There was another hole in the hangar this morning. It sucked in Carlos' attention like the brim of light around a black hole, made it difficult to focus on the task in front of him. Carlos' eyes kept drifting to the empty spot where Kevin would normally sit. The handset of a black cordless phone sat, silent and still, on its base across the room.

"I'm sure he's fine," Kennedy said as Carlos looked at the empty bench for about the twentieth time since 9am. "He's probably just hungover and over slept. We've all done it."

"Probably right," Carlos said, unconvinced. "Just feels weird. He's never no-call-no-showed before."

"Keep in mind who you're talkin' about," one of the other men said, to a smatter of mumbled approval and laughter, "he could be halfway to Tijuana with a lampshade on his head as we speak."

"Yeah," Carlos said, and fought to keep his eyes away from the spot beside him. "Probably fine."

The morning passed slow and quiet as a sleeping heartbeat. Somewhere before lunch, a powerful head of black thunderclouds rolled over the sun. A noisy torrent of heavy rain shot through with thunderclaps shook and rattled the windows, and a small, rippled pool of water crept under the bay door. As they broke for their hour lunch, Carlos stood from the table. He was mid-stretch, trying to pop his aching lower back, when Kennedy looked up at him.

"You're not going out in that?"

"What, you afraid of a little rain? It'll be fine. I got an errand to run."

Carlos didn't wear a jacket that day — by the time he reached his car, his black fatigues clung to him, cold and soaked. He tried his best to smooth his hair out of his face, with the full knowledge it was a fool's errand; his hair was its own beast, only went where it wanted to go, when it wanted to go there. Once he was tired of fighting with it, he turned his key in the ignition and started at a brisk thirty-five miles an hour through the nearly zero visibility for Kevin's apartment, somewhere on the border where the lights and bustle of Downtown D.C. proper met the West End. It wasn't a great area of town, but their apartment stipend didn't stretch far, not in the glittering rot of D.C.; it barely paid the rent and utilities on Carlos' own one-bedroom apartment in Nowheresville. When he reached Kevin's place, Carlos mounted the narrow climbing stairway shellacked in thick, shiny layers of brown and pale yellow paint. The place looked like it had been repurposed out of a funeral home, or maybe a church, and it smelled strongly of Indian food. Nobody looked at him as he passed, nobody even smiled, all averted eyes and bowed heads. They definitely didn't ask questions, which Carlos assumed was just as well.

When he reached the door marked 122C, Carlos raised a fist to knock. As his knuckles met the wood, the door moved to and fro by the barest of touches, like a weather vane that twitched in a weak wind. The door was ajar, a tiny strip of light cracked between the plank and its frame. Training took over, guided his movements into practiced, exact gestures; Carlos turned his body and touched his shoulderblades to the rough paint of the wall beside the door's hinges, unholstered the pistol hidden under his shirt at his lower back, and pushed the door open with slow apprehension, one large hand flat on the rough, painted wood. It moved in an easy arc that creaked, as if to apologize for the mess within its boundary.

Multiple details jumped out for Carlos' attention at once, overwhelmed his logical faculties. There was blood everywhere and the room smelled, faint, like pennies; a large, brackish pool of it had soaked into an almost circular stain dead-center of the tan, hard-packed carpet. As he approached, Carlos saw whips and ribbons of it slashed out in near-horizontal angles from the main pool, as if someone had thrown it from a brush across a canvas. A weak, incongruous streak of it snailed into a doorway to the left, over angles of broken glass that glittered against the overhead light of the kitchen. Rain beat in through the kitchen window, covered the sink, the counter, the dishes and some of the floor with a pool of ice-cold rainwater. The white linen curtains flapped at Carlos as if to say Here, here! This way, my good man!.

"Kevin?" Carlos called, his voice suspicious, "You here?"

The bathroom door burst open with a clatter, as if butted with a shoulder from the inside. Carlos fell back a step, pointed his pistol at his assailant; a woman, tall and blonde and dressed in a sheer black turtleneck shirt over a dark camisole. Her business skirt and heels said "court appearance" more than they said "crime scene". She and Carlos had the same idea, aiming guns at one another in perfect mirror-reflection synchronization as the curtains flapped and danced. She took one look at Carlos' pistol and gave him a look of distaste. No fear. "Put that away, Rambo, and I won't blow your head off. Exactly who the hell are you?"

Carlos recoiled. "Maybe you should start by introducin' yourself before you start barkin' orders, huh lady? I'm from the FBC. Put it down."

"You're the stranger here," she continued, unflapped, "so I'll bark as many orders as I damn well please, asshole."

