Playlist: MARINA - Karma

Real hearts don't lie
Take it from me (I know)
You'll see in time
Take it from me

It's funny how it all goes down
Don't be sorry when it comes around
I'm like, "Oh my God, I think it's karma"

- MARINA - Karma (Acoustic) -

Sebastian Moran walked into his apartment with a tired sigh. He'd been on call for the last twenty-six hours, making sure several of Jim's plans went smoothly, and he was in serious need of at least an hour's sleep. He walked over to the couch, sitting to rid himself of his shoes, when a voice came over his earpiece. He almost flinched at the noise.

"Sir, we've got someone down here in holding... They're asking for you, sir. Orders?"

"Who is it?"

"They won't give a name, sir... Say they know you from the army."

He made a face. How the hell would anyone find me here?

He stood. "Cuff them. I'll be down in an hour."

Luke O'Hare had only gotten back to his own home two months ago, and a month of that had been spent trying to track down Sebastian. They'd told him that he was still alive. The last one left. He hadn't been expecting the building sitting on the address he'd finally gotten, and he hadn't been expecting the strange people inside. When they cuffed him, he couldn't even resist- parts of him still hurt, and aggravating those hurts wasn't in his interest. The past few years had conditioned him to remain silent during periods like this, so he spent the next hour sitting still in the chair they'd pushed him down in. It was an improvement over standing, anyway; his knees had been threatening to give.

He took the nap, though it did little for his mood. He showered and changed quickly, and headed downstairs. Time to see who he was dealing with. He headed into the basement, and directly to security headquarters. "What have you found out, anything?" he asked the man at the desk.

The man scratched the back of his head, lifting his shoulders slightly. "I don't know, boss, he's pretty taciturn. We know he's ex-military. Luke something. He's real quiet."

His eyes tightened just slightly at the name, but he brushed it off. "Take me to him."

The man knocked a stapler onto the floor getting up, but ignored it in favor of leading Moran down the hall to the room where the man was being kept, giving an awkward sort of head-bow before scuttling off again. He was not a man who had grace under pressure.

He snorted as he watched him go. Dead within a year, was his prediction, with nerves like that. He pushed the door open, and paused to consider the figure inside, his insides turning slowly to ice. The man at the table was badly scarred on every exposed area of skin, and there was every indication that the concealed bits were no better. Moran's carved up face had nothing on the rippling ridges of flesh that marked the other man's visage, but still, beneath all of that, there was something horrifyingly familiar. He stifled any reaction, however.

"Hello."

O'Hare looked up from his hands as Moran spoke, the corner of his twisted lips twitching up into a small smile. Sebastian looked, overall, no worse for wear. "Moran. They told me you made it home."

His worst fears were confirmed, and to his disgust he felt sick. He walked forward slowly. "O'Hare. They told me you didn't. But it was implied you were slightly more dead."

"Yeah, well." He shrugged with one shoulder. The other had been torn apart and healed over so many times that it was near impossible to lift. "None of the others did. It was the easiest conclusion." He knew that nobody had wanted to consider what was happening to him. The only way he had managed to function as a normal person these last couple months was because he'd become a master at repression.

"So," he said, sitting in the chair across from him. "Why're you here, then? Because something tells me it's not to chat about old times."

"I wanted to see you. I wasn't sure you were real," Luke sighed, the handcuffs rattling as he leaned forward to itch his cheek. "They told me a lot of things weren't real. Not the military. The.. other blokes. I had to see for myself."

He nodded a little. "Well, here I am. Real and in the flesh," he said with a calm his voice didn't carry. They were dead. They were all dead... "Anything else I can do?"

He sighed again. "I... I'd like to know why you didn't come in after us. They told me you didn't. I wanted to hear it from you. That's all."

He swallowed. God, he wanted out of here. His heart was racing and no matter what he did he couldn't get it to slow. He couldn't breathe.

"I'm not going in there. They're dead. There's no way they're alive. Pull me out!"

"Retrieval will not be coming for you, Colonel. Get in there and get your men out."

