It was just passed one am when they finished transporting all of the supplies from the plane to the old hotel room they were renting. They'd rented a small car and used it to haul the bags full of ammo and supplies. It was sitting parked outside the rusted door of their room that wouldn't close all the way. It was crooked on the hinges and had an old worn-out chain to keep it shut. Cap dropped the last duffel bag down on the bed with a sigh.

"I think we should take turns keeping watch just in case there's eyes on us," she said, propping her hands up on her hips and turning to face the rest of the team. "I can take first. We should sleep while we have the chance."

"It's okay," Sammy said, "I can do it. I'm not really tired."

Cap pressed her lips into a line and nodded.

"I get the bathroom first," Bones said, mock-saluting the group.

"It's kinda nasty in there," Angel said while she slid some bags under the bed. "Don't step on any needles."

Bones scoffed and shut the door behind herself. It stuck for a second before she slammed it the rest of the way from the inside. Sammy chuckled to herself and pulled an old ratty chair out of the corner and angled it towards the door. It creaked as she sat in it and pulled her legs up beneath her. Cap clicked a full magazine into a gun and extended it towards Sammy. She took it.

"Don't be afraid to wake us," Cap said.

"I know," Sammy smiled. She adjusted herself in the chair.

"I'll go second," Cap added, glancing towards Angel. "Third?"

"Sure, but Bones hates last watch," Angel said.

Cap shrugged and made her way to the far side of the room where she had dropped her stuff. Sammy turned back to the crooked door and settled back into the old chair. It was decently comfortable. Not nearly comfortable enough that she would fall asleep on it, but at least her back wouldn't be hurting before her shift ended. She traced a finger along the handgun and wondered what Lee was doing. Was he sleeping? Was he angry?

It didn't matter. It wouldn't matter until she found Bee. She could only deal with one problem at a time.

Angel sat down on the other bed and lifted up her pant leg. She massaged her thigh for a moment and some hair flicked over her face, separating her from the rest of the room. She took off the prosthetic and set it against the end of the bed before she started to shift herself backwards. Sammy bit the inside of her cheek but kept her eyes trained forward on the door. Through the wall she heard the shower start up.

"You can ask," Angel said, sitting back against the headboard, which rocked against her weight. "It's alright."

Sammy glanced over at her and sighed.

"Does it hurt?" She asked.

"Funny question," she said with an amused huff, tucking the loose strands of hair behind her ear. "They call it phantom limb pain. I feel it, I swear I do, but… Well, my leg isn't there to feel it anymore. Not physically. So it's in my head, I guess. Psychosomatic."

"If the pain is real to you, it's not really fake then, is it?" Sammy said, her voice low as Cap's breathing began to even out and get heavier.

"I guess so," Angel said thoughtfully, resting her head back.

"I think…" Sammy started, turning and looking back at the door. "I think pain is always in our head, you know? That's where it's born. That's where it lives. It just infects everything else."

Angel hummed and the shower turned off in the other room.

"She really tries," Angel said quickly. "It just makes me feel more helpless than anything."

Sammy looked over at her again and was about to speak when the bathroom door was yanked open with a bang. Cap jumped from her sleep.

"What happened?" She asked.

"Nothing, just this cheap old place is all," Bones said, rubbing the top of her head dry with a white towel. "Anybody else gonna shower?"

"Not yet," Angel said, settling down and looking up at the ceiling. "You got last watch."

"Last-" Bones said, dropping the towel down on the edge of the bed and holding her arms out. "I hate last watch!"

Angel rolled her eyes but her lips spread into a smile. She pat the bed beside herself. "Get some sleep then. You'll need it."

Bones groaned but climbed into bed anyway. Sammy smiled to herself and thought of Lee again. She wished they could go on missions and be like Angel and Bones, but he was always so scared- so protective. The Expendables hardly ever let her in the field, anyway. She took their calls. Scheduled things. She was a glorified and over-qualified secretary.

The light flicked off, but Sammy could still see from the dim lights that shone through the window. The blinds, as they discovered when they first arrived, were broken. She could see the stars- much more numerous there without all the light pollution of the city- and kept the gun tucked firmly in her hand as she settled in to keep watch. She felt close to Bee. Maybe, like Angel said, it was psychosomatic. Maybe Sammy just felt Bee near her because she needed to, like a phantom limb. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe Bee was actually close. Maybe Sammy would find her soon and this would all be over- all the lying and sneaking and hoping would be done. Maybe she would sleep well at night. Maybe Lee would forgive her.

