A/N: This won't make much sense if you haven't read the first part, Reckoner. I didn't think I would be posting more about Din, Santi, Cara, Paz, Omera, Winta, and everybody else, but let's call this my therapy during this crazy time we're living. Hopefully, some of you will find confort in this (I'll try to make it more 'fluffy', although I can't pretend there won't be some angst, too), or at least escape reality for a little while.
The first chapter starts as a parallel to Chapter 8 from Reckoner - Omera meeting Mando for the first time after he is stabbed.
As always, feel free to comment. I love you all. :)
Times Like These
I, I'm a one way motorway
I'm the one that drives away
Then follows you back home
I, I'm a street light shining
I'm a wild light blinding bright
Burning off alone
It's times like these you learn to live again
It's times like these you give and give again
It's times like these you learn to love again
It's times like these time and time again
I, I'm a new day rising
I'm a brand new sky
To hang the stars upon tonight
I am a little divided
Do I stay or run away
And leave it all behind?
It's times like these you learn to live again
It's times like these you give and give again
It's times like these you learn to love again
It's times like these time and time again
(Foo Fighters, One by One)
Chapter 1: Then and Now
There was a car blocking the pathway.
Omera sighed. It wasn't the first time someone parked there. True, she could have put up a sign, or advertised the presence of their house at the end of the access road better, but she preferred the anonymity the dirt track allowed her and her daughter. Even if it meant having to deal with tourists on their way to the beach who parked where they shouldn't during the Summer months.
She honked. Once, twice. She thought she could see a silhouette inside the vehicle. Someone sleeping? At four in the afternoon? They were on their way to the cinema, and the film was about to start. Winta had been pestering her for days, and she'd finally relented – it was the holidays, after all, and she knew her daughter wasn't having a great time of it since she had to work.
"I think there's a baby in the back, mom," said Winta, who clearly had better eyesight.
Sighing again as well as frowning now, Omera got out, intent on knocking on the car window, after telling her daughter to stay inside.
At first, she thought she'd been correct in her assumption – someone was sleeping in the front and hadn't heard her. But upon closer inspection, she realized the situation wasn't as simple as that. The man was slumped half over the steering wheel, half over the car door, clearly in an uncomfortable position. Even from behind the window, she could tell he was drenched in sweat and breathing heavily – there was something wrong with him, he was sick. And yes, there was a young child in the back, and she could hear his loud sobs through the glass, metal and plastic separating them.
The man almost dropped in her arms when she opened the door, thankfully unlocked. And then she saw the blood on the seat and on his clothes. And heard the baby crying out for his dad.
"Winta!" she called out, gesturing for her daughter to join her as she tried to ascertain the man's injuries. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from his lower back and he winced in pain when she pressed a hand too close to the wound she finally found there. He didn't wake up, though. It looked like he'd been stabbed, but she had no idea if that was the only place he was hurt – he was heavy and uncooperative. In any case, he needed to be taken to a hospital, now.
"Is that the man they mentioned on the radio, mom? The one who killed someone in Castle Rock?" asked her daughter, once she had reached her, a worried look on her face.
Omera let him go and he fell back against the wheel, his face contorting in pain, but still his eyes remained closed.
"You're right," she replied, reassessing the situation.
And yet, she didn't close the door and reach for her phone to call the police. She didn't urge her daughter back in their car.
"They didn't say he'd kidnapped his own son. How can you kidnap your own son?"
The boy was still screaming for his 'Dada', little hands trying to reach the hunched, passed out figure. And this, more than anything else eventually propelled her into action. The man – a murderer? – was incredibly pale and didn't look like much of a threat right now.
"I don't know darling, but I think we should help him. Help them."
Her daughter nodded, agreeing with her immediately, and she felt a rush of pride at her reaction.
She asked her to check that the dark haired man was still breathing while she moved their car out of the way and it took some effort to switch him to the passenger seat afterwards. She frowned at the trail of blood this created – he must have been out for a while, and it was a miracle he was still breathing.
They slowly drove back the way they had come, her daughter in the back trying to reassure the little one with quiet words. But the boy couldn't focus on anything but his father.
"Open the car door next to him and try to take him in your arms, he must be exhausted," said Omera once she had parked across from their house.
Winta nodded and did as she asked, but no sooner had she pressed the hard button releasing the child's harness, that he started sobbing even louder, and the man next to her came to in a rush. He groaned in pain and opened his eyes, immediately looking around for his son.
"Stay still, it's okay!" Omera urged him, just as Winta had finally released the boy and tried to control his tiny flailing limbs.
But the injured man wasn't listening, and she saw him reach for the door handle to get out of the car. Omera did the same, and she was thankfully quicker, as she just about managed to prevent him from falling head first on the gravel.
"Don't move, you've lost a lot of blood," she admonished him. He was badly shaking under her hands, his muscles tensed under his drenched shirt. Panting, the man had eyes for one thing only, and didn't even seem to notice her presence – his boy, in Winta's arms. He was terrified they were going to take his son away from him, she realized with a pang of guilt. He was passed feeling any pain, and no wonder.
"We're not going to harm your son, we promise, we just want to help," she tried again, regretting the way she had handled the situation.
The child had calmed down slightly, more worn out than anything else, she was sure, and Winta kept throwing worried glances in her direction. The look the man and his son were exchanging was also telling – they'd been through a lot together, and she felt she had no choice but to help them, somehow. As if he was slowly coming to the same realization, reassured that the boy was safe for the time being, he spoke for the first time.
"Behind the driver's seat… There's a first aid kit… Could you…" he started asking, his voice raw and his breath coming in short gasps.
