AN: Thank you all for the reviews/bookmarks! I'm glad you're enjoying this story. There is also a sequel that will be posted straight after this chapter so stay tuned for that.

Fontaine wanted to chuckle at the boy's wide eyes and mumbled words, his wide-eyed obliviousness a delicious reprieve from the fear and awe he usually inspired.

"Why here?" The kid's voice was rough. Considering the fact he'd almost screamed himself deaf calling for Atlas before the dozens of splicers dragged him off, it wasn't anything he didn't expect. He had struggled so hard. His strength definitely wasn't in question. It was almost admirable.

"It's secure, boyo. I've got a couple turrets up here, so it's safer than just hiding under a couple floorboards."

"You've been hiding up here?" Oh, he was a curious one. Always had been, even in the lab. Always asking why.

"Not always," he led Jack to his bedroom, shrugging as he spoke, "I'm not inclined to be a sittin' duck for Ryan's splicers."

He set the box down on the well-made covers of his bed, the guns clinking against each other, "Now, what're you after?"

Jack didn't answer. He turned his gaze back to him to find the kid was staring around at the room, taking in all the homeliness and empty bottles of whiskey.

Fontaine sighed, "You all right, boyo?"

"Have you been drinking?" The kid's voice quavered, his brown eyes almost watery with concern. Of course he'd be worried about him. His 'sweet Moira' had just died.

"A little," a lot, but he had his vices and wasn't inclined to share them, "just to take the edge off. You needn't worry about me, Jackie boy."

Jack didn't seem to fully believe him, with the way he eyed those bottles, but his gaze slid away from them and back to his face.

"Now, what're you after?" Hopefully the brat wouldn't try his patience any more than that. Jack was many things, and tenacious was one of them.

"Maybe a few hypos, a packet of bandages?" Jack winced even at that request. The kid wasn't clever. He was compromising his safety for Atlas's. That just wouldn't do.

"Surely y'need more than that," he shook his head, changing effortlessly into a concerned tone, "Jackie, you were out for hours."

"I don't want to be a burden."

That was just the icing on the cake.

He motioned for Jack to sit down on the bed, stepping away from the comfortable surface and waiting for the kid to take a seat, perched on the edge like a wary sparrow.

He was an idiot. A fucking moron. It was almost too easy.

"I'll get you somethin' to eat, boyo. Then we can talk properly."

"You don't need to-"

He gave the kid an icy glare and he stopped in his tracks, sentence half finished.

"Would you kindly stop arguing with me?"

The kid looked confused at that, but the expression soon faded.

Atlas left him then, the sound of his feet almost a stomp.

Something kind of rough had overtaken his voice in his anger, but he'd heard it before, ever faint.

It wasn't new, even if it was a little odd. He was used to odd things, down here.

He eyed the box, wondering if he should take anything, but he banished that thought immediately. He'd wait. He didn't want to be like a splicer, greedy and insatiable. He was a man, not an animal. Not a parasite, like Andrew Ryan said.

He drummed his fingers on the bedspread, admiring how soft it felt under him. He'd slept on so many hard surfaces and under so many barricades that that feeling of a bed was alien. It was a luxury that now felt like it was unattainable.

Atlas had always sung for him when he slept though, Danny Boy through the crackle of the radio. It was soothing. It made him feel safe. He didn't have a beautiful singing voice- it wavered often and was just the slightest bit too pitchy, but it was soothing to listen to nevertheless.

Atlas tried, he did, and that was what mattered. He always asked kindly, helped him when no one else would.

Not even Tenenbaum, with all her morality.

The soft covers kept beckoning Jack, but he couldn't sleep here. Not now. Maybe he'd ask to when Atlas came back. His clothes were disgusting, mildewy and wet with blood that would stain the neatly pressed bedspread. He sat still, poised, until his head ached, sore and screaming for release, for rest, and he rationalized that Atlas wouldn't mind him taking a short nap before he let himself fall across the covers.

The kid was stubborn, naive, and ungrateful.

Too selfless for self preservation, too foolish to ensure his own safety over that of a false man.

Fontaine honestly didn't understand how the brat had made it this far, even with the Vita Chambers hooked up to his genetics. He didn't take supplies from Atlas. Hell, he even caught him asking the Kraut if she could spare the gifts he was given. He'd learn, eventually. Fontaine would ensure it.

Anything fresh was hard to come by in Rapture. Arcadia's food quietly rotted and everything else always seemed stale and soaked in brine.

He, of course, had a stockpile. Apollo Square may have been his base of operations but he made sure he had supplies in his apartment.

Now everyone was too spliced up to think, it paid to be prepared.

The tinned soup wasn't exactly what he was used to, the rich decadence of the foods he had enjoyed as Fontaine still lingering, but it was food. Enough for two, considering how helpful the kid liked being in all his generosity. He'd worry that he was taking too much and he'd offer it to Atlas. He always worried. Shame they couldn't have bred just one damn drop of self preservation into him. Jack was one part killer to two parts naiveté. He laid bare his whole heart to just about anyone who showed him a throwaway degree of kindness.

It didn't take long to start up the stove- manual labour, no matter how minor, was something he was uncomfortably used to. As Atlas, voice of the people, the lower class working man, he had no opportunity for luxuries. Slept rough, ate tinned food, acted like a common man who had nothing.

