Warnings: some fluff, some depressing things, and some Doc things.

Chapter 5:


We had settled into our new base pretty quickly.

Doc used the basement as our designated medical room, getting all of his supplies in and his equipment set up. He and Thatcher decided they'd share a room. Pulse and Mute would share a room, and I would share the last room with Blitz. The downside to this place is that we would all be sharing the bed in each of our rooms. I didn't mind snuggling with Blitz, since we were best friends, and he was really much like a brother to me, but imaging the boys having to bundle up together amused me. Especially since Mute hated physical contact, for the most part. But at least he and Pulse got along well.

We were given extra security around our base perimeter, which was great. With Blitz alive, and awake, and Sledge off our hit-list, I've felt much more energetic and much less stressed and anxious. I never stopped feeling eager to kill Caveira, though. I thought about it constantly.

Blitz rested in bed once we assigned rooms. He was still wrapped up in bandages all over, and I was beginning to wonder if it was necessary after this long. Shouldn't he be pretty much healed by now? I let him sleep, pulling the blankets up a bit further over him. I didn't really need to, though. The sun was shining through the window, and the weather was mild with a cool, soft breeze. It was really beautiful, actually.

I went to visit Doc down in the basement, to see if he needed any help. It looked like he had already gotten himself situated, and declined my help. It looked really professional. I felt like I was in an office building. It was one giant, open room. The carpet was clean and a dull gray. There were matching leather couches and chairs, all brown and a little worn, but looked nice. There was a large computer desk with Doc's laptop and random junk on top. A large globe was in one corner of the room, near the bottom of the stair way, and there was a large piano and grandfather clock in the farthest corner from the stairs. Even the curtains on the low-seated ground windows were lovely and professional-looking somehow.

"It looks nice down here. Feels like I'm in a therapist office or something," I said to Doc as I looked around, admiring, getting used to the smells of the new house. It smelled like roses and old dust. I imagined an old lady or man living here, having brought in roses from the garden in the back of the house often, and playing on the piano. But really, I didn't know who previously lived here. It was just a cute thought.

Doc was sorting through a box while in conversation with me, "Have you been to a therapist, Ela?"

"Yeah," I sigh. I didn't like talking about it, but then he asked, "Did you learn anything about yourself?"

I stepped up closer to him to see what he was rummaging through in the box on his new desk, answering, "Nope. She told me what I already knew: I have issues and I need to work on them." There were records in the box that he was thumbing through. I had never seen any old-school records in person before.

"Hm," he starts, getting briefly distracted by a particular record before pulling it out and setting it to the side. He continues flipping through the records in the box, "Therapists can be pretty useful if you give them a chance,"

"It was a waste of time," I said, a little annoyed, deciding to change the subject before he could say anything more about it, "You listen to those old records?"

"Oui." He was very focused on going through them. There were so many in that box.

"What about listening to music on your computer or phone?" I tilted my head, looking to the side at his face as I stood right next to him.

He pulled out another record, setting it on top of a small stack of others he had removed, "It's not the same. Have you ever heard of the Ink Spots?" He holds up a large, square cover, sliding the shining black disk out of its sheath, it carefully in his hands with the mentioned band name on the center of it. He looks at me, finally.

I shake my head, "Doesn't sound familiar at all to me." He smiles a little, amused, "How old are you, Ela?"

"I just turned 32 not too long ago," I answer, now curious about his, "What about you?"

"38. I suppose records like these were a little too early for both of us, but I rather enjoy listening to them. Would you like to hear one of my favorite songs?" He heads to the record player that sits on a small table, on top of a doily, and sits under one of the big basement windows.

"I'd love to," I smile, genuinely eager to listen to something Gustave dearly enjoys.

Once he puts the needle down on the spinning disk, it begins with a static noise. The song starts playing soon, starting with a simple string instrument and piano, before a strong, but soft voice starts somberly singing, "It's all over, but the crying…"

The song is soft, gentle, and slow-paced. It sounds a little sad. I can't figure out why anyone would still listen to records anymore, because as it plays, the audio still sounds a little rough and muffled. But Doc is sitting on the arm of one of the leather couches, listening quietly with a content expression, and it makes my heart warm.

I sat on the couch, next to him, his back facing me. I stay silent to be polite so he can hear it. The melody picks up a little halfway through, sounding a little bit less depressing. I don't feel the same enjoyment for it that he does, but by the end of the song he has moved down next to me, so I made room to let him sit by my side on the couch.

The record continued playing, the music never being too loud to talk.

"What do you think?" He asks. I laugh a little, "It's not very good," I admit. He lets out a small chuckle, "You're making me feel old, Ela. But I appreciate your honesty." We look at each other, smiling. I feel his warm, soft hand snake into mine and weave our fingers together. We give each other's hand a small, loving squeeze, and I'm blushing. He seems much more confident with me when I catch him at the right time, but still acts avoidant most of the time.

