Author's Note: Honest to God, I forgot what chapter this was on. And then I had a minor coronary thinking I had misplaced at least one chapter, but alas, no. Just terrible record keeping skills. Sorry for the delay on this one - it's largely expository, and I think it's going to be the last one told in "line". I don't actually like graphic descriptions of torture as it's happening, so much of the remainder is going to be either glossed over (I would recommend reading Chapters 10/11 of Running Up That Hill if you want to know what I mean). Anyway - much thanks to blazeofobscurity, who listens to me bitch and moan about poor life choices and gaelicspirit who forever puts me in awe with her stories and all her help with this. All mistakes are mine.

"I can't believe you passed out like a girl," Rick grumbled, handing off the meager share of his food. "You damn near gave us a heart attack."

He ignored the way that Thomas inhaled the bread, hardly pausing to chew. Just like he tried not to stare at the few missing fingernails, partially regrown over raw nerve beds, the awkward bend of his left pinky finger from improperly healed bones, or the varying shades of bruising that ranged from dark, almost black to faded jaundiced yellow.

And those were only the visible injuries.

The first night came and went with no further decline on Magnum's part. Nuzo warned them that they had to keep an eye on him in case his temperature dropped back down again over the next few days before his body remembered how to maintain the status quo for core temperatures, though it could take longer without the proper treatment and foods necessary to bring his glucose back up.

True to form, however, Thomas acted like it was no big deal, even as he huddled between Nuzo and TC like an injured bird someone fished out of a gutter while he continued to shiver on and off.

Their captors did however prove Thomas's theory that they didn't want him dead, because instead of water, their meals had tea. Strong, sugary black tea that was sweet enough a hummingbird might develop diabetes from it. At first, Thomas protested all three of them giving him their share - that wasn't fair, he said, he would be fine eventually and they all needed to keep their strength up and going twenty four hours without hydrating would be bad for anyone.

Nuzo had fixed him with his unblinking Dad stare and shoved the primitive cup at his friend. "We didn't spend a night in the freezing rain, you numb-nut. Could you possibly dredge up slightly more concern for your survival than the Taliban is currently showing?"

Begrudgingly, Thomas accepted the cup, making a point to glare over the wooden rim at the chief. At least, until he got his first taste of the hot tea and would've chugged it in one scalding gulp if TC hadn't reached over and tilted it back.

"Small sips. It has to last, and you're going to burn your mouth."

The small, desperate whine that escaped Thomas's lips at the sudden absence of the tea, the way he reflexively reached for it even as TC held it out of his reach and the raw want in those dark, expressive eyes of his made Rick want to rip the cup out of TC's hands and give it back and tear TC a new one for being so callous.

But he knew TC was right.

He shifted so his hands were safely underneath his arms to resist the almost overpowering urge. Just to be safe.

The first few days were spent in relative silence. Thomas was hardly awake enough to notice, and the others were too relieved to have their friend back - if not healthy, at least whole - to try and come up with white noise conversation filler.

They took turns keeping one eye on Thomas and another on the door, no one managing a decent sleep except the lieutenant in his bone-deep exhaustion.

That was Nuzo's theory on why he'd passed out again so soon after waking - between lack of sleep, the intense shivering in the freezing cold, and just the sheer relief of finally being back with his teammates and assured that yes, they were all alive and together again caused an all systems failure for Thomas…like an adrenaline crash.

"You gotta figure what being that tense for that long is gonna do to a person," Nuzo pointed out. "And then to suddenly not have it…well." He'd gestured to the unconscious Magnum. "Happens to the best of us."

"Is he still in danger?" TC asked. "We covered cold weather rescue for like...two days and a PowerPoint, and I can't say I remember much of it beyond it's bad."

"As long as we keep him warm and dry, he should be okay. Besides. It's Thomas. You really think a little cold water is gonna be what does in Magnum? We saw him get thrown from a crashing helicopter and he was the least injured out of all of us. I don't know who that kid made a deal with, but whoever it was seems to be holding up their end of the bargain."

Rick tried not to think about the disaster that was his first mission as Thomas's Overwatch. He hadn't had much in the way of experience with SEALs, not firsthand. Marines and Navy rarely overreached during missions and centuries long tradition of hating each other kept most at arms length from each other, even back on base. Rick had plenty of experience keeping people away from him even before the Marines, but Thomas didn't seem to take the hint.

It hadn't helped that Nuzo and TC hit it off almost instantly, and TC was less opposed to being friends with the walking ray of sunshine that was Thomas Magnum, which just made Rick all the more determined to hate the guy.

It wasn't until after their haywire mission that'd gone to Hell six ways from Sunday that Rick finally understood Thomas Sullivan Magnum. That his relaxed and affable nature wasn't an act, and that he would bend over backwards to help anyone - anyone - regardless of whether or not he was supposed to. That he never bothered with anyone's past, and never offered his own, because as far as he was concerned, here and now was all that mattered. That for seeming generally oblivious, the younger man missed nothing.

And for all that easy going 'rain is just another kind of good weather' attitude, it hid a seriously terrifying alter ego.

