AN: Just so you get an idea of how much prewriting I did (for the first time in my life, may I add), at the time this chapter is being written, chapter six has only just been posted. Read and review, folks!
CHAPTER TWELVE
The nightmares were relentless that evening.
Though Matt hid it well, Joe knew that he had awakened him an insurmountable number of times when they were younger with his own screams and sleep-talking. He often wondered what he said in his sleep—which secrets he spilled that he normally kept contained within himself. That night, however, he didn't dream of the missions the Circle sent him on. He didn't watch his loved ones die, see Cammie get ripped from her parents arms, feel the heat of the flames that consumed his safehouse. No, this time, he dreamt of David Schmidt's screams.
There was a reason that information extraction was among the most sensitively taught topics at all the agencies, particularly torture. Blackthorne's training consisted of forcing its students to bury their emotions deep down, while the Circle encouraged any type of inhumane behavior. While in real life, he always had Matt, Rachel, or Abby to reel him back in, nothing saved him from his own mind.
At the end of their exhausting three-hour ordeal, David had been bloody.
Yet he kept his lips sealed, firm in his loyalty to the Circle. However, he didn't spare a single chance to spite Joe or curse him vehemently. Joe knew that he didn't have immediate immunity when it came down to Cara's awareness of his origins, but it made David's attempts to sway her futile.
Of course, that didn't stop the occasional flickers of judgement in her eyes—hints of horror, disgust, and disbelief that were hidden well.
His biggest enemy wasn't the arm's dealer in Brazil, the Russian double-agents in the States, or even the Circle of Cavan. His biggest enemy was his own mind, and the way it pulled him into the abyss of regret and violent memories.
There was screaming and yelling, cursing and pleading. Soon enough, his dreams exchanged him for David and he could feel every pierce of a knife, punch, or electric shock surge through his body. The faces of his victims and the people he had killed floated through his vision, and he could feel the same interrogation tactics as when he was first captured following his escape burn through his flesh.
No one simply left the Circle. And his nightmares reminded him of it everyday, repeatedly illustrating the danger he was placing his loved ones in.
His brain plunged into darkness until all he could hear were the screams of Cammie Morgan, the innocent eight year-old girl dragged into a deadly affair by her father's best friend. He was running, pushing his body to the limit as he stumbled through the black—until there was a final cry, eery silence, and he started awake.
Joe rubbed his face and shot upwards into a seating position, soft hotel blankets pooled at his waist. He groaned, and dropped his head into his hands, squeezing his eyes shut. His temples were throbbing, eyes burning, and body tense from a restless few hours of sleep. Judging by the soreness in his throat, he had been talking in his sleep again as well.
He stripped off his sweat-soaked cotton shirt, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and glanced at the time. It was only three in the morning, but the likelihood of him getting anymore sleep was unlikely. He wasn't sure he wanted to try either; after a stressful few days, his biggest dread was always what came when he shut his eyes. After grabbing a change of clothes, he blindly walked through the room to the bathroom, flicking the lights on.
The reflection that looked back at him was defeated—dark circles around his eyes, emerald irises dulled to an empty green. His shoulders were slumped, hair matted to his head with sweat and a five o'clock shadow forming on his face. With a hate-filled glance at his appearance, he turned the shower to a scalding temperature and allowed the burning droplets of water pelt his back... sliding over scars, burns, and cuts that not even years of age could fully heal.
Time didn't mend people like him. It left stark reminders in the form of white, jagged lines stretching across tan skin.
Though it was barely four, he pulled on his clothes and prepared himself for that morning's departure. As his mind whirled, trying to block out remnants of his nightmare, the walls of the hotel room seemed stifling. The CIA wasn't swimming in money, but it treated its agents well enough—yet for some reason, despite his training, it was as if it was closing in on him. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, droplets of water rolling down the nape of his neck, and opened the door. Each floor of the hotel had a small balcony at the end of the hallway. When he saw it was occupied, however, he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
He saw her turn her head slightly, though she didn't meet his gaze. She hadn't looked at him at all following the interrogation, and he wasn't sure if it was because of her discomfort with his actions, or her own.
The way an unfeeling mask went over her face when she sent the first blow reminded him too much of the Circle.
Her hands were curled around the railing of the balcony in a white-knuckled grip as if she were holding on for dear life, and she was dressed in a comfortable pair of grey slacks and a white blouse tucked in at the waist. "Were you planning on leaving me behind?" she said lightheartedly, though her expression didn't mirror her easygoing words.
Joe chuckled. "You're the one in a pantsuit. You tell me," he replied, shoving his hands in the pockets of his trousers. He leaned back on the railing so the inside of the hotel was in front of him, and his back was to the cityscape outside.
There was a long pause, before her voice broke the silence. "You have them, too, don't you?" she inquired.
She didn't specify what them was, but he knew. He idly wondered if she'd heard him from her adjacent room, and pursed his lips. "Considering my previous line of work, I'd be concerned if I didn't." He furrowed his eyebrows. "You?"
