See a reborn ghost in every passing glance; some things canât be held no matter how firm your grasp
The practice is more folktale than fact, but when Sarif digs a scalpel into the bruised flesh of Adamâs ribcage, Pritchard knows exactly what his boss hopes to accomplish.
Frank could have told him it doesnât work that way, but Sarif never asked.
Also on AO3 or FFN.
Adamâs not really, truly, aware of what Sarif has stolen from him until heâs leaving Detroit for what is possibly the last time. He stares at Pritchard across the rotting asphalt outside the Rialto, his whole life packed in two sad boxes at his feet, and realises just why heâs felt so safe since he awoke in the Facility in Alaska. When Francis offers to return his heart, exposing it to the cruel world and all the dangerous aspects of his life, Adam panics.
He refuses.
It takes everything in him not to take it back, not to stay, at the broken look that flashes like lightning over Francisâ face. This is why Adam has to leave. He has to go or he risks every lead heâs chasing disappearing, or worse, turning back on him and chasing him down in turn. If that were to happen, Pritchard would be the easiest way to break him, whether or not he held Adamâs heart.
And Adam absolutely cannot risk Francis being someone else he has to mourn.
-
Once heâs away, across an ocean and another half a continent, itâs so much easier to pretend that everything is as it should be. He canât feel its resonance when heâs so far away from where his heart is carried in a chest not his own. It makes his work smoother when heâs less affected by the injustice that surrounds him, less apt to lose focus on his ultimate goal.
If that makes him even more of a monster in the eyes of his new co-workers, well, they already hated him for his augments anyway.
Adam lets the Task Force doctors assume what they want about where his real heart lies, giving Phillips a blank stare whenever she tries to bring it up during his physicals. Auzenne doesnât even bother asking outright, presumably having been briefed by her fellow doctor. She creeps around the subject, taking nips like a small dog, and Jensen takes pleasure in playing dumb, not even dropping crumbs. His heart is a secret he will die to protect, if necessary.
More importantly, Francis is a secret Adam will kill without hesitation to keep.
-
Itâs hard, so hard though, to feign annoyance and indifference when Francis shows up on his tv after seven short-long months. Adam takes his appearance in greedily nonetheless, noting the new exhaustion worked into pale skin. Even with hollow cheeks and bruised eyes, Francis looks good. Adam hopes desperately that his treacherous heart doesnât give away the longing that echoes hollow in his chest when he thinks of how they will have to inevitably part once again.
Forcing himself into his work mindset does some good. It reminds him a little too much of the days before the Incident though, when Pritchardâs voice held soft-edged concern for his wellbeing even when Adam managed hide his own feelings with sarcastic disbelief. Itâs hard not to drag the adventure out when he knows it may be the last time he sees Francis at all. His work is too dangerous, the Illuminati too powerful, for him to want to expose his heart to them.
Their last conversation edges too close to a confession, an admission of all the things he knows but has denied. Heâs hidden them for Francisâ sake after all, too selfish to give up that last bright spark. Adam panics again, cutting Francis off with a gently firm goodbye and a too-simple press of a button. The regret that hits him is only an echo of what must be thundering through Francis, and all that knowledge does is amplify the pain. Itâs cruel, what heâs doing, but itâs necessary to keep them both safe. To keep Francis safe.
Still, he canât stop himself from whispering a plea for safety into the ensuing silence; a prayer to the only deity he knows exists.
âTake care of yourself.â
-
London happens, the Orchid and Marchenko and nearly losing MacReady and Miller both. The work isnât over when he finally returns to Prague, either. Vega is waiting in his living room, eager to talk about whatâs happened and how the Illuminati will still spin anything and everything to their advantage.
Adamâs exhausted and on edge at the same time. Something feels off; the world has shifted half a degree and heâs still reeling. He manages to shuffle Vega out after twenty agonising minutes of philosophical speculation punctuated by the false Eliza spewing poison in the background. As soon as sheâs gone he flicks the tv off, finally shedding his coat and body armour and allowing himself a small measure of relaxation. Heâs debating whether to search out actual food or simply drink his dinner as he had done too often over the last few weeks - since the Palisade break-in, to tell the truth- when the knock comes at the door.
Itâs nearly instinctual now, the flicker of the thermal imaging filter across his eyes and the tensing of muscles that would activate his cloak with barely another thought. The silhouette curled around itself in the hall should surprise him but, if heâs honest, heâs been expecting this since he cut Pritchard off after their little adventure in corporate espionage. He inhales deeply, the filtered air of his apartment rasping through his mechanical lungs, almost too loud in the loaded silence.
