A man with a plan(e)

The car screeches into a halt, and Melody wastes no time, immediately jumping out of it and kicking the small rocks like a kid throwing a tantrum. The tremors on her hands start to grow even more violent as she walks further away from the car and from West. The itch to break something or hurt someone follows her like a shadow. Melody can hear the faint sound of the car door closing behind her, which means West is now out in the open as well. These itches happen a lot when she is unbelievably furious, and an average person would’ve probably chosen to go to therapy to treat it. But Melody knows full well what it is. To some people, what Melody has would be called a problem or a sickness, but to her, it’s her power. She just needs to learn to control it better.

She can hear West approaching, but she ignores it. Her lips are shut tight, but her face, her breathing, and her entire body clearly show that she’s at war in her mind. The blonde paces back and forth, her right hand shaking violently as her left clutches the other hand, trying to stop it. “Putain d'enculé, arrête, la!” she curses to herself after not being able to stop her hand from shaking. The fact that West is currently seeing her like this makes Mel even more furious. West’s question sounds unbelievably close, and she whips her head around to look at him. 

“Yes,” she answers, trying to sound as calm as possible, hiding her shivering hand behind her. “Yes, I’m fine.”

✈

It is a lack of self-preservation that has West out of the car before he realizes it. His Hercules is normally so cold and put together, to see the other spectrum of emotions is disorientating. A small patch of gravel is kicked under her heel and West hangs back for a moment, trying to assets the situation. When she first asks him to pull over, West is afraid she’s going to lose her lunch on the side of the road. This is much scarier.

His French is barely conversant, but West knows the curse words when he hears them. Mel is practically shaking in anger and West feels like he is approaching a cornered tiger without the reassuring metal bars of a cage. West stops himself, biting his tongue for a moment and considering his words. Would she want to hear anything he has to say right now? Probably not. Is it going to stop West from talking? Also a probably not.

“We’re goin’ to get them. Whoever it was.” His tone is confident, an anger undercurrent making his accent pop through his words. After a day of blood, sweat, and gunpowder West is ready to split the heads of whoever caused his teammates harm. “And when we find them, there will be hell to pay.”

“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.

✈

Perfection is something that West notices Jack bring up a lot. In her conversations, sometimes, but especially in her work. Everything has to be picture picture, not a frame or breath out of place. It all seems so exhausting to someone like West, who thrives in the messiness that comes with living life like every day could be his last. In his line of work, it realistically could be. Even when discussing what had to be a semi-privileged upbringing, there is an edge there, cutting down any positive emotion and locking it behind a fortress wall in Jack’s heart. West frowns slightly at the resentment that peaks through the cracks, giving her shoulder a slight squeeze for comfort. She doesn’t seem to shy away from his touch, another thing almost as surprising as the meal and deserve served tonight, and West is smart enough not to mention it. Some things don’t need to be talked about.

“You talk about happiness sometimes like it isn’t real.” West’s voice turns a bit soft, knowing that she can hear him in the silence between their words. “But it’s always there, you know? If you want to take it.” Happiness, to West, can be found almost everywhere, and sometimes in the simplest things. It’s nostalgia at an old memory reminiscent of your childhood. It’s hitting every single green line on your drive into work. It’s a small, inside joke shared between friends. It’s the moment of free falling at the first counter rudder of a failing leaf rotation in a stunt jet. It’s a homecooked meal after an impossible, blood mission. Happiness is a mood, a state of being, an allowance of emotion that comes easily for him. It could exist for her, too, if she could find space to let it.

“The more the merrier at Thompson Thanksgiving. My dads wouldn’t care where ya come from or who you’re shackin’ up with. Any friend of mine is welcome, no questions asked. As long as you don’t insult my father’s cookin’ or root for the Patriots in front of dad.” West pictures Jack sipping some bottle of champagne worth more than his father’s paycheck for the week, all alone in a cold penthouse on a holiday made for family. West swears to himself that come hell or highwater, he won’t let that happen again this year. “But we could do somethin’ smaller, too, if you’re worried ‘bout bein’ seen with me in public.” A teasing dig at his own poverty and overbearing personality, said with a lightness that isn’t feigned. Behind it is a commitment to follow through regardless. “Can’t have the French aristocrats see you slummin’ it in Alabama.”