A pair of headlights shimmered and blurred through the glass of the window and pulled Sammy back from her thoughts. She heard Cap falling back asleep on the far side of the room and either Bones or Angel rolled over in the bed closest to her.

—-

A pair of headlights shone through the window and Sammy squinted against the sudden brightness. The glare made it hard to see, but it dissipated quickly as the car turned into a parking spot. The lights stayed on for a moment, reflecting off the worn stone of the building. Sammy stood and wrapped her arms around herself as she moved quietly to the window to peek out. The car was still, and there was nobody outside. She couldn't tell if there was someone inside of it from the glare, so she just settled in and waited until the headlights clicked off and her eyes could adjust.

Beyond the hotel, leading into the jungle, which wasn't so dense yet, it was dark. So dark that just looking out into it set her on edge. She wondered if Bee was out there somewhere and made a silent promise to get her out and back into the light. Sammy knew that the further away they would go from the hotel, the thicker and more dense the jungle would become. The darker it would get at night, and the brighter the stars would be. She tucked some loose short hair behind her ear and leaned against the chipped window frame, squinting as she focused back on the car.

The lights clicked off and it took a moment for her eyes to adjust. A middle-aged man stepped out of the drivers side, the back of his head towards her. He was balding in the back and his scalp was tan, thought not quite as tan as his forearms and shoulders. He was wearing an old off-white tank top and scratched at his white stubble, which looked fresh and unshaved. He bounced his keys in his hand and headed towards the office, a small duffel bag hanging from his opposite hand near his knee. He locked the car behind him and the headlights flashed once before they died down and faded, swallowed by the darkness and the dim overhead lights of the hotel that pushed back against the night. Sammy sighed and let her head fall against the window frame. She still had a little while to go on her watch shift, but she was growing tired of being alone with her thoughts. After a second she pulled herself up and went for the door, opening it slowly and quietly before she slipped out into the fresh muggy air.

There were cigarette butts along the uneven walkway between the rooms. The walls were chipped and dully colored, so she thought that maybe once this place was nice. Maybe it was vibrant, clean, and put-together. Some of the windows had rusty bars over them, the doors water damaged and crooked like the one to the room the women were staying in. The trash bins were mostly empty, but the ashtrays beside them were full. Sammy heard the distant muted sounds of the jungle and drew in a breath. The sky was clear and bright, alight with more stars than she would ever see in New Orleans. She could see through the glass door to the office where the man who had driven up was leaning against the counter, his bag dropped near his ankles and arms folded up in front of himself on the desk. There was a little old lady behind the desk who looked tired but sweet, and who Sammy hadn't seen when they checked in; they must've switched shifts. It made her think of her grandmother, who she hadn't really given much thought to since losing Riley. She had been small like the little old lady behind the counter, though her hair was not quite as silvery. She always wore it in a similar style, though; pulled back and brushed into a neat bun that rested just on the back of her head. She had smile lines and crow's feet and lips that folded in towards her teeth slightly from the wear and tear of age and use. Thinking about her made Sammy feel warm, her heart leaping sightly inside of her chest. When she died, Sammy felt like she had to become a grown-up. Like she was alone in the world and had to fend for herself. She had watched her get sick, her hands that once kneaded dough and washed her hair getting thinner and more frail by the day. Her steps, once quick and energetic, were slow and lethargic until she could no longer get out of bed.

Sammy closed her eyes as she felt that familiar rush of tears coming on. Her life was built upon a lot of personal tragedy, but so were a lot of other people's- why had she turned out this way? An artist turned bartender turned tattoo artist turned mercenary? How did she go from that house with her grandmother in upstate New York to a sketchy motel in Mexico with guns hidden under the beds?

A tear slipped from her eye and she hurried to wipe it away. The man walked out of the office and the old woman was closing the door behind the desk as she retreated back to her privacy- and probably sleep. She was wearing a nightgown, the kind with the square cut around the neck and short, straight sleeves. Sammy wouldn't've been surprised if she was wearing slippers, too. The man walked by and offered Sammy a clipped, curt nod before making his way down to his room. The key was in the same hand that was carrying the small duffel. He struggled for a minute before he knocked the door in and disappeared into the room. Sammy watched the door for a few minutes after he had closed it behind him.

She made a mental note of his room number and turned back to her own room. She was as quiet as she could possible be, the floor creaking and door sticking to the frame from its rusted hinges and water damage. She wondered if they would all get sick from mold before they even had a chance to go get Bee back.