"I'm really fond of you," He says softly. He's no longer smiling, but his expression is gentle. I my heart races at his words, but before I could say anything, Mute comes into view, stopping at the bottom of the stairs. He's wearing his usually boots and dark military pants, with a solid-gray t-shirt on, fitting attractively on his lean body. His light-brown, almost dark blonde, hair is subtly wavy and is getting long, it almost covers his eyes. His slate-blue eyes are looking at us – mostly me – with scorn. He looked like he was stopped dead in his tracks when he saw us. We quickly stood up and away from each other, Doc going to his desk and straightening out the mess on his desk. He avoided looking at Mute.

"What's up?" I said innocently, walking up to Mute. He straightened his posture, looking down into my eyes, "I need to talk to you in private," he says firmly before heading back upstairs. I take in a small breath and sigh. I don't want him thinking Doc and I are a 'thing'. It wasn't like that. Doc and I exchanged a glance and a smile before I followed after Mute.

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He led me outside to the back, in the garden. It was fenced in, and there were trees all around the fence, essentially keeping the entire backyard and garden secret from the rest of the world. The garden hadn't been tended to for a while, and was, in fact, largely in terrible shape.

We sat down on the edge of the back patio. I sat Indian-style, as always. Mute had his feet planted on the dirt under him, and his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together, looking down at the ground in thought. He didn't seem angry, but I couldn't read him.

"Doc and I aren't…" I started, fumbling my words at first, "I mean, we're not… serious. It's not what you think," I look down at the dirt and grass beneath me.

He closes his eyes and shakes his head, "I don't think about it at all. It's none of my business, Ela. That's not why I wanted to talk to you." His eyes open back up, looking over the broken garden. He usually makes consistent eye-contact when he talks to people, so it's really strange that he's avoiding to with me right now.

"What is it?" I ask, a little worried about him. I grip at the edge of the patio under my knees.

"My girlfriend is pregnant, Ela," he answers in a breathless voice. My eyes widen. He looks at me with shock, and even sadness, in his eyes. I've never seen it before. He was even able to keep a straight face when we watched the footage of Blitz, Sledge, and Cav.

I'm smiling wide at first. He must be so nervous, since he's going to be a new dad. That's why he looks so upset. I want to congratulate him, and even hug him, telling him that's great news. But then my heart sinks down into my stomach heavily, and my smile quickly dissolves, as the reality hits me:

He didn't get her pregnant. He's been away from her too long for it to be possible.

She cheated on him. She's having another man's baby.

I feel devastated for him, and angry for him. Mostly, I feel so… sad.

The wind rustles the leaves in the trees as I struggle to think of what to say or do.

"I'm sorry," he says after the long silence, "You know I hate sharing my personal life with others. I don't know what I was thinking." He closed his eyes, his head hanging down.

I wanted to lay a comforting hand on him, or embrace him, but I know he hates physical contact. He's comforted me before, but it's rare, and I think he's only accepting if he's the one that initiates it.

"When did you find out?" I ask, unable to think of anything else, and honestly curious.

He's unmoving, eyes still shut, "This morning, before we left. She wrote me a letter, a painfully long letter, apologizing profusely, but begging me to let her keep it," He always spoke so clear and proper, but his voice was weakening and breaking up.

"I don't think I want to, Ela." He adds, sounding scared. His eyes meet mine again, but now they're glimmering with tears not yet broken, and they're filled with anger and fear.

I can't stop myself, and I don't really think about it, when I place my hand on his back and firmly rub it. He's shivering a little.

I'm trying to sound strong and supportive, but I'm at a loss, "Mark, you don't have to think about that right now…"

He doesn't react to my touch, but responds, "I can't wait too long to decide. Is it even my place to make the choice?"

I exhale, softly replying, "Of course you have a choice. She's your girlfriend, you're in this together, right?" Am I saying the right thing? Damn it, I don't know the right words.

"Fuck!" he shouts, startling me. His eyes are now shut, and his tears are falling. He grabs his head, his voice going quiet again, "I don't think I can stay with her after this. I don't want to forgive her, and I don't want any part of deciding if she keeps the damn baby or not. It's not even mine," he growls.

Mark loves kids. On our tours together, he always loved playing with the local kids, and teaching them things, anything from writing and reading to playing football. I know he's got a soft spot for them, so the idea of terminating a pregnancy would be extremely hard for him, especially when he's in the position to father it.

I move to stand right in front him and put my hands on his strong shoulders. He looks up at me with the saddest eyes I've ever seen, as they continue to leak droplets of tears down his cheeks. I lean down and hug him around his neck, laying my head on top of his hair, and I don't let go. I scratch his back repetitively, trying to calm him. I'm silently crying too, and I feel so pissed off that his girl could do this to him. Mute has been a great friend of mine for a long time. I can't imagine anyone hurting him this way.

After a little while, once he's stopped crying and is left sniffling, but now a little more calm, he gently removes my arms from his neck and I pull away, taking my seat back next to him, close to him this time.

"Thank you, Ela…" he says, wiping his eyes with his hands, "Please don't concern yourself with this. I'll figure it out. I apologize I put this on you," he looks at me, his eyes red and swollen, and his cheeks red. I never imagined I'd see him like this.

