Thanks to: Fowl Fox (congrats on the actual account now!) and Steinbock, ye olde faithfuls.

Eh... guess I decked it for reviews with that long, slow chapter. Oh well never mind - have another one.

WARNINGS: Bit trippy. No actual violence. I don't think...

CHAPTER EIGHT

"BRIDGE"

Definition: A means of getting over an otherwise impassable obstacle

Unknown Location

When he awoke, everything was grey.

There was no white. Nor black. The brightest colour around was an eerie silver.

He blinked a few times, then sat up. There was no-one around him; he could tell. It wasn't even really a 'sense'. He just knew it.

He was soaking wet, though all around him was dry. Sand stuck to his skin, gritty and real on his palms as he brushed it off.

His shirt was as tattered with bullet holes as it had been when he had last closed his eyes, but when he pulled down his tie and unbuttoned the top, peeling back the material and unstrapping his ballistic vest with wincing anticipation, the flesh underneath it was clean and undamaged.

He got to his feet. Something weird was going on here and he had a looming thought of what it might be.

He stood and looked around and as he did, the colour started bleeding back into the world.

The wind picked up, scattering him with dust so violently he shielded his face and closed his eyes.

When it stopped, he squinted like one who had suddenly thrown back the curtains on a fresh dawn, scowling as his retinas tried to make sense of the new information.

A short way away, there was a tree overlooking a pond, with a stream dashing clear, white water onto a rock face.

He was thirsty.

He walked towards it, noticing suddenly that his feet were treading on disturbed ground. Something had been this way before him. No, not this way - away from the oasis ahead. And not just been. Something had been dragged.

He suddenly had a sinking feeling that that 'something' may have been him.

Had someone dragged him to where he had woken up? He didn't think so.

Had he crawled there himself? He didn't remember doing so.

He patted the front of himself to see if there was any evidence of sand scraped into his shirt; as there should be if he had belly-crawled along.

But instead of the ragged material of the shirt he had been wearing that night, he felt the soft, familiar feel of one of his old training t-shirts under his palms. Instead of wet as he had been moments earlier, he was dry. His legs were wrapped in his comfortable old gi trousers. Clothes he had worn many, many times in the manor gym. Dressed though he may have been, he felt naked without a body armour and a gun… He lamented the loss of his gear, though his hands were deadly enough weapons on their own merit and he definitely felt well enough to take on anything that might compete with him for the water source - or any'one'.

He reached the edge of the pond and walked the bank to the stream, grasping handfuls of the crystal liquid as it cascaded over the craggy cliff-face. Something was odd about the water, but he couldn't quite place what it was… He snatched at it, running one hand over his head and deciding a quick rinse off wouldn't be out of order either.

Crouching at the edge of the pond, he realised suddenly that it was very deep – the sandy bottom dropping off almost immediately from the bank and the bed of it far beyond what he could see. He reached one hand down to touch the surface lightly, sending ripples across its mirrored surface. His reflection smiled back at him.

Only he wasn't smiling.

With a saturated explosion, the mirage erupted from the water, slamming into him with such force that he had no chance of correcting his balance before he landed heavily, backside first, into the dust.

"Fuck!" he yelped; the hysterical cackling that was brought forth from the curse confirming his suspicions.

"Ah come on, Mylo!" came the mismatched accent, just like his own. "I got you with that one when we were like eight!"

He swiped a hand down his face, shaking water off his shaven head and beaming at him.

And Myles looked up at the man – a complete and perfect reflection of himself – and gaped silently.

"What's the matter with you? You look like you've seen a ghost," his companion smirked, offering him a hand.

Myles grabbed it as though it were a lifeline and he was a castaway, almost leaping to his feet as he did so.

"Hey - easy, Mylie; don't pull something. Eight was a long time ago. We're old now, remember?"

But Myles wasn't listening. He took one more look at his brother and then pulled him – soaked clothes and all – into a bearhug.

"Alright, alright…" Beckett said, but he wrapped his arms around his twin's back in return and squeezed him just as hard.

When they finally broke away, Myles scrubbed a hand across his face and sniffed.

"How've you been?" he asked, as though his brother had merely returned from an extended expedition.

"Better now you're here," Beckett said, scrunching his nose in a way which suggested he was keeping rather a lot back. In a way, Myles suddenly realised, that Dom did too. How that was possible, he didn't know. The boy had never so much as met his father, let alone had opportunity to pick up mannerisms from him.

"How did you find me? How are you here?"

"Haven't a clue, lil bro," he said, shaking the water off himself like a dog. "Just saw you wandering around over there and couldn't pass up an opportunity to scare the shit outta you."