It reminded him uncomfortably of his childhood.

Saucepan, soup. He let his mind go pleasantly blank.

It didn't take long to heat, boring as it was, and he deposited the red soup into a bowl. One spoon.

He was cooking for an assassin. A fake person, a sleepwalker. It would have been humiliating if it wasn't necessary. The kid needed to trust him, without a second thought.

He balanced the bowl on one hand, making his way up the stairs once again. The air of Rapture was wet and cold, but at least the warmth of something heated gave a small reprieve.

"Jack?"

No answer.

He opened the door to his bedroom and stopped dead in his tracks.

The kid was asleep, peacefully sprawled across his bed like he belonged there. His chest slowly rose and fell, and his body wasn't taut and curled up into itself.

He'd seen Jack sleep. He could barely nod off without Atlas, and even when he managed to he would have nightmare after nightmare. (The plane crash, always about the walls crushing him in) It was a wonder he ever stayed on his feet.

But what was more pressing was that he trusted 'Atlas' enough that he felt safe sleeping in a place that wasn't exactly barricaded, nor was it safe. He'd had splicers in here before, having snuck in through god knows where. That was the primary reason a turret guarded his liquor- some bastard had drank half his best alcohol and passed out on the floor.

Jack mumbled gently in his sleep and turned over, neck fully exposed as he exhaled.

Just like he'd thought. A fucking moron. A joke.

He set the bowl of soup down beside the bed with a small sound of frustration.

Jack was filthy. All that water and he still came out with the same dirt that Rapture wallowed in. He touched Jack's arm, which caused him to start and almost wake, but he settled back into sleep again.

Removing the off-white wool of his sweater was no easy task- it was wet with blood and brine, clinging to his skin so it had to be peeled off. Bruises littered Jack's torso and neck, mottled purple and black, making the shape of hands across his throat. He gave them a faint, clinical touch. Jack had been dragged, the splicers he promised ADAM for the task of taking the boy to Olympus Heights were all too eager. A great number of them had fallen to the bullets of the kid's machine gun, even to his bare hands, so the payout for him was minimal. Not that the splicers cared.

Jack's jeans were clean enough, so there was no need to remove them. He wasn't particularly in that mood anyway.

He caught himself tucking the covers across Jack and stopped hinself halfway, before sighing and settling them across his chest. Might as well.

He pulled up a chair, settling back and taking an idle swig of alcohol. It burned pleasantly down his throat.

Now, he had to wait.

Jack didn't want to move. He was warm and cradled by cushions that felt as soft as clouds, and if it weren't for the distinct feeling of being watched he would have given back into dreamless sleep.

He blinked his eyes open to see Atlas staring up at the ceiling, tapping a tune he didn't recognise into the arm of a chair. His eyes were sharp with boredom.

"How long have I been asleep?"

His voice was barely audible and sleep-soft, but Atlas' head snapped back down to him with almost unnatural quickness, eyes blazing, before his expression softened.

"About six hours, boyo."

Too long.

"Have you just been sitting there?"

His sweater was gone, and he almost panicked, but he saw it lay clean over the foot of the bed.

"I cleaned your sweater, but other than that, yes."

A whiskey bottle sat empty next to him, but Jack didn't let himself comment.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Atlas raised an eyebrow.

"For being someone I can trust."

Atlas chuckled at that, a dark sound, running a hand through his hair. Jack didn't know what was so funny, but the thought flitted by him.

"I'm glad you trust me, Jackie."

He motioned towards the bedside table, "have something to eat. We can't beat Ryan with you half-starved."

It was a bowl of soup, stone cold and red as blood. He reached for it, taking the bowl into his hands and sitting up. It might've been hot, if he hadn't fallen asleep.

"When you're done, take the guns an' hypos out of the box. Many as you need."

"Your wife was lucky to have you," he said, grateful, and Atlas gave a small smile.

"Wish you could've met her, Jackie. She would've liked you."

That thought was comforting as he raised a spoon of soup to his lips, eating slowly so he wouldn't upset his growling stomach. It was plain, but he'd lived on pep bars and stale coffee for so long that it felt like a luxury.

"Thank you," he set the bowl on the bedside table, reaching across the bedspread and grabbing his sweater.

"You better do something about those wounds,"Atlas eyes him with something like concern.

Jack still had bruises that left his flesh blackened and prone to bleeding, but he pulled his sweater on all the same. It was almost warm and barely damp, good as new apart from the rips. He pushed his arms through the holes and eyed his wrists, the tattoos still stubbornly visible through the purple bruises.

"I'll deal with it in the bathysphere."

"Would you kindly watch out for splicers, boyo? I don't want to have to rescue you from Ryan."

"I will."

He grabbed a hypo from the box, stabbing it into his veins and releasing the EVE into his system. He wondered why the ADAM didn't affect him, physically or mentally. He guessed it was just luck.

He was lucky a lot, it seemed. Vita Chambers saved him, plasmids didn't make him a splicer and he had Atlas.

Atlas who went down the elevator with him, who hummed Danny Boy softly under his breath and smiled so genuinely.

Atlas who kissed him gently on the forehead and left him with a smile that wouldn't seem to go away.

Atlas who he trusted, no matter what.