#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

___

“I can’t believe you drugged your own daughter.”

Parker pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to let this go.”

“Hell, no,” Dixon said, clear across town. She misses the weight of her gun from her shoulders, even though they’re all supposedly on leave and definitely not supposed to be toting around weapons. She thinks it might be Mercado’s fault, because she knows for a fact that Mercy keeps about fifteen different firearms at her own place, and practices with them regularly. 

Thankfully, all Mercy has on her tonight is a modest little revolver. They’ve all low-key been wondering if maybe she feels sick.

“It’s your daughter,” Dixon goes on, “you can’t just drug your own flesh and blood.”

“I didn’t have a choice -”

“Oh, don’t give me that bull,” Dixon snarls. She wants to say worse - they all do - but they’re all linked up through Archer, and even though Dixon thinks that Archer could stand to let loose with an f-bomb of his own every once in a while, she holds back.

It’s not even her anger that’s got her shooting her mouth off. Parker’s furious, after their first lead came up a dead end - and then so does the next, and the next, and now the certainty that had led him out of his house with purpose in his step has faded to a cold weight in his gut. Dixon feels the shadow of it, and it outweighs her exasperation at all of Parker’s issues.

Once, she’d leave Parker to fend for himself. But that was before Archer and what he could do, and now Parker’s pain and anger is hers, and if she hadn’t dumped all her own problems on their pathetic, ragged little group, Dixon would have opted out of this one.

Instead, she straightens up as the warehouse door opens. Mercy stops kicking around the empty trash can, which is all that they’ve found in here, and instead turns her gaze on the poor schmuck who just slunk inside.

Dixon almost feels sorry for him. It’s probably for the best that Parker’s not there with them in person.

___

Spending time around Javier means that Milt’s gotten fairly good at working around blind spots in his vision, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy. This is - This is different. It’s not until Alex spills his guts to Dixon - who, with her low, smoky voice, is a thousand times more intimidating than Mercy’s broad-shouldered, gun-toting blustering can ever manage - that Milt realizes he’s been going about this the wrong way entirely.

He wants to hit something. Instead, halfway through Alex’s chattering, Milt’s the one hit, with a vision so strong that Archer has to cut him out, for just a moment, so that it doesn’t overwhelm the rest of them.

“Parker?” Archer asks, barely keeping up as Milt turns on his heel and makes a beeline for the car. “We - We have an address.”

Milt doesn’t answer. He’s alone, now, at least in spirit, and he drops into the driver’s seat, wrapping his hands around the steering wheel and closing his eye. He’s grateful the others hadn’t just seen what he did, because Milt knows for a fact that not a single one of them would agree to what he’s about to order them to do next, if they had. Loula hops into the passenger seat, scrambling over the center console to take up residence in the back, and Archer settles in the front.

“Everything all right, sir?” Archer asks, cautiously. Milt lets out a long, slow breath, and presses one hand to his chest, directly between his ribs and over his breastbone.

“Loop me back in,” Milt says, his voice quiet. He can see the end of the night - of everything, maybe, and he can’t tell if this is dread or anticipation. “I have a plan.”

___

He doesn’t expect the plan to actually work. Milt and Archer are the closest, but it’s going to take Mercado and Dixon forever to catch up, even with Mercy running every red light and stop sign she sees. Archer tamps down on their visual connections, mostly so that Mercy and Milt don’t get confused while they’re driving, and get into a collision.

It’s happened before.

Part of Milt wants to ram the car straight into the front door of the hospital labs. Instead, he parks a block away, much more politely, and tips his head for Archer and Loula to follow. Archer peels away about halfway to the building; for once, he’s on recon instead of Loula, and Loula’s is Milt’s backup, instead of one of his human teammates.

Loula’s better at following orders. She hasn’t gotten that trained out of her yet, not like the rest of November Red. Sentience is an inconvenience sometimes, Milt thinks dully, as he breaks into the lab’s back door that’s already been broken into. Of course, Archer’s good enough that he doesn’t question Milt’s decision. Not out loud, anyway.

“Think you can move a little faster?” Milt growls. Mercy scowls.

“Dixon’s car’s a piece of crap.”

“Hey, leave my car out of this.”

Milt glances down at Loula. “Watch your blind spot for once, Archer,” he mutters, striding through darkened hospital corridors. He reaches around the small of his back for the fifth time, checking that everything is in place. He shoves and shoves and shoves at his anger, until he finally manages to take a breath that isn’t as shaky as the fear driving him forward. It’s only crippling them now, and it isn’t fair of Milt to let it bleed out so much.

