Proton's head hurt like a sumbitch, and it hadn't gotten better in the drive.

It was a splitting pain that was deep, deep behind his eyes, like someone had drilled a spike into his head and intended on leaving it there. No matter how much he tried to relax on the way back, no matter how much he tried to let go of the memories and thoughts, it only felt like it was getting worse. He hadn't had a migraine like this in months, since Petrel had first left for Tiksi at the beginning of winter.

"You got any ibuprofen?" he asked Sotiris on the way, and the older man shrugged.

"Check the glovebox?" he offered flatly. "Might not be ibuprofen Might be meth." Proton raised one pointed brow at the glovebox, then let out a frustrated growl.

"I'll take my chance with the headache," he grumbled.

The sun still wasn't quite ready to rise when they finally pulled into the parking garage. Proton left Sotiris to take care of checking the car for damage and took his helmet along with him as he skirted along the back alley and slipped into the Game Corner through the access door. It was much more peaceful there in the dead of night, with only a few lights on overhead and the power cut to most of the machines. Normally the noise of the slots would be deafening, all electronic buzzing and jingling, the sounds of coins rattling into metal dispensers. The Voltorb Flip machines would play this super, super annoying explosion sound any time someone flipped the wrong card.

Now, though, it was quiet, as much a liminal space as the underbelly of the hideout. It set everyone else off, and Proton too, to a certain extent, but still he loved it. He loved the electronic hum distantly in the background, loved the way it made the hair on his neck rise, and above all loved the way it felt like a fucked little goblin cave when he passed by the sentry and took the stairs down into the halls, then went further and further until he came back to the room he had claimed weeks before.

"I'm back," he announced, and unbothered by whether Petrel was there or not, took his time to strip off his jacket and swap his helmet for his favorite old hat. "I didn't know your old man was a battler. That lucario of his is a little demon."

Petrel was there, in fact. He was sitting at the desk as Proton came further into the room, tapping away at his laptop and not saying a word—so, of course, he was pissed. Proton hadn't expected any different, and this time he didn't particularly care whether Petrel was going to be a little shit about it or not. He dropped his bag on the bed and unclipped Twitch's darkball, setting that on the desk.

"I'm not going to apologize," he continued. "You know why? Because I've seen this shit. I've seen where this ends. And I refuse to let it happen again. So ice me out all the fuck you want, I don't care. I'd do it again in a heartbeat." Petrel fidgeted, but his eyes remained glued to the screen. Proton rubbed his temples and swore under his breath. "Fuck it. I'm not having this conversation right now. My head's already killing me. When you feel like being an adult—"

"What's wrong with your head?" Petrel suddenly asked, not turning around and voice low. Proton scowled.

"Like you fucking care."

The rickety office chair squeaked under him as Petrel finally sat back, draping himself along the armrests as he kicked out from the desk and turned to face him. His face was stony and unreadable, even for Proton, but something was sparked behind his eyes and his intense gaze settled unblinking onto Proton's.

"I hear that a lot," he mused, "but I just spent weeks stabilizing you while you were dying. If it wasn't for me—"

"You," Proton snarled, "tried to poison me."

"And yet, here we are." He grunted and stood. His knees popped audibly, and he leaned on the desk, but he didn't so much as grimace. He may as well have been animatronic, and sometimes Proton was still half-convinced he was. He cupped Proton's face between both hands, and though Proton wanted to flinch away, he stood firm. His heart began to thump in time with his throbbing head. "Where does it hurt?"

He let out a deep sigh and his shoulders slumped. "Deep in there, man," he admitted, "it started on the way back, and... Shit , I got work to do."

"Do you know what triggered it?"

"I was talkin' with your old man about Ma, and—" He swallowed. The pain sharpened, and he squeezed his eyes shut. His voice strained. "Petrel. You were—you were there. How did she die?"

Petrel regarded him quietly, his thumb stroking his cheek until Proton looked at him again. He didn't need to explain himself; it was the same every time. Proton relaxed himself as Petrel turned his head this way and that, then held up one finger for him to focus on and track with his eyes back and forth as he waved it front of him. Finally, he patted him on the cheek.

