#mugd

“These your new digs?” Mercy dumped her duffel bags on the floor just inside the door, eyeing the tiny little house critically. “It looked pretty sad on the outside, but I thought it would be better in here.”

Rhiot shrugged. “Haven’t had time,” he said, though that was a bit of a lie. Mercado, who hadn’t been synced with Rhiot for a couple of months now, could still tell when he wasn’t telling the truth. She crossed her arms and tilted her head.

“No time, or you’re too damn - dang depressed?” she asked, correcting herself. Rhiot just gave her a tired half-smile that was all the answer she needed.

The back door clattered, and the biggest grin spread over Mercy’s face as they both heard the scrabble of nails on fake hardwood floors. Loula bolted into the living room a split second later, crashing into a couch because she was too excited to stop herself. The dog launched herself at Mercy, who caught her up in her arms with a squeal of joy that didn’t match her broad-shouldered, bulky frame.

Rhiot, now fully smiling to himself, moved down the short hall. Pressure wrapped around his chest and the back of his legs, from where Mercy held Loula, but he pushed the sensation aside for now and lugged one of Mercy’s suitcases into the guest room.

He’d cleaned that, at least, given the bed new sheets and washed the windows and dusted a bit. Mercy was only supposed to be here a couple of months, but she’d promised to pay half the rent while she was there, and buy all her own food. Rhiot had told her that wasn’t necessary, and she’d threatened him into accepting, and he’d acquiesced, because it was easier than arguing with her.

She was crying softly into Loula’s fur when he ambled back into the living room. Rhiot didn’t drink coffee, but everyone else on the team did, so he pretended not to notice and instead went to pop in first a hot chocolate pod into the Keurig, and then a dark roast coffee, and a few moments later, Mercy joined him, still carrying Loula but no longer teary-eyed.

“Coffee, Archie?” she asked, finally dropping Loula directly onto the table. Rhiot gave her a tired look, and she snorted.

“Yeah, like you never let her up on the table.”

“One of my neighbors gave me a bunch of those pod thingies,” Rhiot said in return, idly scratching Loula behind the ears. It was another lie, and he knew Mercy wasn’t buying it. “Thought it would be a waste to toss ‘em.”

“Oh, like hell,” Mercy said warmly, but sat down and drank her coffee. “This is a pathetic little kitchen.”

“Please don’t insult my home.”

“It’s awful,” Mercy said, point-blank. “You can’t consider this a home.”

“It’s fine,” Rhiot said plaintively. “Nothing - Nothing ever really feels like home, anyway.”

Mercy sipped her coffee, then said, “November Red is home.”

Rhiot hesitated, and then nodded.

Rhiot hadn’t had the nightmares in a long time - well, all right, not for a couple weeks, according to his calendar, but it felt like a long time. Loula helped, but sometimes one grew too big, too fast, and she couldn’t stand guard against everything.

The worst part was, he dragged Mercy into it.

They both woke up in a cold sweat at 0400 hours, with Loula crouched halfway onto Rhiot chest, whining and licking at the tears rolling down his face. Downstairs, he heard Mercy’s door open and close, the heavy sound of her footsteps, and then the slamming shut of the front door.

Rhiot buried his face into Loula’s fur and cried.

He didn’t wake up until well after noon. Loula had let herself in and out, and then curled up in the crook of his knees - Rhiot was a side-sleeper - until he woke up. His head hurt, and his hands shook from what was probably more hunger than nerves. Loula informed him that Mercado was downstairs, and Rhiot hesitated, considered going right back to bed. Loula huffed sternly at him, so instead, he dragged himself into the bathroom for a shower that took an hour and a half.

When he finally came downstairs, bleary-eyed, Rhiot jumped at the sound of a joyous shout, and then a huge pair of arms wrapped around him and crushed him to someone’s chest. Loula let out and eager yip and wriggled past Rhiot’s legs; someone else dropped down to scratch her ears.

