A/N: Long time, no write, I know. But I have been going through a lot right now, and so it's been very difficult. It is why I suspect this piece may not be any good, but I tried to get back into my Wash/South writing ways. Inspired by a song called "God Cannot Explain" by Cassie Steele. Excellent song; highly recommend it.

I'm not helpless but I'm spinning—am I losing me?

What we do when heavens rain; things that God cannot explain. Thunder roars in the skies above, and these things I just can't ignore…

-Cassie Steele; God Cannot Explain

I had the situation under control. Really. Yeah, sure, that fucktard set off the alarm (it had nothing to do with my gunshot, not one bit) but I could have taken them. North and I, we were doing fine. Just fine. Right?

Right.

But no, extraction had to send her. Carolina, who pranced in there like a fucking ballerina with a pistol, determined to "save the day" or some shit like that. By the time I haul North into the ship's claustrophobic cabin, he is out cold. I hear her making some smart-ass comment to the pilot, and it makes me want to go over there, rip off her helmet, and smack her with it. Tempting as the idea is, I focus my attention on my brother, laying him down on the small space. I slowly remove his helmet; his skin is ashen, with a sheen of sweat on his forehead. I brush back a stray lock of his white-blonde hair, and he murmurs something unintelligible in response.

I sigh. "Fucking hell, North. You're an idiot, you know that? You didn't have to—"

"Am I interrupting something?" Her voice grates on my ears, and I roll my eyes.

"Oh, I don't know, Carolina. You would think when someone is talking to their injured twin, that certain someone would have enough common courtesy to go play gin rummy with the pilot and leave us the fuck alone."

I move my hands to North's dented and cracked chest plate, dreading what is underneath. But I can't find out—whether it be awful or less awful—unless I remove it, and I begin to fiddle with the locking mechanisms on the side. I'm trying not to injure him further, but the armor plates are stubborn bastards and I wince when my brother emits a small whimpering sound.

I hear the sound of knees cracking, and I look up; on the other side of him, Carolina kneels, undoing the locks. Her helmet is off, and her light brown hair is short, framing her heart-shaped face.

"I didn't ask for your help!"

Carolina smoothly removes the chest plate. "You're not the only one who cares about North, South."

Her words send a piercing stab through my torso, as if I had been the one hit by those bullets. Not over her and my brother—I really don't want to know—but fractions of an argument, accidentally (or not so accidentally) overheard.

A deep Southern drawl; easy, careless laughter. "What, ya think she'd give a shit about you? All you've done is…wait, you've done nothin'."

Another, the voice its opponents complete opposite. As opposed to warmth and honey, the other's is cracked at the edges, a summer thunderstorm. It's a voice that makes me freeze in my place, all of the breath sucked out of my body. One that brings back too many thoughts and feelings and things I don't even want to think about. But they surface anyway—his laughter, his true laughter, the kind he lets almost no one hear because he ends up sounding like a four-year-old girl. The way his dark blue eyes seem to pierce some part of me, seeing beyond my bullshit. Thrilling, scary as hell, giving me the shivers, though from fear or pleasure, I'm not sure. The sensation of his lips on mine, his hands on my body. Dark and sweet and pulling me in too far, into a place I never let anyone near. But he got there anyway, and when he took a deep breath and said those words I dreaded and wanted and hoped for, I did the only thing I could: run away.

"Shut up, Maine. You're not the only one who cares about South Dakota."