Pristine hardwood and elegant red fabrics blend seamlessly across a packed ballroom. Overhead, gaudy art pieces act as chandeliers with figures of strong men holding electric torches. None of it is his style, personally; however, he's too buzzed to care anymore. He'll get used to it. He'll have to. Somewhere across the way, he can see Andrew Ryan entertaining with broad gestures and a steel smile - some among him being a slight-figured man with an eccentric presentation and a few more average gents sprinkled in with the crowd of admiring belles.

As for himself, Sinclair finds he's searching for something a tad more interesting, perhaps divorced from his usual takes. There are a few meeker-looking women occupying the corners and booths - lovely for the most part but will likely require too much hand-holding or perhaps see subtext where there is none. The livelier ladies were either married or far too easy. He isn't sure what he expected considering Ryan's criteria for recruitment. 'You didn't come here for the nightlife, Augustus,' he has to remind himself with a puff of air over his nearly empty glass.

The night winds down eventually with the band playing more allay offerings composed of mostly strings with subtle horns while the drinking hasn't slowed down hardly at all to the point where the waitstaff were looking just about as worn out as the half-dead patrons they are serving. Ryan and his troupe had departed long ago. Augustus? He's taken to a booth at the far end of the dimly-lit hall, not having had much in the way of spirits himself though he wants to knock himself out. Disappointed is a generous way of conveying his thoughts of the night. Mayhaps Ryan had misjudged Sinclair's likeness with his kind of people.

The former lawyer downs only his second glass of mild bourbon while scanning the room. Maybe he could distill his own brand of spirits later on after everyone's found their footing - anything to keep him and the other poor residents of Rapture from sipping the same flowery sap for the rest of their stay. Truth be told, it doesn't seem like anyone in the room currently cares about the quality or "bite" of their liquor as two things usually prevent such discretion: excitement or lack of options. Here, it's a mix of both. He slips one of the ice cubes into his mouth and sucks on it.

Then his eyes spy something quite in contrast to the rest of the swaying rabble: a larger fellow of fair skin and tall stature. His form is filled out by lean muscle that looks out of place trapped in a crisp, clean suit - a body such as his seeming more at home in the attire of a lumberjack. A pair of gunmetal eyes turn from the bartender and lock onto him as though they sense Sinclair's very soul. They're sober eyes. Augustus averts his gaze back to his empty class and he bites down on the now mostly-melted cube, going in to down the second one in the same fashion - all the while he's hoping the burning in his face can be written off as the same brand of intoxication plaguing the rest of the guests.

His concentration on his task causes him to jump when a new glass is placed in front of him, another across from him as the goliath sits himself down adjacent. "Hello," he manages to cough over chips of gnawed ice. The other chuckles.

"Sorry. You've been nursin' that poison by yourself all night so I thought I'd like to chat with someone more coherent." Southern… Maybe someone near his neck of the woods. Sinclair extends a hand across the table which is taken in an almost all-consuming grip.

"Augustus Sinclair."

"Wayne Deschamps." He releases but leaves something of a ghost over Sinclair's comparably tiny palm. "I work security. You?"

"Business owner, investor. Lookin' to get my foot in where I can. Used to be a lawyer and we all know how soul-suckin' that line 'a work can be." Wayne laughs a tad more heartily than the usual joe would at such a statement. A background in law, then?

"My daddy was one a' them for his entire life. Criminal defense was his specialty and he hated every second of it. There were times when he'd come home and gripe at my mama about how he'd just gotten the most guilty sop off the hook with a slap on the wrist for murder or assault or things even worse. Went to his grave a bitter old bastard." Right on the money. Wayne is smiling and it allows Sinclair a turn to laugh.

"I stuck myself to property disputes and wills. Not a fan of criminal trials. They're all a circus. Necessary, of course, but the system can be a cruel mistress. Enough about that, though. What special little claim to fame put you on Andrew Ryan's radar?"

"I wasn't invited by Ryan, actually. I was brought here by request of his chief of security. Got himself a bunch of us without wives or kids or other serious ties to the surface. Me, I never married and both my parents were put to rest when I was still in school, my grandparents not long after I graduated. Seems I was the perfect fit."

"Sure does... " Augustus keeps a neutral expression but his thoughts are moving a mile a minute. With a suave smile and slight narrowing of his eyes, he decides to probe. "...But a gent like you never gettin' married? I'd say you could have your pick." The smile threatens to widen far too much when he catches a glimpse of discomfort in the man's posture.

"Well, I... It just… Never worked out, ya' know? Always been too busy with workin' to keep a girl around. What about you?"

"Me? My interests are a tad too unusual for marriage." Wayne looks like he's about to voice a question before his eyes widen and his mouth finds itself welded shut. He stares for a few seconds before his own eyes narrow and he presses against the table by his elbows. Under the inquisitive eyes, Sinclair merely sips his new drink with a sultry smile.

"What kind of interests?"

He swallows slowly, clearing the remnants off his lips with a quick flick of a silver tongue. "Ones that align with yours, I'm hopin'." He's being far more forward than he'd usually be but he's far too impatient tonight and Wayne is the sort of specimen that doesn't drop by very often - terrible at hiding it, handsome and charming… among other traits. The man seems hesitant at first. He reels back in his seat with maybe a denial on his lips. He looks down at his untouched glass before returning those gunmetal orbs to Sinclair's hazel. On the doubletake, Augustus knows he's won.

"Maybe we can… talk about it in private? I know people ain't too comfortable with the unusual." He thinks he's being clever… Maybe he is in his own cute little way. With the third glass of bourbon, it's the most alluring thing in the world.

With the third glass of bourbon, he forgets anyone is watching.