He opens the door.
-
They stare at each other in the dim light of his bare kitchen; Adam canât even begin to guess whatâs going through Pritchardâs mind as they size each other up across the center island. Â Without a word, Francis a gives him a choice. Between a utilitarian knife and an intricately carved box itâs an offer of sharp, uncomfortable hope or dull, familiar pain and there is really only one answer he can give.
He takes up the blade, a silent request to accept Francisâ heart if itâs still on offer.
Pritchard sighs as he sheds his jacket. Itâs the first sign that not everything is as it seems and when the turtleneck follows, Adam stills. No matter what he had expected, nothing could have prepared him for the web of scars and bruises that spread like a field of morbid flowers across Frankâs skin. He drops the knife and reaches instinctively for Francisâ chest, needing to feel the evidence of his cruelty with his own hands. Pritchard flinches beneath his augmented fingers but Adam canât spare it more than a thought because this close he can hear the change in rhythm. This close, he knows.
The heart in Francisâ chest is his own.
-
He chokes on his words, unable to breath, and reaches for the box. It's warm and comforting under his fingers, real wood in his polymer grip. Cradled inside is Pritchard's heart, fluttering fast and altogether too fragile without a body to protect it.
âWhy,â he manages around the constricting terror in his throat. Why would you do this to yourself, just for me?
Francis misunderstands, starts to retreat, but Adam isn't about to let him go now. Instead, he follows across the kitchen, crowding Francis into the wall, impaling himself on the sharp blade of hope held shakily between them. He doesnât even notice the blood that wells up until itâs coating Pritchardâs fingers, stark against pale skin. Frank pulls the artificial heart from his chest, throwing the Sarif-branded atrocity aside without care, then hesitates over the nervously fluttering organ in his hand. Adam presses closer, whispering his plea into skin heâd never thought heâd be allowed to touch, and Pritchard accedes.
Francisâ heart slips into place and, for the first time in two years, Adam feels whole.
-
It hurts.
Thereâs a real heart in his chest after what feels like a lifetime of emptiness and he had forgotten. Heâs not sure how, but he had forgotten how much it hurt to feel. Everything in him aches with the pain he had been spared over the last two years hitting him all at once. It echoes from his chest and invades his limbs, making them weak, pulling him to the floor. Adam takes shuddering breaths, arms wrapped tight around Francisâ waist, face buried in the warm skin of his stomach. Hands card shakily through his hair, hesitant at first, but firming as he leans into them, desperate now for a contact he didnât know he was missing.
Pritchard pushes him back after a small eternity, peeling him away with soft strokes and gentle tugs, until his hold is loose enough that Francis can follow him down. They sit huddled on the cold floor of his flat touching each other with hands and lips, drawing strength from the connection. Francis weathers the storm of his rampant, renewed emotions, letting him soak bruised flesh with tears of shame. All the while, Adam is whispering apologies and promises, grasping at anything to keep his heart near now that itâs come back to him. Francis soothes him still, the gentleness more than he deserves, until he canât keep it in any longer.
Reverently, he cradles Frankâs jaw, breathes his last secret against lips that will never part to spill it, sealing them with his own.
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Are we doing this or not? Who knows! I did Day One, anyway. Mini Jensard fic for that Sleptember meme. (Itâs still the 1st somewhere!)
Adam groaned and rolled his neck, idly checking the time as he stretched muscles stiff from sitting for too long. His office chair was comfortable, but four hours in any one position was going to ache, no matter what. He huffed out a curse and stood. It was well past time to go home, but Pritchard had insisted on staying to finish some new addition to the networkâs security or something. Adam had driven them both to work that morning, so heâd relented and decided to make some headway on the next weekâs paperwork. Now though, it was late; time to leave, no matter what Francis said.
Adam flicked a glance at the security feeds one last time as he pulled on his coat, lingering on the Tech Lab where Pritchardâs messy ponytail still poked past his monitors, focussed and unmoving. Well, a little more time wouldnât hurt. Neither of them had anything pressing for the morning, and Sarif would understand if they were a little late in, given how long theyâd stayed tonight. One more cup of coffee for his workaholic lover, and then Adam was dragging him home.
