holidays from studying and on neither of them gave me motivation and then 2 days ago when I had so much work to do, ideas sprang to me and I spent 3 hours finishing the chapter. Worth it though as I really think this is my best chapter so far! I did a lot of research for the plot of it and I've finally started to love writing Doc's character.

Just a few trigger warnings for this chapter:
Hints at past injury/abuse but no blood/graphic detail. BIG trigger warning for a full-blown PTSD episode though.

Solomon had no doubt that his wife was one of the strongest people he had ever met. He wasn't someone with pride too large to swallow, but he knew he would be lying if he said he didn't at times yearn for the courage that his wife had. Drew was resilient in a way that he never could be, and her devotion to family was one of many things that persuaded him to ask her to marry him. She was smart, determined and more open-minded than he could ever be. It was something that Zak had inherited from her; his ability to lend second chances and be accepting so easily. He cherished his son's passion for cryptozoology - he had long since lost the ability to be even mildly frustrated with Zak when he brought home stray cryptids, begging to adopt them into the family. However, this time, giving second chances was much more complicated than just adopting a cryptid. Giving a second chance would be giving Van Rook's ex-apprentice free reign of his house and family.

He wanted his wife to be happy; she grieved the family she had been ripped away from as a child and now she had the chance to rekindle it with her long lost brother. However, he was worried that Drew's sudden attachment to Van Rook's apprentice would leave her heartbroken. He was anticipating that the mercenary would turn around and sell them straight out to Argost for a profit, family or not. However, there was something about this man that piqued Doc's curiosity. He had dealt with mercenaries before. He had taken down Van Rook's new apprentices again and again. There was something about Drew's brother that set him apart from them. Maybe it was the despondent 'deer in the headlights' expression plastered on his face. Maybe it was his two-faced behaviour: one moment his face mirrored the threatening, ruffian persona of a punk-thug for hire. The next moment, he was recoiling - with a look in his eyes that Doc thought would seem more suitable on the face of a frightened lost child. It was almost disturbing to see that expression plain on the face of a grown man, let alone one that was supposed to be a ruthless assassin. It left him with even more questions than answers when he saw his wife leave the medical bay wiping tears from her cheeks.

When he caught up with Drew, he found her curled up on his side of their bed, cradling a photo album in her arms, eyes red from what appeared to be crying.

"Drew?" he whispered, silently asking her permission to approach. She didn't look at him. She kept her eyes fixated on the page, hand quivering over the photographic film that was withered and slightly crumpled with age. He moved towards her silently and perched on the other corner of the bed. It was at times like this when he felt helpless. As the sturdy stone pillar holding the family together, emotions and feelings weren't exactly his forte. He loved his wife and son unconditionally and that was that. However, when it came to anyone else, he realised that he could be seen as lacking in empathy. He didn't have the same relationship with his parents that Drew did. He had cut ties with his father even before Zak was born, and his mother - when she had died he was nearly too young to remember her. Outside of his studies, he spent more of his time growing up with Dr Lancaster than either of his parents. Even then, it had been two and a half decades since Lancaster died. Drew held her parents incredibly close to her heart and whilst he slowly cut ties with his family, Drew had them ripped away from her in a heartbeat in a terrible accident and even as her husband, he struggled to comprehend what it must have been like.

"Drew," he clasped her small wrist in his hand and she turned to look at him. He felt guilt pierce his heart as he saw the bitter tears and trembling lips. She was slightly listless as she let him pull her into his arms. He positioned her on his hip so that she had her legs resting across him and the rest of her body tucked up against his broad chest. He wrapped his strong arms around her small waist protectively and lowered his head into pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"I'm sorry your brother isn't who you thought he was.," she looked up at him, teary-eyed. Drew slowly relaxed into his arms, burrowing further into his chest.

"I thought," she paused, wiping her eyes, "...I don't know what I thought."

"What did he say to you? Drew, if he hurt you, at all-." Doc sighed in concern as his grip on her tightened slightly.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, sniffing. "I thought he would remember me."

He rubbed her shoulder, gently and reassuringly. "I hate to ask this again, Drew - but are you sure he's your brother? Working for Van Rook, helping Argost. Are you sure you want to go there?"

"I

to know, Doc," she almost seethed. "I'll probably never forgive myself for what happened to my family 27 years ago - I couldn't help my brother when he needed me the most. Maybe...maybe now I finally have the chance to make things right again."

"It was an accident, Drew. A horrible accident that you couldn't have predicted. Whatever happened to your brother after you were separated...it was out of your control."

"But that doesn't mean that it's out of my control now," Drew sighed as she wrapped her arms around his waist. "But I can't help him if he pushes me away."

"How old was he?"

"Pardon? Drew's voice was muffled by doc's chest.