From the bathroom, a voice fluttered, weak and croaking: "Heavy? S'that you?"

The woman glanced back over her shoulder, as if a valuable, protected secret had just been given up to an enemy.

"Yeah," Carlos called back, "it's me. You wanna call off your pitbull out here so I can open the gate?"

"Alyssa," Kevin said, under a pant of what sounded like exhaustion, "he's fine."

The woman put her gun away, with a motion of reluctance. "Introduce yourself next time."

"Yeah, I'll be sure to." Carlos wove around her, over the crunch of broken glass, into the bathroom beyond. Kevin lay in his bathtub, jets of water from a shower-head beat on him and his clothes clung to his body, dark and creased and soaked. He was breathing hard, his face bruised and slashed open and swollen. One of his eyes was blacked so severely that the skin was shining, threatening to split, the side of his face swollen out in lumps like an allergic reaction. Carlos holstered his weapon and ran to kneel at his side.

"Jesus Christ," Carlos said, "what the hell happened?!"

"What's it look like? I got my ass beat," Kevin croaked, and craned his head, weak.

"I'm gonna call you an ambulance," Carlos said, and Kevin's hand fell on his, wet and pink with blood. "Just hang in there, okay?"

"I've already tried that," Alyssa said, "he won't go. And I can't move him."

"You gotta be shittin' me." Carlos said, turned back to Kevin in disbelief. "You could be really hurt. You gotta—"

"No," Kevin said, "no. I'm good. I just need…" he took a deep breath in, "I just need help gettin' in bed."

From behind them, Alyssa heaved a testy sigh.

"But—" Carlos started.

"No," Kevin insisted, his voice a firmness Carlos wasn't used to. "I go to the hospital, they call the cops, I gotta give a statement. I'm not gonna… no. Just help me up."

Carlos took both of Kevin's hands and pulled him to a stand. Kevin's legs shook and threatened to give out; Carlos caught him, then scooped him up, popped him into the air to get a better grip, like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold. Kevin leaned his head against Carlos' chest, sopping wet, and put his hand against him.

Then, he sang: "Did you ever know that you're my heeerooo…"

Carlos shook his head as he carried him to the bed in the living room. Alyssa followed after, her footsteps quiet, catlike. "Good to see they couldn't beat the annoying out of you." She said.

Kevin laughed, then coughed, deep and wet. From this angle, three of his teeth were missing from the right side of his mouth. "You ain't gettin' off that easy. I'm gonna be around to annoy both your asses for a long, long time."

Carlos sat him down and Alyssa imposed herself to help Kevin change into a dry, clean outfit. Kevin made some sort of joke at her, under his breath, that Carlos couldn't hear. She looked like she was ready to slap Kevin, but in the end just shook her head while she worked, her fire suddenly low and smoldering like the dial on a gas stove had been turned to a simmer rather than a flame.

"You're such an idiot," was all she said. It sounded less like an accusation and more like sympathy. With the realization this hard, smartly dressed woman was who Kevin called first, before any of the guys at the office — maybe it even sounded like love, the kind of love that was less like flowers and candy and more like beating someone's ass for your honor, even if it was your own.

With one more solid heave of dead body weight, Carlos laid Kevin down, centered on his mattress. "God, that feels so much better," Kevin sighed, "thanks, you two."

Carlos stood back, one hand on his hip, and glanced back and forth between them. "Either of you gonna tell me what happened?"

Alyssa tilted her head, arms crossed, and looked at Kevin in pointed accusation. "Good question."

Kevin turned his head to look at Carlos with his good eye. "I don't wanna get him in trouble," he said, "he's…"

"This was someone you knew?" Alyssa bristled in disbelief.

Kevin nodded, held up a hand as if to say wait just a minute. "He's not like this. I think something happened to make him… he's sick, man. He needs help, not the cops."

Carlos laughed, humorless. "Looks a fuck of a lot like he is like this, man."

"You're friend's smarter than you are," Alyssa said to Kevin. "You're being stupid."

"Maybe," Kevin said, and squinted in pain as he tried to get comfortable. "But I can't."

Alyssa looked at Carlos with a breed of contempt, and gestured to Kevin as if to say after you. "I'm going to go have a smoke if you'd like to take point for a while, so I don't strangle him."

"I dunno, sounds kind of hot!" Kevin called after her.

"Shut up." The door clapped shut, and she was gone.

"She's, uh…" Carlos said, as he carried a chair from the kitchenette to Kevin's bedside. He dragged it with one hand between his legs, on the lip of the seat, as close as it would sit to his bed. "She's intense. Your friend? From the TV, right?"