“How long were you gonna sleep?” Parker laughed; Palamo finally let go of Rhiot and held him at arm’s length, grinning hugely and wearing an eye-searingly colorful flowered shirt. Once Rhiot recovered from the temporary blindness of bright pink flowers against a neon orange background, he spotted Hunt and Dixon both on the single, sad couch in his living room, arguing over how to put together a mess of an IKEA entertainment center, Parker leaning up against the wall near the door, and Mercado at the table, unpacking a slew of brand-new kitchen utensils.

“What’s going on?” Rhiot demanded of Mercy, who had the biggest grin of everyone there. Palamo finally let go of Rhiot, just in time for Hunt to ambush him and tackle him into the wall. Rhiot let out a startled laugh and shoved him away, and ducked when Dixon reached over to ruffle a hand through his damp hair.

Well, at least they were still alive. Rhiot had no idea how. They’d managed to lure the cape and trap them in a part of town already evacuated, but he was still certain there had been civilian fatalities. Hopefully, not from their own actions - but Rhiot, honestly, was too tired to speculate if his bullets had struck a bystander.

He felt bad for thinking that, or he would have, if he didn’t currently carry the bone-deep exhaustion of six other bodies with him.

His control had slipped, and they all felt not only the weariness, but the pain of their bruises and cuts. “Share it out,” Parker had said, “you’re carrying too much, Archer.”

So he’d let it go. He’d let go of too much, and so along with the pain and the soreness, they all felt a panic grip their stomach, and Rhiot wasn’t sure who it came from. Maybe it was from all of them.

He found Mercado hiding. Hiding, when she was always the first into the fray. Rhiot’s shaky hands helped him climb over blocks of debris from a crushed building; every inch of Mercy’s normally dark tan skin pulsed with a neon purple light. She gripped her gun too tightly to her chest for it to be of any use, had it been an enemy, and not Rhiot, creeping up on her.

Loula whined. She padded ahead of Rhiot, and stuck her nose under Mercy’s elbow.

“I couldn’t breathe,” she sobbed, grabbed Loula’s harness and burying her face into the dog’s brindled fur. Rhiot just nodded and ignored the slight shadow-pressure against the back of his shoulders and around his chest, as Mercado dropped her gun and gathered Loula into her arms. “I couldn’t breathe.”

“We know.” Rhiot squatted down next to her, reaching out to scratch a spot on Loula’s back. “It’s fine.”

His own words were hollow, and they did absolutely nothing to fill the yawning pit of terror and shame that he was now sure came - at least partially - from Mercado.

Palamo was the next to find them, puffing as he hauled himself over the remains of a wall, and let himself down into the little hollow Mercado had tucked herself in, amidst all the devastation. The big man said nothing, just dumped his own rifle and gear, and strode over to pull Mercado up to her feet, and into the biggest hug he could manage.

She burst into tears. Rhiot felt them prickle at his own eyes, and then finally reached, mentally, to dampen down on their connection, cut it only to visual - and then hesitated.

She hurt. They all hurt.

Mercado sent him a teary-eyed look over Palamo’s shoulder, and Rhiot saw himself standing there, smudged with dirt and coal and blood and his own tears.

“I don’t want to be alone,” Mercy whispered. “I’m scared.”

Parker and Dixon were next to join them, and last of all, Hunt; they all arrived within the same sixty seconds, all weary and bruised and exhausted. They’d all heard Mercy, of course, and more importantly, Rhiot realized after he did some sifting through their tangle of emotions, they all felt much the same.

He looked to Parker.

Their leader sighed, then pulled off his helmet and dropped it on the ground, so that he could run a hand through his sweaty mat of hair. Wordlessly, he shrugged, and Rhiot took that as permission to keep the link going.

Palamo, completely worn out, sank slowly onto the ground again, settling up against the wall. Mercado stayed latched onto his arm, crying into his shoulder, and after a moment, Dixon joined them. The older woman wrapped her arm around Mercy’s shoulders and stroked her hair, making quiet, hushing noises.

“There’s plenty of room,” Palamo said, after a long moment, looking up at the other three men. Parker hesitated, looked down at his watch, then announced, “I’m fuckin’ tired. Reporting in can wait.”

He dropped on Palamo’s other side, pressing his back up against the bigger man’s side, and heaved a gusty sigh, tipping his head back with his eyes closed.

