Thanks to: ghost235, Jolinnn, Spencerblue, 6000j, Steinbock, Fowl Fox and 2whitie - there you all are, you awesome people you.

WARNINGS: Possible trigger warning for very dark thoughts from Myles re: survival and lack of motivation to. Also, discussion of medical injuries researched purely by talking to and googling people with similar conditions. Also, a chapter without Dom appearing in it. Shocking.

CHAPTER 9

"NEGOTIATIONS'

Definition: A discussion aimed at reaching an agreement

Undisclosed Hospital, Dublin

She did see him the next day. And the next. On the third day, however, Myles underwent his second bout of surgery and it was firmly demanded that his number of visitors was cut to just one.

"He will most likely be asleep anyway," they assured them.

His family doubted it...

"Khoroshiy vecherniy, syn," he greeted him, as he entered the room.

Myles opened his eyes. He was guiltily relieved to see his father was alone. The surgery had taken more out of him than he cared to admit and he did not want Theresa and Dom to see him so… feeble.

"Is it?" he muttered, grumpily.

"How do you feel?" his father asked, in English now.

"Stoned," he said, his eyes rolling closed.

"And what would you know of that, eh?" he chuckled, sitting down on the chair and dragging it up to the bed.

His son made as though to sit up and look at him, but only made it a few degrees before he made a pained, gargling, groaning noise and lay back down.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take, Pa," he admitted quietly.

"The surgery will help in the long run, My-boy. Other than that, time will tell."

"Time," Myles scoffed.

"Time," Alexandr repeated, evenly.

The younger bodyguard gave a huff and then fell silent.

"I'm dying, aren't I?" he said, eventually, the words filling the room.

His father said nothing, but he let out a great sigh, air rushing from the very depths of his chest.

"I keep having... dreams," Myles continued. "They feel like visions."

"Thaaat," Xandr stretched the word with a knowing nod. "Will be the drugs, my boy."

"I keep... Thinking I've seen Beckett," Myles admitted quietly.

"Well, unless he's managed to sneak in here whilst we've been gone, I would also put that down to the drugs," the older man noted.

"I... I'm not coming back from this, am I, Pa?"

Again his father said nothing.

"It's OK. You can say it. I know. I can feel it."

Alexandr folded his hands together under his chin and looked at him.

"I think it's really a case of surviving until the next operation for now, seeing how you recover and then…"

"I can feel it," Myles murmured again, closing his eyes. "I go to sit up, I go to move, reach for something and there's just… nothing."

"That's just weakness, son. It'll pass."

"Yeah," the man in the hospital bed grunted. "Or I'll die."

"Well, aren't you of a sensationally sunny disposition this evening," Xandr drawled.

"I feel like shit. What do you expect?"

"I expect you to buck yourself up and focus on your recovery," said his father, raising an eyebrow. "Self-pity doesn't suit you, boy."

Myles lolled his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"Sorry. I'm just not enjoying feeling so… helpless."

"Perhaps you just feel normal," Xandr mused.

"Normal?" Myles snorted in disgust.

"Yes. Normal. Like all the other mere mortals of the world."

"You've been shot in the head, what, twice now?" his son scorned. "What would you know about being mortal?"

"True," Xandr smirked.

Myles smiled too, momentarily.

"Pa… You know what I… ah… you know what I want to happen if I don't… Ah fuck it – " he snapped eventually. " – if I die, you know where my will is. Shortly put; Theresa and Dom get everything. Alright?"

"I thought that might be the case," Alexandr said, with a soft smile.

"No offence. I was hoping to outlive you," he told him with a shrug. "You can have all my armoury, by all means."

"Myles, I issued you most of your armoury."

"Not all of it," he muttered, almost sulking.

"I'll look after them, Myles. You know I will."

"Good. Wouldn't want everything rusting away unused. Give the Sig to Dom, when he's big enough. He's got a thing about them, fuck knows why when there's a perfectly good Glock that suits him better at the momen…"

"Myles. I wasn't talking about the guns."

Myles closed his eyes.

"I know."

The next day when visiting time rolled around, he was sleeping.

When he awoke, he knew instantly he wasn't alone.

He inhaled slowly, so as not to arise suspicion, keeping his eyelids closed.

"Stop sniffing the air, weirdo. It's me."

"Ah good," he croaked. "I was so hoping for a sympathetic visitor."

"Yeah, well – keep dreaming, dipshit."

He scowled, but inside his bandaged chest, his battered heart lifted slightly.