Omera nodded even though he couldn't see her, and released his trembling shoulders. Amazingly, he didn't fall, but it was a close call.
She brought back what he'd asked – it clearly wasn't a regular kit – and he started rummaging inside immediately. Omera wondered where his remaining strength came from: the blood loss only should have knocked him out cold. And yet through the pain, he was still talking, haltingly.
"Leave us, we'll be fine."
He'd taken out a small syringe – anesthetic, she assumed – and a plastic appliance that must have been a surgical stapler. He wanted to do this on his own? Was he insane?
"You're not going to do this here, come inside," she urged him, her hands back on the drenched cotton of his shirt – his skin was burning hot underneath, yet the material was cold. She wondered how long he'd been in the car before they found him.
The man raised his head, as if he was slowly starting to register that he was no longer where he thought he'd parked. His bloodshot eyes, wide and panicky, told her Winta had been right – this was the person of interest the police was looking for, the soldier from Los Angeles who'd kidnapped a toddler. The fact that said toddler was actually his son hadn't been shared, and made all the difference in the world – to her, at least.
"It's fine," Omera told him, "it's just us, there's no one around, you're safe."
She felt him tense even more under her hands – his fight or flight reaction preventing him to focus on the fact that he needed medical attention, and quickly.
"Go back inside your house, leave us," he repeated.
And yet, he seemed to care about them. Seemed to care that he could be putting them in danger. Who was this man, so full of contradictions? A father, yes. Probably a soldier indeed, if his strength, both physical and mental, were any indication. But the fear emanating from him couldn't only be caused by the authorities after him. It made no sense. Why would he want to protect her and her daughter? And against what? There was something else, there. Something she was missing and had to find out. But first, she had to force him to see reason – she could help. She wanted to help.
"You can't treat that wound on your own, you need help," she argued.
He looked at her then, and she tried seeing past the drawn features and pale face. This was just a man, a bit older than her probably, but not by much. With scared brown eyes exactly like his son's.
"It's not safe for you to stay with us, your daughter…" he started, and she almost smiled. Oh, he thought he was smart. But two could play this game.
"Your son needs you in one piece, now let us take you inside."
He lowered his head, and started panting heavily again, reminding her this wasn't just banter, and he was being silly delaying the inevitable.
"You don't know who we are," he mumbled against his chest, barely audible.
"You're the man they mentioned on the radio – the soldier from Los Angeles. You killed someone in Castle Rock," he stopped breathing altogether she thought.
"Was he trying to take your son?" Omera pressed.
"He's not mine," he replied, hurt somehow by her assumption. But surely…
"…but yes, he was trying to get the kid," the man interrupted her thoughts.
He was delirious – the boy, still looking at him fixedly from her daughter's arms – was his. Who cared about labels? It didn't alter her resolve to help them.
She was now clearly the only thing preventing him from passing out. His straining arms were spent and his pulse going a mile a minute under her fingertips. Omera had no more verbal arguments, but if he lost consciousness, which was probably going to happen sooner rather than later, she'd drag his sorry ass inside. As though she'd spoken out loud, he started nodding his head, the movement costing him. She sighed – finally.
They made their way inside slowly. The man passing out on the porch for a few seconds but stubbornly refusing to stay down. He was heavy, yes, but she could only feel bones, too warm flesh and stiff muscles under his shirt.
Omera guided them to the kitchen, and Winta deposited the first aid kit she had asked her to bring inside on the table. Not wanting either of the children to witness – or hear – anything that was to follow, she pressed her daughter to take the boy upstairs and see if he would sleep for a bit in her bed. He probably wouldn't, as he seemed far too worried about his father still, but it would give her time. It wasn't going to be pretty, and she hoped the stranger would remain conscious throughout the procedure, as she hadn't performed first aid in a long time.
And he did, up until he blacked out – to his credit, he'd waited until the wound was closed. He'd swallowed morphine and antibiotics, and promptly keeled over, thankfully slowly enough for her to prevent his head banging on the tile floor. A knife wound, she could take care of. A concussion, not so much. Now that he was lying down and breathing somehow normally – she'd checked, several times – Omera allowed herself a break as well. What now?
Using the stapler had felt a bit barbaric, but she could kind of see the appeal in a rushed setting, as he had explained it was meant for a battlefield. Still, the man hadn't complained once and trusted her steady hands. Omera sat down next to him – her hands were definitely shaking now. What the hell had she done?
She took out the surgical gloves that the kit had also provided, and checked his pulse one more time. Fast, but steady.
"Mommy?"
Winta was standing at the kitchen door, looking concerned.
"Is the boy sleeping?" she asked her daughter, in a voice she hoped reassuring.
"Yes, I don't think he wanted to, but he was very tired. I read him a story. The first chapter of Stuart Little, he seemed to like it."
"You did very well," Omera praised her, "thank you."
Neither of them moved – the mother still sitting on the floor next to the passed out man, and the young girl at the door, too scared to come closer.
"It's okay darling, he's gonna be fine, but he has to rest, now. He was injured pretty badly so he has to sleep."
"Are you going to call the police?"
"I don't know," she replied honestly, "I don't think so."
"But they're looking for him," she insisted.
"I know, but that doesn't mean we have to tell them he's here. We don't know the whole story."
"But…"
"I think we should let him rest, first. Let them rest. Then we can reconsider. He's not going to attack us. And I know exactly where to hit him if he tries something," she added for levity, but still meaning it.
This seemed to do the trick for now and earned her a smile – her daughter was still so young, and Omera knew her world was still safely colored in black or white. She wanted to preserve that illusion for as long as she could, but this was one situation where she couldn't be certain of making the right decision, and that scared her. How could she explain to her daughter that it was her instinct guiding her actions? That it felt right to help the stranger and his boy? That she understood his plight more than she let on? She wouldn't understand. And thankfully didn't remember that there had been a time when she had also been scared someone was going to take her away from her. Omera had to take things one at a time and wait for the situation to evolve, carefully.