That wasn't very helpful and Myles decided that 'how' exactly he was here could wait in favour of 'where'.

"More to the point; where are we?"

"Not sure. Looks like…" Beckett gazed around. "Some sort of oasis I guess. Seems a bit nice to be purgatory... Road to Valhalla, perhaps?"

He too had miraculously dried after leaving the water of the pool. They were dressed identically. He looked not quite the same as he had the day he had last seen him. He looked slightly older. He looked - though Myles didn't make much of a habit of staring at himself in the mirror - exactly like him. Just as he always had.

"So I take it we're dead, then?" he asked – blunt as ever.

"Well if we are," Beckett frowned. "That's a bit shit."

"How do you mean?"

"I had stuff left to do. Plans. I need to find Theresa."

Myles smiled, despite himself. "You're looking for her?"

"Well, is she looking for me?" Beckett asked - almost... tentatively? Myles wasn't sure what the strange tone in his brother's voice was.

"We all are," he told him.

"But you haven't found me yet?"

"No, obviously."

"Then you're doing a shit job," Beckett snorted.

"I think you might be dead," Myles admitted.

"And that's stopping you?"

"Well it's put a longer timeframe on it," his brother shrugged.

"What makes you so sure I've kicked it then?"

"Because I'm pretty sure I have – and here you are with me."

"Why's that then?"

"What – why do I think I'm dead? Because last thing I remember before waking up in here I was leaking claret like a mill bag and Pa was telling me not to dare die on him."

"Naughty, naughty," Beckett chided, amused. "And to think; you were always the good twin. You always did as you were told."

"Not always," Myles smirked. "And well, I don't think I could very much help it this time."

He sighed, looking down has his hands, his arms. His scars were still there, certainly, but there were no fresh wounds. He was... fine.

"Mylo, why am I here?" Beckett asked, suddenly.

"No idea. Because it's my heaven and hell all in one to be stuck with nobody else but you for the rest of eternity, maybe?"

"Cute," his brother rolled his eyes. "And also, I'd say we're even. Aaand that we could have worse deals."

"Is this it then? No going back? We're dead?"

"I think if we do nothing... then yes."

"What do you mean?" he frowned. Beckett seemed to have only just accepted the idea of being dead and now suddenly he was coming up with all the explanations?

"Well, not being funny but that pool of water isn't getting any bigger - the water is flowing up."

"Shit…" Myles scowled at it – that had been what was strange about the water. How had he not noticed that before?

"Aaand it's definitely shrinking," his brother said, scuffing the edge of the pond with his bare foot.

There was a circle of damp sand around the edge. A band, getting wider and wider as the pool began to disappear.

"Is that where you came from?" he asked, suddenly remembering waking up soaked to the skin and the drag marks leading to where he had been lain.

"The water? Yeah – you saw me, remember?"

"Yes, but before that - you said thought you'd be funny and leap out of it."

"I don't know. Do you remember how you got here?"

Myles shook his head. "No. I woke up pisswet through and it looked like I'd dragged myself over there. So maybe... But no, I don't remember. You?"

Beckett shrugged. "Anything pre-seeing you is just grey fuzz. I just remember thinking it was a good idea to do an underwater ambush. Hey, am I a figment of your imagination?"

"Or am I of yours?" Myles asked quietly, as he eyed the stream flowing up the rocks.

"You going back?" Beckett asked him.

"Think so, Beck," he said, crouching and tracing his fingers across the water surface. "Got shit to do, like you said. Gotta find you, for one. If you're not actually dead, that is."

"Nobel mission," he nodded.

"Damn straight," he said, straightening up. "Worthy cause."

"Definitely worth that pool potentially being the end of everything, right?"

"Well," Myles said, mulling it over. "It's a metaphor for something, clearly. And I don't see an alternative if we stay here. Looks to be the only water source around, so once it's gone..."

There was the trained side of him. Even here - wherever 'here' was - he was thinking ahead. He knew his brother would have done the same. If they were to survive in this new environment, water was - since his earlier thirst dictated it was still almost certainly a necessity for them - high up on the list of priorities. With this pool gone, there would be nothing to keep them in the area. They would have to follow the retreating water back up - or was that 'down'? - stream. They'd maybe find materials to build a shelter up there. Food, even. All presuming they needed such provisions, what with being dead and all. They would build something regardless. A base. A den, if you like. They would set up camp, get a fire going, run reccy missions of the area, organise themselves a routine so they never ran short of supplies, learned about the local wildlife and their habits, began to look for other residents in the area...

Myles suddenly realised that this was what he was choosing between.