Loula lets out a soft huff as Milt places a hand on the handle of a door with a strip of light leaking from underneath it. His hand shakes, and Loula leans briefly against him, shoving a flood of calm-rest-quiet-think-love at him.

It helps. Milt arches his eyebrow, and realizes why Archer can’t stand to be away from his dog.

“That’s a new trick,” he tells Loula, and she wags her tail once. Archer, still outside, smiles a little, and Milt blinks when he understands that these aren’t firsthand emotions - Loula’s pulling them from another source. Multiple sources.

“You’re all a bunch of saps,” Milt mutters with faux disgust, and pushes open the door.

___

Winter is the kind of person that if Milt ever saw on the street, he wouldn't have given him a second glance. But the second glance reveals something about the man that unsettles Milt, and he doesn't think it's the way Winter is standing up from a chair with restraints hanging open from the arms, far too close to his daughter.

"Now, Miss Parker," Winter is saying as Milt and Loula slip through the door, "perhaps we can discuss this reasonably."

"Get the fuck away from her." Milt's voice startles them both, but Winter is better at hiding it as he turns to look over his shoulder. Char looks up, too, and that look stops Milt dead for a split second, because he knows that dead-eyed, bleak gaze. He's seen it in the mirror a thousand times, and more.

Only, he doesn't think Char's been drinking herself into oblivion just now.

Neither of them move, until Milt pulls the handgun from underneath his coat and points it at Winter.

“Milt.” Char’s voice is a queer mix of blank and fearful, broken and robotic. The slightest tilt of a smirk crosses Winter’s face, but he obediently takes several steps away from Char.

Milt needs to shoot him. Now. They’re alone. Loula, sniffing around the edges of the room, sees no one, and Archer, outside, is keeping a careful watch. Dixon and Mercy are on their way, but they won’t be needed, if Milt just pulls the trigger. Now.

Now.

“Milt,” Char says again, and never before has he hated his own name so much, than the second he hears it from his daughter’s mouth. Her voice is a little stronger this time, as she adds, “Please - you can’t -”

He tunes her out. Winter puts a support pole in the middle of the lab - also doubling as a place to hang all sorts of safety memos and reminders - between them, so Milt steps around to keep a clear line of sight. He puts himself squarely in front of Char, and feels some of his anger bleed away at the same time.

“I was wondering if I’d ever meet you, Mr. Parker,” Winter says. He keeps his hands in plain view, but only partially-raised, merely humoring Milt. “I confess, after your previous years of disinterest in Miss Parker’s welfare, I’m surprised to see such passion from you now.”

That stings. Milt grits his teeth. He needs to shoot Winter, he needs to kill him - 

“Ignorance isn’t disinterest.” Milt takes one precious second to glance over his shoulder at Char, and Winter disappears completely into his blind spot. When Milt snaps his head back, though, Winter hasn’t moved. Milt’s voice is tight with anger as he adds, “You would’ve seen this passion years ago, if you hadn’t stolen my daughter.”

Fuck, why is he still talking? With every passing second, the wrath that carried Milt here dwindles. Like now that he’s found Winter, and found Char, and seen that she’s - well, at least not dead - killing him doesn’t matter as much anymore.

Whatever. Milt’s still going to shoot him. That’s the mission objective.

“Charlotte,” he says quietly, because now the anger’s been replaced with a sudden concern, “go outside with the dog.”

“No,” Char refuses, in little more than a whisper, and Winter chuckles.

“I think I can see where the stubbornness comes from,” he muses. “You have quite a bit of it. We can fix that.”

What?

Milt’s eyebrows furrow, until he realizes what’s happening - that his anger isn’t being replaced with relief, it’s being drained away. He swears softly under his breath, when normally it would have been a shout, a demand for Winter to stop what he was doing. When it should have been Milt pulling the damn trigger.

And now he no longer wonders why his visions had been oddly flat, while he was scoping this encounter out.

“You’d better quit that,” Milt says. His voice is even. The sudden levelness concerns him - and then that concern is gone. Milt shifts his grip on his gun, but he does not shoot. “I don’t think you’ll like it.”

Winter smirks again, but the look on his face does nothing to stoke Milt’s rage, as it pulls away from the soldier. And as the anger goes, and the relief at seeing Char alive and well, and the conviction that keeps Milt’s finger on the trigger, something else wells up to the surface, until tears prickle at the corner of his eyes and his pistol drops.

It’s guilt.

It’s the guilt Milt’s carried for over a decade. The guilt he’s locked away and stuffed down and drowned with bottle after bottle after bottle. Guilt for not being there for Charly when she died, for all the people he’s killed and all the people he hasn’t, and the ones he couldn’t save. Winter keeps unspooling the layers upon layers of shame and regret that Milt’s lumped around for years, until the sudden, sharp, constantly refreshed pain of having let Char somehow fade from his thoughts stab him in the gut.