Rhiot glanced over at Hunt, who scoffed and shook his head. “Don’t give me that look,” he said, “I don’t need none of that crap.”

Eyes still closed, Parker said, “You’re shaking, Hunt. Get your ass over here.”

With that permission, Hunt - just aching to be included, Rhiot realized, sprawled down with his head and shoulders on Parker’s legs, covering his eyes. Everyone pretended not to hear the ragged sob that clawed out of his throat after a moment.

Rhiot found himself a place a moment later, tucked a little awkwardly onto Palamo’s and Mercy’s laps, with Loula curling up as tightly in his. Mercy’s glow slowly faded, and so did her crying, until they faded into the even, regular breathing of sleep.

Nobody moved.

When November Red didn’t report in, their superiors were, understandably, concerned. There was visual confirmation that the target was dead, but nothing had been heard from the MUGD team ever since, and so local law enforcement was dispatched to find them - and any others, survivors or fatalities - that hadn’t made it out of the danger zone.

An older policeman was the one who found the team of soldiers, and he let out a startled, relieved laugh, before stifling it and waving the others over. One of them took a picture, which Hunt would later demand, furiously, be deleted and absolutely not put on one of those damn feel-good TIME websites of the year’s best pictures, or what-the-hell-ever.

Six soldiers and their dog, all curled tight together and sleeping deeply. Parker somehow got ahold of the picture, and Hunt and Mercy both swore up and down that it would never happen again.

The next morning, in the hospital, a nurse walked into one of the rooms to find three hospital beds shoved together, the armrests removed, with November Red once again all piled on top of Palamo, with the best sleep they’d ever had in years.

---

not as good as the mi puppy pile, but poor battle buddies deserve it <3

He opened his eyes again and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket. A thin red scar crossed his wrist, newer than the multiple others. Javier had gotten a cup of ice on his way in, and he plucked out an ice cube now, before setting the cup down at a table near the door of the lab. Stepping further inside, Javier idly rubbed the ice cube over the inside of his wrist.

Milt had suggested he try that one out. Javier wasn’t sure that it helped.

A few forensics agents still lingered, going over the scene for the third or fourth time already. Little numbered tabs were set out by items of import, and no one had cleaned up Milt’s blood, or Dixon’s, or Winter’s. A set of red pawprints tracked to the door; Javier wondered what the dog would be able to tell them, through Archer.

Who is Winter? Javier had asked that, again and again, as many times as Milt had asked him. And it wasn’t until very recently that he’d finally gotten an answer, one that made his stomach churn.

How many generations would they ruin, just because each new group of children showed promise?

Javier turned to the side, stepped around a support pole, and stopped short at the sight of a chair, leather restraining straps dangling from the arms. And beyond that, a table, with a set of tubes and syringes and little white bottles laid out in methodical, precise lines.

It was noon, and spotlights blared in every corner, but Javier’s sight darkened at the corners of his vision. He could feel straps on his arms and legs, medical tape holding a thin, plastic tube to his skin. Every individual pinprick in the crook of his elbows and inside his forearms prickled.

“Barcos blancos en agua negra,” crooned a voice in his memories.

“Javier?”

He startled at the light touch on his elbow, tore his eyes away from the syringe sitting on the table, next to the chair, and stared down at Holly’s worried, wide brown eyes.

“Are you all right?” she asked. Javier hesitated, then shook his head.

“Thank you,” he said. “What did you need?”

A small crease appeared in between Holly’s eyebrows, but she didn’t ask. She probably already knew what was bothering him. Javier looked down at his hands, and realized he’d lost the ice cube somewhere. Hopefully that wouldn’t contaminate anything.

“Your phone was ringing in the hall, so I answered. It was the hospital. Milt Parker’s awake.”

At least Milt had picked a good spot to get shot in the chest. The labs might have been closed for the weekend, but the hospital across the way was not, and had more than enough facilities and personnel to care for the gunshot victims. Javier did not feel any more at ease among the nurses in their scrubs, passing by the occasional visitor carrying balloons or teddy bears or the weight of a shattered world on their shoulders. He stared at the back of Holly’s head as she led him along the sterile white hallways, trying to keep his mind following the tune of a cello sonata. He didn’t realize he was scratching at his wrist again until Holly turned and frowned at him.

