fear of death, in her and tries to reconcile it with her and now. There is an unabashed and unspoken care in the way he looks at her. And though she is not sentimental or particularly warm-hearted, she offers a low breathe in appreciation. “I am well. We are at the safe house. You were as effervescent a knight as Lancelot or Beowulf.” She lists off, not unkindly but without much emphasis either. She’s observed West well enough to see the way he obfuscates and dances around honest words. “I’m still me. Just a fraction of a degree warmer than when I was nearly half-dead and splayed on the forest ground.” She reaches across the countertop, allowing her naturally cold hand to rest on his wrist. “See?” Cold yet beating life - that was her way.

“I know a thing or two about obsession. Believe me, Agent Icarus. This is not it.” A dark and rather macabre thought, as she listlessly watches him struggle with the sandwich. Her eyes glaze towards her own sandwich. Her pristine fingers wrapped around silverware, eating it with care and attention. She glances up, a long look of yearning for the sentiments West evoked. There’s a freedom to him, a life that Jack has never truly expressed. She can take a guess as to how he would shine off a canvas. Even without her artistry, West could exude life. And though it is not her, or something she’s prepared to change about herself - she admires it all the same. “Princesse de glace? Ice Princess? I prefer robot woman.” She plays along, a half-humored smile mixed into her flat delivery. “A wholehearted French woman would take offense. It’s the equivalent of calling chicken cordon bleu a stuffed, chicken nugget.” A kind of food that she herself has never had. But from what she’s seen and heard from Americans like West, was the death of fine eating. “But since I am also Spanish - Jacqueline Devereux Jimenez. I can overlook it.” It’s another small, almost personal confession. Many presume her the height of a French woman, and they would be right. She carries herself to the archetype, some rejection of her own father’s will and culture. But she is as much a Spaniard as she is a French woman.

“Eres bienvendio.” She expresses purposefully in Spanish, rather than French. Another long, ample bite of her own plate. An almost comfortable and easy silence, until most of her meal is complete and one glass of champagne is cleared off. “It’s true what they say about American Thanksgiving, then? Large turkeys, pies, and giving thanks?” A curious American custom, that prompts her to crinkle a brow. Jack uses right arm, wincing only slightly as she pours herself another glass. “The last time anyone cooked for me was the spoiled, billionaire heir to a collection of Picasso’s. I don’t know what was worse. Their take on Japanese-Italian fusion. Or their foul kiss. But,” she tips the glass in small celebration. “I was able to escape with the Picasso, anyways.”

“You need a hand?” West watches her while she cooks, tracing her fluid movements as she moves to and fro. There is always a grace that Jack has in just about everything she does. Even in the middle of the night, making French sandwiches, she is dressed up and picture perfect. West wonders if her hair even moves when she sleeps, or if there is some Apollo force field she uses to keep every inch of her look in place. He always has the worst case of bedhead that can’t be tamed first thing in the morning but he just can’t picture Jack with the same. A frown mars West’s tired features when he sees her favoring her right side while she cooks, but he knows better than to mention it. Guilt rumbles in his chest and West does everything in his power to stay right here, in this moment, and not be stuck with the vivid picture of Jack bleeding out in his arms.

“You’ve mentioned McDonalds twice this week…” The corner of West’s mouth turns up in a wry smile. “I’m startin’ to think you have a secret addiction.” The smell of melting cheese hits West again and his stomach’s gurgle is audible across the kitchen. The filled wine glass is placed in front of him, and despite her insistence on him being a barbaric, fast food gremlin, West swishes it around in the glass before giving it a smell. The bubbles tickle his nose and he pulls a face. He had an ex, once upon a time, who insisted on taking him to wine sommelier classes. West hated it, at the time, but his pretentious ex made them a weekly thing until West shipped back out to Japan. Their relationship ended two weeks later. West still didn’t care for wine all that much.

His head tilts towards Jack as she speaks, offering up another glimpse into her past life that he feels honored to peer into. The gymnastics makes a ton of sense; she is by far one of the most poised agents he has seen, and if not for gymnastics, West would have thought her a ballerina. He feels like he should share something about himself, too, but he has no big hidden secrets. West is an open book for the most part, his pages a little rough around the edges and dogeared. A small town boy who needed direction, got too much direction, and then wanted freedom. There is nothing Olympian about his life in the slightest. Anything he could share would be… bland in comparison.

West lets his gaze drop down to his plate. Surprise takes over him as he looks at the food Jack cooks for them.