He made his way down the stairs to the canteen, firing up the fancy single-cup machine and leaving the burnt half-pot in the industrial sized machine for his night guards. He filled one of the paper to-go cups, hope springs eternal and all that, and turned back towards the hall. The Tech Lab lights flickered up from their night setting when Adam entered and he paused in confusion. Even engrossed in his work, Francis should have been moving enough to keep the lights at their daytime level. Brow furrowed, Adam stalked forward, rounding the desk with no small amount of concern only to stop again in surprise. Breathing out a quiet laugh, he set the coffee down and stroked warmed fingers over the back of Pritchardâs hand where it lay limp on his keyboard. Somehow, Francis had managed to fall asleep in the middle of his work, and his terminals had locked themselves due to inactivity.
Adam left the computers as they were, gathering Francis gently into his arms. He also left the coffee on the desk, making a mental note to clean it up later, and headed towards the elevator. Thereâd be time enough in the morning for Pritchard to finish whatever heâd been doing. For now, Adam would take him home and tuck him into bed.
See a reborn ghost in every passing glance; some things canât be held no matter how firm your graspÂ
The practice is more folktale than fact, but when Sarif digs a scalpel into the bruised flesh of Adamâs ribcage, Pritchard knows exactly what his boss hopes to accomplish.
Frank could have told him it doesnât work that way, but Sarif never asked.
Also on AO3Â or FFN.
Painting courtesy of @scootmoondog, the best moondog.
If there was anyone in the world who needed to be told less just how ruthless David Sarif was when it came to his company, Frank Pritchard had yet to meet them. That doesnât mean he wants extra proof, but damn if he isnât staring right at it.
With Jensen still in post-op and most of his security team either dead in the labs or wrangling the masses crowding their front doors looking for a chance to spit or gloat, it falls to Pritchard to review what footage they have of the attack and its aftermath. He grits his teeth through the whole of Jensen's surgery videos also, but still he forces himself to watch. Itâs⊠a form of penance, really. He and Jensen may not have always gotten along, but that sort of torture isnât something Frank would wish on anyone. Heâs not talking about the attack, either. The end of the tape is almost a relief, with all the blood and viscera washed down the drain and Jensen falling still and silent after hours of unconscious thrashing heâd ineffectually been sedated against. The last doctor leaves, and everything calms. Then Sarif enters the room, alone.
The practice is more folktale than fact, but when Sarif digs a scalpel into the bruised flesh of Adamâs ribcage, Pritchard knows exactly what his boss hopes to accomplish.
Frank could have told him it doesnât work that way, but Sarif never asked.
-
The tape was hours old by the time Pritchard got it; thereâs nothing he can do to stop Sarif from taking Jensenâs heart. There's nothing he can do to keep from gagging at the casual, callous handling of such an intimate object by someone who wants it only for control. Nothing he can do but swallow the bile that rises as he watches the softly beating organ lowered into a sterile white box, cold and comfortless. And absolutely nothing he can do to stop himself from turning away, dry heaving into his trash can when he sees the disgusting polymer thing Sarif slides in to replace it, holding the edges of the wound together until it seals beneath his hand with only a faint scar to show anything is amiss.
What Frank can do - what he does do - is destroy every copy of the surveillance video save one, stashed on his own private server in case Jensen ever asks for proof. Then, he follows Sarifâs path through the building, erasing all evidence of the crime - because thatâs what this is, if only the courts knew enough to prosecute it - and tracking Jensenâs heart to whatever gilded cage their boss has constructed for it.
Sarif sets it in plain sight, on the mantle of his ridiculous fireplace under his copy of The Anatomy Lesson, like the sick trophy it is.
Frank tries not to grind his teeth to dust.
-
Nothing much changes in the six months Jensen spends recovering. Pritchard claims jurisdiction over the security feeds for the penthouse offices from Adamâs minions, leaving them to comb through everything else while he keeps a constant eye on the box. Heâs come up with four hundred and fifty one increasingly implausible plans to retrieve it by the time Sarif decides to cut Jensenâs recovery short. Thankfully, it seems like their boss isnât interested in immediate control, because the heart stays behind when he accompanies Jensen to Milwaukee Junction.
In fact, it doesnât move at all over the next month as Adam untangles the threads of a global conspiracy whose nexus appears to be far closer to home than any of them could have ever thought. Sarif doesnât even take it with him when he leaves for Panchaea, and Frank seizes the opportunity. Jensen went off the grid twenty-four hours ago and the only thing Pritchard can focus on is opening that damn box and making sure the heart inside still beats.
It does. Thank god.
-
He never returns it to the mantle - never even finds out what their boss wanted with Adam's heart in the first place - because two days later Panchaea crumbles into the ocean and thereâs no Sarif around to demand it back. Six months after that, thereâs no mantle, either.