"You killed her," he answered, "remember?"

Oh.

That was right.

The memory was fuzzy, just as fuzzy as the one of his first big job with Decarli or the time he had met Petrel and his echo on the streets of Goldenrod, but it was there, behind layers of pain, scan lines, and static. Yes. He'd stabbed her, so many times. That was right.

"I can't—" He drew in a sharp breath. "—can't believe I'd forget that."

"It's alright," Petrel soothed him, "you're stressed. It was a bad day at the end of a bad week. After all that careful planning, everything thrown to the wind... Can you answer me something?" Proton nodded. "Why did you do it?"

But that wasn't there. No matter how much he struggled, that wasn't there.

"I don't remember," he whispered. "Didn't I—if I was planning, wouldn't I have...?"

Petrel kissed his forehead, then pulled him into a tight hug. As angry as Proton was with him, he couldn't bring himself to pull away. For secretly being a robot, Petrel was actually a very good hugger.

"Don't push yourself too hard. It will come with time."

He didn't want to pull away, but in the end they had to. He had work to do, after all, and thank fucking Lugia.

"I need stress relief," he grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "Wanna come with me and kick around Kei's pet twink?" Petrel shrugged.

"Yeah," he agreed easily, "sure. Maybe we can get some snacks afterwards."

They gathered their things, and off they went.

He had never done this with Petrel watching, before.

It was strange; it was different from the monotony of paperwork together in the dorm or in their offices. It was even different from the trouble they got up to when Archer wasn't looking. It was almost— almost— the same feeling that tingled down his spine in the dark of the cabin, when Petrel was nothing but a distant shadow and adrenaline and blood pounded in his ears. He wasn't a shadow, now; he draped himself almost comfortably over stacked crates of equipment, his dark eyes glinting with eager anticipation. Proton could feel those eyes on his back.

"You just gonna sit there the whole time?" he asked over his shoulder.

"Can't a man just enjoy a view once in a while?" Petrel shot back. Proton rolled his eyes. 'Once in a while' seemed to translate into '24/7' in Petrel speak—not that he didn't necessarily appreciate the attention, but there was a time and a place, neither of which was when he was working or while he was in front of grunts he was meant to be intimidating. He was short. It was hard work. It was that much harder while Petrel was very clearly ogling his ass like he didn't usually spend his free time doing that, anyways.

To the credit of Kei, he didn't quite seem concerned as much that Petrel was there to ogle Proton's ass than he was concerned about being chained to a rickety old office chair that looked like it had been scrounged up from a derelict back alley. Still in full uniform, his arms were bound too tightly behind him to budge, and Decarli had seen fit to slap layers of duct tape across his mouth that Proton pulled ever-so-slowly away with a painful rrrrrrip. It left a bright red track of skin across his face, but Kei was a good boy. He hardly uttered a whimper. Proton smiled.

"Oh, Kei," he sighed dramatically, "I told you I hate liars, right? Like, I specifically told you that?" He wanted Kei to speak so he could slap him across his stupid fucking mouth, but he remained wide-eyed and quiet, still as could be. A very good boy. Not a very fun boy, though. This was a job you had to have fun with—that was the first thing Proton had learned, all those years ago. It was never fun when they behaved. Easy, certainly, but never fun.

Kei had felt his wrath before, something that was proudly declared to the world by the cast still tight around his wrist, but that wasn't what made him learn his lesson. In fact, Proton knew the reason he had learned his lesson was the young man sitting across from him—the young man with the silvery hair and the big, wide, light eyes to match, dressed in very fine clothes and trussed up all the same as Kei was. The same young man that sat with him on the curb in front of the mart, which was why Proton supposed he looked a little bit familiar.

"You know, if you had just brought him down when I told you to, this probably wouldn't be happening," Proton announced as he eyed Kei's friend with a little smirk. At that Kei finally shivered, his eyes darting up with alarm as he suddenly went rigid in his seat.

"He didn't know anything," Kei whispered, "Executive, I swear, I don't lie to you, never to you—"

"Then why are we here?" He leaned over, hands propped on his knees, to bring himself level with Kei's eyes.