“This… is a hot ham and cheese.” For the first time since the explosion, the storm cloud lifts from the top of West’s brows. He can’t help the urge to tease her and slip back into normal territory. “No matter how much you dress it up, you made us hot ham and cheese sandwiches with champagne. I used to eat these all of the time for school lunch in the cafeteria.”

-

"You’ve helped me enough this week.” Her tone is light and almost easy, but there’s a prevailing sentiment behind her softened grey eyes. She might not have it in her to say thank you, without feeling an uncomfortable rush of outward vulnerability. Especially when her words of thanks are not rooted in West driving her to and fro, or purchasing a new silk scarf. But in the indisputable way he rescued her, and her life in the process. With Jack; however, things are said through a myriad of subliminal comments and gestures. The small production of warm, croque monsieur’s and sentimental champagne? It’s her method of thanks, and she can only rely on West’s intuitive nature to fill in those blanks. She’s never been much for words, after all.

“You don’t keep my size and flexibility when you dive head first into a mountain of carbs.” It’s not vanity that keeps Jack on a tight regimen. But a need for peak performance. She is sharper when she is well - and she knows the consequences when she is not. Nearly fifteen years later, and she can still recall laying listlessly in her childhood bedroom. All of her life’s work, crumbling because of her own weakness. Her own imperfection. Now, she’s the picture of a well oiled machine (or a robot, as some might deign to call her). And maybe West has a point, as he expertly swirls the champagne in its flute. Perhaps there is longing. However, it’s nothing to the want of success. “But those hours under a string of anesthetics buy you room.”

As she leans over the marble counter, she awaits the perfunctory word of polite thanks. Only to crinkle her nose in disdain, as she glances between West’s eyes and the perfectly crisp croque monsieur. An almost baffled and irate huff, as she shakes her head. “It’s croque monsieur, cowboy.” A long drawl at the end, as if to play into this small bit significant shift in mood. There was something perturbing about West’s state of mind the last time. An unveiling of the depth in character, he hid behind his flirtations wiles. “I handmade the bechamel sauce myself. And that cheese? It’s gruyere. Not that orange, stringy American cheese that has no business calling itself part of the food group.” She reaches for her cutlery, using the knife and fork to slowly divide the sandwich.

“Well. I suppose comfort food can be universal.” She considers, after a breathe of pause. A low and slow bite that takes her ethereally cool expression and contorts into something pleased. Almost expressive, as she chews on the meal her brother would prepare on cold nights. A smile that’s almost girlish, before she reaches for a glass and drowns it away.

Immediately following the mission, West hides in his room. The silence that surrounds him would normally feel stuffy and uncomfortable, but West revels in it. The mission is awful, reminiscent of a war zone that West thought he has forgotten and tucked away into the darker recesses of his mind. He sits cross-legged on his bed, eyes closed as he breathes in through his nose and out through his mouth. His mission clothing lay crumpled in a ball in the corner of his room, behind his laundry basket, to be dealt with on a different way. 

The breathing exercises are something West picks up after his second tour. He holds his breath for a long five count before exhaling and letting his shoulders drop before repeating the action again. His brain, feeling awful and scrambled and chaotic, levels out a bit. He is not in war. He is not a soldier. He is not in combat. West is safe. Or, as safe as anyone in Pantheon is right now. West grounds himself, fingers rubbing the texture of his Egyptian cotton sheets as the cool air conditioning hits his bare chest. He is home and safe, and without the adrenaline, blood, and smell of gunpowder, it is easy to remember that. 

And then his phone goes off. West opens one eye and considers ignoring it; he is no mood to socialize and feels incredibly drained still. With a soft sigh he reaches for the display of his phone and flips it over. His stomach drops when he sees the sender. 

West is surprised Jack reaches out first. Their last interaction had been heavy and awkward, mostly because of him, and he expects radio silence for awhile while she rebuilds the icy walls that normal surround her. He pads over to his dresser, throwing on his favorite, worn joggers and a simple white v-neck. The shirt is crisp and free of blood, and West stares at how bright it looks for a moment before he shrugs it on.

The halls of the warehouse are quiet. West’s feet make almost no sound against the cool floor as he walks closer to the sounds of cooking. His stomach rumbles out, an unhappy noise, when he realizes he can’t remember the last time he ate something. The sight of Jack cooking is so domestic that West stops in the doorway and blinks a couple of times at her. He is quiet despite her talking towards him, and he realizes he isn’t sure how to approach any of this anymore.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” he drawls, walking closer at a slow and cautious rate. Jack still does not look up at him. West is grateful for the lack of eye contact. He slides into a seat and looks over the alcohol choice of the evening. “This wine looks expensive.”

