Content Warning: Getting your circulation back after frostbite/hypothermia is painful. Discussion of suicide, drug abuse, vengeance, prison life, rehab, canon-typical violence (nothing onscreen).
Taking that first dip into the water was excruciating (though less humiliating than being carried upstairs), but you tried to cling to the knowledge that pain, at this point, was better than the alternative. With Shaw's arm supporting your neck, there was nothing much to do but float there, dealing with the tingling, burning agony as circulation slowly returned to parts that had been cold for far too long.
Trying to distract yourself from the pain, you converse with Shaw—letting her know, in case she doesn't, how much you value her as a teammate.
It strikes you, then, that you owe her some level of explanation for why the Okamotos' welfare matters so much to you. Not least because it might affect how readily she assists in your efforts to redeem them.
"Miss Shaw," you murmur, "I know that you don't understand"—a wave of pain strikes you hard, and you breathe through it—"why I care about the welfare of the men who captured me."
"They used to be your friends," she says, after a moment. "I can understand that much."
You confirm it, but that's really not enough. "When you know someone, at a key point in your life… when they help form the person you become… that can be a… a tie between you, a bond that can last for decades."
When you compare that to the bond between you and Reese, Fusco scoffs. "Can't imagine Reese coming after you with the intent of chopping off your fingers."
No, you think, only chopping off your hands at the wrist. Which is what he did when he fled the country after Carter's death, leaving your operation in turmoil, down by two men, and, despite your best efforts, easy prey for Vigilance. If Reese hadn't come back in time… it could have all ended right there.
Because you need him. You can't do this alone anymore.
Shaw trades places with Fusco, and warms up the water a little, then starts looking over your feet. As much as it hurts to let them thaw, it hurts worse to try to move them; the 'shards of glass' are not as pronounced, but they're still there, buried deep within the muscles.
"You haven't asked me," you gasp, "what I did to make them hate me so."
Fusco huffs. "If it's the kind of thing that actually merits frostbite as payback, I'm not sure I wanna know."
Does he think your mistakes couldn't possibly be on that grand a scale?
"You said it was 'all your fault,'" Shaw muses. "So, whatever it was, you still blame yourself."
"I do," you say, and fall silent, studying the ceiling tile as you debate how much more of this you want to share.
Shaw stays silent too, although she startles you by taking up one of your hands to examine the skin. "Bright red's a good sign," she says, and asks you how it feels. Squeezing her hand is more alarming than painful: Your muscles feel exhausted, as if you've over-exercised your grip today.
You remember that kind of exhaustion, during physical therapy after surgery. After the bombing. Wasted muscle trying to accomplish what could be expected from the muscles you'd had before. Training them to compensate. Learning how to limp along with part of your lower back just… missing, even if it didn't look like that on the outside.
If you were the praying sort, you'd be praying recovery for your hands. Your feet don't even matter so much, but your hands…
"Did they use anything other than ice and vodka?" Shaw asks, evidently wondering about chemical burns or something.
When you admit to the salt, you let out a yelp—because Fusco's hand had tightened on your neck reflexively, en route to making a fist. After the apologies, he describes how kids have been using this kind of pain as a dare.
You remember the pain, when they'd first poured the salt on, when the temperature had suddenly dipped low. You wonder who first started the dare, and what kind of monster they must have been to want other people to hurt like that, all for a laugh.
"If I had any say over this," Fusco avows, "those guys would not be seeing the light of day for a long, long time."
You're glad that it's not his decision to make. Because the Okamotos have already spent more than half their lives in prison, and you're not about to let them go back.
Eventually, through a combination of reason, orders, and pleading, you get Fusco and Shaw to agree to bring Ken and Daichi to you. They get you set up on the sofa again—the last time you're going to let them carry you anywhere, but Shaw still doesn't want weight on your feet for another couple of hours maybe—and then lock the doors (a precaution Shaw insists on) and set up two chairs on the far side of the living room. Then they work together to untie Daichi and bring him upstairs, handcuff him to one of the chairs. Fusco stays to watch him (they refuse to let you be alone with either of the men) while Shaw brings Ken up to join you.
And then, finally, you're sitting there, bundled up in warm towels again, looking at the men who could have been your lifelong friends… if you hadn't screwed that up within a few months of getting to know them.