So that's what she did. First, they had to move the man somewhere more comfortable – she didn't think he would wake anytime soon, but there was no point leaving him on the kitchen floor. Taking him upstairs was out of the question, so she had Winta get a camping mat from the garage and they managed to carefully roll him on one and drag him to the living room. She put a pillow under his head, and draped a sheet and a blanket over him – he didn't move an inch during the ordeal.
Next, she drove his car to the garage – best not to leave it in the open, even if no one came around – then went back to get her car and parked it outside. She found stuff they would need for the baby in his car, and clothes for him. Omera tried not to look at all the blood on the front seats, and methodically registered the location of the two guns she found, and left them where they were.
The boy didn't stay asleep for long, and mother and daughter heard him fussing in Winta's bed before he started crying out for real. Omera took him in her arms for the first time and looked him over more closely – he was about a year and half she guessed, and seemed to be in good health, with round baby cheeks and focused eyes. He frowned his little eyebrows in annoyance at being held by one more stranger, and she couldn't help but smile.
"A stubborn one too, I can tell. Why don't we change you and give you something to eat, hmm?"
The mention of food seemed to have worked in her favor, and he displayed his pointy little teeth in a smile. Winta took careful note of how she was changing his diaper, the boy quite placid now, but he showed more interest when they fed him a sliced apple and cookies in the kitchen. Her daughter seemed content doing it on her own after a while, and Omera went back to check on the stranger – he still hadn't moved. The morphine would give him several hours of respite, she knew, but the pain would come back at one point, probably worse. Thankfully, there were still several capsules in his kit. She'd just have to force him to take some more.
This proved trickier than she had anticipated, as she also hadn't foreseen delayed onset shock. The little boy had been no trouble at all: he was adorable, and Winta had immediately taken it upon herself to keep him happy, fed and loved. Omera found her daughter's old cot in the attic, and he'd fallen asleep quickly after dinner and a couple of stories, probably exhausted silly after the day he'd had. His father, on the other hand, had decided that he'd had enough rest come two in the morning, and Omera didn't regret her decision to stay on the couch. She'd just started closing her eyes, her book falling from her hands, when he spoke.
"We need to go, we need to leave, now…" she heard, the scratchy voice out of breath.
"It's okay, you're okay," shushed Omera, coming to sit next to his prostrate form.
"They're all after us, they're coming!" louder, now.
"No one is coming, you're safe, your boy is safe," she pressed, her fingers coming to rest on his brow. Christ, he was burning up!
He sat up quickly and opened his eyes, looking around wildly. Omera feared he was going to get up and she wouldn't have the strength to hold him back, but his face contorted in pain, and he reached for his back with trembling hands – he'd forgotten about his wound. Hoping the staples were still in place, she pressed his shoulders gently to force him to lie down again on his good side.
"El armario… I should have stayed inside…"
She stopped trying to make sense of his words and did her best to soothe him instead. He was shaking, his legs against his chest and his face clammy and pale. Omera needed to get his temperature down, quickly, but she was afraid he would hurt himself more if she left his side. So for now, she kept one hand against his tensed arm, and one in his sweaty hair, repeating the mindless words and motions she had already used on his child a few hours before to get him to sleep. He eventually stopped mumbling about people after him and maps he needed to consult in his mix of English and Spanish she barely understood, but he was still trembling and visibly in pain.
"Let me get you something," she said, but he reached out for the hand that had been stroking his arm as she was about to stand up. "I'll be right back, I promise," she told him and he nodded, his eyes forcefully closed. Omera wondered if he was at all aware of her and his surroundings, or if he was in the grips of whatever nightmare the fever had brought up.
Slowly, carefully, she managed to make him sit up and drink some water with the pills she gave him. His eyes were opened, but they kept looking anywhere but at her. Fearful, guarded, his teeth chattering.
"You need to take this off," she told him, her hands once more against his shoulders. "You're soaked through." He nodded again and let her remove his T-shirt gently. She faltered at the skin revealed with an audible gasp. No wonder he'd barely made a sound when she treated his wound – he was covered in scars and contusions, old and new. Pain must be his constant companion. Who was this broken man?
"You need to take the boy. To protect him," he interrupted her, completely oblivious to the fact that she had been staring at his chest. "Please!" he beseeched her, his hands gripping hers with surprising strength, and his eyes now looking straight at her.
"Your son is safe, I promise," Omera replied, gripping his hands back with equal force. "Nothing is going to happen to him."
But the man was shaking his head, his brown orbs full of fear.
"He's not, and I can't protect him, I can't…"
"Yes you can, you're doing it, you're here! No one is going to find you, trust me," she tried again, hoping this fever induced anguish would soon let him rest and heal. For his sake, she also prayed he would remember nothing of this the next day.
"They'll catch me, and it's okay, I don't care, but they can't catch him…"
"They won't catch you…"
"Promise me…" he interrupted her, both her hands clasped together in his now, "Promise me you'll protect him. You'll take care of him…"
"You don't need…"
"Promise me!" he cried out, tears in his eyes now, the hands surrounding hers trembling.
"I promise," she vowed, hoping this would break the spell, but still meaning it. "I promise," she repeated, as he finally took in a deep breath and rested his forehead against her shoulder. "I promise," Omera told him a third time, her arms raising up to hold him close, one hand flat against the still burning skin of his back, the other in his hair.
