The Wisdom to Know the Difference

by Faye Dartmouth

The mission's over. Unfortunately, that means the hard part has just begun.

1. Chapter 1

Title: The Wisdom to Know the Difference

Disclaimer: I do not own Chaos.

A/N: Written for my "substance addiction" prompt on hc_bingo. I fully acknowledge that the timeline of some of the medical stuff has been condensed for the purposes of the fic. I apologize for any inaccuracies. Betas by sockie1000 and sophie_deangirl.

Summary: The mission's over. Unfortunately, that means the hard part has just begun.

-o-

In truth, it's a job well done. Michael's used to taking on the hard cases, but this one has been especially trying. It's required the long game from the start, and the choice to send in a man undercover is never one he takes lightly - especially when months are involved. Initially, Michael had slated it to be a two-month operation, but it'd quickly spiraled to a five month gig.

Five months with Billy undercover, ingratiating himself to the worst and most notorious drug dealers in Central America. Five months of separating his team, reducing the rest to monitoring and support while Billy lived and breathed the world of drug trafficking.

Michael has to admit, he's not sure who took it the worst. With the long term nature of the assignment, he had to rotate his men out, virtually reassigning Rick and Casey to other tasks back at Langley while he stayed and provided on the ground support for Billy. Rick angsted about that, calling in continually and finding excuses to make a trip overseas. Casey, though he wouldn't admit it, was sullen and withdrawn, and Michael noticed the uptick in his casualty count during the interim.

And Michael didn't exactly enjoy it. It's a quiet, isolating life, playing handler to an undercover agent. It's never a role he's fancied for himself, but he does his due diligence. Because Billy's the one undercover, but this is Michael's mission. His choices matter. He dictates how long this lasts and when they pull the plug. The buck stops with him.

Ironically, Billy takes it best. He flourishes with a role to play, and it's uncanny how naturally he fits in with criminal types. He smiles and charms, and he talks the talk. It doesn't take long for him to get a good foothold, but the instant Billy starts relaying information back, it becomes clear they've underestimated the scope of the operation. It's Billy who told him they had to keep going.

But it was Michael who approved it.

It was Michael who made the call.

It was Michael.

So no one is more relieved than him when the time is right. He's damn grateful to organize the raid, and takes a personal interest in seeing every drug dealer arrested and questioned, charged with irrefutable evidence.

The team is congratulatory. Rick is beaming; Casey stands unusually close to Billy and tells him he's pleasantly surprised that he didn't screw it up. Billy grins back and says he's no hero; he just did what had to be done.

Michael's just glad it's over.

After five months, it's finally over.

-o-

It takes five months of relentless work. Five months that drag, that stretch on interminably. For all that, though, the operation ends fairly quickly. Although the ODS spearheaded the operation, the majority of the tactical maneuvers were performed by Navy SEALs in conjunction with the local authorities. For an operation this scale, there really hadn't been another choice. Normally, Michael doesn't like to give up control but he does appreciate being able to slip into the background when all the gunfire is over. As it is, it's going to take a while to sort things out on the ground, which is why Michael can't go far.

"Think of it as a working vacation," Michael tells his team with a smirk when they finally are cleared by the military to leave the scene.

"You know, I always considered oxymorons to be an appropriate name," Casey gripes, even as he lingers closer to Billy than normal. "You're a moron for using them."

Michael chuckles. "I know this is no Paris-"

"But there's actually a lot of fascinating local sites," Rick says, trying to be helpful. "I've always wanted to visit the Mayan ruins."

"You don't even need an oxymoron to sound stupid," Casey snarks.

Rick glares. "Well, what are you going to do?"

Casey smiles, somewhat predatory. "I have a few contacts in the area," he says. He shrugs coyly. "If we have a week, I may be able to get reacquainted."

Rick's brow is furrowed in apparent confusion, and it's only then that Michael realizes that Billy is being uncharacteristically silent. The military had cleared them to leave, which had included a short visual confirmation that everyone appeared to be in good health. Billy would be given a thorough once-over back at Langley, both physically and psychologically, but it occurs to Michael that maybe there's a more pressing need.

"How about you?" Michael asks, nudging the Scot gently.

Billy seems to take the cue, and smiles accordingly. It's very typically Billy, and if he looks more weary than normal, Michael supposes he's entitled that. "As fun as all that sounds, I think I've had enough of the local sites and people," he says. "I may reacquaint myself with my normal clothes and a few books."

"You sure?" Rick asks. "I'm pretty sure I could get us into some great places."

"I may even be able to find a...friend for you," Casey offers with an unusually magnanimous tone. Rick and Casey don't want to say it out loud, but they've missed Billy.

Michael's missed Billy, so he knows how they feel.

Yet, Billy's the one who did the hard work on this one. If he wants to lay around in his hotel room and read, that's his business.

Billy looks appropriately impressed. "I'm actually not sure I'd have the stamina for one of your friends," Billy quips. And he looks at Rick earnestly. "And I promise, next time we're in a country with fascinating cultural history, I will let you take me wherever you want."

Rick looks a little disappointed, but he nods. "We could stay in with you," he suggests. "Charge some pay per view movies to the hotel bill, eat a little room service."

Billy chuckles fondly. "Lad, I'm right knackered," he says. "Five months undercover - I need five days to re-acclimate myself to, well, me."

Casey rolls his eyes. "Meaning I should savor this moment."

Rick shoves him a little. "It's good to have you back," he says.

Billy smiles. "It's good to be back," he says, and he hesitates, looking unusually serious. "I...you have no idea."

It's honest, which is maybe why it catches Michael so off guard. In all the years he's known Billy, the man has put up one front after another. The moments of raw emotion, of true Billy, are few and fleeting. It's suddenly unsettling to realize he's witnessing one now. That these five months were enough to strip Billy down, to take him apart, and what's left-

He's overthinking it.

Billy's grin widens, and there's the familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes. "I reckon taking a week off is as much for you as it is for me," he says. "A week until you're stuck with my singing, my paper airplanes, and my coffee cups in your car." He winks. "I'll make you think twice about pulling me out yet."

Casey scoffs. "You already are."

Rick laughs. "Never." He pauses. "You sure we can't do anything for you?"

Billy looks genuinely grateful. "You've done enough," he says.

"In that case," Casey announces. "I'm off."

"Yeah," Rick says with a reluctant shrug. "I guess I'll let you get back to it."

Billy nods. "I'm counting on pictures," he says.

"Of course!" Rick says.

"I was talking about Casey," Billy snarks.

Casey turns back with a smirk, even while Rick frowns. "You wish," Casey says.

When they're out of range, Billy sighs, seeming to deflate slightly. Michael nudges him again. "You sure you're okay?" he asks, eyes narrowed as he looks at his teammate again. It's not just the physical weariness; there's something else. Something just off that Michael can't place.

Billy gives him a long look. "I've been better," he admits. "But nothing a little R&R won't cure."

"Do you want to stop by and see a doctor?" Michael suggests.

Billy shrugs. "I'll be poked and prodded enough back at Langley," he says. "I just want a bit of privacy."

It's not that Billy's being unreasonable - it's just...Michael's not sure what it is, but it is something. "You just don't look great," he finally says.

"I don't reckon you'd be at your best after five months with a drug cartel," Billy jokes. "But if it's all the same, I do think I may be coming down with something. Terrible timing, I know."

"The medics are still here," Michael says, nodding back toward the military personnel patrolling the area.

"It's a spot of the flu," Billy says dismissively, even as he shifts restlessly from one foot to the other. "I'd much prefer to suffer in peace, if I could."

Michael can't begrudge him that. "You know where to find us. You're not doing this on your own."

"Aye," Billy says, raising his hand to scratch the back of his neck. "I never have."

"Come on," Michael says.

Billy is ready to protest. "Michael-"

Michael rolls his eyes, clapping Billy on the shoulder. "I'll give you a ride back to the hotel," he says. "Unless you intended on walking."

Billy flushes slightly, scratching at the back of his neck again. "I reckon I have missed carpooling."

Michael grins. "I can't say that I have."

"Spoken like a true friend," Billy says.

Michael inclines his head, starting toward his rental. "And don't you forget it."

-o-

The ride to the hotel is unusually quiet. Billy generally makes car rides go quickly, but Michael figures the Scot probably doesn't want to talk shop after five months undercover. There's no doubt Billy will have grand stories to tell, but Michael knows better. He's the one who was Billy's contact more often than not. He knows all the work Billy did - the unglamorous, ethically questionable work. He knows the gut wrenching agony of making friends with lowlifes and learning how to profit off of death and addiction.

Billy will tell stories about grand heroics and humorous moments amid the drama. But for now, Billy needs to recuperate.

That's what Michael tells himself, anyway, as he steals uncertain glances at his unusually reserved teammate. Billy had started out his stint undercover verbose and upbeat. He'd been the one who painstakingly cajole Michael's spirits when he wanted to pull the plug. The last month had been different, though. He'd counted on Billy regaining his vigor when his cover was revoked.

He just needed time.

And space.

Which was why Michael promptly booked Billy his own room under a new alias.

"Here you go," Michael says, handing him a key. "For now, you're Jamie Randall, on vacation."

Billy takes the key, smiling gratefully. "And good riddance Theodore Everett," he says in reference to his undercover identity. "You will not be missed."

"Well, just remember that we expect Billy Collins back at Langley in a week," Michael reminds him.

Billy nods, lifting the key in the facsimile of a salute. "And Billy Collins you shall have in a week," he pledges. "For now, however-"

"Yeah, yeah," Michael says. "Be sure to call me if you need anything, Mr. Randall."

Billy winks. "You know I will."

-o-

And that should be that. Michael's room is on the first floor and Billy's is on two, so he sees the Scot to the elevator than trudges the familiar route to his own room. Inside, everything is how he left it - his files and his surveillance equipment - and he idly sets about taking it down.

It's over, he has to remind him. This one is finally behind them.

Still, packing up five month's worth of work is no small task. Michael is meticulous in his record keeping, which means things may be well organized but the paperwork is copious.

This is part of the job, though, and not even part that Michael hates. It's closure.

It's time to move on.

Michael feels like he should be relieved.

He's not sure why he's not.

-o-

Several hours later, his hotel room is almost immaculate. He's shredded the extraneous paperwork and neatly filed the rest in a series of locked briefcases. He's about ready to order some room service, when his phone chirps.

Curious, he pulls it out. Then he grins as he answers. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Fay's voice came on the other end. "I thought you were going to call."

"Worried about me?"

Fay made a sound of contempt. "I need some of your confirmation numbers in order to continue processing the file."

"If that's what you need to tell yourself," Michael says with a smirk.

He can't see Fay, but he knows she's rolling her eyes as she sighs. "Right," she says. "I'm getting an earful from Higgins that you haven't checked in yet."

At that, Michael winces. "He's unhappy?"

"Unhappy?" Fay asks with incredulity. "How could he be unhappy? The military says that it's working well with local law enforcement and that charges are pending on nearly fifty people rounded up in the raid, including two of the most notorious drug criminals in Central America. Higgins is thrilled."

"So why's he bothering you?"

"Because he's waiting for the other shoe to fall, I guess," Fay says. "He's convinced that there's something you're not telling him."

"Well, I can honestly say that this went by the book," Michael tells her, laying back on his bed and watching as the ceiling fan spun lazily above him. "Perfection."

"That's what I've been trying to tell him," she says. "I think he won't believe it until he sees all of you back at Langley and has the chance to put you through a formal debrief."

"Well, that sounds enticing," Michael says sardonically.

"Seriously," Fay says. "When do you think you'll be back?"

"You that anxious to see me?"

"Michael," Fay says, a hint of warning in her voice.

"Right, right," Michael says. "We're going to use the week to make sure everything is squared away."

"A week?" Fay asks. "Isn't that a little excessive?"

"A week," Michael affirms. "Like you said, there's nearly fifty suspects in lockup. If they're going to finalize charges, we can help them out with that."

"Surely you can do that remotely," Fay says.

"You really do miss me."

"Michael," Fay says again, harsher now.

"This cost my team five months," Michael tells her in all seriousness. "Give us a week."

She hesitates, but Fay's not as heartless as she wants to seem. She's also not as clinically detached as she'd like people to believe. She cares about Michael; she cares about his team. She's generally a good person - the best.

"Fine," she concedes. "But expect frequent calls from home."

"I look forward to it," Michael says with a grin.

"I'll bet you are," Fay muses. Then she pauses again. "Seriously, though. Good work on this one. You should be proud."

"Yeah," Michael agrees. "I should."

As she hangs up, he can't say for sure why he isn't.

-o-

Michael sleeps on it. He's got good instincts, but he's also pretty aware that he's a paranoid bastard, so sometimes he tries to rein it in. This seems like one of those times.

Except he doesn't sleep all night. He stares at the ceiling and goes over everything.

He still remembers Billy, before all this started, saying it had to be him. "This is a role of finesse. Casey would be ill suited and Rick's too green."

"Hey!" Rick had objected.

"He's right, Martinez," Michael said. "You're a no-go."

"But I'm the only native speaker," Rick protested.

"We're pulling the foreign investor angle," Michael reminded them all. "We already let you get shot to hell by one cartel; we're not doing it again."

"Thank you," Billy said.

Michael had trained his eyes on Billy. "That doesn't mean it has to be you," he said. "I can be downright charming when I want to be."

Billy had smiled, that small smile of his. "But we need you running the operation," he said, because he'd anticipated this conversation all along. "None of us can do what you do. And I can make this cover work. I can do this."

"This isn't a short-term thing," Casey interjected. "You have to have an attention span that outlasts a flea for once."