Pritchard liberates a lot of Sarif property from Tai Yongâs greedy claws before they even know itâs slipped through their grasp, but there is none more precious than that sterile white box. The last thing he does, besides destroy the box and all security tapes that ever show it existed, is to empty it. There is only one place Frank can bear to put its contents now; one place where he will always know it still beats even when the man himself is missing, presumed dead.
Itâs surprisingly painless to cut himself open and slip Adamâs heart between his ribs to nestle against his own.
-
Adamâs heart beats so slow he almost forgets itâs there, some days. The day it speeds up Frank has to force himself not to react, to remain calm. He finishes the job heâs doing for Magnet, takes his payment, and retreats to the Rialto as fast as he can while still being discreet. The next few days are a mess of caffeine pills and frequency scans as he searches the globe for any signs of Jensen or his old GPL tracker.
The shiver of his infolink as it auto-connects to a contact thatâs lain dormant for a year pulls Pritchard out of where he's slumped in an exhausted doze with a shot of adrenaline. His heart rabbits against his ribs, frantic next to the steady beat of Jensenâs. Still, his paranoia is legendary and itâs only grown since his return to black hat work.
âWho is this?â He snaps, fingers digging into his chest hard enough to bruise.
âHello, Francis.â
-
The next week is a terrifying reminder of just how dangerous life with Adam Jensen can be. The man seems to thrive on impossibilities; the gravity of his indomitable will tugging everything around him in to burn like falling stars in his wake as he spins on unceasingly through the dark. Frank could never admit it out loud but, no matter how hard he tries to escape, he's caught in that orbit just the same.
He barely tries at all.
They're outside the Rialto, adventure over for the time being. Everything Pritchard owns now can fit in the back of a beat-up van. Everything of Jensenâs that Frank could save from Sarif Industries fits in two boxes at their feet except the one thing beating a solid reminder between his ribs. Heâs not sure how to say it, that he took Adamâs heart - saved it, really - and has been keeping it next to his own. Heâs not certain how he wants Jensen to react to the knowledge, even. Itâs like heâs a teenager again, hesitant and unsure and feeling too large for his own skin.
âI⊠have something else of yours. Do you want it back?â
Adamâs gaze drops, just for a second, to where two hearts brush against each other in the cavity of Frankâs chest. Thereâs a novel written in that silence, but all Jensen says when he breaks it is a quiet, âNo.â
He waits until Adam's long gone to curl up in the front seat of the van, hand pressed to his aching scar. He's not sure if itâs relief or disappointment that sends a few lonely tears down his face, but he scrubs them away and tells himself it doesnât matter in the end.
-
Seven months later he only agrees to Sarif's job offer because it leads him to Prague, closer to Adam. David never asks about the heart, which is good because Frank doesn't have an answer that doesn't reveal far more than he's comfortable with, especially to the man who removed it in the first place.
It's good - too good, almost - to see Adam again, even if it's only through a screen. Every conversation they have is a test of Frank's self-control. His ribs ache with the strain of nearly two years of supporting more than just himself and he's not sure how much longer he can take the extra weight.
The finality of Jensen's goodbye, abrupt and cut off, drives Frank to his knees. Alone - but never truly, not anymore - he allows the collapse, clutching his chest as both hearts break in tandem, echoing against each other until heâs sure heâll die from the pain. At least, he thinks ruefully, if it's his own that gives out first, his coffin is the last place anyone would look for Adam's.
If that's all he can offer anymore, it'll have to be enough.
-
He books passage to Prague as soon as Sarif leaves for England. One more time, he tells himself, heâll offer just one more time and whatever answer Adam gives, heâll figure out what to do then.
He watches Jensenâs apartment remotely for the two days it takes Interpol to return from London. He watches Vega sneak in and out and in again, not nearly as stealthy as she thinks she is. He watches Adam come home and not even be surprised to find her there. He nearly convinces himself to go - abandon the plan and flee back to Detroit and the places heâs known most of his life but that arenât home anymore - three times in the twenty minutes they talk. Then Vega leaves and it takes another three tries to will his body to move.
Adam looks exhausted when he opens the door, but Frank is almost positive he looks worse. Jensenâs shed his body armour and pulled back his eyeshields, at least for the moment, finally allowed some down time. His mission load over the last few weeks had increased dramatically and there had been at least once instance in which Pritchard had lain awake for hours, mind a thousand miles away from his body, fingers bloody where he dug them into his chest, willing Adamâs heart to keep going keep going keep going donât you dare stop now. Neither says a word as they move into the kitchen. If Jensenâs surprised that Frank is there, knows his way around the flat, he doesnât show it. In the end, all Pritchard can do is offer him a choice.