Everybody was still fast asleep. Bones had rolled over and pulled Angel close, one arm draped protectively and comfortingly over her chest. Angels fingers wrapped around her forearm and her head was nestled in towards Bones'.

Sammy sat back down in her chair and sighed. It was quiet again, dark. The only sounds were the team breathing as they slept. It made her a little tired. She decided she didn't have long to go and forced her eyes open, her fingers hovering near the gun on the arm of the chair beside her.

—-

"There's an art show and auction at a renovated hacienda. That's gotta be it," Luna said, leaning in the doorway of the cockpit and steadying herself as the plane bounced over a patch of turbulence. Lee kept his eyes forward, his jaw hard and locked. He hadn't said a word to Barney since take-off, which was roughly an hour ago. Most of the guys had been quiet, with only a few whispered conversations cropping up in the back.

Barney glanced over at Lee and pressed his lips together. He looked back out the front of the plane at the vast sky ahead of them, deep in darkness while the horizon glowed softly.

"You're welcome," Luna grunted from behind them. Barney sighed.

"Thanks, Luna," he said. "We're less than two hours out. Tell the guys, would you?"

"On it," she said, but her eyes were on the back of Lee's head. He could feel her watching, her stiff figure burning against his back.

Barney glanced over his shoulder and followed her eyes to Lee. He shook his head.

"It's a nonstarter," he said, flicking the altimeter. The gauge wobbled slightly and then steadied itself out. "Trust me. I've been trying."

"I'm just thinking about how getting to Sammy would be easier if he could get his knickers out of a bunch," Luna said, uncrossing her arms and bracing herself on two feet as the plane shook again.

"Lee Christmas always has his knickers in a bunch," Barney said with a chuckle. "But you've got a point. If we're not all on the same page, this mission will be a whole lot harder."

Lee rolled his eyes and clenched his jaw. His back was stiff from sitting still but he didn't move. If he focused on his own thoughts hard enough, he could tune out Luna and Barney. He'd done it before. The only problem was that now his thoughts were filled with images of Sammy dying- maybe he'd find her that way, pale and lifeless, or maybe he'd walk in just as the life left her eyes. Maybe he'd see her fighting and watch as she got hit one too many times before he had a chance to do anything about it. Maybe a bullet would come flying out from behind a car and hit her in just the right spot. In his mind, she never died quickly. He could see the bright red blood paint her lips, spattering out over her clothes. He could see the pain in her eyes, the fear, and it made his body tense and spasm. He had to squeeze his eyes shut so hard that his brain would rattle just to get the picture out of his mind. Even then it didn't always work.

This time, in his mind, as he ignored Barney and Luna jabbing at him, he saw a throwing blade instead of a bullet. It stuck in her gut and she wrapped her hands around it- the same hands that held his, that crafted beautiful works of art, that were uniquely and solely hers. They would get covered with her blood as it oozed from the wound in her belly. She fell to her knees and tried to talk, but blood dripped her mouth in viscous strings. It didn't take long until she was doubled over on the ground and tangled around the blade, a pool of blood forming beneath her and leaking out to the space around her. Lee shook his head and pressed on his eyes to try and clear the image away, which worked to an extent- every few seconds another haunting picture would flash across his eyelids but they became fewer and further between the harder he focused on the nothingness instead.

"The hell are you doing, Christmas?" Barney asked, staring at him sidelong with one brow raised quizzically above the other.

Lee curled his lips and grunted. He didn't want to talk about how he saw Sammy die every few minutes on repeat, like a record scratching and changing its sounds over and over again until it was so mangled nobody could identify the music. He didn't want to talk at all, because he knew he would admit that he was wrong, and he wasn't ready to face it. Working with the Expendables was so much easier than anything he went through with Sammy. If Barney did something stupid, Lee could tell him without any fear. If the guys had a plan Lee didn't agree with, he could explain why and not care if they got insulted. But the problem was that he did care about how his words and actions made Sammy feel. He cared a whole lot more about how she was physically, since she could survive a few harsh words much easier than a bullet wound.

"Look, Lee," Barney said, glancing backwards to make sure nobody was listening in. "She's gonna be okay. She strong. She's tough."

Lee huffed and chewed on the inside of his cheek. He couldn't take back his initial response to the situation. He couldn't take back his denial of her instincts, and she couldn't take back leaving the Expendables behind.

"If there's ever a next time, maybe we just try listening," Barney said thoughtfully, watching the clouds whizz by the windows.

