Act Two, Scene One
Merritt couldn't help but grin as the door opened to reveal Jack and Lula, the latter of which was holding a thick slice of pizza in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. Light spilled out from behind them, yellow and warm and inviting.
"It's about time you arrived!" she exclaimed, stepping back to let him in.
"Yeah, dude, we got tired of waiting".
He gave the pizza a pointed look.
"Clearly".
"I haven't eaten in, like, two days. Sue me".
Ducking into the kitchen, he grabbed a slice from one of the many boxes on top of the island counter, and ate it on the spot, not bothering with a chair.
"Atlas here yet?"
Jack nodded, following his example, "Upstairs. Wanted to sleep it off. Any word from Dylan?"
"Last I saw, he was chatting up that pretty brunette" he replied, "Shouldn't be long now-"
There was a knock on the door.
"Last one there has to clean up!" Lula suddenly yelled.
"Oh no you don't!"
"Jack! Wait!"
"What?"
"Listen to my voice. My voice, my words, my voice, my tone-"
"Shut up, Merritt!"
"Dylan!"
The two men shared a look as Lula opened the front door, before simultaneously taking off, elbowing each other viciously as they fought to get through the doorway before finally squeezing through and collapsing in a tangled heap on the other side.
"… Hello to you, too" Dylan said, bemused, "I have to admit, I wasn't expecting such an… eager greeting".
"Don't mind them" Lula said sweetly, "They're just bitter about having to clean up".
"Uh, actually, I have some thoughts about that" Merritt replied, stumbling to his feet, "You see, you said that the last one to the door had to clean up, and since Atlas, you know, technically, isn't here-"
"Danny hasn't shown yet?" Dylan interrupted, frowning, but Lula waved her hand dismissively, "He's upstairs. Merritt's just being a sore loser".
His concern immediately dissipated to a more manageable level, and he shut and locked the door behind him as they migrated back to the kitchen. He unwound his scarf and tossed his coat over the back of a chair. Flipping open each pizza box in turn, he finally found one he liked, pulled out a bar stool, and hummed appreciatively as he took a large bite.
Lula nudged Jack and grinned triumphantly.
"See? Dylan likes pineapple too. So maybe you're the weird one!"
He groaned and reached for the bottle of cheap wine they'd bribed the delivery boy to pick up for them, pouring himself a hearty glass and downing it in one go.
A quick glance at Merritt revealed that the mentalist had no idea what the argument was about either, so Dylan mentally shrugged and reached for another slice.
"Everything with the FBI all cleared up?" Jack asked him, and he sighed, "If you mean am I officially fired, then yes, I am".
The entire table cheered and he couldn't help but smile in response.
"Guess the Four Horsemen are now Five, then?"
Dylan reached for the wine bottle himself as he thought about it.
"… Let's play it by ear" he eventually said, "Li said he'd contact us in the next few days, and I still have a lot of questions about the Eye I need answers to".
"You and me both" Lula replied, raising her glass in salute, "But for now, I think we all deserve some downtime, don't you?"
"And preferably never have to deal with my psychopathic twin brother ever again".
"Or any other psychopath, for that matter" she finished, "Because there are more than enough crazies on this team already".
Merritt snorted, "And, speaking of, are we just not gonna feed Danny-boy or what? You know how he gets when he's hungry".
"He hasn't eaten yet?" Dylan asked, reaching for another box.
Lula shrugged, "Hasn't really done anything yet. He arrived about an hour, hour and a half ago, said he just wanted to sleep, which, fair".
"Especially after his last few days," Jack muttered, and Dylan had to agree.
Standing up, Merritt wiped his hands clean on a napkin and stretched.
"I'll check in on him, maybe tempt him with the smell of pizza. He has to eat sometime".
They nodded and watched him go, Lula and Jack returning to their own slices once he disappeared from view.
Dylan continued to stare at the kitchen door, an unnameable but twisting feeling of wrongness in his stomach. He didn't know why he was worried; they had done it. They'd pulled off the largest show of the decade, even bigger than their last performance, and the bad guys had gotten arrested. They were all here, safe, and relatively uninjured, although he hadn't forgotten his earlier conversation with Danny either.