-

The croque monsieur simmers in the fine, olive oil along the weathered cast iron skillet. its texture and scent, reminiscent of treat meals after championship wins. It did not warm her heart in sentimentality. But it did bring forth some version of recollection on the matter. And it feels good, Jack realizes, to remember something for precisely as it is. Not what it could have been. The night prior, for example, is a matter of ‘what if’ rather than what truly occurred. Yet she is a pragmatism, more than a skeptic. She accepts what is, and tries not to think of the burn on her arm or the unconscious breaking of ten years of clean sobriety. How was her Iris supposed to know, after all, of her history with pain killers?

It’s an ample distraction as ever, and she tends to the two sandwiches with meticulous intensity. Better to focus on the debts to pay and the acts of honor to accomplish, than that all-familiar high that once controlled the gymnast. She glances over her shoulder, fine brow raised at the casual wear. Even after an operation and a tumultuous mission, Jack cannot keep from the niceties of her aristocratic upbringing. The bandage along her arm, covered by the black sweater dress. Anyone who paid close attention would notice, however, in the way she favors her right arm as she cooks. “I couldn’t fathom a Big Mac and French Fries.” She admits, turning off the stove with a flick of her wrist. She balances the weight of the skillet in hand, as she gently slides the sandwiches onto pristine porcelain plates.

“It’s Champagne. And it is.” Jack confirms, her hand wrapped along the neck of the 2010 bottle. An unceremonious ‘pop,’ that is fortunately subdued in its explosion. It’s not as if the warehouse is buzzing in celebration. “Moet Chandon. 2012. From their grand vintage collection.” The Apollo explains, as she pours West’s glass first and foremost. That same, haunted expression dancing along the browns of his eyes. As if he’s reliving the worst of it all. Before he can accuse her of pretension or being quintessentially French, she cleanses her throat. “I was a professional gymnast. In another life. I was an almost-Olympian. This was how my family and sponsors celebrated.” She clarifies, an admission to something intimate and personal about her. “And though it felt like rubbish when it would stay in the wine cellar, because I placed silver or bronze. It felt divine when we did open it. So,” Jack shrugs, pouring her own glass slowly. “I figure we deserve divine intervention.”

Is it honor, or stubbornness that propels Jack to the commercial kitchen of the Pantheon’s safe house? She would claim the former, but the latter seems more likely. A way of minimizing the blunt of pain along her arm, and resisting the embarrassment of acting like a wounded gazelle. She is no soldier, but she is a Pantheon Agent. Fully emboldened to shoulder past the pain and fury, and simply move along with her day. After the haze of operative tasks were completed, including an un-packing of the the recent debacle, they disperse. A deafening silence among the roaring sound of failure, that allows each agent to find their footing yet again. In the wake of it, Jack emerges with conviction. A quick text message for West to meet her at the warehouse’ kitchen, with an appetite and a thirst for bubbly wine. Her pristine upbringing made the sum total of her culinary repertoire dismal, at best. But what she knows, she knows well. And regardless of West’s baseless, American flavor palette - croque monsieur is as satisfying a comfort food as any. Especially, when paired with an exquisite bottle of vintage, Moet Chandon.

The fresh brioche is sizzling on the frying pan, as the bottle of champagne sits comfortably on the icy pale. The sound of shuffling and West’s presence, clear even as her eyes fixate on the cheese and ham sandwich. “The bottle is just begging to be popped.” Jack comments, as she places the meal onto the porcelain plate, circa 1800′s. “I said I’d buy you a drink.”

More heroics than dashing is right. West is covered in blood, sweat, and who knows what else after the mission. His undershirt, once white, is streaked with rust reds and dirt. There are strips of it missing from make shift bandages before it wound up filthy from the fights. The pomade in his hair has worn out and elft parts of it slicked down with sweat or sticking up from all of the motion. There are scuffs in his boot and the smell of gunpower still burns his nose. After he drops Jack off he is right back in the thick of it, racing the gorgeous Corvette to and from the extraction zone until his helicopter can’t fit any more bodies safely inside. The blood on him belongs to multiple agents, not just her, but West hopes all of them make it out alive and back home.