"There won't be a next time," Lee snapped. The suddenness of his own voice threw him off, like something deep within him had spoken, something entirely separate from himself.

"There's always gonna be a next time," Barney said, running his fingers back through his hair. "That's the life. She's in it, you're in it, I'm in it. We're all in it."

Lee bit down hard on his tongue just in case he tried to lash out again. If there was gonna be a next time, how would he ever retire? Have a family? Settle down?

He couldn't. He wouldn't. Just like Barney and Tool and every other poor old bastard Lee had met "in the business," he would rot and waste alone with a cold blackened heart, a beer in one hand and a knife in the other.

"Yup," Barney said through a huff. "There's always gonna be a next time. Always. Ain't nowhere to run when the world is your war zone. I might've left Vietnam, but Vietnam never left me."

"Poetic," Lee growled, wishing he had headphones or something to drown out the sound of Barney's voice.

Barney looked at him and shook his head.

"Bleak British bastard," he grumbled, reaching into his pocket for a cigar. He put it between his lips and patted the rest of his pockets for his lighter.

Lee reached forward into the console and picked up the silver skull lighter before he tossed it to Barney. They shared a look but didn't say anything more. They didn't need to.

What was Lee if not Expendable, anyway? In every aspect of his life, the label seemed to ring true. Maybe some people were just made to be like him and Barney while others were made to be normal. Maybe at some point in his life he had made a decision that lead him down this road and now he was too far along to go back. There was nothing behind him but the echoing remnants of bloodshed. His boots were stained with it, and they left footprints behind him as he continued on through life. He couldn't track that mess down another road, and he could never clean it all up.

Barney puffed on his cigar and thought about Lucie, a vague nostalgic cloud settling over him. It wasn't a heavy one like usual. It was light, easy. He could wade through it without sinking. It was getting easier to move. Maybe she hadn't been trying to drag him down into the past this whole time; maybe she'd just been holding his hand. Pulling him along. Keeping him company.

—-

Luna sat back on her seat on the bench with a sigh and scrolled through the info on her phone one last time before she clicked it off and tossed it on top of her bag. Toll was wearing his glasses, entranced by whatever book he was reading. Luna watched him curiously and wondered how he could focus on reading when one of his friends was probably in trouble.

His eyes, though, weren't moving along the page. In fact, Luna didn't think she'd seen him turn the page once since they got in the air. She dropped her eyes down to the floor so he wouldn't notice her staring. He didn't like being stared at, she realized.

Caesar, also, had been asleep across the bench near the cockpit. She was irritated before about how he could sleep so easily given the situation, but really she saw his eyes squeeze and flinch every few seconds and his breathing was uneven and sharp. He wasn't sleeping. He couldn't sleep.

Yin was the only one that didn't care to put on any sort of mask for his pain. He was frowning down at the ground, his brows knitted at the center of his forehead. He looked up and noticed Luna staring.

"You, too?" He asked.

She nodded.

He looked back down at the floor. She wondered what he was thinking but she didn't ask. She didn't ask what any of them were thinking. At first glance they seemed fine, but years of training had taught them to do that and be good at it. When she really looked, she could see how worried they were. How troubled.

She was troubled too, she realized. Just like them, her body rounded itself off and fell into her usual routine. She seemed fine on the outside. She knew she wasn't.

—-

The sun slithered through the slit in the curtains and shed a bright dagger of light down on the dirty floor of the room. The morning was orange and pink on the horizon, blanketed in a soft layer of hazy clouds. The rest of the room was dark and dressed in shadow. Everything was fuzzy and muted. There was a phone on the floor, haphazardly tossed aside and forgotten about that was lighting up every few seconds with a gentle buzz. The screen was decorated in notifications, all unnoticed.

The bed was unkempt and ragged. The sheets were sweat-stained and wrinkled, strewn about the mattress without any ounce of organization. The fitted sheet was stretched away from one corner so that it covered just half of the bed on a diagonal. The comforter hung half-off the bed and rested in a lump on the floor. There was a body half underneath it, naked with feet dangling off the edge. The pillows were on the floor, thrown away just like the phone had been. On the nightstand were a few empty liquor bottles and the remnants of some powder at their bases.