Silently, he pushes two things across the center island: a box and a knife.
Adam eyes them both, expression unreadable despite not wearing his ridiculous shades. When he reaches for the knife Frank sighs, shrugging out of his jacket and pulling his turtleneck off so Jensen can cut him open unimpeded. Adam freezes, staring, and Frank looks down.
Oh. Yeah.
His own scar is no longer the neat, pale line that Adam's is. Itâs ragged, scabbed over where heâs rubbed it raw more than a few times, and surrounded by dozens of smaller cuts where he's dug his fingernails into the skin again and again. The whole left side of his chest is bruised in one way or another; a vivid green and purple watercolour testament to his worry these last two years. Itâs been so long since Frank has really looked at himself that he forgot there would be physical evidence. The ache is as much a part of him as the ribs beneath it. Itâs not something heâd ever planned on telling Adam though, thatâs for sure.
âWhat,â Jensen rasps, barely a whisper, loud in the quiet of the apartment.
Itâs not really a question, but Pritchard answers anyway. âI canât carry them both. I tried.â
Adam drops the knife and it clatters noisily across the counter. Frank flinches, not from that, but because thereâs suddenly a sleek black hand pressed to his scar. When he looks up again, Adamâs opened the box - real wood, worn and treasured and much nicer than sterile white plastic, thank you very much Sarif - with his other hand and is staring wide-eyed at the steadily beating heart cradled inside.
âWhy?â Jensenâs voice cracks, and Pritchard looks away from the hurt on his face.
âI canât carry them both,â he repeats, trying to step back from the cold polymer on his chest. It feels too good, he can't bear it. The heart on the table beats faster.
Adam follows, expression suddenly fierce as he snatches the knife back up and pushes the grip into Frankâs palm. âPut it back.â
He grabs the box next, taking another step forward for every one Pritchard takes backward until thereâs nowhere left to retreat to. Frank swallows heavily, a carving of soaring Icarus pushed uncomfortably against his spine, as Adam draws their hands up, the blade scraping against his own chest. âPut it back where it belongs.â
When Frank hesitates, Adam leans forward. Black blooms on his undershirt, the grey fabric eagerly soaking up the blood they spill. Pritchard takes a shuddering gasp as Jensen drags the knife down and deep, neither paying any mind where it falls when itâs then tossed haphazardly to the floor. Pale fingers press in, shaking as they pull an artificial heart from between reinforced ribs. This too is tossed carelessly away, clattering against the floor. They breathe in tandem, ragged and shivering, as Frank tenderly lifts his own heart from itâs wooden bed. He stares helplessly at it held between them until Adam shifts closer still, a broken Francis, please muffled into his bare shoulder. He slides it gently beneath Adamâs skin, feeling it slot perfectly into place.
The wound seals under his hand and it feels like coming home.
âYou want me to do what, man?â Koller stared hard at the Interpol agent standing in the middle of his dungeon.
âTake this finger off,â Adam gestured to the one he meant. âBut make sure we can put it back on. I need to get some aesthetic work done on the casing, and thatâs easier without the rest of my hand getting in the way.â
âAesthetic work?â VĂĄclav raised his eyebrows, even as he gestured towards the chair and reached for his tools. âWhat aesthetic could possibly improve those sleek Sarif fingers?â
âJust a bit of engraving work,â Jensen replied, shrugging out of his coat and making himself comfortable as possible in Kollerâs prized patient chair. âThink of it... like a tattoo.â
The doctor laughed, nudging his own, much nicer chair over and setting out a line of screwdrivers, wrenches, and other miscellaneous tools. âYou still got skin if you just want a tattoo, man, but youâre not the kind of guy I figured going in for body art, you know?â
Adam was quiet for a long moment, watching from behind his shades as VĂĄclav immobilized his arm from the elbow down and then hunched over his hand to work. âItâs been a while since Iâve had any,â he finally murmured, almost talking to himself for all he addressed the other man, âbut this is a little different. This⊠is a promise.â
Koller nodded and, after a moment of thought, shrugged off the heavy mood, humming happily as he worked. A few minutes later, he made a noise of triumph and straightened. âBring it back within a few days, alright? The longer itâs off, the harder it is to get to reconnect properly,â he warned cheerfully, unlocking the joints of Adamâs elbow and allowing him to move his arm freely again. âAnd try not to get anything in the socket! Could mess things up pretty bad in there if youâre punching walls and faces and whatever with that hole in your hand.â
Adam nodded in agreement as he took the small box Koller had scrounged up to hold his detached finger. âA few days. Right. Thanks, Koller.â
âIâd say anytime,â VĂĄclav waved Jensen off with a grin, âbut I feel like this is probably a one-time thing, eh?â
âYeah,â Adamâs lips twitched into a soft smile. âIt is.â
--
âYouâre such a sap.â
Pale fingers slipped over glossy black, tracing the new grooves etched into one of them. The faint click of metal on metal sounded as a ring knocked gently against the alloy beneath it.