Rick had to admire the way that Thomas blatantly ignored every higher ups' specific orders to do as he was told with a lofty dismissal of 'I have selective hearing, you know that' and a bold faced lie to never do it again that no one ever believed.

Thomas changed back into his uniform as soon as it was dry enough to wear, returning the borrowed clothes to their original owners with a thankful smile. The warmth of the fire in the middle of the ring of cages did a fair job drying out the quick wicking material, even though Thomas protested that now he smelled like a burnt marshmallow thanks to the smoke.

Nuzo pointed out a burnt marshmallow was better than wet dog, and Thomas was hard pressed to disagree, and in true Thomas fashion, smirked through tattered lips and pointed out that he was the only one who'd had a bath in recent times, so score one for him.

"It was an emotional moment for me," Thomas snarked around the mouthful of bread. "And who knew hypothermia was so exhausting?"

His voice rasped and clicked from lack of use. At least, that was what Rick told himself, even if he knew it was a lie.

"I did," Nuzo interjected, holding up a finger. "And if your brain hadn't been scrambled from what I can only guess is one of many concussions, you would've remembered too."

Thomas waved a hand dismissively, hissing slightly when he moved too sharply, though he didn't seem to notice. "Doubt it. This is why I have you…for the important things."

Rick noticed the wince. And he could tell the others did too, but they said nothing. Thomas hardly needed the reminder of his newest scars.

It wasn't like they could do anything about his injuries, anyway. And if Rick had learned one thing over the years with Thomas, the only ones allowed to fuss were Mama Magnum and Lara Nuzo.

"They weren't going to kill me." Thomas brushed off their concerns with an aborted shoulder shrug. "Not yet, anyway."

The other three shared a look. Magnum's method of gathering intel was effective, if not brutal and self-destructive and the cause of premature graying in his friends.

Rick always wondered exactly what'd happened in Thomas's past that made him a SEAL team of one - plus oversight in the form of Nuzo, his former Coronado instructor. It was hard to imagine the slight lieutenant with an easy smile and empathy for days as one of the stone-faced and eerily Terminator-esque members of the elite Teams, and when Rick first met him, he'd already been alone. Nuzo hadn't offered any intel, one way or another, and TC was just as much in the dark as Rick.

There were things they could guess at, though, and bored military personnel were a rampant rumor mill. It couldn't have been something Thomas did, because despite being a resident problem child and thorn in the side of everyone who thought their rank was their identity, he was given free reign on pretty much everything. No one batted an eye when Thomas took a liking to two Marines - one of which was perpetually on the outs with everyone - and MacGyvered his own team out of spare pieces and broken parts. No one questioned why the CIA used him almost exclusively for missions better suited to their own agents than military members, or how a journalist became attached to him somewhere in Iraq and then never left.

"You got something for us?"

Thomas glanced past TC's shoulder to the other cages, weighing the consequences of being overheard to keeping his friends in the dark. "TC?"

The pilot shook his head. "The last thing any of them are is sympathetic to the Taliban."

Thomas worked his jaw for a moment, still debating. But TC's people assessment was rarely ever wrong. Thomas always saw the best in others, while Rick always saw the worst, and Nuzo was too busy trying to keep them all from getting sent to the brig that he always erred on the side of caution. TC, on the other hand, saw what was - unbiased, and without judgment.

"They're after Robin," Thomas finally admitted.

"You get any idea why, or are all these bruises just for show?" Nuzo asked.

Thomas didn't speak right away, and Rick could see the gears turning a mile a minute behind those dark eyes.

Thomas might be the master of 'winging it', but he was smarter than he usually let on. Obscure intelligence gathering was his specialty for a reason. Where others just saw dots on a map, Thomas saw Seurat - the intricacies of the pattern and how the dots came together for the big picture, and the freakish accuracy he could predict when and where they were going to find their next target even before consulting with Hannah.

"There's no reason they would want one specific journalist. Robin's a decent writer, but he's not exactly Anderson Cooper. He's not a household name that would bring more publicity to their cause. And if they have us for ransom, it wouldn't matter if they had Robin anyway. We're worth more, bargaining wise. Four of us, one of him…" Thomas trailed off, absently picking at one of the scabs on his hand even as Nuzo reached a hand out to stop him. He hardly seemed to notice. "The only reason they would need someone specific is if they needed specific intelligence. And they shot Robin in the back, so they clearly don't need him alive - they want him dead. Which means Robin went and fucking stuck his nose somewhere he shouldn't have."

Rick pointed out, "He does have a tendency to wander off with the villagers. And he's not always with us when we leave the FOB."

"Didn't he take a few rides with Wert and Academi?" TC asked.

Thomas nodded, his gaze a thousand miles away. Like a duck on a pond, Lara used to say. Calm on the surface, but just beneath that…

"What are the odds that us being captured and them trying to kill Robin are two totally separate incidents?" said Rick. "Because I gotta say, getting shot out of the sky was kind of a miracle survival."