A nice, simple life with his twin brother. One they could thrive together in. One he would enjoy the challenges of.

Or...

His real life. The one he had left behind.

His sense of purpose was fading. It would be so much easier to start walking after the water...

"What are you going to do?" he asked Beckett.

"I dunno. Follow you, I guess."

"Why?" he snorted. "I'm not normally the one who makes the decisions, big brother - even when I probably should."

"I dunno. This feels... different. Anyway, what have I got to live for? Really, I mean. Theresa has probably moved on, I don't really have any other ties other than... well you I guess. And Pa, but I guess he'll be joining us eventually," his brother shrugged. He had pulled the 'because I'm the eldest' card at many an opportunity when they were younger - even if it was only by a matter of minutes - so to be contemplating following Myles without question now seemed... odd. "So yeah. I'm right behind you."

"She hasn't, you know," said Myles. "Not really. And you have more to live for than you think."

"If you say so," Beckett shrugged.

Myles ground his teeth, pondering over telling his brother that he had a son by the woman he loved.

"Stop doing that. Pa would clip you for it."

The mention of their father's name brought the real world back to the forefront of his mind.

Pa. Dom. Theresa. Artemis.

He had to go back.

"We have to go back," he stated, almost as though to convince himself.

"So what then?" Beckett asked. "How do we do that?"

"I don't know, this was your idea."

"Was not," he snorted.

"Right," Myles sighed. "Well. I think we... go into the water. Since as far as we know, we came out of it. Swim down as deep as we can. I just have this... feeling that eventually we'd be swimming up and then... well I don't know..."

"So we swim until maybe we drown, maybe we get out. Sounds like a plan. You go first and I'll just limber up to save your arse again when it all goes wrong, shall I?" Beckett drawled, folding his arms lazily and Myles began to think maybe all this was real after all. That was his brother alright; sardonic, reckless... and fiercely overprotective.

"Do you have any better ideas?" he asked, defensively.

Beckett raised his hands, laughing.

"Alright, alright - what're we thinking? A dive? A gentle slide-in?"

"Jump," Myles said, certainly.

"Alright," Beckett shrugged, eyeing up the pool for depth.

"Wait," his twin said sharply.

"What?" he quirked his eyebrow at him. "Not chicken, are you?"

Myles looked at him. He hadn't seen him in so, so long. He wasn't sure what was going to happen when he jumped into this pool, but he was fairly certain it was going to be a long, long time before he saw him again. If ever.

"No," he scorned, looking into the pool. "Nothing, anyway. Let's get it over with – are you with me?"

But Beckett was walking away - following the water into the distance where forests and mountains awaited...

Myles turned, suddenly quite scared, even, his twin was leaving him.

He didn't want to do this on his own.

He felt ten years old again on the first day of the Academy.

Beckett's brash, overconfident demeanour had got them through that day, but it had been Myles' calm, serious nature that had got them through the first night they had spent away from at least the vague proximity of one or both of their parents.

They were two halves of the same person.

Identical opposites.

"Beck?"

He wasn't quite sure he wanted to do this anymore.

He thought about changing his mind.

Thought about just leaving it all behind and...

"Stupid fucking question," Beckett barked a laugh, then barrelled straight into him at a run, taking away any chance for second-guessing and plunging them both into the deep, dark depths of the pool.

Myles found he couldn't breathe almost immediately – which was obvious, considering he was underwater. They fell quicker than he was expecting – as though the water had only the resistance of air. Less, even. The weight of Beckett's shoulder buried in his torso grew heavier and heavier until it was uncomfortable and then painful even and then he thrashed to tap out on his side and get him to release.

He was reaching the point where his lungs were beginning to give him signals to breathe and it was a conscious effort to override them. He couldn't feel his brother, other than the pressure on his chest he was sure was the triangular point of the other man's shoulder still in place from his rugby tackle. But he couldn't find the rest of him when he flung his arm back and forth.

"Beckett!" he tried to shout, despite being underwater. "Beck! Where are you?!"

Something was jammed between his teeth - into his mouth - and he couldn't get the words out.

He opened his eyes - which was difficult as it felt as though they had been taped shut.

But when he managed to... he was not underwater.

He was in a room with dimmed lights and monitors all around him.

A hospital.

And he was alone.

No Beckett.

Nobody.

But he still couldn't breathe.

He couldn't breathe!

There was something stuffed into his throat and he clawed at it desperately, sending the machines into a frenzy of frantic beeping and whining.

He wrenched the ventilator tube out of his throat and wretched, coughing and gasping.

That had been pretty high on his list of 'horrible shit to happen to me' and really it was quite a list.