There is something normal about Jack’s conversation that feels wrong in the pit of his stomach. West isn’t ready for normal yet. He is still stuck in the fight-flight-freeze pattern of combat, and now that the fighting is over he has to fly. He is responsible for the safety of not just himself but everyone else on the plane.

Part of it is broken with physical touch. Like a barrier being ripped down, West reacts to the warmness of her hand against his shoulders automatically, without permission. There is in a burning in his eyes from not blinking at the clouds ahead of him that West just now acknowledges, blinking multiple times in rapid succession. His mouth feels dry, his body aching and sore, and his jaw unclenches. He leans back into the connection, feeling human for the first time in hours, and lets out a deep sigh.

“I…” he starts to say and then stops, unsure of where the sentence should go. I’m so glad you’re still alive? I don’t know what the fuck is going on? I was so goddamn scared when you were bleeding out all over my shirt and the car felt ten light years away and there was no one else there? His jaw snaps back shut. He wishes he had some quip to shoot back at her, insulting his good looks like it is just another day. It isn’t, though, and as glad as he is for her company, West wants to just be alone for once. He doesn’t know how to process anything right now.

For the first time since she has joined him, West turns to look at her. Relief floods his face when he sees that she is alive. Bandaged, looking paler than he has never seen her, but alive. There. Here, right now. There are things West wants to say, gooey emotional things on the tip of his tongue. He swallows them back instead.

“I really need a beer.”

-

Hers may be a finely wound system of observation. But empathy is not her strong suit. It never has been. There’s something soulless and disfigured inside of her, that can’t sort the messiness of it all. Likely, it’s her penchant for control. An almost systemic and robotic approach to life and missions, that makes her rigid. On the rare occasion; however, she tries to find it in herself. Fortunately, West is an evocative sort. Without words, she can feel the unwitting loosening of his muscle. The way his Adam’s apple stills in his throat is the first hint. The second, comes at the frustrated heat on the corners of his eye. He’s propelled to a breaking point. A combination of fear, stress, and loss of adrenaline. She knows it well. Has seen it in her seven years as an agent.

She keeps her hand in the same position. No purpose other than the weighted warmth of another living soul, acting as a tether of sorts. Jack is quiet, long eye lashes blinking as she creates space for West. His emotions, like him, are large and all-encompassing. It takes shape around the cockpit, and the most she is capable of is silent resilience. Part of the fear, she knows, is in her loss of blood and run-in with death. She is made to be infallible, after all. And so, despite the pain and anxiety, she remains solid in his realm. A slow and subdued nod when he finally speaks, through choked up words. “I’ll take you our for a drink when things settle down.” Based on West’s tastes, it’ll likely be Bud Light or whiskey. It’s certainly not champagne and cognac, but she owes him that much. “And once my pain meds wear off.” She slowly removes her hand from his shoulder, pinching the bridge between her eyes. The wearing tiredness settling onto her as well. An operation would do that to anyone else.

“I should leave you to it.” Jack decides. Not one to hover, least of all in a mess of emotions. She comes to her feet, glancing between the puff of clouds and the emotions written so poetically on his face. “Merci mon chevalier en armure brillante.” Thank you my knight in shining armor. Jack utters in velveteen French, fully aware that the phrase would not land. In fact, it’s almost the point.

West feels exhaustion ache its way into his bones. Like a deep, heavy blanket, it settles over his shoulders and across his chest, pushing him further into the seat of the cockpit. His arm still stings from the anti-septic used before his stitches are re-done by an Iris he has already forgotten the name of. His muscles ache from the fighting and running and adrenaline drop off. 

It’s more than just physical exhaustion. The changing gears, from planning West to soldier West to pilot West leaves him past his emotional limit. There is an icy numbness that clouds his head as he flies on instinct. It feels ironically similar to running on autopilot, and at any other time West would probably chuckle at the comparison. His fingers clench on the control wheel as his view dances between the screens in front of him before focusing on his SID. He needs time off and away from the Pantheon, away from this mission, to get his head back on straight. His diagnosis after discharge was clean, but it feels like some skeletons that are buried deep are finally coming out to play and he wants a safe place to process it. Being around others at the Pantheon? West is not stupid enough to think that is a safe place.

There are missing pieces of information, things that his Hercules is not telling him, and West doesn’t like it. He expects time to regroup at their local warehouse before being thrust onto a plane, but the orders changed and he wants to know why. He isn’t a rank and file soldier anymore, and he wants answers. Annoyance flickers across his face for a moment, until he hears motion behind him.