There's nothing but tense silence for a while, as you observe each other. Ken's gaze doesn't waver much; he doesn't seem ashamed of his behavior, or, if he is, he's hiding it well. Daichi, though, keeps darting his eyes at you, unable to look very long but equally unable to look away. His brow is furrowed, his face deeply unhappy, and you get the feeling that if his hands weren't tied behind his back, he'd be hugging himself.
You're surprised that you didn't notice it before, but Ken's got a thin ligature mark around his neck—and you've seen that kind of scar before, on a case Reese barely got to in time. Strangulation. Dear god. Did he get attacked? Did he… try to kill himself? The scar looks old, like a decade or more, but you don't know enough about forensics to figure out anything more conclusive. And there was never anything in his file about it, at least the files that you were able to get your hands on.
If Daichi's got scars, they're not visible above his collarbone, or on his bare legs and arms. You don't doubt that he's got some, though—and, of course, both are stuck with emotional scars as well, the kind that may never heal.
Because of you.
Given that, it's hard to find any words you could say to them right now. So the silence stretches on.
Before too long, Ken raises an eyebrow. "I'm getting the impression that you aren't actually cops."
"Well, one of us is a cop," Shaw counters.
Fusco doesn't add anything to that, quite possibly because holding the guys in this fashion is breaking enough laws to destroy any case you might have against them, and he probably doesn't want them to be aware of that.
Running a quick cost/benefit analysis, you decide that honesty is, for once, more useful than deceit. "We operate outside the bounds of the law. Miss Shaw here, and I, along with our associates. The good detective is an ally, who assists us with a variety of tasks. As a matter of fact, we were just finishing up a case when you grabbed me."
Ken breaks into laughter, his amusement nearly covering up the bitterness. "So much for the thought that we might someday outgrow it! Don't know why I'm surprised."
"You mean get out of crime?" you ask. "I did… for the most part. After I got my fortune started… well, it would be impossible for me to 'go straight,' not with my record. I suppose it could best be thought of this way: In order to stay free, I've had to maintain various identities for myself… but they all pay taxes. And contribute a significant amount to their pet charities."
"So why go back to that life? A fortune wasn't enough for you?"
Hesitating, you swallow the memory of Nathan's boozy smile after a good day's coding… of his lifeless face being covered up with a sheet. Finally, you respond, "I found something worth devoting my life to," and try to smile, finding the effort unbearably weak. "So now, we help people. Mostly those who are beyond the reach of… of a strictly legal approach."
"Trying to tell us you're in some kind of Robin Hood setup?" Ken asks. "Rob from the rich to give to the poor doesn't ring quite as true when Robin's decked out in fancy suits."
"The help we provide goes far beyond money, Ken. Earlier today, we stopped a murderer and saved the lives of four men that he had intended to kill. Last week, we caught wind of a chemical attack that could have left a young woman blind for life. In the past three years, we've intervened in well over a thousand cases, most of which are matters of life and death."
The brothers regard you; Ken looks thoughtful, a little suspicious but open to being persuaded, while Daichi is looking more miserable than ever.
As you're debating how to frame the next part of the conversation, Fusco suddenly blurts out, "All right, what's with the clothes?"
Nobody seems to know what to make of the question, but Fusco's not gonna let it go. "When I grabbed Sniffles, here, he's got gooseflesh and he's pale as skim milk. You're not doing any better… Ken," he finishes, having evidently failed to come up with a decent nickname to throw at him. "You set the whole thing up; was this some sort of bizarre penance ritual? Kill a guy, but catch a cold while doing so, so you're even?"
"We never intended to kill him," Ken says evenly.
"Right. Only make him wish he were dead. Doesn't answer the question."
"I hardly think their choice of attire is the pertinent issue here," you say, frowning—but Ken's just taken in a deep breath.
"I told him there was no honor in shielding yourself from what your opponent suffers." Ken looks at his brother, then steadily meets your gaze. "I agreed to help him, on conditions. We had to stay in the same room. Experience… not the same cold, obviously, but we couldn't be warm while you were freezing. And we had to watch you go through it; we couldn't turn away."
Fusco swears and stomps off down the hall, but Shaw, at your side, just regards them thoughtfully. "So what's the point of all that? Some kind of honor code?"
