They'd put him in a private room. Always a bad sign; private rooms were reserved for worst-case scenarios. Reno wasn't a worst-case scenario; he just needed a fucking drink.

It was late. He didn't know how late because they'd taken his watch when they'd stripped him of everything else, but the dark strips of sky he could see through the vertical blinds were a pretty good indicator, as was the lack of anybody else to talk to. They'd pumped him full of restoratives, patched up his wounded shoulder and left him there to rot.

The details were sketchy at best. He'd drifted in and out for the first couple of days and had no recollection whatsoever of the journey back to Edge. He strongly suspected he'd been tranquillised and the drug had left him spaced out and lightheaded.

It wasn't just the effects of the tranquiliser that had screwed him over.

He'd been there, on the maintenance platform. He'd passed out on the cold metal, his aching body already under pressure from the fight and the smoke, the last salvo being the final nail in the coffin. Rude had managed to finish what Reno had started before peeling him off the ground, bloody, bruised and half-dead, and throwing him in the chopper.

And he'd been there, all over again.

The three of them had put up one hell of a fight. He'd expected it from Cloud, who had the form, after-all. But desperation had lent the other two strength and he'd badly underestimated the danger they'd posed.It'd been the kind of defeat he would've sulked about for days if he hadn't had bigger things to worry about.

How many souls? He'd almost asked the question once, morbid curiosity and a spiralling self-loathing crawling a little too viciously beneath his skin. The unknown answer taunted him even now.

He'd felt it all over again; all of it. Every cut, every bullet, every blow. Every single tortured breath, every cry and gasp of pain. Everything. When he closed his eyes he could still see Tifa, doe-eyed and broken, on her knees in front of him. It hurt.

When he'd fully realised Cloud was standing over him, he'd flipped. Trapped between the real world and the barren night inside his head he'd launched an attack with no consideration of time or place, allies or enemies, or the fucking knife he had sticking out of his shoulder. He'd locked onto his target and led with his mag-rod, throwing himself behind it with all the conviction he could muster.

In the long run, it'd probably been lucky that his lightning-fast reflexes had been severely impaired, his attack sloppy and easy for Cloud to parry. It hadn't deterred him. He'd attacked, again and again, sparks flying, the clash of his rod against steel stark in the ozone heavy air. And then something had passed over Cloud's face, a realisation that Reno wasn't perhaps totally present, and he'd done something incredibly fucking stupid and lowered his weapon.

That'd just pissed Reno off even more.

Tseng had stepped in then, and he'd turned, wild-eyed and poised to strike. Tseng had merely narrowed his eyes, voice lacking any trace of empathy, with a coolly directed order. "I suggest you stand down."

The realisation had started to cut through the fog, cold as ice and unwelcome. Fuck this. Unable to compute the shitshow in his head, he'd petulantly thrown his mag-rod aside and let the rising darkness take him.

He had no recollection of anything after that.

And now Reno stood on the edge of the plate again, his private hell, choking on the fumes, the screams, the flames…

He needed a fucking drink.

The drugs they'd given him weren't working. Whilst the dull ache in his shoulder was irritating enough to keep him awake, it was the cleaver through his head that was causing him more serious issues. His mind swam, his eyeballs ached… When it became apparent nobody was going to come and put him out of his misery he decided to take matters into his own hands.

They hadn't even left him his fucking shoes. He levered himself out of bed, trying to ignore the way the dark room tilted as he moved, and placed his bare feet on the icy floor.

The exertion made him nauseous, the landscape spinning treacherously. This probably wasn't a good idea, but he needed something to block out the noise, the pain, the guilt. The door to his room wasn't locked, and when he shuffled slowly into the corridor he found it empty. Rookie error; they should have seen this coming, did they know him at all?

His destination was the office at the end of the hallway; if anybody on this godforsaken ward was going to have liquor it would be the head honcho. The metal plate bore the name Andros Dolomar M.D and there was a fire extinguisher hanging innocently in a bracket to the right of the door. It'd take more than a locked room to stop him, he was a motherfucking Turk. Not feeling particularly indebted to anybody, especially not Doctor Dolomar, Reno hefted the fire extinguisher in his good hand and neatly slammed it through the window of the office.

His injured shoulder screamed at the impact and a black haze spread through his peripheral vision. He braced his hand against the door, trying to bite back the bile in his throat. When the moment of weakness eventually passed he slipped his hand through the broken window and blindly felt for the door handle. His fingers found purchase; he twisted the lock and let himself into the room.