West’s first instinct is to draw his gun. The M18 still has more than half a clip left in it, and West has it halfway out of the holster before his brain catches up and recognizes Jack. It takes everything in him not to turn to look at her as his arm relaxes and lands back on the throttle lever instead. Her voice, her very much alive but weaker than normal voice, is like a breath of fresh air in the heaviness of the cockpit, but West can’t let himself relax just yet. He stays tense, muscles coiled and ready for something else bad to happen at any second. Even behind the wheel of a plane, arguably one of his favorite places, West can’t seem to relax.

“Dashing heroics, the usual.” The normal humor is absent from his voice, which has taken a gravelly quality after all of the exertion of the day. West’s eyes look down at the fuel displays - he keeps his gaze anywhere but at her, right now - which are nearly full, and knows that if he had the same window on him the needle would be bottoming out. Her first words finally register to him and West has an instant reaction. “You don’t owe me anything Jack.”

-

What did it say about her, that the hours of reprieve under a morphine drip was the most at-peace she’d been in months? Her predisposition of operating in half-truths means a lifetime of constant vigilance. She is never fully herself, and so she can never fully rest. It’s a painful reminder of how her dependence to things like pain killers first came about. Some relief found at the bottom of orange pill bottles and illicit drips. But Jack does away with the rest of it. A firm shake of her head as the Iris offers even more, to do away with the pain. With this - she knows herself well. And she does not cave, no matter how tempting it is. Despite the rest and recuperation, Jack is still prickly. Knots of insecurity as she settles on the co-pilot seat. Agent Monet is the picture of malleability and precision. What happened in that cavern? It was anything but precise. A bitter pill, that has her cynical eye looking to the Hestia’s and Hercules’. Whatever this mission was, it brought out the worst in its agents.

She makes note of the shift of West’s hand. A protective reach for his holster, that surrenders back onto the lever. Was it the soldier in him, or the man lost in the weeds of a disastrous mission? For once, she doesn’t breathe life into her observation. Something of a favor, for the man that saved her life. Even her low, seemingly-bemused scoff is performative. She does it for West, and that crutch of a flirtatious humor he uses for his own defenses. They all had their dependencies - him with his humor, her with the chill of apathy. Unfortunately, her dependency is lost to the feelings of listlessness and thanks in his company. “More heroics than dashing, I’d say.” She says with dry, halfhearted humor. Her eyes fixated on the odometer readings, contemplating his instant reaction for a long beat. “Not even thanks?” Jack questions silently. “I thought appreciation was big in your old, Southern belle circles.” Even her remarks feel tired. They mirror each other’s energy, and she sees the waning energy on him. 

Now, Jack is not one for physical touch. Or affection. Lest it was part of an Apollo’s disguise, or a way of getting something she wants in return. But this time, it’s how she extends her own appreciation. “West,” she says his name, to break from the reverie between him and the clouds. She extends her healthy arm, finding the tightness coiled in between his neck and shoulder. She presses down, like she was taught in her years of physical training. A purposeful touch that would loosen the muscles, and bring some relief. “You squint anymore like that and your dashing, bland features will start to wrinkle.”

“No.” What she is alluding to is impossible for him. Even if West hated her - he doesn’t, of course, not even when she is being extra French and extra cold to him - he would never leave her like this. No man left behind. All agents make it to the end. Fly-Fight-Win. West would die for that cause in a heartbeat. Ideally, none of them would die, but living and knowing he saved his own ass and left others? That is a weight West cannot bear.

It is hard to balance the dead weight of a human being nearly unconscious from blood loss with a handgun, but West makes due as they clear the cave. He settles them down for a minute, catching his breath and figured out the best way to adjust. Jack is not looking great, and her words are worrisome.  

“Will you stop that?” West’s accent feels thick in his mouth as he frowns down at her. “You’re ruinin’ my perfectly good hero montage where I save the pretty girl and flip my hair into the dang sunset.” Despite the humor, there is a deep furrow in West’s brow that won’t let up. His heart clenches painfully when Jack acknowledges that he actually means something to her, but it is quickly chased by comments she has no business making. He takes a brief pause to brush some of the hair stuck to her face to the side. Jack is finally asleep, which is bad, but it means she can’t yell at him for being so soft and sentimental. He tucks some of the loose hair behind her ears, only giving himself a moment before he takes action. They don’t have time right now.