The insult had been a veil for concern, and they all had known it. Billy shrugged easily. "My endurance may surprise you," he said, then he winked. "In all things."

"I don't know if I like it," Michael said. "Maybe there's another way."

"I can't say I like it," Billy said. "But there is no other way. Trust me, Michael. I'll get the job done. No matter what."

No matter what.

Those words haunt Michael now. He'd replayed them in his head often over the last few months, justifying every added day he kept Billy undercover. Just one more day, he'd always told him. Just a little more intel. Just a little more time.

Five months isn't a lifetime, but it's long enough to change a man. It's long enough to make no matter what mean something.

But what?

What have they sacrificed? It can't all be a win, can it?

Is Michael just a paranoid bastard?

Or is he a tactical genius?

What's he missing?

Nothing, he reminds himself. His team is safe; his team is whole. He has everything.

And the night wears on.

-o-

In the morning, Michael is ready at the dawn. He's not well rested, but he's pretty used to that. He hadn't made a habit of sleeping much; he always found it hard to turn his brain off when an op was in play, and after five months...

Well, Michael is a functional insomniac now.

While this may not be entirely healthy or psychologically viable, it does have its perks. He's ready to go whenever need arises, and he does get a lotdone. He's showered, shaved, dressed and on his third cup of coffee when it's finally late enough to check in with the others.

He calls Casey first and doesn't comment about the multiple female voices he hears in the background. They make simple contact, but when Michael asks if he's seen Billy, the human weapon goes uncharacteristically sullen. "I texted him to see if he wanted breakfast, but I never heard back," Casey says. "Bastard has been out for less than 24 hours and he's already a pain in my ass."

It's said with malice, but Michael knows better. He knows that Casey doesn't like social meals most of the time, and the mere invitation to breakfast was Casey's way of reaching out.

Michael sighs. "Well, he was pretty tired," he offers. "Maybe he slept through it."

"I guess," Casey says. "But if he thinks my random acts of generosity are going to last-"

Chuckling, Michael shakes his head. "Like that's a lesson Billy's ever learned."

"Point taken," Casey grumbles. There's a small hesitation. "Do you think we should go over there?"

"He was feeling under the weather," Michael says. "He just needs some rest."

It sounds so reasonable. It is reasonable.

Casey has no counter-argument. "Well, if you talk to him, tell him the offer is rescinded unless he's paying," he says tersely. "I waited five long months for his sorry ass, and I'm not waiting any more."

"Fair enough," Michael says before he hangs up. He's hardly had a second to think when his phone rings. Frowning, he glances at the screen then answers promptly. "Martinez?"

"Oh, Michael," Rick says faltering awkwardly. "I, um. You answered fast."

"Yeah, I do that on missions," Michael tells him with a small roll of his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I-" Rick hesitates again, as if he's trying to figure out what he wants to say. "I just...I was wondering about Billy."

Michael's annoyance dissipates with a pang of sympathy. They're all feeling protective of their recently returned teammate; Rick's just the only one who doesn't know how to mask it. "I haven't checked in with him yet."

"Oh," Rick says, and it sounds like he's disappointed.

"Something wrong, Martinez?" Michael presses.

Rick collects an audible breath. "Not really," he says. "I mean, I called him and he didn't answer."

"Well, the man just spent five months with a drug cartel," Michael reminds him. "I think he's entitled to some sleep."

"But it just kept ringing," Rick says.

"So, he slept through it," Michael concludes.

"I called him four times within fifteen minutes," Rick finally confesses.

The concern is obvious, and Michael can't lie, it raises flags for Michael, too. Billy's notoriously fond of his phone, and he'd been more than somewhat eager to reclaim it from Michael when the operation ended. Michael's cussed Billy out more than once for sending pointless text messages at all times of the night, and somehow the Scot has a knack for calling at the worst possible times.

But the practical part of Michael's brain wins out. "He might have it on vibrate," he says. "Hell, he could be taking a shower. We have no reason to think anything different."

He can almost see Rick posturing. "I know, but..."

But it's been five months. But it went too well. But Billy's usually the first one to buy drinks. But something feels wrong.

Michael can't base decisions on feelings. There are facts to consider. Compelling, hard to argue facts.

That's what Michael has. That's what he needs to stand on now.

"But nothing," Michael says. "Just give it a few days. By the time we get back to Langley, everything will be just like it was five months ago before this mission started."

Rick sighs. "I know," he says, sounding dejected. "It's stupid, I guess. It just feels like we're waiting for the other shoe to fall."

"Well, maybe this time there is no other shoe," Michael says. "We're entitled to some good luck every now and then."

There's another hesitation. "So you think it'd be bad for me to go to his room?"

"Let him rest," Michael says. "When he's ready, he'll call you. You know Billy."

"Yeah," Rick says, but his voice lingers as if he wants to say more. "You'll call me?"

Michael rolls his eyes again. "Go on your sightseeing tour, Martinez," he says. "There'll be nothing to call about."

He hangs up with a flourish and looks at his phone. His fingers scrolls through his contact, hesitating on Billy.

Then he tosses his phone on the bed.

He needs to take his own advice - and let it go.

-o-

So Michael does what Michael does. The mission isn't active, but there's still plenty to do. When he has his own files attended to, he knows there are still loose ends to tie up on the ground. He brokered this week off mostly for his team's benefit, but he certainly does have things he needs to do.

He doesn't feel like calling home again, so he puts that off. As much as he'd like to talk to Fay, he knows he won't avoid a patch through to Higgins, which is really just not high on his list of fun ways to start his day. Instead, he decides to verify his handiwork and make sure that the military personnel in charge of the site don't have any lingering issues they need help sorting out.

He locks up his room and glances at the elevator on the way out. Billy's just one floor up. He could stop by...

But he told Casey and Rick and everyone else that Billy needed to rest. Michael needs to listen to his own advice.

Even if he doesn't want to.

-o-

It's not exactly a short drive out, and he's pleased to find the site well guarded and thoroughly contained. He's granted access and follows the leader of the operation back to the temporary holding area.

"We're still trying to work out positive identifications while we transfer them over to Guatemalan authorities," the commander explains. "Needless to say, they're not being very helpful."

"Go figure," Michael says wryly. "How much longer are you going to hold them?"

"Not much," the commander says. "A few of them may need to be extradited to other countries based on oustanding warrants, but I hope to have this place sealed and shut down within two days."

Michael nods his approval. "And the evidence?"

The commander takes a moment to look impressed. "Best we've ever scored in this region," he says. "Your man was right on target with this one."

For five months, Michael should hope. "Anything you need me to do to finish this up?" he asks instead.

"Yeah, there is one thing," the commander says. "The leader has conflicting arrest warrants in several countries, which is why we've still got him under full guard while officials figure out where he's going to be sent."

"So?" Michael asks.

"So, we've been trying to get him to talk to us while we sort out his extradition," the commander says.

"I'm still not following-"

"He wants to talk you," the commander says.

Michael frowns.

The commander holds up his hands. "We haven't told him anything," he says. "But he's not stupid. He knows the only way this went down is with an insider. American military raid - he's thinking American intelligence pulled one off."

"I can't go in there," Michael says. "You know that."

"Of course," the commander says. "Which is why I said he could talk to a member of our legal team, especially since one of his warrants is in America."

Michael is skeptical.

"It's our only shot at getting him to tell us anything else," the commander says.

Considering this, Michael draws a long breath and lets it out. Although he's pretty sure it goes against direct protocol in this case, he's also pretty sure that he'd love to take a crack at this guy. That's sort of how Michael operates - if there's a source, Michael wants to tap it. He restrains himself more often than not for the sake of his safety and the safety of his team, but if he's being offered a working cover and the chance to confront one of the most notorious cartel members currently in operation-

Well, it's hard to resist.

He nods. "Okay," he says. "Am I going in as a friendly?"

"More like a neutral party," the commander says. "You're there to explain the legal ramifications. You're not authorized to offer him anything, but if he happens to say something..."

Michael smiles. "I think I know what I'm doing."

-o-

The confidence is no bluster. Michael has planned, orchestrated and executed this operation from the get-go. He's not the only one who can take credit, but it's no stretch to say that he's the mastermind of it all.

And it feels pretty damn good, really. To see one of the region's most wanted criminals handcuffed and idle, with armed guards nearby. This man has killed countless people. He's ruined so many lives. Michael sacrificed five months of Billy's life to capture him, and for that moment, the gratification of seeing him in custody is worth it.

He smiles as he sits down. "Mr. Ortiz," he says. "I hear you're not being very cooperative."

Guillermo Ortiz scowls, face twisted with something akin to rage and hatred. "Were you with the one who turned on me?" he asks in heavily accented English, his dark eyes glaring at Michael vindictively.

Michael raises his eyebrows, playing it entirely cool. "I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," he says with a shrug. "I was sent here because I was told you have some questions about the legal charges against you."

"I do not care about the charges," Ortiz spits. "I only care about who betrayed me."

"Well, you work with criminals, if the outstanding arrest warrants for your cohorts are any indication," Michael says. "They're not exactly known for their honesty."

"Do not play with me!" Ortiz snarls.

Michael lifts his hands. "Aggression will get you nowhere at this point, Mr. Ortiz."

"This is the Americans doing, yes?" he asks. "So where is the CIA? They could be anywhere."

Michael chuckles, even though Ortiz is dead on. "Pointing fingers at fictional ghosts isn't going to lessen the charges against you. But if you're willing to talk-"

Ortiz shakes his head. "It has to be a new hire," he says. "Someone from the merger six months ago."

"I'm not sure I'm the one-"

"Garcia is a longtime associate, and he vouched for the men on his side of the operation, but I had my doubts," Ortiz continues, watching Michael carefully. It's clear what he's doing - he's listing names to get a reaction - which is why Michael sure as hell isn't going to move now. "Rodriguez is the most obvious choice, which is why I think him to be innocent of this betrayal. Edwards is also likely, since he is the only American on my payroll, but I am not sure you are that stupid."

Michael sits back and crosses his arms over his chest.

Ortiz doesn't stop, his gaze narrowing even farther. "I think Janssen is also possible, but maybe it is more sinister. Maybe you turned one of my own. Recarey, perhaps? He has always seemed weak. Or Castillo - he is so young."

"Mr. Ortiz-"

Ortiz's doesn't seem to hear him, eyes boring into Michael with uncomfortable clarity. "None of those, then. I have considered others. I have thought about Pena. And also Mr. Everett, who is so fond of talking." He pauses, tilting his head. "But then, Mr. Everett is fond of many things, yes?"

Michael doesn't flinch at the mention of Billy's alias. It's a moot point now, but there are people out there who could still technically ID Billy by that alias, and Michael's not leaving anything like that to chance. He can't - he won't.

But his momentary silence does not escape Ortiz's notice. The man is smart; the man is good. That's one reason why Michael went after him specifically - that's why he was willing to let Billy stay under that long. Because Ortiz was worth it.

The sly smile across the man's face is predatory and unsettling. "I do hope it is not Mr. Everett," he says. "Because he will have many things to account for if he returns home. Traitors always get what is due to them."

Michael raises his eyes. "If you're making threats against some of the other prisoners-"

"No threats," Ortiz says. "Please, I am an incarcerated man, due for extradition and a long court battle. My lieutenants have already started dismantling the rest of the network. They will serve justice as they see fit, and they will not fall prey to the likes of you again. But traitors-" He stops, eyes almost gleaming now. "Traitors throw rocks at glass houses. Traitors call out the speck in their brother's eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are."

Michael flattens his mouth, and refuses to let his emotions show. Ortiz is grasping at straws; Ortiz is throwing spaghetti at the wall and seeing what sticks. Michael's not going to tell him if he's right or wrong.

He's not going to tell this son of a bitch anything.

Collecting a breath, Michael forces a smile as he gets to his feet. "I don't think you need legal advice, Mr. Ortiz," Michael says.

"Oh?" Ortiz asks.

"No," Michael says. "You need a psychologist. Or an executioner. I guess I'll let the legal system decide - wherever you end up."

"This does not end so easily!" Ortiz called after him. "Not for you or for your little traitor."

-o-

On the outside, Michael is in a hurry to leave. His chest feels tight, and he's starting to sweat. He's almost out, when the commander stops him. "No luck then?"

Michael blinks, and remembers himself. "No," he says. "Bastard's pretty determined to make this harder."

The commander sighs. "Well, his testimony will be inconsequential," he says. "You guys got all the evidence that will be needed."

"Yeah," Michael says. "Is there anything else?"

"For me? No," he says. "But if you want to check in with the local authorities-"

Michael nods. "Will do.'

The commander hesitates. "Everything go okay in there?"

Michael looks up, almost in surprise. "Yeah, of course," he says, the words on repeat now, sounding weaker and more hollow every time he says them. "Everything's perfect."

-o-

On the way back, Michael reminds himself that Ortiz is a criminal. He's not just any criminal, he's a smart, sadistic bastard. He doesn't just know how to evade the law; he takes pleasure in his criminality. It's not just business for him. It's a way of life.

In some ways, Michael can respect this. That's his own approach to the job - he just doesn't know how to separate it. Like Michael, Ortiz knows how to work people. He knows how to put the details together to make a big picture. That's why Ortiz wanted to speak to someone in the CIA - and it's the same reason Michael took the chance.

They're pretty similar.

Except Ortiz is a drug dealing murderer, and Michael's committed to working for the good of his country.

Logically, he tries to tell himself that Ortiz's words were nothing but a psychological ploy. People react different ways when faced with failure and imminent downfall. Ortiz is clearly one who believes that the best defense is a good offense. His guess about Billy was luck - pure and total luck.