There the two agents are, sitting side by side in their respective lush seats, racing towards safety in silence while not a week ago, things had been very different. Mel was talking to West like they had nothing on their shoulders, giving him pointers on his outfit choice, and he was, as usual, trying to dodge his way out of it. But now, all there is to share is silence and tension. No witty comebacks, no outrageous pieces of clothing, no extra annoyance, which she appreciates. Melody is still very much preoccupied with the thought of revenge. The only sound she can hear right now is the sound those people will make while she has her way with them. The sound of them begging, sobbing, bargaining for their lives, making promises she knows they can’t keep cause they’ll be dead long before they can fulfill them. The thought causes the corner of her lips to twitch upwards into a sinister-like smile. “They don’t know who they’re messing with,” she unconsciously mutters. “But they’ll see.”

Melody is starting to have the twitch just as they get far enough from the crime scene. Those tickles and shivers she has whenever she feels her alter ego is coming out, like Dr. Banner whenever the green monster is about to make an appearance. Or, in his case, strip into shorts. In her case, the monster looks exactly like her, just ten times more lethal. There were times where she’d been able to subdue it, but she wasn’t always so successful. “Okay. Stop the car,” she orders. She needs to get out, or she can really hurt West. “Stop the car right now.”

✈

Like a taunt wire, twisted and wrapped to its maximum tension, it is inevitable when Melody snaps from the last ounce of pressure. Her tone is raw as she demands he pulls the vehicle over, and despite how close they are to the next extraction point, West cuts his wheel and shifts the gear hard enough that the tires bark against the pavement. It’s about as smooth of a maneuver as West can maneuver when they are travelling well over triple digits in speed down the roadway. His hands smack the unlock panel between them immediately, leaving Mel free to escape the vehicle for a moment. 

Annoyance tugs in West’s gut. Every second they spend on the side of the road is another second he isn’t flying far, far away from the caves. Their agents are out, clear, but the extraction is far from over. West wants to be in the air already, safely escaping any last minute distractions or traps left for them. His compassionate side takes over, cutting through the weird, reactive mode his brain has fallen into over the course of the mission without his permission. He takes a steadying breath in through his nose and out through his mouth. The exhale only shakes slightly, and West calls it a win.

“Boss? Are you okay?”

It made sense. Keeping everyone together until they had a better idea on what the next step was, it still makes him uncomfortable though. The passing thought that they would all have to stay close for indefinite time. And from the bit he overheard about the artifact, something mysterious, ancient and difficult to understand, it sounded more like they would have to continue as a large group rather than split up.

He lets West speak, as he often did, nodding along here and there and allowing himself to unwind as his unlikely friend carries the conversation. And then he mentions Monet. His shoulders tense, eyebrows raising as he pinches the bridge of his nose to hide most of his face. Never the one to be good at acting, it was easier to conceal the instant twisting on his features.     “ She called us overrated trolley runners. ”     He wouldn’t go into detail as to how that full conversation went, but at least that part had been amusing.

“ Her nice humor is really kicking in tonight, I guess. ”     Erik has to strain his eyes to catch another glimpse of the adjacent room, sure enough, the agent in question is leaning over their heist’s prize.     “ You’re not bland, bud. Don’t worry, the tiny French can’t get to you. Trust me, you’re a lot. ”     He quips with a grin.

“Trolly runners?” West snorts at the moniker. If anything, he’d be a private pilot, or a designated driver. Still, he can picture the quip falling from Jack’s lips with that dry tone, the way most of her insults are delivered. West doesn’t take it too personally. He had been outraged when Jack first called him bland but there is no bite behind the words, and no reason to believe any harm. West knows his life, and himself by existing, is interesting enough for most people.

“You keep that up and ya might make me blush one of these days, Erik,” West says with a cheeky grin. He’s glad for the easy comradery between the two of them. Erik talks to him like he’s a human being. Usually, like he is an annoying but fond little brother which is nice for an only child like West.

With his stomach taken care of, his stitches bandaged up well enough, West feels the exhaustion tug at his energy reserves. They’ll be leaving on the next leg of their mission soon enough, and a quick power nap feels in the cards.

-

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.”

✈

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.”

-

she’s used to danger. they all are, she thinks [ … ] it comes with the territory of their chosen line of work. you never know who is going to want to get their hands on whatever it is pantheon has their eye on —– who will do anything to keep an artifact in their possession. this is different, however. this is not a small number of snipers on a roof or a group of guys firing pistols or revolvers [ … ] in times like that she has backup, she has people whose primary objective is to make sure they all get out safe if possible && even then, a group of six at most has an easier time during extraction that this many crews all at once.

he’s recognized through basic knowledge, not personal. it is mutual, she’s sure. with such a large operation, it is not unusual to know others by their face && crew && not much more, if at all. he’s not one of hers && that’s all that matters even at a time like this. something inside of her, a sweet little girl whisper presses against inner curve of her skull. ’ go back ’ it says. ’ make sure your own is safe. ’ but it is not what she is to do, not what has been pounded into her during training && life before that. she does not go back for stragglers, to search for potential survivors. it is not the apollo way.