"And I'm not here to give you a bed bath, either. In case you were getting hopeful."

He snorted. "Good. Having a nurse try that was bad enough, thank-you very much."

Theresa shuddered and made a noise in the back of her throat.

"Oh I am sorry," he snarked. "What exactly is so repulsive about that?"

"You," she scoffed. "And your drains sticking out all over the place. Gross. And there's so much of you. Must have been like bathing a baby rhino. Poor nurse. I don't know how they do it."

"You pretty much are a nurse!"

"Yeah, I know. Doesn't mean I like dealing with bodily fluids."

He shook his head, not quite sure if she was serious or not.

"Is it too much to ask for a drink, nurse?"

"So needy," she scoffed, reaching for the plastic jug on the side anyway and pouring him a cup of water.

He raised it to her in a mock toast.

"Here's to the future - or what's left of it."

"Oh good jaysus," she rolled her eyes. "Pa said you were bad, but I thought you were just hamming it up to skive another week off work."

Myles downed the water and said nothing.

"Give over with your Tiny Tim act. You're not actively dying. If the actual nurses let me, I'd have you up and about in a few more days - give you something new to complain about."

"What, on a zimmer frame? Great. I'll look forward to that then," he muttered, darkly.

"Baby steps, Myles. Baby steps. Let's tackle sitting up properly in bed first, shall we?"

"Don't see the point. May as well get practice lying down. Horizontal coffins are traditional, are they not?"

Theresa pinched the bridge of her nose. She had come in today with every intention on beating the blues out of her friend, but if he carried on like he was, the only beating she'd be doing would be around his bloody head...

"What meds are you on today, sunshine?"

"Fuck knows," he muttered, lolling back on the thin hospital cushions. "Too many."

"Or not enough. How are you feeling?"

"Oh fabulous, thank-you for asking. Really good. Can't remember the last time I was so cheerful."

Theresa gave him a 'look'.

" mean how are you feeling on the meds, you sarcastic prick. Side effects and so on. You're on insane doses…"

He decided against telling her of his visions of his brother.

"I dunno. What exactly should I be looking out for?"

Theresa lifted the increasingly thickening folder from the end of the bed and flicked through the pages, beginning to read aloud.

"Bla, bla, bla… more method of admintering shit... Ah, here we go," she cleared her throat. "The medications you have been prescribed may cause nausea, dizziness, breathing difficulties, hallucinations, depression…"

"Tick, tick, tick. Jesus Christ…" he muttered under his breath. "Just skip to the part where it says 'sudden death', would you?"

Theresa raised an eyebrow at him, but decided to cut him some slack, replacing the file with a barely-restrained sigh of annoyance. There was a broody silence for a while, whilst she weighed up whether it was worth even beginning a conversation with him this evening.

"She left me with the bowl of water in the end. Let me try it myself," he said, making the effort. "If you were wondering. The nurse, I mean."

"I was determinedly trying not to wonder, actually," she snarked, sitting down on the chair next to his bed.

"Damn near killed me; lifting my arms," he elaborated.

"Ah, that'll be where the scent of medication-permeated sweat is coming from then," she quirked her mouth at him.

"If you can't appreciated my 'manly stench' odour, then that's your problem. It was a conscious decision not to scrub my armpits properly, I'll have you know," he argued.

"Wussed out?" she accused.

"Wussed out," he admitted.

"Want me to go ask for a flannel or something?" she asked, serious now. "I was kidding about your drains freaking me out. I don't mind."

"Good God no," he snorted. "Do you want me to die of embarrassment before all these internal injuries carry me off?"

"I don't want you to die at all, to be honest."

He sighed. He had been trying to avoid that line of conversation, and what with all the talk of awkwardness and bed baths, he thought he'd been doing a pretty good job. But there it was. The elephant in the room. Him.

"I wasn't keen on the idea, either, to be honest..." he mimicked.

She stood suddenly and for a moment he thought she was going to leave before either of them got too emotional about the concept.

But instead she bounced down on the edge of the bed, swinging her legs up alongside his.

"Ah, ah, ah, oww," he hissed. "Shit, 'Resa – I just said…"

"Oh shut up, you big wimp," she grumbled, pushing at him gently. "And move your arse, you fat shit. Jesus, how do you people take up so much room..."

"If by 'you people' you mean Butlers," he winced. "May I just point out that it was by your own volition you started hanging around with this family and by now you should be well-versed in our short-comings. Or tall-comings. Whichever."

