Book 3: Changing Tides

His handler had left for the night. How fortunate, then, that he left the Wolf untied.

(Not that the Wolf was sure he could get very far in his condition.)

He eased himself to the floor, happy to leave behind the bedsheets sticky with his own blood. He wasn’t standing on his own two legs anytime soon. The bathroom felt so far away, the carpet a hostile expanse he would have to traverse on his hands and knees like a man dying in the desert.

But the Wolf knew what was expected of him, so he pitched forward, dragging himself toward those cool, white tiles.

There was no point closing the door - he was alone here, and even if his handler returned, the Wolf had no right to privacy. So he laid on the bathroom floor, smooth tile a relief after the carpet had irritated his open wounds.

Right. Open wounds.

The Wolf crawled to his knees, blindly fumbling with the sink counter for the medkit his handler had left. The dim nightlight of the bathroom cast a blue-green glow, a faint shadow cast by his shaking hands as he leaned against the bathtub and prepared the suture needle. He didn’t have the strength to turn on the overhead light.

(He didn’t have the stomach to see himself under full light.)

He started with the deepest wounds, cuts that bubbled black with blood in the poor lighting. The Wolf bit his cheek and let the coppery taste of fresh blood replace the sourness in his throat. His handler was getting reckless - the Wolf wouldn’t be able to keep this up for long.

But maybe that was what he wanted: the Wolf too broken to take care of himself, completely reliant on his handler. A clay statue crushed and reformed under the artist’s hands.

He tended his wounds as best he was able, back and shoulders too difficult to properly disinfect let alone stitch. (His handler would take care of anything particularly concerning - it wasn’t like he wanted the Wolf dead after all. And if he did, well, there were worse ways to die than by the fever in his blood.) So, the Wolf ran the shower, rinsing off the worst of the blood and the filth and shivering under its icy stream. His injuries didn’t completely numb, but the cold was a relief from his own sweat.

(Still he could feel the burn of his handler’s warm skin against his own.)

Bruises mottled black alongside freshly stitched flesh, some older, some newer. This was the third night since they arrived in this city. The Wolf wasn’t sure he would survive the fourth, but that wasn’t his call to make. He just needed to be ready.

The water running off his skin was still pink with diluted blood when he turned off the shower, but there was work to be done. He stepped carefully from the tub, avoiding where his blood had pooled on the tiles. The Wolf set out the towels and hydrogen peroxide, the scent of cleaner a familiar comfort.

He was alone, and would be for the rest of the night. He could sleep alone beneath the window, listening to the city outside. Maybe someone would be walking on the roof across the street again. The bed would be left empty - he could change the sheets tomorrow before dawn.

He could get used to this routine, if it didn’t kill him.

But before he could make a first pass at mopping up the blood slick tiles, the door to his room clicked open. Dread settled heavy in his gut as his handler’s face peered into the bathroom.

“Get dressed. We’re going out.” The Wolf dutifully nodded, looking at the supplies he had laid out for a second too long. “Leave it - you can clean up tomorrow. Let’s go. Now.”

The Wolf rose and stepped through the blood, the urgency in his handler’s voice making his heart stutter. He said tomorrow - the Wolf would be coming back, alive. He just needed to get through the night, as always seemed to be his mission. Just survive to see another sunrise.

Again.

And again and again and again.

“Wait for back-up, agent. That’s an order.”

Jackson wasn’t particularly known for following orders. And something in Command’s tone implied they knew that reputation too well. It didn’t help that the targets broke routine, traveled far and fast, and Jackson was the only agent on duty at this ungodly hour the day after New Years.

Jackson turned off his earpiece, giving Command plausible deniability if this went tits up. They knew where he was. It wasn’t like the targets could get anywhere in the country without MI6 or other Interpol associates breathing down their neck.

He had them cornered, and a silenced pistol in his hands.

And Jackson wasn’t an idiot - they were drawing him out, two against one, taking advantage of his confidence because this was his home turf. He didn’t expect any less from the CIA’s golden boy.

He didn’t know what to make of the man with him - Command called him a freelancer. Hired muscle, Jackson supplied when they didn’t elaborate. He had no ID or even a callsign. But Jackson wasn’t thinking about that as he wove between the alleyways, knowing the pair had holed up at a dead end behind an abandoned factory.

Not a bad place to have this little spat.

He double checked his ammo - if he was lucky, and the American was smart, no bullets need be exchanged tonight. But Jackson didn’t need the CIA agent alive. He just needed the location of the asset he had smuggled into the country.

He took a breath, steeling himself for the confrontation, when a muffled pop punctuated the eerie winter silence. For a brief moment, he thought it was a distant, belated firework. Two more pops followed in quick succession and Jackson rounded the corner, pistol and torch raised, trusting the Kevlar under his jacket -

Agent Smith was dead, or would be soon, throat bubbling red and two fresh holes in the front of his jacket. His killer stood frozen in place, pistol still raised.

The man’s hands were shaking, and the wide eyed panic in his eyes clashed with his imposing figure.

“Well, no love lost between us mate, but I’d rather you put that gun down.” Jackson tried to sound friendly, unnerved by fear clear on the man’s face. He thought freelancers were supposed to be professionals - hitmen, assassins, and the like. Not…scared.

And this man was terrified, eyes widening a fraction as he looked between Smith’s twitching corpse and Jackson, who made the mistake of taking a half step forward. In an instant the muzzle of the pistol was under the man’s jaw, eyes screwed shut, trigger pulled -

“Don’t!” Jackson nearly charged the man before the click of an empty chamber echoed softly in the alleyway. He sighed in relief, lowering but not holstering his gun. “Christ alive, what the hell’d you do that for - ”

Jackson, for the record, did not yelp when the man chucked the pistol at his head, but he did make a rather undignified sound as he narrowly avoided a nasty headache. When he turned back, the stranger had vaulted over the chain link fence, landing badly on the other side with an audible sob before scrambling to his feet and bolting toward a broken in factory window.

The MI6 agent looked between the dead American, the retreating stranger, and the dark clouds above that were beginning to spit lovely English sleet.

What a hell of a way to start the year off.

He couldn’t breathe - he couldn’t breathe - fuck, he couldn’t fucking breathe -

What had he done? What had he done?

Why? Why would he do that?

How had he done that?

(Who was his handler now? )

The Wolf couldn’t breathe - couldn’t think - not with the sound and the light and the exposure of being seen -

The Box. He needed the Box. He had made a mistake - he disobeyed, indirectly - he needed to be put away for a bit until he could think himself to death and figure out what the hell he just did.

This ancient supply closet would do, filled with long expired chemicals and cobwebs. Small. Cramped. Dark. Door closed. Alone.

Think, you dumb mutt.

Breathing was getting easier, thinking wasn’t. His mind was filled with frozen molasses, the last few moments playing back like a rewound VHS.

He ran from the enemy. (Coward.) He collapsed from pain after vaulting over the fence. (Weak.) He threw away the gun, he hadn’t spared one of his handlers three bullets for himself. (Idiot.)

But before that - what had happened? He was tired, still bloody and exhausted from his earlier punishment. And with exhaustion came resentment - dangerous, volatile.

Something that could simmer low, unchecked by a brain too focused on mere survival. Something that would wait until his handler peered around a corner, groping for his pistol that the Wolf had lifted from its holster with steady hands. Something that curled in satisfaction at the fear in his handler’s eyes, anger burned away by acceptance as the first bullet cut into a tender, unprotected throat.

And now, having unfurled in all its glory, that resentment withered to sickly regret.

What was the Wolf without his handler? Certainly not whatever he had been Before. Now, he was a coward, weak and stupid and crying in a broom closet like a frightened child.

Boots disturbed broken glass, uneven footsteps intending to slip past less sensitive hearing. But the Wolf knew who was there, creeping down the hallway. He had been listening to those boots for days now. The airport. The hotel hallway. On the roof across the street.

(His handler didn’t ask what the Wolf heard or knew, so he hadn’t shared their tail with him.)

(Now it felt like a betrayal worthy of every second of agony he had endured over the last few days. Worthy of whatever hell lay ahead of him.)

The Wolf didn’t flinch as the door opened, but he hadn’t expected to be found so easily. (There was dust everywhere here - an observant tail would clearly see what door handles were recently used.) (Idiot.)

“You…alright there, mate?” The Wolf was so, so tired. Was he supposed to respond? Did it matter? “Hey, you hearing me? Look at me.”

The Wolf blinked, the ingrained desire to follow orders as soon as they were given turning his eyes from the floor between his knees to the face at the doorway. For all he had heard their tail these last few days, he had hardly seen the enigmatic man.

He was currently soaked, the Wolf suddenly realizing the drone in his ears wasn’t panic but the rain outside. But besides the rainwater beading down the stranger’s face, there was a pair of steely grey eyes looking down at the Wolf with an expression he couldn’t make sense of. Was he angry? Sad? Frustrated? Annoyed?

Whatever it was, it wasn’t pleasant.

The stranger dropped to a crouch in the doorway, the Wolf tensing in anticipation of a blow. Of unwanted hands. He tucked his head under his arms with a strangled sob, waiting waiting - just get it over with already -

“Easy, love, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m Agent Jackson. What’s your name?” His name. The script. The Wolf uncurled a fraction, head still ducked but looking vaguely in the agent’s direction.

“I am Wolf.” His own voice felt clunky in his sore throat, iron on his tongue as he swallowed back the pain. The agent nodded, gentle grey eyes beckoning the Wolf relax against his better judgement.

“You’re a freelancer, right?” The Wolf didn’t know what that meant, but his empty stare was taken as confirmation. “Did Agent Smith hire you?”

“No one hired me. I work alone.” The Wolf bit his tongue until he tasted fresh blood. He had gotten ahead of himself, and now the agent was making that face again -

“You were with Agent Smith earlier, right?” He have a stiff nod. Lying would hurt more in the long run. He just needed to stick to the script.

“Why did you kill him?”

The Wolf’s breathing shuddered. He had, hadn’t he? He killed his handler. He was no different than the rabid dogs he had seen the project put down. A broken bastard that bit the hand that fed.

“I didn’t - it was a - please - please, it won’t - sir, please I can’t - ” Begging never helped, sometimes it hurt, but it was the only thing he could force between hollow gasps. But he couldn’t - he couldn’t survive another punishment. Not now. Not with wounds so fresh and a body so broken. “I can’t.”

Somehow, the agent seemed to understand. Somehow, the agent was generous enough to grant the Wolf a temporary reprieve.

“Shush, shh, it’s - it’s alright love, you’re not…I’m not fishing for a confession.” The agent swallowed, uncertainty in his eyes as he glanced down the hallway. The Wolf could hear approaching tires in the distance. “Agent Smith had something that I’m looking for. An asset he stole; do you know what I’m talking about?”

The Wolf stared into those soft grey eyes. Wasn’t he the asset? But the Wolf wasn’t stolen - he was transferred, for a disciplinary interim. That’s what his handler told him. Did this agent not know that? Was this agent unaffiliated with the project?

“Nevermind - let’s - let’s get you out of here, alright?” There was a shuffle of fabric, and the Wolf flinched, folding in on himself. But no hands grabbed hold of his arms and dragged him to his feet. All that followed was a soft sigh and whispered words. “C’mon mate, get up; let’s get going.”

The Wolf glanced between strands of his own tangled hair, the stranger standing still. Waiting. Patient. Soft. Everything his handler never was. Everything a weapon like him wasn’t allowed. His breathing shuddered again as he gulped down a lungful of air.

Get up. An order. Lesson number one. Do as you are told, without hesitation.

His legs strained, shaking under him as the Wolf stumbled to stand in the cramped broom closet. He could feel himself trembling as he looked to the agent for approval. Those grey eyes flicked down the hall, expression gentle as he nodded and started walking.

“Follow me.”

One foot in front of the other.

Endure.

Again and again and again. Just to see another day of pain. Just to maybe see the sun once more.

Again and again and again.

Jackson was going to be in so much trouble for dipping before back-up could arrive. He was going to be in trouble for frisking a corpse without gloves. He was going to be in trouble for forgetting to re-enable his comm when chasing after a target of unknown threat level.

But mostly, Jackson thought he would be in trouble for taking that target to a quaint hotel at the edge of the city. If he was a less valuable agent, he might not be allowed to get away with a stunt like this.

The walk was long, cold, and dreary - at least Jackson’s heavy trench coat kept everything but his head dry. The stranger - ‘Wolf’ - didn’t seem to mind the weather, or at the very least didn’t complain and wonder aloud why they couldn’t flag down a taxi. He always kept a pace and a half behind Jackson, just out of arms reach. The same way he had followed Agent Smith when Jackson watched them from afar.

Curious.

Half the reason Jackson was willing to get in trouble was this stranger’s curiosities. The gun he had shot Smith with was Smith’s own weapon - Wolf himself appeared to be completely unarmed. (Not that a man of his physique needed a weapon to be lethal.) That was the first curiosity. The second was…everything after Jackson opened the closet door. He expected an ambush - a trap made from expired chemicals or improvised weapons. Not a man curled on the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. Like a child hiding from a wrathful parent.

Jackson still wasn’t completely sure what a freelancer was, but it sure as hell couldn’t be this - skulking behind him like a shadow, avoiding eye contact, speaking so low he almost couldn’t understand the man. Command hadn’t been forthcoming on his identity - and Jackson knew they were keeping him in the dark, at least until the mission was done.

He was curious.

It wouldn’t kill him.

Probably.

—

The hotel wasn’t the best, but it was nice enough. Low profile, but off Command’s active radar for illegal activity hot-spots. Any good agent worth their salt had a few personal fake IDs, just in case. They wouldn’t be found here, not anytime soon.

“You can clean up first, I’m sure you could use the hot water more than me.” Jackson flashed a smile, but Wolf’s expression hardened as he nodded in reply, stalking to the washroom like a soldier on a mission.

Another curiosity.

Aside from a well disguised limp, Wolf moved like a soldier. He didn’t have the purposeful poise of an agent - American or otherwise. He took orders quite seriously. Wolf hadn’t moved since he and Jackson entered the room, as if waiting for instruction. Blunt, to the point, comfortable in a hierarchy - now that didn’t sound like a runaway spy’s associate.

The bathroom door locked, and Jackson turned to the bed with a sigh. Of course they only had singles left. He paid for a couples room, even if it left his skin buzzing. It shouldn’t have bothered him, but his paranoia was acutely aware of how the secretary had raised a brow at his refusal for separate rooms.

(God, what did Wolf think of that?)

(…)

(What did they care? It was 2004 for God’s sake.)

(…)

(He still felt like the eyes of others always seemed to know what he was.)

Jackson tossed the duvet and the spare pillow to the ground. He could sleep on the floor just fine. He didn’t want to make Wolf uncomfortable. (And a small voice in his head whispered he didn’t want to give Wolf any more reason to kill him. How easy it would be for Wolf to kill him here, alone, without witnesses, and for his death to be brushed off as just another murdered poof.)

The agent turned out his coat pockets, setting what he had collected from the dead American on the bedside desk.

A room service receipt - it matched the hotel he had been staying at, but the wrong room number. Smith certainly seemed the type to choose two rooms for two people, but the sheer scale of the bill - the wine, the dinners - it didn’t meet the income of a spy in hiding. He had friends in high places (literally - Jackson would have to case the penthouse tomorrow).

The hotel room key was additional confirmation that Smith was likely traveling within the hotel. It was for the room Jackson had been stalking the last few days. The blinds were always drawn, but he could see light and movement from time to time.

The third item he snagged from the corpse was…odd. It looked like a car’s key fob, or a small, oddly shaped television remote. It only had four buttons. Unthinking, he pointed it at the television in the room, and clicked the most well worn button.

The yelp from the bathroom startled him - more so because he hadn’t expected to hear from his quiet guest. It hadn’t been particularly loud, but it had sounded distinctly pained. The thud that followed was equally concerning.

Jackson bolted to the door, stopping himself from trying the handle he knew was locked. He knocked softly, trying to keep his voice even.

“Wolf? Is everything alright?” When no reply came, he pressed his ear to the door. The sharp, agonized breathing between sobs was enough to spur him into action. “Wolf I’m going to unlock and open the door if you don’t say something.” His lock picking tools were easily slotted into the door’s mechanism. He had it unlocked, but he knocked again. “Wolf, are you alright?” The silence was deafening. “I’m coming in - please say something if you’re…”

The sight shocked Jackson to silence.

It shocked him to being 15 again. 15 and finding the corpse of a girl he had shared classes with stuffed behind the bleachers, obscenities carved into her bloodied and bruised flesh. That moment had led him here, more than a decade later. A professional MI6 agent looking down at a man beaten and bloodied that very same way, but by some cruel miracle still alive.

Jackson dropped to his knees, still processing the flesh in front of him. Bruises mottled from aged yellow to fresh blue along Wolf’s ribs, skin marred by scars and old burns. Cuts were tallied on his shoulder - like someone was keeping score - and the small, circular burns that trailed Wolf’s forearms were difficult to see against the thick bands of bruising from too-tight restraints and red rope burn. Wolf was kneeling next to the tub, keeled over with his back to Jackson. Between the blood and the bruises, the agent could make out two words etched across Wolf’s shoulder blades:

“BAD DOG”

Under the flickering fluorescent light, Jackson couldn’t read what else was carved across Wolf’s back, but those bloodied letters were cut deep into the muscle. Jackson let his eyes wander the room, finding Wolf’s rain soaked jacket and thin t-shirt neatly folded on the toilet seat. But Jackson’s eyes were once against drawn to Wolf when a violent shiver wracked his bare torso. The words contracted and stretched, weeping anew with fresh blood.

Unthinking, he let a shaking hand graze against the butchered carving before him. His words were soft, but the pity blooming in his chest made them waver with overwhelming compassion.

“Who did this to you?”

The trembling body under his fingertips stilled, and reality came crashing down on him as Jackson froze in turn. Wolf sat up slowly, broad back straightened until he sat taller than Jackson. (Blood ran in rivulets from the letters.) Dark eyes peered over his bloodied shoulder, damp with tears and expression unreadable.

Jackson was just about to jump to his feet, to mention that he had a medkit with a sterile suture needle, when Wolf lunged at him.

His brief panic at the sudden movement faded quickly as he realized what was happening. Strong arms had wrapped around him like a vice, but they were shaking - hands desperate and grasping at the back of Jackson’s shirt like he would dissolve without the contact. Jackson held Wolf’s head to his chest as he sobbed. He couldn’t touch his back without hurting him, and right now, Wolf just needed a shoulder to cry on. Jackson carded his fingers through sweaty, tangled hair and hummed soft reassurances.

Any thought of sating his curiosity tonight was discarded.

It didn’t matter who had done this, not right now. All that mattered right now was that they weren’t here.

The Wolf waited. He drank every second of gentle touch he could get and he waited for the price to be exacted on his already rent flesh.

It never came.

He cried himself to exhaustion, nauseous with the knowledge he was too tired, that it would kill him to take any more punishment. (He didn’t want to die.) But the hands that pulled his tear stained face from the agent’s tear soaked shirt were gentle, holding his jaw like it was a fragile thing. And the eyes looking down at him - alien with their pity - had no sharp edges trying to cut into his own pain glazed eyes.

“I - I have a medkit. Would you - do you need help, stitching up your back?”

The Wolf stared up at him, too tired to process the words beyond ‘help.’ He didn’t get help - he got treatment. He recovered enough to be broken again. But there was a finality to the way this man said that word, like it meant something more than a temporary state of being.

“Okay. I’m - I’m just going to get my medkit, alright? Alright.” Jackson was talking more to himself, and the Wolf was fine with that. The words were starting to blur together, the sound of a particular voice that didn’t come with hurt or insults or harsh hands. Jackson’s gentle hands propped the Wolf against the edge of the tub, an arm draped over the side and his head resting against the cool false porcelain plastic. He was so fucking cold. He just wanted to curl up somewhere warm and sleep.

(He wanted to crack open Jackson’s rib cage and slot himself between his lungs.)

He was shivering intermittently when Jackson returned (had he been gone long?) but the Wolf was just happy to have that warm presence hovering near him again. The agent sat beside him, the space between the sink and tub a cramped and uncomfortable place to fit two grown men, but the Wolf didn’t mind.

(How odd, that just hours before he would dread having another warm blooded body close to his, and now - now, with this one, he wanted to cling to that warmth like a leech.)

The click and snap of a syringe being prepped had the Wolf open his eyes, glancing over his shoulder at Jackson, who offered a nervous smile.

“It’s a local anesthetic - is that alright?” The Wolf blinked at him, and then looked away. He didn’t know how to answer questions about his comfort, his wants. (He just wanted to sleep.) The kiss of the needle was expected, but the bloom of cool numbness it bestowed where it pricked his back was a welcome surprise.

“I’m - I need to clean these. Even with the anesthetic it might hurt.” The Wolf could feel those alien eyes watching the back of his head, so he nodded. “Sorry.” Jackson had nothing to apologize for.

The sting of antiseptic was absent, but the pressure and prickle of exposed flesh being prodded and debris teased away was a familiar sensation. His handler had cut into him on the first night, reckless with rage. The Wolf tried not to dwell on the memory, but a tremor shivered up his spine as Jackson worked, gentle hands pausing.

“Are you alright?” Another nod. Another soft ‘sorry’ that felt unwarranted. It was the Wolf’s fault for being weak. He tried to focus on the steady rhythm of Jackson’s stitches, oddly difficult to anticipate with his pain numbed flesh.

Three days of those deep cuts left exposed, open to the air and sweat and worse. They would scar, badly, like the cuts that ran from his right hip to his spine, skin ridged and thick with scar tissue. His handler wanted them to scar badly. He wanted the Wolf to remember - to remember that he -

A sob caught in his throat, the shock collar still heavy around his neck. It wasn’t set to voice activation - he didn’t think it was - but it had shocked him earlier. Had his handler done that? Had his handler survived and was watching and would kill Jackson or have him kill Jackson and - ?

“Easy love, I’m almost done. You’re doing so well.” A voice so soft and so different from the barking orders and snarled insults he was acclimated to. The Wolf blinked away fresh tears, struggling to find his voice, a hoarse whisper rising from his ragged throat.

“Is he dead?” Three little words; a question he couldn’t stand to know the answer to. A question he needed to know the answer to if he ever wanted to sleep again. Jackson’s hands, cold - so cold against the Wolf’s burning, numbed skin - stilled, a steady palm pressed to a small expanse of uncut flesh. But not too hard, mindful of his bruises.

“Yes. Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.” The Wolf could hear a question in those words, but he was too relieved to consider it. Jackson - anyone - could kill him, let him die badly, alone, and bloody, and he would die happy. He outlived his handler. A victory he didn’t know he needed.

Jackson resumed his steady handed stitches, and the Wolf let his head drop, thoughts running watery and disconnected. The hum of the light above. The creak of the window pane holding back the wind. The footsteps in the room above - light, belonging to a child, a bed creaking and muffled voices soft with sleepy affection.

“You’re warm.” He sure as hell didn’t feel warm. The Wolf looked over his shoulder at Jackson, instinctively flinching as a hand came toward his face, but he relaxed into the icy touch pressed to his forehead. He almost missed it when it left. “Here, are you allergic to ibuprofen?”

The Wolf looked down at the red pill and the almost comically small paper cup with a swallow’s worth of water. His stomach ached, hunger and nausea fighting for recognition even as he downed the medication and splash of liquid. He had taken harsher drugs with less in his stomach. (Not that what was roiling in his gut was pleasant or nutritious.)

With a shudder he rested against the tub once again, Jackson’s hands and sterilizing wipes traveling away from the oldest, deepest cuts. The antiseptic stung, a familiar pain that burned like acid over his wounds. But Jackson didn’t linger, didn’t press the antiseptic deeper into his flesh. He stitched the deepest wounds, bandaged the rest, and worried over surface level burns as though the Wolf could still feel them after the years of his handler’s habit leaving its mark.

By the time Jackson was putting away his medkit, the first grey glow of dawn was seeping through the rain dappled window. The Wolf hadn’t moved in hours, sitting still and as comfortable as he could be while Jackson worked. He was so tired. And when he limped out of the bathroom after Jackson, there was a wonderful nest of blankets and pillows waiting on the soft carpeted floor.

“You take the bed, I don’t mind sleeping on the floor - besides, your back could…” Jackson trailed off as the Wolf wandered to the crude bed on the floor, dropping harshly to his knees and collapsing into the softness.

In his daze of exhaustion, he barely registered the anxious horror of knowing Jackson wanted him on the bed. That was a problem for a well rested Wolf. That was something he could handle tomorrow, that he could survive tomorrow, that he could stomach tomorrow.

Right now, there was a soft surface below him, a heater humming to his right, and a painlessness to his injuries that should have frightened him.

But he was too tired, so he slept.

Jackson sat at the desk for an hour, ass going numb in the hard wooden chair. His brain wasn’t much better - he hadn’t slept, and he was thinking himself in circles too much to even consider it. So, he sat, and watched the half dead man he spent most the night stitching back together sleep soundly on the floor.

He couldn’t drag this guy back to Command, not with the shape he was in, not knowing how eager they were to crack him open and find any secret Smith had left behind. But he couldn’t just stay holed up in a mediocre hotel all day either - hell, Beth probably was worried sick after the disappearing act he pulled last night. God, he was in for a brutal verbal beating, but he needed to get it over with.

He needed someone on his side who could help him figure out what the hell to do.

The blackberry flip phone rang once, twice.

“Hello?”

“I’m alive, by the way.” He swallowed a nervous chuckle, keeping his voice quiet. While he worried he might wake Wolf, the man lay as still and as deeply asleep as he had been all morning.

“Jackson. I’m going to kill you.” Despite her tone, he knew she was relieved. “Command has had half the cops in the city combing for you, we’re all casing the neighborhood you last commed from - what the hell happened?” There was a beat, her anger and frustration distilling to icy suspicion. “Why are you giving me a personal call instead of comming Command?”

“One of the targets is dead.”

“Yes. I noticed when I showed up to a back alley at fuck o’clock in the morning looking for you, ya wanker. One to the head, two to the chest - like a professional.” Jackson opened his mouth, then closed it. Command probably monitored their calls.

“It’s easier to explain what went down in person, but suffice to say I’m safe and the mission isn’t compromised; I just bunkered down for the night and…forgot to comm in.”

Beth hissed a sigh, accepting his excuse easily enough. It wasn’t his first time ‘accidentally’ leaving his comm off.

“Do you have the target’s hotel key?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Good. Meet me at the hotel by 9. Command wants us to inspect the room before we let forensics take a stab at it. Wouldn’t want those idiots losing the asset.”

Whatever the hell that even was.

—

Jackson acknowledged Beth as she stepped into the elevator. Professional and fresh, ready for the day. Unlike Jackson, who was predictably haggard after a sleepless night. Not to mention he was worrying himself to death thinking of Wolf waking up alone - would he even notice the note Jackson left?

Would he trust Jackson enough to stay put?

“Sleep well?”

“Terribly. You?”

“Wonderful. 9 hours straight.” She cracked a smile and elbowed him. Comms were on. Command was listening and despite it all she trusted him enough to act like she wasn’t worried. “Averaged together we’re fine. Your place really that bad?”

“Just a bad night.“ He could explain Wolf’s situation later; they were on the clock.

The door opened with a chime, the pair stepping out and heading to the dead American’s hotel room. 24D. Jackson tried the keycard twice before giving up and using the traditional key. Hopefully this dumb electric key nonsense didn’t catch on.

The ‘do not disturb’ sign jangled as the handle turned.

“Bloody hell…” Beth sighed; Jackson could smell it before he turned away from closing the door. “We need to call the boys ASAP. There might be another body.”

Jackson had to agree, the room did look like a murder scene.

Three nights. He had watched the window from the roof of the building across the street and noted the lights went off at 20:00 every night. No movement. Beth confirmed as much during her shifts. How did they miss this?

Blood was still wet where it was pooled on the bathroom tiles, tub streaked pink from a quick rinse. Suture thread and a bloody needle were smeared in handprints on the edge of the sink. But that was tame compared to the mess that was the bed.

There was only one bed - queen sized, for a couple’s suit. The sheets were a tangle of blood and worse - the salt of sweat and the distinct sour tang of vomit hung heavy in the air.

(Wolf’s refusal to sleep on the bed made more sense.)

(It had taken Jackson hours to properly clean and stitch and bandage the wounds across Wolf’s chest and arms and back. Jackson shuddered at the dawning horror that he certainly had worse left untreated.)

“Command.” Beth had made her way to the window, cracking it open with gloved hands despite the winter chill. The fresh air was sorely needed. “We need forensics at Smith’s hotel. This place looks like a slaughter house.”

“Say again, Agent Adams?”

“Forensics. Smith’s hotel room is a bloody mess and I don’t have the stomach to check the drains and bins for body parts.”

Jackson wasn’t sure they would find any. He almost said something before Command came through the line again.

“Can you identify the asset on site?”

“What is the asset?” Jackson asked with a thread of annoyance. He understood the secrecy but all he could think of was Wolf curled up in that broom closet and parroting clearly trained dialogue lines.

Command confirmed his fears.

“Romani male, dark hair, approximately 190cm, well built. Notable scars from tattoo removal on left side and right forearm - ”

“The asset is a person?” Beth’s incredulous stage whisper saved Jackson the embarrassment of letting his mounting anger bubble over.

“Yes. His designation is the Wolf.”

Jackson focused on his breathing, trying to purposefully move his own gloved hands to sift through the dresser drawers. Wolf. He was the asset. Property of the US government.

“You didn’t think to tell us the target was - this would have been a hell of a lot easier if we knew we needed to separate the two tangos.”

“The information was need to know, and you didn’t need to know.” Command paused, but spoke before Beth’s muttered curses could roll through the line. “Agent Smith and the asset were together, correct?”

“Until last night.” Jackson felt the lie chipping his teeth. (What would have happened to Wolf if he had reported his presence last night? What would happen if he handed him over to Interpol now?) “What happens when we find him?”

“Interpol wants him alive. That’s all I’m cleared to tell you, and I’m only telling you because from what it sounds like there’s a good chance Agent Smith liquidated the asset before we could get to it.”

“Liquidated. Sure.” Beth scoffed, uncomfortable nausea rolling in her words. Jackson knelt next to an unzipped duffel bag, leafing through the folded clothes with disinterest. He was half dazed by the information - he should say something, he should ask for more information - but the comms clicked dead.

It was just him and Beth now.

“Beth.” His voice felt small. The other agent sucked air through her teeth and grimaced.

“I don’t want to see a dismembered limb or dead or - ”

“Beth, I don’t think there’s a body here.”

Oh, fuck, he left an internationally sought after asset in his crappy hotel room with a note saying he would be back in an hour or two. For all Jackson knew Wolf had already skipped town.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell, I shouldn’t have left him - ”

He was already out the door before Beth could answer. She chased him to the elevator, stripping off her bloodied gloves.

“What the hell are you talking about? Jackson, I know you didn’t get much sleep, but you’re - ”

“I left the Wolf at my hotel because he was unarmed and scared and hurt and I thought - I didn’t think. He wasn’t in any condition to talk so I didn’t say anything to Command because I was just gonna help patch him up, figure out what the hell happened to him, and I now realize I have left the mission objective alone in a first floor room at the Well’s Inn across town.”