"Ooh," Petrel said, "can I answer that one? Because I know you have your cam on you, and I'm just saying, now's a prime opportunity for—"

"No," Proton cut him off, "I am not making you a snuff." Kei's pet twink let out a short, high little note at that, squirming so viciously in his chair that Proton actually laughed, full-bellied and delighted as he threw his head back. He swooped behind him, his fingers digging into his shoulders like a noctowl's claws.

"You get off to that kind of stuff too, huh?" he teased, cheshire grin at the young man's ear. "You picked a good one, Kei. Hey, what's his name?"

"Executive," Kei begged, "please. He's not a part of this. Please."

"Maybe he is, maybe he ain't," Proton acknowledged, "but he's one hell of a loose end now, isn't he?" He didn't have any of his usual toys—would have loved to play with his drill. Best he had was his favorite butterfly knife, and he was just reaching for it in his back pocket when a silly little thought crept into his head. He remembered the sound of the projector reel slapping in the dark and the feeling of something slimy dripping onto his shoulders, and with his mouth stretching wide into a sharpedo-fanged grin, he spun on his heel to face Petrel, who had made himself quite comfortable in his spot.

"Pete," he said to him, "can I borrow your ditto?"

Petrel looked at him, then at Kei and the twink. He smiled too, and without a word, pulled the pokeball from his belt to place into Proton's hand. It was an old pokeball, the standard red-and-white of Silph's original series, with the paint worn and peeling in places from where Petrel had grabbed it in the past. He wondered how often Helix had pulled that move on people before. It can't have been the only time, right? He pointed the pokeball at the twink's lap and activated the release mechanism. Helix materialized in the flash of red light as a pile of smiling goop, his beady black eyes shining in the ooze. Kei's friend hardly dared to move at the sudden weight, futilely leaning back in his chair.

Kei desperately was trying to capture his friend's attention. "Steven," he said, "Steven, look at me. It's going to be fine."

"Yeah, Steven," Proton laughed, "it's gonna be peachy." He came up behind him again, gently weaving his fingers into Steven's silvery hair before tangling and yanking his head painfully backwards. He smiled over his shoulder at Helix, who blinked up at him and jiggled like a cup of flan. "What sorta commands does he know?"

Petrel hummed, leaning forward with a lopsided grin of his own. "Try 'zadushit,'" he offered, "it means, ah... like choke. Or smother." Proton repeated it, and from the half-grimace Petrel offered him he supposed he must have mangled the word, but even so his boyfriend gave him a thumbs-up, so he turned back to the pokemon.

"Helix," he said to get the ditto's attention, then gave Steven a rough shake for emphasis, "zadushit." Helix blinked again, one eye then the other. Then he moved.

Coated in a fine film of slime, he propelled himself slowly along Steven's lap, then inch by inch climbed up his chest. Individual ropes of pink ooze stretched out from the ditto's body, each one pulling him a little higher and a little higher, leaving a slick and shining trail behind him. Muffled pants and gasps escaped Steven as Helix climbed to his shoulders, struggling to turn his head away, but Proton grabbed him by the side of his skull, thumb digging into the back of his neck to hold him steady.

"Just relax," Kei tried again. "Steven, it's alright, just relax, I promise—it'll be so quick, fuck, I'm sorry, it's going to be fine—"

Helix was crawling up his face, poking and prodding at his tape-covered mouth before simply ignoring it and moving on. He squished like ooze and flowed like a liquid, forcing up into Steven's nostrils with a wet squelch. He tried to scream but he gagged instead as Helix forced himself further and further, and Proton relished in the memories of the sour, burning chemical taste. His grip relaxed as Steven spasmed and twitched, trying to spit the persistent onslaught of acidic ooze from his mouth and all the while Proton watched every movement and every slight struggle with the most beautiful shiver slipping down his spine.

"Look at that," he laughed, his voice low, "look at that. What a way to go."

"Oh, sweetheart, you ain't seen nothing yet," Petrel piped up. "You ever watched Alien?"