And yet, the details he'd divulged...

Michael's hands tighten on the steering wheel.

Traitors call out the speck in their brother's eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are.

Maybe bold words; maybe just words designed to entice and provoke. But the best enticements - the greatest provocations - always start with the truth.

It's stupid to think about that, though. Billy was undercover as a drug dealer. Michael had added some of the more colorful turns to Billy's cover story himself. Theodore Everett had to have some serious issues or Ortiz would never have taken him on.

But Michael can't shake it. He can't shake it any more than he can shake the silence from Billy this morning. The way he ignored phone calls and texts. The way he went to bed without so much as a celebratory drink or story. The way he looked, the way he walked, the way he was.

Like he isn't quite Billy anymore.

Long term undercover ops are hard, and they put pressure on operatives. That could be all this is. Billy needs some time to acclimatize.

Or it could be something else.

Michael knows logically that he's reading too much into this, but this time he can't ignore his gut.

He won't.

With new resolve, Michael presses down on the gas and speeds back to the hotel.

-o-

When he gets there, Michael goes straight to the stairs, jogging up them two at a time. His heart is pounding when he reaches the top, and he tells himself it's just from the physical exertion.

This is stupid, he tells himself, even as he walks down the corridor toward Billy's room. This is paranoia at its worse. He'll knock and Billy will let him in and they'll laugh about how badly this mission has warped them both. Michael will take Billy out for lunch and joke about how they need to get back to Langley so things can go back to normal.

That's what will happen.

That's what has to happen.

The thought bolsters his optimism, but he still knocks, knuckles rapping on the door. He glances down the hall, waiting for the inevitable reply.

When several moments pass with no response, Michael tries again, this time calling, "Billy?"

Billy's a light sleeper - he's a spy, that much is a given - so Michael fully expects an answer. There's no reason for Billy not to answer.

Trying again, Michael says, "Hey, Billy. You in there?"

Unless Billy's not in there. Maybe he went out. Obviously Billy knows he has to keep a low profile, but the Scot's good at being innocuous when he wants to be. He could slip into the hotel bar with no questions asked.

With that in mind, Michael pulls out his phone and dials, lingering by the door with another wary eye down the hall. It's starts ringing, and Michael is thinking of a snarky answer when he hear something from inside the room.

Turning back toward the door, he leans closer. "Billy?" he asks. Then he hears it again.

Billy's phone. It's ringing.

Which means Billy is inside - and not answering.

Frowning now, Michael almost pounds on the door. "Billy!" he says. "Open up! Or I'm coming in."

It's a bit presumptuous - or a lot presumptuous - but Michael is team leader and Billy's his responsibility, and he just spent five months having no viable means to check up on his operative whenever he wanted to. Now that he does have such a luxury, he's sure as hell not going to be stopped by a door.

Besides, it's not like ODS hasn't made a habit of breaking into each other's homes. Michael considers it a worthwhile pastime, and Billy's returned the favor more than once.

This is fair game.

At least that's what Michael tells himself as he pulled out his key. Since he booked the room, he has the backup copy. This was never explicitly stated, but it was surely assumed. There is no such thing as privacy in the ODS.

The light flashes, and Michael turns the knob, letting himself in cautiously. He doesn't get far before he has to step over the first article of clothing. Glancing inward, it's obviously that the place is a mess. This isn't unusual for Billy, of course, though usually it takes him more than 24 hours to accrue a mess of this size. It looks like the Scot has taken everything in his suitcase out and flung it around, which gives Michael some trepidation.

Still, there's no furniture overturned, which makes an altercation unlikely. But Billy seems to have taken objection to the ice bucket and plastic cups on the dresser, because they're in a scattered mess at Michael's feet.

Even as he mentally tells himself it's nothing again, Michael finds himself reaching unconsciously for the gun he's carrying. "Billy?" he calls out.

There's a small, wretched noise from the bathroom. Michael's pulse leaps in his throat. Billy.

Quickly, he makes his way through the debris on the floor, hesitating with his hand on the knob for the briefest of moments. "Billy?"

There's a noise, ragged and human - almost like a sob. It's hard to tell, though, with the sound of the shower and the running water from Michael can only assume is the shower. He's about to consider giving Billy some privacy after all, when he hears the noise again, louder and more distinct this time - definitely a cry.

All hesitations aside, Michael swing the door open, hand on his gun as he steps in.

The bathroom is just as much of a mess as the rest of the room. The toiletries are scattered all over the floor, and whole rolls of toilet paper are floating in the toilet. The sink is running along with the shower, which is making a puddle on the floor from where it's splashing around the half open shower curtain.

And that's when Michael sees Billy.

The Scotsman is curled up in the shower, still dressed in his slacks and undershirt from the night before, though his dress shirt and vest are gone. His knees are against his chest, and he's got himself pressed against the tile with his head buried in knees while he visibly shivers.

"Billy, what the hell?" Michael hears himself exclaim as he crosses the tiny bathroom and reaches into the shower to turn the water off. He almost flinches as he fumbles with the dial - the water is ice cold.

The hair on the back of his neck prickles, and he wonders just how long Billy has been sitting there under the deluge.

"Billy?" Michael tries again, looking at his operative, whose wet hair is plastered to his head even as his fists grip the soggy fabric of his pants.

"Nooo," Billy moans - a plaintive, almost inhuman sound. He twitches a little, shoulders balling up as his body seems to curl in tighter on itself.

Michael's concern is quickly turning into fear. "Billy," he tries again, reaching out to touch his friend. "It's me, Michael-"

But the second Michael's fingers brush against Billy's arm, the Scotsman recoils, jolting violently as his head comes up and smacks against the tile.

"Billy!" Michael says, trying to make his order not sound like the plea it is.

Billy's eyes are squeezed shut and he shakes his head in what appears to be agony. "Michael, Michael, please, no," he groans, the words slurring together almost unintelligibly. "I need, I need - oh, God - they're under my skin!"

The last words are practically a wail as Billy begins to scratch frantically at the skin of his exposed arms, leaving red trails with his nails over the goose-pimpled flesh.

"Easy, Billy. Calm down-" Michael says, nearly pleading again as he tries to grab ahold of Billy's hands while he thrashes. Blood is starting to well up in earnest now, smearing with the moisture on Billy's skin to look even worse than Michael logically knows it is.

Either way, this is bad enough.

This is bad.

Billy is almost incoherent - and he's starting to scare the hell out of Michael. How long had he been like this?

"They're crawling," Billy cries, twisting with more strength than he looks capable of right now. "They're crawling all over. Get them off!"

Whatever the issue is, it can't be solved in the bathroom. Not with Billy bleeding and raving and God knows what else. "There's nothing there, Collins," Michael says in his most authoritative voice. He doesn't pull rank often - it's not usually necessary - but he can and he will. "Collins, look at me."

With the order, Billy finally seems to hear him. It takes a moment - a long, painful moment - before Billy manages to lift his head and turn his eyes toward Michael, Michael almost wishes he hadn't.

Because Billy's eyes are red-rimmed and bloodshot. His cheeks are pale, almost gaunt with the thickening stubble. There's recognition, at least, but it's clouded by something wretched - something haunted - in the younger man's countenance.

Billy's broken somehow. Michael's not sure of all the details of Billy's undercover work, but he can't deny the possibility that something more sinister happened. And he wouldn't put it past Billy to hide it from him. In fact, there's no doubt he would.

Michael had worried about Billy, but he hadn't seen any signs. At least, no signs that he couldn't explain away. That he couldn't justify. He'd thought Billy was okay - or that he would be. He'd thought that if they could just finish the operation, everything would go back to normal.

Except now Billy's clawing his skin in a cold shower.

And it's Michael's fault.

Because this was Michael's operation. Because Michael made the call to send Billy in. Because Michael made the call to keep him there for five months.

It's Michael's fault.

"You're bleeding," he finally says dumbly, if only because that was probably the only thing in this whole damn mess that he could actually deal with. "I'm going to get a towel and some bandages and clean this up, okay?"

Billy says nothing but curls up even tighter, his gaze drifting off as he shivers.

Michael swallows, stifling a curse. The Scot is showing no signs of moving - hell, he barely seems cognizant. Michael is going to have to haul him out of that shower and manhandle him into dry clothes at this rate.

But first things first.

Gingerly, he gets to his feet. The bathroom is a mess, but he finds a relatively clean pair of washcloths on the floor. Carefully, he kneels back down in front of Billy and begins drying off his arms. Billy doesn't resist as Michael takes his wrist, stretching out his arm and mopping up the oozing blood. He's relieved to see that the scrapes aren't deep - they should heal quickly, with no further problems.

But that's when Michael sees something else.

The marks are different from the rest, closer to the elbow. Michael wipes away the blood again, leaning closer to get a better look.

At first, he's not sure what they are. They're like punctures, small and round - but there are a whole series of them. Almost like...

Michael's stomach drops.

Track marks.

Michael doesn't want to believe it, but there's no denying what the marks are. And there's no denying the implications.

Traitors call out the speck in their brother's eye without removing the plank in their own. Mr. Everett has many planks, and he will find that others are not as forgiving of such things as we are.

The implications of Ortiz's words are suddenly painfully clear. Because Billy was undercover as a drug dealer. Drug dealers aren't junkies, but they are known to sample their product. It's all part of the business. Normal and expected.

And Michael had kept Billy with that cover for five months.

While they shipped cocaine.

Michael's stomach turns, and for a moment he wants to be sick. Billy's got track marks. Billy spent five months with drug dealers around cocaine. Billy's incoherent in a shower, trying to scratch his skin off.

He knows what this means. He knows and he doesn't want to admit it. Because Michael's planned for a lot of things, but he hasn't counted on detoxing Billy from a drug addiction among them.

Looking at the Scot, still curled up and wretched, it's pretty clear that's what he's going to have to do.

Then, Billy trembles, shuddering violently a few times as he whimpers and turns his head away, as if to block out some imagined horror. Numbly, Michael continues drying Billy's arms before finding the meager first aid kit from Billy's travel bag. He treats the wounds carefully, lathering them with out of date antibiotic ointment before wrapping them in gauze.

All while trying not to look at the weeping holes in the crook of Billy's elbow.

He grits his teeth together, treating the last of the wounds. "Why didn't you tell me about this?" he asks, his throat tight.

He doesn't actually expect Billy to answer, but the Scot moans, shifting beneath Michael touch. His head presses further to the side, almost as if he's trying to melt into the tile. "Thought...I could handle it...myself..."

The words are wheezing and desperate, a ghost of Billy's normally confident rhetoric.

Billy's face screws up, and he shudders again. "Wanted the mission to be perfect," he all but cries, fresh tears leaking from his closed eyes.

Perfect.

It had been perfect. Everything had gone just like planned, like clockwork. Everything had been enacted without a hitch.

Except for the operative who picked up a drug habit undercover. A drug habit Michael didn't see but should have warned against. A drug habit that probably saved the cover.

After all, Michael had sent Billy undercover as a drug dealer. And Billy had nailed the mannerisms and the lingo - and the extracurricular activities.

Perfectly.

As he finishes wrapping Billy's wounds, Michael has never hated the cruel irony of perfection more.

-o-

Michael says nothing as he finishes up, and by the time he helps Billy to his feet, the Scot seems to have come back to his senses. His eyes are open, if scared, and he allows Michael to help him out of the tub and move back into the main room.

With the mess, Michael's not sure what's clean and what's not, but at this point, he'll settle for something dry. Billy doesn't resist as Michael forcibly takes his soaked t-shirt off, snagging a towel to pat his torso dry. It's awkward as hell, and he can't help but notice that Billy's lost some weight. He's not emaciated or anything, but his ribs are more prominent than they should be, and Michael is more than somewhat eager to get a shirt back on the other man so neither of them have to see it.

He finds a new shirt on the floor, lifting it up over Billy's head before the Scot finagles his too-skinny arms into the holes. When Michael finds a new pair of boxers, Billy sheepishly takes them. "I can do this part, I reckon," he says, his head ducked, as if he's afraid to look Michael in the eye.

"You sure?" Michael asks, uncertain about letting Billy out of his sight.

Billy lifts his head, giving Michael a self-deprecating smile - at least, that's the intention. It almost looks garish on his face, a poor approximation of Billy's normal joking demeanor. "It's the bathroom, Michael," he says plainly.

That's not an overly compelling argument.

Billy looks down again, clearly embarrassed. "If I had any drugs, I would have taken them by now," he says almost feebly.

That's a much better argument, and Michael guiltily concedes the point. "Okay," he says. "I'll be right here."

Billy says nothing, turning and hobbling unsteadily back toward the bathroom. The door snicks shut, and Michael finds himself lingering closer, listening to the small sounds of movement as Billy presumably undresses his bottom half.

For the first time since Michael showed up in Billy's hotel room, he has the chance to think about what's happened. It's shocking on one level. But it also makes sense, like the last piece of the puzzle finally coming into place.

That's the crux of it, really. Michael should have seen this. As Billy's primary contact for five months, he should have seen this.

Because Billy's in detox. Hell, Billy's a drug addict.

It's harsh to think of it like that, but Michael can't wrap his mind around it any other way. There are plenty of logical reasons for why this happened, but none of it changed the consequences. Billy can't go back to the CIA hooked on cocaine. They'll take him off field duty in an instant. Billy knows that, which is why he's locked himself in his hotel room to ostensibly fend it off.