She snorted. "You know full well I had no choice in the matter from the moment I set eyes on your brother. You spend so much time looking after everybody else you forget to look after yourself. And that's my job. I'm a looker-afterer. You Butlers are like a beacon for that shit. Now shift."

He wriggled most undignifiedly over to make room, his breathing ratcheting up a notch, the heart-rate monitor a metre away giving a louder, double beep.

"You know this is against health and safety rules, right?" he said, through gritted teeth.

She wanted to curl in under his arm, but he held it clamped to his side and since for once it wouldn't take a Butler-expert to read the fact he was in pain, she didn't push it. Instead, she hooked hers over the top of the pillow shuffled up the bed so that she was looking down at him. He scowled up at her. He hadn't been able to shave since he was put in here. His head and jaw were covered in short, raspy hairs. She smiled at him.

"What exactly do you think you are doing?" he grumbled.

"It's my turn," she said.

He thought about it. The last time they had been sharing a bed like this, it had been him holding her life together by the threads. And now here they were, what, a fortnight later? Time flies when you're having fun...

Or something like that.

"So in most normal people's terms," she continued. "I suppose it would be described as 'comforting you'."

"Oh God, I really am dying, aren't I?" he drawled.

"Shut up, idiot," she muttered, flopping her hand onto his face and smoothing his frown out with her fingers.

"How's Dom?" he asked, by way of a change of subject, as she began to gently stroke his forehead, sliding her palm over his bristly skull, lightly.

He would reach up and push her hand away, if it wouldn't hurt so much.

Or so he told himself.

"Physically? Fine."

"Has he spoken yet?"

Yesterday, his father had given him a full update on the boy.

"Nope."

"He will."

"So Pa keeps saying, but… He's only said my and your name since that night. What if…"

"What if he never speaks again? I don't think you need to worry about that. He'll come around."

"If you come home, he will."

He sighed.

"The fact nobody will discuss with me frankly my chances and options isn't giving me much hope of that, if I'm perfectly honest."

She said nothing, her fingertips lightening and swirling over his scalp. It was strange to see his hair was growing in. Beckett used to do that sometimes; let his hair grow. She would call him a scruff, but secretly she liked it. When he inevitably got bored of it – or had enough spare cash to buy a razor – she would always feel slightly sad when he was clean shaven again and promise herself she would tell him next time he left it long enough.

"How bad is it, 'Resa?" the twin of the man she loved so dearly, asked her.

She sniffed loudly. She loved him, too. Not in the same way, but just as much.

"You got yourself shot seven times, Mylo. It ain't gonna be great news."

"Tell me," he said; a request, not a demand. "Please?"

"Well a lot of your organs are fucked. You're lucky you had two kidneys to begin with. We're waiting on liver function results to see how that is. You've got a hole in your thigh you could stick your thumb in, so god knows how that didn't hit your femoral artery…"

"Yeah, I noticed that," he said, blandly.

"… you have 45% lung function – in total, not each."

"Noticed that, too."

"Your ribs aren't looking great and one of your collarbones is shattered, so you've got bone fragments floating about all over the place – not to mention the amount of shrapnel that's in you. One bullet in particular is causing a real issue because they're not sure you're fit enough for surgery to remove all of them but they want to prioritise that one because of where it is."

"That's why my legs are fucked, I take it?"

He had noticed; of course he had. He hadn't sat still in this bed for this long without at least trying to get up.

"It's damaged of some nerve in your spinal column with a fancy name."

"What kind of 'damage'?" he asked, holding back an irk of irritation. "I'm sick of people pussyfooting around telling me how bad it is. Just tell me straight."

"No-one's really sure, to be honest," she said with a small grimace. "There's that much going on with you that…"

"Bullshit," he said, bluntly. "Bullshit. You're my friend, right? My best friend, so you tell me. If I'm going to hear it from anyone, it may as well be you. How bad is it?"

"It's all healable," she said evasively.

He didn't speak. He just glared at her – up at her, which was unsettling enough as it was – daring her to inflict him the worst disrespect and lie to him.

She looked away, unable to face him when she delivered the news she knew he already suspected and was desperate not to hear.

"The issue is the compression of the nerve. There's a specialist coming to have a look at your scans tomorrow."

He made no response to that, either.

"What else do you want to know?"

"Just be brutally honest with me," he said emotionlessly. "Please. And don't make me ask you again."