He heaved great, gasping breaths and as soon as his lungs had inflated properly again of their own accord, he began to shout. To shout one thing that was very, very important to his scrambled consciousness right now.

The dream - or whatever it had been - was still bright and vivid in his mind.

" - are you with me?"

"Stupid fucking question..."

"Beck! Beckett!" he called as loud as he could. "Beckett!"

And suddenly someone burst through the door.

But it was not his brother – it was not even just the one person.

In seconds his room was filled with nurses and doctors all jabbering away at him to 'calm down' and to 'stay still'. But he couldn't. He couldn't. He'd just seen his brother in the first time in eight years and nobody on the planet - or off it, for that matter - had the authority to tell him to sit quietly after that.

And even as his consciousness grew sharper and he began to realise it might not have been reality after all, some stubborn part of him held onto the fact; clung to it against all evidence to the contrary.

"Beck," he mumbled, even as the needle went into his canula and flooded his veins with a stronger form of sedative once more. "Beckett..."

" - are you with me?"

"Stupid fucking question..."

Undisclosed Hospital, Dublin

Dom wasn't the kind of child to hold hands. He was the kind of child who would run on ahead – albeit also obediently screech to a halt at the kerb of a sideroad. But today his small fingers were entwined with his mother's and he timed his footfalls perfectly with hers until they drew to a stop where Xandr had asked them to wait.

"You OK, sweetheart?" she murmured, giving his hand a squeeze.

He nodded. He had still not spoken more than one word since he had last seen his uncle.

"He's hooked up to some monitors and he does have a few drains sticking out of him and stuff, but don't be worried about them. They're just keeping him stable while he recovers."

Another parent might had said how the medical equipment was 'special' and 'helping', but Theresa didn't believe in sugar-coating any more than necessary. Her son was smart and from a background where 'the wires and things are making him better' would be more insulting than comforting.

"He still looks… You know. Like him," she added, squeezing his hand. He was seven after all.

The boy nodded again, his eyes distant. Ahead of them, his grandfather was talking with the nurses, ducking his large frame to listen to them speak. They seemed to be giving him news they thought he should be surprised to hear. They seemed even more surprised when he appeared not. Eventually he came back over. He seemed pleased. He was even… smiling?

"Good news," he confirmed.

"He's awake?" Theresa guessed.

"Well," he said, cocking his head slightly. "He was. Damn near choked on the trachea tube and tried ripping it out himself, from what they tell me. But they're pumping him full of sedation again now."

"He was already doped to the eyeballs – how much are they giving him now?" she demanded. "And how exactly did he manage to wake up?"

"Butler-genes," he shrugged. "And calm, doch'. They know what they are doing."

"Sure they do. Letting a critically injured man wake up whilst on life-support…" she muttered.

"We may very well have them to thank for the fact that he's off full life-support now and doing remarkably well for the state he's in," he said, leading the way to his son's hospital room. "The fact he woke up is most likely entirely his own doing."

"Well," she sniffed. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

They entered the room together, Dom just slightly behind. He was a bit beyond hiding behind his mother, but he felt like doing so just then. There was something that frightened him about seeing his invincible uncle looking so… fragile.

Xandr ushered them in and closed the door, dropping the blinds over the window. Theresa went straight to the medical records again and Dom… Dom just stood.

"You can touch him," Xandr told him. "If you want."

Dom bit his lip, stepping ever-so-slowly closer to his uncle's bedside.

The machines beeped slowly, The Major's chest rising and falling slowly.

Dom sat down on the chair Theresa had sat on when she had last been there and very gently laid his head on the sheet just next to his uncle's hand, focusing his gaze on the grazed knuckles and placing his own, almost touching, just alongside.

"Tough bastard, isn't he?" Theresa said, shaking her head in disbelief.

"He's from good stock," Xandr smirked, reclaiming his previously used chair and checking the chemicals dripping slowly into his son's bloodstream. "Of course, it probably helped I closed the valve a little on his sedative drip last night…"

"Pa!" Theresa exclaimed. "Why?!"

"Well, I say 'closed' – I just slowed the flow enough that if he was able to wake up of his own accord, he should be able to."

Theresa flashed her eyes at him over both of their prone sons and he shrugged.

That was dangerous! she accused him with her glare.

It was necessary, he blinked back, nonchalantly.

"Did the nurses say anything else?" she said instead.

"He's looking at another month or two in intensive care, then presuming that goes well, he can be transferred to a specialist recovery unit."

"Gimme a week," a voice rasped.

"Uncle!" Dom yelped, flying upright.

Theresa jumped in alarm too, for it had been the first word out of the boy's mouth in almost two days.