But it never should have gotten to this point. Michael's stomach twists, this time with a flair of anger. It was so stupid - Billy knew better. He's cavalier in a lot of things, and he's certainly not one to consider his body his temple, but Billy knows better. He may drink too much, and he certainly doesn't eat the most balanced diet, but he's never been so stupid as to turn to drugs.

Even on a mission, Billy could have found ways around it.

For a few months, maybe, anyway. Longer than that...

Michael closes his eyes. Longer than that and Billy would have no choice. No wonder Billy's entire disposition shifted. After a few months, he'd gotten himself addicted to cocaine. And Michael can't even be sure if Billy's desire to stay under was all noble anymore. Not necessarily that Billy wanted to stay in that kind of life, but he probably didn't want to face reality.

This reality.

Detoxing by himself in a lonely hotel room, suffering in silence to protect his career, his friendship - his dignity.

Suddenly, the door opens, and Michael steps back, looking expectant as Billy shuffles back out. The wet clothes are gone now, and he doesn't look up as he makes his way past Michael and sits gingerly on the bed.

Michael watches him, taking in the guarded mannerisms, the uncomfortably introverted behavior.

He sighs. "You want to tell me what happened?" he asks finally.

Billy swallows, glancing up only briefly before his gaze veers off again. He shrugs one shoulder.

"Billy," Michael says with as much patience as he can muster. "You're addicted, right?"

"I didn't take a shower with my clothes on just for the sheer fun of it," Billy admits dejectedly.

"Cocaine?"

Billy nods.

"Anything else?"

Billy's eyes dart up. "That's not enough?"

Michael works his jaw. "How long?"

Looking down again, Billy seems to slouch further. "Two months," he says. "I was able to avoid it for the first month and a half, and for a bit after I got by with only partial hits from time to time. But I was there so long...they were starting to notice." He looks up at Michael again, his eyes gleaming. "You have to believe me, Michael. I thought it'd just be once or twice and then I'd be out. But the mission didn't end, and they were starting to talk about it. I kept thinking it'd just be one more day, one more time - and I wouldn't get addicted. I promise-" His voices breaks, and he cuts off with a sob, looking back down again.

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?" Michael asks, trying to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"It wasn't part of the operational guidelines," Billy says. He shakes his head miserably. "It didn't change anything."

"Except it left you compromised," Michael snaps, more harshly than he intends. He holds back the urge to swear. "What if you overdosed? Huh? What if you took too much and died undercover? What would you have done then, huh? Where would our mission have been then?"

Billy looks up, eyes wide. "I was careful-"

Michael slams his hand against the wall. "Bullshit!" he exclaims, the anger peaking uncontrollably. "You're addicted to cocaine, Billy. There's nothing careful about it."

The look on Billy's face is nothing short of devastation. He looks like he's been kicked in the gut, and all the fight - whatever little he had - just leaves him.

Just that fast, Michael's anger dissipates. "Billy," he tries again, more gently this time. "You should have told me-"

Billy blinks rapidly, closing his mouth and looking away. "I did this on my own," he says, voice taut. "So I can fix it on my own."

"Billy-"

Billy shakes his eyes, and when he looks at Michael, his blue eyes are hard with pain. "I've made it this far on my own."

"Yeah, and look how good that's gone," Michael quips despite him.

Billy's face screws up with pain, but he blocks it quickly. "Just give me the week," he says. "One week, and I can kick this. I promise you, Michael. I will do this or-"

Michael snorts. "Or what? You'll die trying?"

Billy nods. "If I have to."

Michael rolls his eyes, running a hand through his hair. "And I'm just supposed to walk away?"

This time, Billy's eyes flash with resentment. "That is what you do, isn't it? Make the plans and leave someone else to do the dirty work?"

The jab is sharp, and Michael stiffens. "You know what, fine," he says. "You did do this to yourself, so don't come crying to me when you're crawling out of your skin."

"I haven't yet," Billy returns.

It's stupid. It's all so stupid, and Billy's being stupid, and Michael can't take the stupid anymore. In fact, he can't take anything at all.

"Fine," he says, moving decidedly for the door. Because he's had enough; he's done his part and he wants this to be over - one way or another.

He opens the door with such a flourish and closes it so soundly that he almost doesn't hear the muffled, strangled sob from inside the room.

Almost.

Almost.

Michael only makes it halfway down the hall before he just stops. He slumps against the wall, sinking down and burying his head in his knees, wondering how the hell perfect became a nightmare so quickly.

-o-

Michael's not sure how long he stands there, because suddenly time doesn't really mean anything at all. Five months, five minutes - it's all too long, and Michael doesn't want to walk away any more than he wants to go back.

He just doesn't want it to be like this. It can't be like this. They've never screwed it up this bad, except when Carson got blown to hell in North Africa. Michael doesn't let stuff like this happen. After Carson, Michael had promised himself he'd be in control of everything, that nothing bad would happen to his team.

But now Billy's a cocaine addict.

Michael has to tell himself that again and again, just to make himself believe it. It doesn't seem possible. It doesn't seem real. It doesn't even make sense. Billy's not that stupid. He can't really be that stupid.

But what was he supposed to do? Five months undercover, what was Billy supposed to do? It wasn't a purely recreational choice. It was part of the character. Billy might have fudged it for a few weeks or a month or two, but five months? Someone would have needed to see him take a hit or everything would have fallen apart.

And Billy doesn't let things fall apart. That's why he's the guy for those kind of missions - because he keeps a cover and he keeps it so completely that there's never any room for doubt.

It's not Billy who was stupid. It was Michael.

No matter what Billy says, this is Michael's doing. No matter who slid the needle into Billy's arm, this is Michael's fault.

This is Michael's mission, and he has to see it through.

He lifts his head and looks back down the hall.

Even to the bitter end.

-o-

This time, Michael knocks once before simply letting himself in. He hears the toilet flush, and inches forward, finding the bathroom door partially ajar. He hesitates, in case Billy needs some privacy, but Billy is half curled on the floor, draped across the open toilet lid.

Michael doesn't say anything for a long moment, and Billy moans. "I told you to leave," he says, the words heavy and miserable.

Sighing, Michael shrugs. "Fortunately you're not the one in charge."

This time, Billy lifts his head enough to look up at Michael. His face is pale and sallow, dark circles more prominent under his eyes and the dark stubble stark on his face. He looks terrible, exhausted and broken. Almost defeated. "This isn't your fight, Michael," he says. "I don't want you-"

He breaks off, convulsing. It starts as a choke and then he shudders, heaving over the toilet again. It takes all of Michael's willpower not to walk away again as the stench of vomit fills the air. Billy pauses, but the vomiting starts again until Billy is left breathless and heaving over the toilet, entirely spent.

It'd be easy to leave him there.

Michael doesn't do easy. He does what needs to be done.

With resolve, he steps forward, gently pulling on Billy's arm. The Scot looks up in surprise, eyes wet. "Come on," Michael says. "We've got a long go ahead of us, and you need to rest someplace other than the floor."

Billy's forehead screws up, and he shakes his head. "I can't let you see me like this," he says. "Please."

Michael shakes his head. "I sent you undercover," he says. "I'm getting you back out - all the way out."

"Michael-" Billy says, almost pleading as his voice breaks.

Michael doesn't waver, though. Instead he looks Billy straight in the eyes. "You did what you had to do undercover," he says. "Now I'm going to do what I need to do - no matter what you think about it."

Billy still looks embarrassed, but it's a fight he can't win, and Billy hardly has the strength to fight him. This time, when Michael lifts him up, Billy obeys. His footing is unstable, but Michael balances him until they're both steady, and then they walk back toward the bedroom.

It takes work to get Billy settled back on the bed, but the Scot seems to melt into the pillows. He breathes deeply, eyes already drifting closed. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I never meant - I never wanted-"

Michael sighs and settles back into the chair. "Me neither, buddy," he says. "But we'll get through it, okay? Together."

Billy just closes his eyes and goes to sleep.

-o-

After the initial shock, Michael decides to approach the issue of Billy's cocaine addiction like everything else in his life. Simple and methodical. While Billy is sleeping, he excuses himself to go get his laptop, and he powers up and settles in.

Billy is still dozing when Michael steps outside, making a few fleeting phone calls to the local authorities and the Agency, covering his bases. He responds to a string of text messages from Rick, who seems quite anxious to come visit Billy for himself.

That's an interesting proposition, and in some ways, Michael considers it. Rick would want to know - in many ways, Rick might be better equipped for the patience and sympathy Michael is pretty sure this process is going to require. But calling Martinez over wouldn't be for Billy; it'd be for Michael. Billy's gone to great lengths to hide this thing, and Michael won't soon forget the frantic mess he'd found on the shower floor a few hours ago. Billy can hardly look him in the eye as it is, there's no reason to subject him to Martinez's pity, no matter how well intentioned it is.

And bringing in Casey would be even worse. Michael's not entirely sure how Malick would respond, but there's a good possibility that it wouldn't be good. Casey doesn't cope well with weakness, and there's no question, Billy's pretty weak right now. Michael doesn't want to take the chance of Casey thinking less of Billy. That kind of break of trust between Casey and Billy might never be repaired.

No, this is Michael's job. This is Michael's burden. This is his mission, and he will do it - alone.

At least, as long as he can.

When he settles back into the room, Billy's still sound asleep, mouth open as he's curled up on his side. Although Michael has some work he could do, he finds himself bringing up a secure browser and looking up the symptoms of cocaine withdrawal.

It's not pretty. Chills and nausea; aches and paranoia. Withdrawal is cruel and indiscriminate. It doesn't care about good intentions or missions gone wrong. It's about a chemical dependency that completely alters the way the body responds to the world around it. When the body is deprived of that chemical, it nearly turns on itself to get what it wants.

The literature is pretty clear that there's no way Billy could do this alone - not without locking himself in and tying himself down, and even then, he'd probably end up too incoherent to keep himself fed and watered. In fact, as Michael reads several accounts, he's beginning to wonder if Billy's going to need further medical intervention in order to make it through.

Michael's never been a fan of getting outside help, but he's done it when necessary. He'd do it this time, too.

Except the second a doctor sees Billy, Michael can't keep this a secret any longer. Billy's addiction will become part of the mission. It will be documented and considered. Billy would most likely be stripped of his field status.

Michael won't let Billy die for this, but he won't risk Billy's career unless he has to.

Chewing his lip, he looks at Billy, who snuffles in his sleep and flops over onto his back before lapsing back into stillness. Besides, it may not get that bad. Withdrawal varies from person to person, and it depends on the extent of the addiction. Billy's only been on drugs for a few months, and even with that, he trusts Billy enough to know that he wouldn't have pushed it at the start. Even when the addiction took over, Billy would have fought it.

So maybe it's not that bad. Maybe they'll get lucky. Maybe they'll spend a few days locked in a hotel room and come out no worse for wear on the other side.

Maybe.

Michael looks back at his computer screen, looking at the percentages of people who relapse, the ones who never kick the habit. The ones who are destroyed by the drug, who never come back.

He closes the laptop.

That's not Billy.

Michael won't let that be Billy.

-o-

The hours pass, and Michael has a plan. He makes a run to the vending machines and buys as much water and snacks as he can afford. The selection isn't great, but the pretzels and granola bars are better than nothing. He opens up the room service menu and marks a few items for future reference. There's a good chance Billy won't be hungry for much, but one of Michael's primary concerns will be to keep him hydrated and fed.

He also takes time to clean up a bit. It's impossible to tell what's actually clean and what's not, but he mops up the water in the bathroom and hangs the towels to dry. He folds Billy's clothes and puts them into the drawers nearly, leaving the suitcase available for the dirty items as Billy goes through them over the next couple of days.

Then, he takes the time to reassemble the coffee maker and is pleased to find at least one cup that hasn't been crushed beyond recognition. He primly makes the second bed and rearranges the furniture to promote movement in the room. He picks up any trash and puts it neatly in the bins and then takes the time to make sure that the "no service" sign is on the door.

He stands back, looking over the room. The clutter is picked up and his selection of food has been neatly organized on the dresser. He's contemplating ordering up more towels, when Billy stirs on the bed.

There's no way in which this isn't awkward, so Michael doesn't try to busy himself. Instead, he watches, giving Billy a tepid grin as the Scot rolls over and finally looks at Michael.

Billy swallows, his brow creasing. It's clear from his face that he half-hoped Michael wouldn't be here. "Usually when I wake up with someone uninvited in my bedroom, they are a bit more attractive," he quips.

The quip is so unexpected that Michael's laugh is almost choked off. He recovers quickly, letting the tension drain out of his shoulders as he smirks. "You should be flattered," he says. "I could do much better."

Billy hums a little as he works to prop himself up in bed. "In my present state, I would have to agree."

Michael sobers a little. "How are you feeling?"

Billy sighs. "Right now, more humiliated than actually awful," he says. "Though I have this nagging hunger…"

"I bought some snacks," Michael says, nodding toward the dresser.

Billy glances that direction, looking meek. "Ah," he says. "Not sure that's the hunger I was talking about."

"I know," Michael replies hastily. "But we've got a long road ahead of us, so you need to keep up your strength."

Billy makes a face. "Honestly, I'm not sure my stomach is up for it."

Michael scoffs, walking over and picking up a bag of chips and snagging a bottle of water. "Your stomach isn't too trustworthy right now," he says. "In fact, nothing your body tells you is very trustworthy right now."

He says it lightly, but Billy's gaze diverts.

"Hey," Michael says. "It's your body I'm talking about, not you. This is a physical dependency. That's all. We just have to keep you functioning enough to fight it off. You're stronger than it."

Billy smiles miserably. "Normally, I'd be all for the positive energy," he says. "But this time..."