"Fine," she swallowed. "Being brutally honest with you, they're only giving you a 10% chance of being able to walk normally, but considering you just won out probably a 0.1% chance of surviving all this shit, I'm not going to rely on statistics."

"I can't work though, right?" he said, numbly, staring at the ceiling.

"You should be able to walk…"

"I said work," he cut her off, shortly.

"I know what you said. But you should be able to walk again a few months."

"A few months. Great."

"These things take time, Mylo…"

"Jesus Christ!" he snapped suddenly, summoning the energy to swipe her hand away this time. "I swear to god if I hear one more person telling to be patient and fucking grateful I survived this shit I'm going to rip all these fucking wires out of me and jump out the nearest window!"

"Don't say that," she said, her throat closing up on her. "Please don't say that."

"Stop worrying," he said sharply. "I can't get out of this fucking bed. I already tried. And all the fucking jugs and cutlery in here are made of shitty plastic, so don't go worrying about that either."

"Myles, stop it," she said, a little firmly.

"Don't Myles me," he muttered bitterly. "If I was an animal they would have put me out of my misery by now. An animal wouldn't have to go through this, so why are you all forcing me to?"

"Nobody's forcing you to do anything," she argued. "And you're not an animal, so just..."

"'Resa I'm an upright guard dog with a gun and a driving license," he said, scowling at the nearest machine as it registered his annoyance in rapid beeps. "It's all I was ever trained for, it's all I've ever been. I don't know how to be anything else."

"You do a pretty good job at being an uncle."

"I'm just teaching Dom to be like me. Some days I don't think that's a good thing. Today for example. And yesterday. And a few days before that when I was getting shot to shit for a paycheck."

"Right well one; I'm not sure it's a good thing either, but two; he thinks its the whole world and everything in it, so don't you dare tell him you're giving up on him now. And three; you didn't put yourself in front of bullets for money, you did it for Dom. And Artemis and Sophia. Kids. You saved their lives, Mylo. And Bates. You need to give yourself some bloody credit for that at some point. They're alive and safe, because of you. And yes, this is a shitty reward for that, but really? They're safe. They're alive, Myles. Not even a scratch. Because of what you sacrificed. And if that doesn't go some way to being worth it, then I don't know what else to say to you."

He stayed silent, but she knew she had hit onto something.

"It's completely normal to feel like crap right now," she continued resolutely. "You're in pain. You're on a lot of drugs. The fact you're even alive is a bloody miracle in itself..."

"Well someone else can have this fucking 'miracle', because I don't want it!" he said, too loudly for the small room.

She took a breath to speak, but stopped, exhaling loudly instead.

"I don't know what to say to make you feel better," she said, after a moment.

"Well that makes two of us," he said, shortly. And then; "I'm sorry. You didn't need to hear that. I'll try harder to put up a front from now on."

"Don't," she frowned. "Don't be sorry. And don't put up a front for me. You won't do it well enough and I'll just get pissed off with you. You tell me shit you need to get off your chest. That's what I'm for, alright?"

"I'm a Butler. We don't do talking."

"I know. You think I don't know that by now?"

She sat up to look at him, but he looked away, gaze boring into the whitewashed wall opposite.

"You live your whole life," he murmured. "Being told - expecting - you'll die in the line of duty. I was okay with that."

She let him speak.

"But here I am. Still living. I didn't expect that. And I'm not… I'm not okay with it."

"Oh Mylo…" she whispered, lolling her head over until their skulls knocked together.

Her hair tickled his face and he closed his eyes tightly.

It was true. Thoughtlessly, bizarrely, he had never really considered 'the inbetween'. Injuries were a given, of course, but he had always subconsciously expected that if he came up against a situation where he came out of the other side of it this badly damaged, then that would be it. There would be no recovery. They'd put him in the ground. End of story. End of duty.

What the hell was he supposed to do with himself if he couldn't work? He was institutionalised to the highest degree, he knew that; he'd readily admit it. His whole life had had one purpose and if he couldn't fulfil it… then what?

"You're going to get through this," Theresa said, her voice pulling him back from his spiralling thoughts. "We're going to get through this."

"Yeah? What if I don't want to."

"Then tough shit," she said, firmly, planting a kiss on his temple and swinging off the bed with far too much vigour for his battered body's liking. "Suck it up, buttercup, because I already lost one Butler twin and I sure as shit ain't going to lose another one if I can help it."

He held back a wince of pain as the mattress bounced unsympathetically. "Where are you going?"