The elevator doors opened with a ping, a clearly stressed pair of tourists and their young son squeezing into the elevator. Beth spent the remaining 28 seconds of the ride to the ground floor trying to melt Jackson’s face with her eyes alone.

It wasn’t until they got into her car that she snapped.

“What the hell do you mean the asset is in your fucking hotel room?” Beth was kind enough to start the vehicle and begin speeding across town, aggressively driving and definitely breaking a few speed limits.

“He killed Smith.”

“Oh, and that’s supposed to inspire confidence - you’ve got a murderous asset in your fucking hotel room?”

“Elizabeth, something’s wrong.” The use of her full name got her attention as she impatiently waited at a red light. “I don’t - you saw Smith’s room. That’s his blood. Wolf’s blood. Smith did that to him. I spent half the night patching him up and I didn’t even - oh, Jesus, I only saw what was under his shirt.”

“Okay. Okay that - that is fucked up. And - and fuck, we need to find him, and get him to Command. We need to tell Command - they, they’ll know what to do.”

“They’ll just hand him over to the CIA agents in Interpol. God knows what they’ve got in mind for him. Poor bastard.” Jackson muttered, partly to himself.

He knew the internal investigation Smith was escaping was messy. But he also knew that it was…fruitful, if Interpol wanted the ‘asset’ he ran off with. The agency thought they could use Wolf. How and what the terrified man sleeping on the hotel floor could be used for, Jackson wasn’t sure.

But it couldn’t be pleasant.

The pair of agents barreled into the sleepy hotel, briskly making their way to Jackson’s room. It hadn’t appeared that the window had been tampered with from the outside but there was a chance…

The door swung open, hinges squealing as Beth swept the room with her pistol, Jackson following close behind. And there was the Wolf, kneeling at the foot of the bed, looking up at them with a painfully blank expression.

“Sir.” He acknowledged with a dip of his head, dark eyes flicking between Beth and Jackson, fear and apprehension storming behind a facade of calm. Beth looked to Jackson, holstering her weapon.

What now?

The Wolf felt himself drift in and out of consciousness, the din of the street outside and soft warmth around him surreal. He didn’t want to open his eyes, to wake up from the bizarre and ethereal dream of safety.

A sharp pain behind his eyes pried him from the embrace of sleep, the waking world reigniting the pain that laced his body. Every breath burned, his skin broke out in goosebumps, and he could feel every itchy inch of bandages, medical tape, and stitches strewn around his torso and arms.

(His legs were still sticky with drying blood and burning where raw flesh was left exposed.)

His headache was making him nauseous with pain, eyes barely open as he navigated to the bathroom on unsteady feet. The Wolf swallowed back a whimper when he stubbed his toe on the foot of the bed and knocked his tender shoulder into the doorframe - odd. He was so used to this room by now; had his handler moved the furniture last night - ?

His handler was dead. The Wolf had killed his handler.

(“Agent Smith is gone. He’s dead.”)

(Whose voice was that?)

The Wolf stumbled, eyes gradually opened as he braced against the bathroom sink. He sucked down lungfuls of air, grounding himself in the pain of each breath stretching the stitches in his back.

In. Out. He was alive. His handler was not.

In. Out. He was in a different hotel room. The agent’s name was Jackson.

In. Out. The wounds above his belt were cleaned, closed, and covered with tenderness beyond his understanding. But the agent had wanted him to sleep in the bed.

The Wolf’s breath hitched, then silenced, holding his breath as he listened to the room. There was no other heartbeat, and at a glance, the bed was still empty and clean.

(He had left the other hotel bed a bloody, filthy mess, intent on changing the sheets in the morning - )

He was alone. The Wolf ran cold water from the tap and splashed his sweaty face, vision sharpening and brain focusing on the mirror in front of him. It was instinct to shy from the face in the mirror, a person he didn’t know, a person he once was and could never be again. But today he stared at bloodshot eyes, widening with understanding.

His handler was dead. Jackson tended his wounds. Jackson left him alone. (Even if he had wanted the Wolf on the bed.)

There was a time when the Wolf would have jumped out the window and run until his legs gave out. (Which, if he did so now, wouldn’t get him very far.) There was a time when the Wolf had tried to run, and faced the consequences of that cowardice.

But Jackson wasn’t here. His handler was dead. The Wolf was alone.

He limped out of the bathroom, blood stained t-shirt and rain damp jacket in hand. (Would Jackson want him dressed?) The bed was indeed still made, seemingly untouched. Where had Jackson slept? Had he simply left after the Wolf passed out?

(Did he want the Wolf conscious and lucid for whatever he had planned?)

The Wolf shivered, shrugging his still damp jacket over his back. Maneuvering to put on his t-shirt might be difficult with his stitches, and his feverish skin quickly warmed the inner lining of his jacket.

He listened for the tell-take hum of electronics - bugs, cameras, whatever the agent had left behind to monitor the Wolf. There was nothing but the buzz of the fluorescent lights and the distant gurgle of a coffee machine. (Coffee. God, he would kill for a good cup of coffee. How long had it been?)

The only thing out of place was the notepad on the desk, hotel branded pen left uncapped beside it. It took some staring for Wolf’s eyes to decipher the handwriting. (It wasn’t particularly sloppy, it had just been so long since he had the opportunity to read something - )

“Be back soon - 1-2 hours (around 10 maybe?) -Jackson”

The digital clock on the desk read 9:23. The Wolf wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do during the interim. He picked up the duvet and pillow from the floor, tossing them into the laundry bin - the bloodstains were almost imperceptible, but who knew what standards Jackson had. He pulled a new pillow cover and blanket from the dresser, setting the bed as he supposed it should look. (He couldn’t remember seeing it last night.)

The digital clock on the desk read 9:27.

God, he hated the waiting. It wasn’t the shivers that wracked his body or the way his legs cramped where he knelt on the thick carpet that made him miserable. It was his own brain. Running too fast and too hot and with too many new variables to settle into that far away place he went to when his handler was too close for comfort.

(Was Jackson his new handler now?)

(If so, what was the consequence of killing his previous handler? Even biting back could be punished with liquidation at the bunker. The Wolf was obviously still alive because he didn’t deserve the mercy of even a messy death.)

(But Jackson was…wrong. He talked about helping the Wolf, not treating him. He talked about an asset his handler had stolen, like he didn’t know what the project was. Not that the Wolf knew what the project actually did, but - )

There were footsteps he recognized. And footsteps he didn’t. The Wolf let a tremor run down his spine before steeling himself, eyes half-lidded, hands limp and nonthreatening.

Even with the stranger’s pistol aimed at his head, he didn’t flinch. The Wolf lifted his eyes to acknowledge Jackson.

“Sir.” He didn’t make eye contact. That would be too direct. But the Wolf did let his eyes flick to the newcomer. A white, well dressed woman - was she an overseer? The Wolf thought he remembered an overseer, or handler or two that were women. (They were never any softer than the men. Sometimes they seemed worse - sharpened by the hostility and competition of the bunker.)

He couldn’t suppress a shudder, part shiver from cold and part tremor of fear when she stepped into the room, back turned to the Wolf as she faced Jackson. The Wolf looked to his new handler savior, eyes damp and dark and begging:

Don’t. Don’t let her touch me. I can’t. Not now - not like this - his old handler had promised he wouldn’t share the Wolf again - never again -

The far away came quickly, their hushed tones heard but not understood. He didn’t need to be present. He didn’t want to be. And with an unsteady breath, he was gone.

Beth’s grip on the steering wheel was white knuckled, the soft pop rattling from the radio muffled by the wind and rain outside. The man in her passenger seat snored softly, interrupted by the twitching gasps of a dream she didn’t dare imagine.

She wouldn’t admit it to Jackson, but she wished he was here. She didn’t know how to look at the man who knelt on the hotel floor like he was a dog waiting for a bone. She couldn’t stand listening to him shiver, so she had cranked the heat up to the point where she was sweating under her raincoat.

(And still, every now and then, Wolf shivered like he would never be warm again. Jackson was right about him being in a bad way - fuck knew what was infected, but something had to be with what she had seen and smelled in that hotel room.)

Beth still wanted Command to take over. She still didn’t trust Wolf. Just because a rabid dog was wounded, that didn’t mean it was harmless.

(Didn’t mean it could be saved.)

But Jackson talked her into taking Wolf up north - her sister, Mary, ran a clinic in a village, far from Command’s prying eyes. A quiet, cloistered corner of the countryside where Wolf would be safe.

(Where he couldn’t do much damage.)

Beth couldn’t fathom that man’s mind - Jackson had fought hell and high water for his status in the agency. A status that was still precarious; given his demographic. If this little stunt of his got out…getting fired would be the least of his worries. And he told Beth as much when they sat and whispered arguments in the hotel bathroom.

(She didn’t like the way Wolf looked at them when they emerged and told him what they decided. It was like he could somehow hear them despite the distance and the door between them.)

Her thoughts were interrupted by a whine - she tapped the breaks, confused when it didn’t interrupt the sound. Great. The last thing she needed was to have her car breakdown on the side of the road in the middle of fuck all with an international asset that she was technically trafficking -

Oh. That’s where the sound was coming from.

Beth felt syrupy pity settle in her gut as Wolf whimpered in his sleep, breathing growing uneven. She had felt the same pity earlier when she realized he was shirtless under the unzipped jacket, bare skin a mosaic of bruises and scars and scratches and cuts -

She bit back a curse as the car rumbled over a pothole, Wolf jolting awake with a gasp and wide eyes, panting in his panic. Beth shot him a glance, the guilt creeping into her throat unwanted.

(She was the one risking her ass to help Jackson help him.)

“Sorry. Road’s a bit flooded with all this pissing rain. Couldn’t see the fuckin’ thing.” Wolf stared at her for a few seconds before mechanically sitting up in his seat, hands on his knees, eyes on the road. “We’re almost there; you can close your eyes a bit longer if you want.”

“Yessir.”

Beth bit her tongue, but let frustration tinge her sigh. She was paid plenty for this, but she didn’t have to enjoy it.

—

Her sister’s clinic was, thankfully, mostly empty on this shitty Sunday morning. It helped that it was just after New Years and half the staff was still on vacation time, only a skeleton crew on call for emergencies. Beth had stressed that it wasn’t an emergency, so even that on-call crew was thinned to her sister and a single nurse - Amira, her name tag read.

So, that left Beth alone in the waiting room after they took Wolf back to the exam rooms. She tried to distract herself with the ‘key’ Jackson had given her. Four buttons. A yellow power indicator. She was half tempted to start taking it apart, looking for bugs, when her sister poked her head around the corner.

She didn’t look well.

“What?” Beth was on her feet in an instant, defensive and catastrophizing. But Mary bit her lip, wringing her gloved hands. There was blood on the blue nitrile.

“How’s your lock picking?”

“What?”

“He - Jesus, Beth - he’s got a fucking bark collar on and it’s locked. I don’t think it’s turned on but - ”

“A what?”

“Y’know, one of those shock collars. For - for dogs.” Mary had seen folk in worse shape than Wolf, physically speaking, but seeing her this rattled… It forced Beth to take a breath and try to imagine Wolf as a civilian. As a non-threat.

“I can take a crack at it.”

She followed her sister to the exam room, steeling herself. She could still smell that hotel room and that blood and that sweat and - it still didn’t prepare her for the body laid on the table.

(She knew the slip covering below his waist was for her comfort, not his privacy.)

Beth took a slow breath, steadying herself as Mary led her toward the head of the table. Wolf was asleep - not deeply, eyes glazed and barely open.

“Sedative’s just about finished kicking in, doc.” Amira eyed Beth but said nothing as she continued prepping supplies. Needles, suture thread, gloves, antiseptic wash, items she couldn’t identify the function of.

“We - I mean we could try cutting it, but it’s clearly wired and, well, I figure you could at least try.” Mary handed her sister a pair of gloves, the nitrile fighting her sweaty palms. But Beth nodded, looking down at the collar around his neck.

“I might need - it’s gonna take some maneuvering to pick this with him laying down. Can you cover his back so I don’t touch anything I shouldn’t…” Beth trailed off with a shudder, eyes tracing what she could now see were letters, carved and stitched.

Across his shoulders was easy to read, centered and bold. ‘BAD DOG.’ And if her opinion of Smith could sink any lower, it would as she caught sight of the other carvings below.

Just above the small of his back, as if using his spine as a line, was two words. 'Smith’s Bitch.’

Beth blamed the nausea in her stomach at the sight of bone exposed by the deep cut that ran down Wolf’s lower spine, two flares making an arrow that disappeared beneath the slip covering his buttocks, rather than the implications it brought to mind. She went to work with singular focus the second her sister laid a sterile cover over the freshly stitched carvings.

The collar’s lock jiggle free in a matter of seconds, exposing raw, burn bloodied skin.

Beth was sent back to the waiting room, trying to breathe through her disgust and anger.

What the fuck was that American doing with Wolf? What could Wolf have done to warrant that?

There was no satisfactory answer, not one she could find sitting alone in the clinic waiting room and watching the rain pour down outside.

Those first few days were a haze. He wondered, between the fever and the pain, if it was all a dream. If he would wake up in his room, in the bunker. If he would wake up in the medical ward after another of his handler’s more violent punishments. If he would wake up and see Smith smiling down at him, alive and well and hungry for his pain.

But his handler was dead. The Wolf had killed Smith. One to the head, two to the chest.

(Professional, an echo in his memory hummed with satisfaction.)

He didn’t recognize the medical staff as he drifted in and out of consciousness with painkillers thick in his blood. They seemed more skittish than he remembered.

(The Wolf had the sinking feeling he wasn’t supposed to be here.)

On a more lucid day, he recognized a man talking to a doctor he also vaguely remembered. They had taken his collar off, or had been there shortly before. Were they putting a new collar on?

The Wolf blinked sleep from his eyes, trying to sit up even as his body and the doctor protested.

“You’re - no you don’t, you’re still recovering.” The doctor had a name tag. His vision was too blurry to read it, but there were letters. The medical staff never had name tags. No one in the bunker did.

There was a sound between a groan and a whine in his throat as he relaxed back onto the bed, pain radiating up his spine as his wounds made themselves known now that he was awake. Why was he so tired? He had slept plenty. His handler would need him ready -

His handler was dead. Right?

“Easy Wolf, you’re still pretty sick.” Hm, this man had told him his name, that night. The Wolf was pretty sure he knew his name. Maybe it started with an Sh? Or maybe a J? “Doc tells me you’re fighting off a nasty infection. Can’t catch a fucking break, can ya?”

He was starting to remember more, memories of that night trickling into his fever fogged brain. Jackson. Right, that was his name. He stitched the wounds the Wolf couldn’t reach on his back. He let the Wolf sleep on the floor, alone and untouched. But he had told the Wolf to take the bed and the Wolf had disobeyed and he was on the bed now -

A cold sweat broke out across his chest, breaths stuttering as the Wolf pushed himself upright. Sitting up pulled tight the canula under his nose, the IV and wires wrapped around his right arm snagging on the edge of the bed. The doctor made a nervous squeak as she rounded to the other side of the bed to adjust the equipment.

He kept his eyes wide, open, watching Jackson, ready so he knew what was coming -

Jackson took a step back from the bed. He was looking to the doctor for permission to step closer, of course - but then he locked eyes with the Wolf, too fast for him to avoid. He dropped his eyes to the bed below, thin sheets pooled over his legs (already shaking, like a little bitch, his handler’s voice snarled in his memory). He hadn’t meant to - he didn’t mean to look him in the eye -

“Wolf, do you remember me?” He glanced up, looking at Jackson’s belt and then back at his hands in his lap. The doctor stepped away from the bed, having adjusted his canula and IV to give him more freedom of movement. The Wolf grimaced at the implication and nodded stiffly.

“Yessir.”

“Good - that’s good.” Why did this agent sound so…unsure? None of the other handlers in the project ever sounded hesitant. (Lesson number one: do as you are told. And never hesitate.) “How are you feeling?”

There was no script for that. How he felt didn’t matter - did it? Perhaps it did - they said he was sick and he could certainly feel that.

“…cold, sir.”

“He’s not up for this, John.” The doctor walked back to Jackson, turning him away from the Wolf as she lowered her tone. With his hearing implants he could hear her perfectly this close in such a small room. “But we can’t keep him here - I am breaking so many rules letting him stay overnight for so long.”

“And I’m not exactly reporting this into Command, now am I?” Jackson grit out in reply, looking over his shoulder with a soft smile at the Wolf. He looked on with a furrowed brow. This agent wasn’t associated with the project. He was in theory working for…Interpol, maybe, who wanted the Wolf for…something. Probably their own project. Or to give back to his own project when this disciplinary interim was up.

(But he was a bad dog a failure he bit the hand that held his leash he killed his handler - )

“Wolf?” He flinched, Jackson closer to the bed than he remembered. “I know you’re still a bit out of it, but I want you to know: no one is going to hurt you. Not on my watch.”

The Wolf’s brow pinched in confusion. It didn’t sound like a lie - he was well trained in how to hear those - and Jackson was looking at the Wolf with eyes too soft and an expression to gently open to understand. Was he waiting for something?

“Sir?”

“You can call me Jackson, Wolf.” Something in the agent’s eyes shifted, a thought occurring to him. “Do you want to be called Wolf?”

The Wolf was Smith’s bitch. (It was there, carved into his lower back - forever.) A bad, rabid dog that needed to be put down for its own good and everyone else’s safety. The Wolf was collared and leashed to a distant bunker buried under American sand. But without his handler, without his collar, without Smith or anyone else from the project…was he still the Wolf?

“No sir.” The Wolf (?) could feel a prickle of fear run down his spine, pulling at his stitches. Who was he? Who had he been Before? The project was all he knew for so long - he knew he had Been before it, he just didn’t know how or who.

“Then what should we call you, mate?”

He had spent so long, so so long burying himself deep enough that no drug or pain or hallucination could draw a name from his lips. Was it his own or someone else’s he had forgotten out of fear? Out of love for what had been Before?

“I don’t know, sir.” His eyes fell back to his hands, absentmindedly running his fingers over the old, never quite right skin that had been grafted onto his right arm. He used to have a tattoo, didn’t he? Something was there, and now it wasn’t. Cut away and replaced but so obviously absent. “I… I don’t know.”

He hazarded a glance to Jackson’s face (still not quite reaching his eyes). The agent’s expression was soft, and sad.

“Alright then, love. We’ll figure that out another time then.”

Easton Howard. That was his name now. It didn’t sit well on his tongue, foreign in his mouth, but that was his name now. Jackson had an awkward smile as he handed over the fresh ID card.

'I’m terrible with names - we can change it later when you’re ready.'

(The Wolf wasn’t sure he would ever be ready. If he would (could?) ever unbury that box of secrets in his skull.)

That had been this morning, as they left the clinic. Dr. Ashford explained things about his injuries he already understood. (It helped that he had been sick long enough for the worst of it to heal.) But he promised her he would keep taking his antibiotics until they were gone.

Jackson’s explanation of his situation was…wanting, but East (the two syllables of Easton didn’t sit right in his mind) wasn’t going to complain. He was healed. He was healthy as he could be. His handler was dead. He didn’t really care what happened next - nothing and no one could be as awful as Smith, and he was gone.

(No one else could break him again, because he was already broken. How Smith loved to laud that over him, that no matter what it was he who had broken the Wolf - )

“I trust Nate with my life, Easton. I want you to trust him too. He won’t let anything happen to you.” Nathan. Right. Jackson’s contact at this…place he was taking East. Something about ex-felons and employment. East was far worse than any of them, but they wouldn’t know that.

“Yessir.”

“Hm, about - did you read the file I faxed over to Nate?”

“My name is Easton Howard. I’ve recently been released from Blackwater County prison. Five years ago I committed assault and burglary. I’m out on parole on account of good behavior. The Holloway House will give me an opportunity to find employment and become a contributing member of society.” East memorized the file before the car ride began. He was so happy to have a script to follow. At least when he was the Wolf for the volunteers, he could pretend he wasn’t hurt or afraid. (He could turn his resentment on the innocent, the weak, the powerless - for once he was the one in control.) “Don’t worry, sir. I’m a good actor.”

“Huh. If you say so.” Jackson looked at East out of the corner of his eye, clearly unconvinced. Somehow, it didn’t look like failure to East, and he was able to crack a smile and relax his brow. He was a good victim, a good monster, and now he had to play the part of a good civilian.

How hard could it be?

—

Hard. It was very hard. He didn’t realize how distressed he was until he was left alone in his room. Introductions had been a blur of nodding, half smiles, and a facade of boredom.

The Wolf - no, no he was East. Don’t break character on set. (He was always on set here.)

East sat with his back to the foot of his bed, staring at the closed door with his knees drawn to his chest. There was a lock on the inside. That was somehow the most unnerving part - that they gave him the illusion of power, of locking someone out instead of him being locked inside.

(Nathan had a set of master keys, for emergencies. The Wolf tried to forget this fact.)

His breathing was shaky as he tried to reign in his thoughts, reviewing the information rattling around his skull.

Nathan was the head ‘supervisor’ in the Holloway House. He was Jackson’s friend. Dark skinned, dark haired, dark eyed - but his presence was undeniably bright.

Nathan had asked East about ‘himself’ and he answered as accurately as possible, both with regard to himself and the man in the file. He didn’t have a gambling or addiction problem. He didn’t smoke, but wouldn’t mind a bit of drink. His employable skills were…lacking, but he was a hard worker.

(He didn’t want to share a room. He didn’t want a shared bathroom. He didn’t like to be touched.)

“It’s a bit unorthodox.” Nathan had said, scratching his bearded chin. “But even though you’re new I think we can squeeze you into one of the singles upstairs.”

The room was tiny - smaller than his room in the bunker. A bed that barely fit his bulky frame, a desk and chair with barely enough room to sit at wedged on the wall opposite the bed. An overhead light and fan. A cramped bathroom - toilet and sink, no shower unfortunately.

(But the Wolf would take whatever scraps he was given and be grateful for them.)

Introductions to the other residents was…fuzzy. Jackson had left at that point, reassuring East that he was in good hands, and as much as he wanted to believe Jackson, his brain could not shut off its hypervigilant paranoia.

Tierney was the youngest - scruffy, 22, and freshly on parole. Drug trafficking charges. Jacob was the oldest - late 60s, weathered by war and time, and evidently uninterested in getting acquainted with East. Nathan had informed him it wasn’t Jacob’s first stint at a halfway house.

There were a smattering of others - Ice had little skin visible beneath a tapestry of tattoos that ran up and down his arms, Mac and Tav had run in the same gang, and Alister…

Alister kept quiet, to the back of the group. Expression open but not smiling. Words gentle but unfriendly. He was tolerating East, or in the best case scenario, humoring him, testing the waters. It was a half whisper from Ice that made East’s blood run cold and stomach sour. Something about Alister being a skinhead prick.

And for some reason that vague knowledge had him mutter halfheartedly about a headache and needing some sleep. (He needed some time alone.) Nathan seemed disappointed for a split second but understanding as he herded East upstairs to his room.

There were only three private rooms in the house - his own, Nathan’s, and Alister’s. East pressed his still tender back against the cool wood of the bedpost, trying to ground himself. He focused on the soft patter of snow outside, January chill letting the flakes fall heavy.

Jackson couldn’t come back soon enough.

Routine took hold and East couldn’t be more thrilled. He had daily tasks to complete - cleaning his own room, setting plates for meals, dusting the common area. And Nathan was generous enough to explain how each task could be successfully completed.

He knew the others were watching him. Talking about him. His implants still stung where they hummed behind his ears. Part of him felt relieved for it; like the cameras in the bunker it was part of the act, a piece of the show. So long as he was observed, he was safely East - the enigmatic, antisocial, but diligent new addition to the Holloway House.

It was the times alone that were difficult to bear, as much as he breathed a sigh of relief hearing Jacob, Ice, Mac, and Tav leave for their day jobs while Alister attended some ‘skill building’ seminar Nathan drove them to. The house was locked, but he wasn’t considered a flight risk. He was safely alone and could finally breakdown and cry out all this stress -

“Oi, East - you in there? Telly’s fizzled out and I’m bored outta my mind.”

East couldn’t help the glower on his face as he cracked open his bedroom door. “Not my fucking problem.”

“Chill man, I’m just asking if you want to play cards. Nothing serious just some fun.”

Fun?

Tierney must have seen the flicker of confused hesitance in his eyes. The kid pouted, batting his eyes.

“Please? I’m gonna go nuts just sitting down there by myself.“

East glanced behind himself, pill bottle on his desk. He hadn’t taken any of the pain medication he had been prescribed - ‘as needed’ didn’t mean much to him. But if this kid was going to be a pain, what harm could one dose do?

“One game. Then you shut up, leave me alone, and let me take a nap.”

“Yes!” The former inmate was showing his age as he restrained a fist pump in the air, racing ahead of East’s limping gait to the top of the stairs. “Let’s do something simple - you know how to play War? Maybe Rummy…or Garbage - ah but that’s only 10 rounds it ends so fast…“

“Dealer’s choice.” East wasn’t going to admit he didn’t know how to play the games Tierney was talking about. Or any card games for that matter. (Did he? He remembered cards - the suits, the face cards - but not their utility.)

“Oh then we’re definitely playing War - we probably won’t finish before the others get back.” Tierney sat at the kitchen table, shuffling a deck and dealing two piles. East didn’t sit down until he saw where Tierney was putting his cards. But he settled into the chair, mirroring Tierney as they began to play.

The first few rounds were informative, each flipping over one card at a time, the higher value card ‘winning’ and letting the player add both to the bottom of their deck. East could see how this game could last all day, but at least it didn’t involved any of the loud table slapping and shouting he had heard during other card games.

“So, what’s your deal man?”

“Hm?” East turned over an 8 of spades. Tierney took it with his queen of clubs.

“Nate told us the basic y’know - new guy, skittish, not a fan of crowds, but - y’know - I’m curious. You’re an immigrant right?”

East felt a frown crease his face, even as his 7 of hearts took Tierney’s 2 of diamonds.

('Pity about the accent. I guess there’s always room for improvement.')

“What of it?”

Tierney opened his mouth and almost spoke, a pinch of annoyance fading from his face.

“Never mind. You’re a prickly motherfucker you know that?”

“Yessir.”

“Sir? I could get used to the sound of that - ”

“Don’t.” Despite the seriousness in East’s voice Tierney chuckled, either ignoring or - blessedly - missing the thread of desperation in his voice. East took Tierney’s king of spades with an ace of diamonds.

“I’m just jokin’ - but you do call Nate ‘sir’ all the time. It’s a bit…uh, unique.”

“Hm. A polite way of putting it.”

“You know it’s weird and you do it anyways?”

“Force of habit.”

“Oh.” Tierney hesitantly took East’s king of hearts with his ace of spades. “You serve?”

Probably.

“Yessir.”

“How’d a solider end up on assault and burglary charges?”

“Tough luck.” East lost a queen of hearts to Tierney’s king of clubs. “How’d a kid fresh outta school end up with felony drug trafficking charges?”

“Ah, you must not have heard.” Tierney smirked, taking a 3 of clubs with a 4 of hearts. “I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t seem it.”

“Nah, I was just a dumbass kid. Acting out for mum and da’s attention, y’know?” East shrugged. He didn’t. But Tierney carried on. “Got a bit of a reputation to live up to in my house.”

“Really?”

“You don’t know, do ya?” The Irishman laughed. They had both turned over a pair of aces. He began to layer three cards below, and East mirrored him exactly. He was more focused on the cards than the conversation. “How the hell do you spend five years in Blackwater and not know what the O’Hares have been up to?”

Panic flared in East’s chest, burning up his throat. But the pain medication in his blood made his thoughts syrupy - easy to put on a charade of calm, easy to let something slip.

“Kept my head down and mouth shut.” East didn’t like how hyper aware of his own tongue he suddenly was. (“Head back, mouth open. And for fuck’s sake relax, bitch.”) He needed the echo in his skull to shut up, to talk over it until it did. “What? Your father a mob boss or something?”

“Or something…” Tierney pouted when he turned over a 7 of clubs, losing to East’s king of hearts. “Damn, you’re one lucky son of a bitch.”

East swallowed a memory of iron and smoke on his tongue.

“Guess so.“ He stood, mind on getting a glass of water to wash away the phantom taste but his body sluggish, stumbling from the table.

“Hey, you good man?” There was the sound of a chair moving across the linoleum, a presence hovering closer, closer -

East caught Tierney’s hand before it reached his shoulder. He was mindful not to snatch the man’s fragile wrist with too much force, gently brushing it aside after a breath to steady himself.

“You talk too much.” He breathed through his mouth, if only to remind himself he could. East’s words were slow and clumsy on his tongue. “Headache. Mind if I close my eyes a few minutes? We can finish the game after, just - just need a minute.” There was a beat before Tierney hesitantly responded.

“Alright.” There was twinge of worry across the younger man’s freckled face. “Take the couch - no use heading back upstairs if ya want to finish the game.”

East nodded, pushing through the thickening fog around his thoughts. Couch. Lie down. Close his eyes. Just long enough to think clearly. Just long enough to feel rested and able to continue this charade of normalcy, this act -

But sleep was warm and dark and deep, and blessedly, dreamless.

“Wake him up and I’ll shank ya.” Tierney’s whisper from across the kitchen was venomous. Alister held up his hands, eyes wide and movements exaggerated as Nate closed the front door behind them.

“What’s - ?”

“New guy’s taking a nap.” Alister whispered over his shoulder to the supervisor, shrugging off his jacket and hanging it up before he tip toed to the kitchen. Tierney was well into a game of solitaire. “How long has he been down?”

“Half hour maybe. Was getting real punchy the last few rounds we played.” The Irishman had a smile tugged onto his face, eyes fond as he looked over to the living room. “Said he was getting a headache hearing me yap and needed to close his eyes for a bit. Out like a light.”

“God knows he could use it.” Alister looked over the couch, the man stretched out across it deeply asleep. Even unconscious, his brow was furrowed and tense.

“I forget your beds are against the same wall…” Nate trailed off, worry etched in his expression. “He been sleeping badly?”

“I’d guess so if he’s clocking out for an afternoon nap.” Alister turned back to the kitchen, trying to spare the details. The nights he woke up in a panic hearing the tell tale wheeze of choked sobs. The hours he spent tossing and turning trying to fall asleep while listening to the other man mutter for mercy from phantoms.

"I’ll see what the doc thinks. Last check up tomorrow - ”

“What the hell happened to him again?” Tierney had turned around, solitaire game abandoned to squint at their supervisor.

“I can’t - ”

“I know, I know - no details, privacy yada yada bullshit. How the hell are we supposed to help him reacclimate to society or whatever if we don’t know what the fuck his deal is?”

“I take it cards wasn’t very revealing?”

“He’s either damn good at bluffing or has beginners luck. Seemed keen on watching my hands and not my face, couldn’t even try to cheat…”

“Nate, we’re not fishing for a sob story.” Alister tried to shoot him an encouraging smile. “We just wanna know how to get the guy out of his shell. He barely leaves his room for anything but chores and meals as it is.”