Oh, hell, Proton could imagine it. The way Helix would burrow out of his chest. Peel him apart from the inside. It would be beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. He would pay anything to watch that happen—hell, if he could he'd get a ditto of his own. Replace his drill with it. He could really get off to that. Maybe he'd make Petrel that snuff after all.

His Gear rang.

"Oh, c'mon," Petrel grumbled.

There was only one reason why his Gear would ring. Everyone else was set to vibrate (or in Archer's case, silent) so he could properly ignore them when he was busy working. But he couldn't ignore everyone, and when the boss called, you always answered. Always.

"Call off your goo," Proton ordered as he swiftly turned his back to answer, stuffing one hand into his pocket as he held his Gear up to his ear. "Yes, Sir."

"Proton," Giovanni greeted him, "Archer isn't answering. Where is he?" Inwardly, Proton groaned.

"Last I saw him he was battling your League buddy off the highway," he sighed, "I've been waiting to hear from him since, but I can put out a line for him."

"Send someone out to find him if you have to," Giovanni ordered. "Is Petrel with you?"

Proton glanced over his shoulder. Petrel had gotten up and was busy struggling to yank his ditto back out of Steven's nose, and under any other circumstance it would have been hilarious, because it was like watching a magician pull an endless string of handkerchiefs from a sleeve. Instead he let out a long sigh.

"Yes, Sir," he confirmed, "I've got him here. And I think Ariana's in Fuchsia, but I can send word to her as well."

"She's already on her way to you. I need you to prepare a conference room. Bring whatever Silph documents you have, and put everything else to the side."

"Yes, Sir. I'll handle it."

"Good. You have three hours."

You did not, under any circumstance, hang up on Giovanni first. Never, ever did you hang up on Giovanni first. Proton waited patiently until he heard the line click off, then waited a moment longer just to be safe. He flipped his Gear shut and shoved it back into his pocket, then turned back to Petrel, who finished peeling Helix away from Steven's face with a disgusting and wet schlop.

"Boss is on the way," he announced, and Petrel rolled his eyes.

"Of course he is," he pouted, "and just when we were starting to have fun, too. Ah, well. Work's work, I guess. Isn't it, baby?" He held his ditto up to the light to peer into its droopy, stupid smile as it blinked one eye then the other again.

"You two got off easy today," Proton said to Kei. "Decarli's gonna come finish up with you." Steven was doubled over, gasping desperately for breath with painful tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "Behave and be honest, and I'll think about letting you crazy kids sleep in a bed tonight. C'mon, Pete."

"Don't tell me what to do," Petrel said even as he followed him out the door.

Decarli wasn't at his post as Proton had expected. It was irritating—he needed him and he needed him now—but grudgingly he could admit that there wasn't exactly anything exciting going on around the Game Corner with the shipment issue wrapped up for... well... however long that lasted. Still, he could at least pretend to be working. Instead, his station at the cameras were left empty, and Proton grumbled as he texted him a string of increasingly frustrated kaomojis.

"If it were my admin, he'd be scared shitless of being caught goofing off," Petrel grumbled.

"Yeah, and you wonder why you have no friends," Proton shot back at him as he led him back down another hallway.

"I don't want friends," Petrel protested. "People are irritating. If I could run the infirm by myself, I would."

It was probably for the best that he didn't. A few grunts disappearing here and there was fine, but Proton could imagine the headache if Petrel was left to his own devices. Team Rocket would be hemorrhaging them, and the entire organization would probably fall apart overnight. For a minute he entertained the idea—had no idea where he would go if it happened. Wasn't like he had a savings, anymore. Probably would be too difficult to open a new bank account with all the APBs out on him. He had no idea how Petrel would do or if he even had the right documents to find the most basic-ass job.

Wait, was he even in the region legally?

Proton squinted hard at Petrel as he thought about that. He... must have had at least a passport if he went to Tiksi annually, right? ...Was it real?

"What?" Petrel asked, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Nothin'," Proton answered. "Nah... nothin'. Just made me think of something. C'mon. He's gotta be here somewhere."