"Respectfully, sir, that's a suicide mission. I decline."

"Get in there and get your men out. That's an order, colonel!"

He jolted back into reality. He was sweating. "There was no way I could have gotten you out," he said quietly. "I thought you were dead, and I didn't... I couldn't..."

He was stuttering now? Fuck that.

"There was no way I could have gotten you out. I would have died."

O'Hare just nodded. There was nothing he needed to say to that. He might have done the same, in Sebastian's position. How could he have known. He pulled lightly at his cuffs, a silent request to go. "That's all I needed."

He studied the scars over the other man's body again, and didn't hear the words. "How long?" he asked after a moment. "How long were you there?"

Luke blinked. Most people desperately avoided knowing anything about that time. "A little over six years. It felt much longer."

He didn't need to do the calculation. He'd only been out a few months, then. "How'd they get you out?"

"It was just a random strike. They had no idea I was in there until they kicked down the door to the room I was being held in." Luke tried to shrug again, lifted a hand to grip at a small spasm in the muscle there. "They almost shot me too, they were so surprised. Then they were just shocked."

He nodded, still scanning the other man. He could see the marks of torture, was able to identify most of the methods. Ones he'd used. "Nerve damage, detrimental scarring, chronic pain... what else?"

He tapped the side of his head. "Deaf in one ear. I have a panic attack in dark rooms. Every once in a while I get sleep paralysis, and it feels like I'm back there. It's mostly PTSD stuff," he shook his head. "I'm just lucky I got out limbs intact. Lot of the guys in the field lost something, and they weren't in the same situation as I was. God bless my immune system."

He nodded a little. He still felt trapped, cornered, panicked, but he refused to leave. Then he said words he hadn't uttered with sincerity in five years.

"I'm sorry."

Luke didn't say anything for a minute. Then two. Then three. Finally, he closed his eyes and let out a long breath. "I know why you did it, Moran. I understand. I don't know if I can forgive you for it, but I know that even if you'd tried it might have ended the same way." He opened his eyes and met Sebastian's. "Don't lose sleep over it."

He nodded a little, and stood. He was done here. He walked forward to unlock the cuffs. "Someone will take you wherever you need to go."

"Appreciated," he grunted, standing up with a little difficulty. Everything was stiff these days. "Best wishes to you, Moran."

He nodded slightly. "You, too, O'Hare," he said, heading out the door ahead of the limping veteran and moving quickly for the elevator, pausing only long enough to tell someone to take O'Hare wherever.

He pulled out his phone. I need a vacation day, sir. I've come down with something nasty. SM

If there was anything Jim gave leave for immediately, it was illness. He couldn't bear disease.

Don't come back until you're positive you're not contagious.

He managed to smirk. He knew his employer too well. Of course, sir. SM

He headed down to the garage to head back to his off-site apartment. It was time to get as drunk as physically possible.

Jim returned to business, doling out the responsibilities that needed to be filled in Sebastian's wake. Two top operatives, knocked out of the loop for days to come. He sighed. A burden he would have to bear.

In the early hours of the next day, he was staring at the bottom of a large handle of scotch. He tossed it over to join the growing pile of empties. He'd need to go find more, soon. Fuck, he felt fucking awful. The room was wavering unpleasantly, but any time he shut his eyes he was back outside that damn base... His normally immaculate apartment was in tatters. He saw fist-sized holes in the wall, but didn't remember making them. Just remembered fighting his way through a patrol, fighting to get to his men before realizing there was nothing for it, that they were dead...

Dead. They were all dead. All... all dead...

Luke... his scarred body was in the chair across from Sebastian, had appeared a quarter of the way through the absinthe and stayed there, silent. Tired eyes never leaving Sebastian's face. Sometimes he was bleeding, sometimes not.

He had the phone before he really knew what he was doing, texted one word to the only person he even close to trusted.

Help.