Nate heaved a sigh, eyes drifting to the living room before coming back to the two ex-felons in front of him. He didn’t really know East any better than they did. Save for the scant context Jackson provided. (Which wasn’t his to tell.)

“He was…he doesn’t like people.”

“No shit Sherlock.”

“I mean, he doesn’t trust people. For good reason, as far as he can tell.” Nate hoped the pity in his eyes was a good enough warning to these two not to push their luck. “Keep doing stuff like this - letting him nap undisturbed in the common area, play cards for the sake of it - that’s how you can build up a bit of trust with him.”

“Okay, but how do we do that when the bloody idiot won’t let us? I had to beg the fucker to leave his room and play cards with me, like I was a fucking child.”

“You are.”

“Fuck off, bald bastard - ”

“The fact that he relented is a good sign. But we can’t force him to let us help if he doesn’t want it - or isn’t ready for it. God knows he’s working through a hell of a physical trauma.”

“Think the psych could help him?” Alister’s suggestion was soft and genuine. Therapy had softened his sharp edges until he was unrecognizable from the angry, bitter man who had first come to the Holloway Home.

“Maybe. I’ll have to ask - about it.” Nate caught himself; he had almost mentioned Jackson by name.

“Couldn’t hurt - could it?” Tierney turned to Alister, mischief in his whisper. “Not that your shrink has made you any less of a wanker - ”

“Can it, O’Hare.”

East woke to the sound of cutlery and the smell of roast beef. The quiet murmur of conversation and eating was so alien it nearly sent him into a panic. He had fallen asleep on the couch in the common area.

He was almost disgusted with himself for instinctively taking inventory of his body, searching for wounds he knew he wouldn’t find. (Did he really think so little of these civilians? Did he really doubt the person Jackson trusted with his safety?) But he was relieved to be clothed and whole and without any new bruises to catalogue.

East was surprised how dim the room was as he slowly blinked his eyes open, no light filtering through the windows and the lamp glowing gold in the corner by the pool table. What time was it? His vision was blurry with sleep, but he managed to read the clock on the mantle above the fireplace. 6:00.

He had slept for six hours.

He sat up, suppressing a groan as his brain woke up. He had slept through lunch - he was hearing them eat dinner in the kitchen. It had been his turn to help cook, so he would have to make up for it later by taking someone else’s chore. (A disappointment that felt childish but justified - he had been looking forward to learning how to prepare this meal.)

“He lives!” He was still too asleep to hide how he flinched at Tierney’s shrill shout, but thankfully it didn’t seem like anyone took notice. East cracked his neck and sighed, looking over the couch into the kitchen. Tierney and Ice sat on one side, Mac, Tav, and Alister on the other. Nathan sat at one end of the table, eyes gentle.

“Didn’t want to wake you, you seemed to need the sleep.” Nathan’s smile was warm and inviting, his head nodding to the table. “Hungry?”

East glanced at the stairs down the hall. He was hungry, but habit begged him to hide away and make sure his facade was strong enough for this. He was too groggy, he needed to take a moment and -

His stomach growled, and the food on the table looked heavenly.

“I could eat.” The words mumbled low and chipped from his throat. He cleared his throat, pulling himself up to his feet to stretch as he lumbered to the kitchen.

“Saved you a plate; might be a bit cold but I’d try and see how it is. Microwaved meat is always a little funny.” Ice handed a plate to him over Tierney. East thought his tattooed hands oddly delicate - like a pianist.

“It’s really good, cold or otherwise.” Tierney’s earnest enthusiasm for the food was evident as he continued to eat between words. East found himself rolling his eyes at the kid’s antics. The food was a bit cold, but it tasted like life - not the grey and beige of protein mixes and ration bars. There was green and orange of sautéed carrots and green beans, the fluffy white of hand mashed potatoes, and the roast beef melted in his mouth.

“See? It’s good right?” Tierney laughed, the table crackling with small talk among the others as they finished their own plates. “Al made it - he’s a helluva chef.”

“Alister?” East cast his eyes across the table, offering a twitch of a smile in the man’s direction. He had seemed aloof and distant at their first introduction, but tonight - whether by the florescent light or the haze of East’s nap - he seemed warmer, smiling shyly under Tierney’s praise. “Thank you; for the food and covering my chore. I can - ”

“Don’t worry about it mate.” Alister huffed, shrugging. “I like cooking. Don’t mind filling in ‘til you’re up to speed.”

“I appreciate it.” East hoped his grumble was as sincere as he meant it to be. He tried not to think about the other shoe, the inevitable price for the smallest transgression -

But here, under gentle lights, surrounded by gentle voices, with good food and a well rested mind, he could almost believe it.

He was out, wasn’t he? He really wasn’t there, wasn’t going back. He was safe.

And for the first time in a long time, he felt safe.

East wasn’t sure what to expect.

This was a medical office unlike any he had been to in the last few months. There were two couches, plush with throw pillows, and a vibrant rug on the floor. The lamplight was warm, and the sun filtering through the blinds made the room feel less claustrophobic. The doctor - Judy Ahsan - was far from intimidating. She was a stocky woman, with a soft round face smiling up at him. She wore a long flowing dress, her silhouette mostly hidden by the floral patterned fabric.

“Easton Howard, correct?” He nodded wordlessly - maybe he should have asked Nathan to come inside with him. Maybe he should have told Nathan he wasn’t ready; he wanted Jackson here. (This felt too much like an interrogation.) “It’s a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Judy. I’m told you prefer East, is that right?”

“Yessir.” His voice was starting to feel impossibly small, out of reach, but he knew that silently nodding again would only make the stress in his chest worse. Judy sat on the couch opposite of him, a clipboard already heavy with paperwork as she uncapped a pen.

“Mr. Jackson has given me a basic understanding of your situation. I want you to know that you’re safe here, and anything you say here is just between you and me.”

“Anything?”

“Unless I believe you are an active danger to yourself or others, nothing you say here leaves this room.” Her dark eyes were gentle, so much like Jackson’s. “And if I do believe you’re a danger to yourself or others, Mr. Jackson wants you to know he would be responsible for you and your actions. No law enforcement will be involved if he can help it. Alright?”

“Alright.” He felt weak, a shallow echo of everything around him.

“Good. Now, you’ve been having trouble sleeping lately, correct?”

“A bit.”

“Given your situation I’m not surprised. Are you just having trouble falling asleep or are you waking up - bad dreams and the like?”

“Both. The dreams are worse.” Gritting out the words felt like pulling teeth. Why were words so difficult? Why did his chest ache with the way Judy’s eyes watched him?

“Do you want to tell me more about the dreams?”

He did. But his throat felt as though it had cinched shut, even breathing a thin whisper of air in his lungs. East stared at her, eyes begging, and somehow, she understood.

“Here, would writing be easier?” She removed some papers and held out the clipboard, which he took in shaking hands. His handwriting was a messy scrawl made worse by the shaking, but forcing himself to articulate the pressure in his chest, the shadows in the night - it was easier than he anticipated.

“Sometimes they’re bad. I don’t know I’m asleep and I’m back there and I never left.” He handed the clipboard back.

“You’ve been through something incredibly traumatic and dreams like that are normal for someone in your situation. Do these dreams wake you up?”

“No. Not those ones - I’m too scared to open my eyes. I think I sleep through the worst of it, but apparently my crying wakes one of the housemates who shares a wall with me.”

“Would it help if your housemate or someone you trusted woke you up from those dreams? So you could wake up, remember that you’re safe, and go back to sleep?”

East thought for moment, rolling the pen between his fingers. Jackson was the only person he trusted without hesitation. He tried to think of even Jackson waking him from one of those nightmares, and his stomach clenched with nausea.

“I don’t know if I trust them enough to do that,” he paused a moment longer before continuing to write, “yet.”

“Well, just keep it in mind. When you’re ready for them to help, ask them about it.” Judy took the clipboard back, using it to steady her own writing for a few moments before handing it back to East. “You said these aren’t the dreams that wake you - the flashbacks. Which ones do wake you up?”

East hesitated. And, at least in that, he was getting more comfortable. Hesitation in the bunker had always been his doom, but here he was allowed to process, to think before acting. But perhaps he shouldn’t have been allowed that, because now he considered writing a lie on the paper before him. But Judy was so soft, the room so cozy, safe -

“How much did Jackson tell you?”

Judy straightened, handing back the clipboard after reading his question. There was still softness in her eyes, but a clear strength as well.

“I know you killed the man that raped you. I know you suffered him for many years.” Her voice was clinical, but her words warmed as she continued. “I’m not here to judge you, East. I’m certainly not here to bring you to court. What’s done is done. I’m here to help you move on and grow beyond it.”

East chewed the inside of his lip until he tasted blood, familiar and metallic and clean.

“I killed other people. Before, for him. I dream…” He took a shuddering breath, the pen slippery on his sweaty grip. “I dream it’s Jackson, or Tierney, or strangers. I kill them for him and then I realize who they are and it scares me awake.”

He handed the clipboard back to her, worrying the tassels on a throw pillow while she read. East couldn’t stand to see her reaction, even if his imagination made it far worse than it could ever be. Safe. He was safe here. Even as Judy took a measured breath, he was safe. Probably.

“The people you killed, did you know them?” He shook his head. He didn’t think so. (Would he remember if he did?) “Why did he have you kill them?”

East shrugged, even as he scribbled the best answer he could muster.

“Fun, maybe. I don’t know - he wanted to make sure I still did as I was told.”

“Was that important to him? That you followed orders?” East nodded, almost tempted to roll his eyes. Of course it was important to his handler - it was worth killing for. “Was it important to you?”

East felt his heart stutter in his chest. Such a simple question, and yet…

He nodded, shame creeping up his throat. It had been important to the Wolf. That was how the Wolf survived - lesson number one: do as you are told without hesitation.

“Was it important to you because doing what he told you to do made things easier for you?” East wanted to hide, he wanted to find a dark place to hide and calm himself down because now he could feel hot, guilty tears sliding down his cheeks -

Judy held out a tissue box, nodding to the wastebasket in the corner.

“How do you calm down, when you wake up from one of these dreams?” East was so grateful she was changing the subject, though his eyes didn’t seem to dry as he wrote his response.

“Get out of bed.” He swallowed back a lump in his throat. “Sit under my desk.”

“Does that help you feel safe?”

“No. But it’s - ” He scratched out the word ‘familiar.’ “When I disobeyed him, he would hurt me, and I’d be left alone in the Box for a while. Dark, cold, cramped. It was a punishment.”

“Why do you think you hide under your desk to calm down after one of these nightmares then?”

“It’s…right. I don’t want to even dream about hurting anyone, so if I go somewhere like the Box it just feels…right.” East still sniffled, but the tears had mostly stopped. Judy read his response, scribbling down her own notes as she spoke.

“Do you want to know what I think?”

“Isn’t telling me what to think why I’m here?”

“No.” A smile quirked at her lips as she took the clipboard back. “You’re here so I can help you think how you want to. But sharing what I think might give you some perspective, if you’d like.” He nodded with a shrug, feeling strangely tired. Barely an hour had passed. “I think you’re not going to hide under your desk as punishment for dreaming about following orders to kill people. I think you’re going there as a punishment because you won’t follow orders to kill anymore, and you know that.”

East furrowed his brow, trying to wrap his head around it. Judy continued, expression open.

“You said doing as you were told was very important - to the point of killing who he told you to kill. And these dreams are so terrible they wake you up because the idea of hurting people is so repulsive to you, even after all that time killing because you were told to…” She shrugged. “Maybe you’re not punishing yourself for your dreams. Maybe you’re punishing yourself because you know, if given the order now, you wouldn’t obey. Which is why it helps calm you after one of these dreams - you know you won’t kill someone because you were told to, so even in a place of punishment, it’s a reminder that you aren’t there anymore. That you’re your own master now.”

(…)

(Was he?)

Jackson skimmed the forensics reports as they came in. He couldn’t stomach a deeper reading; he knew damn well what happened in that hotel room.

Smith was dead. He tried to find solace in that fact. But that justice felt hollow for Easton - miles away, recovering from the hell he had endured.

Jackson needed every son of a bitch involved with this on the chopping block. But, seeing as attacking the entirety of the US’ CIA seemed unfeasible as a one man army, he settled for Smith’s contact in the UK.

“She’s registered at the hotel under her current lover’s name - he’s in the House of Commons and we’d rather not put his affair on the record, so try not to make a scene.”

Command had been far more forthcoming with information on this lead, a woman by the name of Liza O’Hare. Not that she was currently using that name - she was well known in Interpol circles for skirting the line.

They knew she had far deeper connections to the black market arms trafficking and hitmen for hire than her sugarbaby grifting would let on. But she was content to skim off the top, and would sometimes drop a hint or two for the agents if it got back at someone who had crossed her. Liza O’Hare was as dangerous as she was discerning, and if she smelled a hint of a trap…

God. He hoped she didn’t pick up on his white lies to Command and assume he was lying to her.

The penthouse was gauzy and ornate, as Jackson expected. The private elevator alone had an intricately designed rug and gold trimmed doors. He waited in the foyer - under guard, of course - while a secretary fetched the lady. How many vases was too many? He counted 23 before O’Hare made her appearance.

She was a bit older than he expected, a grace of maturity in the way she held herself. Strawberry blonde hair was pulled back in a tight bun, a professionalism that clashed with her white slip and tulle bathrobe, cuffed with white faux fur. The picture of a grifter on a high ride. Well loved, well supplied, and confident enough to greet a guest barely clothed.

“Agent Jackson. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“I wish we met under better circumstances, Miss. Vinclard.” Her fake identity was important, but her posturing implied she knew full well his knowledge of her true identity.

“Leave us.” She dismissed the secretary, and shooed the guards as she gestured for Jackson to sit in the living area. This high above the smog, gold afternoon sunlight kept the room well lit as it bounced off the crystal chandelier above.

“I appreciate you agreeing to meet - ”

“Because you MI6 agents would have taken no for an answer? Cut to the chase. You need something I have. What is it?” A soft south Irish accent clipped into her words, faux French dropped for this exchange. Mask off for business.

“A man met with you a few nights ago. Simon Smith. American.” Jackson put a photograph of the agent on the glass table, O’Hara only glancing at it for a moment before turning her harsh green eyes to him. Expectant. “He was killed two days ago.”

“And you think I know something?” She scoffed, leaning back against the plush cushions of the couch with her arms crossed over her chest. “I don’t keep tabs on every man I meet unlike you paranoid rats.”

“What did you two meet for? Besides some very expensive wine and fish dinners.” Jackson nodded to Smith’s picture on the table. “Room service receipt was in his pocket.”

“Hm. He was more of a lightweight than I expected.” O’Hare hummed to herself. Buying time to pick her words. “Well, I’m sure you know Smith was in a bit of trouble back home in the States.”

“Yes.”

“He was looking for…employment. On my side of the tracks, so to speak.” The string of pearls around her throat glimmered as the sun shifted lower in the sky.

“Spy for hire?”

“Heavens no, that would be suicide. CIA aren’t particularly well liked in our circles, and ex-CIA is just begging for a messy end.” Her posture stiffened slightly, a lie considered and dismissed. “He wanted proper black market work. An in with some respected hitmen and the like.”

“Ex-CIA does well as a hitman but not a spy?” Her eyes narrowed slightly at him. She wasn’t being particularly careful - she was leading him exactly where she wanted him. Like Jackson didn’t know better already.

“No. Not for him. He had a…close friend who would operate in his stead. Smith vouched for his skills.” She sighed, shrugging as she looked out the window over the city. “Alas I don’t have those kinds of contacts and - ”

“You do.” Jackson interrupted, keeping his expression carefully blank. She bit her lower lip, almost pouting.

“Fine. I do. I didn’t give any to him, so if you’re looking for a killer among my associates you won’t find one.” She breathed a half chuckle. “Not his killer, at the least.”

“Why not? What about Smith’s associate made him…unemployable?” Her eyes seemed to trace over Jackson like an artist outlining a sketch but pressing the pencil too hard. She was getting skittish. He needed to ease off the pressure, let her feel in control.

“Ah, just didn’t like the way Smith talked about him. Sometimes you just know when you’ll be betting on a losing dog.“ O’Hare shot him a smirk, shimmying closer on the couch and turning her chest toward him. “Call it a woman’s intuition.”

Jackson, homosexual, didn’t want to appear rude, so he raised a brow at her ample cleavage and nodded.

“Of course. Did you direct him or did he suggest any alternative…employers he would be seeking out?”

O’Hare subtly huffed as her advances were apparently found wanting.

“No. Why do you ask, agent?”

“That’s - ”

“Classified? But that’s not fair - I’ve answered all of your questions.” Jackson was resisting the urge to laugh uncomfortably as she scooted closer, one hand on his leg while she purred in his ear. “Why are you so interested in this lost dog of his?”

Dog. Now that settled any present anxiety and discomfort like lead had gilded his bones. He could practically feel the open wounds of those letters left in the Wolf’s shivering flesh. Jackson felt the tension leave his body, burning anger masked as calculating coolness.

“We believe his associate is the one that killed him, and that he’s still in the country. Employment in the black market would be an easy out and easy money for him.”

“Is that all?” O’Hare reared back, tone annoyed. “You’ve been wasting my time chasing a runaway murderer?”

“Well, if you knew any other potential employers he might seek out - ”

“Now agent, I may look like a bimbo, but I’m not going to rat out my associates. I have a reputation to uphold.” Thankfully, she finally sat back - satisfied or at the very least understanding that her femme fatale routine wasn’t having the intended effect. “I can’t just send you their way and say ‘he’s looking for some new guy’ - that would be bad business.”

“Of course. I understand, ma’am. I apologize for wasting both our evenings.” Jackson stood and for a moment of panic he was worried she might drag him back down to the couch. But it appeared O’Hare only pitched forward to sprawl out on the couch, comfortable in her decadence.

“A pity, and here I thought I might have a more exciting night.” Something in her eyes told Jackson she understood the agent in front of her better than he wanted her to know him. “Let me know if there’s anything else I can help you with, agent.”

“If you could keep an ear out for this man, it would be appreciated if you reached out should anything come through the grapevine. Keeping your contacts safe, of course.”

“Hm, fine. Tell me - anything I should know about this new murderer on the streets?”

“They call him the Wolf.” Jackson thought he saw her smile twitch, eyes cloud with thought - but he didn’t have time to question it as the guards from earlier returned to escort him to the elevator.

“It’s been a pleasure, Agent Jackson.” Her tone had muted, ever so slightly as she bid him goodnight. He gave her a nod, biting the inside of his cheek. Command was listening. If she knew something about the Wolf, he couldn’t ask her - not here, not now.

“Have a good evening, ma’am.” With a tip of his hat, Jackson walked back to the elevator. A lead for a rainy day - in London, that meant it was only a matter of time. It wasn’t like the Wolf was going anywhere for the time being.

Deitelbaum’s was a good place for East to start. It was usually quiet and slow paced, and Joshua - the manager - knew the Holloway Home well. Alister had been working there for months, and was more than happy to help train East. (It was only a matter of time before he moved on to a more permanent job - or at least, one he could pay his own rent with - and Joshua could use the extra hands.)

“Any questions about the slicer?”

“How often is it fully disinfected?” East had surprisingly good questions, as focused and serious as he was doing chores around the house. Alister was relieved Nate agreed it was time the guy got a job - he needed something to throw himself into other than dusting the common room or sorting the laundry.

“He always like this or just first day nerves?” Joshua happened to be there that morning, both to meet East and drop off meat fresh from the butcher. East was currently prepping the cutting boards, brow furrowed and eyes intense as he worked. Alister doubted he even heard them talking about him here at the front of the deli.

“You can see why Nate needed him out of the house - he’s just the same doing chores and stuff at home.” Tierney leaned against the counter, yawning. The sun wasn’t quite over the horizon yet - the deli would open soon, but they probably wouldn’t see customers for another hour or two.

“He’s a good worker.” Alister affirmed, taking a parcel of beef from Joshua. The older gentlemen looked…skeptical wasn’t the right word, perhaps politely concerned?

“Don’t let him over work himself - last thing we want is someone getting hurt.”

“We’ll keep an eye on him, don’t worry J.”

Joshua gave a long suffering look to Alister; Tierney wasn’t the pinnacle of professionalism, but he worked well with the customers. Alister sighed, glancing back at East - hair tied back and stuffed under a hairnet, gloves and apron spotless.

“I’ll let you know if there are any problems.”

—

East was a quick learner, which Alister was thankful for. He didn’t expect so many customers today - was there a holiday coming up he had forgotten? His second guess was that there was a wave of tourists passing through; he didn’t recognize many of the people in the deli.

Things were starting to calm down at the registers, enough that Alister considered stepping back to help East prepare the orders, when a new customer stepped up to the counter. Alister glanced at her and smiled, but his heart had already started to sink.

He had seen a few new immigrants come to the kosher deli, but Joshua usually handled their orders. So when the veiled older woman started to speak, Alister felt embarrassed guilt creep onto his face. He didn’t understand her - but he could tell she was pointing to the lamb behind the counter, and her tone was questioning. Both their frustrations were starting to rise when, to Alister’s surprise, he heard East’s soft rumble behind him.

“She’s asking how it was slaughtered.”

Alister nearly jumped, muttering a curse to himself. East was so quiet for such a large man, a silent shadow hovering over his shoulder.

“Oh. Uh - can - can you tell her it’s kosher, Joshua picks it up from the butcher.” Alister wouldn’t admit he was impressed by the sudden ease in East’s tone as he replied to the woman, the two having a brief back and forth. East’s face was uncharacteristically relaxed, tone almost confident - though, Alister couldn’t be sure, seeing as he didn’t understand the language.

“It’s halal too, right? No blood, killed clean?”

“Yes? Yes - I’ve seen them butcher sheep there.” Alister glanced back at he woman, embarrassment bleeding to curiosity. There were more and more Muslim immigrants with each passing year, but he should have guessed by her headwear she wasn’t Joshua’s usual foreign clientele.

Eventually it seemed East and the woman reached an agreement, and he translated her order to Alister before going to the back and preparing the meat. It was a bit later, during a lull when the shop was quiet, that Tierney dare broach the subject. It was their lunch break - the closed sign temporarily flipped while the three enjoyed a moment’s peace and some prepacked food in the store room.

“Why the hell didn’t you mention you were bilingual? Trying to get out of register work?” Tierney had wolfed down his lunch in minutes, idly waiting for the others to finish.

“Didn’t think it was relevant to cutting up meat.” East mumbled, eating his own sandwich in small bites as though savoring the blandness of ham and cheese.

“Where the hell’d you pick that up? You’re German, ain’t ya?”

“Work.” East stiffened, almost imperceptibly, but Alister could see his grip on the soft bread tighten.

“Right, soldier and stuff - damn. Figured you might know a few phrases and shit, not, like, be fluent.” Tierney rambled, but Alister quirked a brow at the revelation. Military certainly seemed to fit the way East carried himself. (And it could explain the nights Al lay awake praying that the poor bastard would sleep soundly for both their sake’s.)

“Nate never mentioned - ”

East cut him off, words clipped and cold.

“No. He didn’t.”

Alister winced at his tone, eyes flickering between East’s eyes and the floor. He didn’t seem angry, but he did seem agitated. On edge.

“Oh, sorry mate I didn’t mean to - “

“It’s fine. Just don’t like talking about it.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t the most uncomfortable silence Alister had sat through, but it was getting close.

“Thanks, by the way. For jumping in when you did. Worst thing when working the front is telling a customer no.” Alister sighed, cracking open a bottle of coke. Some tension seemed to bleed from East’s shoulders.

“No problem.”

—

A few days later, the woman was back, and East wasn’t there. (Alister almost regretted suggesting Nate find him a therapist - nightmares be damned he did not want to turn this sweet old lady away just because he couldn’t understand her.) But this time, she wasn’t alone.

There was a younger woman with her, and for a brief moment, Alister forgot his anxieties. He had known his fair share of beautiful women - he had childhood crushes, unreciprocated flirting, and a few short lived trysts. But he had to admit, this attraction was new. He couldn’t see the shape of her legs, hidden in the folds of a long black skirt, or the curve of her chest, hidden behind the thick plush of a winter coat. Ever her hair, wrapped and covered in a simple purple headscarf, was hidden from him.

And while he could see her soft lips, her dark eyes - that was not what enraptured him. It was her poise, the grace and confidence with which she carried herself. Like royalty, or a soldier leading the charge. He almost didn’t realize she was already standing at the register, speaking to him.

“Excuse me? Sorry, I’m not sure if you recognize her - my mother - “

“Yeah. The - the lamb the other day. I remember her.” Alister gave a shy smile to the older woman, who was muttering in her own language to her daughter. She glanced back at her mother, an embarrassed smile of her own creeping onto her face.

“Well, we just wanted to thank you - the lamb was amazing and she wanted to let you know she’ll be buying whatever meat she gets from here from now on.”

“Oh - oh it’s, it’s my job, ma’am - “

“Jasmine; my mother is Hanan.”

“Ah, well, nice to meet you both. Um, I’m Al.”

“So your name tag says.”

“Oh - right. Right, ah, well East - he was the one that helped, uh, translate between us - he’s not here today but I’ll be sure to pass it in to him. That you’re grateful.”

“We’d appreciate that.” Jasmine’s eyes were laughing at him, and Alister knew a blush was flushing his face pink. Why was he such a dunce all of a sudden?

Hanan whispered something to her daughter, and - he probably imagined it - but he swore Jasmine’s cheeks seemed to warm as her eyebrows shot up in surprise before she muttered a reply he didn’t understand.

“Well, um, we’ll take the same order as last time - please.”

“No problem, Tierney over there will ring you up and I’ll - I’ll get right to it.”

—

“You have no game. When was the last time you talked to a bird?”

“Can it, O’Hare.”

It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t.

He survived. He endured. He went through that hell and it still broke him beyond repair.

East paced his room in circles, ears ringing too loud to hear the voices down stairs. What was wrong with him? Why was he scared of these civilians?

(He knew why, but logic didn’t calm the spike of terror found in a whiff of tobacco smoke or a laugh too loud or an unwanted hand brushing his shoulder - )

“Oi, East, you alright in there?” He nearly choked on his own breath, the knock at the door soft and the voice low. Tierney.

“Fine. Headache.” East grit between his teeth. It wasn’t entirely a lie - the adrenaline rush and his malfunctioning implants were giving him a headache.

“Oh, alright. Let me get you some Advil - ”

“That’s not - ” East sighed with a groan, sinking to the floor at the foot of his bed and putting his head in his hands. He didn’t know if he would be able to stomach anything, or even bear to see another person right now.

Why was this so hard? He had finally accepted that it was over - he wasn’t going back. He was free. He was out.

And yet, and yet -

Everything about that place clung to him, a film between him and the life he was supposed to be free to enjoy. It felt like he could never touch that world. It felt like everything he tried to touch was tainted by that film.

He was out. But he was still broken.

(The Wolf was still in its cage, somewhere under foreign sand.)

East flinched as the door hinges squealed - ever so softly - when Tierney nudged the door open.

“Dark as balls in here man - oh, right, headache, light, bad - right.” Tierney was a silhouette against the soft yellow light filtering up the stairs. “Hey, I got some Advil and some Tylenol ‘cause I didn’t know which you’d want - and some water. Water’s good for hangovers so it’s probably good for whatever headache you’ve got going on.”

Tierney talked too much. But at least listening to him made East’s brain shut up for a few seconds.

“Thanks.” He whispered in reply, voice hoarse. Always hoarse, always gravelly…another permanent change, just like the scars engraved in his back - encircling his throat -

(The Wolf wore a collar it couldn’t shake, a brand burned too deep to be hidden by matted fur.)

“It’s no problem man. They’re getting a little rowdy down there for me too.” Tierney cautiously left the door ajar behind himself, like he knew locking the Wolf East in a small space with another person was a bad idea.

Tierney crouched an arms length from East, holding out the plastic cup and pills. He took the cup, careful not to touch Tierney’s hand, and held out his other, palm up. For all his party boy loudmouthed impulsiveness, Tierney picked up on this and dropped the pills into East’s hand without question.

East swallowed the pills, raising the glass of water water to his lips -

There was a shout and a bang downstairs, a hand slammed on the table as the card game came to a head. All the Wolf could hear was a gunshot, a door slammed shut, a voice he could hear but couldn’t understand - and there was water splashing into his lungs, and he couldn’t breathe -

(The Wolf sprung to its feet, tail wagging but tucked between its legs. This pain and panic was comfortable - familiar, like a Devil it knew. Had it’s master returned?)

He reached out blindly, he wanted - needed - to see that his hands were unbound, he wasn’t tied down, he wasn’t back -

A small, calloused hand took his frantic fingers, another tentatively bracing against his shoulder.

“Easy…the bloody cunts - I’ll tell ‘em to quiet down, you - Jesus, East, you good?” The coughs wracking his body gave way to shuddering breaths, fingers squeezing Tierney’s hand tightly. Alive. Still alive. Touching his bare skin - East recoiled, shaking away Tierney’s hands, breathing still a little too fast.

“Fine.” He grumbled, trying to rebuild his walls while the waves of anxiety dissolved their foundations. “Now fuck off and let me rest my eyes.”

“Aye, goodnight East.” Tierney stood with a huff of amusement, a spring in his step. Young and carefree and oblivious to the way East curled in on himself as the door latched closed.

He was free.

He was out.

If he just told himself that enough, he would one day believe it.

Wouldn’t he?

(The Wolf gnawed at the bars of its cage, teeth broken and bloody, ignoring the open door.)

The pain was oddly blurry, more memory than sensation. The voices too were warbling, as though his hearing implants were cutting in and out between whining static. (Was he being electrocuted? There was no sharp bite of metal against his skin, no flash blinding his thoughts.)

“…might kill him.”

His mind caught on the word, a whisper of a whine in his throat. He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die, please -

“…fighting…days left.”

He could still fight. He could - he could follow orders and keep his mouth shut and his head down. (Unless his handler wanted his mouth open and his eyes up - )

His handler’s voice was consumed in overlapping echoes, old insults and condescending pet names and angry snarls drowning out the other voices. His back burned - raw and bloody and bright where hands grabbed at exposed flesh, as though he were digging to the Wolf’s ribs, to his spine -

East was not the Wolf. His handler was dead. He was dreaming. Knowing that didn’t make the hands stop, the grip on his shoulder digging sharp nails into tender, already bruised skin. Lighter touches feathered along his body, lingering and unwanted where they caressed him.

It was just a dream. It would pass - it would, eventually. Even as pain sparked behind his eyelids and sobs strangled in his throat. Just a dream - it wasn’t real, as long as he didn’t open his eyes it wasn’t real and it was just a dream -

“East, wake up.”

This voice was clear, cold with fear. It didn’t have the same shroud of static the voices in his dreams had. The hand on his shoulder burned.

(It was just a dream. It would go away - he wasn’t there. He wasn’t back - was he? God he couldn’t - he couldn’t be back, it would kill him and he didn’t want to die - )

“East, East you’re dreaming, wake up.”