Cara turned his way fully and their eyes met for a brief moment. He saw that she looked just as haggard and tired as he did, dark circles under her grey eyes. She hummed under her breath. "I have a lot of blood on my hands. I'd be concerned if I didn't either."
"Penance," he muttered under his breath.
She repeated the word, albeit louder, in agreement. "At least this mission is over. One year of chasing him around and following false leads, and we also took out a poison junkie."
He nodded in agreement. "Something tells me that Schmidt has more than one trick up his sleeve," he said. "There's always a way out. We just need to find them before he does and block the leaks."
Cara rolled her shoulders in a shrug. "I'm sure the agency will have him under lockdown. There won't be a way for him to get out, or try anything remotely illegal." When he didn't reply, she looked over at him, apprehension in her eyes. "...right?"
"Not even the CIA is immune," he said, the implications of his words hanging heavy in the air. "You'd be surprised how successful a terrorist organization like the Circle can be when they have moles in all the right places."
Cara wrapped her arms around herself. "They're transporting him to a secure facility come morning. He will go through interrogation, and then be charged in the secret courts." She pursed her lips. "If what you said about moles is true, then I doubt he'll open his mouth and sell you out."
Joe chuckled dryly. "I wouldn't count on it."
"Oh, I would," she said. "I'm entitled to an hour with him before the hearing and will personally ensure that he doesn't." And despite her mission, she knew that she meant it. There was no way that Schmidt could unmask Solomon without sending mayhem through the agency. Edwards, on the other hand, would need substantial convincing to reign in his anger and eagerness.
He grunted, doubtful, but let her try to assure him anyway. "Hopefully that'll be an end to the bugs," he chuckled, and she laughed softly. "But regardless, I hope you know that you did the right thing." He was cautious with his words, and danced around the conversation they had in the basement of Imperial College. "If I knew that there was someone working alongside me for the United States government with a particularly dirty past, I would go out of my way to expose their true colors, too."
"Except you wouldn't work with someone that had a personal vendetta against that particular person," she said teasingly, but her mood sobered considerably. "You're not the bad guy. I get that. But I still can't wrap my head around this... group that exists right under the nose of the agency in such deep cover, that no one even knows it exists."
"They know," Joe said softly. "Someone always knows."
Cara's lips set in a frown and she nodded in acceptance. She glanced at the time on her phone—they had been standing out on the balcony for an entire hour—and sighed. "I guess this is it, Solomon," she said. "My flight leaves an hour before yours does."
His mouth quirked upwards. "You know, you still didn't return my jacket..."
She grinned, shaking her head in disbelief. "Well, dammit, I completely forgot about that thing. You probably want it back, don't you?"
"It has sentimental value," he said, his emerald eyes lighting up teasingly. "Maybe even more so, now."
To his surprise, her arms went around him in a hug that he reciprocated without a moment of hesitation. Her curly black locks covered his face and enveloped him with the scent of the hotel's brand of shampoo. "Hypothetically speaking, if I were to be visiting my alma mater this fall, would I be able to drop off that coat?"
He chuckled. "Hypothetically speaking, yes, you would."
Cara stepped away, her cheeks flushed slightly. She turned around, her hair whipping around her head and falling over her shoulders in natural waves. "Take care, 007," she said, saluting him playfully. "And keep the beard. I like it."
Joe ran a hand over the heavy stubble along his jawline—a product of sleepless nights, lack of relaxation, and stressful missions—and grinned.
"Sweetie, you didn't take any potatoes." The original Mrs. Morgan gave Joe a disdainful frown, and began forcefully spooning more food on his plate. "Or any greens. You two haven't changed a bit in the last twelve years."
Abby swirled the gravy around in her rice and snorted into her food, sobering when the older woman shot her a glower.
"Did I hear something, Abigail?"
"No, ma'am," she said earnestly, kicking Matt under the table when he grinned.
"Good. Now take some more chicken. You're too thin! You need to build some muscle and widen your hips." Abby's smirk at the first part of the woman's statement morphed into shock as her jaw dropped and she watched the boys snicker. Little did Matt's mother know, she was more muscular than the average man—her slimmed looks were extremely deceiving.
Regardless, she thought, widening her hips was the least of her worries... though she took more food to appease her sister's mother-in-law.
The grey-haired man at the head of the table shook his head, though he gave a hearty chuckle. "Leave the poor woman alone, Susan. This is why Rachel doesn't bring Cameron anymore."
Matt opened his mouth to protest and defend his wife, but his father sent him a good-natured wink. "So, Joseph," he drawled, his Midwestern accent thick. "How has work been, son? I'm sure even a desk job at the CIA has some excitement."
Joe shrugged. "It's picking up speed, ever since they got Homeland running."
Seeing as he wasn't going to offer any more information, Andrew Morgan nodded slowly. "Good, good," he rumbled. "Matt, after dinner, the cows and horses are gonna be waitin' on you."
Matt shot a scowl when Joe snickered, until Susan finally took a seat and clasped her hands. "Joe, why don't you lend him a hand? I'm sure you boys will enjoy the bonding time."