A few minutes later, he was asleep. Omera went back to the sofa, wiped the tears she hadn't noticed rolling down her cheeks, then closed her eyes.
She woke up as the sun started peeking through the window the next morning. Turning quickly, she checked behind the sofa: the man was still there, his brows furrowed but his eyes closed – he'd be waking up soon. Part of her had almost expected him to have left during the night. Which was stupid, she knew, as he wouldn't be mobile for a while with the amount of blood he'd lost. Another part of her wondered if she had dreamt all of this up. But the labored breathing behind her told her otherwise.
Omera stood up, slowly, but that was enough to startle him awake completely. His eyes looked clearer in the morning light, and his skin and hair dry.
"Your fever's gone," she said quietly, hoping this would announce her presence without alarming him too much. But no such luck, his face morphed into a mask of pain.
"Do you need more morphine?" she asked, sitting close – but not too close – to his sleeping pad. "I got you to take one during the night but it's been hours, now."
His reaction told her he had no recollection of such an event – as she had anticipated. He slowly pushed himself up against the back of the sofa, and she stopped herself from trying to help him, although it looked like a struggle, his eyes shut in concentration and his head down.
"You passed out after you took morphine the first time. So we couldn't move you to a bed upstairs. I hope you weren't too uncomfortable," Omera told him, wondering what he remembered of the previous day.
"It was fine, thank you," the stranger replied, his voice scratchy with disuse. "No more morphine," he added.
With his head still down, he didn't see her slight smile – stubborn one indeed. The morning light also allowed her to make one more observation. She'd been focusing on the scars on his chest the previous night, but now she could allow herself a more frivolous thought. The man was cut. On the lean side, yes, but there was no denying he was a pleasing sight. This time, he noticed her stare – although she had tried to limit it to a cursory one, but then maybe her eyes had lingered a bit too long – and he quickly grabbed for the sheet that had slipped from his body when he rose up. Omera tried hiding her grin once more – he definitely didn't remember the previous night.
"You were burning with fever at one point last night, and your shirt was drenched already. You kept on mumbling things but you didn't fight me. You seem a lot better, now," she tried to explain.
"What was I saying?" he quickly interrupted her.
"I couldn't quite make everything out, you were half delirious. It was a mix of Spanish and English, I think. Something about a cupboard, maybe. And you were asking about your child."
He startled once more – so maybe he did remember some of what he had said.
"Where is he?" he inquired, the words rushing out now, "Is he okay? Did he eat? Did you change him? Did…"
"He's fine," Omera said, calmly "he's still sleeping upstairs with my daughter, Winta. He's safe."
"We'll be gone as soon as he wakes up, I promise."
She managed not to smile this time – he had to realize this was more than likely impossible on his own.
"Thank you," the man added after a few seconds of silence, "for everything. I'm really grateful for your help, it's…well, it was very nice of you."
She didn't think it was just his state that made the words so difficult for him to say – he didn't seem to be much of a talker, and his shyness surprised her. This wasn't what she had expected from a man running away from the law with a baby in tow.
"It's Omera, by the way," she told him, remembering that she had never told him her name. And clearly, he would have never dared asking her if he could help it. "And you're Mando?" she made sure, and he nodded, then frowned.
"How do you…"
"They said your name on the radio."
She hadn't wanted to assume anything until then, but it was nice to be able to call him by something else than 'stranger'.
This propelled him into action, and he stood up – slowly, cautiously, his limbs shaking with the effort. She let him walk the small distance to the kitchen, staying close in case he faltered, but he didn't. Still, he was utterly spent by the time he sat at the table, and she hoped it meant he realized he wouldn't be going anywhere today. He took pain meds – not morphine, though – and she managed to get him to drink a bit more water. He was going to need plenty of liquid.
He inquired about her background – he'd guessed she'd had medical training, but she managed to evade his questions, her turn feeling uncomfortable. He apologized for keeping her up the previous night, and that made her chuckle – what a weird thing to say. She'd only done what any decent human being would do. When she told him about the guns she had found in his car when looking for the child's things, he didn't react – weapons were not an issue, strangely. She suggested some food, as she imagined he hadn't eaten anything in a while, but there again he refused more kindness.
Omera thought he looked quite despondent, his eyes refusing to stay on hers for too long, with the sheet he stubbornly hadn't parted with still draped across his shoulders. What a strange, strange man.
He did accept her offer to use the bathroom though, and she brought him his bag. He wasn't just shy or uncomfortable, she realized – he was wary. Of any physical contact or outside help. A direct opposite of the man who'd sought out her touch the previous night when he was out of his mind with fever. Recognizing that he needed her to keep her distances now, she left him on his own.
Back in the kitchen to set the table for breakfast – the children would probably wake soon, Winta had least, who still woke up early even during the holidays – she heard something ring. It came from the hallway, from the bag where she had gathered stuff for the baby, then remembered she had picked up a clunky mobile phone from the glove compartment. The thing kept on ringing, and she eventually decided to take the call, ready to pretend it had been a wrong number if she didn't like what she heard on the other end.
"Hello?"
"Who… Who's this? Is Mando around?"
The voice was deep and serious and brokered no arguments or lies.
"Mando was injured yesterday. He's in the next room, but I can get him for you. Who are you?"
"My name is Paz Vizla, I'm a US Air Force Colonel, Mando is my friend. Is he alright? I tried calling several times last night…"
The man sounded apprehensive, but genuine, as far as she could tell.
"I found him passed out in his car yesterday afternoon. He was stabbed in the lower back and he lost a lot of blood. He's still very weak, but he is better today."
"What about the boy?"
"He is fine, unharmed, he's still asleep," she confirmed.