"Your brother. How old was he when you got separated?"

"Doyle was four."

"Meaning he's now-."

"31. Almost."

Doc scratched his head. "That's a long time ago to remember. Especially for someone so young."

"I had hoped that he would remember something to help me find even ground with him," she looked up at her husband with a look of anxiety. "But he doesn't even know his own name, Doc."

Doc raised a brow at that, perplexed. "What if he's in denial?"

"Possibly, but there was something about the look of utter confusion on his face that told me otherwise."

"I know what you mean. He doesn't act like any mercenary I've ever seen."

"There must be something I can do-." Drew tried to stand, but Doc gently pushed her back down to sit.

"You need rest, Drew. You haven't slept all night."

"Neither have you, honey, you've been working nonstop on repairs."

Doc hummed in agreement. "Just try and lie down for me. At least for a little while," he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"And What are you going to do?" She asked.

"Check on Zak."

She smiled, "Do you think you can catch him before he gets himself into trouble?"

"I'll try," he smiled, softly closing the door behind him.

Solomon had found his son asleep - exhausted after last night's escapade. The only reminders of the fire were sealed in the secondary engine bay and on Zak's skin: the occasional bandage protecting the burns on his arms and the scuff marks on his cheeks. He knew that his son could have come off much worse. It was reassuring to see Zak sleeping soundly for what could have been the first time in months - wrapped securely in his blankets and sandwiched between his cryptid brothers protectively. Closing the door to the darkened room gently, he now realised that he had a more difficult resident to check up on.

The medical bay was on the opposite end of the ship nearly, but he made it there in a brisk walk, worried about what he might find inside. He was half expecting to find the man inside gone - his other best estimate was that he'd be waiting behind the door, ready to spring a one-man ambush. Doc scoffed. The man would be sorely disappointed when he'd discover that he was severely outmatched. However, when Doc unlocked the medical bay, the scene that greeted him was even more bizarre. It was like someone had taken the nervous, desperate and almost-wild man and replaced him with the calm, collected and indifferent individual that sat there currently.

He was sat upright in bed, looking straight at Doc with a neutral expression. He had his hands visible, and resting seemingly relaxed in his lap. His eyes were bright and alert, but they lacked the unstable, explosive gaze that had given Doc a number of red flags earlier. Doc tried to look for the erratic glances looking for escape routes, or flashing pupils that screamed anxiety - yet there was nothing. He was solely focused on the other man in the room, observing quietly. Doc supposed it could have been a trick; a facade to cover the trail of his real intentions. If it was, it was a strange way that the man was going about trying at earning his trust. This only made him more suspicious. Everything in the medical bay seemed to be in order. His potential brother-in-law had refrained from ripping out any more of the drips and instruments that were helping his body stabilise.

Doc made his way towards the computer console at one end of the room, attempting to cut through the wall of silence in the room; he never once took his eyes off the interloper, though. The other man's silence made him feel incredibly uneasy - Doc could feel eyes burning through him. He wasn't going to let himself be intimidated by any of Argost's lackeys, family or not.

came first - there was no room for compassion towards someone who wanted to take his son from him. If it hadn't had been for Drew's pleas - he would have left the wounded man behind without a second glance. It was the potential blood relation to Drew that was saving the redhead's skin - not Doc's compassion and good hospitality. Against his better judgement: he tried to be civil.

"Feeling better?" He offered. The other man blinked, snapping out of his distant trance but not giving Doc the satisfaction of eye-contact.

"I'm fine," the other man said dismissively, in a monotone voice. Doc frowned, resisting the urge to retort.

"You charged headfirst into a class D fire. It takes a tremendous amount of luck to feel 'fine' only twenty-four hours later."

The man seemed to wear a perpetual frown that affected most of his face, which Doc didn't like. He also didn't seem to be a man of many words, which was

Most of the mercenaries and villains Doc had met loved to run their mouths. Van Rook. Argost. Supervillains and pride went almost hand in hand. Yet, he was here having a despondent conversation with a cutthroat assassin that had managed to sneak into his airship undetected. Twice. Fate was a strange thing, as Drew would tell him.

Doc thought about what the man had said earlier.

'. He wouldn't have expected Abbey or Van Rook to be so thoroughly loyal to Argost. Could he be answering directly to Argost rather than Van Rook? He needed to ask some more questions.

That being said," Doc said in the same, monotonous tone, "I believe you need to answer me a few questions."

The man looked up at him and for a second, Doc thought he saw a spark of worry flash in the man's eyes. "Questions?"

Doc's eyes narrowed, expression set in fortitude. "Questions." He repeated. "This is my ship, and you are a threat to my family. My family isn't out to hurt anyone, so personally, I would like to know what sent you here."

The redhead snorted in inattention, "You're unaware of Argost's conquest for world domination?"