He knew that voice. Not the way he knew his handler’s - not the way he knew the ghosts and the shadows of his dreams. Those voices he knew too well, the first thread of sound souring his stomach because he knew no matter their words they would hurt him. This voice he didn’t know that well, something alien, something new. New was always bad.

“Shh, shh - you’re - you’re dreaming, mate. Just dreaming, you gotta open your eyes, please.”

Please?

It was jarring enough that East flinched awake, hollow breaths far too loud in his tiny room. The person next to his bed far too close for comfort, but thankfully they seemed to recognize that fact, instantly stepping back, hands up and open.

(He could still feel where their hand had been on his shoulder, wrapped over aging scars tallying his personal hell.)

“Jesus Christ - you with me, Easton?” Nathan. Right. East had taken Judy’s advice, and asked Nathan to check on him if he heard…anything too loud when he was trying to sleep. East pushed himself up onto his elbows, letting his still sleepy brain catalogue his body and its lack of injury before fully sitting up. He slept in a t-shirt and sweatpants, but still felt too exposed, too vulnerable. He wrapped the blanket over his shoulders; the pressure of the fabric pulled taught over his still itching back calmed his nerves.

“You okay? Need some water or -?”

“Out?” The word bubbled in his throat like a prayer, hoarse and whispered. Nathan crouched next to the bed, face creased in gentle confusion. (He was putting himself lower than East, nonthreatening, unable to grab a fist full of hair or throw a punch.)

“Are you asking me to leave, East? I will, I just - ”

East shook his head, breathing stuttering. He didn’t want Nathan to leave; he didn’t want to lose the only anchor of reality he had right now. Just the thought of being left alone, in the Dark, in such a small room had a fresh surge of panic racing in East’s veins.

“Okay, okay - not leaving. Do…you want to maybe go downstairs for a bit? Have a cupa tea?”

East nodded almost absentmindedly. (Just agree - get it over with, don’t complain, stay quiet and just take it - )

“You hate tea, East.” Nathan’s voice was soft but grounding, even as East shivered, trying to remember who he was supposed to be, what mask he needed to pull on. “How about we see if we have any decaf? Hm?”

East nodded again, feeling more certain this time. He was growing more and more cognizant, aware that his skin was clammy with sweat, that the light was still off, the only light filtering up from the stairwell. His face was sticky with sweat and tears.

“Sorry.” He finally croaked, clumsily crawling out of the bed, blanket still wrapped over his shoulders. Nathan stood slowly, cautiously smiling up at East.

“No worries mate, it’s my job after all.” Nathan’s whisper dropped lower, softer still. “And Jackson asked me to take care of you. You’re in good hands.” East nodded, words still thick but throat less strangled.

“I’m out?” He was speaking more to himself than Nathan, a self soothing whisper of rebellion.

“Yeah, you’re out, East.” Nathan said it with the curbed curiosity of a man who knew better than to pry. “Let’s get the kettle on, c’mon now.”

East followed, mouthing the word to himself over and over. Out. He was out.

Alister looked down the hallway, relieved to hear two sets of footsteps descending the stairs. He tried to make himself look busy reading his book, as though he wasn’t the one who woke up Nathan. As though he hadn’t heard the pained sobs and pleas on the other side of the wall between their rooms.

Nathan continued to the kitchen, kettle clattering as he filled it in the sink. The second set of footsteps had fallen silent, and Alister was acutely aware he was being watched. But glancing up, he wasn’t sure how much East was seeing.

He looked terrible - eyes damp and puffy from crying, a blanket wrapped over his shoulders and held in a white knuckled grip. His expression was painfully blank, jaw relaxed and eyes uncomfortably empty as he stared at Alister. It was as if he was looking through him, or seeing a ghost.

“Al, where’s the bloody decaf?” Nathan’s half whisper didn’t startle East, who simply turned his head to blink owlishly over his shoulder at the man in the kitchen. Alister shifted in his seat, realizing he had been holding his breath.

“It’s on the shopping list. Gonna get some at Tesco’s tomorrow.” He swallowed, tempted to offer to go out and see if the 24-hour convenience store had some. “We have hot cocoa though. Tierney keeps his stash on top of the fridge.”

—

East seemed more lucid after the hot drink, though still quiet and overly cautious. Alister read his book in peace. Nate softly returned to his bedroom with a whisper to East, something about giving a shout if he needed something.

It was 4 AM and still pitch black when Alister finally stood and stretched, setting his book aside.

“I’m going for a run. You want to come with?” He wasn’t expecting a response, already toeing on his shoes.

“Sure.” East’s rumble was low but clear, and Alister hoped his surprise wasn’t too obvious as he fumbled and dropped his jacket on the ground.

“Oh - I’ll be heading out to the farmlands and back. That alright with you?”

East nodded, standing and folding the blanket he had been wrapped in all morning. Alister hoped it wasn’t noticeable the way his eyes lingered on East’s bared forearms. (Were those scars or shadows? He couldn’t be sure and didn’t want to stare.)

East took no coat, lacing up his shoes without socks (like a madman), but Alister wasn’t going to tease him about it. But he did stick an extra jumper and water bottle in his pack before leading them outside.

The air was crisp, just below freezing. The light from the porch made the frosted grass shine like jewels. Alister set off toward the farmlands - it was a little earlier than he usually went for a run, but the sun would be coming up by the time they left behind the streetlights and signs of the city perimeter.

East kept up surprisingly well for someone who had spent the better part of the last two months doing house chores. (Although, his long legs were certainly in his favor as he kept pace with Alister.) The two ran, breath fogging white and steps soft against the pavement.

The city melted away, the first fence of the outskirts barring an empty, barren field. Most of the sheep were penned in for the winter; as they approached the barn at the end of the field, the soft baas and snorts of waking livestock could be heard. They stopped there, walking in circles on the road as their heart rates steadied and breathing evened.

“Here, grabbed you a water.” Alister fished the bottle from his bag and tossed it to East. For a split second he panicked, remembering how skittish the other man could be - but East caught the bottle without so much as a flinch, uncapping it and sipping at the icy water.

“Thanks.” His hoarse whisper came with a rare instance of eye contact, East’s dark eyes soft with gratitude.

“No worries, mate.” Alister leaned against the wooden fence by the barn, looking at the dim light within the structure. Mr. Darcy wasn’t up quite yet - Al’s runs usually got him here just as the farmer was arriving, and he made himself a few extra pounds helping the old man get the livestock ready for the day.

He wasn’t sure if East would entertain his personal side-gig, or feel comfortable walking back to the Holloway Home alone. Alister didn’t mind; it wouldn’t kill him to have a little less cash in his pockets.

The quiet of morning was finally starting to break, the sky streaked with pink where the sunrise bled between distant skyscrapers of the cityscape behind them. The first few notes of birdsong were trilling in the crisp air. It would be spring sooner than later, a robin flitting above their heads.

Alister looked to East, about to suggest they start making their way back to the House - hell knew it would suck to find out everyone used up the hot water before they could get a shower - but he held his tongue. East looked…serene. The water bottle was loosely held in one hand, the other limp by his side. His eyes were closed, lips slightly parted and expression relaxed as the first rays of morning sun traced his face. Breaths puffed, still foggy in the chilly air, but now dyed gold by the sunlight.

(Alister let his eyes slide to East’s arms, tracing the pearlescent scars of old burns, the carving slashes from blades - the thin lines where skin seemed mismatched and cadaverous - )

(He couldn’t deny his curiosity, but it was morbidly satiated by the realization that many of those scars were freshly healed, still pink and shining.)

“Ready to head back?” He finally forced from his throat, still leaning against the fence to reinforce his nonchalance. East blinked his eyes open, a soft smile on his face as he nodded. “Here - it’s a bit chilly, grabbed a jumper for you.”

Alister pretended not to notice the way East’s eyes flitted between his exposed forearms and the sweater before he hastily grabbed it and pulled in on.

“Thanks.”

“No worries.”

“So, how has your day been?”

“Good so far. Went for a run this morning.”

“That’s new for you; did you enjoy it?”

“Yes - and the coffee we got on our way back.”

“‘We’ being…?”

“My housemate, Alister. He invited me along.” East was already craving another cup of coffee, the late afternoon exhausting in its cozy warmth. He had gotten better at keeping his voice in sessions with Judy, but she still kept a spare clipboard and pen for him. He wasn’t sure if he would need it today.

“Right, Alister - he’s in the room next to your’s, right?” East nodded, fighting to keep the soft smile on his face relaxed. He knew where she was going with this. “Have you considered what we talked about before, for the nightmares?”

“Yeah, actually.” East swallowed, focusing on his breathing. “Asked Nathan to get me up - I - Alister doesn’t know…Jackson trusts Nathan. I trust Nathan.”

“I’m proud of you for reaching out to him.” East could feel his ears flush with embarrassment; Nathan had said the same. “How has sleeping been?” Embarrassment was replaced with misplaced shame, another hard swallow to keep his voice from silencing itself.

“Bad - not worse, I guess.” East forced a deep inhale, breathing through an open mouth. “Nathan woke me up this morning. From a flashback.”

“Was it better than trying to sleep through it?” Judy’s eyes were gentle, note quietly scribbled on her clipboard. East shrugged, honestly unsure.

“I don’t know. Didn’t go back to sleep so it’s not like it helped me get more rest.” He knew the dark bags under his eyes weren’t going away anytime soon. He had made peace with what few hours of rest he could find in afternoon naps.

“And how did you feel, after waking up and realizing where you were?”

“Honestly worse.” The words tumbled past his lips, followed by a shaky breath to steady himself. “I - I can take the memories you know. I know I survived them. But waking up and - and not being there, but having just 'been' there…” Judy nodded, encouragingly. “I’m scared it’s a dream. The waking part - like if I fall back asleep I’ll be there and it’ll be real.”

“That does sound worse. Do you regret asking Nathan to wake you?”

East considered her question for a moment. If he hadn’t gotten up so early, he wouldn’t have had a cup of hot cocoa. (He didn’t realize how much he missed it until tasting it again for the first time in…years, probably.) He wouldn’t have gone with Alister on that run, and seen the sunrise or heard the sheep and birds.

“No. I think the run helped. It felt…real.”

“That feeling you had, when waking up and not knowing what’s real, there are some grounding exercises you can use to help.” She wrote for a moment longer before looking up at him. “Try to focus on your senses - it may sound and feel a little silly, but try counting five things you see, hear, feel, smell, and taste. The counting forces your brain to slow down, and the purposeful recognition of the physical reality around you through your senses reminds you that you aren’t there.”

“I did feel better after Nathan made me drink some cocoa, warm and sweet.” The warm mug between his hands, the cold air against his face, the smell of manure and the glint of sunshine…East could remember the sensory details from that morning, alive and awake and real.

“See? It’ll start to come naturally.” Judy’s soft laugh wasn’t mocking or cruel, but the smile in her eyes dimmed as she continued. “How are the other dreams? The ones that wake you up?”

“Still happening. Tried thinking - the way you suggested - last time it happened.” East tried not to think about that nightmare, the blood between his fingers, Tierney’s green eyes glass with death, his handler’s voice whispering saccharine praises -

('Good boy. You’ll do better next time.')

He inhaled slowly, trying to practice the breathing exercises Judy introduced a few sessions ago. She held out the tissues to him, and he released a shaky exhale as hot tears slipped from his eyes.

“It’s - you - you don’t know - I’m not a good person. I - I - I should be, I shouldn’t be - ”

“I don’t know you, East. Not the way you know yourself. And maybe you weren’t a saint when you were back there, but you were doing what you needed to do to survive.”

East scoffed, breathing watery and voice dying in his throat. He took the clipboard and pen set aside for him.

“Why should I have? Survived? If I let him,” he scratched out ‘fuck me to death,’ “kill me I wouldn’t have killed those people for him. They’d still be alive. But I didn’t. I killed them because I wanted to live more than I wanted to let them live.”

“Or he would have found someone else to torture. To kill for him. East…” Judy sighed, eyes brimming with compassion that he still flinched from. “You are not a uniquely evil person. You are not selfish for listening to self preservation instincts in a horrible situation. He wanted to see someone die, someone suffer for him. And if that someone wasn’t you, a man like him would have made it someone else.”

East shook his head, frustrated and drowning in the oily well of self loathing that had opened in his heart. Judy didn’t understand. The Wolf was a project - he was unique, special - they would have killed him otherwise. He could have leveraged that. Refused to kill because they needed him alive for…whatever it was they recorded and reported to their superiors.

But he didn’t - he killed for his handler. He followed rule number one without hesitation because he was a selfish bastard scared of pain. He was an idiot who should have kept pushing back until he was more trouble than he was worth. Maybe he would have gotten out of that hell quicker, executed and shoved in the incinerator with the other failed projects.

“Even if you were uniquely awful, you didn’t deserve what he did to you.” His frustration choked in his throat with a sob. He just couldn’t fathom that notion - of course he deserved it, if not for what he did for Smith than for…whatever he was Before. “Right now, you are not hurting people. You don’t have to and you don’t want to.”

East almost picked up his pen again, the impulse to refute his innocence so ingrained. What if he did want to hurt people? What if he was too used to it? What if these dreams were proof of that - he was a time bomb, a threat to everyone around him?

“You told me once that you think you’re a good actor, remember?” He had, when she asked him to try and reflect on his positive skills. (Outside of fighting and fucking.) “So act.”

He looked up from his tissues and shaking hands, eyes tired and bloodshot and confused. Act? He was always acting. Always pretending to be someone he wasn’t; it was exhausting and terrifying. The Wolf was starting to blur with East - had been for a while, bleeding into how he watched people enter a room and the way he shrank from touch. How he laughed when Tierney lost at cards and how he relaxed on the couch while the others played pool.

“You need to fake it ‘til you make it.” Judy was looking down at her notes, brow furrowed and lips pursed, but she looked up at him, sheepish but eyes warm. “Trust me, it’s something everyone does. Humans are social - we all want to fit in, to seem intelligent and likeable and many things we don’t actually believe we are. Pretending to be a good person doesn’t make a difference to anyone but you. No one knows you but you.”

“So I lie? To everyone?” (What was one more dirty secret? One more straw on the camel’s back?)

“Everyone. Including yourself. Is it a lie if even you believe it?”

(Yes.)

(…)

(Right?)

Liza knew when she was being tailed - but she had to admit, this agent was good.

Unfortunately for him, she had no interest in being cornered by some MI6 Interpol schmuck who had chased her across the bloody country over the past few months. If he wanted to talk, he needed to be an adult and use his words.

It was easy to slip a message to him - a simple wink and whisper to the cafe cashier to give the older gentleman in line behind her the piece of paper with her ‘number.’ What it really read was simply: Wytch Wood, 3 PM. If he was smart he would come alone. (If he was smart he wouldn’t come unarmed.)

Liza wasn’t surprised that he managed to track her down among the winding trails, but she was admittedly a little impressed by his apparently healthy cardio routine. The man hadn’t broken a sweat despite obviously running to make the appointment.

“You’re looking dashing today, Jackson.” It was her turn to play coy. “You’re letting yourself go silver - I hear that’s quite popular these days.”

“Christ, I’m starting to look my age.” He huffed, walking alongside her. His icy eyes appraised her quickly - he certainly picked up that she was armed under her jumper. Her eyes traced the holster strap for his own weapon.

“You don’t look a day over 35, dear.” She smoothly took his arm, flashing him a look before a jogger came around the corner, smiling at them as he continued down the path. Liza dropped the agent’s arm as soon as he was out of sight. “I don’t take kindly to tails, Jackson. What the fuck do you expect to find?”

“You.” Something in his tone piqued her curiosity. He sounded secretive and wary, and not in the way most agent’s sounded when asking her for…personal favors. “I needed to meet with you on your terms - no comms, no cameras.”

“What do you want that you don’t want getting back to your coworkers?” She rounded on him with a huff, a confused smile tugging at her lips. “Is this a date? And here I thought you - ”

“It’s about the Wolf.”

Liza’s jaw snapped shut, her carefree posturing stuttering for just a second as she recovered her facade. What could she tell him, really? She knew an old friend by that name. A good kid, who died young.

“If I heard something from any of my contact you would know. Why this secrecy - ?”

“You know more than you’re letting on. You know something - Liza, please.” He was desperate.

“Were you fucking the American he killed or something? I’m all for a bit of revenge, but my help comes at a price.”

“No.” The curl of disgust and cold rage in Jackson’s voice was, admittedly, intoxicating. Liza didn’t expect her affections to be reciprocated, but damn if she didn’t admire a man sharpened by determined and personal hate. (Thinking of Ghost, she might have a type - outside of wealthy men with short attention spans, of course.)

“Then why do you care so much about his missing murderer?”

The flash of emotion across his face was clearly not meant to be seen. Fear. Grief. Pity.

Curious.

“You’re aware Smith was staying in the same hotel as you?” His voice was low, head on a swivel as he glanced around the empty woodland path.

“Yes. Though he slept on my couch most of the time, if I remember correctly.” In spite of her best efforts to effuse some levity into her voice, Liza could feel the weight of Jackson’s anxiety as she met his gaze. “I take it your Wolf was staying in the room under Smith’s name?”

“Yes…it appears Smith…fucking hell.” He scrubbed a hand over his face, words rushed and hushed. “We were expecting to find a body with the state it was in. Smith had been tearing him apart in there.”

“But there was no body?”

“No.”

“And Smith was found blocks away professionally executed?”

“Y-yes.” Jackson stuttered, briefly considering how she had come by such details. She had told him - a woman’s intuition. (And some personal favors in Interpol.)

“What’s to say Smith didn’t kill his little Wolf and hired some help with the body? Couldn’t pay up or otherwise crossed them - easy grounds for a bullet to the skull.”

“That’s…possible.” There was flicker in Jackson’s expression. The Wolf wasn’t dead and he knew it, somehow.

“But…?”

“If Wolf’s not dead - he needs help. Or will need it soon. Do you know where he might have gone for help - ?”

“Oh, now I know you’re hiding something, love.” She squinted at the agent, biting her lip with a smile as he fidgeted. “You Interpol boys have a good set of connections for black market medics - why ask me for those contacts?”

“Well, our contacts haven’t turned anything up and there’s been no body found - ”

“Don’t bullshit me, John.” There was no fond amusement in her voice now. No more games; her patience was wearing thin. (And her curiosity was insatiable.) “I don’t care if you’ve got the Wolf locked away as your dirty little secret somewhere in London - why bother me with it? Why would I know anything - and why would anything I know be helpful - ?”

“Your reaction, when I mentioned his name.” Jackson stopped walking, a determined desperation in his voice. He must have felt he was grasping at straws. “You know something - about some Wolf - and you purposefully withheld that information.”

“Because it’s personal, jackass.” She crossed her arms over her chest, trying to calm the defensive anger coiling in her gut. “I knew a Wolf, once. He died. End of story.”

“And if it wasn’t?” His whisper was so soft she almost didn’t hear it as she turned heel to stalk away. She froze, birdsong humming through the trees.

“What?”

“What if that wasn’t the end of his story?” Jackson, ever the surprise, didn’t cower as she turned with venom in her eyes. His words carried gentle but firm. “Wolf either doesn’t remember where he was before Smith, or he if he does he won’t tell anyone.”

“Go on.” She grit out the words, resenting herself for letting the fantasy he spun tug at her atrophied heartstrings.

“As far as I can tell by our records, we’ve only had four high priority targets go by that alias. Two of which either ended up in prison or dead before the 80s. One we lost track of in the 90s, and now a new Wolf turns up on our radar with no past to speak of.” Jackson was watching her closely, carefully. “If you knew this Wolf, hypothetically, would you be able to get him out of the country and far from Interpol?”

“Hypothetically, if you were found to be harboring a man wanted for murder, you would go to prison and you would not do well there.” Liza couldn’t find the focus to smile at her own jab. “And, hypothetically, if you do have a man back from the dead on your hands, that I may or may not have known at some point in the last decade or two, I…would be inclined to consider your request for his relocation.”

“Thank you - ”

“I’ll organize a time and place. You get him there - take him out for a nice dinner or something.”

“How are you going to tell if he’s your Wolf?”

“By looking at him, of course.” She smiled, though sadness tinged her eyes. “I never forget a face. Besides, the Wolf I knew - I knew him well. Don’t let him know I’m there; I just need to see his face and how he acts. We can reconvene after if there’s a need for a misty eyed reunion.”

Liza wasn’t an optimist, but the situation was…so tempting with its intoxicating hope. No matter how she tried to crush the fledgling excitement in her heart, she found herself smiling the whole day. If it wasn’t her Wolf, no love lost - there was still an empty coffin to visit in Dresden. But if, somehow, this was her Wolf - Ghost’s Wolf - he was back from the dead, after so many years…

(She tried to forget the details Jackson had dropped, she tried not to imagine what had to have happened to the Wolf she knew to have him heel to the call of some American agent.)

(…)

(What did it matter? If he was alive, he was alive and that was enough. Wasn’t it?)

“It’s just gonna be a hell of a party at the house and I thought you might wanna get out of the house for a bit - ”

“C’mon, East. It’s The Black Hound - owner’s German.”

“Is that supposed to make a difference?” East huffed, standing a few paces away from the bus stop. Tierney and Alister were finishing their last cigarette of the day, and while he had learned to tolerate the smell to an extent, he didn’t want to push his limits.

“Listen, just the three of us. It’s a quiet place. A couple of drinks, mingle with some regulars - I think you’ll like it.”

—

East had to admit, the quaint and sleepy tavern was a far cry from the house party they had nearly been subject to. Nathan could wax poetic about community and morale, but he eventually relented. (Tierney would claim complete responsibility by virtue of being the best at pouting.)

Ice’s family, visiting for his last night and to help him move to his own apartment across town, were throwing quite the party. Lots of drinking, smoking, cards and shouting - and it took one soft spoken request from East to gain Nathan’s permission to leave for the night.

The Black Hound was, as promised, quiet. There were half a dozen patrons in the sleepy pub, and the three were free to sit at the bar counter. The barkeep - Tomas, his name tag read - apparently knew Alister.

“I heard you got out; looking good - probation’s been treating you well.” His accent was heavy and his voice low. Tomas appraised East and Tierney as they took seats beside Alister. “New friends?”

“Good ones. Gin and tonic, please.”

“First night back in my bar since you got out and you won’t even order a lager. I should ban you, permanently.” The older man laughter, playfully cuffing Alister over the counter. (East tensed, forcing himself to watch the ease in Alister’s smile, the fondness in Tomas’ eyes. There was no danger here.) “And what will you be having?”

He was addressing East, but Tierney piped up, offense exaggerated.

“Got any Guinness?” The barkeep raised a brow, looking between Alister and the Irishman. “I’m not a fuckin’ child - Christ, do you need an ID? Got it here - ”

“That baby-face of yours is a tragic thing indeed, O’Hare.”

“Oh, and you look fresh outta chemo grandpa - when’s your hair growing back - ” Tierney winced under Alister’s glare, but his scowl was still friendly. “Alright, alright - I’m sorry - as long as I get some fucking beer.”

“And you?” At first East was going to order the same as Tierney, but the name on a bottle behind the bar caught his eye. Something familiar, something nostalgic.

“Eisbock.” He could almost taste it. Tomas, for his part, looked elated.

“See? See, this one, he’s good. Someone you know is capable of having good taste.”

The praise from a stranger was as heady as the alcohol he served, the dark beer contrasting with Tierney’s pale lager and Alister’s liquor.

“Wait, wait, wait - first night out on the town, we ought to toast to it or something.” No one fought Tierney’s suggestion even though they were several sips into their glasses. Alister raised his, smiling between his friends.

“To good taste.”

“To good taste.” East and Tierney echoed in tandem as their glasses clinked.

Tomas served a few other patrons before drifting back to the bar, expression polite but inquiring as he refilled East’s drink.

“Didn’t catch your name, one with good taste.” He joked, returning a fresh glass of dark beer. “And if you don’t mind me asking, where’re you from? Not a native of Edinburgh I’m guessing.”

“It’s East. And you’re right, family’s from Dresden.” It was part of a larger narrative he was manufacturing given the sparse information Jackson had left him to work with. But East was nothing if not resourceful - he had been researching his options for a moment like this. “You?”

“Dresden? Now that brings back memories. I grew up in Riesa, a bit north of there.” Tomas huffed, voice softened as he shifted in his mother tongue. “What’re the chances?”

“Small world after all, I guess.” East had forgotten how easily German fit in his mouth. The words tasted like a home he had forgotten.

East and Tomas chatted a bit, Alister and Tierney intent on the football match on the tv in the corner of the room. Happy hour came and went and the bar filled up, quiet conversation filling the emptiness previously occupied by the television audio alone. Tomas busied himself serving other patrons, and East…

He tried to ignore it - he had been getting better at ignoring it, recently. The anxiety of being surrounded, of having no clear exit. The claustrophobia of other people wasn’t as suffocating as it once was, but there was still a sting, a prick of anxious paranoia.

(What if someone was watching?)

East hoped his occasional look around the bar seemed casual - looking to the door every time the bell above it rattled with every entry and exit, glances to tables and booths that got a little too loud. He followed Judy’s instructions; patience, reminding himself where he was, who he was with - he was safe.

(Then why did it feel like he was being hunted? Why was his heart beating so fast?)

“I gotta hit the head.” He needed to run cold water over his hands, ground himself for a few minutes.

“Same - where’s it at, Tommy?” Tierney’s tongue had loosened with the drink, his size leaving him as a bit of a lightweight compared to his companions. East didn’t mind the company as they made their way to the back of the tavern.

A few deep breaths and grounding exercises later, East was feeling human again. He hadn’t gone out on the town before (not since the Before) and was just a little overwhelmed. His paranoia was unwarranted, a symptom of overstimulation and probably a bit of fuzziness from the drink. He waited outside the restroom, leaving Tierney to wash his hands -

The bell at the door to the bar chimed, and East looked up. He didn’t like who he saw.

Physically, the man wasn’t a threat. He was tall, sure, but lanky and young. He probably wasn’t much older than Tierney.

The Irishman in question stumbled out of the bathroom behind East, bumping into his back with a soft apology. East was tense and quiet, watching the newcomer the way the Wolf had been trained.

There was an iron cross on the shoulder of his leather jacket, a patch of jagged lightning bolts at the breast pocket. The spikes and metal studs were decorative, but genuine. He wore heavy boots, laced in red. His hair was close shaved, too much so to tell his hair color, but his eyes were an icy hazel-grey.

More than his appearance, the reaction of the patrons as he entered the bar gave clues to his identity. Some glared from their tables, other ducked their heads and dropped their tones to continue speaking. The stranger paid them no mind - he looked clear across the pub to the bar and smiled. Tomas’ scowl was harsh, simmering with rage, and Alister seemed to shrink, curling in on himself with shame on his face.

East wasn’t satisfied with the conclusion of these facts: this man was a skinhead.

And Alister knew him.

Alister knew this skinhead. East’s first impression, wary and poisoned by a whisper he dismissed had been correct. (No one ever talked about what Alister had done to end up in prison. Somehow it now made sense why.) Ice in his veins had East frozen where he stood, but with his hearing implants he could clearly understand their conversation across the bar.

“Fuck off.”

“What? No ‘hi Andrew, long time no see’?”

“No. I’m not talking to you.”

“You are right now.”

“He told you to fuck off, prick.” Tomas’ grumble was soft, but it made Andrew prickle. East flinched in sympathy with Tomas - the skinhead’s glare was venomous.

“Don’t talk like that to customers, Tomas, it’s bad for business.” East saw him slide money across the bar. Tomas glared at the cash, frozen. Andrew’s condescending voice was laced with an unspoken threat. “Don’t tell me you forgot my usual, did you Tommy?”

There was a tense moment where Tomas and Alister shared a look, but the barkeep eventually relented, turning away. (He didn’t touch the money, leaving it in the counter.) Andrew got more comfortably embedded in Alister’s space, leaning back against the bar as he spoke.

“I don’t blame you - for selling the boys out. You did what you had to do, right?”

“You don’t know shit, Andy.” Alister took a deep swig of his liquor. “I don’t want anything to do with them anymore. I’m not coming back.”

“Really? C’mon, like I said - I don’t blame you. None of us do. Let’s get out of this shithole and go - ”

“I’m not fucking around Andy. I’m done.” Alister set his drink down harshly, glaring at Andrew. From this angle, East couldn’t see the newcomer’s face, but he could see the coil of tension building between his shoulders.

“You’re one of us - ”

“I was. I’m not anymore.” Alister’s voice dropped to a desperate whisper. “Just fuck off, please.”

“Hey - he said fuck off!”

East’s heart nearly lept out of his chest as Tierney, in his drunken confidence, shouted at Andrew from across the bar. His steps were surprisingly steady as he wove between tables, but he stopped a few paces away. Even he could tell Andrew was looking for a fight, disgust and hate in his eyes.

“You’re fucking pathetic, Al. Hanging out with gypsy homos - ” Andrew paused, looking down at the hand on his shoulder, surprised to see East beside him.

(He had used Tierney’s shout as a distraction to slip between the booths and make his way to the bar. It only took a few short steps to be close enough to grab him.)

“You’re in that gypsy homo’s seat, dickheaded cunt.” East’s voice rumbled low, cold and threatening. It was a role he knew well. He would lie to himself, that he didn’t feel the familiar rush from when he played the role of the Wolf. But unlike his victims, Andrew only looked up at him with disgust, swatting away the hand and stepping away from the bar. (Away from Alister.)

“The fuck did you just call me?”

“He called you a dickhead.” Tierney took East’s cue and sidled up to the other side of Alister’s seat. “And a cunt.”

“You sure know how to pick ‘em, Al…” Andrew scoffed, still posturing as he looked between the trio. East turned back to the bar, taking a swig from his beer. (He was going to need it, hands shaking with adrenaline.) “Fine. Fuck you too, then. Enjoy your new friends - ”

Things seemed to happen in slow motion, but all at once.

Andrew slapped East’s ass. Whether it was intended to be purely provocative or inappropriately teasing had no bearing on East’s reaction. It was a fluid movement, turning on the balls of his feet, taking a step to Andrew’s right. East’s other leg hooked behind Andrew’s, sweeping him off balance. The skinhead started to raise his arms in defense, but East was too strong and too fast. He caught both of Andrew’s wrists in one hand, and used his opposite forearm to press down on Andrew’s throat. Their momentum did the rest, the bar deathly silent save for Andrew’s gurgling gasps where East had him pinned down on a table.

East was surprised - mostly that he was so aware of what he was doing, and who he was doing it to. This wasn’t a panic reflex, thinking Smith was back from the dead. He wasn’t seeing ghosts or caught in a memory. East looked down into Andrew’s pale eyes and saw fear. He was here and now, putting this punk in his place.

“Fuckin’ hell dude…” Tierney’s breathy whisper broke the silence, eyes shifting uncomfortably between the pair and Tomas, watching wide eyed behind the bar. Andrew was starting to run out of air, struggles growing weaker but more erratic.

“East - East, let him go.” Alister had never sounded so small, so ashamed. “He’s not worth it.”

(East knew well how long it took to strangle someone to death. Andrew wasn’t even unconscious yet.)