Needless to say, when Lorna got the message she immediately assumed Moran was in a life or death situation. What else would he ask for help with? She texted him back one-handed as she trotted down the stairs of her dingy old hideout, other hand patting her pockets to make sure of what weapons she had on her. She broke into the nearest car on the street with a jabbed elbow, hot-wired it, and finally got around to sending her one-word text. Location?

She responded, much to his semi-delirious surprise. Ofgsit apartmebvnt he returned, deciding it was mostly legible and concentrating enough to send. He opened a bottle of whiskey with unsteady hands, wishing he could just pass out. His face felt mostly numb.

The urgency drained out of her for a minute, checking her texts at a red light and mentally changing her course for his off-site apartment. Then she realized that she'd never seen him anywhere near drunk enough to the point where he got clumsy. In five minutes she made it to his block, parking the stolen car down the street and jogging up to his door. It was unlocked. He was getting careless, then. She opened it and stepped inside just enough to close it behind her. "Moran?"

He grunted, but didn't move otherwise, staring O'Hare down, watching as he shifted between bloody and scarred for the millionth time. He didn't want to move. His dim hovel in the rubbish was safe. At least safer than anywhere else.

She followed the sound, stepping into his living room and taking in the damage in silence. She didn't think she'd ever seen so much damage done to a room's plaster by one man before. Not to mention the empty bottles strewn everywhere. She swallowed, kicking them aside and trying not to think about, coming to crouch in front of him on the couch. "Moran... What happened?"

He shook his head just slightly, trying to lean enough to see O'Hare past her, but ended up just falling over. He groaned softly as the room spun, but managed not to throw up. He took another sip of the whiskey to calm his stomach. It half worked.

She reached down to pry the bottle of whiskey from his fingers, setting it aside. "I think you've had enough. You smell like a liquor store that's just been shot up," she muttered, idly turning his hand over so she could see the damage punching the plaster had done. "Alright, c'mon, it's cold shower time for you," she sighed, leaning down and wrapping his arm around her neck so she could half haul him to his feet. "Up, up. Get your feet under you. C'mon."

He gripped her tightly, because as soon as she moved him the whole world spun. "Stay 'ere," he slurred at O'Hare, but as soon as they turned the man was head of them, standing, still mute, soaking wet this time, limbs wrapped in electrical cables. He almost fell backwards. "Shit..." he hissed.

She kept an iron grip on him as he swayed. So he was seeing something. "It's not real," she said curtly, pushing and lifting him until they were moving again. There was no reason to coddle him until he was back in a saner state. The stench of liquor rising from him was not improving her mood any, either. "Up the stairs, c'mon, I can't carry you."

He forced himself to straighten, using her as a reference point and pushing past O'Hare as best he could. He felt a shock up his arm as soon as he touched him, but grit his teeth and ignored it, focusing on getting up the stairs.

It took them a few minutes to do it, but they reached the top of the stairs eventually. After that, herding him through his bedroom and into the bathroom was a piece of cake. Once there, she started unbuttoning his shirt. It would be a nightmare trying to get him out of wet clothes if he didn't improve. "Strip down to your pants," she ordered, finishing unbuttoning his shirt and turning away to turn on the shower.

He stared for a long moment, finally starting to work his way out of his clothes. He wondered where his fatigues were for a moment, but then he took stock of his surroundings and got back on track, stumbling out of his trousers.

She pulled back the glass door for him and then gave him a light push into the cold shower, calmly shutting the door behind him and holding it closed. She'd been doused a few times when she went too far down the rabbit hole, and it wasn't a pleasant experience. She just hoped he didn't break the glass.

He was suddenly assaulted by frigid water and let out a violent, if slurred, stream of curses. "Lorna... Fucking shi'..." He shoved on the door. "Holy fuck! Lemme outta here you arse cankor!"

She leaned harder against the handle to keep it closed for a few seconds longer, and then judged it to be enough and let him out, already reaching for a towel. "You feeling any more awake?"

"Feeling fucking frostbitten, is what I'm feeling," he muttered, climbing out and grabbing the towel, starting to rub off. "Was aiming for unconscious. You didn't help."