"And Mando just let you…help him?" the Colonel asked in disbelief. This told her he wasn't lying when he said he knew the other man.
"It wasn't easy," Omera agreed. "Your friend is stubborn."
"Tell me about it…" the man still sighed in relief.
"I'll knock on the door and give him the phone..."
"Wait," he interrupted her, "before you do that, can you answer a few more questions? Please?"
This wasn't a man who often said 'please', she could tell.
"Sure."
"Is he… Where are you? Located, I mean. You don't have to tell me precisely, but just to give me an idea."
"Not too far from a town called Raymond."
Silence on the other end for a few seconds, she guessed he was checking where it was.
"Jesus, he's not there yet…"
"I understand from what I heard on the radio that he was injured in Castle Rock, that was a long drive in the state he was in."
"Yes, but the moron drove in the wrong direction… Although I imagine he did it on purpose…" the man thought out loud, Omera not following.
"I'm not sure I…"
"Listen, it's important. I know I can't persuade you to do anything, but I will have to be honest with you. My friend is in trouble. And I'm really grateful you helped him and didn't call the police. I'm just asking you to keep him safe for a little while longer, just until I get here, it's…"
"It's about the child, isn't it?" she interrupted him, wanting to understand.
"Yes, some very nasty people are after them and he was trying to reach someone up north. But that won't be possible now with the roadblocks, I'll have to think of something else."
"What kind of people?" Omera insisted.
"He's…not going to like me telling you this."
"Look, sir… Colonel. I've just welcomed a stranger in my home. I need to know what kind of danger me and my ten-year-old daughter could be in. I'm not going to call the police but I need more than what you are telling me."
Her heart was beating fast, but her voice hadn't wavered. She heard the man hesitate, starting to say something then stopping himself.
"I want to help him and his son and he seems to be a good person, but I only have your word for it. That's not much to go on or to earn my trust," she added.
She had sat down at the kitchen table – the shower was still running and it would be some minutes until Mando reappeared. They had time. But the Colonel better make it worth her while.
"What's your name?"
"Omera," she replied after a second of hesitation – she hadn't expected him to ask again or start there.
"Omera. The man you helped means more to me than you can imagine. He's like my little brother and I would do anything to protect him. And not just because we served together. He's my friend. And I thought I'd lost him forever until he showed up a few days ago with the boy. I didn't want to believe his story at first because it sounded too crazy to be true, but given what's just happened to him, it's clear he wasn't lying. You're probably going to react the same way I did but please, just listen for now."
She stayed silent, letting him speak.
"He was raised in a gang in Los Angeles. Drug dealers, pretty fucking bad ones. His parents were murdered when he was very young and he didn't know any better. They brainwashed him into working for them, tapping into his guilt and distorted gratitude for having been taken in, I'm sure. I met him when he was nineteen years old, shortly after he joined the army. Just a kid. He's the most selfless person I know. Stupidly so, most of the time. He became the best pilot I've ever come across. And my friend. He is a good man. But he got tangled up again in that gang of his a few years ago and had to leave the Air Force. I don't want to imagine what they had him do lately, but it's taken a physical toll on him, I saw that for myself."
Omera remembered his scars vividly – she had seen it for herself, too.
"Whatever he had been doing at the time, he found this kid about a week ago. But the gang wants him for something, we don't know what. And Mando's been running away ever since, trying to protect him."
Omera didn't know where to start. What to say. Could she believe such a tale? Yes, she certainly could, if she had enough time to process everything – which she didn't. It explained a lot of the man's reactions, to be sure. His distance. His fear. His pain. And why he had so fiercely decided to cling to the boy, although the Colonel hadn't mentioned it. The same reason why such a man would also decide to join the military. That was easy to understand.
"What was your plan?" she eventually asked, as they were pressed for time.
"He was supposed to reach my sister's place near the Canadian border. But he won't make it, now. It was to give me enough time to find someone who could help him. Them. Legally, I mean."
"Did you find this person?"
"Yes, I think so, but she won't be able to come to him for a couple of days. So I'll fly here instead. And we'll…find somewhere safe where we can wait."
"They can stay here," she heard herself say before she had time to think too much about her words, "you don't have to find somewhere else. They'll be safe, it's secluded."
"Are you sure? I mean…"
Mando was standing at the kitchen door. It wasn't hard to read the fear and betrayal in his eyes.
"He's here," she interrupted the Colonel quickly, "he can talk to you."
"Yes, please, I'll try to convince him. Thank you, Omera."
She nodded, even though he couldn't see her, and walked towards Mando's still form slowly.
"It rang while you were in the shower. A Colonel Vizla. Apparently he tried calling several times last night, but I never heard it, I'm sorry."
Too stunned to reply, Mando simply took the phone from her.
"Paz?" she heard him say in a shaky voice. And he quickly sighed in relief, his tensed shoulders dropping.
She went back to setting the table, trying to give him space, but he didn't move, and she could still hear his side of the conversation. His insistence that his injury wasn't that serious – it was. Or that she wouldn't let them stay here – she would. That gave her pause. She was certain of it, now. Even without the Colonel calling, she'd have probably come to the same conclusion. Omera wondered how irresponsible or gullible that made her, especially as a mother, but before she could think too much about it, she heard Winta coming downstairs with the crying toddler.
The following scene only strengthened her resolve – as soon as the baby was in the man's arms, the man the child himself called his father, he stopped crying almost immediately. She observed them some more during breakfast. They were comfortable with each other, and strangely alike. Another surprise came when she saw him interact with her daughter – he'd even started the conversation himself, which she had never expected he would. Unsurprisingly, he was soon overwhelmed with Winta's unrelenting and unrelated questions, and she eventually put a stop to them, but he'd held his own. He was more relaxed with children, less guarded – he certainly was a puzzle, she thought.