âGuilty as charged,â Adam murmured, face tucked into loose black hair. âItâs just my luck you donât mind.â
There was a low hum of agreement, more sensation than sound. âHm. I suppose youâre right.â
Jensen leaned back a little, raising an eyebrow as he tipped his partnerâs face up to meet his eyes. âOh? The great Francis Wendell Pritchard, admitting Iâm right?â
A scowl briefly twisted Frankâs mouth before Adam pulled him into a kiss, deep and warm. They eased apart gently, breathing the same air and just relaxing in each otherâs presence. Idly, Francis swiped a gentle thumb over the decorative band permanently carved into Jensenâs finger. âDonât get used to it,â he sighed, leaning in for another kiss.
Adam gave a husky laugh. âWouldnât dream of it.â
Inspired by this picture by the talented @asphy7. I hope you donât mind.
I let my fears materialise; I let my skills deteriorate
After the Tyrantsâ attack, Jensen rediscovers a few things about himself he thought lost. Good thing Pritchardâs around to make sense of it.
A Sentinel/Guide AU snippet.
[Disclaimer: Everything I know about Sentinels and Guides I got from fic. Iâve never seen the show, so donât expect accuracy on that front.]
Also on AO3Â or FFN.
Itâs Pritchard who finds him, the first time it happens. As it turns out, as the only person other than Sarif and Adam himself to ever enter Jensenâs apartment, itâs Frank who finds him every time it happens in the first six months of his recovery. It scares them both at first, though of course neither would ever admit it out loud.
Not two days after Jensen is released from the hospital, Francis practically breaks the door down in his haste to get a hand on Adamâs frozen form. Itâs what shocks him back; Pritchardâs cool fingers on his pulse, accompanied by frantic repetitions of his name in a voice not usually filled with such concern.
âPritchard,â Adam rasps, throat inexplicably dry considering heâd been drinking coffee for breakfast in lieu of actual food. âWhat-?â
He cuts himself off, eyes drawn to the window as fingers twitch around the empty space where his mug should be. The light outside has changed, slanting more towards early afternoon than the morning brilliance it should be. He stares in confusion.
âAdam!â The snap of Frankâs voice pulls Jensenâs gaze back into the dim room.
âPritchard,â he repeats on a rough swallow; his throat clicks. âWhat time is it?â
The hackerâs mouth twists into a scowl. It looks forced, though Adam would be hard-pressed to explain how he can tell. Frankâs voice is as waspish as ever. âOne. You were supposed to be at your physical therapy appointment three hours ago. You didnât answer your phone and either your infolink is glitching or you managed to completely ignore that too. What the hell were you doing in here, just staring into space?â
The rant is delivered like any other cybersecurity-related dressing-down and yet Adam can hear something wary, expectant almost, in his co-workerâs voice. Ignoring it, he looks down at his hands, the one still clutching at empty air where his coffee cup had been. Heâd been headed for the couch to watch the news while he finished waking up, taken a sip as he stepped down into the living room, and something about his coffee had tasted off. Heâd paused to take another drink, trying to figure out what was different, and then⊠nothing. Just Pritchardâs cold hands on his neck and hours having passed without him knowing. Losing time isnât one of the signs of aug rejection, as far as Adam knows. Just going crazy then? Somehow, the thought calms him down a bit.
âNothing,â he repeats out loud, voice level despite the worry he feels.
Frank doesnât look impressed, crossing his arms and leaning back on his heels. âBullshit. If you canât remember, just say so. It might be a problem with your biochip and the sooner it gets sorted, the sooner the rest of us can go back to doing actual work instead of babysitting you.â
âI mean I wasnât doing anything. Nothing out of the ordinary at least.â
âWell what ordinary things does the great Jensen get up to in the mornings, then? Save busloads of puppies and orphans before breakfast?â
âHardly, Francis,â Adam shoots back with an acid-green glare.