"Don't let her bark fool you, she's a softie. She's just all keyed up, from… the… all the this. You know."

They sat in uncomfortable silence. "Who did this?" Carlos asked. "Just tell me. I won't call the cops."

Kevin thought about it, then pointed to the kitchen island beyond. "Get me a smoke and I'll see if it jogs my memory."

"Those things'll kill you," Carlos said, joking, and brought back the pack of Lucky Strikes, Kevin's copper Zippo lighter, and an ashtray.

"Ha ha," Kevin said, unamused. Carlos lit one for him and Kevin took a long, reverent drag, before speaking again. "His name's Chris. Chris Redfield. He was a member of STARS, but he's gone off the deep end, man. He thinks…" Kevin winced, "he tried to get information out of me about where you were. I'm not trying to start shit, just… be prepared, okay?"

Carlos struggled to remember the photo from the office. Which one of those smiling, proud faces belonged to someone who could do this?

"About me?" Carlos asked, confused. "You could've told him where to find me." In fact, after looking at the flowering bruises and grotesque swelling over Kevin's eye, Carlos wished Kevin had told him. Wished very dearly he had. An image fluttered into Carlos' mind, hard looks and short brown hair and thrusting knees into soft stomachs.

"Nope," Kevin said, "but… it appears that people who don't snitch also get stitches. So I can't win."

Silence fell between them. "Jill's gonna be real upset," Kevin said, "they were like…" he wound two of his fingers together to symbolize closeness. "He didn't used to be like this."

Carlos had heard enough. He set his mouth in a line and stood up. "Do you know where he is?"

Kevin shook his head. "He didn't say — you have to be careful. He's… he's dangerous. He's not right in the head. He's—" Kevin sighed, and his expression — pain, open concern — gave Carlos pause.

"What, man?" Carlos asked, softer than he intended.

"Just tired of it. Tired of blood. Tired of people gettin' hurt. Tired of Umbrella."

Kevin had never said anything Carlos had identified with so strongly in all his life. The door opened again and Alyssa entered, closed it behind her with a quiet click.

"Can I speak to you outside?" Alyssa asked Carlos. It was less of a question and more of a statement: I need to speak to you. Now. Out here.

"Uh… sure," Carlos said, struck with sudden discomfort at the idea of being alone with her, like he'd cut himself on her edges. "I gotta get back, man. Call me if you need anything, okay?" Carlos extended a hand for a shake and Kevin took it. When Carlos moved to back away, Kevin pulled on his hand to bring him closer.

"Thanks for coming over," Kevin said. It was a simple statement that carried a few others in its arms, unsaid but understood. "I really mean it."

"Course," Carlos said, "you know I've got you."

Kevin squeezed his hand and then let it go, turned aside and closed his eyes to finish his cigarette in peace. Carlos followed Alyssa into the hallway — she lead him far away from Kevin's door, down the hallways that smelled of spices and paint and rain.

"I heard him," Alyssa said, "Chris Redfield, he said."

Carlos nodded. Of course she was the type to ear hustle outside doors. "That's the name he mentioned."

Alyssa rooted around inside her purse, and retrieved a small, black, electronic device. She clicked its controls, as if looking for something specific, then turned it to Carlos. The face of the man from the other night after the bar stared back at him — the hard furrow of his eyebrows, the craggy lines of displeasure, the early formation of brackets around his mouth. Realization dawned like a sinking stone, and Carlos' eyes narrowed.

"This prick," he said.

"Guessing you know him, too."

Carlos didn't, not personally. But he was going to, very soon.

"These fucking cops think they own the goddamned world, these days," she mumbled, around her unlit cigarette. "I offered to interview him for my piece but he declined with no comment. I know where he's staying, at least as of a few months ago. It's a start. Do you have a pen?"

"Why're you giving me this?"

"You said Kevin could've told him where to find you, so, I'm just doing the legwork. If you tell him I gave this to you, I'll call you a liar and throw you under every bus in this God forsaken city on the spot. And he will believe me over you, so don't get cute." Carlos grasped the paper, and when he went to pull on it, Alyssa tugged it back to bring him close. "Whatever you're planning, and I hope it's what I think you're planning… give him one for me, too. Or five."