"Surviving was likely an accident. They took a chance at which helicopter Robin was in. They had enough people on the ground no one was going to escape, but I think once they realized Masters wasn't with us, that's why we weren't shot on the mountain. They want to know where Robin is, which means they don't know. They either didn't see where Charlie went, or whatever intel network they use doesn't know where he was taken."

"Do they even know he was shot?" Rick asked.

Again, Thomas shrugged. "Maybe? In which case, they may not know that with severe injuries and as a civilian, he would've been stabilized at a field hospital and then flown to Germany. Wherever he is, he isn't here."

The group was quiet for a long moment, considering the information.

Rick broke the silence. "Not to be a Debbie Downer, but if they want Robin and we don't have him…what does that mean for us?"

Thomas didn't look him in the eye as he leaned back, and carefully ignored the question. "They knew where we would be. They knew when. They knew the most likely exits, and they knew everything. It was a last minute decision by Greene for us to even go. Robin wasn't even scheduled to go until Greene assigned us."

Nuzo cursed in Italian.

"You don't think Greene…" Rick didn't want to finish the question. "I mean, I know we're not his favorite people, but I feel like this is a little extreme for teaching us a lesson."

TC shook his head. "He might not like us, but the last thing he is is a traitor."

"Besides, think about who Masters might've pissed off, not just us. Who do you know that has their sticky fingers in a bunch of honey pots?" Nuzo pointed out. "It's not entirely a joke that Academi and Wert know more about our movements than we do. The CIA is another. Not everyone is Hannah, and it wouldn't be the first time they went and did something with a local warlord without telling anyone."

"Do you know anything else that he was working on?" TC asked Thomas.

Again, Thomas shook his head. "Not really. He's working on a book, and that's about all I know, except given what he's normally asking me about is past missions of ours, and nothing to do with the current country we're in."

Something abruptly occurred to Rick. "Uh, Thomas? Did you and Rob ever discuss your theory on all those attacks being by one guy?"

Thomas looked at him, slightly bewildered, as if he'd completely forgotten the side intelligence that consumed him day and night for the last six months - which, to be fair, he still wasn't completely with it after weeks of solitude and torture - and in slow motion, Rick watched as realization hit like a freight train. What little color in his cheeks he'd gotten back drained so fast Rick was a little surprised he didn't pass out again.

Thomas swore. Violently. He moved to stand but just as quickly Nuzo caught him by the back of his shirt before he could hit his head on the low ceiling he was always forgetting about. "Robin was with us every fucking mission Jahangir took responsibility for. Every single one of them - where the hell was he when we stopped for Soraya? Did you see where he went? Who he was talking to?"

Shit. That seemed like a lifetime ago. "No. I was too busy saving your ass to keep an eye on anything else."

TC made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. "When I found him, he was way back on the street, closer to Academi's Suburbans, but he was alone. Didn't say what he was up to, or what he was taking pictures of, but whatever it was, he sat looking through them for the rest of the ride back to base."

"Breathe, Thomas," Nuzo chided lightly. He didn't release the hold he had on the back of Magnum's shirt.

"No, no, just listen - think for a second," Thomas snapped. "What the hell would anyone want with a random journalist, except if that journalist happened to have the only proof a ghost was real? Maybe Jahingir wasn't at every attack, but maybe he's just like any other psychopath - likes to come and watch the damage if he thinks it's going to be big enough. Or, even if Jahingir wasn't there himself, then maybe Robin managed to find a link between the attacks. Something or someone in the crowd, a familiar face or…" he stopped abruptly.

"Or?" TC prompted.

"They showed me a photograph of me and Robin. I have no idea when it was taken, but if I had to guess, it wasn't from too far away. It wasn't heavily pixelated like something small blown up, so it was probably a normal telephoto like Robin carries around - maybe 50 yards, max."

Nuzo sucked in a breath, and TC's lips pressed together in a thin, bloodless line.

"You mean it was someone who was near enough you could see them, but you didn't notice them," Rick said. "Which means…"

"We have seen them before," Thomas snarled. "We had a fucking spy right next to us, and didn't notice a goddamned thing."

"Well, maybe, but Thomas…think about what that means for you. You go everywhere with Robin. Well, almost everywhere. Anyone who could be that close, who would know enough about our missions that they would know where we were going, even last minute…"

Thomas didn't even hear him, as he grabbed whole fistfuls of hair, suddenly doubling over on himself as if to make himself as small as possible. "I'm sorry," Thomas blurted out. "Shit, guys, I am so fucking sorry about this, we're here because of me, if I'd paid closer attention, if I hadn't been so fucking distracted then maybe-"

"Hey!" Rick kicked Magnum's leg - not hard, but forceful enough that he managed to stop the self-recriminating panic before it could really get going. "That's not what I meant! This isn't on you, you didn't put us here. And don't you ever let me hear you trying to convince us otherwise, capisce?"

"But -"

"I don't think you're thinking this quite all the way through, brother," TC said quietly. "What Rick is trying to point out to you is…what's going to happen to you if they figure out you were the one who figured out Jahingir is real?"