She put a hand on her hip. "You sent me an unexplained text message simply with the word 'help'," she pointed out, although she couldn't work up enough frustration at him to sound anywhere near stern. "What else was I supposed to do?" She shook her head at him and walked past him into his bedroom, moving to his wardrobe to start rifling through the drawers, looking for something comfortable. "Anyway, your hands are messed up, it seemed like the easiest way to get them washed out quick."

"Did I?" he sighed, reaching to rub at his eyes. "Need t' deal with O'Hare..."

She returned to the bathroom, a sweatshirt and flannel pajama trousers in her hands, and pushed them into his chest until he took them. "You going to tell me who this 'O'Hare' is?"

He started pulling the clothes on absently, ignoring the fact that his pants were soaked. "Th' bloke downstairs."

"There's no one downstairs, Sebastian," she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. He really was fucked up. What the hell could have caused him to... break like this? "Did something happen today?"

"O'Hare's alive," he murmured, sitting on the toilet and putting his head in his hand. "He's always been alive..."

"I don't know who that is," she reminded him, her voice quiet. It was disorienting, seeing him like this. Wasn't she the one who got fucked up?

"He died," he muttered. "Afghanistan... he... the whole squadron... I didn't get them..."

Lorna blinked. Shit. So this was why he didn't want to talk about the reason he was discharged from the army. But seeing Moran torn up over this... it was so unlike him. "I see. I'm going to get you a glass of water so your head doesn't explode tomorrow, so why don't you get in bed while I do that? Somewhere not in the bathroom."

He nodded meekly, getting to his unsteady feet, a hand gripping the wall for balance as he teetered in the general direction of his bed.

She was down the stairs and back in his bedroom with a glass of water by the time he was finally getting into bed. She set it down on the nightstand for him, then sat on the edge of the mattress. "What can I do to help you, Sebastian?" she asked quietly, meeting his eyes to make sure he was paying attention to her and not a hallucination. "Who do you need me to be right now?"

He stared at her for a long time. "I dunno," he finally said. "I just... no one else can see me like this..."

"You're right. Some of them might even take the chance to kill you," she sighed, absent-mindedly pulling her hair up into a bun. "You're lucky I'm sentimental, you know that?"

He nodded. "I shoulda gone in there... six years they 'ad 'im... ripped 'im apart..."

"What could you have done? Could you alone have saved him?" she raised her eyebrows, "You were one man. You aren't responsible for what happened to him."

"Got ordered t'go in... told 'em t'sod off.." He laughed. "Bastards didn' like that too much... but..." He looked over at Lorna then. "I would'a gone.. for Luke... for... If I'da gone then he might've... I dunno..."

She sighed, pulling up her knees to rest her chin on them. "We'll never know. But you can't go back and change it. You need to let it go, or you'll always wonder about it."

"You don' understand," he said almost urgently, sitting up and reaching out to grip her arm. "I was right... had t' be..." He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, shaking slightly. When he opened them, O'Hare was behind her. "Make y'rself useful an' go get me another drink, 'least," he growled to the figment.

She watched him for a moment, face blank as she decided how to approach this. Maybe getting him unconscious was the best option; but she was going to have to get him to relax first. "What do you do to wind down, Sebastian? And don't say drinking, you've had enough."

He looked at her for a long moment, then at O'Hare, who still stood, expression blank, silent. "Shit, I'm a mess..." he muttered quietly.

"Yeah. You are," she agreed, crawling up further onto his bed and sitting with her back against the headboard.

He sat back slowly, fingers tapping nervously, watching the gloomy figure at the foot of his bed.

"Whatever you're seeing isn't real, Sebastian," she frowned, placing a hand on his shoulder and squeezing. "It isn't there."

"I know he's not," he said softly. "But I see him... Shouldn't'a mixed so many different sorts o' things as I did..."

"You don't say?" she sighed, leaving her hand on his shoulder. "Just close your eyes. The spinning won't stop, but you'll stop seeing him. I've been through enough bad trips; sometimes that's all you can do."