"Hey, kiddo," he murmured.

The boy barely refrained from leaping onto the bed as he flung his arms across the man's chest. The Major held back a nauseating wince, gritting his teeth.

"Easy," he panted. "Easy, now,"

Dom froze, pulling away carefully, but not letting go of his arm.

"How do you feel, sirrah?" Xandr asked him, eyeing him carefully.

"Like shit," his son mumbled.

"Obviously," he snorted. "Specifics?"

"Everything it says on these sheets, I'd imagine," Theresa said curtly.

For a moment she held her composure, then he gave her a weak smile – a guilty, apologetic, grin; begging her forgiveness for putting her through this ordeal – and she broke.

"You stupid, stupid motherfu…" she began, pressing her fist to her mouth to stop her voice from cracking.

"Ah, 'Resa," he coughed slightly. "Children."

She threw the clipboard back into its housing and grabbed hold of his hand over Dom's, slinging her other arm around her son and squeezing him close. Myles lifted his free arm over her and tried to squeeze back, but the effort it took was gargantuan and the absence of his usual invincible strength made the gesture more frightening than comforting.

"Don't you ever scare us like that again," she murmured, pressing her forehead to his for the barest moment, giving a giant sniff before pulling away. "Ever, you hear me?"

Myles shook his head slowly, his arm dropping back a little too heavily onto the bed.

"It's OK. I don't reckon I'll get chance."

There was a small silence that Xandr filled with a sigh.

"Well let's just worry about getting you back on your feet, first," he said. "A week, you say?"

"Maybe two," Myles grimaced. "Three if I take the piss. May as well milk this, right? Only chance of a holiday I'm going to get with Artemis as a charge."

Xandr barked a laugh, placing a large hand on his son's head and running a thumb over his brow.

"I expect you back in the manor by New Year, syn," he said.

"I'll work on that timeframe, then," Myles sighed. "How are the charges?"

"Fine," his father told him. "All fit and healthy - thanks to you. And Dom, of course."

The Major's nephew didn't smile and he realised his last memory of the boy on that country lane that night had been his bloodstained face and frightened eyes, begging him not to die, bravely putting himself between him and an approaching unknown... He squeezed his hand gently.

"Of course. He's a good lad," he said. Then a thought struck him suddenly. "How's B... how's the car? What happened to... it?"

"She's been towed back to the manor," Alexandr told him. "I put her in one of the garages under a cover. I was going to start seeing if the damage was worth repairing, but I thought you'd want to do that. Once you're up and a about again, I mean."

Myles nodded, smiling slightly.

He'd like that.

The door opened without warning and they all jumped, Xandr surreptitiously sliding his handgun back into its holster and standing when he saw who it was.

"Hello Matron," he rumbled. "I was just coming to speak to you."

"As you should – he should not be awake," she said, bustling into the room and checking the various machines and drip bags.

"I find it encouraging that he is," Xandr said simply.

"Yes, well – as encouraging as it is, your son needs his rest, Mr Kendrew," said the nurse, sternly. "I'm going to have to ask you all to leave."

Theresa made to protest and Xandr stopped her with a placating hand.

"That's quite alright," he said, turning to his son. "We'll see you tomorrow, Coyle."

Myles almost smiled at the alias his father had chosen for them and reluctantly let go of Theresa's hand as she stood. Reluctantly. That spoke volumes in itself. Dom gave a small whimper and gripped his arm like a limpet.

His uncle reached across to touch him on the cheek.

"I'll give you a minute to say goodnight," the nurse said, closing the door behind her. She was not a bad person, but her patient's health was her priority, as emotionally charged as the intensive care environment could be.

"Go on," Myles said, patting his nephew gently. "Go home now. Tim needs someone to watch out for him whilst I'm out of action, alright?"

Dom looked at him somewhat sulkily, but let go of his arm.

"Good boy. And no hare-brained schemes whilst I'm gone, you understand."

That made the Butler boy smile a little; both of them knowing that was entirely not up to him.

"We'll be back," Theresa promised, pulling Dom away gently. "Don't do anything else stupid whilst we're gone."

"I'll be waiting right here," he replied. "Unless…"

"Unless what, Myles?" she frowned.

"Unless someone hatches an elaborate plan to get me out of here."

"See you tomorrow, idiot," she said, shaking her head.

Myles watched them go, saying nothing about the moment he had opened his eyes and, just for a moment, been convinced he had been looking at a younger version of his brother at his bedside.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that little snippet of Beckett Butler there. Him and Myles really bump off eachother, which is fun to write.

Wolfy
ooo
O

18/12/18