“We’ll have to get you some mittens,” she joked. “Where’s your ice?”

Javier didn’t know. Holly sighed quietly, before they rounded a corner and found room 408. “Here we are,” she said, and then hesitated, glancing to Javier. “Do you want me to wait outside?”

He nodded, even though when he stepped into the room, closing the door behind him, Javier almost regretted the decision.

Dixon and Milt had been put into the same room. From the reports, Dixon hadn't been in as much danger, but she still slept heavily. The lights were off, the only illumination filtering in as slices through the window blinds. Javier tightened them closed a little more, before he sat down next to Milt’s bed.

The soldier hadn't even acknowledged his presence.

“Milt.” Javier kept his voice low, but the other man finally glanced at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m not.” Milt’s voice was flat and toneless, in a way that made Javier’s head snap up. Had he been drinking - but he was in the hospital, of course not, and Javier knew what Milt was like on pain meds. It wasn't this quiet, still, shell of a man.

Javier hesitated, then asked, “Did anyone tell you what happened?”

“Only that Dixon will be fine. Eventually.”

This wasn't Milt. Even drunk, even drugged, Javier knew he should be far more concerned than his dispassionate, empty voice showed. Milt sounded like -

Milt sounded like him. Like Javier.

Javier looked down and realized he was scratching the inside of his wrist. He forced himself stop, as Milt said, “Tell me.”

“Your daughter was taken by the woman who shot you,” Javier said warily, watching Milt. “We don't know where, or who she is or who she’s associated with. Winter is -”

“I don't want to hear about Winter.” There was a hard edge to Milt’s voice as he stared at the ceiling, the most expression he’d yet to show. It wasn't enough, Javier thought.  

Milt closed his eye. “The medication is messing with my vision. I can't sleep.”

Javier dug his fingernails into the skin of his forearm and dragged them down the long, thin line to his hand. “Are you seeing anything - valuable?”

“No,” Milt said. He sighed and put a hand over his face. “Only monsters. Only myself.”

He’d explained before what narcotics did to his foresight. Javier looked down at his hands. “Do you want me to…?”

Milt drew in and exhaled a long, ragged, pained breath. His voice was just as broken when he whispered, “Please.”

Javier reached out and brushed his knuckles against the back of Milt’s hand. Asking had probably been unnecessary - besides Holly, Milt was the only powered person Javier knew that wasn't bothered when his power was nullified.

But this time, Milt sucked in a breath. And then he lurched in the bed, grabbing onto the arm rails to try and push himself upright.

“Shit,” Milt gasped, and then, with more feeling, “shit.”

“Milt -”

“Fuck - Fuck, Javi, she’s gone, she’s gone and I couldn't stop it - I fucked up, I ruined everything-”

Javier put his hands on Milt’s shoulders and pressed down - a little too hard, he realized, when Milt let out a gasp of pain. He was crying, now, tears welling from underneath his eyepatch, and Javier felt a sudden surge of panic. It was hardly the first time he’d seen Milt cry, but never like this -

“Lie down, lie down,” Javier said, keeping as firm a pressure as he could on Milt’s shoulders. It didn't take much, and Javier suddenly realized that Milt had lost weight, since he’d seen him last.

Milt raised a hand, trying feebly to bat Javier away, but Javier just grabbed it and held tight. The bullet had hit more to the right than the center, and a little high; Milt couldn’t move his right arm without a great deal of pain. “Milt, it’s - it’s fine,” Javier said, “we’ll find her -”

“I lost her -”

Javier didn't know what to do. He looked across Milt’s bed - but the privacy curtain between them and Dixon was pulled shut, and he couldn't tell if she was awake or not. Milt’s words broke down into sobs, and Javier slowly, slowly eased up on him, and then sat back.

He took Milt’s hand again. Javier’s phone buzzed in his pocket with a text, but he ignored it.