This woman was 100% out of Kevin's league, as far as Carlos believed in leagues, anyway; he'd seen some massively ugly fuckers pull some incredibly attractive women over the years, but they were usually anomalies, doomed to failure. Charm and wit and humor could get you far, but they only opened the door. Kevin was a good guy, true and funny and kind, not bad-looking. From the looks of Alyssa in her tailored designer clothes and perfect makeup and carefully cultivated body, he'd have precisely nothing a woman like this would want or couldn't get at a higher price somewhere else. And, given her recent success and no-nonsense personality, at the very least, Kevin was punching a few classes above his weight. A few very steep ones.

"Y'know…" Carlos said, and gestured to her with the paper, "tell me to butt out if its none of my business, but if you're into the guy, maybe just tell him rather than sending goons like me to rough up his enemies."

"What can I say," Alyssa said, "I show affection through acts of service. Now butt out and let me handle our resident punching bag while you go turn Walker, Texas Ranger there into one."

Jill called the office and told them she'd been having symptoms, symptoms she'd recognized as what she'd gone through in The City, and they were getting worse. Nosebleeds. Throwing up foam, a new thing. Tingling hands and feet.

The nurse paused. "You're sure it's foam and not just bile? Any blood?"

Jill didn't know the difference. "Sometimes," she said, "more and more as time goes on."

"Increased hunger for protein?"

"No," Jill said, "not yet."

"I'm going to put you on hold and ask the doctor, okay? Just try to stay calm. I'll be back." The nurse returned after some minutes. The note of concern in her voice was difficult to ignore. "Dr. Behara wants you in this afternoon. We'll send a car to get you. Don't walk, don't take public transportation, and please don't take a cab. We want to keep this thing contained."

Don't answer knocks on your door unless advised by authorities, Jill remembered.

"Okay. I can do that."

A black Sedan with the logo of FEDERAL USE ONLY on the side stopped outside the apartment steps about three hours later, and whisked Jill, wordless, into the rain. When she arrived, two men in those same blue plastic suits from the forest in October greeted her at the car, passed her a clipboard and pen to fill out a form with. They escorted her through a stark white negative-pressure corridor, sat her down and drew so many phials of blood she was lightheaded — took a saliva swab, made her pee in a cup. Then she was alone, waiting in her gown against the white room, nibbling on cookies and drinking a Gatorade, her legs once again dangling off the side of the bed.

Doctor Behara entered the room, quiet as a spirit. Then, "How are you feeling today?"

"Like shit," Jill said, the taste of the Gatorade ringing chemical and overly sweet in her mouth. "…scared."

The doctor nodded. "Understandable, but please try to not become stressed. I didn't think I'd ever see you again, come to think of it," he said, and settled down, wide-legged onto a stool. "Thank you for coming in, and being responsible about your recovery. Have your nosebleeds been your only symptom?"

"No. But it feels very similar. I'm sore, especially in my hands and my feet. Headaches. The nosebleeds. It's like I can't shake whatever it is I got." She swallowed, a click. "I thought it might be an extended incubation period. I felt like this last year in July, but then it went away."

"So," he released a breath, not quite a sigh, but resigned, "we need to discuss your test results. I'm afraid this is serious, and now we're in uncharted territory."

Jill's guts clenched up. Her hands tingled, like the blood had been stolen.

"Your antibodies and titer are fine — unless there's some other sort of lingering side effect we've yet to discover. But… you are five weeks pregnant. Perhaps six. And given what we know…" the rest of his sentence petered out into the air, under a ringing, a rushing of blood. Her eyes focused on the cap of the pen in his breast pocket; blue, like a jay, gleaming in the light.

Five weeks. April, maybe late March. Five. One, two, three, four, fi—

"Miss Valentine?"

Jill looked up at him. "Huh?"

The doctor watched her, attentive and expectant, like he was waiting for a response to something. "Have you been smoking, drinking, taking any sort of illicit drugs?"

"No… I… no. No, none of that… I drink beer sometimes, but…" everything was changing — no, crumbling. Creeping fear gripped her in cold, uncaring hands. Her joints were filled with water. She looked around for a place to put down the drink and the cookies before they dropped out of her hands.

"So we'll have to stop that immediately. And…"

Jill heard nothing else, lost under the push and rush of pressure in her head. She started to feel sick. He talked, talked and talked and talked under the thrumming.

Something in the back of Jill's mind thrust to the fore, as if pulled by a rope through the fog of thoughts that rambled and looped in her brain. "I need to help," Jill blurted out. "The FBC."

Dr. Behara blinked at her. Jill was distantly aware she'd interrupted his sentence, but didn't much care — didn't have the mental focus to care.