Frank still isnât used to the new colour, and it startles him speechless for a moment. Jensen keeps talking, eyes dropping to his hands again. âWhereâs my coffee?â
âI put it over there,â Pritchard waves distractedly at the low table in front of Jensenâs couch. âYou looked like it had spat in your cereal, so I figured Iâd move it for its own safety.â
No reaction; Adam keeps staring at his empty fingers. He looks at them like he doesnât know whose they are, and Frank feels a twinge of sympathy. The cybersecurity expert takes a half-step forward and it seems to startle Jensen into speaking again. âIt tasted weird this morning.â
âIs that all?â Frank tries to sound as caustic as usual, but thereâs something about the cadence of Adamâs voice that sets off alarms in his head.
âI wanted to know why,â Jensen retorts, though thereâs an edge of tension creeping into his voice as he glances towards the windows again. âI hadnât realised Iâd been standing here so long.â
Pritchardâs heart rate picks up, and Adamâs head snaps around to stare. âWhat?â
Thereâs an explosive sigh from the older man, though he looks more resigned than annoyed now. âWhen did you wake up?â
âSeven, as usual,â Jensen replies, though he knows the answer isnât what Pritchardâs asking for.
Sure enough, thereâs a sneer twisting Frankâs lips as he folds his arms again. âIdiot. When did you start showing the gift? How long have you been trying to do this without a proper Guide?â
Adam is quiet for a long time, long enough that his co-worker isnât sure heâll ever get an answer. At last, Jensen shifts, patting down his pockets until he comes up with a battered pack of cigarettes and a crappy disposable lighter. He doesnât look at Pritchard as he taps one out and lights it up. âI wouldnât know.â
âBut--!â
âIt was a game, when I was younger,â Adam interrupts bluntly. âPretending at being some great hunter like my grandmother used to tell me stories about. The other kids werenât so enthused with how easily I could find them in hide-and-seek, or how I always knew they were lying. The extra senses faded as I grew, though. By the time I was a teen, I passed it off as childhood imagination and my parents claimed ignorance any time it was brought up.â
Pritchardâs eyebrows are raised incredulously, though his hands are gripping his arms in what looks suspiciously like nervous tension. Adam shrugs and turns away, dropping the half-smoked cigarette in an ashtray on the table on the landing, no longer interested in finishing it. âI guess Iâll just have to learn to turn them off again. Canât risk losing more time if Iâm to be any use to the company.â
Adam doesnât mean to sound so bitter, but the weaponization of his body still stings. Sure, this body is âbetter,â but he no longer feels at home in his own skin. He only gets a step towards the kitchen before the hacker behind him snaps.
âYou must be stupider than I thought if you think you can just shut this down now,â Frank snarls. âI donât know how you survived as a child, but full suppression causes serious harm.â
Adam scoffs, tilting his head just enough to peer at Pritchard from the corner of his eye. âHow would you know, Francis?â
âBecause Iâve seen it!â Pritchard shouts, eyes bright and expression so unfamiliar to Jensen that he has to turn and study it further.
âIt ruins you, Jensen,â Frank continues, voice quieter but tone still hard. âYou start shutting off everything. Strong emotions first, like rage and desire, then humor and fear, then contentment and annoyance. Finally, you canât feel a damn thing and you just fade away, an empty shell where there used to be a human. Your body might still be there, but thereâs nothing inside to move it. No will, no purpose, no life.â
âSounds kind of nice, actually,â Adam replies when it seems like Pritchard has finished his rant, just to see what happens.
He doesnât expect the wild-eyed look on Frankâs face to crumble into betrayed devastation for the half-second it takes him to regain control. Expression carefully blank, Pritchard stares at Jensen for only a moment or two longer before mechanically reaching for his bag and making to move past him, towards the apartment door.
âIf thatâs what you want, Iâll have no part in it. Sarif will assign someone else as your point of contact, both for missions and for any security-related issues you may have. I hope I never see you again. Iâm sure youâll enjoy that, at least while you can still enjoy anything.â
Adam steps into his path quickly, augmented arm shooting out to slap against the wall and bar Pritchardâs way. Heâs a little too hard, if the new dent in the plaster is anything to go by, but Adam is focussed on the dead look in Francisâ eyes and the way it makes something uncomfortably like concern curl up his throat.
âWhat happened,â he rasps, not exactly questioning.