"Oh I'm

aware," Doc leaned in closer. "But you came here

. I don't know if you've ever noticed, but Argost never sends his accomplices after us alone. Yet, you came after

by yourself. Any reason why?"

He glanced at the African American man. "I had a job to complete."

"A job that you were willing to sacrifice your life for? Whatever Argost is paying you is worth that?"

Doc watched as the other man glowered at him. The sudden disinterest in the man's face turned to disgust as he rounded in on him. "It is not something you would understand," he muttered.

"I wouldn't understand? I wouldn't understand that money drives people to make senseless decisions?"

Doc watched as the other man untwined his fingers from their locked position, as though he suddenly became tense at the question. It was a force of habit, watching someone's hands. He meant to be checking for weapons, danger or waiting for the other man to make an unpredictable move. Yet, that wasn't what Doc noticed. He noticed the man's fingertips. The skin at the end of the man's fingers was discoloured and chapped. Doc chewed the inside of his cheek, thinking. Were those burn scars? A tide of thoughts surged through the scientist's head as though the mysteries around Doyle's presence had opened a floodgate in his mind.

"How did you get those?" Doc questioned, gesturing to the man's hands. The smaller man pulled his hands away from his lap, almost self-consciously.

"I don't believe that it is any concern of yours." Doc couldn't help but notice not only the coldness to the man's voice, but also the sharp-tongued, refined way in which he spoke.

"Your welfare

my concern."

Doyle raised a brow, puzzled. "My welfare? As a parent, you should be more concerned about your wife and son, whom, may I add, is currently wanted by a global database of criminals." Doc frowned, burning holes into the other man with his eyes, but Doyle was disinterested in holding Doc's bitter gaze. Instead, he glanced out of the window, watching the dusk as it crept into view. Doc noticed the wizened glimmer in the man's gaze and the way that the last rays of the sun struggled to brighten Doyle's tired, withered eyes. As the dying light of the day beamed across the pale man's face, Doc was chilled by how far beyond his years it made Doyle appear. The light hurled shadows across all of the small nicks and indents on the man's face that would have otherwise been hidden, and the bright beams made the man's prominent bones look all the more angular and gaunt.

"Though," the other man said, snapping Doc out of his unnerved stupor quickly. "There is a high probability that your wife's empathy is the only thing keeping me here alive. We both know that."

Doc scowled. "Do you think that I would stoop as low as to kill?"

"To protect your family? Yes." It chilled Doc just how casually Doyle made the remark, as though this was a subject that he would discuss regularly in day to day life. As though it was something nonchalant enough to talk about over breakfast.

"Do you plan on exploiting my wife's sympathy? Do you have any idea how much she risked to save you?"

"Neither of you had to come for me in the first place," the younger man reminded harshly.

The scowl on Doc's face intensified as he descended towards the end of his patience. "Have you ever heard of something called 'gratitude'?"

"Neither of us would be in this situation if your wife wasn't convinced that I'm her long lost family member."

The twine of patience Doc had left finally snapped as he brought his fist down upon one of the tables with a loud bang. The younger man who had seemed so calm and reserved suddenly recoiled with a start and Doc could have sworn that he'd heard the man wince. Just as quickly, Doyle recovered his composure and Doc was left questioning if it had happened at all.

"I don't blame her, and neither should you," Doc snapped. He turned his back to Doyle and continued. "Drew was nine when she lost her parents and her younger brother in a horrible accident. They were touring the Himalayas and in the foothills of Everest when they were attacked by a monster. Drew was forced to watch as her brother was carried away down the mountain by a blizzard. She was taken in by monks but she searched for her brother for years but never found him. Now, she thinks that she's finally found him - and you're treating her as though she's-."

Doc's tirade was stopped in its tracks when he saw Doyle's face.

"A-are you alright?"

He struggled to comprehend what he was seeing, let alone collect enough words on his tongue to say something. Doyle was a cutthroat assassin, a man who was supposed to be able to hold himself together in any situation - and Doc was watching that cold, harsh facade as it crashed down like a glacier tumbling into the ocean. The impact created towering, foreboding waves that Doc felt crashing against him despite the distance. The waves of terror emanating from the younger man were eerily silent in a way that the ocean never was. His bottom lip was violently trembling and his eyes were red-rimmed but he didn't make a sound. No gut-wrenching wails, cries of despair or hitched, desperate sobs could be heard and Doc felt the air in the room turn stale and unbearable to breathe. Doyle looked like he couldn't breathe. His teeth were digging into his bottom lip hard enough that it was tinged blue. His skin had lost its colour and almost looked

Beads of perspiration trickled down his forehead, down his arms, plastering his auburn hair to his face. His hands clenched and unclenched the sheets like he was trying to focus on something other than the torrent of panic assaulting his mind. His trembling blue eyes were fixated on the ceiling tiles, not looking at anything else. His arms were clamped incredibly close to his sides and Doc was overwhelmed by how pitiful it was to see a grown man trying to contort himself into the smallest, most unnatural position he could. He was shaking violently and the spasms of movement were enough to rattle the frame of the bed.