Michael sighs. "That's why you're not doing this alone," he says. "I'm still your point man, okay? I know what I'm doing."

Billy eyes him, almost daring to be hopeful. "Why are you doing this?"

Michael wrinkled his brow. "Why wouldn't I do this?"

"Michael," Billy says. "I screwed up. I know that. I don't expect you - I mean, you don't-" He breaks off, clearly at a loss for words.

Rolling his eyes, Michael drops the food and water in Billy's lap. "Yeah," he says. "I do. Because you know what? I screwed up, too. But that's what we're going to make right, okay?"

He says it like he believes it - and he realizes now, he does believe it. Sure, drug addiction is a new one for him, but it's not like Michael hasn't faced unexpected trials in the field. It's not even like he hasn't faced potentially life threatening decisions for his teammates. This is what Michael does. This is why he's the best at what he does.

He can do this. Drug addiction is chemical dependency. No matter what the body throws at that loss, it will filter out and Billy will be fine on the other side.

They'll be fine.

"Now," Michael says, moving purposefully back to his chair. "Open your chips and drink your water. We're going to be here for a while."

Billy hesitates a moment more, eyeing the food on his lap with general disinterest. But finally, he lifts the bag, pulling it open and taking out a chip. He sighs, then takes a nimble bite before forcing a smile at Michael.

"See," Michael says. "That's not so bad."

Billy almost looks like he believes him.

-o-

The rest of the day is actually pretty uneventful. They talk for awhile while Michael goes over some paperwork, and Billy actually has some pretty good insights to share about the mission. It's clear that Billy went well beyond mission parameter when he fully immersed himself into his cover, which has yielded unprecedented intelligence gains. Billy knows more about the suspects and their personal history than Michael could have imagined.

Of course, he also picked up a drug habit, so Michael's reluctant to call it a total win.

Even so, things seem to be going okay. Billy's clearly shaky, but he hasn't had a lapse in coherency since Michael showed up. He doesn't eat much, but he sips his water frequently under Michael's watchful eye. He still looks pretty bad, but when he smiles and tells stories, Michael thinks this might not be so bad after all.

After the paperwork, Billy looks edgy, so Michael dims the lights and says he'll be out in the hall. Billy nods and swallows, trying to offer a smile to Michael as he exits the room.

In the hall, Michael stays close and makes another set of calls. To Langley, to the local authorities - and then more texts from Rick. He's about to assure Rick for the fifteenth time that everything is fine when the kid finally calls him.

"Hey," Rick says, stopping awkwardly. "Um."

"What, Martinez?" Michael asks in exasperation.

"You answered really quick again," Rick says.

Michael turns his eyes to the ceiling and shakes his head. Rick's turned out to be a decent spy, but sometimes the kid makes him wonder how. "You act like that's still a surprise."

"Well, it's sort of creepy-"

"Martinez-"

"Right," Rick says. "I was just wondering-"

"No, I don't think you should bother Billy," Michael cuts him off.

Rick sounds absolutely crestfallen. "He still isn't answering his phone, and it's going straight to voicemail."

That's only because Michael got tired of hearing it ring after the first two hours. "I told you, Billy's sick," he says.

"Which is why I think he shouldn't be alone."

Damn the kid and his noble intentions.

Michael sighs. "I'm in the same hotel if he needs something," he says. "Billy's a grown man; he can handle this."

Saying it almost hurts, because Michael knows it's not actually true this time. Billy can't handle this alone, which is all the more reason to keep Rick and Casey away.

"But I'm actually pretty good at the nursemaid thing," Rick offers. "I don't mind."

Of course he doesn't.

Michael runs a hand through his hair. He can't blame the kid - this is why the ODS is so special; this is why they can complete cases when no one else can. Not their skill or experience, but because they care about each other. Their greatest asset.

Michael's risked that too much already in this mission.

"There are some things a man has to do alone," he says finally. "Just give Billy the week."

Rick sighs. "If he needs something-"

"You will be the first person I call," Michael promises, hoping that it doesn't come to that.

When Rick hangs up, Michael looks back at Billy's door. If Billy can't get through this, it's not just Billy's life and career that's at stake. It's all of them. Because if their special bond is their greatest asset, it's also their greatest weakness. If they lost Billy - if any of them were taken out of play - Michael doesn't know how they'd make it.

He's resolved never to find out.

-o-

Back inside, he's pleased to find Billy's sleeping again. He doesn't want to make a point of watching the other man - this entire situation is awkward enough as it is. Instead, he pulls out the latest bestseller he picked up last week and opens up to the page he left off on.

Before he starts, though, his gaze does linger, if only for a moment. It's a funny thing, having Billy back. He'd been looking forward to it in his own way, and now here they were.

Things rarely work out the way Michael thinks they will. They don't even work out the way he intends them to. That's cost him a lot over the years - Carson's captivity, his marriage and more - but he has to think it won't cost him Billy.

It can't. Billy's right here. It's going to be okay.

Sighing, Michael looks back at the page and starts to read.

-o-

By the time Billy wakes up, Michael is almost done with his book. He's reaching the climax, where the brilliant spy hero has wooed the girl and is stopping general mayhem by besting all the bad guys, when he notices that Billy is looking at him.

"Hey," he says, grinning a little. "How long have you been up?"

"Long enough to see that you're just getting to the good stuff," he says. "Sex or explosions?"

Michael makes a face, closing his book with a shrug. "A little of both," he admits. "But I'm more intrigued by the complete lack of tactical insight displayed by the hero. He's a terrible spy."

Billy chuckles, sitting himself up and leaning against the headboard. "Normally I might join your critique, but I can't imagine I have much of a leg to stand on right now."

Michael scoffs, putting the book down. "If you ever do something stupid enough to immortalize you in a best seller, then we'll really have a problem."

Billy lifts his eyebrows. "So this snafu?"

"Would make for a pretty crappy bestseller," Michael says.

Laughing again, Billy's face brightens. "Aye, no arguments on that one," he says. "I usually like to wax poetic about missions - you know, find the inalienable silver lining, but this is one that I think I'd rather just forget."

"And we will," Michael says. "Which brings us to the next point."

"Curling up in a ball and dying?" Billy asks.

"Close," Michael says. "Dinner."

Billy looks positively disappointed.

"You are going to eat," Michael insists. "Doesn't have to be much, but you're going to need your strength."

"Really, that's the opposite of curling up in a ball and dying," Billy says, sulking.

"That's the point," Michael tells him wryly.

Billy sighs. "Fine," he agrees, shoulders slouching as he crosses his arms over his chest. "But only if you're buying."

"Better still," Michael says, reaching for the phone. "We'll charge the Agency."

A smile lights on Billy's face again. "Ah, yes," he says. "The only bastards stingier than you."

"I knew there had to be some redeeming quality to them," Michael jokes.

"Then you may as well order something good for yourself," Billy says. "No sense in letting the opportunity go totally to waste."

-o-

Michael orders a simple dinner, but it still proves to be too much for Billy. Still, the Scot sits up and he eats. Even more so, Billy's awake and alert. He's laughing and joking. Sure, there are moments when Billy shudders, and Michael can't help but notice the other man's grimaces, no matter how much he tries to hide them. But he holds his dinner down, and Michael counts it all as a win.

As the night wears on, they turn on the TV and watch a few boring procedurals. It's almost 11 when Billy's starting to drift off again, and Michael stops his commentary on the idiocy of cops on TV and lets the TV provide a gentle background as Billy falls asleep again.

After that, Michael makes a few last calls and is sure to text Rick that all is well. He finishes off a snack, drinks a little water and then gets ready for bed himself. It's been a long day; tomorrow will probably be another long day, but they can do this. It's just another variable; just another wrench in the works. Michael can handle this. He will.

No matter what tomorrow brings.

-o-

Michael doesn't realize how tired he is until he wakes up with his phone vibrating. He groans, squinting as he opens his eyes and flops over, groping for the phone on the bedside table. He's groggy, which is unusual, and he feels strangely out of place. His fingers work on autopilot, and he's reading a text from Martinez before he remembers.

He's in Billy's room.

Billy's addicted to cocaine.

And Rick asks, "Have u seen Billy?"

Michael sighs, rolling on his back again, letting the phone fall on the bed next to him. Martinez needs more babysitting than Billy does on this mission, and Billy's-

Michael glances to the side. Billy is still asleep, curled up on his side, facing away from Michael. In the sunlight streaming through the curtains, it is easy to see the rapid rise and fall of Billy's breathing.

Then Michael looks at the clock, and his eyes widen. It's after 9.

Michael never sleeps until 9. And Billy...

Hell, Billy's been asleep for almost 10 hours. Sleepiness is part of withdrawal, and actually, if Billy's going to be symptomatic, sleep is probably one of the better ways to go about it.

Still, it's a little surprising.

And the fact that he slept this long means he's more stressed out than he thought. Fully awake, Michael picks up his phone again and shoots off a text to Rick. He sends one to Casey too, just for good measure. The other man isn't texting obsessively, but he'll still be concerned in his own way. Even if that means hooking up with multiple attractive partners - possibly at the same time.

They all handle this stuff their own way. Casey uses his body; he acts. Rick uses his emotions; he worries. Michael uses his head; he plans.

Michael plans.

When he's done with the obligatory texts - and answering three more from Rick - Michael sets about his morning routine as best he can. He showers and gets dressed, ordering a bit of room service afterward. When it arrives, it's pushing 10:30, but Billy shows no signs of waking. Michael is inclined to let the other man sleep, but he also knows how little Billy ate and drank yesterday. He's going to need to stay hydrated.

A little reluctant, he goes over to Billy. "Hey," he says, not too loud but definitely above a whisper. "Rise and shine, sleepyhead."

It's a stupid thing to say, and Michael feels stupid saying it. He has virtually no experience with children, and Billy is not a child. He's a grown man in withdrawal, but sleepyhead is the only thing Michael can force out of his mouth.

He's not sure if he's relieved or worried when it doesn't elicit a response.

He reaches down, hesitating slightly before touching Billy's shoulder. "Billy."

He expects the other man to jolt - skittish behavior is pretty symptomatic of withdrawal - but Billy doesn't even twitch.

Frowning, Michael squeezes the shoulder slightly. "Billy," he tries again.

This time, Billy's face scrunches and he moans a little, curling in tighter on himself.

"Billy," Michael says again, feeling a little frustrated now as he shakes again. "Time to wake up."

Billy mumbles something this time, scowling like a sleepy toddler as he visibly tries to shrink away.

Michael sighs. "Come on, Collins," he snaps. "Up and at 'em."

With this, Billy's eyes open and he looks confused for a moment before he turns his head and looks up. He recognizes Michael - and promptly lays his head back down.

"That's not up and at 'em," Michael points out.

Billy purposefully closes his eyes. "So?"

"So," Michael says, trying to keep his exasperation in check. "It's pushing 11. You haven't eaten in 12 hours."

Billy refuses to open his eyes again. "Still not seeing your point."

"My point," Michael says, flinging the covers back against Billy's will. "Is that you need to eat. You need to shower. You need to drink."

Billy makes a yelp of protest, flopping on his back to fix Michael with a glare. "I don't need to do bloody anything," he snarls.

Michael is almost taken aback. He presses his lips together. "Yes, you do," he says flatly, reminding himself that hostility and irritability were to be expected. "I'm not going to let you die. Not on my watch."

Billy snorts vindictively. "No, but you'll let me become a cocaine addict," he says. "Good job on that."

It's a bit like being suckerpunched - it hurts like hell and Michael didn't see it coming. He grits his teeth. "A problem I am going to remedy."

Billy huffs, flopping back on his side. "I don't know why you even care."

"Because," Michael says, going over and flinging open the curtain. Billy winces, but Michael pulls his pillows out and picks up the room service tray and lays it heavily next to Billy. "I'm your friend. And I know you'll thank me for this someday."

Billy props himself up on his elbows, looking at Michael with malice now. "Thank you?" Billy asks. "For, what, leaving me to rot with a drug cartel? Or torturing me in the aftermath?"

Michael's chest is tight. "The latter," he says sharply. "Though I will remind you that this doesn't even come close to torture. Trust me, I'd know."

"Oh, and I'm supposed to feel sorry for you now?" Billy asks.

"No," Michael says. "You're supposed to sit up and eat before I show you what types of torture I really know."

Billy looks pissed off - for a second, Michael thinks the other man might refuse him or worse - but Michael is unyielding, and he just hopes Billy can't hear his pounding heart. Because Michael's not sure if he's bluffing. He's not sure of anything except the pressing need to help Billy.

Even when Billy doesn't want to help himself this morning.

That's how this works; that's why Michael had to stay. This is what he has to do.

Even if he has no idea what he's doing.

Finally, Billy pushes himself up, leaning back against the headboard sullenly. He glances at the toast and water. "No coffee?"

"We're going stimulant-free," Michael says.

"Whatever," he mutters, reaching over and taking the toast. "Can't expect you to take pity on me, I guess."

Michael doesn't reply - he doesn't even know how to reply - but sits back and starts in on his own breakfast, watching Billy cautiously.

This could still be worse, he knows.

He's just beginning to worry he may find out.

-o-

The day doesn't get much better. Billy is unsociable while eating, and even though he takes bites to spite Michael, he still peters out after the first piece of toast. He drinks half his water and Michael has to threaten him to take a shower. When the Scot gets out, Michael hopes the other man might be refreshed, but the opposite is true.

If anything, being more awake has made Billy even more of a pain, and he all but growls at Michael as he settles back down on the bed. Michael tries to start up a conversation, but all attempts are greeted with frustration and anger until Michael's feeling angry and frustrated himself.