He didn't turn the lights on, his eyes having adjusted to the darkness well enough to see, the room illuminated somewhat by the flashing lights on Dolomar's computer terminal. The contents of the office were of little interest to him, save a narrow shelf high on the far wall. But the dusty trophies and photographs weren't the thing that held his attention. His eyes fixated hungrily on the slim glass bottle, half-full of amber liquid and bearing exactly the kind of expensive label that promised to be a total waste on his undiscerning liver.

He was tall enough to reach the bottle without much difficulty, although he didn't put much faith in his assessment of his surroundings. His head was howling at him now like somebody had flipped his skull with a can-opener and was jabbing their dirty fingers into his brain. His trembling hand brushed a photo-frame, knocking it from the shelf. The impact was like a gunshot to his addled senses, the sound of breaking glass cutting harshly through the air. He chuckled, feeling dizzy, relieved it hadn't been the bottle he'd knocked over. That would've been fucking unfortunate; he wasn't entirely certain of his Plan A and hadn't considered a Plan B.

Prize obtained he leaned against the wall, knees weak. The impulse to sit on the floor almost won out, but he knew he'd never get up again so he fought it tooth and nail. Instead, he screwed the cap off the bottle and cast it aside, taking a long and thirsty pull. By the time he came up for air, it was half-empty and his eyes were watering, the satisfying burn of the liquor warming through his belly.

His walk back to his bed was far slower, his movements hindered by another generous glug from the bottle. He was pretty sure mixing booze and restorative items had always been a bad idea but he didn't particularly care, the smooth lull of the liquor only coming thicker and faster than usual. No, he wasn't bothered at all until a wall collided with his wounded shoulder and he saw stars.

"Fuck," he slurred, staring in confusion at the rapidly emptying bottle in his hand, the bandages on his arm, the bastard wall that had attacked him.

The rest of his journey passed without incident, though it was slow going, every step feeling more and more like it should be his last. He could barely see by the time he reached his room, the darkness hovering over his vision like a storm cloud. His lips found the neck of the bottle again to no avail; he squinted at it, surprised, and realised it was empty. Clutching it like a talisman, he rolled back onto his bed and passed out.

By rights, it was a talisman, the only protection he had to ward off the ghosts that had been dredged up and disturbed into action. Sleep was a blissful void, empty and painless.

When he peeled his eyes open again the bottle was no longer in his hand. Somebody had placed it on the table next to his bed. Had he drunk it all? His headache had abated slightly, to be replaced by the all too familiar queasiness of a hangover, suggesting that perhaps he had.

"Doctor Dolomar isn't impressed. That whiskey was a wedding present."

Reno fought the urge to roll his eyes, and refused point-blank to look at the man on his left, instead opting to fix his eyes on the ceiling. "It was a special occasion."

"How so?"

"I was sober."

"I see." Tseng didn't sound amused. "What do you remember?"

"Nothing," he lied.

Everything. The admission was on the tip of his tongue, a cry for help he didn't find comfortable releasing into the wild. His memories of the previous evening were hazy at best; the only real things of clarity were the pain and the torment he'd endured, and the bitter memories he'd been forced to relive. He suspected he owed Tseng an apology.

"Sir…"

Tseng cut him off. "Confronting her alone was reckless."

Reno closed his eyes. When he spoke he was careful to keep his insubordinate tone in check. "I know."

"Why didn't you wait for back-up?"

"There wasn't time," he lied, again. "I made a call. This is all on me."

"Yes," Tseng replied shortly. "It is."

"I've learnt my lesson."

"I'll believe that when I see it."

The sound of movement formed a picture, clear as day in Reno's mind; Tseng elegantly crossing one leg over the other, settling back in the chair, evidently here for the long haul. Alarm bells were already ringing, cutting painfully across his hangover. Rude and Elena hadn't been to see him, which meant the Director had ordered them not to, which in turn mean Reno was in a lot of trouble or something really bad had happened.

A memory stirred; his body tensed. "Garrison's in Edge."

"The child is safe," Tseng replied shortly. "Elena and Rude are at the bar."

His shoulders sagged slightly. "Good."

Silence descended. Reno glanced sideways. Tseng was sat in the chair exactly as he'd imagined he would be, staring intently with one thin eyebrow quirked. Reno's blue eyes flicked back to the ceiling.

Time passed.

"Wounds aren't always visible," Tseng mused eventually. "I should know."