More surprises came in the quiet afternoon they spent in the living room. Omera hadn't been shocked that her daughter seemed so enamored with the baby – she loved children of all ages and knew she'd always wanted siblings, but she was more bemused by the man's attitude. He must have been in pain and worried out of his mind, and yet he just watched the children play, accepting the hugs the little boy requested and letting him slobber all over his T-shirt without a care. He even assisted Winta with her homework, and she didn't miss the worried look he directed at her after having resolved a tedious calculus problem. Why would she disapprove of him helping out? He barely noticed when she handed him the baby's pacifier at one point, as he was too focused on her daughter's homework. Had she been looking in the wrong place all this time? Were gang members actually the most perfect father material? Omera shook her head, half concerned, half amused by her notion, and knew without a doubt she could leave her daughter alone with him as she was making dinner.
She'd meant to check on them one last time before going to bed, as the little boy had unsurprisingly refused to sleep anywhere but near his father, but she stopped at the bottom of the stairs when she heard him speak. He was talking to the boy in Spanish – she couldn't understand his words, but his tone was warm and reassuring. The kid was babbling happily, then giggling.
"It's nice to know that at least you don't mind that I'm ugly," he told the boy with a chuckle of his own. Still, despite the light tone, she didn't think she should let him say something like that.
"You're not ugly."
She could tell she'd startled him – again. She sat next to him on the sofa, not too close, yet he tensed up in the darkness.
"You shouldn't be so self-conscious about your scars," she added, wondering where the man who'd initiated physical contact and let himself be hugged the previous night had gone. She understood he'd behaved subconsciously then, as the fever had altered his perception of the outside world, but she couldn't help but think that this had been the real him. The same person who spoke silly Spanish endearments to his kid and answered all her daughter's questions calmly.
"Ugliness isn't just something visible on the outside," he replied after a few tensed seconds of silence.
Given what his friend had told her on the phone, she could guess what he was referring to. And she felt bad for hiding that she knew about his past, so she came clean. Omera also thought she owed him a bit more regarding her own experience with Winta following her husband's death. And what it had felt like to think the authorities would separate them. The same fear, and the same anger she had seen in his eyes outside.
He didn't comment, and that was okay. His silent acceptance was enough – and appreciated.
"Do kids so young have nightmares, do you know?" he asked out of the blue. She turned towards him, but couldn't see his face.
"Because… I mean, I don't know much about children, but this boy… He just seems so calm and contended most of the time, but at night he wakes up terrified. I don't know what he's been through, but it probably wasn't very pleasant, at least just before I found him. And yet looking at him now…"
"He's happy," she replied simply.
"Yeah. I think so, at least."
"I think so, too."
The toddler was slowly starting to fall asleep, his quiet coos less and less frequent – she missed the time when Winta was that age. When all was just possibilities and simple achievements and unconditional acceptance.
"Winta was older when she started having nightmares," she confirmed. "But I guess it's possible. It's probably his way of processing the trauma."
The man hugged the boy closer at her words – she felt bad for their harshness, but he'd asked for her opinion after all. And it didn't mean she thought he was messing up. Quite the opposite, actually.
"You're doing your best, trust me."
Omera was distracted the next day, and Pershing showing up on her doorstep as she was about to drive to work hadn't helped. It wasn't the fact that she was leaving her daughter unsupervised with Mando for several hours that afternoon. She didn't think so, at least – which in itself, was a worry. No, it was the fact that it had all seemed so normal that morning. As if harboring fugitives from the law was something she did often. And proceeded to have night-time heart-to-hearts with them. Telling them things she hadn't shared with anyone in so long. If ever.
Maybe she needed to go out more.
The evening was spent in similar fashion, up until he received the call he'd been waiting for. He seemed even more anxious afterwards, but Omera didn't risk asking him what he'd learned. He was relieved to hear that she'd be able to watch over his boy the next morning, though – trust run both ways, after all.
When she pointed out that he was probably unconsciously causing the little one's difficulties to fall asleep, she didn't expect their conversation to turn into something as silly as him forgetting to brush his teeth.
"It's okay, it's just baby teeth after all," she reminded him, still grinning then. But Mando wasn't smiling, and it took her a few more seconds to realize how much it mattered to him.
"That's fine, you didn't know, you can start doing it now," she tried to reason him.
But he wasn't listening to her, she could tell. He'd completely shut down, his eyes unfocussed and his mind boiling with self-recrimination. The whole world had somehow decided to rest on his shoulders, and he seemed fine with it. Worse – he'd been expecting it.
"Hey, can you hear me?" Omera interrupted his thoughts, placing her hands on his shoulders, hoping her touch would trigger a reaction. And it certainly did. When her thumbs started brushing against his neck – nothing compared to what he had allowed when he was sick with fever – he raised his head and stood taller, probably hoping the movement would dislodge her hands. But she wouldn't he dissuaded so easily.
"You're doing fine, it's only been a week," she added, hoping her words would get though his thick skull. "It's admirable, really, for you to take it so seriously."
He snorted in mirthless laughter, his head dropping to his chest again. Did he think she was lying? Making fun of him? Her hands slid to his face and he stood very still. She had his undivided attention, now.
"Fathers who've had months just to get used to the idea of a child have shown far less passion and willingness to learn than you."
Holding his breath, he looked into her eyes. Omera hoped he saw she'd meant every word. This was too important, especially since she knew he would be leaving soon and she'd probably never see him again.
"Don't sell yourself short," she added quietly, her thumbs stroking his cheeks once before removing her hands.
She wished him goodnight, and he remained where she'd left him.
