A/N: Can't believe I'm sticking with this weekly schedule, that's a first for me. This chapter is short but full of angsty Miles.

Enjoy!


GHOSTS THAT WE KNEW

So lead me back
Turn south from that place
And close my eyes from my recent disgrace

(Mumford & Sons - Ghosts That We Knew)

[1. WEDNESDAY]

The flight is an absolute nightmare. Miles tries and fails to sleep at least a couple of the eight hours he's stuck on the plane, but his overactive mind is not of the same idea, and it keeps entertaining him with horrible images that he wishes he knew how to stop. He starts a movie at some point, desperate for a distraction, but gives up after twenty minutes when he realises he hasn't picked up any of the plot or characters yet; he takes out his notebook, doodles and scribbles a little, drives the next-seat passenger crazy with the nervous tapping of his pen and forces himself to stop before causing a murder; he tries a book, has no luck with it either, gives up, bites his nails raw without even noticing.

It's way too bright, as he walks through customs and towards the baggage hall. It's half past noon in Toronto by the time he makes it into the train terminal, his eyes squinting in the bright light and the jet-lag already settling in. It takes another three hours to get to Kingston, and Miles has no better luck at distracting his restless mind on the train than he had on the plane. By the time he finally gets on a taxi to Queen's University his heartbeat is racing fast, the hours of growing anticipation building up all too familiar feelings of crippling, paralysing anxiety.

He has Hunter's directions scribbled down on a crumpled piece of paper, and he silently thanks his brother's meticulous mind as he easily spots the right building. There's a small group of people outside the entrance, two guys and a girl. 'Visiting my brother' is apparently a good enough excuse, and they graciously open the door for him. Three flights of stairs, his legs are moving without his conscious input by now. He knocks on the right door, then pushes it open without waiting for an answer.

He registers Hunter's presence at his desk, but Miles's attention is immediately drawn to Frankie, sitting crossed-legged on the single bed, her back against the wall. She's wearing one of their brother's t-shirts, straight from his collection of obscure metal bands memorabilia, and her tiny frame is completely swallowed by the old, faded black fabric. She looks so much like the child she once was, with no makeup on, her hair undone, that Miles is almost startled by it. She turns mechanically towards the door at the sound of it closing, and finally he sees it: the shadow of a bruise under her right eye. It's nothing too crazy – he's feared far worse, in all these restless hours spent worrying – but it's still visible. It hits him so hard he almost chokes.

As her eyes focus on him, wide and puzzled, Frankie turns immediately back towards Hunter.

"You called him?!" she asks, incredulous.

"Of course he called me!" Miles cuts her off, dropping his bag by the door and darting towards her. He sits on the edge of the bed and leans in to wrap his arms around her.

"God, Franks! I'm so sorry!"

She resists him at first, her body stiffening at the contact. Soon, though, Frankie's tiny arms find their way around his waist, and her head leans timidly towards his chest. It's no more than a fleeting moment, Miles squeezes her tightly against him, and she suddenly bursts into tears at his touch.

Later that night, after Frankie is finally asleep, Hunter places a hand on his shoulder and guides him gently outside of the room, closing the door quietly behind them.

"You okay?" he asks, in that Hunter way he has, piercing blue eyes looking at him as if he were reading into Miles's soul.

Miles is not remotely okay, and that's without even factoring in that he's been awake for twenty-three hours straight, by now – and going on maybe three hours of sleep before that. He's feeling all over the place, anger, and panic, and fury, and – beneath it all – pure exhaustion.

"We… gee, Hunter… we should take a picture of her face, shouldn't we?" It feels so unnatural to think of practicalities, right now, to even consider, but if they don't, who will? "Just in case she ever wants to press charges against him, we should make sure there's proof, or-"

"I've already done that," Hunter reassures him interrupting his frenzy, trying to calm him down.

"…you did?" asks Miles, disoriented.

"Last night, as soon as she fell asleep."

It's a reflex, an instinctive impulse; Miles hugs Hunter tight, holds on to him as if his life depended on it. Hunter's slightly taken aback at first, but then responds with his usual hesitation to anything affectionate, a hand patting quietly on the back of Miles's shoulder.

As they pull back, Miles lets himself slide against the wall and crouches down on the hall floor, elbows on his knees, his fingertips pressed on his brow bone in a vain attempt at curbing his headache.

"Thank you for calling me, Hunter. I needed to be here."

It's a hassle to talk, words requiring more energy to come out than Miles thinks he has at the moment, but this needed to be said.

"Of course," Hunter says, quietly joining him on the floor.

Neither of them knows how much time passes while they sit there, in the middle of the hall, so close to each other that they're literally touching. Miles's never been more grateful to have a brother in his life.