“ i’m fine. ” take a step to the side just in case he’s the sort to physically check && plays off the shift of her weight when booted foot lands on a chunk of rock && slides off with a jostle with features refusing to give so much as a twitch. “ how many people have gotten out? ” fingers shift, trimmed nail of her middle finger absently tapping against nail of her thumb in a motion that would almost seem anxious if she allowed herself to think about it too long. “ hard to tell with everything going on. ”

“I’ve gotten out a couple. There are more left.” West has no idea what the exact number of people left in the cave are. He knows how many he has personally seen running, how many bullets are missing from the magazine of his P18, and how many he has personally carried out. His outfit is already soaked in blood, and there are scraps missing from his white t-shirt where he torn off clean pieces to help put pressure on open wounds. West won’t stop moving until he is sure there is no one left to go back for.

West hears a shout and tenses up. His Sig Sauer is in his hands before he remembers drawing it and his body blocks off towards the noise on instinct. His pointer finger rests on the barrel, right next to the trigger, and if need be he could have the gun leveled and fired before an enemy can blink their eyes. After a moment, three bodies turn the corner and West recognizes them as well; more agents, with minor injuries escaping together from the deeper cave passage. West stays tense, body ready for a fight that may or may not come. Only time will tell.

“I’m loading people up in the Corvette parked near the first extraction zone. Are you sure you can make it there?” Part of West is torn by his generic orders, provided at the beginning of the mission before everything went to hell. He’s supposed to help with extractions. There are only so many Pantheon agents who can fly a helicopter, and even less who can fly it as well as he can. He needs to be out of the cave to help coordinate the efforts. That is a fact. Another fact, of course, is that there are agents down here, trying to escape like a swarm of ants, and West refuses to let any of them be left behind.

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.”

✈

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.”

Without realizing it, Mel’s heart has been beating quite furiously in her chest, almost as furious as she is. The fact that all those planning has failed to prevent this catastrophe infuriates the hell out of her. Sure, these sorts of things are always bound to happen despite meticulous and careful planning, but Mel hates it when things don’t go as planned. Mel grew up and still goes to church like a devoted catholic, but times like these make her want to go up to wherever God is and show Him a piece of her mind. 

Another confirmation rings loud and clear in the car, followed by West’s relieved sigh. She should be doing the same and feel somewhat grateful, but she’s not. Her blood still boils like a witch’s brew, but her anger has turned into something dangerous. Something everyone should wish to avoid: motivation to destruct. A purpose to see this whole thing through and find whoever is behind this.  A drive to show them what she’d do to people who date to stand against her—a reason to wake Bloody Melody from her nap. Whoever they are, they should be afraid. Because she is coming to get them and make them pay. She will make sure that Bloody Melody will be the only thing they can remember before succumbing to their fate. 

Melody stays quiet and listens to the fellow agent, knowing that if she opens her mouth, she’d be spitting venom. In a more normal setting, she’d probably cut him off, say something mean to goad him, and then tell him to shut up, but at this point in time, all that means absolutely nothing. She looks out the window while trying to put the puzzle together. Who did this, why, and how did this happen? Questions no one but the perpetrators know the answer to at the moment. West mentions something about people being treated, to which Mel gives him a nod.

“How much longer to safety?” she finally asks West. “I need to let out some tension—well, anger. Being confined in the car is not gonna do anyone any good.”

✈

There is a crackling tension that settles in the Corvette as West races towards the closest extraction zone. West knows better than to comment on it. He only catches bare glances out of the corner of his eyes; most of West’s attention has to be on the road with how fast they’re going, and any jerk of the steering wheel would end horribly for both of them, and the car. Melody is a quiet fire, simmering in the luxurious seat next to him with murder in her eyes. In another situation, her disposition would probably send a shiver down his spine. Right now, though, all West can focus on is getting his Hercules to safety as soon as possible to make sure they can all get the hell out of these goddamn caves.

It’s not what Melody says, it’s what she doesn’t say that sets the mood. Agent Hel is always a picture of Pantheon excellence. She plans everything, covers all angles, anticipates all of their needs. In many ways, she is West’s antithesis at the agency and it is a wonder they work well together at all. Where West is fast and loose with the rules, flying by the seat of his pants, Melody is calculating, cold, and concise. This entire plan going to ruins causes West to turn in place, pivoting into a new role that is not clearly defined, or even necessarily for him. He is flexible enough to make the adjustment without so much as a blink, throwing himself into the chaos without a second thought. Melody, and some of the other agents, need time to reform and regroup. West will get them to safety to do so. That is a job he is literally made for.