“I don’t know, prison wasn’t so bad the first time.” East was in his comfort zone - putting on a show. Playing the monster. He looked back down at Andrew, easing the pressure on his throat enough that the man didn’t lose consciousness as he dropped his tone. “Follow in your hero’s footsteps and go find a hole to die in.”

He released Andrew, stepping back as the skinhead sank to the ground, gasping for air. East watched him, now knowing better than to turn his back.

“You’re fucked - you know that?” Andrew’s voice was reedy and thin with strain as he struggled to his feet, hands tentatively probing his bruised throat. “I’m - once the cops find out - you’re so fucked. Assault absolutely violates whatever bullshit probation you’re on.” He gagged and sputtered between his words, wheezing. “You fucking hear me?”

“I do. Now get out of here before I reconsider.”

“What? Apologizing to me, you fucking maniac?”

“Before I reconsider going back to prison for assault or for murder. Now get, the fuck, out.” East took half a step forward, satisfaction warm in his chest when Andrew flinched away. (This was when the Wolf was safest - posturing and threatening victims for the entertainment of others.) Andrew started to shuffle back, turning away. He had a hand in his pocket - getting brass knuckles or a knife, if East had to guess.

“I’m going - I’m going, you fucking psycho.”

East nodded, purposefully turning away. He was curious - was it a knife or knuckles? Two quick steps and something slashed the fabric at the top of his jacket. Knife it was.

East turned heel and caught Andrew’s knife hand, a squeeze at his wrist forcing the blade to drop into East’s waiting hand. A quick jab to his nose sent Andrew reeling back, East’s hold released to examine the knife while the wanker whined about his bruised and bloodied nose.

“You hold it wrong.” East demonstrated, holding the knife upside down in his hand as Andrew had held it. “This kind of stabbing isn’t effective - not with a moving target. You want it like this.” He flipped the knife around, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. “See? Smooth. Much more control in your slashes.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Andrew panted, exasperated disgust across his face. East narrowed his eyes at the bastard - he was scared of East, sure, but he was too proud to leave without the last word. East squared his shoulders, appraising Andrew the way he did a cut of beef at the deli.

“I’ve killed better men than you.” East took a step forward, Andrew took a step back. “I’ve killed worse men, too. But you - you might just be the most cowardly, pathetic, whiny little bitch I’ve ever had the chance to relieve this earth of.” Another step forward, another step back. “Go to the police - go to your skinhead brothers and tell them how you were beaten and bested by some Sinti son of a bitch who didn’t consider you worth the time it would take to break your fucking neck.”

Andrew had backed into another table, flinching away from it even as East stepped into his face. He knew that look on Andrew’s face well. The fear. The shame. The rabbit-like panic from being cornered and hurt and humiliated and helpless.

(It was an expression he had worn many times.)

“Get the fuck out.” East spat, leaning back enough for Andrew to scramble toward the door. Half frustrated with the memory of his own weakness and half sure the bastard needed some extra motivation, East threw the knife after Andrew. It landed solidly in the doorframe, of course - he wasn’t trying to kill the guy - but with the curses Andrew screamed, you would have thought he had been stabbed.

The door bell chimed, window panes rattling as the door slammed behind Andrew and he ran into the rainy streets. The bar was silent, save for the prattle of the television program and the rumble of thunder outside. East stalked to the door, taking the knife from the frame and inspecting the knick it left behind. Not too deep. He walked back to the bar and took another swig of beer.

“Sorry about the door, Tomas. I can pay - ”

“Don’t worry about it.” The barkeep said, a smile stretching across his face as he laughed. “Don’t you worry about paying me anything ever again.”

The bar seemed to release the breath it had collectively been holding, laughter and chatter erupting from the patrons. Tomas poured East another drink, while Tierney and Alister looked at him with wonder and gratitude respectively.

“How’d you fuckin’ do that? Huh? You gotta teach me - that take down was smooth as butter.” Tierney’s rambling praise settle light and warm across East’s back. He rolled his eyes at the half drunk requests for sparring lessons, giving Alister a glance.

“Thank you.” He mouthed, a shaky relief in his eyes as Tomas laid out shot glasses of hard liquor for the three. East smiled, toasting with the others. He could push his personal worries and guilt aside - it was hard to feel panic in his throat when it burned with the best vodka Tomas could find.

Drifting down from the adrenaline high, brushing off the praise and thanks of the other bar patrons…it was nostalgic. Warm. Familiar.

(He had done this before, during the Before.)

“I think you got us free drinks for the rest of the night East.” Tierney laughed, hand clapping East’s back. Alister smiled at him, gratitude in his eyes.

“Next time save some ass kicking for the rest of us, eh?“

East rolled his eyes, feeling Tierney’s hand slide away from his back.

“Next time I’m sure there’ll be more than one prick so you’ll have your pick - ”

“East you’re bleeding.” Tierney’s whisper was urgent, even if the smear of blood on his palm was relatively unconcerning. East knew the fucker’s knife had cut his jacket, he hadn’t felt it break the skin.

“I didn’t notice - probably just a scratch.”

“We should clean it up though.” Alister had him fixed with a concerned expression. “I don’t think Nate will take kindly to knowing we got into a bar fight. Best to hide the evidence best we can.”

“I’m fine, really - ” There was no arguing with both housemates. East swallowed back the rest of his drink and sighed. “Fine. It probably doesn’t even need stitches.”

The three made their way to the bar restroom, rowdy patrons slapping East’s arm and shouting thanks and congratulations to him as he passed. The repeated, unexpected, unwanted contact was making him sick. Safe behind the closed bathroom door, the reality of what he had agreed to sunk in. He glanced at his reflection in the dirty mirror, skin pale and clammy. East turned suddenly and grabbed Tierney and Alister by the shoulder.

“Don’t ask. Please don’t.” He hoped his reaching out, his purposeful eye contact drove home how serious he was. He hadn’t thought about his back - what was there - for months now.

And here he was letting another man’s hands touch his bared scars and bloodied skin.

(Jackson would be proud.)

(Smith would be jealous.)

Tierney stared up at him with wide shining eyes, glancing to Alister who nodded grimly, brow furrowed in cautious concern.

“We won’t say a word. And we’ll be quick - I know you don’t like touch.”

“Unless you’re knocking another guy’s lights out.” Tierney muttered with a weak chuckle, but East let a smile soften his own face to show that he appreciated the joke. He took a deep breath, removing his hands from their shoulders and nodded to Tierney.

“Get me some vodka. Let’s get this over with.” He turned back to the mirror, shrugging off his jacket - the rip in the back was almost invisible, and any blood blended too well with the dark material to see. He slowly unbuttoned his undershirt, hands growing shaky.

(He took comfort in the fact that the blood on his knuckles wasn’t his own.)

East glanced up at the mirror, the scars on his chest so small and faded with age he could hardly outline the patch of skin that had been replaced. He looked to Alister’s face, eyes gentle and encouraging. Safe.

He took a slow inhale as he pulled his shirt back off his shoulders, and exhaled as he shirked the sleeves from his arms. He grimaced down at the pale green plaid patterned shirt - blood stained a palm sized blotch just below the back of the collar. East didn’t look up to see Alister’s reaction. He didn’t need to.

His hearing caught the stutter of breath, the almost imperceptible shift in breathing before someone spoke. And Tierney’s pattering footsteps, before the door opened and closed.

“I got the - ” He cut himself off, swallowing his words. East took another measured breath, running the tap and holding his bloodstained shirt under the cold water.

“Could use that drink, Tierney.” He managed to mutter, listening to the footsteps approach and seeing the shimmering shot glass out of the corner of his eye.

“You good?”

“Yes. Hurry up.“ He didn’t mean to snap, to take the shot glass from Tierney so violently and swig it back to feel the liquor burn down his throat. A half decent distraction from the hands touching his back.

“It’s not too deep - you, you’re right it probably won’t need stitches.” Tierney was making a point of not looking at East’s back while Alister worked, practically jittering with nervous energy. Alister hummed to confirm Tierney’s observation.

“Just gonna clean it up and get a bandage over it. Don’t want Nate worrying where this blood came from.”

East focused on the gradually fading bloodstain on the shirt in his hands, red washed pink by the icy water. He would have to volunteer for wash duty this weekend - the last thing he needed was getting in trouble with Nate for getting into a bar fight, even if he didn’t start it. He turned off the tap, wringing blood tinged water from his shirt and straightening up as Alister finished.

(The fingers weren’t poking, weren’t prodding - so much like the featherlight touch of Jackson ghosting over those jagged letters when they bled fresh and raw.)

“All set?” He asked, rolling his shoulders to feel the itchy plastic and adhesive of a fresh bandage just below his neck.

“Yup. You really gonna wear a wet shirt for the walk home?”

East struggled back into his button down, the damp fabric fighting him. He responded to Tierney’s question with a shrug and a nod.

“It’s pissing down anyway out there. We’ll all be soaked to the bone before we get home.”

“It was fine until…until we got back to the house. It was late - everyone was asleep and we all went to our rooms and - ” East’s breathing shuddered. He wasn’t crying - not yet, an impressive 20 minutes into the session - but he was feeling the vice of terror squeeze his heart. “I just…I know he was an asshole, and he probably deserved it - or worse - but - I - I enjoyed it.”

“I probably would too; there’s catharsis in taking someone like that down a peg.” Judy hadn’t been critical of his parole violation - (he wasn’t actually on parole, he had to remind himself) - she was more interested in its aftermath. Which, for once, East wanted to talk about.

“It wasn’t just, as you said, taking him down a peg. It - it felt like before. When Smith would have me…y’know…” He trailed off, clearing his throat and reaching for a paper cup of water. Drinking helped him keep his voice. Judy nodded, brow knit in concern.

“Was it like a flashback, like you were feeling the way you did when he made you kill for him?”

“No - no, maybe?” East cringed, running his fingers through his hair. (It was getting long - he wasn’t sure he wanted a haircut. He wasn’t sure if he would like who he saw in the mirror after.) “It…felt safe - controlled?”

“Control I think is the right word. Smith never let you express yourself outside of when he made you kill for his entertainment. You were safe to do as you wished within the scope of his orders.”

(Except the one time he wasn’t. Except the one time he tried to be creative - to show mercy the only way he knew how - and oh, how that choice fucked him later.)

(…)

(Well, he was here, alive and free, wasn’t he?)

“I guess…yeah, the control part - controlling the situation, it felt good. But…” He bit the insider of his cheek, shame creeping up his throat. “The way he looked at me, at the end - I just - I know how that feels. And I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Well, as much of a wanker as he is, that skinhead is still human. He still feels fear and pain and shame just like the rest of us.”

“That doesn’t mean - but he’s still a skinhead and, and I should feel good kicking the shit out of him, right? I just felt…dirty. The way he looked at me…”

East shuddered, remembering coming home that night, sitting in the dark quiet of the house. How quickly the ghosts came for him, how little sleep he stole away.

“Smith made me feel that way. And I made that piece of shit feel the same. I - I mean, like - I could have been that piece of shit, when Smith - y’know - and, and I just - I wonder if that was how Smith felt. When he hurt me. It felt good - being in control, knowing that punk was scared of me, wouldn’t look me in the eye. Wouldn’t fight back anymore.”

And that was the heart of it, wasn’t it? East wasn’t upset because he empathized with a pathetic dickhead he scared the daylights out of. He was upset because he empathized with Smith - the heady rush of power, the security of being feared.

“What was the goal of fighting him?”

“He…Alister wanted to be left alone and he wouldn’t leave. I needed to make him leave because nobody else would.”

“Did you want to kill him?”

“No - no, I only threw his knife after him to scare him.” The question startled East from his spiral. He didn’t kill. He didn’t have to kill anymore. He didn’t want to kill anymore. So he didn’t.

“Do you regret it?”

(Did he?)

“No…he was an asshole. He wasn’t going to leave without a fight, or Alister, or both.” East avoided eye contact, trying not to think about what would have happened if he wasn’t there. If all of Tierney’s 151 cm of fiery drunkeness was pit against someone as hateful and hungry for violence as that punk.

“You saw your friend was in trouble. You took control of the situation - not the person causing it. You created a situation where he chose to leave, and you let him leave.” Judy glanced up from her notes. “You are not Smith, East. You didn’t trap him there. Whatever hits you threw were precise and efficient; you could have kicked the shit out of him, beaten him to a bloody pulp, and to be quite honest I don’t think anyone in that bar would have had an issue with it.”

“But - ”

“East, you let him go when he wanted to leave. Would Smith have done that?”

(No. Never. Smith would have meted out a punishment. Nothing but immediate and complete surrender was good enough for Smith.)

“Still feel like shit about it.” He managed to mumbled, swallowing back tearful words.

“Smith was human too, East. He was a fucking monster, but still just a human, like you and me and that prick from the bar.”

“If this is supposed to make me feel better, it isn’t.”

“You’re human too, East. You’re going to have moments of your life that you’re not proud of. You’re going to say cruel, thoughtless things and behave inappropriately and upset other people. You’re going to do things that feel good in the moment that you regret later. That dickhead at the bar didn’t regret what he said to you and your friends in the moment because he didn’t see you as people entitled to basic human decency. Just because he learned to regret that choice doesn’t mean you did something wrong.”

East nodded, digesting the information.

“Smith didn’t regret what he did to you because he didn’t see you as a person. He didn’t treat you with any respect or basic human dignity because he thought you didn’t deserve it. He was wrong, of course, but he didn’t regret it.” Judy’s smile was tinged with wry bitterness. “If you can look a skinhead in the eye after kicking his ass and still see that he’s still a human being, that he’s just a man, you’re not going to make the same mistakes Smith made.”

“Yeah, I’ll get to make new mistakes.” East grumbled, the retort slipping past his lips before he could catch the thought. But Judy just smiled, shrugging.

“We all do. It’s how we choose to learn from and react to our mistakes that lets us grow beyond them.”

It was that time in spring when it was cool enough for a jumper outside, but too hot to sit in a car in the sun. Nathan cracked open the car window and his book. He would say one thing about driving East to these weekly sessions - it gave him plenty of time to get caught up on his reading.

Or at least, it normally did. His phone started ringing just as he got settled in. Nathan was worried at first - he was always worried about his wards - but seeing the caller ID had something bitter creep up his throat.

“Jackson. How have you been?” He was too polite to start chewing him out right off the bat.

As much as he wanted to.

“I’m well, just wrapping up some loose ends. How’s East?” Jackson sounded…fine. Nonchalant and relaxed. As though he didn’t leave Nathan in charge of a man with a fabricated record, no background to speak of, and enough trauma to need weekly therapy sessions for months at a time.

“John. What the fuck were you thinking?” Nathan dropped his voice low, a furtive glance around the empty parking lot as though someone might overhear. “You shouldn’t have brought him here - I do not have the training to be an on-call psychiatric nurse.”

“I know - I know.” Jackson was almost audibly cringing. “I’m sorry, it wasn’t fair to drop…all that on you so suddenly.”

“It wasn’t… God, Jackson, you - I mean, you told me what to expect but…Christ.”

“That bad?”

“At the start. Like a goddamn robot, never left his room, always seemed a stern look away from bursting into tears.” Nathan sighed, leaning back in his seat. “Not exactly easy to pass off as a guy with assault charges who just got out on good behavior. I’m not sure any of the boys really bought that story.”

“Records are easier to fake than the experience, I guess.” Jackson sighed ruefully, an apology in his voice. “Have they been…how’s he doing with them?”

“Took a bit but he seems to have warmed up to a few. Al and Tierney took him out to the pub the other night.”

“A pub? He - that’s, that sounds like he’s doing a hell of a lot better than he was when I dropped him off.”

“Yeah, no thanks to you.” He winced even as the words left his lips - it was a bit cruel, but it was true. Jackson had really dropped off the face of the earth for the last few months. God, what Nathan wouldn’t give to be having this conversation in person. “Therapy has been helping - seems to be at least.”

“Good - good, I guess…I was worried he…I’m glad it’s working out.”

“Me too.” Nathan hummed, brow furrowed in thought. “Why call me now?”

“Well, if my time zones are correct he’s in a session right now - ”

“No, why are you checking in now? It’s been almost four fucking months Jackson.”

“I know - I know, I’m sorry - I’m on a train home in…seven hours.” There was a rustle of paperwork on the other side of the line. Nathan could practically see Jackson dance around the question - evading explanation for what he could only hope was a damn good reason. “I was - I was actually wondering if I’d be able to meet with him in person, when I got back.”

“…sure. I’ll have to check his work schedule. Is this the kind of thing where I should give him a heads up or…if this more of a business visit?”

“Christ - no, nothing like that. By all means tell him I’ll be back in town and want to see him. I was thinking lunch maybe - if you, as his supervisor, give him permission.”

“I’ll consider it.” Nathan chuckled, sighing into the phone. “But John?”

“Yeah?”

“We’re even. Once he’s out of the program he’s on his own and I don’t want you to ask me to do something like this again.”

“I understand. I’m sorry, Nathan.”

“I know you are.” He hung up, pressing his forehead to the sun warmed steering wheel.

What he wouldn’t give for this to be normal - for East to be a normal probation case with a normal life to go back to. A normal felon with a normal support network or lack thereof that Nathan knew how to navigate, how to help. But East was so far from normal; no protocol or training or prior experience prepared Nathan for the desperate wreck of a man he had met all those months ago.

He hoped he had done everything right. He hoped Jackson wouldn’t fuck up what he had done right. He hoped he could forget about all this, the late night nightmares and the scars glimpsed under sleeves and the eyes that watched him with the expectation of pain. But Nathan knew he would be worrying about the poor bastard until the day he died, no matter where he ended up.

(All he could hope was that whatever Jackson had in mind, it was somewhere safe and quiet. Somewhere with black coffee and morning runs and good friends. Christ knew East deserved it.)

The set up was cliche for a reason: it worked. No fancy equipment, as few moving parts as possible, and complete deniability. Jackson had taken the target to a small tea shop in the heart of the city. Crowded but not too busy. Bribing the waiter to sit the pair behind her table was easy.

The hard part was resisting the urge to turn around and look at him -

(She needed to be patient. Even if it was her Wolf back from the dead, she wasn’t sure her presence would be soothing.)

(…)

(If it was her Wolf, if Ghost had left him for dead, if he had survived all these years - would he hate her? Would he forgive Ghost?)

“You’re looking well, East.”

“Thanks. Helps to not be half dead and sick as a dog.”

The voice was…wrong. Too gravelly, too low - the accent though, the cadence of his words…oh, how desperately she wanted to believe it was him. A waiter brought her the tea she had ordered, creamy and warm and sweet. She didn’t have the stomach for it, thinking about the target behind her.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around lately. I know it must have been a…rough adjustment.”

The man behind Liza scoffed.

“It’s been…an adjustment, to be sure.” He sighed, voice softening. “But I’m…doing better. Thanks to you - ”

“Oh, don’t you dare give me credit. That’s all you. And Nate, of course. I just dropped you at the door and left.”

“You didn’t have to. Help me, I mean.” East clearly meant to elaborate, but a waiter came by to take their order. Liza forced herself to swallow a few sips of her drink. She told herself she didn’t shiver at his coffee order - it didn’t mean anything, anyone could enjoy black coffee and four sugar cubes without milk.

“Speaking of, helping you, how’s Judy been?”

“Helpful.” The word was clipped and professional, but East worked some levity into his voice as he continued. “Starting to feel like a real person again.”

“I’m glad.” The warmth in Jackson’s voice almost took Liza off guard. So sickeningly tender and genuine. “You have no idea how relieved I am that you’re - ”

He cut himself off, their drinks served by an unwitting waiter. There was the clatter of tea cups and coffee mugs and sugar stirred with honey.

“Careful, it’s hot.”

“I know - it’s still good.”

“How can you tell with it burning your tastebuds off?” Jackson’s amused huff and East’s chuckling sigh only made the pang of nostalgia all the louder in Liza’s heart. Wolf (her Wolf) never waited for his coffee to cool; too impatient to wait - he always claimed it tasted worse once it cooled to a drinkable temperature.

“I’m glad you’re back, Jackson.” East’s voice was still warm, but there was a tension under his words. “How have you been? Is everything…alright?”

“Fine. I’m doing just fine - happy to be home, if I’m quite honest.” Jackson’s reply was immediate and open, but dreadfully vague. “Everything’s just fine.”

Liza couldn’t see East’s reaction behind her, but whatever it was compelled Jackson to continue. She could almost see him, in her mind’s eye: her Wolf…a decade younger, face pinched in worry - always worried - and eyes bright with determined preparation for every scenario.

“Things are dying down. Americans are keeping to themselves for once, and it’s looking like a cold case.” Jackson’s voice was almost too quiet to hear, but Liza could practically feel the tension bleed from the man behind her. “Almost out of the woods - just some finalized paperwork and seals of approval.”

“And what happens…after?”

Liza stared down at her tea, trying to picture it. The great and terrifying Ghost - who swore off apprentices after losing his first, his last - being told the man that was practically his son had survived. (Had been abandoned.) Wolf - who went through a hell at the hands of the enemy, who spent years abandoned and alone - survived and he could come home. (To a stranger in his room and the dog he loved long dead.)

(Her one regret in her life burned bright in her throat - oh, how he would have loved to meet Casey. How different things could have been if Wolf was around to protect her boy.) “After…we get you home.”

“Which is?” East (Wolf?)’s whisper was hoarse, laced with a sad desperation that broke Liza’s heart. Jackson had told her he might have - she didn’t really think, she hoped -

(She was a fool, always blinded by hope and it’s empty promises.)

“I - I thought you said things were going well with Judy - ”

“Nevermind. Your tea’s getting cold.“ It was like a switch had flipped, words suddenly steady and strong. Whatever fledgling hope Liza had that this was her Wolf, that he could come home, died in her chest.

(Wolf hadn’t had a home to come back to in along time.)

“Hey, I just - East…it’s fine. We said it would probably take some time. We’re not in any rush - ”

“You seem to be.” There was a thin bite to the words, defensive but still smothered in that muted parody of nonchalance. “I don’t know. I don’t really want to. It sucks to think about. I thought maybe you…figured something out that I couldn’t.”

“East…love, I - ”

“It’s fine. I like my job. I like my friends. Think Al and I might get a flat together - rent’s too high to not have roommates in this economy.” East’s sigh was decisive, a harsh swallow before he continued. “I just - God, fuck - I like my life right now. And I don’t want to leave it all behind. But I know - I don’t know - what you need or, or want me to do in return for - ”

“Nothing. East, I’m not here to take you away I just - I didn’t know if you had somewhere else you’d rather be. But, if you’re happy here…I don’t see any reason for you to leave.”

“Really?”

(Why did the relief in his voice sound so much like a nail in the empty coffin they buried for him?)

Liza wanted to get sick; she stood up a bit too quickly, chair bumping into the man behind her. She pulled on the mask of a stranger, perfect and apologetic and calm, and looked a dead man in the eye.

“Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry - ”

“No worries.”

Her heart dropped to her feet, his polite glance failing to betray recognition, even though she knew that face and those eyes so well, even a decade removed -

(He looked so much older than she remembered him. Tired. Contented. Scarred and worn by time and it’s ravages. Where was the soldier more boy than man she remembered? Where was his fiery eyes and burning passion? Where was his fight?)

(…)

(Was it better, she wondered, for him to live a life without that fight, that fire in his heart? God knew how it had burned her and everyone else who knew him when it was snuffed out.)

Liza took her leave, heart in her throat.

—

“Did you - ?”

“I don’t know him. This was a waste of my time.”

“I’m sorry - ”

“I’m sure you are.” Liza let her voice soften as she looked out at the rain hitting her hotel window. She sighed into the phone, speaking before she could regret it. “Agent Jackson?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t know this Wolf of yours, but it sounds like he’s having a pretty good life.” She almost paused, almost stopped to consider telling him the truth before deciding better of it. Liza was far more comfortable in a lie. “Don’t fuck it up looking for something he doesn’t need found.”

“…Thank you, Liza.”

She snapped the phone closed, and closed her eyes, remembering the face she knew on a man who didn’t know her.

It wasn’t worth unburying that empty casket. It wasn’t worth uprooting a good, clean civilian life. It wasn’t worth opening old wounds. Wolf was dead, as he had been for a decade. Liza needed to make sure he stayed dead, and that East stayed alive and well and untainted by the world he left behind.

“Al get picked up by his girlfriend already?”

“Watch it O’Hare. They aren’t dating, yet.” East huffed with a laugh. Alister had practically been adopted by Jasmine’s mother - he couldn’t turn down a dinner invitation if he wanted to. It helped that the Jasmine was fond of him, and he of her. While East wasn’t privy to all the intricacies of halal courtship, he had been happy to help his friend learn some Arabic to ease communication with her family (and perhaps impress his crush).

“Okay but - yet is the operative word, ain’t it?” Tierney too a long drag on his cigarette, smoke puffing white from his lips. “She’s sweet and fine and clearly into him. Why wait?”

“They’re taking things slow. No harm in patience.” East rolled his eyes as Tierney fidgeted - always impatient, never stilling. “Foreign concept for you, I know. But they’re both happy to get to know each other a bit better before starting anything official.”

“I guess that tracks…’specially with Al’s, uh, recent rehab.” Tierney sighed, and East grimaced with a nod. Alister was impressively well acclimated considering what he had come from, but that didn’t mean his past was excusable or forgiven. East hoped Alister was leading this new friendship with transparency and honesty.

“You about done with that? We still gotta close up.”

“You been standing here watching me smoke instead of closing?”

“Never worked the registers before, Tierney. I just clean the slicer and knives and mop the floor. Money’s your department.”

“Right - fine, fine. Get in there, I’ll finish this up and show you how it’s done.”

East nodded, leaving the back door ajar behind him. It was good to air out the stuffy backroom of the deli every now and then, and the weather was, for once, relatively pleasant.

It had been a quiet day and a quiet closing. The sun was starting to set, pink filtering through the shop windows where the light reached the street. There were only a few people out, most walking to the local bars or the bus stop to catch a ride home. East and Tierney needed to hurry up - it was a bitch having to wait for the night bus if they missed the evening route.

(Though, as Tierney often pointed out, it gave them ample opportunity to try out the taverns on this side of town while they waited. Alister had then suggested they race back to the house, which earned a pleading groan from the unathletic Irishman who would rather not be left behind by ‘the long legged freaks’ he called friends.)

“You need something?” Tierney’s voice echoed dully from the alleyway behind the shop, but East’s head snapped up. Two sets of unfamiliar footsteps. His gut told him they were trouble, and Tierney seemed to agree. “Fuck - hey, shit, fuck off - ”

“O’Hare!” East barked, rushing to the back door with the knowledge that he was physically intimidating enough to spook off any idiotic muggers. He didn’t expect to catch a taser to his side. The pain was almost blinding (almost - his handler trained him to tolerate much stronger voltages). He flinched away, wheezing in pain as he struggled to get his bearings.

Tierney was backed into a corner between the waste bin and the wall, all bared teeth and rabbit hearted fear as wide eyes darted between East and the attackers. One was closing in on the Irishman, zip ties in hand, and the other took a swing at East upon seeing the taser didn’t have the intended effect.

Disoriented and swallowing back panic, East barely managed to dodge the hit, succeeding in catching a knee to his gut for the trouble. Another kiss from the taser left his hearing implants screaming in his skull and his body too contracted in pain to stand. He collapsed to his hands and knees, eyes screwed shut to try and hold back the tears.

“Fuck - fucking leave him alone - ”

“Shut up.” The click of the metal mechanisms of a firearm’s hammer were still so familiar to East’s ears.

“Hey, hey hey hey just - I’ll go with you but he’s - leave him out of this.”

“I said shut up.” East flinched in sympathy, Tierney’s whimper of pain spurring him to look up. ('Fight. Kill them.') The rustle of fabric and the cinching of zip ties had East’s heart racing, vision blurry as he tried to breathe through his own pain to see what was happening.

The one that had taser and winded him had Tierney with his hands behind his back, and the one with the gun moved to stand over East.

(He didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die, he didn’t want to die - )

“He’s seen our faces.”

“And we’re not supposed to leave behind evidence, dumbass. A body seems like a bit of fucking evidence now doesn’t it?”

East trained his eyes on the ground, brain struggling to come up with a strategy that satiated their hunger for violence kept him and Tierney safe. He was on his knees, his muscles struggling to respond as they recovered from the shock. He had no weapons besides his brute strength, and Tierney was already incapacitated.

Their options weren’t looking good.

“Then what the hell do we do with him?”

“Take him; boss’ll decide. Dead or alive we can’t leave him here.”

“Alive! Would very much prefer if you cunts took him alive!” Tierney’s voice cracked with fear, nervous chuckle cut off by a wince of pain as the man holding him began to drag him away.

Unthinking, East looked up at the man with the gun, expression half pleading half terror. (Oh, how disappointed his handler would be - where was his perfect, unflinching Wolf?) The stranger looked down on him with a familiar smile, annoyed but condescending - amused by his pain.

“Alive it is then.”

East saw him raise the gun, but bracing for the impact didn’t make the pistol whipping any less effective. His vision flashed white, darkening as pain bloomed through his fleeting consciousness. A strangled groan in his throat didn’t stop the hands dragging him to his feet, a ziptie pinning his hands behind his back, the stranger manhandling him somewhere dark and cramped -

(He didn’t want to go back back back - he couldn’t - he didn’t need the Box - )

What consciousness he managed to regain was filtered through pure, unadulterated panic and terror.

“East, East you gotta - chill man, just - chill.” Tierney didn’t know what to do. Ignoring his own mounting panic and nauseating fear, he couldn’t even think listening to East…like this.

He had heard him sometimes, late at night - whimpers and choked sobs. Alister said he sometimes heard the poor bastard begging for mercy. Having seen the scars on East’s back, Tierney supposed it made a bit more sense.

(He knew they were new, still silvery with fresh scar tissue. Whatever assault charges he got arrested for were bullshit - Tierney doubted the guy even went to prison. Whatever he was involved in was too hush-hush to be anything but awful.)

But this - God, why did it have to be East helping close tonight? This must have been his worst fucking nightmare. In the dark, Tierney couldn’t tell if he was crying, but the too fast, too short breathing was too loud and too pained to betray anything else. East had maneuvered himself toward the tailgate of the truck, kicking at the hinges with desperation and distilled survival instinct. He wasn’t hearing Tierney.

—

Out out out he needed out he couldn’t - he couldn’t do this again, not again - he just needed to get out and run -

(He remembered the one time he tried to run. The ache in his skull now was a far cry from the buzzing blur of broken bone and blood loss then.)

Another kick to the tailgate hinge seemed to ricochet up his leg to his hip, a twinge of pain searing through his panic muddled thoughts.

('That hip replacement wasn’t cheap, don’t break him like that again.')

East stopped kicking, panting as the adrenaline ebbed. They were in the bed of a pickup truck.

(He remembered being strapped down, immobile in the dark, his brain too bruised and too confused to understand more than pain.)

This was a newer vehicle - one with a heavy, magnetic cover over the truck bed. He could hardly sit up in the narrow space, but it could have been worse.

(It could have been the Box.)

Tierney’s breathing was shuddering somewhere to his left, words slurred and stuttered as he rambled through his own panic.