Still, Michael persists. He tries to turn on the TV but Billy complains about every channel. When Michael offers to play cards, Billy says there's no point. "I'm already down on my luck, so you want to kick me while I'm down?"

Michael says nothing, but it's getting harder. It's getting very hard, and when Michael asks to check the wounds on Billy's arms, the Scot almost screams at him. "Just bugger off!" he exclaims. "I'm a bloody grown man, not some invalid! And I'm certainly not your pet project. Not now."

This time, MIchael can't help himself. "You're a grown man addicted to cocaine," he snaps. "I didn't put the damn needle in your arm, but I'm sure as hell not going to let you start it up again. So shut up and hold your arms out so I can keep you from making this any worse."

Billy's eyes burn brightly, and for a second, Michael thinks he's going to lash out - fight back. Michael is bracing for a blow, when Billy's face crumbles.

His entire body sags, and he looks down, the fight draining from his body. His defiance is gone, and left in its wake is the sad, empty shell of a man Michael once knew.

"Billy," he says, sighing. "I-"

"You're right," Billy says, still not looking up. He turns his arms out, leaving them limp in front of him. "Do what you need to do."

Michael's mouth is open, but no words come out. What can he say? What can he do?

Finally, he just gives up and undoes the gauze. Billy doesn't make a move, and Michael doesn't bother trying to start up conversation again. He's pleased to see that everything is healing with no sign of infection. The worst of the scratches have started to scab, and the injection wounds are already starting to fade.

There's no need to wrap them again, but Michael still does it - as much for himself as Billy.

"You know," Michael says when he's done. "I could pull up youtube - and you could show me some of that annoying bagpipe music you keep trying to make me listen to."

Billy shrugs one shoulder.

"Come on," Michael cajoles. "What about one of those silly viral videos? You've always got fifty at the office you want me to watch."

Billy doesn't even bother to shrug this time. Instead, he lays down, facing away from Michael. "Reckon I'll just sleep," he murmurs.

Sleep is not a bad plan, but Michael doesn't fail to notice how Billy doesn't close his eyes. He chews his lip for a moment. "You want the light off?" he asks.

"Whatever you want," Billy says, and his voice is flat.

Michael sighs, his own chest tight. "Billy..."

He wants to say something. He wants to make it better.

But there's nothing to say. And there's nothing he can do to make it better.

Except wait it out.

Sighing again, Michael settles back. "Okay," he says finally, watching as Billy stares at the wall. "If you need anything, I'll be right here."

-o-

Michael makes that promise, and he doesn't deter from it. The hours are long and tedious, but Michael stays the course.

On the bed, Billy sleeps some, but not as much as the day before. It's hard to tell sometimes, and when Michael glances at the other man, his eyes seem to be open and closed intermittently, with no clear pattern emerging. It's a little bothersome, but Michael doesn't say anything. This is hard enough on both of them as it is.

When it's time to eat, Billy obeys wordlessly, taking small bites until Michael takes pity on him and offers to throw the rest away. He goes to the bathroom when prompted, but when Michael asks a question that requires a response, the best Billy manages is a shrug or a tilt of the head.

Other than that, Billy just stares. He stares at the ceiling; he stares at the wall. It's almost eerie - Billy's total stillness - unlike anything Michael has seen from the Scotsman. He's seen Billy when he's too drunk to stand up straight; he's been with Billy when he's only semiconscious from an injury. He's dealt with Billy on morphine, suffering from sleep deprivation and several times when he was delirious with a fever.

He's endured years of the Scot's overzealous bad poetry; he's suffered through the man's purposefully off key singing to modern groups Michael can't even stand in the car. He's seen Billy take on a cover, charm women (and a few men), and finish a mission with a flourish.

He's seen Billy when he's irritable and worried. He's been with Billy when his blood sugar is too low and he starts getting nonsensical.

After Carson vanished in North Africa, he even saw Billy lose it completely, saw him crying and hysterical, a quivering mess in Michael's arms until the grief turned to numbness and they all walked away.

But he's never seen Billy like this.

Listless. Depressed. Not even a shadow of himself. It's as if the drugs leaving his system are taking the best parts of Billy with it, leaving an empty, vacant wreck in their devastating wake.

Still, it could be worse, Michael reminds himself. This is expected. This is part of what happens. This will pass and Billy will be okay. The scars on his arms will heal, and the small needle tracks will look like faded bug bites. They'll go back to Langley; they'll carpool to work and laugh and joke about the mission from hell.

They'll be okay.

Yet the hours drag on.

-o-

That night, when Michael is changing the bandages, Billy sighs. Michael glances at him, but doesn't say anything while he slathers on more antiseptic and fiddles with fresh bandages.

"I liked it, you know," Billy says after a moment.

Michael is surprised to hear him speak.

Billy's not looking at him. His eyes are trained on the needle marks. "God help me, I loved it," he says. "By the end, there was nothing I wanted more, no part of my job that I looked forward to more. I kept my cover and I did all the work I was supposed to do, but all I wanted - all I could think about - was the next hit."

Michael swallows and diverts his eyes.

Billy gives a short, bitter laugh. "I told myself it was for the greater good, but that was a lie," he says. "By the end, I took the drugs on my own. I pilfered samples; I took out loans from my cut of the profits to buy more."

Michael's heart clenches, and he feels sick.

"I was nothing more than a junkie," he says. "Those bastards had me right where they wanted me. They could have asked me for anything, and I would have done it without question."

"It was part of your cover," Michael says. "You kept it together for the mission. You did your part perfectly."

Billy stiffens. "You don't know that," he says, the words heavy and laden with grief. "Do you know what I did when you gave me the signal that it was coming to an end? I made sure to take one last hit. While you were gearing up for a tactical maneuver, I was getting high alone in my room."

It's a hard admission, and there's a hint of malice in Billy's voice that is hard to separate from the total self-loathing. In reality, the revelations are appalling. The idea of it...is difficult to stomach.

But Michael reminds himself that this is the drug, not Billy. He reminds himself that there is only so much self control one person can have, and after several months of recreational use, Billy didn't have a chance.

Michael finishes the bandages and drops his hands. He takes a breath, and looks at Billy.

This time, the Scotsman is looking at him. His bloodshot eyes are wide and intense. He's baiting Michael; he's inviting condemnation and rejection. Because that's what Billy thinks he deserves.

If it were anyone else, Michael might be inclined to grant it.

But this is Billy.

Addicted and twisted, but still Billy.

"Some things are collateral damage," Michael say evenly. "This is no different."

"This isn't someone getting caught in the crossfire," Billy says. "This isn't a bust gone wrong. This isn't an asset turning on us. This is me, making a choice. This is me, becoming the very thing we try to stop." His voice wavers precariously, and he bites back what seems to be a sob. "You should have arrested me with the lot of them. Thrown me into a prison and never looked back for me."

Guilt tears through Michael and his jaw twitches and his face hardens. "No," he says sharply. "If you were nothing more than an addict, you wouldn't have locked yourself into your room to get clean."

Billy's eyes burn with tears. "I just couldn't face you," he says. "Michael-"

Michael shakes his head. He's heard enough. He can't do this. He won't. "You did what you had to do undercover," he says. "Now that you're out, we'll do what we need to do to make you better."

"What if it doesn't work?" Billy asks. "I'll always be an addict-"

"So we won't send you undercover with another cartel, okay?" Michael snaps. "And I'll keep driving you to work and calling you on weekends, and you won't touch the stuff again, okay? I promise, Billy. We're going to be okay."

The intensity of his own words surprise him, and Billy's countenance wavers. With a shaky breath, the Scotsman avoids tears, but his gaze drops down as he nods. "Okay."

"Okay," Michael says, putting the first aid kit away definitely. There's an awkward silence. Michael nods again. "Okay. Now. What do you say to dinner?"

Billy doesn't look at him.

"Okay," Michael says. "Dinner it is."

-o-

The rest of the night is quieter than the day. Billy sits up, mostly because Michael hasn't given him permission to lay down. Michael turns on the TV in the evening and puts on a mindless comedy he doesn't know the name of, letting the canned laugh track fill the room.

If Billy watches, he doesn't laugh, and Michael fields a few texts until the uncomfortable silence is just too much. He makes a show of getting ready for bed, choosing not to comment on Billy's complete lack of interest in making his own preparation. Instead, when Michael is in his sleep clothes and has the sheets of his bed pulled down, Billy has already laid down, curled up and facing the wall.

Hesitating, Michael wants to say something. He wants to offer some reassurance, some break in the tension.

But what? There's nothing to say - at least, nothing that rings with any truth.

Sighing, he turns off the light and settles down, trying to calm his working brain. Several moments pass - maybe minutes - and Michael feels himself starting to get sleepy when Billy's voice breaks the stillness.

"You don't have to do this," he says.

Michael doesn't know what to say.

"I know you blame yourself," Billy continues in the blackness. "But I did this. You've done more than anyone would expect. I wouldn't blame you for walking out. No one would."

It's possible that Billy's right about that. Michael blames himself, but Billy's the one who put the needle in his arm - again and again and again. Michael's done Billy a world of favors just by not reporting him straight out.

But Michael knows what happened the last time he wasn't here. He knows what happened when Billy was alone for five months undercover.

He's still struggling to believe that that first mistake was excusable. Walking away on Billy now - wouldn't even be close.

"I'm staying, Billy," he says. "Until the end."

To this, Billy makes no further reply. The silence extends and deepens until sleep finally comes.

-o-

Michael is still asleep when he hears a sound. He startles, coming to full alertness, reaching for the gun he has tucked under his pillow. He's on his feet, gun up and ready, when he hears the sound again. It's muffled but not far, something guttural and-

Retching.

The sound is grating, and Michael winces both in disgust and sympathy. Because the smell of vomit is suddenly easy to detect, and the drawn out sound of human pain is almost more than he wants to hear.

As bad as it is for him, though, he knows it's worse for Billy. The retching doesn't stop, and Michael can hear Billy straining, taking a gasping breath before it starts up again.

After several long moments, the sounds fade until all that's left is Billy's labored, wet breaths.

Awkwardly, Michael puts his gun away, walking carefully toward the bathroom. The door is ajar, the light spilling out into the rest of the room. Michael waits a moment longer before knocking. "Billy?"

There's no response.

"Billy, I'm coming in," Michael says, slowly pushing the door open.

He's not sure what he's expecting to see - he knows Billy is sick, after all - but somehow the image is still hard to take. Billy is almost limp against the toilet, his arms splayed across the lid and his head resting heavily there. He's slumped a bit, legs curled uncomfortably in front of him across the off-white tile. His hair is soaked with sweat, and he's clearly shaking, fine tremors wracking his too-thin frame. He doesn't even try to look up as Michael stands there.

It's surreal. It strikes Michael, like a punch in the gut, that Michael has come across scenes like this before. In his time, he's seen the worst in humanity. He's paid off junkies for information and he's pulled assets up off the bathroom floor to keep them in the game. He's always done so with detachment and vague disappointment, because he's always been better than that.

But this is Billy.

Pathetic and broken, this is Billy. Just like the victims he tries to save; just like the junkies he turns for their valuable lifeline to drug dealers.

Suddenly, Michael's the one who's nauseous. He wants to leave, wants to walk out and not come back. This isn't how it's supposed to be. This isn'tright.

But this is how it is.

It takes all of Michael's self control to bend down and take Billy by the arm. The Scot is pliant, and when Michael drags him to his feet, his shaky legs support him even as Michael laces an arm under Billy's shoulders. Deftly, he flushes the toilet and walks Billy back into the room.

The Scot staggers alongside him, his head bowed. At the bed, Michael lowers him down and Billy lies listlessly on his side. Even in the dim rays of the morning sun, Michael can see that his face is ashen and his eyes are wet with tears.

Uncertain, Michael loiters. Part of him wants to offer comfort, but he's not sure what comfort to offer that won't seem condescending and overwrought. He hesitates long enough, and Billy's eyes close, leaving Michael alone with the lingering questions and ever-pressing doubts.

-o-

Michael doesn't go back to sleep, and he steps out to make a few calls before showering and getting dressed for the day. When he comes out, hair still damp, he finds Billy curled up even tighter on the bed. His eyes are open and his face is taut, as if in pain.

"Billy?" he asks, crossing the room in two steps flat. He goes to his knees next to the bed. "Billy?"

Billy hardly looks at him, his eyes clouded and his teeth chattering. He moans a little, a soft, inarticulate noise that is more an expression of misery than actual communication.

"Hey," Michael says, softer now as he reaches a tentative hand to Billy's brow. It's still soaked with sweat and one touch confirms why. Billy's burning up, and Michael realizes that with the intensity, Billy is probably not entirely lucid.

Michael falters. He's good under pressure, but for all that he touts his time in pre-med, he knows very little about playing doctor. In fact, he's not even a very good nursemaid.

The truth is, he's beyond his pay grade and he's less and less sure this is even the right course of action. Withdrawal isn't just uncomfortable or difficult; it can have profound impacts on the body. If not handled correctly, it can cause injury.

In short, Billy could die.

And Michael's not even sure whose reputation he's trying to protect - his or Billy's.

The self-doubt is gripping, but Michael is entirely self aware and in full possession of his faculties. A fever and chills are not uncommon or even severe withdrawal symptoms. As long as the fever doesn't get too high and Michael can keep Billy hydrated, this is an acceptable turn of events.

Billy's the one who wanted to do this alone. He tried to keep Michael at bay.

It's not time to get help. With any luck, it never will be.

Michael tries not to think about how bad their luck has been so far.