There weren't many times in Doc's life where he was at a loss of what to do but this was one of them. He couldn't have anticipated that his comments could have caused the tributaries in the man's unstable mind to amass into such a strong current of dismay. He tried to quickly find the logical thing to do - asking if the man was okay, slapping a bandage over it and calling it a day wouldn't cut it. He theorised the next most logical thing to do, kneeling by the side of the bed.

"Look at me."

The man didn't even react. He just kept staring at the same spot on the ceiling.

"I said, look at me."

He kept staring, unblinking, almost like he couldn't

anything around him. Like he couldn't

Doc.

Doc had to force the words out. "Please. I need you to look at me." He reached over and grasped Doyle's hand firmly. Doyle finally snapped out of his reverie and his eyes locked onto Doc. Doc was hit by that look of gyrating anxiety and wanted to let go - but he held firm. At first, Doyle tried to tug his hand away violently. As and as weak as he was, Doc could feel force and reason behind the other man's tugging. The shaking travelled into Doc's body like he was a conductor for the other man's terror. "Good," Doc barely managed to choke out. He could feel the sea of anguish wearing away at the cliffs of his exterior, trying to find weaknesses to erode away at. He could feel himself starting to come apart witnessing this. How was the other man managing to hold himself together?

He cleared his throat. "Now," he managed, "I need you to repeat after me." He could see the ignition in those eyes starting to wander across the room. "No, I need you to repeat what I'm saying. Keep looking at me."

Now, this was something Drew had taught him. Something simple enough for him to see the scientific logic behind. It had helped him cope with the night terrors that had followed his time at Weird World.

"Eleven. Twenty-One. Seventy-Seven. Eighty-Three. Ninety. Fourteen." Doc repeated the list slowly, several times, making sure that Doyle could hear him on each turn.

It took a couple of tries before a very wobbly but audible "Eleven" could be heard and Doc breathed a gentle sigh of relief. It took them a bit more coaxing to get to 'Twenty-One' and then 'Seventy-Seven', but at that moment - Doc didn't feel frustrated by the slow pace of the process. They repeated the set four times - Doyle following his sluggish voice slowly but surely - before Doc felt the violent shaking on his arm subside into soft trembling, and he finally heard laboured but stabilising breathing. A few seconds passed and Doyle seemed completely aware of his surroundings. He pulled his wrist out of Doc's grasp rather abruptly and moved away from him, shuffling to the other side of the medical bed. Doc let go of the breath he'd been holding. The strategy with the numbers was all he could have done. His capacity for comforting anguished strangers ended there. He'd never be capable of the 'soothing' embrace that came with the traditional ideas of reassurance. The air felt less suffocating but still stale. He almost reached over and clasped the other man by the shoulder, but the memories of their negative encounters over the last few days slowly came flowing back to him - and Doc couldn't bring himself to do it. Neither could the man because as soon as Doc moved, he held his hand up shakily, palm gestured towards Doc, who knew there was nothing else he could do here now.

"Do you want me to go?" He asked firmly, already anticipating the answer.

"I-" the other man's voice pitched and plunged a little until it found even ground. "Yes."

Without another word Doc stood up and began slowly, haphazardly pacing towards the exit, still blindsided by what he had just witnessed. He looked back once. Doyle was watching him leave with jaded eyes that he could barely keep open. The reappearance of tranquillity in the household had released some of the tension from the atmosphere, and Doc managed a slight smile. He paused and looked at the weary man who was barely holding himself up on his elbows.

"The psychology of the mind is complex, but the mind can only multitask to a certain extent. The human brain can't process things in an abnormal sequence and panic at the same time," Doc explained, the sound of his voice dulling as he slowly closed the door behind him.

As soon as he was out of sight, he slumped against the nearest surface, wiping his brow and trying to process what he had seen. He had entered the room facing off against a renegade cutthroat criminal and he had left behind a recovering wreck of a man that could barely string coherent sentences together. He had already made up his mind that he wasn't going to tell Drew, and he was quite sure that Doyle wouldn't be going anywhere during the night after that. Besides, telling Drew could result in a relapse of whatever he had just witnessed and Doc was sure that he didn't want to wish that on anyone - family or stranger - ever again. Emotionally and physically exhausted, he retired to bed beside his wife. He was clasping her slightly tighter than usual in his strong arms and pressing his face into her shoulder. Her soothing presence wouldn't block out what he had witnessed - yet he knew he had to try.