Did it really ever happen?

It's his fifth job in the field where he's undercover.

He likes to think he's grown since the first time he threw himself into a role, one where too many things went wrong. He was a rookie then and knew no better. He'd been too close to home. Getting carried away was never part of the plan and he tries not to remember how much that experience tore at his convictions about the side he'd chosen.

Time has taught him a couple more things about himself since then. He's accomplished what he set out to do four years ago – become an FBI agent worth carrying the badge. Fidelity, Bravery, Integrity, all symbolized in a piece of metal he carries in his jacket pocket.

He almost fits their mould now, save for all the marks across his body. Never mind the ink from a different chapter of his life. Getting a haircut is easy enough. Removing scars from a brutal crash on a mountain chase or a freeclimb up the world's highest, most unforgiving rockface? Not so much.

It surprised him a little how hard it was to move on from the Ozaki case. Maybe it was because it was the first time in a while he had felt such comradery again. When adrenalin was at its peak, the differences between him and the other men didn't matter. They spoke the same language.

He'd be kidding himself if he denied that they re-opened the door to extreme sports for him. They all lost themselves to their belief in the Eight, paid with their lives. He's not that delusional but the rush draws him back out there more often than not when he has downtime.

He's probably most as peace when it's just him and the elements, playing lone wolf in the wilderness. Open sea still carries a bitter note to it, so he opts for altitude instead.

Johnny leans back from where he's leaning on the promenade wall. Northern Spain in early summer, he really should be counting his blessings. Only this time it's not highly organized eco-terrorism he's looking into. There's been a string of disappearances in the area, clear issue of human trafficking based on what the investigation has shown so far.

He shades his eyes with his hand, looking over the stretch of beach below. Prime season for tourists, the city is packed. Perfect circumstances for discreet abductions. A glance at his phone lets him know that his assigned partner will expect to rendezvous at the hotel in an hour.

Pushing off the wall, he turns to head back into the city centre. Giving his surroundings a moment of scrutiny has become second nature by now, he's always on the lookout for suspicious activity. Ever since a job in Bangkok, where the number of people on the streets was plain overwhelming, he's become better at spotting faces in crowds.

But he isn't prepared for his eyes to land on a figure that is painfully familiar and can't quite mask his double take. The first instinct is rationalization. It could just be another man, a different guy on that bench with a young woman beside him. Someone sharing a similar square jawline, the same tattoos crawling up his right arm, the same goddamn hair.

He catches himself before his stare becomes obvious, forcing his feet to move. Not towards the couple, he stays on his original path. Mentally berating himself. This is Spain. The chances of finding someone with a physique that resembles someone long dead shouldn't surprise him.

And still…

The next time he turns to look, he's a good fifty yards further up and the two of them have also moved from their spot, strolling up the promenade in the afternoon sun. He could swear that even the man's gait is the same but it's harder to tell from a distance.

He swears under his breath, knowing he's being ridiculous. It was just the earlier train of thought that has him seeing ghosts. Glancing at himself in the windowfront of a café, he realizes his whole body has tensed up. He makes himself pause, breathes deeply, runs a hand over his face.

It's just not possible. He saw him get swallowed by that wave with his own two eyes. As much as could be seen in that storm anyway. Even a goddamn Olympic swimmer couldn't have made it out of that alive, it was too far off shore.

He'd seen it in the man's expression when they faced another on that boat. He was fully aware of the outcome of that ordeal. Life of Water would claim him in the ultimate sacrifice and he had embraced it, had wanted it that way.

Johnny tells himself often enough that he has no regrets when it comes to his line of work now. He doesn't regret letting the man go that day. He believes that the Venezuelan paid highly enough for the crimes he committed. A cell would have been crueller than the death he chose.

He must have been standing in his spot for a while, staring blindly at the assortment of pastries, because he dimly registers a waitress asking him if he'd like to order something. His Spanish isn't quite up to standard yet, so he blinks for a second, trying to process the query.

"Una mesa para dos," a voice behind him answers. That voice, "Y dos cortados por favor."

With that the past settles onto one of the wrought-iron chairs, hazel gaze trained on him as he slips the sunglasses off. He's alone here, the brunette from before having disappeared. Johnny doesn't know if he should be offended that he doesn't look remotely shocked to see him.

"How?" is all he asks, toeing a careful line between the rush of relief that this is real, it is actually happening, and a sudden flare of anger. Anger that he didn't know - didn't even suspect the truth.

"Call it fate, if you want," the other man shrugs, "Looks like my time wasn't up yet."

He still refuses to believe it. "You got crushed out there. Completely. How did you make it out?"

"None of us can explain why nature does what she does. I gave her all I had and she let me come out on the other side alive. What do details matter now?"