-o-

There's no reason to waste time on idle fears, though. Not when there are things to do. Michael's not great with sitting and waiting, but he's pretty damn good when there are tasks to be done, no matter how menial they may seem.

Michael makes a quick run to his room and raids his own first aid kit, which is better stocked than Billy's. He stops off at the vending machine to buy some crackers and water for something resembling breakfast, and then gets back to Billy's side.

The Scot hasn't stirred, and he only moans faintly when Michael presses the thermometer into Billy's ear. After a moment, it beeps, and Michael reads the screen. 102.9 - that's a bit high but certainly nothing life threatening. They can cope with 102.9.

Cope being an active verb. Michael isn't about to give Billy Tylenol while he's in detox - at least not without extensive research on the subject - but he knows there are other options to try to control the fever. He starts by sorting through the towels, and makes a mental note to call down for fresh ones to be delivered later today.

Still, he finds a few washcloths that are used but not dirty and he runs tepid water over one, ringing it out before going back to Billy's side.

On the bed, Billy hasn't moved, and he whimpers faintly when Michael carefully arranges the washcloth.

When that's done, he checks their supplies and rearranges what they have on stock. He sorts the gauze and the antiseptic, and makes a call to request several items from the front desk. Then, he puts a fresh thing of water by Billy's bed and settles back to eat his crackers and drink a bottle of water of his own.

He's ready. Whatever the day will bring, Michael is as ready as he can be.

-o-

When Billy rouses several hours later, Michael is optimistic. He doesn't want to admit it (not that there's anyone to admit it to), but he's getting sort of bored doing nothing. Cocaine withdrawal is a fairly serious issue, and Michael feels as though it shouldn't involve so much painstaking nothingness.

But when Billy's eyes flutter, his face flushes and he curls in sharply with a cry. He makes an inarticulate sound of pain, and Michael barely manages to snag a trashcan in time to roll Billy over the side of the bed to vomit.

It's not clear how coherent Billy is, and Michael is poorly situated as he tries to keep the Scotsman from face planting into his own bile. Trying to get him to hit the trash can is even more of a trial and while Billy's body shakes and convulses, Michael's own muscles burn with the strain of holding him up.

When it's done, Billy is sagging and spent in his arms. He's wheezing, and when Michael finally shifts him back onto the bed, his eyes are open and wet, his face twisted in agony. "Hurts," he moans.

Michael frowns, smoothing a hand across Billy's brow. "I know," he says. "I'm sorry about that."

Billy's eyes screw shut and he tips his head back as he half-chokes on a sob. "It just hurts so much," he says, his voice thin and brittle. "Please.Hurts."

At this point, Michael's question regarding coherency has mostly been answered. There's no way Billy would admit to this much weakness if he were in full control of his faculties.

Of course, Billy's never been a cocaine addict before, so Michael's point of reference is entirely skewed.

Still, he feels fairly confident that Billy won't understand any explanation as to why it hurts or what they need to do to get through it. At this point, Billy just needs comfort.

Michael's not devoid of compassion, but his ability to relate to the pain of others has never been his strong suit. Fay complained all the time about how insensitive he was. It's not that he can't recognize the pain other people experience; it's just that he rarely sees reason to offer them comfort since it is nothing he can control and usually mostly their own doing.

Billy's body is shaking a chemical dependency. Billy's the one who injected himself with the drug, not Michael. In that sense, this wretched state is Billy's own doing.

But Michael should have stopped it. Months ago. He should have stopped it before it started. This was his mission, and this is a variable he failed to control or foresee.

This is his fault, he reminds himself starkly.

Billy, curled up and in pain, is his fault. At this point, Michael can't stop the suffering, but he can offer comfort.

That's all he can do.

Swallowing, he reaches out again, squeezing Billy's shoulder. "I know, buddy," he says. "But you just have to keep fighting it, okay? You're going to get through this, even if you don't think you will."

Billy whines pitifully again, head tossing as he thrashes a little.

Michael's heart thuds woodenly against his chest. "I'm going to get you through this."

That's the promise he made at the start.

It's never been more important than it is now.

-o-

Billy's temperature stays steady, even as Michael rotates the washcloths every hour or so. Almost like clockwork, Billy rouses every two hours, and Michael is ready now, one hand bracing Billy, the other lifting the can for him to throw up into.

When he's done, Michael sits him up before he drifts back to sleep, cajoling him into drinking some water, though more of it dribbles down his chin than makes it into his mouth. His eyes are already shut when Michael finally gives up, letting Billy slump back to the mattress with a groan.

Around midday, Michael braves a trip to the bathroom with Billy, mostly dragging the Scotsman who cries in pain the entire time. His legs give out when they get there, and he's begging for a reprieve when Michael finally just works down the elastic and puts Billy on the toilet himself.

It's messy and unglamorous, and Michael's face is pinched while he lugs the other man back to the bed. He half drops Billy to the sheets, and as he's maneuvering the other man's legs onto the mattress, he's surprised to find Billy looking at him.

"I'm sorry," he says, sounding more miserable than before. "I'm so, so sorry."

Michael works his jaw, pressing his lips together as he arranges Billy's pillows and settles him back.

Billy's face contorts and tears leak from his eyes. "You shouldn't have to-" he starts, breath hitching. "Michael, you don't have to do this."

"We're a team," Michael says, as if that should explain everything. It's a common catch-all for the ODS, but it feels strained now.

Billy inhales sharply, grinding his teeth together so hard that Michael can hear the enamel grating. "Michael, I'm sorry," he almost sobs. "I'm sorry. I was too weak. I'm too weak. I'm sorry."

Any frustration or animosity is hard to hold, and Michael's heart threatens to break. This shouldn't be happening. This shouldn't be Billy.

It shouldn't be.

But it is.

God help him, this is how it is.

Sighing, he pats Billy's arm one more time. "I know," he says.

It's not clear if Billy hears him as he cries out again, curling over on his side as he whimpers before his face eases slightly and he slips back toward an inevitable sleep.

Billy's not the only one who's sorry.

-o-

The day is painful and long. Michael feels restless. He wants to get out of the room so badly - and every time he considers sneaking out for just a little bit, he looks at Billy and feels guilty. Billy's doesn't have the luxury of going. For five months, while Michael exchanged snarky texts with Martinez and had deep late night phone conversations with Fay, Billy was undercover, living life as a drug dealer.

Getting addicted to cocaine.

Michael had no choice but to leave Billy then. He can't do it now.

So Michael stays.

He endures the moments, almost like a penance.

Sometimes he wishes it was, that he could do his term and earn his absolution. That it could be that easy.

This is a lot of things, but easy isn't one of them.

-o-

In the late afternoon, he has no choice but to step outside to make phone calls. He finalizes a few things over the phone - confirming that the last of the suspects had been properly filed through the local courts and charged - before texting Martinez for the fifteenth time. When his phone buzzes with a call, he groans, but when he looks at the number it's not Martinez.

Curious, he answers. "Casey?"

"Something's wrong," Casey announces.

Michael smirks a little, despite the weight of the accusation. Only Casey would be so blunt, though it would be naive to expect him not to notice.

That didn't mean Michael was giving up his cards just yet, though.

"What you do in your personal time is your problem, Malick," he says. "Just get it straightened out by the time our flight takes off next week."

"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Casey replies tersely.

"I've been kind of busy," Michael says, doing his best to sound exasperated. "So I don't-"

"Billy," Casey interjects gruffly. "What's wrong with Billy?"

"Collins?" Michael asks. "He's been generally slothful. I think he's making up for five months in one week."

"So you've checked on him?" Casey asks.

"Saw him just this morning," Michael says.

"And he's fine," Casey confirms.

"As fine as Billy ever is," Michael offers cryptically. "I mean, Collins is only marginally competent in his personal life back home. What do you expect after a mission like this?"

"I expect random messages and invitations to get drinks," Casey says. "I expect stories I don't want to hear about events that probably didn't happen while he manages to get someone else to pay for the drinks he manages to consume mostly by himself."

"So?" Michael asks.

"So," Casey continues. "He hasn't called. He hasn't texted. Not once."

"You're getting as bad as Martinez," Michael deflects. "Clingy."

"Now you're avoiding the point, and I may have to be actually concerned," Casey says. "What aren't you telling me?"

It's tempting. Of all of them, Casey's always been the one who's had the easiest time with the truth. Michael can count the number of actual lies he's told Malick on one hand.

And really, Casey could be perfect for this kind of thing. He knows more about the human body than Michael does, and his skills as a medic are actually not bad. And he has a soft spot for Billy.

Which is why Michael can't risk it. The dynamic between Casey and Billy is too particular. This could bring them together - or it could tear them apart.

"If I could tell you, don't you think I would by now?" Michael asks coyly.

"Michael, I don't like being lied to," Casey replies.

"You're just going to have to trust me on this one," Michael says, closing his eyes for a moment and hoping for a reprieve.

There's a strained silence. "You promise me that everything is alright?"

Michael chokes back a bitter laugh. "I promise you it will be."

The next silence is careful and measured. "Fine," Casey says. "But if something happens-"

"You'll be the first person I call," Michael promises.

Even as he hopes it never comes to that.

-o-

Going back inside gets harder each time Michael does it. The room is dim and seems to suck the life right out of him. He hasn't done much of anything in the last few days to warrant exhaustion, but being inside makes him feel instantly undone.

Plus, it smells stale and a little stank. Michael's done what he can to keep the place in order, but the smell of vomit is hard to mask.

And all that is without even looking at Billy.

Still, being in the CIA is about doing the dirty work, even when it's not exactly sanctioned.

Michael's pretty sure that helping a colleague detox from a cocaine addiction in a seedy motel room is about as off the books as it gets.

He's quiet, but he hasn't had to be silent because Billy's slept heavily for most of the day. So Michael is surprised to see Billy stir, blinking drowsy eyes up at him. The Scot makes no effort to get up, but he smiles faintly. "Thought I'd been imagining you were here," he murmurs.

Michael snorts, unexpectedly amused. "That'd be one hell of a hallucination."

"Aye, normally I prefer dreams of tall and beautiful women," Billy muses.

Michael settles in the chair. "Well, give it time, buddy," he says. "You'll be back in the game in no time."

Billy's smile turns sad. "Not sure cocaine addict will add to my instant charm."

"After this week, it's not going to be a problem," Michael says without missing a beat.

This time, Billy's smile fades altogether. He swallows, his eyes turning downward. "It's all going to be different after this," he says softly, his voice haunted. "I've gone and buggered everything up." He laughs hoarsely. "You'd think that getting deported would be the worst I could do to myself, but I've managed to outdo myself in spectacular fashion."

The self-loathing is uncomfortable to hear, and Michael shifts guiltily in his seat. "Billy-"

Billy shakes his head, looking up again. "I don't deserve your pity, Michael," he says. He laughs. "God help me, I don't deserve anything but to rot in this horrid room-"

Michael wants to scream and rail - at the universe, at Billy, at this whole damned mission - but now's not the time for that. Instead, he curls his toes tight inside his shoes and sits forward. "Billy," he says again, with more force this time. "What we do - there is no rulebook," he says. "There is no clear cut right or wrong. All the lines are blurry, and everything is in shades of gray."

Billy holds his gaze. "You never would have let this happen to yourself," he says. "And neither would Casey or Rick."

Michael holds back his emotions and doesn't waver as he commands Billy's attention. "We don't know that," he says. "But what I do know is that none of us could have held this cover better than you. You made this mission. You saved countless lives. You did what you had to do."

Finally, Billy tears his gaze away with a shuddering gasp. "You make it sound so noble," he says. He takes a breath and lets it out. "Not like this."

"Yeah, well," Michael says. "I thought you gave up your James Bond delusions when you got to America."

Billy flashes him the ghost of a smile. "You can take the spy out of MI6-"

"But you can't take MI6 out of the spy," Michael finishes. He sighs. "You up for some food?"

Billy chuckles. "I'd rather tear out my intestines and eat them, in all honesty."

"Well, I was thinking of something less human," Michael says.

Billy makes a face.

"Toast again?"

Billy closes his eyes and whimpers.

Michael sighs, rubbing his hands on his thighs. "Toast again."

-o-

Michael doesn't make the mistake of ordering much, but Billy doesn't even do much with the dry toast and water. Michael wants to say something, but Billy's making such an effort to sit up and talk to him that Michael doesn't have the heart to push it. Especially since it's clearly work.

Billy's face is hollowed out and his eyes are too glassy. When he speaks, his accent is thicker and his wit is muted.

But God help them both, Billy tries. He makes stupid jokes and offhand quips. He does everything he can to make the night enjoyable.

Which is why it's the hardest night yet. Sitting there, trying not to watch as Billy gives everything he has to simply talk - it's nothing short of torture. By nine that evening, Billy is dozing, mouth open and head propped up on the pillows. He'd been telling a story and then he'd just stopped.

Michael chews his lip and contemplates rousing Billy to get him in a more comfortable position. The TV is still on, which provides some background noise at least, but nothing can distract Michael from the glaring fact that Billy's not doing well.

Sure, on some level, this has been the best night yet. In a lot of ways, considering the horror stories Michael's read about, this is the best case scenario.

Yet, the entire thing is just wrong. Billy's too tired; Billy's too weak. Billy can barely keep himself awake, much less keep his guises in place. This is what withdrawal does; it is the body's way of coping with what it isn't getting. It strips the body of its defenses, throwing more and more at the desperate, insatiable need. The body will deconstruct itself, and Michael likes to think that when it's over, Billy will be Billy.