West can feel the uneven breaths on the back of his hand. It is a reminder that she is still alive. They both are. And he is going to make damn sure it stays that way. West takes a moment to adjust Jack’s weight in his arms. clutches her tighter to his chest. He speaks out loud to her, even if she isn’t awake to hear it. 

 “You ain’t dyin’ Jack. I won’t let you. Whatever you need to tell your brother, you’re gonna tell him in goddamn person if it is the last thing I do.”

He tucks his gun back into the holster, and her gun into a pocket for safe keeping. It feels like he runs for five minutes and five long years with the time it takes to get to the first getaway car. Jack is light compared to other agents, but the extra weight he has to carry on his sprint to the extraction point leaves West winded. The blood seeps from her wound despite the tie on it, and West knows his outfit is already beyond repair by the time he makes it to the Corvette. He tucks Jack into the back seat, trying his hardest to keep her safely propped up as he runs to the driver side.

Once he’s behind the wheel he guns it, a wild look in his eyes as he races to safety.

-

The first thing that drifts into her consciousness is the scent of her brother’s Armani cologne. The second is the surge of delirium and numbness. Long eyelashes blinking haphazardly across the cabin, taking stock of monitors and the heart rate monitor. The sibling’s reunion is brief, and like most things, weighted with detachment. Of course, there’s the sentiment of worry and even love. But they are French and Devereux’s. They say it by the shared, knowing look and nothing else. Cards held close to their chest, even in tragedy. She learns the pieces of the story - West’s sturdy form carrying her to the Corvette, Agent Pax’s handiwork aboard the plane, and the bounty of pain killers used to numb the pain. The gun shot, fortunately, would heal. Her mobility, still expected to return to its full range of motion. A clean, white bandage is wrapped along the wound. All in all, it’s the timing and imprecision of the enemy that saves her. And though she has plans for the latter, it’s best she confront the former.

Despite the medic’s insistence, she comes to her feet. Slow yet determined as she gravitates towards the cockpit. One hand against the handle, as she grunts slightly - revealing the pilot. “Busy?” Jack asks, her tone low and subdued. She settles onto the seat beside him, noting the vacancy. A curious thought as to how many Charon’s emerged from the cave. “I suppose I owe you a new everything, then.” Her eyes gesture to his clothes, near-smeared with the entirety of her blood. There’s something macabre to the sight. Certainly unsettling. But agents see their fare share of the grotesque and unruly. It’s almost expected.

“What happened after I passed out?”

“ the language here i’m most familiar with is the chinese but only because it’s similar enough to mandarin. i mean, i know french, too, but something tells me you’ve got that end covered. ” she pauses, mouth pressing && twisting into itself as she thinks. “ the shang dynasty is thought to have peruvian connections, china-france relations go as far back as the 17th century. people believe that sino-african relations date back prior to the qin dynasty && that’s just from the chinese standpoint. there could be a million other things connecting these places. " finger rubs at the space along the front of her right ear, hard enough to nearly leave it red beneath the touch. ” ugh! “ a groan before she shifts, feet landing on the floor to allow her to collapse upon tabletop unimpeded. ” okay. yeah. “ words emerge slightly muffled, gaksi can hear it but doesn’t bother fixing her position to clear it up. ” lets go on the hunt. i don’t know what he’s got but i’m willing to any && everything if it makes my brain go back to properly cooperating with me. “

-

"je peux gérer ça.” I can handle this. A confirmation of what Gaski points out. A rather obvious take, but it’s an important distinction to make. For Apollo’s, arrogance takes a different form. Whereas the Charon’s and Nemesis’ laud their strength and ferocity, they hone in on their ability to adapt. In working together with her, it’s clear that both share in that wavelength. There is confidence, but an absence of pomp and circumstance. She shakes her own head, long finger gently pushing away the scans. A kiss of her teeth at the 3D model. No inspiration to be gained, that’s for certain. A detached yet wry smirk emerges all the same, one foot already moving towards the secret stash of their fellow agent. Their companion is known to move it on occasion, but what is an Apollo but not a skilled spy? “This amount of togetherness is too close for comfort. Too many cooks in the kitchen. The dead weight of every moldy crew will surely be the death of me.”

“He’s down,” West confirms. His shot is a bullseye, right between the eyes in fact, and West knows that whoever he shot is already gone from this world. His eyes zero in on Jack’s face and the hazy look in her eyes. She isn’t able to focus on him, or anything it seems like, and West knows that’s not good.