The next day turned out to be one of the worst of her life – and she'd known a few. One second, her daughter was asking her if she could play with the boy outside, and the next she was crying out for her, in a desperate voice she hadn't used in years.
She'd failed. She hadn't been able to protect his child. He'd trusted her with his safety and she had betrayed him.
It was only out of reflex that she prevented Winta from running after the two men she could just see disappearing in the surrounding woods. Omera was numb and unresponsive when Mando arrived. She knew only minutes had elapsed since the boy had been kidnapped, but it felt like hours already. She couldn't say a word to him. Couldn't look him in the eye. Later, she'd come to regret not having thanked him for not blaming her daughter and taking the time to reassure her. She was the only one to blame, after all.
She couldn't function the rest of the day – Winta was talking for the both of them, asking questions she couldn't answer. Had Mando found the boy? Was he okay? Had he been arrested? Would they be coming back? How could they check if they were alright? Did she have his number? Were they hurt? Did they need their help again? What about the bad men?
They'd turned on the radio and even the TV, which Omera usually almost never allowed. But they learned nothing, even online. In the evening, it was reported that the roadblocks had moved north, to the Canadian border, and that several arrests had been made. Nothing about the soldier from Los Angeles, the man he'd killed in Castle Rock, or the toddler, although they both noted they'd stopped saying the police was looking for them.
"That's good, right?" pressed Winta. "It must mean they finally know he's innocent."
Omera couldn't prevent a small smile at that – she wasn't sure when her daughter had come to that realization or decided that Mando deserved her trust, but she was grateful for him and the moments he had spent with Winta.
"I don't know, baby. I hope so."
The following couple of days didn't prove any better – they automatically went back to their daily lives, her at work and Winta at summer school, but they still expected bad news at every corner.
To think that their existence had been so completely altered by two strangers who'd been under their roof for less than three days… She couldn't come to terms with it. When she wasn't worrying over possibilities she was careful not to mention to her daughter – what if they were dead? – she focused on her regrets. Omera had always thought they'd have time to say goodbye, at least. Just that. Just looking at them one last time and wishing them well.
On the third day, they'd stopped listening to the news. It was after dinner, and Winta was drawing in silence, subdued. Omera almost wished she'd go back to asking questions instead. But it was her who finally drew her back from her reverie – someone was at the door. A woman. Who introduced herself as Special Agent Cara Dune with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. She'd been the one Mando had met on the day his son was snatched outside. Omera didn't know where to start, but Winta beat her to it.
"Are they okay? Were they hurt? How's the baby? Where are they? He's not going to prison, right?"
The woman smiled, and Omera remembered they were still standing outside and offered her to come in.
"I don't have much time, I'm sorry, I need to get back to work. Mando's in the hospital, but he's going to be okay – I think. Concussion and pulmonary edema. Some surgery on his back, too. He was out for two days, but he's stubborn, he asked me to come and tell you that him and the boy were fine."
Omera sighed in relief and tried not to image how he'd injured himself. Pulmonary edema? What had he been doing?
"He's really okay?" she surprised herself asking.
"Yeah, he's a tough one," the FBI Agent confirmed with a confident nod. "And he'll have to be, for what's coming."
"What's coming?" she repeated.
"There's not much more I can share with you, I was only meant to come here to tell you they were still alive."
Her bluntness didn't deter Winta, though.
"But you're not going to arrest him, he's innocent!"
"Well, that's for us to decide."
Winta frowned, and it gave Omera strength.
"Thank you for coming to tell us, we mustn't keep you. If you see them, tell them…" But she faltered. What could she possibly tell them? She'd yearned for the occasion to say goodbye, but now that she had it, she was stumped.
"Tell them we miss them! And that they better be okay, and that they have to come visit soon," announced Winta, once again faster than her at voicing her feelings.
"I'll try to tell him that, but I don't think I'll be able to talk to the little one."
"You mean they're separated?" Of course they had been, Omera reasoned. But the realization had hurt too much to envision.
Cara Dune nodded, and for all her brashness, Omera could tell she agreed it was a painful way to end things between them, too. She must have seen with her own eyes what it did to Mando, and her heart broke for him anew.
"Could you… call us sometimes, once you know a bit more? Just… Some news, if you have any? I know you're probably very busy, but…"
And bless her, she opened her phone to take down her number.
At first, she regretted not straight up asking her to get Mando to call her instead, but if she'd learned one thing about the man in the three days they had shared, it was that the fewer social interactions he had to subject himself to, the better he felt. He would have never dared calling her. Even if he was sick with anguish about being separated from his son.
But her decision proved to be a good one – it seemed Cara Dune liked to text. At first, her messages were to the point and very sporadic: "He got out of the hospital", "We still haven't arrested him" or "He's an idiot, but he's doing okay". After a while though, she started enjoying their virtual chats more and more, and they would talk about other stuff. TV shows. Books. Their youths. Men. She kept strange hours, and probably had a stupidly busy life that prevented her from a lot of social interactions, but contrary to Mando (she was supposed to call him 'Din' now, apparently – a name somehow 100% more suiting), it wasn't by choice.
They never called, until one day in late October, she did: it was a short conversation.
"Are you free tonight?" she asked immediately.
"Yes," Omera replied.
"Can I crash at your place?"
"Yes," she repeated – Cara was in luck, Winta was at a rare sleepover for Halloween.
"Can I bring beer?"
"Please, do."
So here they were, two or three beers in, slumped on the sofa in the living room, music in the background and take-out menus on the table – Cara wanted burgers, but they eventually settled on pizza. She'd had a long day at work in Seattle, and was to fly to San Diego the next day. Omera hadn't expected that it would be so easy to talk to her directly when they had only been texting, but it was. She had a few friends, mostly colleagues, but this wasn't something she did often.