Frank meets his eyes silently for nearly a full minute before looking away. He seems to shrink into himself even more and Adam finds he wants to comfort the shorter man but heâs not sure how or how well it would be received. Frank clutches at the strap of his bag, pale and resigned. âI told you. Iâve seen it before. I donât ever want to see it again.â
Adam doesnât reply, staring hard at his coworker standing defeated in his entryway. He lowers his arm from its blockade but, before Pritchard can do more than take a breath, Jensen sets both hands hesitantly on his shoulders. Frank tenses but doesnât pull away, and Adam finally manages to speak. The words come reluctantly, as though they have to be dragged out of him. âHow do I control them, then?â
Pritchard exhales long and slow, relaxing ever so slightly and visibly gathering himself. âWeâll have to find you a Guide first,â he mutters, annoyance settling over him like a cloak. âSomeone discreet who passes all the company background checks.â
He gives Jensen a dismissive glance, though he doesnât pull away from the loose hold. âIdeally theyâd be someone you like, but we may have to settle for someone youâll at least listen to. Even that might be too much to ask,â Frank adds under his breath, though Adam can hear him just as easily as ever.
âOh, is that all,â he returns, self-aware skepticism shallowly buried under sarcasm.
Pritchard huffs and turns to regard the apartment critically, Adamâs hands finally slipping from his shoulders. Francisâ lip curls a little as he takes in the still-packed boxes and the tilting stacks of papers, books and boxes of ammo scattered between and around them. âEspecially since, ideally, theyâd stay with you. Probably not here though.â
âWhy not here?â Adam asks defensively, ignoring the first statement entirely for the moment.
Frank scoffs, still focussed on the spacious but messy living room. âAre you kidding? Youâre zoning out on your coffee. Thereâs too much here that will set off your senses. You need somewhere cleaner, to start.â
âThis place is defensible. I know the layout and I can trust the buildingâs security,â Jensen argues back. âNot the least because youâre the one who set up the SmartHome. How well do you think Iâll be able to concentrate on learning control in a place where Iâm constantly on edge?â
Pritchard is silent for a long while, considering, before sighing heavily. âThereâs still the issue of you needing them close by. How well do you think youâll do with a stranger in your space? Itâd be better if you moved to somewhere with more room. Like a second bedroom.â
âDoes it have to be a stranger?â Jensen grimaces at the thought. âWhy not you?â
Francis startles, swinging back around to stare at Adam incredulously. Irritation settles over him soon enough, but Adam can tell itâs hollow, covering the shock his question induced. He rushes to explain before Pritchard can reject the idea outright.
âWe already know you can pull me out of a - what did you call it? A zone?â Jensen shakes his head, scrubbing a hand through his hair distractedly. âDoesnât matter. Point is, you know what needs to be done, youâve already passed any security check we could possibly think of, andâŠâ he hesitates, looking a little embarrassed, before pushing on. âI trust you. Probably more than anyone else, with this.â
Frankâs jaw drops just the slightest bit as he stares back at Adam, stunned. All of his defenses have been stripped away at the blatant admission and it leaves him without words that normally come so easily. Jensenâs lips pull down into a scowl as the silence drags on. âIs it really so hard to believe?â
âNo,â Francis coughs, still a little wide-eyed but recovering swiftly. âI just never thought youâd admit it.â
âLook, thereâs enough space here, we can rearrange. Move my computer out here, get a second bed and another desk. Probably some more bookcases. Iâve been meaning to unpack anyway,â he trails off, looking around the apartment appraisingly before shrugging with forced casualness. âItâs not like I use the garage space anyway, so youâre welcome to park your bike there instead of on the street.â
âHold on!â Pritchard snaps, flashpaper temper sparking at the presumption. âI never said--!â
Adam only raises his eyebrows and Frank cuts himself off with a scowl. Their staring contest is broken a moment later when Jensen turns to eye the dent heâd made in the entryway wall. âWe donât have to tell Sarif either, this way.â
Francis stares at him wide-eyed in surprise again, though his brow furrows in confusion only seconds later. Adam sees the expression from the corner of his eye and huffs a sigh, running his hand through his messy hair again. âI already have little enough thatâs just⊠mine, anymore. Is it any wonder Iâd want to keep a secret or two back for myself?â
âI⊠suppose not,â Pritchard concedes quietly, giving the apartment a much more critical glance. âWeâll have to change a lot around here though. Youâre going to be oversensitive to plenty of things you never thought twice about before and,â he turns that same judgmental eye on Adam himself, âyour allergy to shirts is one of the first things weâre going to work on.â
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As proof you all are terrible enablers and DX has overtaken what little free time I have, Iâve bought new fic notebooks for the first time in five years and am currently writing at the bar. The bar!
Iâll post this thing in full as soon as I type it up and my unofficial official beta gets through it. (I swear I donât normally write this fast.)