“It’s okay, Milt,” Javier murmured, even though it wasn't, and Javier wasn't sure how he could do anything to smooth things over. Milt and half his team had acted without orders, effectively gone rogue - the exact thing they were supposed to prevent. Javier had been scrambling for days, trying to find a way to justify their actions, and calling in favors. He only hoped it would be enough.

It had to be enough.

“I failed her.”

Javier look at Milt, but he was staring at the ceiling again. “I failed her, even though - even though I tried, I didn't - I didn't  know -”

“It wasn't your fault,” Javier said, and Milt let out a bitter laugh, harsh with self-loathing and disgust.

“It was, Javi. Just like it was my fault that Tucker died, and Charly - if I stayed, maybe - maybe -”

Javier wrapped his other hand around Milt’s. His phone vibrated again. “Milt,” he said, quietly. “It happened. I’m sorry. The only thing you can do now is rest.”

“I don’t want to rest.” Milt’s voice was tiny, child-like, and Javier understood the helplessness behind it all too well.

“I know,” he murmured. Javier stayed there, holding Milt’s hand and keeping his visions at bay, until the soldier finally cried himself to sleep again. Even then, Javier didn’t let go until his phone went off a third time. Sighing, Javier only peeled away one hand, pulling his cell out of his jacket inside pocket.

Talked to director. Said it would be divulging prior client info, so were kicking it upstakrs, str8 to mercury. Driving now, will let u kno if M will allow.

Sorry tl hear about ur pirate buddy. If u need a healer, lmk, but he’s few states away & v pricey. Wish u werent having a rough time. If u ever get sick of gov work, we’re hiring ;)

“Don’t do anything stupid,” Milt says.

“I won’t,” Char says, and lies.

Milt waits at the kitchen table with the lights off. He doesn’t hear the stairs creak, even though he’s never managed to avoid the noisy ones. Char’s probably got all the squeaky stairs memorized and catalogued away.

She pauses when she turns the lights on and sees him at the table. Nothing shows on her face; Milt doesn’t know if she’s just that good, or if he’s just that blind.

“You can’t go,” Milt tells her.

“I’m not going anywhere.” She says this like he can’t see the backpack stuffed full on her back. 

“It won’t fix anything.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Char insists, coming into the kitchen. She sets the backpack on top. “I’m just getting things ready for tomorrow.”

Milt frowns at her, picks up the beer he’s been sipping from, and takes a drink.

The vision fuzzes out. Milt doesn’t try to keep it - he can already tell that he took the wrong tack in that one. He looks at Char in the living room, typing furiously at her computer. She’ll probably tell him it was some kind of online homework assignment, if he asks. He doesn’t ask, and opens the fridge again, looking automatically for the alcohol Char had hidden away from him. He still can’t find it, and yet he keeps checking the same damn places again and again, like he thinks they’ll magically appear.

She won’t try tonight. He’ll go over to Mercy’s and share hers.

“Where’s my laptop?” 

Milt can tell she’s angry because she looks just like Charly used to, when she was trying not to yell. He closes the fridge, beer in hand, and shrugs.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.” Char paces around the kitchen and angrily yanks open the cupboard beneath the sink. Her laptop’s in its sleek carrying case, even though Milt knew that the pipes hadn’t leaked in years. “What are you doing?”

“You can’t go.”

Char lets out a bitter laugh that doesn’t quite fit her. “Try and stop me.”

Milt takes a drink.

He loses that vision while he’s standing at the sink, washing dishes. He bet that wherever Winter had kept her, Char hadn’t had to ever do the dishes, because he can’t remember her ever doing hers since she got here. He’s annoyed by it for all of three seconds, and then reminds himself that he’s only annoyed because he hasn’t had a drink in two days because he’s too stupid to find where she’s hidden it all. He’d thought maybe she had just dumped it all out in the backyard somewhere, but Rhiot and Loula were over here, now, and Loula had given him a doggy grin and Rhiot had regretfully said, “Sorry. It’s here, but she made us promise not to say where.”

Where does she get off, thinking she can handle his problem? Milt scowls and splashes himself with dishwater as he dumps a couple plates far too forcefully into the sink. Char, just coming through, wrinkles her nose as a few droplets of soap splash onto her.

“Want me to take a turn?” she asks.