Reno didn't reply. He knew exactly what was going on here; Tseng wanted him to talk and he didn't want to. An impasse, resolution of which relied on either man giving up first, and he'd worked with Tseng for long enough to know he could be excruciatingly patient when the situation demanded it.

"The offer still stands," Tseng continued.

"What offer?" Reno asked, confused.

"The Company will pay for therapy."

"Sir." Reno held his good hand up. "Let me stop you right there. I don't need a fucking therapist."

"It worked for Rude."

"Yeah… Well…" He floundered. "I have a system. It works."

"Of course." Tseng was eyeing the empty bottle when Reno chanced a glance in his direction. "Have you ever considered that it perhaps doesn't."

"Nope."

"You were… hallucinating," Tseng said carefully. "On the chopper."

Reno tasted acid in the back of his throat. He knew what hallucinations meant, having experienced the nightmares for a long time after the event itself, often waking in a cold sweat with his heart racing and his head spinning. The thought of anybody witnessing that moment of deficiency made his blood run cold, be they friend or foe.

"That why you tranqued me?"

"Yes," Tseng replied. "You were causing distress to the other passengers."

"What other passengers?" Reno asked quickly.

"That's inconsequential."

"What other passengers?" he insisted. Shame bit at his stomach like a knife.

Tseng eyed him sceptically. "So you want to talk now?"

Reno sighed, feeling the throbbing ache in his shoulder when his chest expanded. He didn't want to talk at all, but the bastard had dangled a prize in front of him and knew he'd be hard-pressed not to take the bait. She probably wasn't even on the damn chopper. Of all the manipulative, underhanded…

"Fine," he gritted out.

"You attacked Strife."

"Did I?" He tried to play innocent before he caught the pointed expression on Tseng's face and changed tack. "Yeah, okay. That's on me too."

"Why?"

Why? Good fucking question. He'd slipped into darkness in the middle of the maintenance platform and opened his eyes to find his opponent still standing in front of him, time and space inconsequential factors as the bloodlust had poured through his veins. On paper, it sounded deceptively simple but he knew to put a voice to the words would make him sound like a basket case.

"She manipulated me," he replied, omitting the key details, unwilling to admit the extent of the attack. "Who was on the fucking chopper?"

"Strife, Lockhart and the Turks," Tseng reeled off quickly. "You were alone when we reached you. The manipulation should have worn off as soon as she broke the connection."

Tifa had been there. He sat up a little straighter, ignoring the bite of his shoulder.

"Yeah well… Guess it didn't."

"Reno…"

"She did something." He closed his eyes, gritting his teeth. "I don't know. She was in my fucking head."

"Can you elaborate?"

"Yeah."

He didn't.

"Reno," there might have been the faintest trace of concern in Tseng's tone, but Reno was pretty certain it was a side-effect of the pain medication. "If you have any desire to see active duty again, explain."

The threat was there, barely veiled. Tseng didn't think he could do this, didn't think he was capable. His temper flared.

"I was there." The words barely came, his lips refusing to work, his mouth dry. "She put me back there. Sector Seven."

To his credit, Tseng didn't question how or why. Instead, he tossed Reno a scrap from his table. "Lockhart refused to travel with the others."

Reno nodded slowly, something blossoming uncomfortably in his chest. "Bet that went down well."

Tseng tilted his head. "About as well as you'd expect. She held her ground impressively."

He cast his mind back to the last time he'd seen her when he'd baited her into walking away from him. He hadn't particularly tried to pull any punches there, letting his frustration get the better of him. And for what?

He couldn't imagine any other reason she'd insist on abandoning her crew, wondering if him turning up injured had spurred her decision on, that she'd been worried about his sorry ass. A piece of him clung to the hope like a life-raft crashing through a stormy sea. But the bigger picture threatened to engulf him, the overwhelming sense of guilt, betrayal at the orders he'd followed that had left such blight on her future. How could he do this? He could he even begin to entertain it? She was soft and warm and sweet and he was a spectre, rotten to the core.

"Right," he muttered distractedly, the voices still pounding in his head.

"It appears she's gotten friendly with Elena." Tseng smoothed a crease in the leg of his trousers, lips twitching slightly. An almost smirk. "Perhaps I should be concerned."

"Yeah," Reno murmured. The question burned on the tip of his tongue and he asked it regardless—Tseng knew something was going on apparently, so what was the point in hiding it? "How is she?"