"He was hoping I'd back down," Daichi murmurs. When Ken looks at him, startled, he scrunches down a bit, shoulders drawing in. "I knew what you were doing, Ken. I knew why, I just— I wish we'd never found him."
"I don't blame you," you say, finding your voice at last. "All of this… I can understand how much you hated me. And I deserve that."
"You don't, really," Ken says with a sigh. "We were kids. You don't deserve our hate any more than we deserved the sentences we got." His mouth twists angrily. "Twenty-three years for trying to pull a scam over the phone. They just piled a bunch of charges on top of each other, just to make an example of us; murderers don't even get that much."
"I know. I… I tried to get your sentences reduced somehow, but… I could never figure out a way to do it without getting caught myself."
"You—what?" blurts Daichi. "You tried to help us?"
"There wasn't anything I could do. Too many hard copies… nothing was online. And it took me a couple of decades to learn the trick of sneaking into places by pretending to be a janitor or tech support; I could never have done it back then."
"Why didn't you contact us?" Ken asks. "Let us know that you were at least trying?"
"Would you have believed me?" Swallowing, you look down. "I'd cut and run, right when you needed me. My cowardice left you both to get caught. I had all the money and you two took the fall for it. What would you have thought, getting a call or a letter to say that I couldn't really do anything to help you? Would that have made anything better for you?"
You take in a deep breath and sigh it out again. "I suppose it was another kind of cowardice, not reaching out to you. Not letting you know what was going on. I was afraid of how you might react, or whether you might try to turn me in as well. So I just… I vanished."
"And turned our money into a fortune, I see." Ken's smile is an oddly approving one. "Dai always thought you'd look good in a suit."
Then his smile fades away, and the room falls silent again.
"What happened?" you ask, finally. "Why this? How long have you been planning this for me?"
The emotions that cross Ken's face are hard to read, and it takes him a moment to compose himself, and lift his chin. "I'm the one who came up with it," he says.
"You're not," Daichi protests. "It was my idea."
"More specifically," Ken says, holding your gaze with something like cold fury in his eyes, "when Dai was in the infirmary, recovering from the first time he tried to kill himself, I got the idea that we needed something long-term to hold onto. A goal for a future that he couldn't see right then. We started discussing it as soon as he was on his feet again."
"And I couldn't see any way forward but vengeance," Dai murmurs. "God, Harold, I… I was so angry at you. So fixated on that anger. I couldn't let it go." He swallows. "And it wasn't even what you did to us, it was the fallout, the consequences, and I knew it wasn't your fault that they sent us away for life, but… I needed someone I could focus on.
"Today, when we finally spotted you in the street, practically nobody around… I couldn't wait for a better time. Couldn't let it boil up inside me any longer; it was killing me."
With nothing better to offer, you simply say, "I'm sorry," and watch as tears spill down his cheeks.
Ken still looks angry. "It was a painful hope, but it was the only one I could give him. And even with that hope to cling to, he still tried to kill himself five more times. Poison, hanging, hanging, starvation, and damn near suicide by fellow inmate, for which event he got an additional five years. And the first attempt was a self-inflicted stab wound to the gut, luckily missing vital organs through his own incompetence. If I were going to hold a grudge against you, Harold, it'd be for that." He sighs, that glittering edge of rage draining away. "But I don't. Never have."
"So, what," Fusco grouses, "he hold a gun to your head and make you help out down there? Sure looks like you were equal partners at this."
"Thank you, Detective," you say, the gentle reprimand making him roll his eyes. But at least he's back.
Thoughtfully, Ken regards Fusco. "I don't suppose you know much of loyalty, if you can't imagine sticking it out with a friend, even if you know they're doing the wrong thing."
After a moment, Fusco says, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I know something about that." He drags another chair in from the kitchen and sits down on it backwards, his righteous outrage deflating a bit. Then he frowns. "That's why you don't have knives in the house. Or drugs."
"Well, I thought that we didn't have drugs," Ken says, glancing at Dai. "He got out two months before I did, and by the time I managed to track him down, he was… kind of a mess. I was lucky to find a job pretty fast, but we didn't have enough extra to pay for rehab, so I just, well, researched it online and tried my best to run a drug-free home. And once he was clean, he… didn't try to hurt himself anymore, as far as I knew. But I wasn't going to chance it."