He shakes his head a little. "Prefer to see him than... other things," he said quietly, leaning into her touch a bit, too drunk to care.

"Okay," she murmured, knowing that arguing with him would get her nowhere. She huffed out a breath, and removed her hand to just lean against his side. "You should drink some of that water."

"I should," he agreed, reaching out for it clumsily but managing to get it over to him with most of it still in the glass, taking a sip. "I'm sorry," he sighed a moment later.

"There's a lot of things you could be apologizing for," she pointed out, "Which one are you sorry for?"

"You know what I'm sorry for," he said quietly. "For throwing you under the bus... Shouldn't'a done that."

She didn't say anything for a minute, wondering how much of this was the drink and how much was actual guilt. "It's.. It's alright." She swallowed. "I- Fuck, Moran, I don't know. Just... don't worry about it. It's done. No going back."

"It's not alright," he sighed, looking up at the ceiling. "I didn't care... should'a cared."

She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "That would have meant you had to care about me, Sebastian. I don't expect that from you. You can let it go."

"I did though," he sighed. "Do. Can't trust anybody like you..." He kept eyes on Luke, starting to feel sleepy again.

She didn't know what to say to that. She just stayed silent for a long moment. "I won't hold that against you when you're sober."

"Good," he laughs. "But I don' plan on bein' sober any time soon, so y' got time."

"Good. I have to absorb that," she chuckled dryly, letting her head fall back against the headboard with a dull thud. "Could you maybe cut down on the drinking though? Like, so I don't get myself killed."

"Oh, righ'... you're dry... Sorry. S'either that or drugs and that doesn't help you any." He shrugged. "Need to get out of reality..."

"There are other ways of leaving reality that don't include alcohol or narcotics," she sighed, elbowing him slightly. "Believe me, I had to learn to cope with something else when I was pulled off heroin. That's what makes me a good grifter. A heavy sense of escapism. It's a relief being someone else."

"Fuck that. Been drunk since I got out, an' I'll keep being drunk. I'll just try an' be good 'round you mostly." He sighed. "I can' do this Harrison..."

"Fuck that." she huffed, elbowing him harder this time. "After you tossed me under the bus, I had to get back up. I'm still doing it, yeah, but I am doing it. Don't give up just because some tortured guy appeared to bring back old guilt. How many people have you tortured, done the same thing to? He's one person."

"No, tha's... tha's not it..." he muttered, furrowing his eyebrow, trying to make himself clear. "They were wrong, Harr'son... That's the whole point... They were wrong and I was right an' fuck them... but they were... they were right..."

"Oh, Christ," she sighed, sitting up from leaning against him to wrap her arms around him, frowning the whole while, and gave him a squeeze. She felt ridiculous trying to wrap herself around such a huge man, but god he needed it. "Everyone fucks up. Don't let it haunt you, Moran. Who else is going to help me keep my job?"

He shook his head a little. "I shoulda gotten 'im out... I never.. never should've left him... I was wrong... Made the wrong call. That was when I decided they were wrong... t' do this 'stead of that... But maybe I was wrong... Maybe I'm just wrong..."

She shushed him, lightly combing her fingers through his mussed blond hair. "You're not wrong, Sebastian. You're right about a lot of things. Saved my life more times than I can count. How many other people have you saved?"

"That's not my job," he mutters, shaking his head. He leans into her touch. "I don't know... Harrison, I don't know..."

"It might even come up to about even," she snorted, resting her cheek against the top of his head. "It doesn't matter. Sebastian, it wasn't your fault. You didn't do anything to that man. Your biggest sin is inaction, and it was something I would have done too. Self-preservation comes first. It has to."

"No... they told me to go in... I didn't..." He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, holding onto her and trying to ignore the eyes boring into him from the corner of the room.