"We appear to have underestimated Erin." Tseng ignored the question. "We must fortify our defences. Do you still have connections?"

Reno had developed a knack over the years of hearing the words Tseng didn't say. He supposed that was how he'd ended up second in command; after a shaky start in his rookie days, they'd quickly formed a strong connection, bouncing off each other with a ruthless efficiency that'd often had them selected for the important jobs. Even so, his promotion had come as a surprise, his poor timekeeping, rule-breaking and general apathy towards those in charge not exactly making him a good choice for the position.

But Tseng had taken a chance on him, even so. And Reno had done what he always did; finished every job to his usual high standards and continued to play the insubordination card whenever he thought he could get away with it.

Tseng wasn't willing to entertain a conversation about Tifa; therefore Tseng wasn't happy with the situation. Reno wasn't particularly surprised by that realisation.

"Maybe." He mulled it over. "We looking at spending big or?"

He trailed off expectantly; accessories were something of a rarity these days, most of the top-notch manufacturers disappearing when Midgar had fallen. And as with anything difficult to come by, prices were inflated and dealers were tricky.

"No I shouldn't think so," Tseng replied.

"Gotcha."

"How much time do we need to make the acquisition?"

He shrugged and instantly regretted it, pain surging through his shoulder. The grunt of pain slipped through his gritted teeth, and Tseng wasn't an idiot; there was no way he'd be able to do the job alone, not in his current state. "Give me Rude and I'll have the goods by morning."

Rude could do the heavy lifting, Reno decided, whilst he did the breaking-and-entering. It'd been a while but some skills would never get rusty. He'd made a pretty good living out of it before he'd been caught out and found himself on the Shinra payroll.

Tseng frowned. "You won't be doing anything. Give me your contacts and Rude will take the job."

"You don't think I can do it?"

"No."

"No?" Reno echoed. "I took a knife to the shoulder. I've had way worse."

Tseng shifted his weight slightly, eyes narrowed. "It's not your shoulder that concerns me."

"The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

It was a long time before Tseng spoke again. "How long do you think you can outrun this?"

"Outrun what?"

The sharp look those dark eyes pinned him, scrutinising him far more deeply than was comfortable, and he was forcibly reminded of another conversation just like this, only that time he'd been slouching in his chair and Tseng had been sat behind his desk, carefully straightening his papers and pens whilst he'd delivered his ultimatum. His self-destructive behaviour was becoming a problem, affecting his work. There was no place for him with the Turks if he didn't rein it in. I don't want to do this but you leave me no choice. You are putting us all at risk.

"You haven't made amends," Tseng said simply.

The words stung, poison in his mind.

"Maybe I don't have amends to make," he countered; voice impudent.

"We both know that's a lie."

"Yeah well…" He almost shrugged again but stopped himself in time. "I was following your orders."

It was a low blow, driven by his poor mood and the aftermath of the liquor in his system. Tseng barely flinched.

"That hardly matters now. What's done is done." His voice was cool, dismissive. "You cannot hope to seek redemption without first coming to terms with what we've done."

"I've come to terms with it," he lied.

"Why are you so resistant to this?"

"Why are you pushing so hard?" he countered angrily. "Drop it, okay?"

Reno wagered he was pushing his luck now but he didn't care.

"I'm concerned."

Reno cut him off, shaking his head. "That's not how this shit plays out and we both know it."

"A poet, as always."

"I don't know what you want from me," he growled, Tseng's holier-than-thou attitude beginning to grate on him. "Am I needed here or not?"

He was truly afraid of the answer, knowing that his past indiscretions had already set him up for the words he dreaded to hear. But he needed this; needed the distraction from the mess inside his head, needed the proximity of his comrades to drag him through his waking hours. That'd been the kick in the balls he'd needed the last time when the vices he'd picked had failed to hold off the darkness and had almost cost him his safety net in the process.

That fear gripped him, the thing that made him act out. His anger at Tseng burned white-hot, fuelled by his anger at himself for being so fucking weak. His fingers fisted in the blanket beneath him, his eyes refusing to meet those of the man sitting next to him, burning traitorously as the panic began to take hold.

He heard the words then, coming at him from a long distance, through an angry buzzing in his ears that made his skin crawl and his pulse race.

"No, you are not." There was a trace of empathy in Tseng's voice that only riled him further. "I think you're overdue some R&R."

"I don't need R&R," he snapped.

"Perhaps you misunderstand," Tseng replied pointedly. "I wasn't offering you a choice."