He presses his lips together, warring for control over his next words. "You know I should arrest you."

"Don't play games with me, Utah. If you wanted to take me in, you wouldn't have walked away when you saw me. You made that choice more than once now, when are you going to live with it?"

Bodhi gives him an unwavering look, the one that says he can still see right through him.

For lack of an argument, he lets the case rest and pulls out the chair opposite his former target. It's the first mistake he makes but his wonder at the sheer crazy chance of this encounter makes it seem inconsequential. They size one another up, noting the surface changes.

Johnny's hair is shorter, Bodhi's shaggier than before. There's a new tattoo on his lower left arm, beside a red raised scar that harshly bisects the crook of his elbow. Another on the side of his neck too, paler tissue against the tan. The American has lost some muscle mass but his expression has evened out, holds less pent-up frustration. His counterpart also seems more worn than he remembers, despite their last memory being one where they both looked more than bedraggled.

He skips out on giving an answer to the last question.

"So it's also rhetorical to ask where you've been, huh?"

"Keeping my head down," Bodhi offers, "The FBI aren't the only ones that were busy tracking us then. And the last ordeals never got the coverage that we promised our sponsor so we lost that immunity. I went were nobody would look for a drowned man."

"And now? San Sebastián isn't exactly a camera-free zone," he points out, "You're not worried local police are going to come knocking when your face pops up somewhere?"

A shake of the head and they both lapse into silence as their coffees get set down in front of them.

"Not when there's no door to knock on," the Venezuelan murmurs, taking a sip.

Johnny has got to admit, the coffee is leaps and bounds from the watery brew they get served at the office back home. He lets himself indulge, here, on the job, in the most unlikely of scenarios. He ignores the nagging voice that reminds him he's screwed if anyone ever finds out this took place.

Because now that he sees Bodhi this close, he can tell that something is different about the man. A part is missing. Almost like the spark that used to draw people to him has dimmed, replaced by something darker.

Curiosity continues to root him to his seat when he should be walking away. He can't be late without the other agent growing suspicious and he's mildly fascinated that he doesn't care.

"It looked like you were with someone back there," he switches topics, nodding over his shoulder in the direction of the beach. What he's referencing doesn't need elaboration although honestly, he wonders why he brings the woman up at all.

It's not what he really wants to be asking about.

"No, she's not."

"Not what?" he raises his eyebrows.

"What you're asking," Bodhi says simply.

In the tone of his voice, Johnny finds himself needing to clarify about what's going on here, "Look, I'm not trying … this isn't about getting any intel to update your case so the bureau can come right after you. It's been, what, almost three years? The world thinks you're some kind of phantom and suddenly we run into each other like this? It's almost too much of a coincidence, man."

The one in question just leans back in his chair, arms coming up behind his head, "Two minutes ago you said it's your duty to take me in. Makes it kind of easy to believe that you've been tracking me."

"I'm not."

He receives a chuckle then, "I know."

"So why even ask?"

"I wanted to hear you say it," Bodhi smirks, focusing on his drink again, "Of course you're not tailing me like an amateur. They'd never let you become a cop for that. You can't lie for shit."

"I'm still on the job so I guess something's worth keeping around," he snarks back but it comes out sounding more bemused, "Even got promoted last month. Guess I got my act together after you."

The other man is quiet for a while, stirring in his cup absentmindedly. The news doesn't seem to surprise him but all Johnny can read in his expression is regret. He did try to steer him towards a different path once, the one he believed would free them all. They both know the other's stance on state authority and man-made laws. Enough had to die for those opposing beliefs.

"You know, in Italy, I made sure she was buried at sea. Samsara," he continues when the silence extends towards the uncomfortable, "She just didn't seem made for one place."

Brown eyes instantly snap back up to meet his, wider than before. He didn't expect that one.

"What?"

"They gave us custody of her body since there wasn't any direct family or spouse. They usually don't keep the ashes but I owed her that much. Thought you should know."

His counterpart swallows hard, hand clenching on the table.

"You're right. She would have wanted it to be that way," the wistful look matches the man's tone and there's almost a tangible change, a crack in the shield, "You still think about her?"

"Sometimes," Johnny admits, "I admire her. What she did for you guys back then."

Bodhi nods in understanding, gaze turning inward at the memory, "She wanted us to accomplish what Ozaki never completed. She had a lot of hope for the world, even when she lost those who mattered to her. Maybe she could have saved you when I failed."

The blond bites the inside of his cheek at that, looking away. He'd been playing his undercover role then, even with her. He hadn't told her the truth when he could have. She shouldn't have begun to mean something the way she did. Sex could have just been that but he'd started to care.