West wishes she would make some sarcastic comment to make this all feel normal. Like the mission hasn’t gone to shit and people aren’t dying and everything is a-okay. If Jack could just tell West how annoying or boring he is, it’d be great. Even a comment about him shirking his duties to play G.I. Joe would be a relief. But she doesn’t, and it all really is not okay.

He almost feels bad when she yelps at the pressure he puts on the wound. It’s for her own good - West needs to stem the flow of blood from the source and keep her conscious for as long as possible - but it feels like a sucker punch to his chest to see her in so much pain. The Jack that west knows is infallible, cold to a fault with an icy mask of perfection that never seems to slip. The illusion is shattering and splintering right before his eyes, the jagged pieces cutting small holes in his perception of her and what is underneath hurts him to see. Jack looks so small, she looks scared, and West grits his teeth so hard they nearly squeak.

Jack’s shot clips one of the enemy’s shoulders, and West is quick to react, finger squeezing the trigger just a moment after he has his sights aimed true. The person she shoots stays down, and he turns back to her once more.

“You keep that gun now, little lady.” West grips his hand over hers, making sure she has a firm hold on the stock of her pistol. Her hands are sticky from blood, her blood, and West stops that thought in its tracks. They are going to be fine. Jack is going to be fine. He squeezes her hand before he lets it go. His mouth feels dry, and his throat bobs at the force of him trying to swallow any fear down.

There are sixteen bullets left in his magazine, and West will use every damn one of them if necessary to get them out alive. 

He peaks out from the cover of their rock to see another assailant trading gunfire with an agent West doesn’t recognize. Once he has the shot, another enemy hits the floor, two of the M18′s rounds hitting vital spots. He does another clean sweep of the area and sees the coast is clear. The next part of his plan involves carrying her back to safety, which may be the trickiest of them all.

-

In the flurry of activity, Jack begins to see static color of pink and blues. That vibrating sheen of color that inadvertently tells her she’s hanging on by a thread. This is not the first time she’s been harmed in the midst of the Pantheon’s missions. No one is invulnerable, over seven years of service. But in her years, no attack has felt quite like this. A web spun by even deadlier foes, than the mafia or government operatives. She attempts to see West through the haze. A thankful breathe for the warmth of his hand, attempting to anchor her in place. Even with the insurmountable amount of pain, she knows what needs to be done. It’s a fall back instinct, one that she’s almost grateful for. She holds the gun in her bloodied hand, whimpering as the tight reflex causes her dangerously bleeding wound to gash.

“Mhm... Go,” she insists in delirium. There’s a hush in the air, an absence of fire. West’s vantage point is greater than hers, his figure blocking her purview. And yet, she can read him - his body language, his breathe, the shifts in his eyes. Something appreciative swells inside of her as she takes stock of him, as if it’s the last time. “You did good.” Jack manages through feeble breathe, as she hangs off his arm. Her own lithe form hanging off his stability. One foot after the other. One direction - the plane. They push halfway through, with West as her guide. Her limps begin to feel numb, and so too does her grip on consciousness. They manage to flee to a cover in the midst of the forest. A good five minutes from the plane, by her calculation. Jack’s legs buckle and she falls to the ground, hand gripping the wound. Her dark-grey eyes catch on the soil, the trickle of her blood following closely.

“Just... Go,” she insists through gritted teeth. “Please,” she whispers. “You are... You are my friend.” Her words are fragments, but the sentiment is there. She looks at him, and her eyes say it all - I would never say this, but you are my friend. Be safe. Don’t be an idiot. Save yourself. “And - my brother. Tell Jill-” her eyes begin to squeeze shut, giving into the sleep. 

In the damp and dimly lit cavern, the closeness of it all settles into Jack’s bones. This extended period of togetherness feels contrived. Apollo’s are made to work alone, and Jack is no exception. She is malleable, of course. Her personage managing to fit into whichever way the wind blows. But there’s no hiding her dislike of things. Especially when she’s ventured down a similar cavern as Agent Cosmos. A man whose sense is about as adept as the horoscope is in predicting one’s future. There’s no love lost between them, and in the silence of the cavern, it’s even more pronounced. “This would have been simpler with less people. We’re drawing too much attention as it is.” Jack expresses with a cold, irate huff. The flash light in hand examining the markings, in search of familiar carvings. “And it’s taking longer than it ought to.”