One more show, and then you tell me everything.
Atlas had been strangely withdrawn as Tressler's men handcuffed them, and he hadn't missed the way the boy's motorbike had swerved just before they were surrounded either. Something had happened. Something that left him pale and quiet and ever-so-slightly out of it. When he told Danny to hand over the chip on the plane, he'd been met with a blank stare, eyes so dazed that for one horrible second, Dylan thought he'd blow it.
But then the moment passed, Danny blinked, and he fought back as good as he got.
Being thrown from the plane had actually been fun, like bungee jumping only without the harness. A brief sense of weightlessness, of flying, and then they had each landed safely on the blown-up tarpaulin, an inflatable jumping cushion that they may or may not have stolen from a fire station. Lula had even laughed as she'd landed, reliving exciting childhood memories, and Dylan himself couldn't fight back a grin as he bounced harmlessly while trying to climb up on the wing of the plane.
But Danny…
He'd landed somewhat awkwardly, more so on his right side than on his back, and the resulting groan had struck ice through Dylan's very core. He'd immediately rolled him over, helping him sit up with sharp questions and worried eyes.
He'd been brushed off, because of course he had, that's what Danny did, he brushed you off and made you angry enough to leave or spoke in so many complicated riddles that you ended up completely losing track of what it was you'd asked him in the first place-
But not now.
Not this time.
He'd give him the rest of the night, or morning as it were, to sleep and eat and start to feel human again, but then, then, they were overdue a nice long chat.
Swallowing the rest of his wine, he put the glass down and stood, stretching out aching muscles and tired bones and all-but salivating at the thought of an actual bed waiting upstairs for him.
"You done for the night?" Jack asked, and he smirked, "I was done for the night about twelve hours ago. Don't stay up too late, alright?"
"Yes dad" Lula teased, before promptly stuffing her face with another slice of pizza, Jack snorting into his glass of wine.
He shook his head at their antics, briefly recalled his own misspent youth, before heading for the door.
He hadn't taken two steps before there was a yell that froze him to his very core.
"DYLAN!"
Merritt yawned as he took the old wooden stairs two at a time. It had been a long day, a long week, a long month, really, and, if he was being honest with himself… it had been a long year.
Going from top of the world stardom to on the run fugitives hadn't been easy for any of them, but less so for Danny and Henley. His initial assumption that they'd dated hadn't been entirely on the ball, and it quickly became apparent that while the boy's adamant protesting had been truthful, Henley's… was less so.
She wanted more, to put things simply, and Danny had neither the inclination nor the emotional capacity to give it to her.
It hadn't come as a surprise when a few months into their little hide-away, Henley decided to quit, but he hadn't quite predicted just how badly Danny would take it. Cut to twelve months later, and the true effects of his year in exile quickly became apparent.
I'm taking care of myself.
With a sigh, Merritt reached the top of the stairs and turned to face five doors.
One led to what was clearly a bathroom, two were open, a third was shut, and the final was pushed out but not closed.
Bingo.
Walking over, he rapped twice on the white-painted wood.
"Atlas? You up?"
Nothing.
He knocked again.
"Hey, man, come on, there's pizza".
Silence.
Sighing, he stared at the door and debated what to do. On one hand, he could always just leave him there, because their resident wonder boy had taken more hits than the rest of them put together over the last few days, and god knew he needed the rest. But then, on the other hand, he also hadn't eaten over the last few days, and knowing Danny, he likely hadn't eaten for even longer than that. And besides, he could always sleep for an entire month after, if he so chose, just as long as they got something into him to fuel his hibernation.
Reaching up, he silently pushed open the door.
The room was dark but still visible, with only a dim street lamp outside and the light from the hall shining in. There was a mostly distinguishable form lying on the bed, and Merritt sighed once more as he realised that the boy had only remained standing long enough to take off his shoes and nothing else.
That'd be about right.
He rapped on the door with his knuckles again.
"Hey, kid, time to wake up".
There was still no movement.