“No,” Milt snaps, a bit too harshly. He doesn’t feel bad about it until later that night.

“You think you can stop me?” Char yells.

“I know I can!” Milt snaps back. “This isn’t going to end well -”

“How do you know!”

Milt points furiously to his one remaining eye. “How do you fucking think? You know everything already, or at least you think you do, but I see what’s gonna happen - “

“No, you see just one possibility,” Char says, as if Milt doesn’t know that, as if she knows his powers better than he does. “One out of, like, a thousand, and anyway, you told me, you only see pieces -”

“I can see enough -”

“Like fucking hell!” Char yanks her backpack off the table, too quickly for Milt to nab it first. “You never saw me! You never even bothered to find out!”

Milt stares at her, furious and guilt-ridden and sick and fucking hell, he needs a damn drink. He grabs the bottle off the counter, takes a swig, and then puts himself in between Char and the exit.

“I’m here now,” he seethes, “and I’m not letting you leave.”

That one’s bad. Milt’s down in the basement, and he sighs and leans over the washer, head in his hands. The time is coming - he can feel it. But what can he do? He pokes and prods at the visions in his head, over and over, trying to find what would work, what could convince her to stay, to talk to him, to explain what happened to her and what she’s trying to do and can’t she just see, he can’t lose her. Not after he’s just found her.

The washer’s been making a clunky noise all week. Milt bets Char could fix it in three seconds, but he’s shy of asking her when he’s been kicking this beat-up old machine back into shape for years. She’s already fixed the dishwasher and finally hooked up the TV he bought three years ago and about five thousand other things he never quite managed. At least he can fix a damn washer.

He opens up a small closet in the corner and drags out the toolbox. Behind it, the light catches on the sheen of brown glass bottles. Milt stares.

It’s been a week.

Milt waits at the table, this time with the lights on, so Char already knows he’s there. He pretends that she won’t know he’s pretending that he isn’t waiting for her when she steps into the kitchen, and looks up with a tired smile.

“Made you coffee,” he says, and points at the mug waiting on the edge of the table closest to her. It’s still steaming. He has a bottle of beer open in front of him.

Char’s eyes go to the bottle, and this time, all he notices is the slightest tightening around her eyes. “Thanks,” she says, and picks up the mug. “Guess you found it, then.”

“Took me a while.” Milt forces a grin, but it drops quickly. He looks down as Char takes a long, long drink. “Under the sink.”

He speaks a beat before Char starts to ask, “Where’s -” She cuts off, sighs, and moves to the sink, reaching underneath to pull out her laptop. When she straightens back up, she can see a dozen empty beer bottles in the sink itself, and frowns.

“Are you making up for lost time, or...”

She turns and sees Milt’s tired smile. He tells her, “You should sit down.”

Char does, blinking several times at once. “How - How did you know it was drugged?”

Milt’s eyebrows shoot up. He hadn’t known. He didn’t tell her that.

“Head down on the table,” he says, instead, as Char looks down at her mug of coffee and swears. Milt reaches over and slides it to the side, and she obediently puts her head down and leans forward, so that when the sedative gets to the rest of her, she doesn’t slide off the stool.

“I’m sorry,” Milt says, but he waits until he’s sure she’s deep asleep to say it. He picks up the beer, looks at it, and then dumps it down the sink, where the rest of the booze had gone.

How did you know it was drugged? No wonder Milt had been able to find it. No wonder all his visions stopped after he’d taken a drink.

It’s been a week and a day. Milt picks up her backpack and her laptop and heads out the door.

Char’s a genius. She’s more than that. Milt doesn’t have even an eighth of her intelligence, or her resourcefulness. He doesn’t have enough brain cells left to add 2 and 2 together.

But he has the experience that Char’s genius, as great as it is, can’t provide. And he has a team that’s ride-or-die, that’s just as furious as he is. He has a DSA agent waiting across the street, ready to come in and watch over her, and who knows a guy who’s good with computers, maybe even good enough to get into Char’s. Milt has eight days of sobriety and the vision to get him past that bastard’s front door.

He has a hunch someone will die, but he knows - knows with a certainty - that it won’t be Char or any of his friends.