"But…" the doctor said, stunned, then regrouped into his calm voice, the kind used to soothe, inform, redirect. "Miss Valentine. Your intentions are valiant, of course, but your condition… conditions… and the added stress—"

"You said before, you need me. You needed me so much that you kept me sedated. Took away my agency. Nothing has changed. Not for me. I'm still Jill Valentine, and I'm still your best bet. Intelligence, something. There has to be some way you can use me."

"But you are testifying—"

"It's not enough. I can't be idle. Passive. There has to be something. Don't tell me there's not."

Dr. Behara sat back, and took a few moments before he spoke again. "Are you absolutely certain this is what you want to do?"

Jill nodded. Now, more than ever. "I have to."

Dr. Behara evaluated her, not without sympathy.

"Not to belabor the point, but I cannot clear you for field work. But… perhaps…" he rubbed his face, and his eyes - so dark they were black - flickered over her. "Perhaps I can speak to someone."

They offered Jill a car to take her home. Jill declined and told the nurse she'd walk — she wasn't sure how far away from Carlos' apartment the clinic was, but like an injured animal, she needed to escape into solitude. To nest in her own brain. To think.

Jill walked with the rain drumming on her nylon umbrella, so lost in her own thoughts that she overshot the apartment by about half a mile when she'd come back to Earth. When Jill opened the door of the unit to dim emptiness, still and silent, she was relieved. She wasn't ready to talk, to pretend that things hadn't changed. Not quite yet.

Jill took a shower. The lizard portion of her brain started to pull away, dragged everything soft and understood between she and Carlos from their anchors. Packed it up to move. Jill considered it independence, considered it hardness, not the preemptive preparation for abandonment it actually was. She had been left by everyone — some of their own power, but most not — and was starting to become comfortable alone. Her natural state, perhaps, free of the vulnerability that close relationships had brought her. Carlos had come along and shaken that up, of course, in his merry, lighthearted way. A counterbalance to her own hard seriousness. However serious Jill was, she was also practical: merry, lighthearted men did not become that way by courting things that nailed them down. In her mind, there was now an expiration date, and while she'd be sorely hurt to see him go, she attempted to adjust her expectations and her wants accordingly. To give it an honorable death, at least.

What did you expect? She thought, Silly. Most guys can't pull a pizza out of the oven without it burning. What made you think…

Of course, men had such sweet, convincing ways of talking about these things. It had only happened once or twice, but once or twice was enough. In her twenty-six years, Jill hadn't ever been so cavalier or careless. Always insisted on protecting herself. It only took once, once of someone charming and sweet assuring you in just the right combination. A tale countless women told, and now, she was one of the many.

Because Jill was practical, she didn't dither overlong on shame or regret, but rather focused on what needed doing to reel her mind back from its pinwheels. She needed… vitamins, that was right. She needed to work on bringing her stress down. She also needed to consider the call that would be coming from the FBC, if one was coming. Preparing for that. Preparing for the trial.

Reduce your stress, they said. Like it was that easy.

Jill stepped out of the shower, and while she dried herself with a towel, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. No blood, not this time. With a slow, considering wonder, she turned to her side, and looked at her belly in the mirror, ran her hand down it. Still flat, little dips of muscle on either side of a healthy pocket of feminine fat low on her abdomen that she'd never been able to lose, no matter how many miles she'd run or how coyly her abs had peeked at her from under her ribcage.

A wave of fatigue like a cresting beachhead washed over her, carried her nearly off of her feet. The walk was long and chilly, and it had been a brutal day otherwise, her mind burning what energy her body didn't in its spinning and considering. Jill yawned, rubbed her eyes, streaked her forgotten makeup like faint gray war paint. She dragged herself to the bedroom and used the remnant tatters of her energy to dress, crawled atop the mattress and slept where she landed, snoring and drooling, until Carlos returned home later that night.

Swishes and burbles of falling rain, angular tinkles as it hit off of drainpipes and cars. Carlos sat in his Jeep, considering, looking at the piece of paper in his hand while the water drove off his windshield.

Kevin had said that Jill and Chris were close. Carlos trusted Jill almost more than he trusted himself, sometimes; her keen insights and judge of character cut to the core of most people. Jill would know whether or not this guy was crazy or just having a rough time. Kevin's face, bubbled out and bloodied, the feel of fists on the soft part of Carlos' belly… both were too close to Carlos' heart to make a judgment unclouded. But Jill… he could talk to her and she would kick him the raw deal. She would tell him the truth.