The dagger of light grew more intense as a hazy bubble of clouds passed over it. It stretched over the bed and over the closed eyes of Gunner Jensen, who was fast asleep with his mouth hanging open, sweaty tufts of blonde hair tangled over his forehead. His eyes twitched hard as the light flickered over top of them, his forehead wrinkling as a snore caught in his throat. He clapped his dried out lips together and frowned. He was covered in a film of slimy sweat that gleamed against the dagger of light as it faded back down to the floor where it had been before, hidden behind the translucent veil of the morning clouds. He groaned and reached up a hand to cover his eyes again, but now he was all too aware of the buzzing coming from somewhere on the floor. He groaned again, this time louder, and ripped open his eyes and squinted despite the muted darkness.

Sweat bubbled on his upper lip and he flicked out his dry tongue to lick it up. It was salty and tasted like a bad trip. He winced away from it, confused, when a sharp, stabbing headache knocked into him with all the force of one of Barney's planes. He gripped the sides of his head and squeezed his hair between his fingers, desperately searching for relief from the compounding pressure within his own head. It didn't work.

He made to move to open his bedside table for painkillers, but the movement reminded his body of everything it had been trying to sweat out as he slept. He doubled over on the edge of the bed and vomited with a force that knocked him onto his knees, the comforter falling from around his waist and landing completely on the floor. There was an outline of sweat from where he had been sleeping, the sheet now balled up in his clenched fist as he heaved out all of his regrets. Tears stung at his eyes as he tried to swallow, his throat burning from the acid and bile. He frowned and braced himself against the ground atop the splattered mess, waiting to see if the worst had passed or if he was in the clear. He drew in deep, focused breaths and concentrated on not passing out. He felt dehydrated and ill. He wondered if he had anymore gatorades left in the fridge, but the thought of standing up and walking sent another wave of nausea coursing through his body. He dry heaved for a second before he fell back onto his side against the bed and propped his arm up on his knee while his other hand ran through his drenched, greasy hair. He was wearing nothing but a pair of boxers which were soaked through with sweat. At least, he hoped that was all it was. It was uncomfortable regardless.

He heard the phone buzz again and sighed. Even the muted sound was far too loud in his head, echoing like he was locked in a deep cave. He groaned again but flinched against it. His throat was scratchy and hoarse and he pressed his hand against it. He saw the mess on his nightstand, though most of the day and night before was a blur. He was missing time. He looked forward at his feet, bare and pale and boney, and tried to stop the room from spinning while he thought hard about what might've happened. He was hurt, sad, confused, so he turned to the only thing he could keep constant. He'd done it before. He knew the story. The specifics were gone, though, just like every time before. He dropped his head to his hands and his shoulders bounced as he tried to breathe through the nausea and disappointment.

After a few minutes, or maybe an hour- he couldn't tell- he lifted his head and looked through he curtains at the shimmering light coming through. He couldn't see the outside because of how bright the light was compared to the dark room, but he squinted and tried anyway. He pressed his lips together, the dry skin sticking to itself. It pinched uncomfortably. His phone buzzed again, which he had forgotten about already since it had gone quiet for a second. He turned his head slowly, noticing a stiff pain in his neck, and looked at it on the floor across the messy room. His clothes were thrown about between the pillows that never made it to his bed. There were a few more empty bottles that had rolled towards the walls. Some broken glass. A bit of blood stained the carpet- he looked down at his hand and realized that his palm was sliced open, closed now from dried and clotted blood. He must've thrown or broken a bottle. He dropped his head back against the bed and sniffed. He'd have to clean and wrap that to avoid infection, especially because he couldn't remember a damn thing he did in the last day or two. His brain was foggy. He felt like he was outside of himself, watching the wreck take place in third person. His phone buzzed again and he hissed in a pained breath as he made his way to his hands and knees, his joints cracking and sore and swollen. He crawled towards his phone, still nauseous and spinning, and took it in his hand before he dropped his head to the ground to steady himself again. He felt it buzz in his hand this time, and after a moment, he pulled himself to his feet and slowly stacked his body up towards standing. His spine was stiff and cracked as he straightened himself. He was unsteady, swaying like a seasick sailor on a stormy sea. The floor was slipping out from under him. He stumbled groggily back to his bed and dropped himself down, closing his eyes to avoid vomiting again. He rubbed his eyes and looked down at his phone screen, where a small red battery was lit up in the top right corner, reminding him that his battery was low and probably going to die soon.

His screen was covered in notifications. He had to scroll to see them all. Missed calls, texts, emails- none of them from Sammy, which made his heart twitch. He suddenly remembered himself calling her, though he couldn't place when it was exactly. His hands shook as he examined the screen.