"They told you to. So what. How many bad orders have been given in the military? More than can ever be accounted for. It made you a bad soldier. But you were never the type to be a soldier, were you? You follow orders from one person, not an organization. And it doesn't make you a bad person, either." She adjusted her arms around him to be more comfortable. "I mean, I don't mind you. I can't speak for everyone."

He shrugged, resting against her, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, though they opened again quickly. "You hate me. Shouldn't of done what... what I did... so messed up..."

"I don't hate you. I told you that already," she murmured, brows drawing together. "I understood why you did it, and... I don't like it. But I can get over it. Who says I won't do the same thing to somebody else? I know I'm not better than that." She sighed. "You've done more good for me than bad, I have to admit that. I don't hate you. I know, I tried."

He sighed, pressing his face into her side and not speaking any further, a hand gripping her shirt tightly. He was exhausted.

She didn't try to keep the conversation going, just fell silent, her fingers combing through his hair as soothingly as she could. She hoped that he could fall asleep.

He leaned into her touch gratefully, almost cat-like, and a few minutes later his body started to go slack as he drifted into unconsciousness.

She was relieved when he started to fall asleep, more for his sake than for her own, and continued stroking his hair even when he was well and truly out, trying to stuff down the protective feeling in her chest.

He woke to pain.

His head was killing him, and his stomach wasn't much better. His mouth was a desert, and when he creaked his eyes open, the light was blinding and painful. He let out a groan. "Fuck..."

Lorna had made herself at home in an armchair tucked into the corner of his room hours ago, and she'd fallen asleep there, curled up into a ball with her legs hanging over the arm of the chair. She woke up with a crook in her neck at the sound of his groan, pushing herself up and rubbing at her eyes. The hangover he had must have been astronomical. "'Lemme get you some painkillers," she mumbled, stumbling to her feet and shuffling towards the bathroom.

He was still drunk, he realized, and felt like he had a slowly expanding, nausea-inducing foam in every cavity of his body, including his stomach and skull. He let out another groan and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball.

She appeared back by his side with five pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other, and lifted her leg to nudge him with her knee. "You need t' take this. C'mon."

He squinted up at her, and reached out for them, shifting upwards just enough to swallow the pills and the water before setting the glass aside and flopping back on the bed. "I need another drink, is what I need," he muttered. "Take the edge off."

She gave his shoulder a swat. "No you don't, don't be a fool. You'll only extend your hangover. You're not a full-blown alcoholic like me, you won't be fixed by drinking more," she scolded, flopping onto the bed at his feet.

He grunted in annoyance, shoving her a bit with his foot, not enough to shift her. "Rude. Depriving a man of a hangover cure."

"It's not a cure, it's a dirty band-aid," she scoffed into the mattress, ignoring his foot in her side. "Hydrate yourself the clean way."

"You're such a hypocrite," he muttered, pulling the pillow over his head. After a moment he peered out from under it, staring at her. "Shit. You're actually here, aren't you?"

"Yeah," she huffed, her offended voice muffled. "You fucking asked for me to come, you piece of shit, don't get all defensive now."

He sighed, nodding. "Suppose I did," he admitted, poking her with his foot again. "What're you doing down there, then? Least come up where it's comfortable."

She made a sound of acquiescence and hefted herself up to crawl up beside him before letting herself flop back down again. "So you still seeing shit, or is that gone now?"

"O'Hare's not around, if that's what you're asking," he sighed, rolling onto his back.

"Well, that's good at least. See, that's why you shouldn't mix liquors. Amateur," she chuckled, grabbing one of his pillows to hug to her chest and bury her face in. "Shit, though, you were fucked up last night." She didn't bring up that he'd apologized to her, like she said she wouldn't, but she wondered if he remembered.

"It wasn't amateur. I know my way around alcohol. I didn't care. I was trying to fuck myself sideways as quickly as possible. I mostly succeeded. The absinthe was probably a bad call, though..." he sighed.

"Absinthe is always a bad call," she confirmed, lifting her head from inside the pillow to merely resting on it. "Anything that's basically a drug in liquid form is bad for you."