But Michael has to face the fact that that might not be true. He'll be Billy, broken into a thousand pieces. Billy, in need of being put back together. Billy, who may never be whole again.

This is Billy. Without the guises, without the self-defense mechanisms. This is Billy, at his core. At his most vulnerable.

And Michael doesn't even recognize him. His teammate, his colleague, his best damn friend - and he's like a stranger.

Michael is doing this for Billy, but now he's not even sure there'll be anything left of Billy when this is over.

Mostly, Michael's just not sure of anything except for the fact that this is his fault. If he can't fix Billy, then Michael will never put a man in the field again. This won't just end Billy's career, it'll end Michael's too.

That realization is startling, and it makes Michael want to run. He wants to extricate himself as his survival instincts kick in.

He knows there's no point, though. Because Michael doesn't quit. He's going to see this through.

Even if the worst should come to pass.

-o-

That night, Michael sleeps in the chair, legs up on the table with the TV on mute in the background. Calling it sleep is probably generous, but there seem to be prolonged periods of semi-consciousness, so Michael will take what he can get. Besides, he prefers the imagined dreams induced by infomercials rather than the endless circles his brain's been working the last few months with this case.

Still, when morning comes, he's ready to go. He feels restless as he gets ready, and he aches to go for a jog. He glances at Billy, still passed out where he dozed off the night before, and thinks he could risk it. Billy might not even notice the difference.

It's appealing. It's really appealing. Michael is good with routine, and he's even pretty good with monotony, but sitting in Billy's room is downright suffocating. It's been almost four days - and with the months of playing backup stacking up before that, Michael is at risk for a little psychological malaise all his own.

He looks at Billy again, though, and he can't do it. The last time he let Billy out of his sight for any extended period of time, he got addicted to cocaine. Michael's a control freak under the best of circumstances. When things like this happen, he's in full-on God complex mode until it gets better.

It has to get better. This is the fourth day. Withdrawal will vary, but Michael is counting on a week. That means they're halfway through this.

Almost there, Michael tells himself.

For what it's worth, he almost believes himself.

-o-

Michael makes his morning phone calls in the hallway, and even ventures down to the lobby for a cup of coffee and a newspaper. The caffeine does him wonders, and when he gets back to Billy's room, he finds the Scot still asleep.

The small trip down to the lobby has revitalized him a bit, and Michael settles down and starts in on the paper with a gusto, even if his Spanish isn't that great. It's something new; it's something different. It's a sign that life is still going on, and that they still have a chance to rejoin the rest of the world.

By the time Billy wakes up in the mid-morning, Michael is feeling downright chipper. At least, comparatively. At this point he'll settle for not unendingly depressed.

Billy's groggy when he wakes up, and when he sits up, he seems disoriented. Michael has a banana and bottle of water waiting, and the Scot takes a few lackluster bites before tapering off, looking more than a little nauseous.

"Come on," Michael cajoles, getting to his feet and opening the drawer where he's packed Billy's clothes. "Let's get you a shower."

Billy tries to focus his eyes, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not sure I'm feeling so well-"

"Yeah, I know," Michael says, picking a fresh pair of boxers and a t-shirt. "Which is probably why you need to get up and take a shower. Despite the fact that you live like a slob most of the time, a little cleanliness goes a long way."

Billy gives him a pained look. "I'm not trying to be difficult-"

Michael sighs. "I know," he says. He walks back to the bed and throws back Billy's sheet. "And I'm not trying to be mean. You need to do this. I need you to do this. Have you smelled yourself?"

The joke is small, but it elicits a smile from Billy. It also gains his acquiescence.

"All right," Billy murmurs, getting up slowly. He wobbles as he gets to his feet, and Michael finds himself hovering as the Scotsman tries to keep himself steady. Even then, Billy's posture is strained, his back curved as he seems to guard his stomach. He audibly swallows and takes a railing breath. Even with effort, he can't quite pull himself entirely upright, but he starts a shuffle step toward the bathroom.

Michael follows, turning on the light and neatly stacking Billy's fresh clothes on the vanity. He puts one of the cleaner towels close to the shower and steps out of the way.

At the door, Billy almost staggers to a stop, leaning heavily against the doorframe. He meets Michael's eyes briefly with the faintest hint of a smile. "I appreciate the assistance," he says. "But I think I've got it from here."

"Yeah, of course," Michael says with an awkward shrug. He gestures to the room. "I'll be right out here if you need anything."

The look on Billy's face is almost a smirk. "If I can't handle a shower, then things are worse than we fear."

Michael chuckles. "Halfway there, buddy," he says.

"Indeed," Billy repeats, as if he's trying to believe it. "Halfway there."

-o-

Michael loiters by the door while Billy turns the water on. He waits until the water flow changes, a clear sign that Billy is in fact inside. For a few more moments, Michael listens, taking solace in the steady thrumming. He's still standing there several minutes later when the water finally turns off and Michael hears the shower curtain being pulled away.

It wasn't a long shower - it's questionable just how much cleaning Billy actually got done - but it was a shower.

Satisfied, Michael heads back to his chair. His coffee is cold, but he drinks it anyway, flipping over to another page of the paper and settling in his seat.

Maybe today would be okay. Maybe when Martinez texted for an update, Michael wouldn't have to lie too much. Maybe when he called Langley to say how things were going, he could almost tell most of the truth.

Maybe.

But then there was a yelp and a clatter from the bathroom, and the whole damn thing fell apart.

-o-

He's to the bathroom in two seconds flat, and his gun is in his hand out of instinct. The second he opens the door, though, he realizes there's no external threat.

There's just Billy.

And one hell of a mess.

The mirror is shattered, pieces scattered all over the counter and spilling onto the floor. The fluorescent lights catch the pieces, reflecting brilliantly, momentarily distracting Michael from the actual problem.

Billy.

The Scot is on the floor, pressed against the edge of the tub. His hair is still damp but he's got on the shirt and boxers Michael laid out. That's the good news.

The bad news-

Hell, Michael doesn't even know where to begin.

There are streaks of red on the floor, and Billy's legs are scratched up by the shards of glass. It doesn't help that he's still kicking and flailing, fighting against some unseen force with all his might. Though Billy's weak, the thrashing brings his tender skin against the glass, painting even more red across the tile floor.

And that's not even the worst of it. Billy's clawing at his skin. The bandages were gone yesterday, but now Billy's fingers grate along the scabs, raking away fresh, wet skin in the process. The fresh gouges spill blood, mingling with the droplets from the recent shower. It's a macabre, disturbing image.

Then there's the keening.

It's almost animalistic, guttural and frantic. It's a whine and a growl all at once, and as Billy's thrashes again, the sound pitches into an all out yowl. Billy's face is contorted in pain - physical, mental, emotional agony.

For a moment, Michael can only stand there.

Then, Billy looks up and his eyes lock with Michael's. They're wild, and it's clear that Billy's not quite all there, but the intensity of it...

The need and the desperation.

"Make it stop," Billy says, all but begging now. "Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop!"

The words hitch upward into a hysterical scream. Billy screws his eyes shut and effectively tries to rip through his shirt to clawing at his chest.

"They're all over me," Billy sobs. "Make it stop."

There are fresh blood tracks on Billy's neck now, and Michael's heart lurches. Billy's trying to rip his skin off, and at this point, he's being pretty successful.

"Stop, stop, stop," Billy groans. "Make it stop!"

This time, Michael heeds the plea. He rushes forward, his shoes crunching the shards beneath his feet. There's no clean spot on the floor, but Billy's frantic enough that Michael goes to his knees anyway, reaching out and grabbing Billy by the arms.

At the touch, Billy squeals, squirming desperately. He lashes out, long limbs flailing and Michael is almost decked with a bloody wrist.

Still, Michael's the one in control here, and he reminds himself of that as he grasps Billy's flailing wrists and folds them toward his chest. The Scot fights him hard, bucking his body against the constraining touch, and Michael falls onto his bottom, feeling the glass poke through the fabric, but he doesn't let go.

"Damn it, Billy," he growls. "I'm trying to help you."

He doesn't think Billy can hear him, but Billy's kicking stops and his head turns up. His eyes are bloodshot and bright, but they lock onto Michael's with something like hope.

"Michael?"

Michael lets out a breath. "Yeah, buddy."

Billy's face scrunches up again. "Michael, thank God."

Michael feels himself relax, letting his grip loosen. "I could say the same."

Billy's countenance wavers. He shakes his head. "It hurts," he says, biting back a sob. "I don't want it to hurt."

"I know," Michael soothes. "You just have to get through it, though-"

Billy nods, wetting his lips. "I know," he says. "I just need a hit."

Michael's stomach flips, and his arms go cold.

Swallowing convulsively, fresh tears leak from Billy's eyes. "Just one hit, Michael," he says. "Just to get through the worst of this. They're all over me now, and they can go away. It can be okay. I know it can be. Just a little bit. One last time. Please, Michael. Please."

Michael's numb. The request is so simple and so plaintive - and so wrong. Billy's the one who locked himself in a room to detox; Billy's the one who wanted to do this on his own.

And now he's begging for drugs.

A hit.

Trying to bargain for it.

Michael's stomach turns.

"No one has to know," Billy says, as if it's entirely reasonable. "The last time. The last time."

Empty promises. Empty everything.

This is what Billy has been reduced to.

Michael's known for four days that Billy's a cocaine addict, but he hasn't known it like this.

Billy spasms, his body tensing as his breathing quickens. "I can't do this," he says, his voice breaking. "I need a hit because I can't do this anymore.Please."

Michael shakes his head. "Billy, you know we can't-"

"We can," Billy insists. "We can do anything. Off the books. You can do that. We can do that."

"Billy, we can't-"

Billy's breath catches on a sob, and he spasms again. "I'm going to die without it," he says. "Is that what you want? You want me to die?"

Michael tries to deny it, but Billy's not listening. He's fighting against him, pushing up against Michael's touch, trying to pull his arms free. His entire body twists, and Michael almost loses his balance. Billy is thrashing again, and Michael has to reposition his footing, tightening his grip to bruising as he bears down to keep Billy immobile on the floor.

Billy still flails, squirming uselessly until his energy breaks and he just cries.

The sobs are gulping and heavy, but when the tension drains from Billy's offensive posture, Michael still doesn't let go. He can't let go. He holds Billy, pressed against the glass, immobile and sobbing, because this is all he can do.

This is all that's left.

Suddenly halfway there isn't nearly close enough.

-o-

Normally, Michael has a keen, innate sense of time. But that's gone now - along with just about everything else. It could be minutes - it could be hours - before Billy's wretched cries taper off and he's just shaking and sniveling in Michael's grasp.

Billy's not quite limp, but he is pliant when Michael finally hoists him to his feet, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. Grimacing, Michael hastily clears away most of the bigger chunks of glass as he guides Billy, step by step, into the main room.

The Scot says nothing as Michael deposits him on the bed, sitting him upright. He is almost afraid to let go of Billy at all, but he has no choice in order to retrieve the first aid kit.

Billy hasn't moved when he gets back, and the other man doesn't seem to be even aware of what's happening when Michael opens it up and settles himself down in front of him. He has to fish around in his own toiletries to find a pair of tweezers, which he uses to start plucking the bits of glass he finds embedded into Billy's skin.

It's messy work. Billy nearly scratched the skin on his arms clean off, and he'd been oblivious to the glass. It takes at least an hour to pluck and clean the debris from Billy's arms and hands and longer still to slather the area with antiseptics and wrap it with gauze.

Through it all, Billy is unflinching. His eyes are open, but dull and far off, and it's creepy - and it's also a relief. He moves cautiously to Billy's legs, finding more cuts and bits of glass, and he has to spend more time still on the soles of Billy's feet. He considers whether or not he needs to check Billy's backside - it'd probably pay to be safe - but Michael thinks they've both suffered enough indignities for one day.

He just can't do it.

Sitting back, he looks at Billy, and he can't do it.

He can't do any of this. He doesn't know how to do this. Michael's used to being in control, to making something work, but this-

This is beyond him.

He's never doubted his ability to get his team through a mission.

He does now, though.

Sitting back on his heels, looking at Billy's gaunt form, Michael doubts everything.

The sense of helplessness is paralyzing, and Michael feels the sudden need to leave mount once again. This is wrong, he thinks. It's not right to see Billy like this. It's not even Billy. There was a reason Billy tried to hide this from him, and maybe Michael should have respected those wishes.

Of course, Billy probably would have ended up killing himself or buying cocaine.

Billy needs Michael. He's needed Michael all along, and Michael failed him then. He can't now.

This is his mission.

His responsibility.

Sighing, he takes Billy by the shoulders and lays him down. "Might as well get some sleep now," he says, even as Billy's eyes look blankly past him and fine tremors shake his body. "It looks like we're going to be here for awhile."

-o-

It doesn't get better.

Billy sleeps intermittently, but he's pulled from unconsciousness violently. Sometimes he wakes retching, and Michael has to scramble to bring the trash can to his mouth. Other times, he wakes screaming, and Michael winces while he shushes Billy frantically, looking uneasily at the thin motel room walls.

Still other times, Billy wakes up ranting and raving, talking about ants crawling on his skin or spiders in his mouth. He talks about poison in his drink and people lurking outside the door. Michael gives up with logic, and promises Billy he'll take care of it until the Scotsman settles down.

And there are even times when Billy wakes up sobbing, broken, desperate sobs, so thick and fast that he can hardly breathe. Michael can do nothing but hold him, pressing Billy's face into his shoulder and running a hand through his hair, promising it'll be over soon, it'll be alright.

Michael's lied about many things in his life.

He's worried that's the biggest lie yet.