Samsara's death had been his fault and it was the second time that he wished he could have turned back time.

"Maybe," he responds, downing his coffee.

He doesn't have a better answer to that and probably never will.

"She liked you," the man adds, keeping his eyes on him, "She never said so but I saw it. You spend that much of your time with someone, you learn to read them. You had a special place with her."

He finds his throat strangely constricted at that. Hearing that from Bodhi's perspective makes his betrayal weigh all the heavier, the realization of the kill all the more brutal. This time he's the one to remain in silence, only inclining his head to show he understands.

"So did you find it?" Bodhi continues, sensing he's got him in a corner now. He shifts his weight to cross his arms on the table top, "What you were chasing? Did you find the path that saved you?"

He needs to take a beat to think on that. In the aftermath of that case, he never made himself return to that headspace after the debriefing. It was easier to look forward and continue the way he had decided on when he turned his back on the group. There was no place for doubts at the FBI.

All that talk of chasing something had been necessary to get him into the circle. But once he had been accepted, the idea took on a whole new magnitude. Everything they did was about that path. He'd had to question the life he'd left behind, the one he was living, the one he wanted.

"Not yet," is what he eventually settles on, "The path is clearer but I'm still after it."

Bodhi manages a smile, "You're still looking in the wrong places, brother."

"Just like you," he counters, "You completed the Eight, the impossible and because it wasn't the end, you're fucking lost. You've reached that goal you were fighting for. Where's your line gone, Bodhi?"

The other man meets the challenge in his gaze squarely and he swears he sees something there, the same thing that spurred him into action in that underground train station, needing to feel skin and bone beneath his fists.

"It's changed," he replies slowly, testing the words as they slip off his tongue, "But the goal is always the same, Utah. You know there's no going back."

He checks himself before his expression slips. If he's reading that statement right, it sounds suspiciously like he's regrouping. Maybe for something bigger, something more radical than before. His outburst hit the nail on the head but now he sees that he's underestimated the man's drive.

Anyone that manages to overcome the physical challenges that should be impossible to survive would only be spurred on. What's left to achieve? He really could have answered that himself. The spiritual. The ideological. The idealism of a harmonious world, through whatever means necessary.

Means that will probably alert the authorities to the man's not quite deceased status and force him to make some difficult decisions. Specifically about where his loyalties lie once again when they find themselves in a precarious place with lives at stake.

"Then I guess we'll see each other again."

The Venezuelan finishes his cup, eyes closing to savour the last of it. "I hope so."

"Because you enjoy having someone around making your life harder?" Johnny quips, even though there's unfortunately far more than a grain of truth to it, "Glad to hear it, man."

"No," he stands, glancing down at him, "It's a second chance. I'm not planning to waste it."

"Don't make me regret letting you go. Three times now," he mirrors the action, pushing himself up off the armrests and stepping towards the other man. It's clear this is goodbye. Neither of them can risk more than this.

"Listen, brother," Bodhi moves forward, closing the space to grip his shoulder, "I know when the time comes, you'll know what you will choose. You've already done it. Three times. They train you to think with your head but you know your heart gives you the real answers. It doesn't matter how we meet again. That's where your line is going."

"You don't know shit," he says, but it's more resigned than anything. A half-hearted reminder of a different time, when Bodhi told him the same.

He doesn't resist when the man pulls him in with a nod, a hand resting on the back of his neck as his arm wraps around Johnny's shoulders. He gets it. This doesn't warrant a damn handshake anymore, they've come too far for that already.

So he responds in kind, his arm coming around the broad back to return the hug. He's embracing a criminal and all he can feel is that deep shared companionship that connected them in the mountains, at the waterfall, in the midst of a storm.

As much as he hates to admit it, he will never be able to do his duty. Neither will he be able to let this go. They will play cat-and-mouse until one of them caves.

When they pull apart and Bodhi gives him a final clap on the back, he can't find any other departing words that seem appropriate. They've probably said enough already. He follows his motions with his eyes as Bodhi takes off, walking across the square with that undeniable purpose to his stride.

30 seconds, one minute, and he's disappeared from view, swallowed by the thickening crowds. Like it never happened. He'll have to tell himself that it didn't anyway. He slumps down in his chair again, staring at their empty cups.

Really, what are the goddamn odds of all this? And come to think of it, the guy didn't even pay for his coffee. Johnny can't help the grin that tugs at his mouth as he signals to the waitress and pulls out his wallet.

He's got ten minutes to make it back to the hotel. He has a hard time resetting his mind back to work mode, even as he picks up a sharp pace to make it on time. The smile stays put as he weaves through the alleyways in the dimming sunshine.

At the very least, he'll hunt that man down to get the change back.