"Anything you're allowed to tell me?" she finally got the nerve to ask – the beer had helped.
"Well, he's got immunity, so we're definitely not going to arrest him. And he's been…useful to our investigation. I can't tell you on what, but let's just say he deserves way more than a pardon. That took balls, what he did, and I wouldn't like being in his shoes when I go out my door every morning."
"You think he could still be in danger?"
"Hard to say," Cara shrugged, "but he probably won't be able to step foot in Los Angeles any time soon. That'd be suicide. Same if he had gone to jail."
"Good thing he didn't, then," Omera voiced out, not really reassured.
Cara nodded.
"And the little boy? You said he was trying to adopt him? How's that going?"
"It seems to be a very tedious process, if you ask me. Right now he's trying to be a foster parent. His lawyer thinks it should be doable. Din on the other hand…"
"He's not so confident," she translated.
"Well, you've seen how he is. The glass is always half empty with him. You can tell how much he cares for the little one and misses him. And it's fucking wrong that they can't be together and it must be killing him inside. But he's not helping his case with that stupid job of his."
"What job?"
"Hmm, he probably wouldn't like me to say," Cara grumbled, opening another beer.
"It's not like he's going to call me to tell me about it," she replied, rolling her eyes.
"Yeah," she agreed, chuckling, "that would be the day. Din calling someone. Or picking up his phone, for that matter. I think only Paz manages to get through to him. And it's usually to chew his ass."
"How's Paz?" Omera knew they were…kind of together, but not really. Cara wasn't telling her much on that subject. But she was curious about the man, who'd been the one who'd shared the most about Din, after all.
"Paz is…Paz. He's good. Worried about his friend even if he won't say it."
"He's got a good heart."
"Yeah," Cara granted.
"They both do."
"Sure. Both so fucking stubborn, though."
"Cheers to that," Omera agreed, clinking her bottle to hers.
"It's… I think he'll be fine once he accepts he has a fair chance adopting the boy," Cara started again after a while. "And he's not there yet. He probably doesn't want to get his hopes up. But without the child in his life…" she stopped and tried to find the right words, without revealing too much. "He was ready to just, go to jail. And that would have been it. He probably wouldn't have survived a day inside." Omera shuddered. "And now he's better, and he has his two lawyers looking out for him. Helping us seems to have taken off this huge weight off his chest, which makes sense."
"The man's been carrying way too much guilt," Omera concurred.
"Yeah, and you'd expect him to make more rational decisions now. But he's just…" she sighed, and relented. "He showed up with bruises a few weeks ago, he's…working as a bouncer for some seedy club. If he'd just admitted he needed help! But he's…"
"…being self-destructive?" Omera finished. "That surprises you?"
"No," Cara conceded.
"I hope he gets to adopt the boy. Soon. They belong together and you're right – I think he needs to have him in his life to give it meaning."
"Yeah, and Paz will kick his butt if he doesn't look for another job – he has a theory about that, but he's not sharing."
"You think he'll go back to being a soldier?" Omera asked.
"Back in the Air Force? No, I don't think so – Paz wouldn't shut up about it if that was the case, he'd be over the moon. I'll make him talk. And we're all supposed to meet up for Christmas in Bolinas."
"That sounds nice…"
"I know!" Cara interrupted her, sitting up excitedly, "I know how to get him to come and see you…"
"Cara…"
"Hear me out! I know your daughter misses him and the boy too and would love to see them, and you don't have to pretend you wouldn't like that prospect either, I mean come on... You're pining for him and that's cute and everything, but he's never gonna take the first step, he needs a big push, and I think I know exactly…"
"I'm not pining for him…" Omera denied, halting her impassioned speech.
"Admit it!"
"I admit that I wouldn't mind seeing him…them again, sure," she corrected herself quickly.
"But more if offered, right? I mean he can't be spending all that time in the gym just for his own sake. That would be such a waste…"
"You're awful. Hand me another beer," she protested half-heartedly.
Come Christmas Day, Omera had almost forgotten about Cara's plan. Almost, because the woman kept texting her about it, after all. One thing was for certain, though. Even if she never saw Din and his child again, she had definitely made a new friend in the FBI Agent. She'd told her about him becoming a foster parent, and she had actually shed a few tears of happiness for the man. He also had a 'cool' new job apparently, but she didn't say what it was. Why the mystery, she had no idea.
She hadn't wanted to get her daughter's hopes up – she regularly (as in, every other day) asked her if she had any news about the boy and his father – so when she was finally able to tell her they were going to receive a video call from them in a few minutes, she unsurprisingly freaked out.
The first thing that struck her was how much the boy had grown. It made sense, it had been almost six months since she saw him for the last time. The second thing was how younger Din looked. Sure, he was awkward and quickly overwhelmed by Winta's questions, but he seemed almost boyish with his proper haircut and clean-shaven face. Hopefully, her surprise wasn't showing too much on the small screen, and she spoke with Cara for a bit, before being introduced to Paz, who towered over all of them but still appeared to be genuinely friendly.
She received more texts from Cara in the following days, saying ridiculous things such as "The operation is a go, wait for further instructions" or "He is an idiot, you deserve better". The last one that morning having been quite unclear – "Success, but please remember I won't ever babysit" – she was unprepared for Winta screaming late afternoon: "They're here! Mom, they're here!"
But they were. Standing outside. The little boy sitting on his father's shoulders. Both looking timidly hopeful. The child because he probably couldn't remember having been there already. And the man because he could remember it all too well.
"Come in," Omera told them.