Vert sighed, reaching over a wheel to grab the wrench he needed from a pile of tools. The hub was quiet, everyone had long gone off to bed, but he was restless. He fussed over the Saber's front wheel for a moment more before tossing the wrench away, rubbing a hand over his face in exasperation.
What am I doing? Vert glanced toward the elevator leading down to the living quarters, and felt the bubble of anxiety churn and roil in his gut. He sat back on his hunches, tearing his eyes away from the elevator and trailing his gaze over the Saber's form. The red paint glistened in the hub's lights, and he fought back a grimace at his reflection. He's exhausted from the day, but the thought of laying awake in the dark of his room all alone makes his stomach turn.
In the day, he played Vert Wheeler – The Crimson One, prophecy fulfiller, and leader of the Battle Force Five. He drove the Saber, defeated Sark, Vandals, and Red Sentients; performing gravity-defying stunts and retrieving battle key after battle key. But at night, when the shock suits come off and the cars powered down, he's just Vert.
Vert, who lost his father at the tender age of 11. Vert, who had no one to turn to during his most tumultuous years. Vert, who learned to drive with AJ in a rusty pickup in the Yukon. Vert, who taught himself how to be brave and what it meant to be truly lonely and have no one. Vert who, despite having found family in his friends, and purpose in saving the Earth, still struggled to feel not alone.
When he sees his reflection – the same dirty blonde hair and cobalt blue eyes he's had for 18 years, he can't help but feel like a child playing dress-up. All he can see is that 11-year-old boy with scuffed knees, hiding under the covers in AJ's spare room, hands squeezed tightly together as he wished and wished on a shooting star. That cloudless night, Vert asked desperately to be rid of the crushing loneliness; he'd asked and pleaded until he could no longer fight back the helpless tears in the corners of his eyes. As he stares into his reflection, suddenly the shock suit feels too tight, and his skin crawls. He looks down at his gloved hands, the material far too restricting, and he claws desperately at his arms; trying to peel the shock suit off.
His breathing is labored, and he can't seem to swallow the lump in his throat. He'd promised himself years ago that he wouldn't cry anymore – but he can't stop the swell of hot tears in his eyes that blur his vision. He can't get the shock suit off, and he tells himself that he hates the color red. Vert can't stave off the shuddery sob that leaves his chest, hands digging frantically into his hair, tugging at his roots and he tries to muffle his cries.
His chest hurts, a horrible achey feeling. He shrinks in on himself, hands still buried in his hair as he bites his lip; he doesn't want anyone to see him like this. Vert can't understand the desperate grief that blooms in his stomach, cleaving away at the walls of his confidence and fake bravado.
Why? Why? Why? He chants in his head. Please, just stop, just stop. Please.
His throat is tight, and his breaths come out choppy and broken. Panic rises like bile in the back of his throat, acidic and vile. He grips the collar of his shocksuit, looking up at the ceiling through blurred vision as he begs for air.
Why does it still hurt? After all this time? He begs at nothing, frantically swallowing gulps of the hub's stale desert air. Please it hurts. It hurts so bad.
His head swims, and Vert blinks when the fuzz in his head gives away to a bout of dizziness. Disoriented, he collapses backward on the wheel he'd been propped up against, the pain in his back a dull fizzle. He stares blankly up at the ceiling, tears drying on his cheeks – sticky and itchy. The air is still, and its suffocatingly quiet in the hub. The fluorescent lights blink unapologetically, a light mechanical buzz. Maybe Vert would just stay here, until morning – laying here in the crushing silence of the hub until morning.
He doesn't hear the timid footsteps that trail up to the Saber until it's too late. "Vert?"
Vert jumps up, frantically wiping at his face with his forearm. "Who–"
"Vert, have you been crying mate?" Comes Stanford's voice. Vert's heart sinks at the question, and the lump in his throat returns.
"Just, just working on the Saber but got some grease in my eyes." He chuckles listlessly, gesturing towards the Saber's wheels with a forced smile. "Nothing a good wash can't fix!"
Stanford's frown doesn't go away. He moves closer to where Vert is sitting, shuffling in purple bedroom slippers.
"I'm fine, Stanford. It's all good, I just got something in my eye." Vert tries to assure Stanford, hoping that the mirth in his voice would convince Stanford to leave. "See? Just some grease!"
"Vert, mate. Don't sit here and lie to my face." Stanford starts, gently setting himself down next to Vert. He doesn't miss the way Vert subtly flinches away. "What's going on?"
Vert blinks. Stanford searches Vert's face, but the blonde man avoids eye contact.