“We’re - we’re fine. We’re gonna be fine. You’re gonna - gonna be okay. We - it’s fine. Rem - Remember how, how when we first talked - the card game - and, and you asked if my dad was a, a, a mob boss or something?” Tierney swallowed, a sob in his voice as he whispered. “They’ll come for me. We’re gonna be okay. Okay? Okay.”

The Wolf had been alone back then. He wasn’t alone now. He had someone else he needed to protect. (And still a bitter voice in his skull whispered: he couldn’t even protect himself, back then, how did he plan to protect both of them now?) East breathed, as slowly and as deeply as Judy had taught him, and took inventory of his injuries.

He had a headache, combined with the sticky half dried blood matting his hair were the pistol but had struck him. He was still twitchy from the electrocution, hearing implants staticky but functional. His hands were zip tied tightly behind his back.

East could work with this.

“How long have we been moving?” He finally asked, tongue like lead in his mouth. Tierney flinched at his voice, a groan after he hit his head on the cover above them.

“Jesus - fuck. Fuck, East, I’m so sorry - Christ, are you okay? You were - ”

“How long, O’Hare?” He didn’t like the growl in his words, the order lodged in his throat with heavy familiarity. (The Wolf was all smoke and mirrors; an illusion he clung to as the only thing he could control in that hell.)

“Fi-fifteen minutes? Maybe? Can’t see my fuckin’ watch.” Tierney’s breathing was shaky, his own panic bubbling just below the surface. “Are you - are you okay? They hit you pretty hard - ”

“Fine. Can you reach your shoelaces?”

“Fine? East - what? No, dude, you - you were freaking the fuck out a few seconds ago - ”

“And I’m not now. Unlace your shoe if you can, we can get out of these.”

“No, no we - we don’t wanna piss these fuckers off. I, I told you, someone will come for me, and I’m not leaving without you too.”

East took another therapy standard breath, ignoring the curl of panic in his gut. (No one came to save him before, no one was coming now. They either escaped, submitted, or died.)

“I’m not taking that chance. We get out of here before the truck stops and we’ll have a better chance of being found.”

East finished unlacing his own boots, threading the cord through his zip tied hands. It took some struggle, but he managed to tie the lace to each boot. Turning onto his stomach (and ignoring the instinctive dread of lying prone), East bicycled his legs, sawing the cord back and forth over the zip tie until -

He almost sobbed in relief when the plastic snapped, arms immediately coming to his sides and push him up. His wrists were bruised, but his hands were free.

“Holy - are you - did you get out of these things? How the hell - ”

East scrambled to Tierney, shushing him as he tentatively found his friend’s bound hands and began to saw the binds with his shoelace.

“We can either try and break the tailgate hinges and slip out unnoticed or we break the cover’s seal - they’ll see us if they check their mirrors but it might be easier than getting the tailgate open.”

The ziptie snapped, Tierney wincing in relief as he rubbed his tender wrists.

“Whatever the fuck you want man, you clearly got better ideas than me.” Just as he finished speaking, the truck lurched, slowing to a stop. Tierney nearly sobbed, hysterical with terror. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wes hopped out of the passenger seat, stretching with a yawn. The sun had set, air cool and humming with cricketsong. The damp air stank of wet straw and manure, the nearby horse barn echoing softly with chuffs and whinnies of its curious inhabitants.

“Get the O’Hare to the boss; I’ll keep our other friend under watch.”

Alex wasn’t Wes’ favorite coworker, but he was one of the boss’ favorites, so he nodded along to the order without a fight. Even if he wanted the more entertaining job of making sure the poor bastard they dragged along didn’t try anything. His gut feeling was the little snitch’s dad hired some muscle, but the way the poor bastard looked at him…Wes wouldn’t admit to himself he wasn’t comfortable with such naked fear.

(He hoped they didn’t have to kill him, if only because it felt too much like kicking a cowering dog.)

He opened the truck’s tailgate, expecting O’Hare’s pathetic babbling and curses to spill from the darkness, but there was only silence. Not even the stranger was sobbing.

“Alex - ” The initial panic of ‘we lost the snitch’ was followed by realizing he had been tackled to the ground. It was the stranger, no more teary eyes or terrified stares - those dark eyes were blazing with hatred and anger. Try as he might to block the blows, Wes tasted blood from a split lip, forgetting to reach for the gun at his waist until Alex’s sharp whistle caught the stranger’s attention.

“We don’t need this one alive, mate.” Alex had the O’Hare on his knees, hands raised and a bruise blooming across his pale freckled face. The pistol teasing the back of his head wasn’t loaded, but the stranger didn’t need to know that. He froze immediately, eyes locked on O’Hare. It gave Wes enough time to snatch his own blank loaded weapon and level it at the fucker’s chest.

“Get the fuck off of me, slowly.” Wes spat blood, scooting back as the stranger crawled to his knees, hands raised. That rabbit hearted terror was in those eyes again, the fire of his fight snuffed out like a candle.

“East, I’m sorry, I tried to - ”

“Shut the fuck up, kid.” Alex pulled the O’Hare to his feet, re-binding his wrists behind his back with zip ties. He trained his gun on the stranger - East? - after securing the kid. Wes took the cue, using multiple zip ties this time - and he made sure they were uncomfortably tight.

(He couldn’t be sure, but East seemed to be literally shaking in fear. Suited him right for busting up Wes’ face.)

“I’ll take O’Hare to the boss. Keep an eye on this one; I’ll send the boys out to give you a hand.”

Wes liked the sound of that.

—

That could have gone better. East focused on his breathing as Tierney was dragged away, a gun at his back. Of course both of them had guns. He should have been paying more attention -

“On your knees.”

He blinked away from the barn Tierney had disappeared into, looking over at the man who still had his own gun leveled at East’s heart. He looked between the gun and the man’s face, blood still dripping from his split lip and the bloom of bruises forming on his cheek and jaw.

Maybe he had overdone it, a little.

“I said on your fucking knees, bitch.”

East flinched, and the kidnapper flinched in turn when he dropped to his knees, the pain dull but achingly familiar.

(No good would come of provoking him now, when Tierney was being held elsewhere. He wasn’t scared, or thinking of how many times his handler said almost the exact same words - )

There were footsteps approaching from the barn.

“Damn, what happened to your face, Wes?” The new stranger’s voice was deep, rumbling in East’s hearing. He didn’t flinch, a familiar emptiness creeping into his bones.

(It was easier if he relaxed; if he let himself be malleable and agreeable and bend to their every whim - )

“I don’t know, Aaron, I think he was always looked like that.” East tensed as a hand clapped down on his shoulder, the stench of cigar smoke rolling off the stranger’s breath. “You might have done that ugly cunt a favor - ”

“Oh, shut up, Josh. You got an ice pack for me or not, prick?”

The hand left his shoulder, and East breathed again.

“Yeah, yeah, right here…”

He looked up from where he had been staring at the ground. The one with the gun - Wes - had lowered his weapon, taking a towel wrapped ice pack from one of the newcomers, rotund and red faced and black haired. The man standing behind him - Aaron? - burly and blonde, noticed him looking around at them.

“And who’s our new friend here, hm?” East looked down as Aaron tried to make eye contact.

(Eye contact wasn’t permissible; it was too direct, too much like a challenge.)

“O’Hare called him East.”

“Hm, East is it? How much he paying you?”

(His name was Wolf. He worked alone. He worked for no one.)

“Hey, prick, he asked you a question.”

(Answering didn’t matter - he was going to get hurt either way; why waste his breath? Just wait, just take it - )

No. He was spiraling - somewhere he wasn’t, people who weren’t here - he took a slow, steadying breath.

East could taste blood from having bit the inside of his cheek. He could smell the horse sweat and hay and dew of evening. The light from the barn cast harsh shadows in gold. He was here. He was now. He was alive.

And he was angry.

“You hear me, motherfucker? Huh?” Wes has set aside the ice pack, gun still in hand as he stepped in front of where East knelt.

“Lay off, he’s a professional. Boss’ll…interview him later.” Aaron’s laugh was laced with cruelty, and Wes’ eyes burned with a hunger East was well familiar with. A hunger he was happy to satiate, now that he remembered where and who he was.

Before Wes could respond, East lunged.

Three. He could take three British morons - if he didn’t have his hands tied behind his back.

East knew his outburst was counterintuitive, unproductive at best and provocative at worst. But Judy and him had been working on weaning off his hypervigilant, logistical mode of thinking to a more natural, emotionally informed schema.

His emotions informed two distinct truths: he hated these bastards, and he was pissed that they hurt him and Tierney.

Judy had made a point in that particular session to separate validation of emotion from inappropriate responses to that emotion. It was fine if he was upset and wanted to cry somewhere by himself for a while, but it wasn’t healthy to spend all day locked in his room wallowing in that misery. As soon as East heard the fucker’s nose crack, his own skull throbbing from the impact, he had a feeling this was one of those ‘inappropriate responses to valid emotions’ she had been talking about.

“Motherfucker!” Wes half screamed in pain, dropping his gun to the ground. (Something in his probably-slightly-concussed brain thought it sounded wrong, sounded fake - )

“Jesus fuck - goddamn - ” Josh, the stout one, grabbed one of East’s elbows, Aaron grabbed the other - it was pure instinct to fight their bruising hold.

“I’ll kill you, you want to die that bad you fucking dickhead?” Wes’ voice was watery, blood running down his chin and tears in his eyes as he jabbed the muzzle of the pistol against East’s chest. (He had picked it up from the ground, the too-light gun that he hadn’t bothered to fire - yet -)

“Blanks.” East said, the single syllable hanging in the air between Wes’ pained gasps and the grumbled threats of his coworkers.

“What?”

“The gun - it’s empty. Or full of blanks.” The mask slipped on so easily, East and the Wolf dancing around the same calm facade of bared confidence.

“How the fuck do you figure that, jackass?” Wes pressed the pistol under East’s jaw, metal cold against his skin. (Even with blanks, the force of the firing could kill him. Would kill him at this range.)

“Didn’t sound right when you dropped it. Too light to have proper lead in it.”

“Professional. Told you.”

“Shut up, Aaron.”

A sharp whistle stopped their squabbling. East turned his eyes on the man who had taken Tierney away. The stranger’s eyes were hard and cold, his tone leaving no room for argument.

“Josh, get Wes to the doc. Aaron, get - ”

“He broke my fucking nose, Alex!” Well, it left no room for argument for everyone but Wes.

“I can see. Now get your ass to the doc, or I’ll break your fucking jaw.” Alex steered East by the shoulder, Aaron still keeping a vice-like grip on his opposite elbow as he was herded toward the barn.

The light was painfully bright compared to the dim outdoors, East’s eyes screwed shut between unsteady steps on the dusty concrete. If he focused, he could hear the familiar cadence of Tierney’s mumbled curses somewhere nearby. But when he had worked up the tolerance to open his eyes and look up, he was pulled through the threshold of a tack room.

It was blessedly dim, but uncomfortably claustrophobic; the desk and the chair in front of it were barely squeezed in here between the rack of saddles and cubbies full of riding blankets. The man at the desk wasn’t familiar. His face was narrow, a sharp widow’s peak at his receding hairline betraying he was going gray. Worry lines creased his forehead, but the smile lines on his face deepened as he grinned up at East with coffee stained teeth.

(It was better than Smith’s too-white smile; there was no glint of gold in this man’s mouth.)

“Sit down, sit down - want a beer?” It was clearly a rhetorical question, and East was harshly dropped in the chair by his chaperones. Aaron and Alex stepped back, leaning against the door with their arms crossed over their chests. “I’m told you go by East, is that correct? I’m Brian, Brian Lahey - maybe we’ve crossed paths before.”

East blinked up at him, half dumb with his overtaxed brain trying to process the words and half defiant to any small talk this kidnapper desired.

“Doubt it.” He finally said, watching Brian with a neutral expression, though he knew hatred and his rabbit hearted panic was bleeding through his eyes.

“Relax, friend. The kid can’t hear us in here. I just want to know how much his daddy’s paying you - ”

“Not your friend. Not paid.”

“Ah, blackmail, is it?” Brian had a wrinkle of anger creep across his forehead. East shook his head, scowling, but it didn’t seem to convince him. “Come in now, mate, no need to be so prickly - I know my boys did you wrong. Here - cut him loose, Alex.”

East tensed, immediately calculating his chances of escape. There were a few choice pencils and pens on the desk. Aaron was still blocking the door, and the room had little room for maneuvering. When the zip ties snapped loose, East could only slowly take his hands to his front, rubbing his bruised wrists. He had to play along, just long enough to find a way to get him and Tierney out of this.

“See? We can be friends, East. If you just tell me what the O’Hares have on you, I can make it all go away. I have connections in very high places.”

East swallowed, throat bobbing. He wasn’t Tierney’s hired body guard. He was Tierney’s friend - but telling these criminals that would only give them leverage. They couldn’t know how desperately East wanted to get Tierney out of this unscathed. They couldn’t know how terrified he was of not having an answer.

So, he simply shrugged, shaking his head. Brian sighed, nodding.

“I figured; Alex said you seemed pretty professional.” East almost had time to turn around, to twist away from the rag clamped firmly over his face. He held his breath, but it was too late. Maybe? There was a sweetness to the fumes, like chloroform, but why…they didn’t need him unconscious…

There was a familiar hum in his blood, and his mind went blank with terror. He knew this drug. He knew it far too well, potent and bubbling bright in his veins.

(Was Anders here?)

“Who’s Anders, East?”

(No. Don’t - please. Please don’t send him back.)

“Where, East?”

(He wasn’t going back. Not alive. They couldn’t make him - he would - )

East’s dilated eyes fell on the sharpened pencil in the desk, but his movements were too sluggish, too telegraphed. Aaron and Alex had him pinned in his chair before he could reach the implement.

(Oh, how easy it would have been to go where Anders couldn’t follow.)

“You sound pretty spooked by this Anders fellow, huh, East?” Brian’s face drifted in and out of focus, nausea rolling in East’s gut at the name. “O’Hare can only keep you safe for so long. We can protect you; but I need to know who Anders is and why you’re running from him, okay? Can you tell me that?”

He couldn’t. His mouth felt like it was full of cotton, tongue wooden and dry. East coughed, trying to clear his throat, but he couldn’t stop - it was as though he had inhaled that mouthful of cotton, lungs heavy and seizing and his world growing dim.

Whatever panicked curses his captors were shouting fell on unhearing ears.

“What now?” Lydia seethed, stripping her bloodied gloves with annoyance. First, Wes went and got his nose broken so badly she wasn’t sure he’d breathe right ever again. And now the boss was calling her, bitching as if it was her fault the poor fuck he drugged was having a bad trip.

Never had she been so thrilled to hear Aaron’s stupid voice take over the phone call.

“He started - I don’t know, seizing, or something - you gotta get here - ”

“I’m already on my way. Is he still seizing?”

“No - no it only lasted a few seconds but he hit his head on the corner of the desk when he went down and there - there’s a lot of fucking blood.”

“I bet. How’s his breathing? Can Alex check is pulse?” She was only a few houses down, the barn already glowing over the hill.

“Shitty. Like he - he’s fucking hyperventilating or something. Al - Alex she wants a pulse. Fuck if I know why she asked you to do it you’re the ex-green beret guy - ”

Lydia ignored their shouts over the phone as she pulled her car to a stop, their worried voices growing clearer as she opened the office door. The poor fucker was - at the very least - in a decent recovery position on the floor, probably curtesy of Alex. Fuck knew their boss probably dipped the second there was any blood.

“Did Brian fuck off?”

“Yeah. Giving the O’Hare a grilling in the stables.” Alex gave her a shaky smile of relief, but her scowl nearly made him flinch away as she crouched to better assess the patient. His breathing was pretty shit, to put it lightly.

“Move the chair and crap. I need space to work.”

is head wound was the first order of business, still pooling red under his skull. Thankfully, a brief inspection proved it was just a jagged cut across his temple. Or hopefully it was just that - Brian didn’t pay her enough to have a portable X-ray on hand. Patching the cut was east enough, though it took some cleaning to get enough blood off the poor bastard’s face.

Lydia didn’t care that he kept crying and whimpering, but it sure as hell was annoying. And it couldn’t have been helping his pained, shallow breaths.

“You break his ribs or something?”

“No - no, just tased him. Wes hit him over the head with the pistol but - no, ribs should be…ah fuck, I did knee him earlier. Just to knock the wind out of him. Don’t think I hit him hard enough to break anything.”

Lydia sighed, fishing her stethoscope from her bag. Sliding it under the back of his shirt, something caught her eye. Even as she listened to his breathing - too fast and too shallow but clear - she couldn’t help but pull his shirt up further.

“Fuckin’ Christ…” She breathed, glancing up to Alex. “Boss needs to see this. Here, help me get some pictures - if he’s a professional like you think, this is as good as identifying marks get.”

Alex whistled at the scars, almost shining gold in the warm light of the tack room.

“Someone’s really had it out for this guy.”

“Which means someone will pay damn well to finish the job. Now get his shirt off so I can take some pictures - boss is gonna love this.”

—

Tierney was, in mild terms, freaking the fuck out.

“I don’t - I fucking told you, he’s just my - my flat mate.“

Even as Tierney’s pleas grew desperate, the Lahey man wasn’t backing down. How could he convince this former-sort-of-business-partner (that he may or may not have fucked over before getting arrested) that East had nothing to do with him or his family?

“Really? ‘Cause he didn’t seem to keen on telling us that. Clammed up like a real professional, you know.” There was a hungry anxiety in the Lahey’s eyes, something probing and something desperate. “I told you - your pops probably bought him off to keep you safe. I’m not gonna kill the poor guy for doing his job - but I can’t just let him run home to your old man before we get a chance to ransom you.”

“And - and I told you wankers that you’re wasting your time. O’Hare’s don’t do ransoms.”

“I know. Your poor sister, what was her name? Did she ever forgive your parents for hanging her out to dry?” Tierney strained against his bonds, zip ties keeping him chained to the metal feed trough of the horse stall. He wanted to bash this fucker’s face in so goddamn badly… “But you, you’re the baby of the family. And daddy knows you’ll squeal to the wrong cops if I make you.”

The Lahey glanced up, footsteps approaching and something dragging across concrete. Tierney stood, too short to see over the stall door, save for the top of his captor’s heads. Their voices were hushed, too whispered to understand, but clearly excited, even as Lahey’s voice faded and the door to the stall unlocked.

Tierney threw himself at Alex, seeing East limp in his hands - shirtless - but the restraints around his wrists didn’t let him go far, zipties irritating his already tender flesh.

“What the fuck did you do to him? You fuckers - fucking - what the fuck is wrong with you - he gonna fucking freeze - ”

“It ain’t that cold, kid.” Alex huffed, crouching to cuff East (with proper metal cuffs) to a tool rack at the back of the stall. (Out of Tierney’s reach.) “He’s just sleeping off a bad trip. Even had the doc take a look. See? He’s just sleeping.”

“Fuck you.” Tierney seethed, though the bite was gone from his voice as he watched East breathe. Shallow, unsteady, sobbing breaths that made the scars across his skin warp in the dim light.

“If you’re lucky, your pops will pay for both of you by tomorrow morning.” Alex stopped at the stall door, watching Tierney, who refused to look away from East’s shivering form. “He’ll pay. You’ll be out of here before you know it.”

“Well, do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

“Both, in whatever order makes me less likely to beat the shit out of you later.” Brian rubbed his eyes, glancing at the barn from his bedroom window. It was early still, a late frost withering the apple blossoms on the tree next to the house.

“Bad news is the O’Hares haven’t responded to the ransom. Which might not be all bad - ”

“Good news, Josh, before I kill you for calling me this early to tell me that.”

“Good news…is that we have someone who knows our resident, uh, ‘Bad Dog.’”

Brian swung his legs over the side of the bed, now wide awake. He had Lydia send Josh to do some snooping and asking around in his corner of the market. He didn’t actually expect the tech to find anything.

“And? What do they want with him… and what will they pay to get it?” Brian wasn’t a monster - but he was a businessman. As much as the terror in that man’s eyes chilled him to the core the night before, as much as his stomach turned at the stranger’s scarred back, imagining how much blood -

“Ah, well, they think they know him. They want additional confirmation.” Josh swallowed, uncharacteristically hesitant. “But they were very specific; we just gotta take a few more pictures and they agreed to pay 2 up-front and an additional 1.4 upon live delivery.”

“2 hundred thousand pounds? What are we, a thrift store - ”

“2 million pounds.” Josh’s voice trembled with excitement. “They just want him alive, if he’s their guy. No worries about damaged goods, no questions about behavior - this is better than anything we hoped the O’Hares would pay for their little black sheep.”

“Almost too good to be true. What do you have on the buyer?”

“American.” Brian scoffed, but Josh continued. “They were very particular about ensuring our business is…discrete. Can be on our side of the pond with a day’s notice. Asked around - some of my old buddies do business with them. They’re the real deal.”

“Buyer got a name?”

“Called themself Smith.”

“And they just want pictures?”

“Some…specific pictures.”

—

Alex had been expecting to be relieved of nightwatch. Not - this.

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Josh said - ”

“I don’t give a fuck about that wanker.” Alex swallowed his anger. He owed a lot to Brian. To their mutual debt collector. He couldn’t afford to drop this job, not now, but - this? “We don’t do red market. And that’s sounding pretty bloody red to me, Brian.”

“3.4 million pounds, Alex.” And, God, didn’t that have a nice ring to it? “We pay off Hummel and still have enough to scrape together something - something real.”

“If, if they’re legit and really going to pay up - ”

“They will. Josh has contacts who’ve worked with them before. They’re - they’re a reputable buyer.” Even Brian shuddered at the implications. Alex knew his friend didn’t have the stomach for this work, but if even Brian was willing to go along with this…

(Alex had done worse for less reward when he served. This didn’t have the excuse of Queen and country behind it. This was greed - hungry and desperate to be satiated.)

“I hate this.”

“Yeah. Hell, maybe we have the wrong fucker and this will all be a wash.”

“Not making me hate it less, boss.”

“Quit whining and grow a pair. I’ll get the camera, you - have Aaron take O’Hare for a walk. I don’t want to hear him bitch and whine the whole time.”

—

Just another job. Just another prisoner. Pull it together, Sergeant. Alex was psyching himself up, and failing miserably. He had done worse. (To people that deserved it - to terrorists and criminals and - people just like the person he was now.)

“What the fuck do - don’t fucking touch me - wait - ” O’Hare’s voice cracked, young and frightened as Aaron cut him from the feed trough and dragged him toward the barn’s back door. Alex unfortunately looked up and caught the kid’s eye, round freckled face draining white and pale with panic. “Don’t - hey, leave - don’t fucking touch him, don’t you dare - you fucking - fuck - ”

“Shut the hell up and walk.” Aaron wasn’t doing them any favors in keeping the O’Hare calm.

“No! East, East isn’t - don’t - please.”

For a split second, Alex actually considered the request. The kid was begging them, tears in his eyes, fighting Aaron of all people, because he was scared for this man. Terrified for him.

“What? You gonna pay us to leave him alone?” Brian held his ground well, motivated by revenge and spite to rub salt in the wound as Aaron yanked the O’Hare toward the door. Alex felt a flare of reluctant admiration for the way the kid kept struggling despite the bruises already forming under Aaron’s iron grip.

“No - I told you - fuck! Don’t touch him, don’t you dare just - aren’t you mad at me? Hurt me, just leave him the fuck alone - ” He whimpered as Aaron shifted to tangle a hand in the kid’s hair, a sob bubbling in his throat as Brian chuckled darkly.

“Oh, I think this is going to hurt you more than it hurts him.” The boss gave Aaron a nod. “Take him for a walk. I’ll call you when it’s done.”

Alex returned to his own thoughts, blocking out the O’Hare’s helpless pleas and thornless threats. He just needed to strip this guy, let Brian take whatever fucking pictures the buyer wanted to see, and that was it. Painless, provided the poor bastard knew what was good for him and didn’t fight back.

The Wolf knew this waking well. The exhaustion. The injuries he didn’t remember acquiring. Traces of dried blood on his skin, brain full of fog and cotton.

(He was back back back back back - It was all a dream, all a fantasy, all a hallucination. He wasn’t getting better he wasn’t free he wasn’t out - )

“…East!”

He knew that voice. That name. Was that his name? It was, wasn’t it? Why? Why was that his name? He was the Wolf -

“…please…hurt me - ”

The words were a slurry, drifting in and out of range of his hearing implants. (Were they damaged? Fuck, he hoped they weren’t damaged, he knew they wouldn’t sedate him for the surgery and it would hurt hurt hurt hurt - )

It was when a hand rolled him to his back that he realized he was shaking, shivering. When had it gotten so cold?

(Where was his shirt? The usual texture of concrete and gritty broken glass slicked with blood and worse wasn’t under his body. There was a smell he could almost place, musty and not-quite-green and old.)

“Jesus, is it really that cold?”

(Why couldn’t he stop shaking?)

“It’s about to get a lot fuckin’ colder for this poor guy so let’s get this over with.”

That didn’t sound good. The Wolf tried to open his eyes - he preferred to see it coming, brace for the pain - but he couldn’t. His eyes weren’t working; that was very bad.

(Was he blindfolded? No, no, he - he didn’t need the blindfold - the muzzle - )

“Right forearm - easy enough. Cut him loose; he’s still pretty out of it.”

The hands seemed to burn - too cold yet too hot at the same time where they grabbed his shaking wrists. Whatever binds held his hands released, but they fell like lead, numb and useless. No, not quite numb, he could feel the burning hand lift his own, unable to so much as twitch -

Not that anyone would be able to tell, with how violently he shivered.

“Done. Next is the left of his face and throat.”

The Wolf (East?) was pretty sure he started crying as a hand tangled in his hair, pulling his head up and to the side. (It wasn’t meant to hurt him, just to position his limp, useless body for - for something. What were they doing? Why couldn’t he opened his eyes?)

“Under his left arm, rib cage - huh. That’s…an interesting place for a scar like that.”

“Must’ve been a tattoo.”

“Really?”

“Military if I had to guess. We got ‘em there because if you get blown up the torso is most likely to stay intact for ID.”

“Jesus.”

The person manhandling him like a rag doll finally stopped touching him, and East (the Wolf?) almost heaved a sigh of relief before the other man spoke.

“Let’s make this quick; right hip, inner left thigh.”

The hands touched his belt, the unlatching metal and leather spiking his heartrate. (He wanted to scream but his spasming lungs only choked out wheezing sobs.) He couldn’t - he couldn’t do this again - it was over it was supposed to be over he couldn’t -

“God, sorry about this, buddy.” The voice almost sounded remorseful, but the fabric of his trousers was stripped away, dragged down to his knees. “Hurry the fuck up, boss.”

“Hey, the lighting here is shit - pull his boxers down a bit, I assume Smith wants to see that gnarly scar.”

Smith?

No.

Nonononono that was impossible -

(Was it?)

He needed to open his eyes. He needed to get out of the dark, out out out out -

“Take the bloody picture already, Brian.” The voice hissed, clearly distressed, but the hands still stripped back his boxers to bare his hip and the scars it bore.

“Done - fucking done now just - that inner thigh one’s gonna be bitch if we leave his trousers on.”

“God, I hate this.”

“I’m not fan of this either, mate. One last picture and we can let the poor fucker get dressed.”

A hand began to pull his trousers down further, and somewhere between the nauseous terror and blinding panic was a familiar, comfortable rage. It was warm and heady, burning bright in his gut and spreading through his chest to his fingertips. He could twitch them. He could move.

(He would kill whoever dared to touch him again.)

“Hey, hey - we’re almost done.” The voice seemed unthreatened by his clumsy attempts to pull away, to use his arms to drag his body from their grasp. A firm hand grasped his knee, prying his left leg to the side, (leaving him open and vulnerable and - )

East was surprised by his own coordination, right leg lifting and the tentative kick connecting with the body above him. They grunted, but were apparently unfazed as his struggles grew stronger. If he could just open his eyes and see - then he would be able to cause some damage.

“Just - hold him still.”

“I’m fuckin’ trying you twat.”

“Quit being a little bitch and just pin him down; I can’t take a picture with him moving around like this.”

The words were a slurry of information, filtering into East’s slowly waking brain. He didn’t want to be pinned down. (He didn’t want to be touched at all.) He didn’t want his picture taken. (He didn’t want to see himself like this when it was over.) A weight pressed down on his abdomen, an arm looped under his left knee to hold his leg out while the hard sole of a boot pinned his right thigh down.

East flinched under the touch, eyes blearily blinking open. The light was dim, but his world a mess of blurry colors until a flash of white blinded him, burning his retinas. He screwed his eyes shut out of instinct, and know opening them again would be a Herculean task. A moan rumbled in his chest, rising to a whine in his throat.

(At least the weight holding him down was gone. At least the hands had released him, his body mostly unharmed save for a few new bruises.)

“That’s everything. Cuff him up again - that Ambrosia’s starting to wear off and we can’t have O’Hare getting any bright ideas.”

Footsteps walked away, a hinge in need of oil opening then closing. The other presence was still hovering nearby, a rueful sigh soft against the wooden walls and straw bedded floor. (A barn. He was in a horse barn. He could hear the beasts huffing in their own stalls.)

Exhaustion still clung to East’s bones, the staticky numb of his poisoned blood flushing through his veins even as the person muttered soft apologies and began to redress him. When he was lucid (and he would be - eventually, he promised himself) he was going to tear these fuckers limbs from limb. But right now, aching and tired and almost alone, East slipped under the lull of sleep once again.

Tierney had never been more relieved to see East than the second he rounded the corner of the stall door. His friend’s breathing was slow and even where he lay on the ground, a heavy saddle blanket wrapped over his body. One hand was strung up, bound to the feed trough with a proper metal cuff. Tierney’s own bound hands were attached to the opposite end of the trough with a fresh ziptie. He didn’t fight the dumb blonde brute who shoved him to his knees to secure his bindings - this close he could see the way East’s breaths stirred the hay on the floor, a sheen of sweat and tear tracks on his face.

“He’s fine. Sleeping off the last of the truth serum from last night.”

Tierney felt a growl build in his throat, eyes sharp with a glare directed at Alex. The former soldier meet his gaze with steady eyes, guarded but tinged with shame. Good. The cunt should be fucking ashamed.

“Fuck you.” He managed to grit out, immediately cowering and and flinching away as Aaron whacked the top of his head. The brute left the stall, leaving Alex at the door.

“Could stand to thank me for getting him a bloody blanket.”

“Could stand to kick your ass for kidnapping us, dickhead.” Tierney retorted, though he did feel a swell of gratitude to see that East wasn’t shivering anymore, warm under the wool blanket.

“You betrayed us first, Tierney.”

“And that means you’re in the right for - for drugging and - and whatever the fuck you did to him while I was gone?” Alex looked away, eyes on the ground and guilt coloring his face. “That’s what I thought, prick.”

“We wouldn’t need the fucking money if you never sold us out in the first place.” Alex’s words were cold but defensive. He was still trying to justify this to himself.