Resigning himself to his fate, Merritt reluctantly trudged over to the bed and reached out to shake his shoulder.
"Atlas".
He was facing away from him, half curled up on his side.
"Atlas!"
Shaking him did nothing and Merritt was starting to feel uneasy.
"Danny?"
Taking a firmer hold of his arm, he slowly rolled the boy onto his back.
The first thing he noticed was the strange blankness in Danny's expression. Or rather, his lack of expression. The younger man was always moving, always tapping his fingers or spinning pens or practicing card tricks and scowling or frowning or thinking and to the mentalist, he had always been an open book. Even in his sleep he moved, tossing this way and that and mumbling to himself in a language that only he knew, eyelashes flickering as his hands twitched like he wanted to grab onto something.
This still form in front of him wasn't Danny.
It was something very very wrong.
The second thing Merritt realised was that the boy had been lying on his right side, the same one he had clearly injured at some point before he was thrown from the plane. And his right shoulder, which was still pressed against the bed, appeared to be somehow darker than the rest of his body, as if he'd spilled water or wine over his coat and then hadn't bothered to take it off.
Even as the thought passed through his mind, he dismissed it because-
The third and final thing that the mentalist noticed was how Danny had obviously reached out at some point in his sleep, so that his right arm hung over the far side of the bed, more off it than on. His hand was palm up, fingers slightly curled, but whatever the boy had managed to knock over had clearly hit his arm too because that same dark liquid, seeming almost black in the moonlight, was making a soft plink sound as it dripped from the ends of his fingertips to the hardwood floor below.
And where the warm light of the hall drifted into the room, the edges of its yellow tendrils just barely brushed against the small puddle on the floor, making it look kind of like… blood.
For the first time in a long time, Merritt realised that he was scared.
"… Danny?"
He shook the boy's left shoulder again.
"Danny, wake up".
His pale face remained emotionless.
"Danny!"
Nothing.
"Okay" Merritt said to himself, "Okay, this is… this is unexpected but- but it's okay, it's- it's definitely okay because we can- we can- can fix this. We can fix this".
Reaching up, he placed two fingers against Danny's throat and blocked out the sound of his own pounding heartbeat.
Thud thud…
Come on, Danny.
… Thud thud.
He let out a heavy breath.
"Okay. Okay we're good. We're- We're okay, we're good, we can- we-"
Gently tapping the side of Danny's face, he begged for a reaction.
"Hey, bro, I need you to wake up now okay?"
He tapped his cheek with more force until he was finally rewarded with a somewhat muffled groan.
That was good enough.
"DYLAN!"
He froze at the sound of pure unadulterated fear in Merritt's voice, before giving a sharp look to the others. Jack had stilled with a slice of pizza raised halfway to his mouth, while Lula's glass had just overflown with the wine that she was still pouring.
A beat.
Move.
They immediately leapt into action, dropping whatever they were holding and not caring about the consequences. Dylan distantly heard the sound of breaking glass but blocked it out as he raced up the stairs like Arthur Tressler himself was after him with a shotgun.
Like Danny was in trouble and he was the only one who could save him.
"Merritt?!"
"In here!" he called back from the last room on the left, and the trio wasted no time in rushing forwards, Dylan at least having the foresight to hit the light switch as they stumbled in.
With the sight that greeted them, however, he wasn't sure if he should have.
Merritt was half kneeling on the edge of the bed, face pale and grim, one hand on Danny's neck and the other pressed firmly against the boy's right shoulder, even as precious red liquid bubbled up and burst from between his fingers. On the other side of the bed, a pool of blood was forming beneath Danny's outstretched hand.
"Oh my god!"
Lula remained frozen at the doorway, Jack a mere step behind her, even as Dylan forced himself to snap out of it, to stop staring, to help. Tugging off his suit jacket, he quickly strode forward as he rolled up his shirt sleeves, stepping around the red puddle to reach Danny's other side.
"What the hell happened?"
"I don't know!" Merritt replied, agitated, "I knocked, there was no answer, so I came in and found him like this. His pulse is slow, but he's breathing too fast, and he won't wake up!"
