Chapter Eight: "...Will Stand Your Friend With The Whole Round World Agin You."

Author's Notes: Warning: very short mention of suicide at the end of the chapter, probably will be discussed a bit more in the beginning of the next.

I'm going to be borrowing an idiot from Thunderbirds Are Go (Series, not the movie)

This timeline will probably have the most chapters.


"We?"

Colonel White sighed. He shouldn't have let that slip, but then Turner knew Spectrum protocol. He would have remembered quickly enough that White wasn't allowed to travel anywhere without a bodyguard. The one time he felt he had to, it hadn't made a difference anyway.

Turner gently waved the cats off himself, and bracing one hand on the arm of the couch slowly stood. Most of the cats pooled at his feet still purring and rubbing up against him, but the little tuxedo cat leapt and landed on his shoulder, still glaring murder at White. Turner reach out a hand flicked on the lights, leaving both men blinking.

"I'd forgotten you were colorblind," was out of White's mouth before he realized it. It was an old joke between them, as Conrad wasn't really colorblind, he just didn't care if what he wore clashed when he was alone. The heavy woolen sweater he wore now was pattern a bright neon orange and electric teal. Looking closer White realize Turner was wearing another heavy sweater under it as well as a turtleneck. White wondered briefly how he could stand to wear it given how warm the room was.

"It was a gift," Conrad snapped, and now all the cats were staring at White like they were contemplating feline homicide, "and what do you mean a storm? The weather supposed to be clear for days."

"Quite," White agreed, "it blew up out of nowhere."

"Fischler," Turner murmured derisively, then asked, "Where's your minder?"

"Magenta is in the kitchen."

Turner tilted his head.

White shrugged.

"Hmm," was Turner's only comment as he gestured for White to precede him out of the room, "before you ask, technically I'm a prisoner here."

"And who is your captor?" White hanging back so they would be side by side.

Turner just shook his head, then offered:

"The Thousandth Man."

"Really?" if Turner noticed the slight hurt in White's voice he ignored it.

Turner placed a hand on the wall to steady himself momentarily, taking a few deep breaths, before moving again. The cats creating a furry circle about his feet.

"When everyone else wanted me dead? He didn't, and risked his own life twice over to save me."

"I never wanted you dead, Conrad," White said gently, tucking away the information regarding Turner's 'captor.'

"You didn't even bother to come and express your disgust and disappointment in me before I was to be executed," Conrad snorted bitterly, "Forgive me, Colonel White, if I'm disinclined to believe anything you say," he stopped in the kitchen's doorway, drawling, "help yourself to lunch, Magenta," dryly.


Earlier

Captain Magenta watched Colonel White leave him to explore the house, keenly aware he was failing in his duty as a bodyguard. He took a moment to remind himself that he was of no use to the Colonel if he was more likely to get into his commanding officer's way than help. Besides he had always felt he could recover better if left alone, something that had infuriated Ochre and Doctor Fawn alike. He leaned back in the chair, briefly wondering why someone would have an armchair in a kitchen, and just breathed deeply. The kitchen was warm, smelled heavenly, and Magenta began to feel better just from that alone.

He had been serious when he said it smelled like Koala Base after leave, at least when he and the other initial Color Captains had been training. They would be shooed off the base to go 'blend into the local population,' and not allowed back until leave was over. The Koala kitchen always had a lingering scent of decent food when they got back.

Magenta rose and was steadier on his feet already. Nonetheless he cautiously navigated around the kitchen island over to a series of slow cookers on the far counter. The first appeared to be filled with an unidentifiable green sludge; still smelled good. The next was a chili that made his eyes water. The third was chicken and rice soup.

"Jackpot," he muttered.


Colonel peered around Turner and saw Captain Magenta was now seated at the kitchen island with a bowl of something and a hunk of bread.

"Shit!" Magenta dropped his spoon and felt for a gun that was not there.

White knew Turner was rolling his eyes.

"Calm down, Donahue," Turner groused, a quick glance at the window as he wandered over to grab two more bowls, "Do you want split pea, chili or chicken, Colonel?"

"Chili," White sat down next to Magenta. Magenta was considering his soup, "he had no way of know we would be here. It's safe."

"If you say so, sir," Magenta still dubious.

"I'm not in the habit of poisoning my own food, Donahue," Turner growled, set a bowl down in front of the Colonel, before getting his own then sitting down across from the Colonel and the Captain, "Suicide is no longer particularly high on my list of options."

"What?"

Turner was speechless for a moment before he chuckled.

"You two actually harmonized," he sounded almost fond, wryly taking in their horrified faces, "trust me, when you're enslaved to an alien race using you as a weapon to wage war on your home planet, suicide tends to rise close to the top of your list of viable options for 'if you get the chance.'"

And he began eating his own soup, only occasionally swatting the tuxedo cat's tiny paw away from his spoon.