"C'mon! You know you can tell ol' Stanford anything, right?" Stanford tries jovially, nudging Vert playfully on the arm. "If you're worried I'll run off and tell the others, you have my word that my lips are sealed."
Vert doesn't budge, just faces Stanford with an amused look on his face. "I, Stanford Isaac Rhodes the fourth, hereby swear on my honor and the honor of the Rhodes clan to–"
Vert chuckles humourlessly. "That's quite enough Stanford. I believe you, you don't have to swear on your family or clan…or whatever."
Stanford stops mid-swear at that, a small smile on his face. "Alright mate, go on then! Out with it. What's got our all fearless leader sitting alone in the hub at," Stanford glances at the large clock in the hub, "4 AM?"
The blonde man eyes Stanford wearily, before sighing. His shoulders droop, and he shrinks in on himself. Stanford frowns at that, reaching to place a hand on Vert's shoulder. "Hey Vert, in all seriousness, what's going on? Are you alright, mate?"
Vert forces himself to shake his head. Stanford's frown deepens. "It might help to talk about it. Y'know, that thing Spinner always says. Um…better out than in! Right yes!"
"I–I don't know Stanford," Vert replies under his breath. He shrugs off Stanford's hand, to Stanford's surprise. "I just don't know."
"Well, I mean–it's okay not to know," Stanford says quickly, trying his best to inject some playfulness into his voice. "Even someone like Stanford Isaac Rhodes has to admit he doesn't know everything, sometimes."
Vert doesn't react to the jest, just sighing despondently. "Hey, you're our all great leader, but even then it's alright not to know everything, Vert. Mate, no one expects you to have it all figured out." Stanford adds.
"I find it hard to believe that, Stan." Vert mutters. "I mean you can't tell me everyone counts on me to make the right decisions out there. Even if–"
"Mate–"
"Even if you say it's not on me, it is. I know it is." Vert vents, huffing. "It's on me. Whatever happens, out there, it's on me. Every time you or Zoom or anyone gets hurt, lost or taken hostage, that's on me. Because I signed up for this, I agreed to be the oh almighty Crimson One even though half the time, I don't know what I'm doing."
Stanford just sits silently, watching Vert. "Every day we drive into a storm shock, I tell myself that it's my job. My job is to make sure we all drive through that damned portal at the end of the day, and that Earth gets to see another day without invasions." Vert pauses to breathe. "Because–because this is more than a job to me, Stan. It's a commitment, it's…family. You guys are family."
Stanford offers a small smile at that. Vert can feel the tears rushing to his eyes again at his next words, swallowing. "But… every day when we come back to the hub and we go to bed, I can't sleep. I can't sleep, Stanford. I haven't slept in a while. Because I–it hurts. My chest hurts and I feel like I'm going to crawl out of damn skin."
At that admission, Vert can't bring himself to look at Stanford. Tears prick at his eyes, and he squeezes them shut. Desperate grief floods his chest again, and he clenches his fists. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I have everything I ever wanted, since Dad–" Vert cuts off, his voice cracking. "But every night, I just feel so alone. And I hate myself for it, I hate myself for this damned grief I can't shake, because what, because my asshole of a dad drove off 10 years ago and left me? And now I have a good thing and I can't appreciate it because I'm messed up."
Vert inhales, his breath shuddery and uneven. "I spent so many years praying, Stanford, fucking praying and hoping for something like this. Asking for someone, anyone to take this feeling away so I can…just live my life." A tear slides down the side of Vert's cheek, and he realises belatedly that he's shaking.
For a moment, it's too quiet. All Vert can hear is Stanford's breathing, but the other man doesn't say anything. "Sometimes when we drive into the battle zones, I know that if it ever came down to it, I'd be ready to give myself if it meant you guys could drive back to Earth. And I'd do it in a heartbeat."
The words ring clearly in the hub, punctuated by Vert's breaths. Stanford suddenly lunges towards the blonde, pulling him into an embrace. It's awkward and uncomfortable because they're both sitting, but Vert feels his eyes water.
"Don't say that mate. Never. You're always going to make it back to Earth with us." Stanford states, but Vert can feel the Brit's arms shaking. "Never say that, please. Please, Vert."
Vert closes his eyes, the sobs coming now in tidal waves. He grips Stanford's arms frantically, clinging onto the shred of comfort. He cries freely, the layers of desperation, grief, fear, and anger peeling away in rivulets of hot, salty tears that stain Stanford's shirt.
Stanford just stays in that awkward position, letting Vert cry into his shoulder. He feels his own eyes water, but he says nothing, holding onto Vert.