It is chaos all around them, and West feels alive. He thrives in the confusion and excitement, he always has, and his adrenaline thrums under his skin as he takes off running. He knows a couple of small things. They find a super secret cave. The smart guys, who are in charge, are opening the box. A lot of booms. Bad booms, not the good kind. West takes off running, no, sprinting, when he hears the magic words. 

Get out…. and then, an attack. Someone has set us up.

West turns the corner of the cavern, the echoes of fighting and screaming and bad things bouncing against his ears. He reacts without thinking. As a Charon, his primary concern should be transportation. West knows that, objectively, as he runs in the opposite direction of the getaway cars and towards the cacophony of chaos that awaits them all. And he does it with a smile on his face, despite the circumstances, because this is the kind of stuff West is built for. Trained for. Ready to do.

He hears a scream of pain and recognizes the yelp. The smile drops from his face. His vision turns sharp.

He has the jump on one subject, who seems him a half a second too late. West draws his M18 Sig Sauer with the precision of someone who has done it hundreds of times.  The draw is smooth and fluid and he levels it with deadly accuracy. He is a step faster than his opponent and it shows. There is no hesitation as he pulls the trigger.

His first shot is right between the eyes of an unknown enemy. The body drops like a sack of potatoes and West crosses it without looking down. He’s by Jack’s side in the blink of an eye, assessing the damage with a critical eye. Her pupils are reactive, skin a bit paler than her normal hue with a sheen of sweat covering her. Most of her motor functions still seem in tact, but her voice is a bit off. Was she close to the explosion? There’s no time to test that. West makes sure they are behind the cover of a larger rock formation and away from any other gunfire. He sees her blood, a macabre backsplash on the cave walls behind her, and West feels his heartbeat in his throat.

“Is that anyway to greet your favorite martyr?” His voice is thick with his hometown accent and it’s a clear sign of his distress. It’s not the time for humor - really, it’s an awful defensive mechanism he knows he needs to work on that’s only gotten worse since she pointed it out - but West has to do something to make light of the situation. Jack is bleeding in front of him, and his stomach feels like a pretzel tangled up in knots about it all.

 He is no Iris, but none of Jack’s wounds like fatal. She should be fine, if he can get her in the hands of a skilled medic. West grabs at the cleanest part of his shirt, ripping and tearing it with a little resistance. He uses the fabric to wrap up the worst of the wounds quickly. It’s a shitty field dressing, but West isn’t planning on sticking around here long enough to need a more thorough ones. 

“I’m gettin’ you out of here, so hold all complaints, critiques, and comments for the plane ride home.”

-

They are all taught the basics of any Pantheon agent; how to defend, how to escape, and how to navigate the unexpected. But they are all trained differently, with banal instinct geared towards their purpose. The Herculean strongholds and patient-first Irises are the noble heroes of this story. Quick to jump into the belly of the beast, to pull out their fellow soldier. Apollo’s, on the other hand, are spies first. A revolving door of personas and priorities, beholden only to themselves and their individual mission. A series of lone wolf’s that are not compelled to reach for their fellow man. And Jack is no different, one eye focused on an escape first. Her fellow agents, second. There’s no ounce of guilt. This is how the Pantheon thrives, by everyone sticking to routine.

Yet in the thick of destruction, with her blood spilling over soil - she is suddenly grateful for West’s decided deviation from protocol. She can hear the wry voice of her own Hercules in her ear - I told you so. They always did yearn to inspire a sense of believing in Apollo’s, and though Jack would never say it, there’s something clandestine about her rescue. She grunts, eyes squeezes shut as she crawls behind the rock. Back pressed against the cool rock, heavy breathe as she keeps her hand pressed against the wound. “Did you get the son of a bitch?” She manages to grunt out, exhausting a loud yelp of pain as West intervenes with pressure. The thick of his hand, combined with the loss of pressure creates a trickle of pain. She leans her head against his shoulder, intentionally muffling the loud scream that threatens to permeate. Better that, than her voice attracting the enemy to their location.

“At least two operatives blocking us. One just on your left.” Despite the growing loss of vision and sense, she manages to reach into her holster. Covered in her blood, she hands it to West in its weight. “I still have a full round in. I don’t think I can...” But her words fade, breathe turning shallow as she starts to waver. In the last minute, she grabs her gun back from his grasp - seeing a figure begin to approach. Her shot is spotty at best, but it lands firmly on their shoulder. “I can barely hear you. I’m going to have to trust on you being reliably gallant.”