Voicemails from Toll, Tool, and Barney. Texts from each of the Expendables, including Yang, who hardly ever reached out to him outside of jobs for work. Emails from Barney, a few from Toll. The most recents were texts and calls from Tool, which had started in the dark, early hours of the morning and continued pretty regularly until now. Gunner groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd missed something big, it seemed. Something they needed him for.

And he let them down.

He fell backwards against the bed and looked up at the ceiling. He knew that ceiling well. He'd stared at it blankly countless times before. He'd seen his life play out up there, projected from his psyche to the uneven popcorn above. Every moment from the brutal sting of his father's hand to his first kiss to his first time meeting Barney to deciding to be sober around a year ago- and now, joining all of that, was him relapsing and covering his carpet in vomit with no memory of the last few days- however long it had been- of his life. He had the kind of life that was fun to watch play out but not to participate in. This was just another reason why.

His phone started to vibrate in his hand again and he lifted it to see who it was. Tool, again. He swiped across the screen and put the sound on speaker so it wouldn't hurt his head too much.

"Hello?" He asked, his voice deep with sleep and abuse.

"Jesus, Gunner, I thought you went and killed yourself!" Tool yelled, and Gunner had to pull the phone violently back from the pain it sent through his head. After a second he took a breath and brought it closer again.

"Why? I'm fine."

"You're a liar, and a bad one at that," Tool said. "But that's not the point. The point is that we need you, so where the hell are you? You need me to scrape you up off the floor? Bail you out of jail?"

Gunner glanced towards the nightstand and saw the mess again. He sighed. He definitely wasn't gonna get his security deposit back.

"No, I'm good," he said. "What happened?"

"Christ, Gunner," Tool said. "It ain't good, is what. And neither are you. Don't pull that crap on me. I know better."

Gunner closed his eyes and waited. He didn't wanna speak. He really just wanted to sleep or sit at the bottom of a cold, harsh shower.

"You there, brother?"

Gunner grunted in response. He kept his eyes closed. "Is it something with Sammy?"

It was Tool's turn to be quiet on the other end of the line for a second. The silence sobered Gunner up more than the vomiting had, and he sat himself up, though the world was still spinning around him. He just felt more prepared to deal with it.

"It's everyone," Tool said, and Gunner could hear him pacing back and forth. "I got a bad feeling."

"I'll- I'll meet you at the shop-" Gunner said, rubbing his eyes again. "Gotta shower, get dressed-"

"We don't got the time. I'll pick you up at your place."

Tool hung up and Gunner stared down at his phone for a long minute. Then, like a good soldier, he pulled himself up to his feet and trudged through the mud of his mistakes, towards the bathroom, where he would try to wash away the pain. He could scrub his whole life and it would never go away, but that didn't mean he'd stop trying.

He looked at himself in the mirror as the water ran in the shower beside him. His eyes were bloodshot, his face was pale. His lips were chapped and torn. He had dried up blood smeared along one side of his face, probably from his hand when he cut it. The muscles in his shoulders and chest tensed with every sickening breath he forced. He was broad, muscular, and tall. He looked unwell. He thought about self-medicating and his mouth watered, like a man dying of thirst seeing a cold cup of water.

No, that wasn't right, he thought. He was more like a drowning man seeing a cup of water and thinking yes, more.

It was stupid. He pulled aside the curtain to the shower and climbed in. The water hurt against his skin, tender and sensitive from his binge. He watched it flow towards the drain, pale pink as the dried blood from his hand chipped away. His hair fell flat against his face, over his eyes, and he looked down through slits in his vision, like bars of a prison of his own creation. He still felt sick.

He wondered what the rest of the messages from the guys said. What any of it meant. How he would help. He was only as good as the team that had his back, and if they'd gone without him, what did that make him? Alone, again? Not good enough? He wasn't a lone wolf. He needed a pack he trusted to watch his six.

He turned and let the water run down his back. It was starting to feel good. It trickled over his scars, old and new, and he let out a breath that finally didn't hurt.

Who was he without his team? Were they alright? Could he actually help them?

He closed his eyes and let himself sink into the spray. That was all he could do. That, and not let Tool into his bedroom to see the mess. Hopefully the rest of his apartment was decently presentable- meaning no drugs or booze anywhere in sight.

The rest of the morning was quiet. The light still stepped in, not quite welcome, but not unwelcome either. It was a bright white patch on the floor, just waiting to be accepted so it could spread out and fill in the grayness. It slipped from the dainty morning horizon all the way to Gunner's bedroom. That journey wouldn't be for nothing.

He'd let it in eventually.