“It’s a five minute drive.” West shifts into the next gear, eyes forward as they whip down the road. The Stingray hums under the weight of West’s foot on the pedal, making the first noise above a purr under West’s handling. The engine revs after they take the last blind curve and West has a straightaway to fly down. “We’ll be there in two.”

“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.

✈

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.

Every single person inhabiting this world have their own defense mechanism to deal with moments that are too much to bear over the course of mundane days. It wouldn’t be different with Selin. Despite the passion that would remain within herself towards the mission and what they could accomplish being part of Pantheon, she was also aware that not everything was easy.

And that some missions would have a negative outcome even if they were able to return the artifact. Violence, scars, the pression of being able to escape alive and making sure that everyone else would be able to have the same chance. It was common, unfortunately. 

Her mind could easily go back to memories that had been haunting her. Yet, a brief smile curved her lips upwards while listening to Icarus’ voice, and nodded, holding onto her seat would also help to keep herself grounded. 

“As time passes by it gets easier to deal with flying, doesn’t it? I mean– we’re safer here than down there.” A true statement, after everything they had gone true in Peru. “The fear of falling dissipates once we reach that perspective,” she offered those words in return, with a tone louder than the one she normally uses, so he would be able to hear her. 

“I’m as okay as I can be, I guess. I could use a drink or two once we’re back, if I’m being honest. You?”

“I prefer to be up here... rather than down there,” West agrees with her, eyes scanning out the terrain in front of him. The helicopter hovers around 10,000 feet up in the air, but West feels nothing but calm looking at the landscape under them. On the ground, people fight and bleed and air. Up here, in the air, they can jetty away at a moment’s notice and travel exactly to where they want to. There are no red lights, no four way stops, no impediment at all in the air. It’s West’s favorite place to be, and always has been.

Not everyone shares that sentiment though. The worry of the fall and crash weighs heavily on the mind of a lot of agents. West thinks that it is the lack of control they fear, and not the flight at all. He keeps that opinion to himself, though. No one wants to be called a control freak even if they are a dime a dozen in the Pantheon.

Is he okay? West has no idea. Everything in him feels hollow and numb, just like it used to after a particularly trying flight in a fighter jet. Regardless of how he feels, though, he plasters on a mostly-cheerful tone in his voice and says that he is fine. Agent Pandora is a face that West knows and likes, but they aren’t friends. West has few friends far between the ranks of his fellow agents. And he’s wearing the blood of one of them like a poorly done Halloween costume. Still, the small talk is appreciated. It keeps him out of own his head which is a small blessing. The dark shadows that lurk there multiple out, sticky like a spider web with how easily they catch his attention. He needs his own space to clear them out.

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.”

✈

“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.”

@icaruswest​

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.”

✈

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 gunpower, 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.”

“ You’re the first one to put it that way.” Des had been communicating with other members of his team through a private chat, mostly passing along notes and tips. There were members that liked to post jokes and whatever else at times, but he avoided it. At times he wished it could be filtered to prevent the useless jargon, but he knew that would label him even more of a Godsend buzzkill. “ Not such a bad thing flying close to the sun, it’s only bad when you fly too close.”  Everyone needed to take risks, as Des did when it came to taking down his parents - but just like Icarus, he allowed himself to get caught because he hadn’t truly thought everything through. 