Carlos wanted revenge, but not so badly that he'd justify extracting it from someone who was unwell. That sort of victory wasn't a victory at all; that was the kind of thing assholes did, the ones who needed violence to say things about themselves things they couldn't get other places. So Carlos would let Jill tell him what was up before he made any decisions. He would let her direct his fists. If this guy really deserved to get his ass beat, Jill would encourage it. She would be his weather vane.

When Carlos returned to the apartment, wet and cold and tired, the first thing he did was stop to kneel beside the bed and give Jill a wordless kiss on the head. Always a delicate sleeper, she leaned into it and made a happy, half-conscious noise.

"How you feeling?" He asked. It was like a switch was flipped; once she awoke completely, blinked up into his face, her smile faded and she crawled away from him. She sat up, rubbed at her eyes. It was an unexpectedly childlike gesture, like you'd see on a five-year-old denying a nap. I'm not tired. Really. I don't need to sleep. Something made him reach out, run his hand along her shoulder.

"I'm okay," she said, "Just tired. You know."

"Sure?" Carlos laughed, watching her, her uncomfortable body language. He stood to a low stoop and fell onto the bed beside her, its springs creaking in protest under his weight. "You look like something's buggin' you. Have another bad dream?"

Jill shook her head. Carlos didn't believe her, but he knew better than to push when Jill didn't want to be pushed. "So — I got a problem you might be able to help me with. Related to this whole Umbrella-Raccoon City trial thing."

It sharpened her up. Suddenly her attention was fully his. "What kind of problem?"

"You know a guy named Chris Redfield? They said he was STARS, back in the day."

Even under the darkness, the color drained from Jill's face. She didn't respond for a long, long time, almost like Carlos had brought up a name she didn't think he'd know. It was a pause of being caught, of not being sure how much you should tell.

"I know him," Jill said, unsure, "why? What's going on? Is he okay?"

For now, Carlos thought, but didn't say. "Well, tell me about him. Would you say he's a good guy?"

"Of course. He was one of my teammates. He was a—is a great person."

"Was?"

"We had a falling out. Why, what's this about? Did he get a hold of you?"

"Guess you could say that. You remember the other night, when you put the, uh, broccoli on my stomach?"

Realization dawned on Jill's face, a slow creep that dragged her sharp, beautiful features down into an expression of horror. Her eyes were panicked. "How do you know it was him?"

"Kevin," Carlos said, "Chris paid him a visit, too. Trying to find me, he said."

Jill blinked. "Okay… wait, a visit, or…"

Carlos raised an eyebrow. "A visit."

"Oh, my God. Is he okay?"

"Kevin? He's good. Missing a few teeth, but he's his usual self. His lady is over there takin' care of him. Look… Kevin said you guys were close, before, and he's said some stuff that makes me think that Chris thinks he's doin' the right thing. Tryin' to protect you, maybe. But — he's gonna kill someone. Kevin didn't want me to call the cops. He said he's sick, like in the head."

"I knew he didn't trust you," she said, "you're what we had the falling out over."

Carlos laughed again. "Over little ol' me? And his ego grew three sizes that day."

Jill looked at him, pleading, as if imploring him to be serious. "Carlos…"

"So, I need you to tell me if this is the kind of person he is, or if he needs a different kind of help. Whatever ends up happenin', you're the one who knows him, Jill. You call the shots here."

"Chris was… hot-tempered, sure," Jill said, "but he'd never hurt someone like Kevin. Never. He's sure it was Chris?"

"Hundred percent." Jill made to reply but faltered, and Carlos sat back and looked at her; her bearing was no longer proud, but flinching and unsure. "You sure you're okay? You're kind of freakin' me out."

"No," Jill said; she sighed and all the tension in her shoulders sunk with it, like a deflating balloon. "Not really."

"Aw, come on. At least tell me. Did I do something?"

Jill looked him straight in the eye, with some difficulty. "…I saw Doctor Behara."

Carlos rubbed his forehead. "Okay," it was his turn to sigh, and he tried not to let his distaste seep through and color his words. Part of it was frustration; once Jill fixed her brain on something, she never let it go until it was wholly disproven, no matter how far-fetched it was. None of his words ended up mattering in the face of her mind's bulldog jaws, which he supposed he should have expected. "Can't spare either of my arms, but I might have a leg I can part with if you just nibble. And if you promise to help me up the stairs."

"Don't," Jill warned, too weak to carry any real authority. "This is serious."

"Wait. You're not… sick. Right? You're okay, right?"

"I'm okay," she said, "but…"

Of course she was. "But…" he repeated.

Jill didn't respond.