"Yeah, thanks mum," he sighed, reaching up to rub at his eyes, before glancing over at her. "Thank you, though. For coming."

Lorna shrugged, pretending like she wasn't mentally counting on one hand the times he'd thanked her and meant it. "Not like I was doing anything particularly interesting. It's easier to take care of you than it is to take care of myself."

He looked away at that, nodding just a little. "I meant what I said. I'm still drunk so you can still ignore it if you like. But I meant it."

She hadn't expected that. "I... Thanks." She fell silent for a moment, staring up at the ceiling. "You know, if you're not careful I'm going to start thinking you're not a heartless bastard after all."

"Me, too," he said quietly. "Why the hell do you think I'm blind drunk?"

"Touche. If it makes you feel any better, there are a lot of really successful murderers out there who were really quite emotional. I mean, Hitler had like, what..only two mistresses? Never mind, that's not where I was hoping that would end up," she muttered, rolling onto her back with a long breath. "How are your hands?"

He frowned, raising his hands to examine them. His knuckles were torn open and lightly scabbed over. He shrugged. "Had worse."

She nodded. She'd had worse too; the injuries she'd inflicted on herself by punching out a window had only just healed a week before. She turned her head to look at him. "Why O'Hare? Why is he the one that.. set you off? There had to have been others, over the years. Why is he different?"

He shook his head a little, sighing. He was still drunk enough to explain to her, what the hell. "My last mission in the army, I took my squad in for covert ops. Things went shit-side, and I was the only one to get out of there. Got ordered to go back in and get any survivors, but there weren't any, so I told 'em to piss off and went AWOL. Eventually got rounded up and court-marshaled, but officially, I was right. No survivors." He glanced over at the corner with a shrug. "O'Hare turned up yesterday at headquarters looking like he'd been put through an electrified meat grinder a few times and healed up wrong. He'd been there six years. Just got home. He was the only one."

She sat up, drawing the pillow into her lap. "I sort of got that from your mumbling last night, but it wasn't what I was asking. Why him? He wasn't the last one you left behind in the field when things got hot, I'm sure. They aren't eating you up, not like this guy is. Why is he special? Why do you care about this one?"

He looked askance at her, tempted to fend her off with sarcasm, but he didn't have it in him. "I dunno," he finally admitted. "I think... because back then I still cared," he said quietly. "That was when I decided to stop caring. But... I mean, I was always a tool, but I wasn't always an ice-cold bastard."

She nodded, looking down at him quietly. "I wish I could say that you were wrong to stop caring, but I can't. Caring is not an advantage. Look what it's doing to you now." She let out a long sigh, raising a hand to rub at her eyes. "I wish I could turn it off. But I guess even you can't keep it shut out forever, huh?"

"No," he sighed, studying his hands slowly. "No... it seems that right is reserved solely for our dear James Moriarty."

"The bastard," she mumbled, suddenly very aware that she hadn't gotten much sleep at all. "Do you want me to make you some breakfast? If not I might conk out in your armchair again. I feel like death."

He shook his head a little. "I'd just be sick anyway," he muttered. "Sleep in the bed. You're at my house, least I can do." He sat up slowly, grimacing.

She fell back onto her side, replying with a tired grunt. She was out like a light in seconds.

He honestly was going to try and give her space, but standing and walking seemed like unobtainable goals at the moment, so finally he just slumped back against the pillows, rolled over to give her as much space as he could, and joined her in sleep.

When she woke up again a few hours later , it was with a little confusion. She must have really been out cold if she hadn't sought the enormous warm spot on the bed in her sleep. Perhaps that was the difference being properly dressed made. She yawned and sat up, reaching for her phone, which she'd set on the nightstand before she'd fallen asleep the first time. One new update from HQ.

Magnussen not dead.

She sighed. Great. That was going to complicate things in the future, she just knew it.

I got troubled thoughts
And the self-esteem to match
What a catch, what a catch

- Fall Out Boy - What A Catch, Donnie -

Playlist: Fall Out Boy - What A Catch, Donnie