Abby snorted and dutifully carried her dishes to the sink, before she was assigned the laborous task of late-night manure shoveling.
As expected, Joe fulfilled his role as the spectator while sweat poured down Matt's neck as he hauled buckets of waste from the fields onto the back of a pickup truck.
"What the hell is it with you and flannels?" Joe grumbled, pinching the button-down that he'd borrowed. He leaned against the rear of the vehicle near the floodlight they'd propped on the ground, scrunching his nose at the typical farm stench. Even after years of coming down to his friend's childhood home, he would never get used to their gritty lifestyle.
"Why are you complaining when you came begging for a change of clothes?"
"I didn't beg. I just forgot to pack clothing that I wouldn't mind smelling like horses."
Matt sighed dramatically, sticking his shovel in a bucket and leaning on it. "Spoken like a true city kid."
"I'm not the one talking like a hillbilly," Joe said, mocking his friend's strong, Nebraskan accent.
"You're a piece of shit, Solomon."
"Yeah? And you're covered in it."
The two stared at each other in a brief burst of ridiculous, masculine anger, before their façades broke and their scowls morphed into identical grins. Matt hauled a few buckets filled with foul smelling manure into the back of the rusty pick-up truck, ans Joe rolled up the sleeves of his flannel to help him.
"You never told me how your mission last week went," he said casually, casting his friend a glance out of the corner of his eye. "Or is that classified?"
Joe snorted. "Theoretically, it is, but considering the fact that it involved Circle business, I'll make an exception." He disconnected the floodlight from the vehicle, plunging them into darkness, and closed the hatch after tossing it in alongside their tools. "We ran into a bump along the road when Cara accidentally shot the wrong man."
Matt rose his eyebrows, perplexed. Katherine Pierce didn't seem like the type of agent to lose control, but rather a person that made very deliberate mistakes. "Accidentally?"
"The Director sent down one of his men to communicate exactly how furious he was, so yes, it was an actual accident." He paused. "We hauled Schmidt's ass to that compound right outside of the Bronx, in Brooklyn."
Matt slid into the driver's seat and the door sqeaked loudly as he shut it. He slammed the steering wheel when the engine sputtered. "Goddamn piece of junk," he muttered under his breath. "The one where I received my first CIA santioned grounding?"
Joe chuckled, and then grabbed onto a handlebar as the truck rolled roughly along the pastures. "That one. Cara gave him a hell of a beating."
"Is that so?" his friend said slowly, contemplating that particular piece of information.
Joe sighed, recognizing his tone. "I didn't wake up screaming, if that's what you're hinting at," he lied—or rather, withheld. "Give me some credit, Morgan."
He shrugged, refraining from commenting further. "Well, at least you know what her weak spot is," he said decidedly.
Joe furrowed his eyebrows. "What do you mean?"
As they approached the barn, Matt shifted the gear in park and looked him in the eye. "No one goes into those interrogations and comes out without at least a few scars in their mind."
"Unless you're a deranged lunatic." Joe paused. "Not that I'm saying she is, but that is a possibility, considering her relationship with Edwards."
Matt hopped out of the truck and pulled on gloves, preparing for at least an hour of tediously unloading the bed of the vehicle. "Have you read the transcripts of her counseling sessions?"
"Matt, that's got to be overstepping some sort of line—"
In the dim lighting outside, he saw his brown eyes focus on him with a sharp stare. "And her helping Max dig into your past isn't?"
"I never said it wasn't."
"Then what the hell do you call what she was doing? She has some nerve, going on these missions with you. If she was right in the head, she would withdraw her name—"
"What kind of agent withdraws their name over something like this?"
"A decent one!"
"I don't want to argue with you, Matt—"
A loud creak. "Everything alright, boys?"
The fact that Susan Morgan, and elderly mother and grandmother that knew nothing of her son's profession had the skill to sneak up on them so quietly said a lot about how engrossed they were in their argument. She stood on the long pathway that led from the house to the barn, dressed in a night gown. Behind her, Abby stood on her toes to look fully over the woman's head, making a sharp motion with her hand for them to make an excuse—fast.
"Just stupid office politics," Joe said tightly.
The woman wrapped her shawl around herself and nodded slowly, clearly unconvinced. "I knew the CIA has some dirt cookin' behind those glass doors. I was wonderin' what was takin' you two so long."
"Told you they were fine," Abby said, settling a comforting hand on Susan's arm. "I bet it only took so long because Joe's just as useless as city boys come."
Joe glared at her. "Tell me again, why we brought you along?"
"Oh, don't be like that, sweetheart," Susan admonished. "Abigail is a darling. I was telling her about how many times I found you boys covered head-to-toe in dung, after one of your fights. I figured you must have gone back to your own ways when I heard yelling."
"It wasn't yelling," Matt said quickly. At his mother's dubious frown, he clarified himself. "It was... loud discussion."
Abby snorted, sniffed the air and pinched her nose. "Well, hurry up with your loud disccusion and come inside. You smell like ass."
Susan gasped. "Abigail! Language—"