"Look..." Carlos started, "You got a problem." He was tired — tired from work, tired from rolling over Kevin's situation, just tired in general. Now this… "And I gotta say, the cold shoulder's not helpin', so—"

Jill blurted the words, and there was silence. No reaction. No change in facial expression. No anger, no shock. He just looked at her, unsure he'd heard her correctly.

"You serious?" He asked, the lightness and good nature swooped out of his bearing.

"As a heart attack," she said, unhappily.

Kevin, the FBC, Chris, all of it, even the room in which they sat, ceased to exist. Carlos' brain retracted into itself to a place of stunned silence where nothing permeated, in or out.

"Uh…" was all he said. And then: "Wait, what?"

The silence buzzed and filled every corner of the room, every crack. "Are you… are you gonna…" he asked.

Jill screwed her mouth into a line, as if tasting something bitter; she shook her head, and a pit of dread opened in his stomach. The future just beyond the horizon, the carefree nature of his life, the unimpeded freedom, all tumbled into that pit in his belly, and he felt sick. He could feel his heart, slamming against the wall of his chest as if for his attention.

Fuck.

"I thought about it. There's been enough of not having a chance. Of someone else deciding it was your time to go, before…" she stopped, "there's been too much of it. I can't."

Carlos scanned the windowsill, for want of something to look at. It was a long time before he blinked again.

"I'm sorry," Jill offered. "I know this isn't what you wanted."

Carlos didn't fight her on that.

"And I know neither of us are ready, and it's hard to think of a worse possible time." Jill continued, in a hurried tumble, after seeing his reaction, "I don't want money. I won't bother you. I don't want you to feel forced into being okay with it if you're not. But I just can't."

"I'm not the guy you want, Jill. I'm not gonna be any good at this. I've never even thought about it." Carlos looked at his hands. It was impossible to imagine those same hands cradling something tiny and fragile, not taking a life, but encouraging it to grow. He couldn't imagine holding a child and not hurting it, dropping it… something. Who was he to be charged with that, as he was? What kind of sick joke would put a defenseless little thing in those hands and expect them to do anything but fuck it up? What did those hands have to offer a kid?

And even if he didn't hurt it — would he just leave one day and get blasted apart by some land mine in some stupid unwinnable war between rich people, like his father? Leave Jill to explain that sometimes daddies had to go fight bad guys and didn't come home and there was no other reason?

Those hands were shaking, and he balled them into fists against his knees to still them. Suddenly so many things that he'd wanted from their relationship were now, do it now, plucked out of some nebulous future and slammed down in front of him like a cement barricade, blocking out all his other options, options he didn't want, didn't even think of, but he still mourned the death of all the same now that they were taken away. Maybe he'd be happy if this had happened in a few years, when he'd had time to become a better person. When his paychecks didn't depend on killing, on blasting things apart. When he'd had time to become someone other than he was now. Somebody more worthy of it. Somebody who hadn't started this conversation determining whether or not to smash his knuckles into someone's face.

He took a deep breath and turned to look at her.

"You gotta make whatever choice is best for you. I'll back you on it, whatever you choose. If that means learning to be okay with it, then…" he trailed off, "but I don't want you to leave."

Jill's face was sad. "This changes everything. It's all going to be different."

"If it's gotta change, but that means you're still here… that's fine by me. I'll change it. Just…" his shoulders were slumped, tired, in what looked like defeat. "Gimme some time, is all."

Jill crowded up close to him. "I'm sorry," she said again.

"For what?"

"For not having more faith in you," she said. Somewhere in the end of her sentence, something clotted, wet in her throat, and her blinks became rapid. Carlos had never seen her cry; whether a function of genuine emotion, raging hormones, or somewhere between the two, it was soft and quiet but still shocked him and sent him defensive, like being on the business end of a gun. He had been so fixated on his own life, how much it would change and what he'd be denied, that he'd neglected to consider hers, one of her constants now kicked out from underneath her. How afraid she must have been. "For getting you caught up in all this. I just…"

"Hey, hey, easy now," he said, and gathered her close. "Don't, uh…" What was it they always said to pregnant ladies? "Don't stress yourself out, okay?" He rubbed a hand across her back, and hoped it was enough, felt dumb and powerless all at the same time. When she rested on him he felt relieved, like he'd guessed correctly at the solution to a particularly heinous math problem. "I seem to remember getting… uh… caught up all by myself. You helped, but…"

"Can you stay here with me tonight?" She asked, "Does it have to be done right now?"

Carlos had forgotten everything about anything other than this. Crusades and revenge and blood and trials — it all seemed so perilously insignificant.