They took the stairs up to the next floor and skirted past the spinny tiles. Proton paused at each door to stick his head through, and each and every time he was treated to an empty or mostly-empty room. Even when there were people, none of them were Decarli—and in fact, none of them had anything remotely interesting going on inside. Not even a single couple snogging. The Game Corner was well and truly quiet, that morning.

"Bullshit," Proton grumbled. "He's gotta be here somewhere."

"You know what I think?" Petrel pestered him.

"No one knows what you think. No one knows how you think."

"I think he should be tied up down there, too."

Proton shot Petrel a look, but Petrel's face remained blank and unreadable, and he shrugged at Proton as if it should have been so obvious it shouldn't even need to be said.

"I'm not even gonna bite that one a little," Proton scoffed. "I don't know what sort of weird vendetta you have against him—"

"He doesn't do as he's told. I don't think he's ever really learned how to respect the organization."

Proton frowned as he poked his head into another empty room, his eyes scanning the chairs and desks briefly before he pulled back. That was a stupid reason. Decarli was great at following orders. Proton never had a problem with him, since the very first day of his promotion. Before that, Decarli had basically been the man in charge of the security division. It was certainly true that sometimes—well, oftentimes—he would look for ways to wiggle out of the HQ to get back to his girl Ai, but who wouldn't?

"I think you're just pissy I hang out with him," Proton decided on. "He's my friend. Get over it."

"He's a gossip," Petrel disagreed, "and when I give him orders, he ignores me. That makes him a liability."

"He's not a—goddamn, he's not a liability." Proton dragged a hand tiredly down his face. "He works hard. And y'know what, he's tied in pretty good. Still owes Boss a shitton on that fucking loan." He went to the next door and leaned in, looking this way and that until his eyes settled on the two grunts in the middle of the room playing a very precarious game of jenga.

"See, I don't like that. It's the one thing I think shouldn't have changed when Master Giovanni took over," Petrel complained. "Back in Madame Boss's time, if you kept missing payments eventually they'd just kill you. I don't trust the debt-hires."

"Oh, come on." Proton shut the door a little bit loudly on purpose, pausing to grin as he heard one of the grunts jump and the entire jenga tower topple over afterwards. "Ain't no difference between a debt-hire and someone who just needs quick cash. You sayin' you don't trust me?"

"You're telling me if Ipol came at you back then flashing some big bucks you wouldn't have jumped on it?"

Proton hummed as he thought about it. As much as they liked to bitch and moan about it, the pay wasn't the worst in Rocket. If you were a grunt, it was still more than you would get working part-time at a PokéMart, and it wasn't like you really needed an education to get promoted to admin. He remembered cash being a little tight when he got his ma into rehab, though, and so reluctantly he shifted on his feet and awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck.

"I mean, I guess," he huffed back, "but wouldn't anybody?"

But Petrel, who had grown up in the uniform whose entire outlook on life revolved around whether or not he would be able to get up and work for nothing more than brownie points, shook his head.

"The best decision Boss ever made with you was stripping you from those fucking shackles," he insisted. "The instant money comes into play is the instant everything gets fucking tainted. You and me, right now? There's a purity in what we do. That's something even fucking Archer doesn't have. Your little lapdog certainly doesn't."

Proton didn't know what to say to that. He could recall, vaguely, the day he had signed everything—his assets, his life, everything—to Giovanni. Hell, the man probably owned his shitty old camper van after that. The memory wasn't as fuzzy as some others, and it didn't make his head hurt quite so badly, but it was hard to remember how he'd actually felt about it. If he'd felt anything at all. Something bad had happened beforehand, he was sure.

But there was definitely a clear difference in the stress he'd felt trying to keep everything together and the stress he felt now that he didn't have to worry about that kind of bullshit.

"Maybe you're right," he finally settled on, "but I don't see what that has to do with Decarli right now."

Petrel shrugged again.

"Food for thought," he suggested. "Chew on it a while. Maybe you'll start to see things my way."

As they carried on up the stairs to the next floor and began to search all over again, Proton still wasn't sure if he really wanted that or not.