“ Combustion is unlikely. Unless someone has something hot enough. Anything too hot would have already burned us to a crisp. I know your name is Icarus, but let’s not do any burning right now.” He was happy he’d been able to avoid the communicative line, and was happy to be on the end of the signal booster. Des hated unnecessary noise, and seeing as how there wasn’t much to currently report he knew the line would be random conversations and the consistent reports of nothing.  He actually suggested sending in test drones into the cave but apparently that idea had been quickly shot down for whatever reason. Within a matter of seconds of hearing the flirtatious comment, Des’ entire mind turned completely to static. “D-did you say handsome?” The words fell right out of his mouth, throwing him completely off guard. There were hardly times when people said something like that to him, and even then, it wasn’t a very common occurrence. Immediately his face started to feel a little warm, his shoulders slightly tensing up. “Y-yeah..crawling through sewers w-wasn’t the best.” Des’ eyes fell back to his tablet, giving him something to look to move on from his reaction. “ So your worst experience isn’t the omnipresent threat of danger, the potential dangerous, or the crazy encounters - but the distasteful food from an upscale diner.”  He chuckled as he did before, “You’re..interesting, Icar- West.” Des had rarely met agents that he wasn’t able to read right away,, as newer agents were more than often easier to spot. West’s worst experience wasn’t potentially dying but a bad case of a potential stomach virus.  He followed along with West’s words, choosing to be distracted by his IPad as they waited for other agents to begin filing in. A few other Hermes agents had gathered around him, sharing information that Des had been listening to but not participating in the discussion as he had nothing to add. Once they had been given the order to proceed, he quickly began looking around once more. “ Hey..” Many agents had probably started to realize what could be seen up ahead, and Des had chosen to stick around Des while lights from the agents started to illuminate the dark cavern in front of them. “That’s..not on any of the logged maps is it? The passage doesn’t look as if it was meant to be discovered.” With out hesitation, Des took a picture with his tablet while the light had been great - comparing the other images to other passageways within his photo folders. “ Yeah..if we are going by other weird hidden passage ways around the globe this is very similar to others. What’s the move here?” He asked, still having somewhat of a hard time making contact with the agent without reminding himself acting the way he did when he’d called him handsome previously.

West’s next laugh bounces off the cave walls but he is not apologetic about it. “’Course I called you handsome. I got two eyes, don’t I?” Humility is something in short supply around the Pantheon, and seeing it on Desmond is endearing. Most of the Pantheon agents are unfairly attractive and they know it. West is no different with his own inflated ego. Still, Desmond’s reaction to the compliment is cute and telling. West has had a bad time flirting with men before who take the compliments as some slight to their masculinity.

 More chatter hits West’s ears and it isn’t long before there are multiple agents coming and going in their exploration. The Hermes eagerly group up, discussing the findings of the day, while some of the other agents nearby sulk like the loners they are near the corners of the cavern space. A Hercules is giving a mission briefing that nearly puts West to sleep as he listens to it and he continues to fiddle with the tablet to keep himself busy.

“That is definitely not on the maps.” He eyes the unlogged passage with curiosity, torn between wanting to head towards it and knowing that his Hercules wants him closer to the helicopters incase of anything bad happening. West weighs his options for a moment. He catches Agent Cylops in the mix and knows that the crews will be in good hands. The Sainthood Hermes, Agent Empress, clears their throat behind him. It takes all of West’s willpower to not roll his eyes.

“Unfortunately, this is where we part ways today, Cadmus.” The corners of West’s mouth turn down in a genuine frown. “My Hercules is a very scary woman who wants me close to the birds in case anythin’ bad happens.” He has been enjoying the company of Cadmus and wants to stay for the fun of whatever they are discovering. Even if art isn’t his favorite thing, whatever artifact the box is housing seems important. West has a gut feeling that this mission is just starting to get good. And he is going to have to wait in the car to hear about it.

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.

✈

The loss of the touch grounds West back to reality. His gaze snaps forward to the sky again as the plane continues its flight through the sky. Their destination is still awhile out, and he will need to focus back up to stay alert throughout the entire thing. Once he makes it somewhere safe, with four walls to hide behind, he can rest. Even with his hypervigilance instincts kicking back in, West remains more relaxed than before Jack stops by.

“Right, of course,” West awkwardly clears his throat, feeling like he overstepped the emotional boundaries that Jack always puts up. No, that he overstepped the walls that Agent Monet always puts him. Not only that, West feels raw and exposed, like a nerve ending that’s been uncovered at the wrong time. Like she can see through him even more than normal. The tips of his ears flush red.

“You should be restin’, takin’ it easy. Shouldn’t even be up right now, truthfully. With the blood loss and whole gettin’ shot thing.” He’s rambling like a goddamn idiot, and West closes his mouth to stop himself from talking. Jack’s being nice because of the trauma and pain medications, and West wonders if she’ll continue after her recovery or take five steps back to put more distance between them. It’s anyone’s guess, and West has no idea. He wants to offer to see her back to her seat, worried about her physical health, but the words don’t make it out loud. 

Her words are lost on him. West can ask how to get to a terminal or where the bathroom is in French, but anything other than basic requests are outside of his wheelhouse. Her voice is like silk against his ears, foreign and more warm than normal, and then Jack is closing the door to the cockpit behind her. West lets out another heavy sigh, shifting around slightly in his chair. He’ll be home, soon, and he can get everything figured out. For right now, he doesn’t want to think about anything other than cruising altitude.