"Yeah, uh… yeah. We don't gotta go anywhere." She suddenly felt small in his arms, breakable. He was back onboard the helicopter, concerned about her fragility, as if a single wrong touch would send her wincing and clutching, and he unable to help.

He smoothed her hair away from her forehead, kissed her there. "It'll be okay. Okay? Everything's gonna be fine."

Jill fell asleep that night, swift and hard, as if pulled under by a weight. Carlos didn't sleep. Not until at least four in the morning. The path had seemed so clear just a few hours ago. Now, as he watched her, there was a queer sense of unworthiness, like a man who'd been gifted a sprawling library, gilded and leather-bound, but hadn't yet learned to read.

Overwhelmed with the enormity of the task in front of him, Carlos closed his eyes and took a series of deep breaths. He would just do the next thing he knew how. It would have to be enough.

Kevin's face, swollen and eaten with shining purple bruises, was turned down in a frown.

"Just try some soup," Alyssa said, "you don't have to chew it. If you can move your mouth to smoke, you can drink some soup. Okay?"

"Yeah," he said, with a wince. The plastic tub of brown broth had bits of stuff in it — maybe vegetables, maybe garbage, Kevin didn't know — but Alyssa had promised that Chinese joints made soup that was perfect for rainy, cold days. He had obliged, but was now regretting it. "Maybe I'll try some. Here, pass it over."

She had been here all day, cleaning and scrubbing and sweeping up bits of broken glass on her hands and knees. If Kevin hadn't seen it himself he wouldn't have believed Alyssa could clean anything — she hired people to do that kind of stuff for her in her own apartment. But here she was, swiping at his counters with a cloth and a bottle of solvent that smelled like pine trees.

"You don't gotta do that, you know," Kevin said, embarrassed. "I can get it."

Alyssa gave him a look. "You can't even walk under your own power yet. It won't kill me to tidy the place up."

Kevin steeled himself, and took a drink of the soup. It tasted like a high-brow sister of the broth left over after eating a bowl of 99 cent beef ramen. It wasn't bad. He took another drink.

Alyssa crossed the room towards him. She sat on the edge of Kevin's mattress, then looked at him in a way that could have been read as either resentment or pity, depending on what mood he was in.

"I know you don't agree, but we need to make sure whoever did this to you pays," Alyssa said. "He can't be allowed to hurt people whenever he thinks it's right. He could have killed you."

Kevin swallowed his mouthful of soup. "Look, Lyss… I know you're comin' from a good place on this."

"Don't try to talk me out of it," Alyssa said, "don't do your cop thing on me. Your hostage situation talk-down shit."

"It's not a cop thing, it's a person thing. I wish you could have seen him."

"If I'd have seen him, I'd have shot him myself."

"Nah," Kevin said, "you wouldn't have." They fell into a silence. Kevin set the container down on his nightstand. "You know, I appreciate you. You comin' over and taking care of things."

Alyssa just nodded.

"You're so… you know, big and important now, and you're here scrubbing my counters and picking up glass," he laughed, "I wasn't sure you'd even take my call, with everything you've got going on. I guess I'm just trying to say that it means a lot to me."

"I got a job offer," Alyssa interrupted, sudden and curt, "in Los Angeles. International affairs correspondence."

"Oh. L.A.," Kevin made a face the best he could, tried to make it out to be impressed, despite the hollow sinking in his stomach. "That's, uh… that's big time."

"It is. I told them I'd take it. I start in September." Her tone was confrontational, but Kevin realized it for what it was — guarding. I'm leaving. What are you gonna do about it, huh? Say something, I dare you.

"Looks like I gotta find someone else to clean up after my fistfights, huh? Well, you deserve it. That's what you wanted, so… that's great news."

She nodded. "You've been my only real friend," she said, "I don't have many people I can trust. So that means a lot to me, too. I just…" she stammered, an uncharacteristic flash of vulnerability which disappeared as fast as it came, "I just wanted to tell you that."

There it was — the f-word, friend, four letters if Kevin had ever heard one. A little internal wince. He took another drink of his soup. "You got it. I'm proud of you."

Alyssa just searched him with her eyes like chips of green glass, and then her expression became resigned, downcast. She stood from the bed. "It's late," she said, "I should probably get home. Are you sure you're okay here tonight?"

"Oh yeah," Kevin said, "no big deal. Thanks again for comin' over. You're a lifesaver."

They said a dwindling goodbye, awkward and stilted. Alyssa saw herself out, the strap of her handbag over one broad shoulder. Kevin watched her leave and laid back, the pain in his face forgotten in favor of one that would stay for much longer.