“Yeah. Guess it’s my fault you need to terrorize and - and - wait. What do you - is - is someone paying you for him?” Tierney felt ice crystallize in his lungs, a tremor rattling through his bones. Alex turned away, pulling the stall door closed behind himself even as Tierney started to scream. “Who? Who the fuck wants him? How fucked in the head do you have to be to do that to him? You bloody cunts! Answer me - fuck! Fucking, goddamn…”

His voice cracked, a sob wracking him as he hung his head in shame. Alex was right - East wouldn’t be here if Tierney hadn’t fucked them over when he was younger and dumber. It was his fault East was here, half conscious and half stripped and scared.

East roused beside him, and Tierney cut his personal pity party short - he could kick himself for being such an idiot later.

“East - East, are you awake?” Tierney’s voice was soft and hoarse. The man beside him groaned, cuffed hand tugging at the bind while he curled in on himself, closer to Tierney. “You’re - you’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

“Tier…?” East’s voice was ragged, more so than usual.

“Yeah, I’m here. We’re alone - I think.”

“Tierney…”

“Yeah?”

“S’cold.”

“Yeah.” Tierney swallowed, too warmed by his rage when he was outside to feel the chill. But now, sitting still with his back to an unfeeling wooden wall, he was starting to lose feeling in his fingers. (Though, maybe his binds were simply too tight.)

He froze as East leaned into him, heat radiating off his sweat soaked forehead as he pressed his face against Tierney’s shoulder with a sigh. Tierney looked him over, worry sour in his throat. East hated touch - he must have been really out of it to cuddle up with Tierney like this. (He must have been really scared to seek comfort like this.)

“Did they hurt you?” He was almost afraid to ask, but East muttered a soft ‘no’ and pulled his knees to his chest. “What - wha did they do, when I was gone?”

“Took pictures. Scars and stuff.” East swallowed, throat bobbing as he cracked open his eyes, staring blindly ahead. “Said something about Smith wanting confirmation.”

“What?” Tierney tried not to tense as fresh panic welled in his blood. He had seen that scar - the name carved in East’s lower back. If the fucker that did that was trying to take East back -

“Don’t worry. He’s dead.” He sounded so eerily calm, and Tierney wasn’t sure if it was the drugs or the trauma, because he sure as hell couldn’t calm himself down.

“How can - I mean, is he?”

“Yeah. Killed him. Two to the chest, one to the head. Like a professional.” East hummed the last word almost contentedly, but Tierney could feel tension beginning to coil in the body beside him. “I’m not going back.”

“No. You aren’t.” Tierney wouldn’t let anyone take East back. Wherever that was. Whatever that meant.

It was pure luck. Half instinct and a quarter desperate delusion. But even Anders’ most logical deductions couldn’t deny the evidence in front of his eyes. He had thought he recognized that face. Now he knew he recognized those scars.

Smith must have done a number on the Wolf, before he killed his handler. The Wolf must have spent the last few months in hiding, recovering - but not running, for whatever reason. He probably had gotten himself attached to someone who was helping keep him under the radar.

A kicked dog always looking for someone new to hold his leash.

Anders hadn’t even been looking for the lost asset - he was just perusing the recent red market listings, keeping an eye out for anything his department might find useful (or concerning). What luck, to happen upon the face of an old friend.

He confirmed the bank transfer, informing the seller his intent to pick up the asset in person. He could get a flight to the UK in a matter of hours; he had already narrowed down the location the seller had messaged him from to rural Scotland.

Anders couldn’t wait to see the Wolf’s face after all this time. He had missed Smith’s little pet project.

—

East was finally starting to feel awake again when someone approached the stall door. Tierney tensed beside him, already half seething with rage at the face that smirked over the door. Wes, if East recalled correctly. His broken nose had bloomed black bruises, no longer crooked but still painfully swollen.

“I see our sleeping beauty is finally awake.”

“What the fuck do you want, prick?” Tierney shifted, crawling up to his knees, hands still bound to the feed trough. Wes swept the door open, hinges squealing as he revealed a tray of wrapped sandwiches and water bottles.

“To keep you alive, jackass.” Wes dropped the tray, contents clattering to the ground well out of reach. East flinched at the sound, free hand pulling the blanket more tightly around himself.

“Brian’s gonna bitch you out for wasting food.” Tierney grumbled, as East pretended to ignore the growl of their stomachs. It was probably almost noon judging by the sunlight he could see past the open door. The pounding headache between his eyes was as much from thirst as it was from the blunt force trauma of the past day.

“Yeah, well, I just don’t know how much stomach our Bad Dog is gonna have for it.” East prickled, half in anger and half in panic, at the pet name. “Smith’s confirmed the purchase. Pick-up is tonight.”

“You’re a fucking monster, you know that Wes?” Tierney rose to a half kneel, tugging at his binds. He couldn’t fully stand without turning his back on Wes, a vulnerability he couldn’t afford. “Smith’s not coming for him and you know it - you’re just being an asshole trying to scare him.”

“Really? That true, East?”

East stared at the water bottle on the floor, swallowing his response. God, what he wouldn’t give for some water.

“Smith’s dead - East, tell him - Smith’s dead and you’re bullshitting us.” Tierney was clearly so emboldened by the idea, so ready to fight… and all East could think of was, if not the Smith he had killed, then who knew him that would use that name?

“I guess I’ll have to tell the boss then…” Wes’ tone clearly implied that wasn’t the reason he left the stall, door left open behind him. East listened to his boots, footsteps trailing to the office he remembered, a drawer opening and closing.

“Here,” Wes’ smile was cruel, the rag in his hands clean and white, “let’s get some of that blood off your face, shall we?”

East braced against the wall behind himself, pushing himself to his feet. He had the luxury of having only one hand bound, able to face Wes with a sneer. (He still used that free hand to keep the scratchy blanket draped over his shoulders, indulging in whatever warmth and protection it offered.)

“Don’t you fucking touch him you - ”

East flinched in sympathy, Tierney cut off as Wes slammed a boot into his chest. He didn’t hear any bones break, but Tierney was doubled over in pain, winded and gasping for air.

“Shut the fuck up, O’Hare.“ Another kick turned Tierney’s panting to tears, the Irishman cowering and curled up below the food trough. East bared his teeth, hate bright in his eyes as Wes turned his attention back to him. “Be a good dog, and I won’t break this one. His family’s fucking heartless, as usual. We don’t need him alive. But you…I want to know what makes you so valuable, East.”

“Don’t - ”

“I said shut the fuck up.”

East lurched forward as another blow landed solidly against Tierney’s back, surely bruising. He had forgotten, hadn’t he? The stress of having someone else to worry about. Someone else to protect.

(If someone been captured with him, back then, would he have broken faster? Would it have hurt less?)

“What can I tell you to make you fuck off?” He growled, voice low and dangerous and desperate. Wes smiled at him, all teeth and condescending politeness as he stepped away from Tierney and looked up where East straightened to his full height.

“Whatever comes to mind. Here, this will help.” He raised the rag to East’s face, a familiar and nauseating sweetness lingering in the air. On the ground, Tierney sobbed a half coherent curse. But East knew better than to fight - not here, not now, not incapacitated and disadvantaged and alone. Wes pressed the rough material over East’s face, and he took a slow, deep inhale.

(He didn’t want to remember this anyway.)

“What’s your name?”

“Easton Howard.”

“What’s your real name?”

“I don’t know.”

Wes scoffed, almost amused by the blank eyed stare East developed once the drugs kicked in. For half a second, he worried he had diluted the Ambrosia too much. He had been worried about overdoing it given Aaron’s account of the guy having a fucking seizure the other night. But East kept talking, filter off and eyes glazed.

“They called me Wolf.”

Now that was interesting. “Who called you Wolf?”

“Smith. Anders. Overseers.”

“Who’s Smith?” That was the question that had been bugging Wes. He had seen the pictures Lydia took the night before - the carving in East’s lower back akin to a preteen’s first vandalism. But knowing that the buyer also went by Smith…could it really be the same person?

“Smith is my handler.”

“What’s a handler?”

“I don’t know.”

“What’d he do with you?”

“Broke me.” Wes couldn’t help but flinch as East’s hazy eyes met his own, the words resonating with a raw, bitter pain. “Made me… made me good.”

“Your back says otherwise.” Wes didn’t want to dwell on the subject too long (maybe he didn’t want to know - )

“I fucked up. He wanted me to remember.”

“Stop - Wes, fucking - please just - stop.” O’Hare’s voice warbled, pathetic and pained where he trembled on the floor. A harsh glare from Wes silenced him to sobs once more.

“Where’s Smith now?”

“Dead.”

“You sure?”

“I killed him.” A smile twitched on East’s eerily empty expression, eyes bright with a shine of mania as he spoke. “I killed him. Two to the chest, one to the head. Like a professional.”

“Why’d you kill him?”

“I could. I wanted to.”

“What happened after you killed him?”

“Ran. Got found. Helped. Better.” There was a flicker of uncertainty in East’s eyes; he was omitting something, fighting to avoid thinking about something he didn’t want to say. Thankfully for him, Wes didn’t give a shit about whoever kept this fucked up bastard as their pet pity project. He back tracked, hoping East could keep up in his haze.

“Who’s Anders?”

“Anders?” Wes wasn’t sure if East’s reply was a question or an echo.

“Aaron said you seemed pretty fuckin’ scared of some guy you called Anders last night, when they first drugged you.”

East nodded along, breathing stuttering.

“How do you know him?”

“Friend of Smith. Is he here?” Tears were welling in East’s eyes, and a cruel spark in Wes was almost tempted to lie and confirm the man’s fears. Almost. He was an asshole, not a monster.

“No, Anders isn’t here. Why are you so scared of him?”

East didn’t reply, shivering as though he would never be warm again. He shook his head violently, tears flowing freely -

“Leave him alone you motherfucker!”

The last thing Wes saw was a short, angry Irishman swinging a food tray at his face.

—

“Fuck, fuck, fuck - shit - holy shit - fuck.” Tierney was not feeling particularly eloquent after watching Wes crumple like a sack of potatoes. The corner of the tray had caught his temple, a trickle of blood weeping into the straw but Wes’ chest still rising and falling as he breathed.

East, who had gone pale and silent, promptly wretched.

“Fucking - God, I’m sorry - I’m so sorry, East.” Tierney kicked aside the fouled straw, wincing when East flinched away. He had dropped to a defensive crouch with his free arm curled to protect his face, as though he were going to be struck. “It’s okay, it’s okay mate - we’ve got this. I’ve got you. Just gotta - gotta get these cuffs off - fuck.”

Key. Right. Cuffs needed keys. Tierney had the luxury of using Wes’ little interrogation as a distraction while he tried the shoelace technique East had pulled in the truck. It wasn’t graceful, but it did the trick.

Wes groaned on the floor, regaining consciousness faster than Tierney liked. Especially considering he needed to check the guy’s pockets for the key. He started to turn out Wes’ pockets as quickly as he could - wallet, nope; cigarettes, nope; key ring - yes! But which - ?

The door was kicked open, a pair of balaclava clad men sweeping the room with a shotgun and rifle respectively. Tierney threw up his hands on instinct, vaguely aware Wes was moving, reaching for his own weapon -

The gunshot rang clear and clean, Wes’ head snapped back to the ground with a wet thunk, the straw dyed red and Tierney splattered with the man’s blood.

Sean sighed, ignoring how their little brother half screamed and scooted away from the fresh corpse. He followed his brother’s headshot with two point blank shots into the chest of the kidnapper - O’Hare’s had a reputation of professionalism to uphold, after all. Blood and gore splattered from the corpse, but Sean only rolled his eyes when Tierney started to gag.

“Jesus - fuck - fuck - ”

“C’mon, let’s get you up.” Eoghan had more compassion for the idiot, peeling back his balaclava to offer a sympathetic smile. Sean scowled behind his own mask. They couldn’t get caught doing this. Da would be livid enough -

“Don’t touch him.”

The voice was hoarse and whispered, rattling like death itself. The man chained to the feed trough had seen better days, bruised and shirtless and struggling to keep his eyes open. Sean took two long steps into the stall, pressing the barrel of his shotgun against the stranger’s chest.

“Don’t - he’s a civi - he’s a fuckin’ civi - ”

“He’s a liability.” And by the icy acceptance in the stranger’s eyes, Sean wasn’t sure that he was a civilian.

“He’s my friend and I won’t fucking forgive you.”

Sean was surprised by the rumbled of protective anger in his brother’s voice. He was more surprised when a shaking, blood spattered hand pulled the barrel of his weapon from the man’s chest to point at Tierney’s own. He met his brother’s glare, and found a shine of fire he had never seen before. Maybe Sean should have thanked the kidnappers for helping the whelp grow a spine.

“Cut the bullshit Sean, we need to go. Now.” Eoghan’s exasperation bled to a cold and calculating tone. He was right - the gunshots would alert anyone else on the property. Sean lowered his firearm and grabbed Tierney’s shirt, dragging him forward to the door.

“Wh - no! We’re not leaving him here - ”

“Yes, we are.”

“Like hell we are!” Tierney, for as puny as he was, probably managed to give his older brother an impressive bruise where the kick connected with his calf. Sean grunted, grasp released in pain as Tierney scrambled back to his friend, a rattle of keys in his hand as he began to try the cuff’s lock.

“Tierney…” That voice scratched something in the back of Sean’s mind, and he didn’t like it. Something weak; not in a selfishly pathetic way, but in an infuriating self sacrificing way.

“Together. We get out of here together or not at all, East. I’m not going anywhere.” Tierney was growing frustrated as he cycled through the keys. Fuck knew if they were even the right keys. They didn’t have time for this.

Eoghan was of the same opinion, unlatching the bolt cutters from his tool belt. Their little brother’s shoulders hiked up as Eoghan’s footsteps grew closer.

“No - no - I can - I’m not leaving without - ” Tierney cut himself off as Eoghan reached the bolt cutters over his shoulder and gripped the cuff’s chain between their teeth. The chain cut like butter, far weaker and smaller than what the tool was meant for. The man’s hand fell limply to his side, unfocused eyes flitting between the O’Hares.

“He’s your responsibility. I’m not carrying him.” Eoghan’s steady words were final. Even if Sean was still suspicious of this so-called civilian.

“Great. Congrats. Can we fucking leave before we meet mincemeat’s friends?” Sean nodded to the body on the straw and gore strewn floor. Tierney half carried half dragged his unsteady friend along, stumbling steps unmatched with the stride of the much shorter man.

Why were things always so fucking difficult with the runt?

—

East was dimly aware he was in a vehicle again. The first flash of panic fizzled out as sensation trickled back into his body. He was inside a car, the upholstery velvety under his bare back. His left leg was propped up on the seat, bent at the knee to fit the small space, while his right leg dangled awkwardly over the edge. There was fabric draped over his chest, heavy and rough. His head was slightly elevated, resting on someone’s thigh.

Opening his eyes was significantly easier this time.

(He tried to remember if it got easier the more frequently Anders drugged him. He was pretty sure it didn’t.)

Tierney was above him, leaning against the window where his breath fogged the glass. He looked tired. He smelled like blood. East hoped it wasn’t his own.

The car hit a pothole, the movement bringing Tierney’s eyes down to East’s own. The effect that washed over his face was immediate - brow relaxing, jaw going slack and lips parting. His eyes were already swimming with fresh tears, obscuring the green bright with relief.

“Hey.” Tierney breathed, clearly at a loss for words. As much as East would have appreciated an explanation of what the hell happened after he was drugged, he wasn’t sure he was ready to know.

“Hey yourself.” He croaked, considering sitting up before deciding better of it. His limbs still felt staticky, as sluggish as cold molasses. But if he couldn’t sit up, he couldn’t see where they were going, who was driving - “Safe?”

“Yeah, yeah - we’re, we’re good. We’re safe.”

East forced the coiling stress in his shoulders to disperse, closing his eyes again. He trusted Tierney to say something when he needed to get up. For now, he focused on the familiar sound of rain against the car’s windshield. The UK weather was comforting in its predictability.

“So… we’re fucked?” Alex leaned against the barn wall, looking down at where Brian was sitting on the floor with his back to the opposite wall. The boss had an ice pack held against the back of his head, having passed out at the sight of Wes’ bloody mess of a corpse.

He hadn’t liked the prick much, but still, it was a pity to lose him.

Poor fucker.

“Probably.” Brian wheezed hysterically, closing his eyes with a shudder as Aaron and Lydia began to drag the body bag from the stall. “Heard the gunshots. Called you. Saw the car making its way down the road. I already assumed the worst but…”

“What time is the buyer getting here?”

“22:00. We have - what - five hours?” Brian shook his head with a groan. “We can try refunding the money - ”

“This isn’t the kind of business that does refunds, boss.” Josh looked up from his chunky laptop, precariously balanced on his knees. “We either give him what he’s here for or we are, as Alex put it, fucked.”

The heavy beat of silence was unceremoniously broken.

“Well, this was a bust. Good knowing you boys then.” Lydia huffed, dusting her hands off and wrinkling her nose in disgust at the now empty but still gory stall. “I’ve got a 15 hour shift tomorrow at the clinic and I’ll be unreachable if you’re being tortured or maimed. Maybe kill yourselves if you can’t wait ‘til after the weekend for my help.”

“Thanks, Lydia.” Alex rolled his eyes as the doctor left. Aaron, covered in dirt and blood looked between the fresh shallow grave in the horse field and the cluster of desperate criminals in the barn.

“I’m out.”

“Aaron…” Brian sighed, eyes half desperate and half understanding.

“I was only here for the O’Hare ransom. We shouldn’t have fucked with Josh’s bullshit.”

“Hey! My bullshit was gonna make us rich - ”

“And now it’s gonna get you all killed. I’m out.”

“And how do you plan to pay off your debt to Hummel?” Alex blocked Aaron’s exit, despite being slightly shorter than the brute. Blue eyes glared down at him, defiant.

“I’ll figure something out.”

“And if you don’t?”

“Then at least I’ll keep on living a bit longer than you fuckin’ idiots - ”

“Alright.” Brian’s voice was harsh and cold, his tone final as he pushed himself off the ground and tossed the ice pack aside. “Enough fucking around. Let’s find the target and get him back here before the buyer shows.”

“And if we don’t?” Aaron huffed, crossing his arms. Brian shrugged, nonchalant.

“Then we run. No shame in cowardice if it keeps us alive.”

—

“What’s wrong?” Jackson knew a personal call from Nathan during his dinner break wasn’t good news.

“Tierney and East are missing.” As predicted, that was not good news. “Last seen around closing time at Deitelbaum’s yesterday. Christ, Jackson, I know you said not to involve police with East if I could help it but Tierney is missing too and the last thing I need is the fuckin’ O’Hare’s breathing down my neck - ”

“I know, I know Nate. Thanks for telling me. Fuck.” Jackson breathed, fighting his own panic.

There were several possible scenarios - maybe the pair just wandered off and got lost, maybe they got kidnapped by some random serial killer, maybe they got kidnapped by someone looking for an O’Hare’s ransom, maybe -

Maybe someone found the Wolf, after all this time.

“I’ll let you know what the cops tell me. They’re focusing on Tierney, assuming it’s a ransom kidnapping considering his family but… I’ll let you know.”

“I appreciate that, Nate. Thank you.”

“Don’t do anything stupid, John.” Nathan hung up, and Jackson laid his head down on the desk with a groan.

“I know coming back from a two month vacation gallivanting across the continent is rough, Jackson, but you’re too old to be so bitchy about it.” Beth peered into his office, head poking through the door before she stepped inside and closed the door behind herself. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing you’d care about.”

“Probably. I don’t care about much. That’s why I’ll outrank you soon enough.”

“Watch it.” There was no bite to his warning, and Beth could tell.

“This about your…new boyfriend?” She chose her words carefully, as much as Jackson would have sputtered and argued about that codeword for the Wolf. The offices were all bugged, even if their personal phone’s weren’t.

“Yeah. God - wish I didn’t - fuck.” Jackson sighed, cradling his head in his hands. He had taken too much time off work chasing Liza O’Hare; any more personal days and that would be pushing the limit, suspicious, even for someone with his shining reputation.

“Anything I can do to help?” Beth’s eyes were hard and clear.

“I thought you hated…my new boyfriend.”

“He’s a prick and I don’t trust him, but he’s still your boyfriend and I’m still your best friend. What can I do for you?” For all her whining and cold shoulders, Beth was above all loyal. Jackson couldn’t have been more grateful.

“Can you head to his address and just…ask for Nate. Tell him I sent you, alright?” Jackson scribbled the Holloway Home’s address on a scrap piece of paper and handed it to Beth, who quirked a brow but nodded.

“Yessir. You owe me.”

“Hey, what happened to being best friends?”

“As my best friend, you owe me, Jackson.” Beth smirked as she left the office, clocking out early. Unlike the bumbling cops assigned to this case, she was more interested in results than fucking around. She would find them.

(But would she find them before - ? No. She would find them before…anything happened. She didn’t care if anything did happen to the Wolf. She was just doing this for Jackson. She had a reputation to uphold. That was all.)

—

Liza shuddered at the photographs. She knew one of the scars, the dull jagged mark from a knife plunged into a meaty thigh. She had stitched him up personally after that near death experience. It was when she had reluctantly begun to trust the fiery former soldier who risked life and limb for people who didn’t deserve it.

She shook herself from the memories, grounding herself in the increasing panic of now.

Liza had enough contacts to intercept the call that went to Jackson, listening in to the line as she reached out to her technologically savvy friends who could track East down. But her family name made her hair stand on end.

(O’Hares didn’t pay ransoms. She knew that better than most.)

She had a pretty good idea who would be petty and stupid enough to try and ransom her baby brother, and she knew they had no idea how valuable the Wolf really was. How desperate, how dangerous his buyer would be.

They were out of their depth.

And, hopefully, that made her job easier.

(Provided Jackson didn’t try to use his departmental powers to interfere, there was a good chance she could get her brother and old friend out of harms way.)

“Fuck.”

That was not an encouraging tone to hear from Eoghan, the man behind the wheel. He and Sean were Tierney’s older brothers, East had learned. And judging by the shade of red bleeding through the older gentleman’s greying hair, that must have been their not-quite-a-mob-boss father.

Who hadn’t paid the ransom, and didn’t know his older sons had snuck off to rescue the youngest.

“Shit - I told you to bring us back to the - ”

“Aye ‘cause that’s a bright idea: put you back where they found you. I’m sure they wouldn’t think to kidnap you from the same place twice.” Sean snapped, disgust curling in his expression as he glared over his shoulder at the pair in the backseat.

“You owe us, T. Big time.” Eoghan sighed, parking the car in driveway. The estate was huge and East wasn’t particularly surprised to see a valet emerge from the front door of the mansion to take the keys from Eoghan, who stood at the bottom of the stairs with Sean. Tierney crept out of the car cautiously, uncharacteristically timid, as though trying to make himself smaller than he already was. East couldn’t hide his height or build simply by ducking his head or slouching, but he could certainly try.

Once the valet had pulled the car away, Mr. O’Hare began to descend the marble stairs, shined shoes bright in the afternoon sunshine.

“It’s a pleasure to meet your new friend, Tierney.” His eyes were a harsh blue, so unlike the earthy green and hazel of his sons. East stared at the hand offered to him, suddenly aware of how sweaty his palms were. “What’s your name, lad?”

(Never hesitate. A lesson more instinct than learned, soaked through his bone marrow from years of fear.)

“Easton Howard, sir.” Even half stripped, wearing a borrowed raincoat over bruised and bloodied skin, still dazed by the drugs in his blood, East could feel the mask of confidence slide so easily over his rabbit hearted terror. His handshake was firm. “Mr. O’Hare, I presume?”

“Oh, please, Mr. O’Hare was my father. Call me Tommy.” The old man laughed, hearty and warm. But those eyes seemed to cut the siblings to shreds as he looked over his sons. “Get inside. Get cleaned up. We need to have a chat about your night out.”

—

East didn’t like how big the bathroom was. It felt almost cavernous, the shiny tiles warm under his feet and every sound echoing enough for his hearing implants to whine with the reverb. It was simultaneously too open, too exposed but also suffocating, no windows and only one door.

(It was so much like the room where Smith would hose him down after - )

“Got some of Eoghan’s clothes you can borrow - I know you don’t like sharing stuff so I grabbed some extra old crap he won’t miss that smells more like mothballs than - you good man?”

Tierney’s voice warbled around East, the world spinning even as he gripped the porcelain of the tub to ground himself. He wasn’t moving; he was sitting down, clean and dry with a too-soft towel tied around his waist. So then why did it feel like he was falling?

“No.” The word wheezed past his lips, and Tierney scurried across the giant bathroom to hover like an agitated bee.

“What’s wrong? Here - here let’s get you on the ground in case you - yeah.” Tierney didn’t touch him, but East slowly followed his instructions, lowering himself from his seat at the edge of the tub (still filled with dirty and bloody water) to the fluffy bathmat on the floor. “Shit, man, I knew that Ambrosia crap hits hard but - fuck. I don’t think - I don’t know if there’s anything we can do but wait it out.”

East made a weak sound of affirmation, even if he knew the panic and disorientation was as much from his own past trauma creeping up on him as it was from the poison in his blood. If didn’t help that he could hear Mr. O’Hare halfway across the house, shouting at his sons.

“You killed someone?”

“He had a gun - ”

“I don’t give a damn if he had a knife in your brother’s back; do you have any idea - ”

East was distracted from the distant shouts for a moment, Tierney sliding to the floor to sit next to him. Sitting here on the floor, the bathroom felt even bigger, the pair even more out of place among the opulence and wealth.

“We’re gonna be okay, East. Da’ll let us go home soon.”

Something glass shattered.

“What the hell did you just say to me?” Mr. O’Hare’s voice was incandescent with rage.

“It’s your fault we lost Liza, you selfish son of a bitch.” The ice in Eoghan’s voice was venomous. “We weren’t going to wait for you to make the same mistakes again.”

“That ungrateful bitch wasn’t worth - ”

The shouting dissolved into curses and snarls that made East shudder. Something wooden broke. Someone cried out in pain. East leaned against Tierney, swallowing his nausea and fear.

“Tierney?”

“Yeah?”

East wasn’t sure what he was asking. He just needed to hear another voice.

“Talk. About something. Please.” The plea came haltingly, voice ragged in his throat and the tension in his body only rising as he heard more shouts and pained sounds across the house. They were loud enough now that even Tierney flinched when a door slammed shut.

“Al’s been reading poetry lately. You notice that? And not the flowery romantic shit either - I don’t get a lot of it and y’know reading is rough on me with how my letters get fucked up so he’s been reading me stuff by this chick called Farrokhzad…”

Beth tracked the truck through the city by camera, determining it was headed southwest toward the farmlands. It certainly narrowed her options, the rolling hills quiet save for the spare bellow of a cow in labor. Most places here were family owned - quiet homesteads that hadn’t moved in centuries save for fire or war. But there was one that stood out on this side of town: the Lahey horse barn.

If she was supposed to be looking for an enemy of the O’Hares, it would be that former-crime family. Their fall from grace hadn’t been, well, graceful or slow, in large part due to the youngest O’Hare turning traitor when arrested. They had plenty of motive to kidnap the poor bastard, with East as an unlucky witness.

(He wasn’t dead. It was intuition more than faith; no body had turned up and he wasn’t worth much to them dead. Or so she told herself.)

If the pair of lost boys were anywhere, they were with the Laheys. And it seemed she wasn’t the only one with that deduction.

It was hard to hide vehicles on these open roads, but the small convertible ahead of her was doing its damndest - black paint, no lights…if Beth hadn’t come up behind it in her own car she would never have seen it. Her headlights illuminated its driver for a split second, and she had a good guess as to their identity. The senior O’Hare may have been a heartless bastard who didn’t pay a ransom for his own children, but it seemed it wasn’t a hereditary trait in the family.

Both vehicles pulled over, hidden from the distant horse barn by shrubbery and a stonewall. Beth left her vehicle first - she knew the fact that she was a woman made it easier for people to trust her. (Less likely to suspect she would stab them in the back.) She was pleasantly surprised to see another woman step from the convertible, though knowledge soured the revelation.

Of course the lost sheep was looking for the latest lamb abandoned by the shepherd.

“Liza O’Hare. You’re awfully far from your latest boyfriend’s penthouse.” Beth kept her voice light, a sober undertone matched by the woman’s hard eyed appraisal. She had none of the usual finery Beth had come to associate with the wealthy grifter. She wore simple trousers and a button down shirt, with hair tired back in a tight bun. Professional.

(Beth wouldn’t admit it made her more attractive than her usual attire of tule slips or miniskirts. The agent was on the clock, after all.)

“And you are?” The thick Irish brogue rolled off her tongue with annoyance, impatience in her posture as she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Agent Beth Adams. MI5.” Beth huffed, breath fogging in the cool night air. “Officially, I’m just Beth Adams tonight. Kidnappings aren’t Security Service jurisdiction.”

“Then what are you here for?” Liza’s bite was startlingly defensive, endearingly protective.

“Not your brother. Though I’m sure getting the little bastard back home alive would be a bonus.” Beth almost wished Jackson was here. Tact wasn’t her strong suit, and Liza’s suspicion was only increasing. “Friend of a friend got nabbed with your brother. I need to get him home safe, or I’ll never hear the end of it.” She took half a shuffle forward, and Liza’s hand was at her hip - surely on a readied firearm. Beth sighed, glancing at the barn in the distance. “We’re both trying to save these boys a bit of pain. I don’t know about your brother, but my friend of a friend has had more than his fair share and I’m not interested in leaving him another night with those fuckers.”

Liza’s expression was difficult to watch in the dim moonlight, but Beth could swear she saw the grifter’s eyes widened a fraction as she reached a realization.

“He won’t be there another night. Sale dropped off the listings a few hours ago. Buyer is probably coming by tonight - ”

“Sale?” Beth felt frustration simmer hot under his skin. Of course - she should have checked the human trafficking listings - “Do you know who’s buying?”

“No. But if they contacted the Laheys this quickly, they knew what, or who, they were looking for.” Liza pulled a pair of night vision binoculars from the backseat of her car, aiming them toward the barn and watching the distant movement Beth could only barely make out.

“Should I be worried that you know more about my friend of a friend than I do?” It was only half a joke - how Liza O’Hare knew East well enough to recognize him by a red market listing was a question for another time.

“Like you said both want these idiots alive and safe come morning.” Her tone changed, soft but colder. “Watch our six. Looks like there’s movement from the south.”

Liza was right, there was the almost imperceptible sheen of headlights over the distant hills. Beth took out her own binoculars, comfortable with her back to one of Europe’s most wanted. Jackson must have been rubbing off on her - trusting a criminal like this…

(To be fair, the situation was dire enough that the notorious Liza O’Hare was trusting an agent as ruthless as Beth.)

“Black BMW from the south. Rental car - might be our buyer.”

“Bad timing - black pick up truck just left with two from the barn.” Liza clicked her tongue, tossing the binoculars into her car. “They’re not here.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Why send your burliest boys away when the most dangerous part of a transaction comes up?” Liza sighed, grimacing. “Lahey is trying to stall. He lost one - or more likely both - of them and is having his boys track them down while he tries to keep the buyer busy.”

Liza was getting into her car by the time Beth realized she was meaning to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“They’re not here. I have a pretty good guess where they are, knowing my brothers. No point hanging around here.” Liza nodded her head to the passenger side of her car. “Lahey is a dead man and this barn is a dead end. We just need to get ahead of that truck and stay ahead of the buyer.”