"I'm not worried, Mark. You're one of the smartest people I know, and one of the strongest. I'm so sorry for this, Mark… but I'm really glad you trust me enough to tell me all of this." I give a small smile, my eyes still filled with concern.

He clears his throat, sniffling again, "It isn't about trusting you, Ela. It's just that you're the only one lame enough to care about what I'm going through. No one else would sit through my depressing ramblings," he jokes, though the energy behind it is weak. My smile got a little wider.

"You're starting to joke around almost as much as Blitz," I chuckle. He chuckles a little, too, "I'm completely serious, though. At all times," I exaggerate with I roll my eyes and push him, playfully. He giggles a little big, something I've never heard. I know he's still in so much pain, and he will be for a long time, but for now, we laugh and recover from the tears.

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I woke up in the middle of the night, around 1a.m. After using the bathroom, I couldn't get back to sleep. My restlessness was irritating me. I made my way to the kitchen and got myself a glass of water. I was in a comfy black t-shirt and gray-and-purple plaid pajama bottoms that were slightly too long for me. I didn't even bother turning any lights on in the place. The moon was bright enough for me to carefully navigate around, and I was hoping being in the dark would sort of lull me back into being tired again.

I stood at the sink for a while until I finished my glass of water. I set it to the side and looked off into the darkness of the house, crossing my arms. I was much too restless to stand around and do nothing, I decided. After putting on my dark-green GROM hoodie, I went out to the back to see the garden, although it was only barely illuminated by the full-moon.

I noticed right away that someone was standing on the patio, where Mute and I had sat earlier, and he was talking on the phone, quietly. I slinked back, peaking around the corner. I watched him until I realized it was Doc. He was in his dark-blue GIGN pants and black boots, with a plain black hoodie on, but not up. He was facing away from me. Once I realized it was him, I approached him, quietly, not wanting to startle him. That could be dangerous.

I hear him speaking into the phone now.

"…no, he's dead. I told you this." His next words are spoken in what sounds like… Portuguese? I'm not sure, but I can't understand it, whatever it is. I stand still behind him, listening, but I'm not sure why.

"He's at the bank, waiting for you." He pauses as the person on the other end talks to him. I can't hear them at all.

"Better. He's good enough to assist you now. But, I may have to renegotiate with you," he pauses again for a moment, his body language giving off that he's uncomfortable, perhaps even nervous.

"I know… But I can't find the right opportunity to do it…"

…..

"No, it's not that—"

He shuffles on his feet, another pause.

"Doc…?" I speak up, delicately.

He turns to me, startled. He hung up his phone, trying to seem calm now, but acting anything but.

"Ela, did you have issues sleeping?" he asks kindly, and nervously.

I eye him, cautiously, "Who was that?"

He stays quiet, looking deep into my eyes. The moonlight is shining over both our face.

"Doc? Answer me." I threaten.

"Don't act so serious. It's none of your concern. I'm heading to bed now. You should get some rest as well."

"No, tell me who that was, what exactly that was about," I'm getting angry, and scared, "Who's at what bank? What kind of negotiation do you have, and with whom? Answer me, Gustave."

He runs his hands through his hair and looks away, looking increasingly agitated, but not responding to me.

"I can't let you back in," I tell him.

"You're being ridiculous," he growls.

"What are you hiding?" I shout. He looks worried, like the others may wake up.

"Please be quiet…" he says.

I get up close to him, my voice loud, "Why? You don't want to the others finding out your hiding something from us?"

"Ela, stop…" he quietly, but firmly demands.

I dropped down and delivered a quick, smooth kick to his legs, bringing him down instantly. I jumped on him, grabbing his arm and forcing him on his stomach as I wrenched his arm up high and hard behind his back, causing him to cry out in pain, though he forced himself to do it as quiet as possible.

I straddle him, holding him place with his arm, using my other hand to hold his face hard into the wooded patio floor by his hair.

"Tell me, Gustave! Who are you?!"

I feel furiously protective of my teammates, and refuse to let him go back inside. He says nothing.

Mute, Thatcher, and Pulse run up to us and take him into their own hands. Mute and Pulse aimed their SMGs at him while Thatcher, also with a holstered gun, had zipties in his hands and quickly bound up Doc's wrists behind his back, his knee holding Doc's head down, while my knee was firmly dug into his back. I couldn't believe what was happening. I didn't even know what was happening, but I'm furious and my heart is racing.

"Ela, are you alright?" Thatcher asks, securing the last zip-tie.

"I'm fine, I just…"

"What's going on, Ela?" Pulse asks, gun still pointed directly at Gustave's head.

I don't even know what's going on, myself.

"He won't talk to me. He was on the phone, saying questionable things," I looked up at Thatcher, my breath caught, as I was hit by a sudden realization, "He was speaking Portuguese…"

"Caveira…" Pulse curses under his breath.

"Shit!" Thatcher groaned out. He and I both stood up, dragging Doc up to stand as well, and held him by the front of his hoodie. Thatcher's pale, green eyes glared coldly into Doc's brown eyes, "You're gonna talk, mate," he darkly warns him. We grab at him and roughly lead him back into the house, the other two following close behind with their guns at his back.

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More to come.