“Is this your atonement, Mr. Parker?” Winter purrs. “Your grand attempt to make things right? Do you believe that if you kill your daughter’s captor, you’ll be worthy of her forgiveness?”

Milt doesn’t deserve forgiveness. He doesn’t deserve anything.

A soft whine breaks into his thoughts; Loula, putting herself in front of Char, and blocking the teenage girl from throwing herself in between the two men. Milt - no, Archer - rubs the tears out of his eyes and grits his teeth, and Mercy’s idling at a stoplight, snarling through her own watering eyes, “Stop fuckin’ listening to him, sir.”

Something bumps up against that terrible guilt, in much the same way Loula bumps her head against Milt’s hand for pets and scratches. Calm-calm-calm-good-love-you-are-good-quiet-remember-

Winter’s eyebrows arch. There’s a long silence, as Milt stabilizes and takes a deep breath, and then a slow dread rises as Winter says, “There’s more.”

Oh. Fuck no.

“Archer,” Milt whispers. “Cut me off.” He feels all that Loula’s giving him, now being pulled away by Winter. He can’t let that happen to his team - he can’t let that happen to Archer.

“Sir,” Archer objects, and so Milt looks at Loula. Her ears pin back and she whines again - but then Milt’s vision narrows, to nothing more than the slice of his one eye, and all that his team has given him is gone.

Winter purses his lips. “Interesting.”

“Shut up.” Milt grits his teeth. “This isn’t atonement. This is a mission.”

“Is it?” Winter tilts his head just slightly, and then digs in, and now it’s the guilt being siphoned off. The guilt, and everything else - all the dregs that are left, every last shred of Milt that is even remotely human.

He closes his eye and lets out a long, slow breath.

“Well.” Winter straightens the cuffs of his plain brown suit. “Now that that mess is out of the way, Mr. Parker, Miss Parker, I believe I’ll -”

“Don’t move.” Milt’s gun comes back up, refocuses on Winter as he takes a step. “You aren’t leaving.”

Winter eyes Milt and his pistol with displeasure. “Mr. Parker, what on earth could now make you still want to shoot me?”

The small smile that crosses Milt’s lips is dead and unfeeling, as hollow as the laugh he forces out. “Sir, this was never about want.”

Milt straightens a little, taking one hand off the grip of his pistol to spread it out. “I can’t tell you how much I wanted this. How much of the drinking and the smoking was just to force all of that down - and now you just took it away. See, I almost never wanted to kill anyone.”

He resettles his grip on the gun, shifts his stance. A vision is slowly building; with practice born from a lifetime of controlling his abilities, Milt lets it play out in the back of his mind. “But that’s an inconvenience in a soldier. So. Congratulations. You just did what all the brainwashing and indoctrination never could.”

Milt takes two very deliberate steps to the left. He’s not fully blocking Char and Winter from each other anymore, but Winter is no longer that one Milt needs to protect her from. His gun stays on Winter, though, because if Milt looks away for a second, he will lose the man.

But he wouldn’t care even if he did. Not anymore. Milt feels absolutely nothing - none of the pain or the fear or even the righteous fury that brought him here. But nine days of sobriety and a complete absence of emotion have finally set his mind back on track.

Char’s a genius, and maybe her methodical thinking has rubbed off on Milt, or maybe there was a spark of that in him, that she somehow inherited. He feels nothing now, but Milt knows that he will later. All that regret will come rushing back, but so will all the love and concern and protectiveness he feels for Char. And so, Milt looks ahead, looks past a blank, heartless future, into what just might be an objectively better life for his daughter.

Dixon will be just a fraction of a second too late. She can teleport inside only because Loula is here, and Dixon can see through the dog’s eyes. Her orders are to grab Char, and port her back to Mercado, before coming back for Milt. 

Archer watches his blind spot too much, this time, creating a wholly new one. The bullet will come from one of the windows set high in the wall, from a small Asian woman Milt’s never seen before, and probably won’t ever again. If he stays in this spot, she will hit him.

But if Milt moves, the bullet ricochets, and it will punch a hole in Char just as Dixon appears.

So Milt doesn’t move. Because even though he can’t care that Char would die, he can’t care that he might, either.

And after all, this is what Milt was trained to do.

“And what was it, Mr. Parker,” Winter says thinly, “that I’ve just done?”

“You’ve created the perfect soldier, Mr. Winter.” Milt snaps up his gun.

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.