Beth was already climbing inside the convertible, bag from her own car tossed in the back. No point trusting Liza halfway in this - they were a team. At least for tonight. She gave a sad glance to the rear view mirror, the rental car door opening but the figure too distant to see.

“What makes you so sure the buyer will kill Lahey for not having his…product immediately available?”

“Red market isn’t the kinda business where one…misplaces a sale. Best case scenario the buyer thinks Lahey is incompetent and inexperienced - which he is - and that makes him a liability. Worst case, the buyer assumes Lahey was baiting them for someone like you.”

How the office was so clean and cozy looking after the shattered glass and shouts East had heard not too long ago, he wasn’t sure. Though he imagined the cleaning staff carrying away double-bagged trash were responsible for maintaining the office’s air of crisp professionalism.

Sean and Eoghan stood sentry at the door. East pretended not to notice the rage simmering just under their skin. It wasn’t directed at him, but that didn’t make his heartbeat any less frantic. Tierney almost followed him into the office before a harsh glare from his father made him hesitate at the threshold.

(East didn’t want to be alone alone alone - )

“We can talk later. I just need a word with your friend here.”

“Da, I think - ”

“There’s your problem. If you thought less and listened more we wouldn’t be in this situation.” Mr. O’Hare, even sitting at his desk, was imposing enough to make East flinch at his tone. But his icy eyes softened, if only in feigned apologies. “It’s nothing personal, Mr. Howard. We just need to get to know each other a little better.”

East glanced over his shoulder and met Tierney’s eyes, giving him a steady nod. He would be fine. He had survived worse. He could take whatever it was Mr. O’Hare saw fit to give if it spared Tierney -

The door latched closed.

“Have a seat - don’t be a stranger. You a whiskey man or…?” Mr. O’Hare was only half joking, picking out two crystal cups and uncapping a bottle of amber liquor before looking up at where East still stood.

“No, thank you, sir.”

“No need for such formalities, Easton. I’m a dangerous man, but you are not the cause of my…recent frustration.” Mr. O’Hate poured himself a glass and took a sip before gesturing to the plush chair in front of the desk again. “Do sit, you’re stressing me out - standing there like a soldier.”

East nodded, stiffly taking a seat. Maybe he did want a drink, just to take the edge off…

“So, you’ve been living in the Holloway Home with my boy, hm?”

“Yessir. About five or six months now.”

“That’s quite a while - most hardened criminals would take off or violate their parole. I take it you’re genuinely turning your life around?”

“Yessir.”

“And what was your life like before the Holloway Home?”

There was a probing undercurrent in O’Hare’s smiling voice, like fingers run along the seam of a mask, knowing exactly which threads to pull. East felt panic and embarrassment flush up his neck. Tierney had questioned his background before…

“Your file and records say you were at Blackwater for five years. My contacts there can definitively say you’ve never set foot in that prison. Tell me, why lie about your arrest record? Why lie your way into that halfway home?”

East tried to focus on his breathing the way he had been taught, but he could feel his throat cinching closed, words swallowed by fear. The mask was off. And Mr. O’Hare did not look pleased with what he saw.

“Who are you working for?”

(The script. He knew this script - )

“No one.”

(It was true. So why did it taste so sour in his mouth?)

“Don’t test me, lad. Someone falsified your records. Who and why?” The growl in Mr. O’Hare’s voice had a thread of anger; he didn’t like being lied to. (But East wasn’t lying; he wasn’t, he just - he couldn’t betray Jackson, he couldn’t turn traitor just because he was scared - )

“I - ” East choked on his words, hot tears welling in his eyes as his lungs seemed to seize. The script would be so easy. Such little effort. (I am Wolf. I work alone. No one hired me.) But it tasted wrong - bitter and acidic after so long without that echo in his skull, without the violence those replies anticipated. He dropped his voice low, sheepishly glancing up at Mr. O’Hare. “Can you bring Tierney in?”

“You’re in no position to be making demands on me, Easton.”

“I’d rather not have to explain this twice. It feels wrong to tell you the truth but to keep lying to him.” For a shudder, he could almost feel the mask slip on. Almost. His voice was meek as he avoided eye contact. “Please, sir.”

With some grumbling and harsh shouts Tierney was in the office. His eyes were sharp, begging to know his friend was alright and angry with his father in anticipation of the answer. But East cleared his throat and nodded to the seat next to him, and Tierney cautiously sat down without a word.

“I…don’t know a lot, but I can promise you it has nothing to do with Tierney, or your family.”

Mr. O’Hare was impatient but making an effort to be polite, waiting for East’s hoarse and halting voice to quiet before speaking.

“Then what, pray tell, brought you here?”

“An American.” East tried to sink into the numbness filling up his lungs, to make his words a disconnected, distant part of himself. It seemed to help, the name rolling off his tongue flat and steady. “Agent Simon Smith, CIA.”

He woke up in a concrete room: four walls, a poor excuse for mattress in the corner, a door with no interior handle, and a caged light flickering above. The eerie silence of the bunker was interrupted by the harsh tap tap tap of military standard boots approaching his door.

Right.

He remembered this part.

The Wolf hadn’t dreamed about this night in a long time.

He let his vision unfocus as a key mechanism engaged the door squealed on its hinges. He didn’t want to see his handler’s face.

“Well, fuck me; he is still alive.”

“I’m hurt that you doubted me.” Anders’ voice was tinged with mock offense, a smile in his words as the two stepped past the threshold into the room. The Wolf was thankful this dream spared him the pain, his body weightless and ethereal as he was dragged by his ankles to the hallway.

“You sure this is the smart thing to do?” Smith’s hands wrenched at the Wolf’s limbs, half throwing and half shoving him to the ground in the next room. He didn’t feel the pain of impact, but he could feel the damp coolness of the concrete floor. “I mean, I know the internal investigation could get messy, but why can’t we hide him out some where in the states? Flying all the way to fucking England sounds like a waste of time.”

“This might be hard for you CIA boys to understand, but the even the NSA has standards.” Smith scoffed, but Anders continued, leaning back against the doorframe. “I’m assigned to this case, and I’m up for promotion. Getting your ass out of the country is the best way to make me look competent until we can pass this off to Interpol.”

“Yeah, and what the fuck do I do if those international bastards catch me?” Fresh tears began to well in the Wolf’s eyes as the icy water impacted his torn and battered skin. He couldn’t actually feel it - the tears were from the memory of pain.

“They won’t. Just don’t do anything stupid. Keep your head down, don’t leave the hotel unless absolutely necessary, and you’ll be back home before you know it.”

“If you say so.” Smith’s breath rolled hot and rotten over the Wolf’s face as he leaned down to turn him over. The world warped and twisted, tunneling as a hand traced its way up the Wolf’s arm, a gentle touch settling at the back of his neck.

They were in an airport now, the most sound and light and people and movement the Wolf had seen in memory. His hearing whined, a headache building and ears almost bleeding from the saturation of sound.

“This will help you relax, here.” Anders’ hands were soft and gentle, and the Wolf hated how he leaned into the touch, desperate for any softness he could steal knowing that Smith would hold his leash for the foreseeable future. He didn’t flinch away from the fingers slipping a pill between his lips, Anders’ thumb brushing over his stubbled cheeks. “There, you’ll feel better soon.”

The Wolf’s head slumped against Anders’ shoulder, body heavy with his injuries more so than the sweet, slow working sedative dissolving under his tongue. The agent carded his fingers through the Wolf’s tangled hair, almost affectionate as he hummed softly to himself.

“Smith better not fucking kill you over there. I’ve got a lot riding on you coming back alive.” The Wolf could feel a silent whine in his throat, strangled by the knowledge that he was wearing a collar for the first time in months and he so desperately didn’t want to be shocked. “Don’t worry, once you get back it’ll be just you and me. That sounds nice; right, Wolfie?”

The Wolf tried to pull away, tried to break free from the gentle hands holding him upright. He couldn’t get away - not in the dream and not in the past - no matter how hard he tried. He reconsidered screaming to get someone’s attention if just for the chance to get away for little while - no. No, then they would be the target of Smith and Anders ire. The Wolf was tired of putting his own safety and comfort before others. It had never saved him. It always hurt someone who didn’t deserve to be hurt.

(He could still smell the rabid dog and the gore. He could still hear the volunteer’s wails of grief echoing from the holding cells where he held his friend’s still warm corpse.)

His drug numbed body was heavy where he sat, shackled in the horse barn but with Anders still at his side, watching a dead man tear into Tierney like an animal. Sometimes it was Wes who looked back at East with a smile and blood flowing between his eyes from a well placed bullet. Sometimes it was Smith, throat gory and gold tooth shining even as he coughed up blood between his barking laughs. Through it all, Anders’ gentle touch grounded the Wolf, refusing to let him drift away from the horror before him.

(It was his fault, after all. He had been too weak, too stupid, too cowardly to accept the punishment for himself.)

Suddenly, it was his hands tearing into gored flesh. (He knew the texture well, the smell of iron burning his nostrils.) It was his fists and kicks beating bruises into Tierney’s already battered form. (He knew well the weight of each impact, which bones broke and which ones fractured.) It was his hands around his friend’s throat, bare bodies horribly entwined while Tierney stared up at the Wolf in fear and pain and betrayal -

(And oh, how intimately he knew this part.)

—

East woke with a violent shudder, soaked in sweat and shivering with adrenaline. The room was dark, save for moonlight filtering through the window, and silent, save for his wheezing teary gasps. He could hear Tierney’s soft snoring in the next room.

He knew it was a dream, like so many before, but here - in a strange room, a strange bed, with Tierney on a separate bed on the other side of the wall - it felt far too real.

Too possible.

(Sometimes, in the Dark, he could swear there was still blood on his hands.)

Tierney almost screamed when he saw East, hovering at the side of his bed like a parody of his personal sleep paralysis demon. He sat up with a groan, scrubbing at his eyes with the heel of his hands.

“What time is it?”

“23:00.”

“Fuck me…” Tierney grimaced, shaking off the remnants of the nightmare and groping for the nightstand lamp. It didn’t look like East had been sleeping any easier, eyes bloodshot and skin clammy. “Dreamed we were still in that fucking barn. Gonna be smelling horse shit in my nightmares for the rest of my life.”

East hummed an affirmative sound, sitting on the floor with his back to the bed. Tierney slowly copied him, embarrassment trickling into his waking brain. Having heard what East survived before, even a clearly abridged and sanitized version…he felt foolish having bad dreams about a mere kidnapping.

“What happened? In your dream.” East asked, not looking away from the moonlight filtering through the window. Tierney felt tension gather in his brow; East had certainly woken from his own nightmare, but he clearly didn’t want to talk about it.

“I don’t even fuckin’ know. We were just still strung up and that prick - fuck.” Why was his voice pitchy like he hit puberty again? Why did he feel nauseous at the thought of a little blood? Pull it together, O’Hare. One minute Wes was alive and an asshole and the next he was dead. Get over it. “Guess I’ve just never seen a guy…die…before.”

East nodded, whisper hoarse but soft.

“It was a clean headshot. He probably didn’t even feel it.” For half a second his shoulders hunched forward, but then he straightened his back, wincing as bruised ribs shifted. “Worse ways to go.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you would know.” Tierney physically recoiled after the thoughtless words tumbled past his lips, eyes wide as East shuddered with a huff.

“Yeah.” There was a crackle of hysteria in the single syllable, but the silence that followed was thick with regrets. Eventually, East shifted, hugging his legs to his chest and laying his head on top of his knees to turn his bright, dark eyes to Tierney. “Whose room am I staying in?”

“I guess…I think it’s Liza’s old room.” Tierney shrugged, thankful for the abrupt change of topic. Though something in his gut soured are the memory. (O’Hares don’t pay ransoms. She knew that better than most.) “She hasn’t lived here since I was a kid…haven’t even seen her in years.”

“Liza…” East’s eyes were distant, face scrunched in thought. If Tierney wasn’t wallowing in his own misplaced guilt, he might have noticed the hopeful confusion crossing his friend’s face. “What happened to her?”

“O’Hares don’t pay ransoms.” Tierney almost regretted the snap on his mocking echo, but East didn’t flinch, so he continued. “She fucked up one time as - as a dumb teenager and Da never forgave her. She didn’t forgive him either. Shows up for funerals or marriages and that’s it. She and Da can’t stand each other.”

Tierney didn’t know all the details, but he knew enough. He knew Sean didn’t talk to Da for two years, using Eoghan as a middleman for anything important. He knew Liza had been hurt, badly, in more ways than one, when their father made the call to refuse the ransom. He knew no betrayal was worth that hurt - how could a man abandon his daughter to those bastards over something as petty as pride?

(He knew, even 8 years old and having never wanted for anything in his short life, that he couldn’t make the same mistakes Liza made. Whatever those mistakes supposedly were.)

“I’m glad your brothers came for us.” East said, eyes distant with thought. Tierney’s eyes flicked to him, drawn to the pearlescent scars around his neck and tally marks half hidden by the short sleeve of his nightshirt, catching the moonlight.

“Me too.” Tierney replied, swallowing back the black sickly terror that had gripped him in his nightmare. (The helplessness. The hopelessness. The loneliness - )

East suddenly flinched, an arm protectively shielding Tierney as his eyes widened and his head swiveled back and forth.

“Did you hear that?”

Tierney, still half choked in panic, made an alarmed but negative sound, trying to hold his breath to hear whatever it was East could. For a split second, he thought he heard a woman’s voice, but that was smothered by the soft, incremental shuffle of movement above. There was someone on the roof, right above the window.

The client’s first mistake was failing to make a follow up payment after the job was done. That was forgivable; lots of hitmen knew their clients went into debt for their services. Ghost had even whipped up a payment plan for the client, but there was no response from secure lines of communication. But his worries that the client had fallen victim to a retaliation hit were quelled soon enough.

The client’s second mistake was hiring a different hitman to take out the one he still owed 300.000 American dollars. At least he had the sense to hire someone from outside of the country. It was bad luck he hired one of the few foreign hitters that knew Ghost, and knew better than to get involved in this mess. They took half of their own payment up front and let their target know his client was alive and well and trying to kill him.

The client’s third mistake - last mistake, Ghost never allowed more than three - was reaching for the gun under his desk when confronted in person. At the time the hitman was willing to let the man live; he would rough him up as a lesson for hiring a hit on a hitter, but the client would have the leniency of a payment plan (with hiked interest rates, for the trouble).

But going for his own weapon when Ghost was gently explaining his past two mistakes? That was a good way to catch a bullet in the throat.

He bled out quickly, drowned in his own blood. Which was fine by Ghost - he had no interest in monologuing, it wasn’t his style.

It was a pity about his payment. Searching the office proved fruitless but that was expected. Few people who hired hitmen to take out a red market competitor would keep important financial information where civilians would.

Some part of Ghost cringed in embarrassment; of course this went poorly. He rarely took jobs from this side of the business - usually he was in the business in helping the dead keep secrets or brutal revenge. The petty rivalries of businessmen was too unstable a market to work regularly, but it had been a slow year and the client’s financials showed no evidence he would balk at the price.

At the very least, his reputation would survive unscathed and reinforced, which was half the work as a professional in his field.

The rest of the house held no secrets; though he did snag a few thousand in cash from the poorly hidden vault in the bedroom.

No passwords to any accounts in the Cayman Islands, no stash of black market merchandise. Or red market - Ghost checked the fridge to be sure.

He had been here long enough. His client had a business meeting the next day, and it would do better for his reputation to not be bumbling about the dead man’s house scrounging for money he was owed.

He was a professional, after all.

So then why did his heart sink at the rustle and cough from the attic space? He told himself he was just annoyed that he would have to waste another bullet. Prices were up lately.

Ghost hadn’t seen an entrance to the upper level, no hatch or ladder, but some probing found that the back of the bedroom closet had a loose panel. Behind it, a secret stair case brought him to a cramped, cold attic.

It was mostly bare - exposed foam insulation and cables, a few pieces of old furniture draped in white sheets, and unlabeled cardboard boxes littered the area.

He turned on his torch, listening intently. The breathing was soft, intentionally shallow and slow. The light drew his eye to a makeshift bed on the floor, tattered blankets and well worn cushion nearly swallowed by the shadows of the bed frame they lay beside. Which was odd, considering the bed appeared well kept.

The shining eyes that glared at him from beneath the bed frame were of more immediate interest. He crouched to see them better, but they shuffled deeper into the shadows, movements purposefully slow - like a cat caught somewhere it knew it shouldn’t be.

“Get out.” He glared back as the eyes only watched him in response. “I can see you. Get out before I drag you out.”

The nearly inaudible breathing shuddered as the eyes sharpened with suspicious fury. But they slowly dragged themselves out from the beneath the bed.

It took more effort than he anticipated to keep his expression unfazed.

The rustling - rattling - came from a thick chain attached to a shackle on their right leg. The chain was attached to the bed frame, two meters or so of slack for movement.

More horrifying, they were a child - they couldn’t have been more than ten, maybe younger, skeletal and gaunt and glowering. It took a moment for him to realize that the nightgown they wore was merely an oversized t-shirt, threadbare and hiding the worst of their starved silhouette.

Their skin was ashen, any other color hidden by a layer of filth. Black matted hair reached their waist, thick and greasy in the light of the torch. But their dark brown eyes had none of the frailty of their failing body. Bright with anger and regarding him with an air of resentment, a memory of his own eyes at their age.

“Can you speak?” What was he doing - he was going to kill them anyway, if only to put them out of their misery.

They nodded slowly, eyes drifting to the holstered gun at his hip.

“Who are you?” Why was he asking? It was much harder to kill something named.

They shrugged, genuine confusion and bright fear flickering across their face before they schooled it back to hardset suspicion.

Ghost sighed deeply, rubbing a hand over his face. Leaving them here alive would ruin his reputation. Leaving them here dead would draw the attention of authorities once they started to rot.

Keeping their eyes on him, they lowered themself back to the floor, legs shaking.

Their chained leg didn’t have the expected chafing of a bind someone had struggled against, no cut or bruised skin - at least, not any visible through the veneer of dust and filth that covered any exposed skin.

Back to the bed frame, they drew their knees to their chest and wrapped their arms around themself. But still they watched him, eyes angry and curious and waiting.

How long had they been here? Had they ever left?

The questions squeezed at a black heart Ghost had thought he had crushed into submission years ago. He left the attic far more quickly than he had entered, thoughts conflicted and heart racing as he stalked to his truck to grab bolt cutters.

What was he doing - he had killed plenty of innocent people before. This kid was no different. But they were. They were small and fragile and so determined to live. He didn’t know how to take care of a kid - he didn’t have anyone he’d trust to take care of a kid. He had seen parenting books in the library - were they any good?

It could be temporary. A few days max while he found a contact willing, able, and moral enough to handle a kid.

Marching back up the hidden stairs, bolt cutters in hand, he resolved that it would be temporary. Otherwise, he was going soft, and that would get more than the two of them killed.

They looked up at him with their bright, vicious eyes locked on the bolt cutters. Their ragged breathing rumbled in their fragile chest, but they didn’t move as he approached.

White knuckled hands gripped fistfuls of a threadbare blanket from the floor.

“I’m cutting the chain. You’re coming with me.” Try as he might, he didn’t sound gentle. It was the same tone he used when taking targets away to a secluded location at gunpoint. The only reaction from the kid was a twitch of their eye.

The bolt cutters snapped through the bulky chain with some effort on Ghost’s part; restraints this severe weren’t necessary for any person, let alone a sickly child.

The client was a man obsessed with control - as were most people willing to kill off competition or anything else that threatened their control. The chain had to be heavy for the child to even move with, let alone attempt to escape it.

Looking up from his work he caught a glimmer of…something pass over the kid’s face. For a moment, their eyes were a fraction too wide, jaw slackened. But the moment passed and their hostile expression turned on him.

“Get up. Follow me. We’re leaving.” Short sentences - the kid clearly didn’t want to talk much, which was fine with Ghost. He wasn’t much for words either.

He turned heel and marched to the top of the stairs. And he realized the kid wasn’t following him.

Annoyance curled into his features for a moment before he saw them, on their feet staring at the floor. An invisible line he didn’t know - the extent of their world, no longer tethered to a bed too well kept for them to sleep on the floor in rags.

Ghost breathed slowly, forcing any anger from his expression. They were just a kid. Civilian kids were easy to scare; even if this kid wasn’t a civilian they were still a kid. He wasn’t sure what the kid was more afraid of - the strange rough man who smelled of blood or leaving what passed for home.

“Let’s go.” He stepped to them, hooking the bolt cutters to his belt. It was more concerning that they didn’t flinch away or at least tear their eyes from whatever imagined border kept them frozen in place. They made a small sound, a squeak of surprise as he picked them up in his arms.

Ghost shuddered as he adjusted his grip to hold them bridal style - they were lighter than his Kevlar vest. He was a bit used to carrying corpses to know how to handle a living human outside of what he had seen in movies, but the kid seemed fine with the positioning of their fragile body in his hands.

“This alright?” He gruff voice was met with a shaky nod, their eyes still wide and glazed with something between terror and awe. “Good. We’re leaving.”

This was temporary, he told himself, even as the kid relaxed in his arms, leaning their head to rest on his shoulder. Their half lidded dark eyes didn’t close, still watching him with that spark he recognized.

Temporary. He promised himself, he was a professional after all.

They didn’t understand the outside, but the concrete floor of the garage they could work with. Whatever his game was, they could learn. They were a quick learner.

He was fiddling with various valves attached to old copper pipes, though he kept glancing over his shoulder as though he was afraid they might run. They wouldn’t. They knew better. The weight of the shackle and its short length of chain still attached to their leg was reminder enough of why they shouldn’t run.

The sound of sputtering, running water and a sharp curse pulled their eyes from the broken link of chain. The man stepped back from the dusty, dirty shower tucked in the corner of the garage.

Adjusting the knobs within for a few moments longer, he swept the curtain closed and turned to them. Finally, he gave them instructions.

“Shower. Get cleaned up. I’ll find some clothes for you before you get out.” His eyes flickered to their ankle as they limped forward, but he said nothing more as he disappeared through a door to the house.

They pulled the curtain back, the plasticky fabric speckled black with long dried mildew. There were cobwebs in the corners now bejewel by the warm mist, and a bar of withered, green soap sat soaking in the corner.

They stripped and stepped into the shower, doing their best to keep their racing heart quiet. Normally they bathed in the tub, water ice cold and the pale man’s steady hands threatening to hold them under if they splashed too much or cried too loudly when soap stung fresh cuts.

This water was warm, alien but comforting. The soap only stung the ring of half healed but still broken flesh that bordered both edges of their shackle. The soap smelled good, a sharp scent that reminded them of a spice they could always smell on the pale man’s breath, but never tasted. Not directly.

The soap didn’t smell so good anymore, and the water was too hot. They stepped out onto the well worn mat beside the shower and shivered, watching the water still black with the filth from their skin swirl around the drain half clogged with spiderwebs.

The man returned, a bundle of fabric in hand. He looked at them and quickly diverted his eyes before closing them, breathing slow and controlled.

They wanted to cry, panic building in their chest. What did he want?

“Take these. Dry off and get dressed.” He held out the fabric in his hands in their general direction, eyes still closed. They stepped slowly forward, gingerly taking the towel and the bundle of dry clothes wrapped inside it from his hands. There was a tension in his shoulders as he turned his back them. His hands were twitching to form a fist.

Their heart dropped like a stone as they stepped into boxers too wide to sit securely on their narrow hips. He was angry. They tried to think of what they did wrong. Maybe he wanted them to stay in the shower longer. Maybe they weren’t clean enough. Maybe he just didn’t like how they looked.

The pale man always threatened that they were too disfigured and ugly to love. That he was the only one gracious enough to care for them, that anyone else would kill them out of fear and horror and disgust.

Maybe this man realized this. Maybe he was walking across the garage and laying out a blue tarp to keep their blood off the cement when he killed them.

Their eyes traced the work table to his right. They could reach the screwdriver if they sprinted. But there was no anger in his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder at them.

Just something sad and tired.

“Come here.” They walked onto the tarp, keeping him and the nearest improvised weapon in their line of sight. He picked up a plastic case from the work table and produced a strange contraption, plugging the cord into an outlet that crackled angrily.

The machine hummed to life, miniature blade biting open air before he switched it off. His eyes still looked at them with something they didn’t recognize. They realized there was fear on their face before they schooled their expression to quiet.

“It’s just a buzzer. I’m going to cut your hair. There’s no saving that mess.” He gestured, spinning his finger around. “Turn around.“

They nodded stiffly and turned, shoulders tensed and squared. Whatever he wanted was alright, as long as they stayed alive. He took a handful of their matted locks in hand, lifting it away from their still damp neck.

“Is this alright?” Again they nodded, hoping he couldn’t see the shake of their shoulders that threatened to hunch up and pull away from his oddly light grip.

They waited for pain. For the blades to bite into the itching flesh of their scalp.

Instead of the buzzer glided against their skin, warm and humming as it worked. The mats of their hair were too thick to cleanly cut away, and it took the buzzer several minutes of biting at the mangled patch of hair before a weight suddenly dropped from their head. A clump of damp, black hair was splayed across the blue tarp behind them like a drowned rat.

“You alright?” He held the still humming buzzer aloft, hands hovering and not touching them as they raised their own hand to feel the freshly opened gap in their hair. The texture was strange, the air kissing their skin cold and new and itchy. They dropped their hands and nodded. He grabbed another clump of matted hair and continued.

The blue tarp grew black beneath their feet as their own hair fell in heavy clumps. Their hands twitched, itching to feel that new and somewhat pleasant sensation of their freshly shorn scalp again, but they resisted until he finally stepped back and clicked the buzzer off.

“How’s that? Better?” His hand was rough as he rubbed it over their head, brushing away stray pieces of hair. They leaned into his touch, foreign but welcome, not grabbing or pulling at them. When his hand left they turned to meet his eyes, gingerly rubbing their own hands over their head.

It felt clean. It felt new. It felt good.

They nodded, expression blank. An uncertain smile twitched at his lips before he turned abruptly to put away the buzzer.

“Pick up the tarp and dump the hair out the back door. By the red flowers.” He paused as he unplugged the buzzer’s cord. “It keeps the deer away. And the sparrows might use it in their nests.”

They didn’t understand entirely, but they did as he asked. They could learn this game, they might even win. This was something they could work with.

“What am I supposed to say? ‘You’re safe now, no one will hurt you ever again’?” Ghost glanced around the kitchen. He knew they wouldn’t be there, they were fast asleep on a cot in the basement. He had locked the door from the outside, just in case.

“Oh God no, you’re a terrible liar.” The woman’s smile crackled through the landline. “I’d love to help, but I’ve got a nice, stable, long con that I’m not going to jeopardize to take a half feral kid off your hands.”

“You’re the one who always - "

“Just a moment love, room service is here.”

Ghost paced the linoleum tile, listening to the distant muttered French that came through the static. The only person he would trust with this - to keep secret his involvement and protect the kid - was Liza.

“You need to take responsibility; I told you to stick with arms dealers and other black market sellers but nooo you had to go and accept a contract from a trafficker.” She scoffed, the sound of a wine cork popping followed. “I know goings been tough lately but Christ have some standards Ghost.“

“Some of us don’t have the luxury of being picky with our clients.”

“Well, you have to reap what you sow. I have a glass of wine worth more than the Mona Lisa and a five star penthouse, you have the product of an irresponsible personal choice.“

“If you’re going to gloat I’m going to hang up.”

“Listen - they’re what, ten? Twelve?“

“I don’t know.”

“You haven’t asked?”

“They were chained to a bed in an attic, Liza. They haven’t been particularly chatty.”

“Fine, fine…listen, I’ll send you some of my old stuff in the mail from when I - you’ll have them in a few weeks. Great first time parent reading material.” He pretended not to notice how she cut herself off. Her kid was a touchy subject.

“Until then?”

“Treat them the way you’d treat an apprentice, at least that’s what I would do.” He could hear her cringe. “Or don’t - you don’t have a good track record with those.”

“Hey.” The growl in his voice was threatening and genuine. Liza knew exactly what buttons not to press, and she did it anyway - petty revenge for reminding her of her own mistakes by bringing up the topic of a kid.

“Just keep them alive until you get those parenting guides. Food. Water. Enrichment. They’re a smart pet rat. If you haven’t…taken care of the kid when I’m done milking this oligarch dry, I’ll pop by and see how badly you’ve fucked them up.”

“I wait with bated breath.” Ghost deadpanned, hearing Liza chuckle.

“Be gentle - you’re a better man than you give yourself credit for.” He rolled his eyes, aware she couldn’t see him or the bodies he had buried. “At the very least, you’re probably the nicest person they’ve ever met. Not a high bar to clear, but it’s something.”

Tension bled from his shoulders as he leaned against the counter, turning the coiled cord of the phone between his fingers. Liza always knew what to say to disarm him, to stop his spiraling paranoia and hyper vigilance. That’s what made her dangerous. And a good friend.

“Thank you.”

“For what? Paying the bill of this long distance phone call?” A smile twitched at his face.

“Have a good night Liza. Enjoy that wine.”

“Oh I will dear, I certainly will.”

“Sleep here.”

A large, gutted closet. Plenty of room for the blanket and cushion he laid out. It smelled of dust and mothballs, and he closed the door when they were inside.

They slept there.

“Eat this.”

Bread, darker and sharper than they remembered the soggy scraps the cold man gave them. The water in the glass was clear and clean.

They ate it. They drank it.

“Stay there.”

They stayed. The commands were simple compared to the impossible requests of the pale man. No demands for shows of submission, no orders for loyalty or other concepts they barely grasped.

Sleep. Eat. Stay.

They were good, and in turn he never raised his voice. This was good.

Until it wasn’t.

There was a tension that morning, they could taste it like air before a storm. He made his coffee, set out his newspaper - same as every morning. But there was something darker in his eyes.

He watched them with a heaviness painted across his face, the way they felt watching a fox catch a sickly rabbit. Guilt. Pity. Resignation. Illogical feelings attached to something that couldn’t comprehend those feelings anymore than they could explain them.

“Don’t get too comfortable.” He didn’t look up from the paper, and they didn’t flinch from where they sat watching the birdfeeder. “This is temporary.”

They nodded, even though he wouldn’t see them. Temporary.

Would he send them back?

They remembered the smell of blood in that dark house. Blood that wasn’t their own. They remembered the tang of sulfur in the air.

There was nowhere to go back to.

They watched the squirrels congregating below the bird feeder, chewing on sunflower seeds. The outside was new, strange, and far too alien to them. They wouldn’t survive long out there on their own - not even in these balmy spring months.

Temporary.

Why take them only to leave them for the wolves and elements and worms?

They didn’t understand. But they didn’t understand a lot of his rules. Or the lack thereof.

They ate every meal he ate without earning it. They slept under soft blankets without sharing them with an unwelcome bedfellow.

He gave them things - books, filled with scribbles and colorful pictures. He put tapes in the TV that helped them make sense of the scribbles, the letters, the words -

Temporary.

The other shoe would drop. They had to be ready when it did.