"To get a bloody bed bath. You might not mind your armpits stinking, but I do," she told him. "And then I'm going to teach you how to use the bed controls so you can stop mincing about trying to sit up."

She shot him a grin from the door and vanished.

"'Resa!" he called after her, exasperatedly.

But there was no negotiating with that woman. Not on any count.

Undisclosed Location, Underground

"You took your time."

"I had to get clearance. Have you any idea how difficult that was? What was I supposed to say? Oh sorry, just got to go help an old friend and by the way, I might have forgotten to mention she's a d'arvitting mudwoman?"

"Don't be so ridiculous. I expected you to come up with something more imaginative than that."

"Like what?" he scoffed.

"Like the truth, perhaps?"

He grunted, piloting the shuttle expertly through the underground crevasses. He was calling in a lot of favours for this. Sure, he owed the mudwitch his life and that of a great, great many others. Without her, the death toll would have been higher than the 25% quoted by the Underground Medical Society. Atlantis would have been wiped out entirely, for certain.

But they had another story now. And those that knew the truth had begun to conveniently forget her involvement. They had handed over credit for finding the cure to someone who was one of The People. He had not been at all happy about that, but his sense of justice didn't matter in the end.

Spelltropy was gone.

A vaccination for the disease was well on the way to finalisation, to ensure it never returned again.

They'd even started releasing the lemurs which had been captured as brain-fluid donor animals, back into the wild.

It would be so much easier to wipe her and send her on her way.

Let her forget the part she had played in the salvation of their species.

But none of them quite trusted her not to have some trick or other up her sleeve.

She was a formidable ally.

She would be an even more formidable foe.

"Do they still think that girl - Koby, or whatever her name was - found the cure?"

She had seen him thinking, of course. He was almost sure she had read his very thoughts.

"Koboi. Yes. That's the story the press released, anyway."

"Who knows different?"

"Me. A few of the others who were involved in the research program. Nobody else. It's so classified that the files have been put on lockdown for the next five centuries at least. By which time..."

"I'll be long gone, as will the disease," she finished. "And nobody will ever have to admit asking for help from a human."

"It hasn't been easy. Koboi tried to charge for the antidote."

"I told you the truth would have been the better option."

"You have no idea what kind of chaos that would have caused."

"Chaos more than losing a quarter of your number to a disease I provided a cure for?"

The elf sighed through his nose.

"You should have given it to that pony boy, instead."

"He isn't medical enough. Doesn't have enough money backing him either. Sure, he's putting forward designs for new fancy cameras and wingsuits, but he's a techy. He'll burnout like the rest of them soon enough. Koboi's family is an industry. It had to look more legit than; 'college colt finds miracle cure in monkey head'."

"It was a lemur. And I think you're wrong about him. That Foaly is a smart lad. He'll go far."

"If you say so," he muttered, exasperatedly.

There was no negotiating with the mudwoman. Not on any count.

"Where are we headed?" he asked, to change the subject.

"Ireland - close to Dublin, if you can," she told him.

He calculated mentally.

"There's a disused port near Tara. They closed it after they opened the new one. It was too small for the numbers wanting to perform the ritual, but it still functions as far as I know. We can go through there. We won't be seen."

They flew on and she stared out of the windscreen. She would never truly get used to being underground.

"How's Raine?" she asked, eventually.

"Fine," he said, too bluntly to avoid her attention.

"Honestly, Julius. Anyone would think you were fond of her."

And although his ears burned red, he said nothing.

OK, so I've possibly bent a few timings and things from The Time Paradox here, but screw it it's a good story. Also Foaly would only be repeating the story he was fed, so his dates and information may be out. Also, if it bothers you that much then don't worry, I don't really mention it again either and we all know I don't really write about the fairies, so don't expect much more. This fic just needed some backstory. So here we are.

In terms of how Myles has been feeling and acting in this chapter, it was a difficult one to write. I've done some research in the area, but getting it to sound right is hard. For the physical side, I elaborated on a friend of mine who has a weakness of the legs caused by partial paralysis - he can still stand up, step along holding things and even climb chairs, but he uses a manual wheelchair fulltime - so I have based one of Myles' injuries on that. Hopefully everything has been semi-realistic so far and nobody has been offended by my writing.

Off out into the hills for a weekend, hopefully the next update will be when I get back.

Still a fair few chapters to go, so looks like this will run nicely into next year!

Wolfy
ooo
O

22/12/18