He removed his hand from the wound as their leader reached it, and when he held it up to the light, his skin was stained a bright malicious red.
"Oh my god" Lula repeated.
Dylan carefully but efficiently pulled back Danny's coat and unzipped his hoodie to reveal the source of the blood, but he was twisted too awkwardly to see.
"Can you lift him up?"
Merritt nodded and cautiously wrapped one hand around Atlas' shoulders, the other coming up under his good arm so he could haul the boy into some semblance of a sitting up position. His head lolled forwards, resting motionlessly against Merritt's chest.
The mentalist made no attempt to adjust him.
Dylan quickly pulled his right arm through the damp coat and hoodie, revealing tendrils of blood creeping their way down bare skin to where they reached his fingertips. The bed sheets beneath his chest were already stained red, but he was more concerned about where that blood was coming from than he was about their dry-cleaning bill.
Peeling the once-grey shirt sleeve back, he cursed once he realised what he was looking at.
"Dylan?"
"Fuck" he said again, for good measure, "… He's been shot".
"What?!"
"How?!"
"When?!"
He held up a bloody hand to stop the explosion of questions.
"I don't know. But what I do know, is that we need to stop the bleeding. Now".
Merritt's hand rested on the back of Danny's neck protectively.
"What do you need?"
"Uh… okay. Gunshot. Okay, I need… I need- Jack, go back downstairs to the kitchen, there should be a- a first aid kit there, under the sink".
He nodded once and took off.
"Lula, I need you to find me a pair of scissors, one of the desks in the bedrooms might have it, and then since I can only assume a place this big has a bathtub, go start it".
Still pale, she quickly did as told.
"Can you hold him up for a while longer?" Dylan asked Merritt.
"Anything you need, boss".
Turning back to Danny, he tried to ignore the deathly pallor of his skin and how his pulse jumped beneath his throat even as his breathing remained shallow.
Okay.
Gunshot.
He could fix this.
Carefully pulling the shirt away from the wound once more, he kept one hand holding it in place while balancing himself against the wall with the other as he awkwardly twisted to see the back of the boy's shoulder.
Dylan frowned.
"Lean him forward a bit".
Merritt did as told.
The back of Danny's shoulder blade was stained with blood, both old and new, but aside from that…
"Something wrong? Asides from the obvious, of course".
He barely noticed Lula returning and tossing a pair of scissors up on the bed before racing off to the bathroom.
"… There's no exit wound".
"Isn't that a good thing?"
He gently poked and prodded at the entry site, but from what he could tell…
"There's no bullet, either".
Merritt shifted uncomfortably.
"Well, are you sure he got shot?"
Dylan gave him a dry look.
"I spent almost twenty years on the force. I've treated more than few bullet wounds in my time. The fact that there's no exit wound means that the bullet should still be inside of him. It's not".
"Magic?" Merritt tried to joke, image ruined by his blood-stained hands and the limp body collapsed against him.
He shook his head silently and leant forwards to try and examine the wound more closely. The edges were almost frayed looking, skin torn and pulled apart, as if inexperienced hands had dug around in the wound trying to-
Trying to find something.
Picking up Danny's hoodie, he used the irreparable fabric to wipe away some of the blood that was still sluggishly trickling down over too-pale skin. Something plasticky reflected in the light, and Dylan paused, before reaching for it with trembling fingers.
Adhesive.
Butterfly stitches.
Dammit, Danny.
"He did it himself".
Merritt frowned, "What?"
"Danny, he… he must have removed the bullet himself. There are signs of… tampering, unprofessional ones but… still. He tried to fix this by himself".
Merritt gave a bitter snort, "That's our Danny".
Leaning back, he stared at the unconscious boy that the mentalist was practically hugging by now, one hand wound around his back and the other still resting on his neck, holding his head against his shoulder.
Do you trust me?
He looked… tragic.
I trust you to look out for us.
"... It would have hurt".
I know that you have our best interests at heart.
"Well, in case you haven't noticed, all-seeing leader, he hasn't exactly been himself lately".
I trust you to do the right thing.
For the umpteenth time that week, Dylan wondered where he'd gone so wrong.