"I didn't take the pills," Dai says. "They were just… like building up a backup plan. In case I really needed it. Made it easier to do things day by day if I thought I always had an out."
"From pain pills?" Fusco asks.
Shaw gestures dismissively. "Overdose on acetaminophen, probably with alcohol. Acute liver failure, quick death. Not exactly pretty, though."
Daichi deflates, his lips trembling. "Yeah, well, I didn't want something that dragged on. I didn't even know if it would work, really. But the thought kinda helped." He glances over at Ken. "You can get rid of them now. I'll show you where I hid everything."
"That hardly matters if we're headed back to prison," Ken says, studying your face.
"I have no intention of sending you back there," you assert. "As I've said, I don't blame you for this."
"What's the plan, then? You've still got us tied up, here."
"Unfortunately, my associates aren't comfortable with my safety while you're loose. Part of this discussion is in the hopes of convincing them that the threat is over." Tilting your head, you meet his gaze. "So is that the case? Is the threat over with?"
"Are you okay?" Daichi asks suddenly. "Did we… how badly did we hurt you?" His face is pinched, his tone remorseful.
"It'll be a while before we know," Shaw replies. "What exactly were you hoping for?"
Ken laughs bitterly. "On paper, it was a way to steal your productive life, just like you stole ours. But when it came down to it… it was a way to get Dai to move on."
That one's understandable; Dai's never been the type to let things go, not unless something new comes along that he can fixate on with all the fervor of the last project. Sometimes it had been easiest just to let him do a stupid thing, just so it'd get out of his system. This plan was, you suppose, the culmination of that tendency.
Still, if that's what this was…
"How do you like the Jag?" you ask.
Ken pauses. Processes the question. Narrows his eyes at you. "You know, I always thought that contest was a little weird. Especially how it paid for the yearly taxes on top of the car itself."
"Have you been keeping tabs on us?" Dai asks, mouth agape.
"I've been trying to make your lives easier, in any way I can see to do so. All these years… you've suffered enough."
"Why the hell didn't you come to us earlier?" Ken grinds out.
"Well, for one, I wasn't sure that you'd be happy to hear from me; I judged it best if I could just stay out of your lives entirely. Of course, when you came to New York, that feat was a little harder to pull off… though I wasn't entirely sure that you were looking for me, much less actively tracking me down."
"You certainly hid your tracks well."
"I've had abundant reason to do so."
"But you sent me a Jag. That's not exactly staying unobtrusive."
"I doubt you would have figured it out, except in retrospect. But you always did talk of owning a wicked car someday. Custom painted." Your lips twitch and your eyebrows shoot up for a second as you recall just how detailed the description could get. "Of course, I couldn't get any more specific with the design without being too obvious, but I thought you'd like it nonetheless."
"Like it? I'm terrified to drive the thing! You realize, I'd had barely two years' driving experience before I went into the system, and by now I've got, what, six? Do you even know how nerve-wracking that is, taking your perfect car out for a drive and being constantly aware that a moment's inattention could ruin it forever?"
"Well, if you ruin that one, I'll buy you a new one." The smile tugging at your lips is getting harder to resist.
"Wait," Daichi says. "You're rich enough to just give Jaguars away?"
Briefly, you hesitate, then decide that it's worth the risk. "I'm rich enough that I could buy you each one of those cars every day for a year, and that would still be less than my yearly income. And I can pay you back your 'investment' a hundred times over." You study their faces. "But I think I was right when I said that you don't want money. I have something of far greater value to both of you right now. If you're willing to trust me. I assure you that I'm far better at keeping my word these days than I was back then."
Ken sucks in a breath. "I'll be glad to hear you out. But being tied up like this is going to make it hard to shake your hand."
"Miss Shaw," you say, "do you think it's a reasonable assumption, at this point, that the danger has passed?"
She looks thoughtful, and then pulls out a knife that you didn't realize she was carrying. "Yeah, I think we've gotten somewhere." But as she's cutting Daichi loose, she murmurs, "And you do not want to make me regret setting you free."
Once the bonds are loose, and both men are sitting on chairs like normal people again, you smile. "How would you feel about getting entirely new identities—no felonies on your record to follow you around anymore? Because if you're honestly trying to make a go at an honest life… I can certainly do that for you."
The brothers look at each other, and then back at you—and, for the first time in thirty-odd years, you share a grin.