…

To set up a twin pair of surgeries in one day has Augustus's head spinning. Favors are called, locations are arranged, equipment that doesn't have to be made is rented. The initial preparations are finished before midnight and he feels apt to puke. Everyone made sure to stress the fragility of Delta's condition and that seemed to fuel the forest fire better than a downed airplane - if the thought of operating on a big daddy didn't do that already. When it came to some of the figures the appeared within the two days following, Sinclair could see some who hadn't a fleeting fret over the survival of either man, but simply sought a paycheck or some sort of satisfaction from being so much as touch a protector when they were denied such a "privilege" in Rapture.

Yes, some were also former Rapture residents that fled any way they could when shit hit the fan. He wasn't shocked that so many somehow got out with Ryan's focus on the splicer problem and Fontaine in the later days. The "No one leaves" law became more of a suggestion to the especially privileged - himself sadly excluded. Either way, it accumulated to the older man sitting under the jeweled sky with hands shaking like a ratty motor. In spite of what he'd said to Tenenbaum some nights ago, he was scared - absolutely terrified. Surgery is surgery, but this isn't that. This is theory and experimentation. Is he really about to risk his life over this?

Some parts of him scream that he'd been too hasty, too emotional. What good would this even do? Maybe Fabron was right and Augustus is a poor choice. Then, of course, there's the fact that - by way of guilt - he can't back out. He wouldn't, but he feels like he hasn't a choice in the matter and that's what bothers him. The night he'd made the demand, Eleanor had hugged him… actually hugged him. Through misty eyes, she told the man who ruined her father's life in the first place "thank you." Upon hearing those words, every fiber of his being tightened with a sense of wrong. Her embrace felt wrong, her gratitude felt wrong, the warmth in her eyes was wrong…

He hadn't seen Delta's face. He'd never say it, but he's thankful. As much as he knows the suit and helm need to be abandoned, he's not sure he'll ever be ready to see it. He'd felt it - granted, through a buffer - and there were ridges of scar tissue reaching up to meet his hand and to remind him of his role. He remembers the pale, inhumanly smooth skin seen briefly through brass-colored apertures and swears he still senses the ghost touch sending waves through his captured body. That's not what scares him most, however...

"Why aren't you asleep?" It's a voice he hasn't heard much of, especially directed at him. He turns and sees Porter stood statuesquely in the doorframe. If not for the protector suit, he'd be taller than Sinclair by a good few inches. The man's physical prowess isn't something the Panamanian needs to look at him to know for his black eye is a firm enough assurance that said strength is very real. The man is short with him, cold. He shows no concern and Sinclair suspects he's asking for someone else.

Augustus responds in kind. "Don't feel like it yet." Charles takes two steps onto the small balcony and uncomfortably places himself to the "protector's" right. He leans against the railing far enough to catch the other man's eyes.

"It doesn't matter what you feel like. This isn't about you."

"Forgive me for not wanting to keep him up with my tossin' and turnin,'' he sighs, jerking his head towards the room where the two beds have been pushed together to make a comfortable space for Delta to sleep. It was intended for Sinclair as well. He's not keen on taking his spot on it just yet. Even the children were piled into the second room just so the two alphas can get one peaceful night before the operation. "He needs at least an hour of sound sleep if I can help it. He hasn't had much. As weak as he is, most of his sleep's been from passin' out and I doubt that's very restful."

Porter turns his head towards the dim street not too far below and seems to focus on nothing. "I'm curious about this sudden burst of altruism. I know where it's coming from but I want to hear what reason you've conned yourself into believing if you'll enlighten me." Augustus, too, stares off at a void born in his mind. He's unable to visualize a thing at the moment, as grounded in reality as he is by Porter's presence. He's aware enough to retort in a similar breed of venom, though.

"I'm not in much of an enlightenin' mood, chief. Sorry." The nickname slips out the same way as it had when he'd used it on Doctor Fabron. "Even if I was, I'm not about to let another person play armchair psychologist with me, tellin' me what kinda damage lead to the way I scratch my nose."

"I'd say you're the person who does the damage rather than the one damaged. I don't even think you realize when you're hurting people. Your so-called "friend" back there has been without his helmet for two days and you've refused to even spit in his direction."

"I don't look because I don't wanna hurt him."

"Not looking is hurting him. You're just trying to spare yourself."

Sinclair turns to stare at Porter directly, something mirrored though with much less emotion. "And what if I look at him and can't stop myself from makin' a face? What if I can't think 'a anythin' nice to say? Won't that hurt, too? My mind is all sorts of mixed up and I don't know what I'll be able to control and what I won't." Charles appraises the man before him for a moment through squinted eyes. It's a pointed, scrutinizing glare like a clerk at a pawn shop trying to decipher a suspicious ring's value. When he speaks, his voice is laced with warning.

"Remember what you were told about this procedure. If you want him to survive, you better make your peace. If there's doubt in his mind and it causes this whole thing to fail, it's on your head." Charles silently ducks from the balcony and slips out of the room, no doubt to head over to his own a few floors up. "Go to sleep" is said dryly in passing. Sinclair isn't long behind him, though he doesn't leave the room. He locks the door back and heads back over to the bed where Delta lays in what some might see as sound sleep, though the older man knows differently. Delta never sleeps this silently.

Through the din, he can't make out details but can see a swollen brow and crooked nose outlined in creeping moonlight via the window on the other side of the room. It's sedated when it reaches Delta's body. The older man rolls his jaw in thought. Once more, he recalls a train car miles below the ocean where he first touched ghostly, velvety flesh… And then on a shipping freighter where his own gloved hand had been fed under the hem of Delta's helm and guided along scars and divets. He'd said something to him, then… He can't recall what it was.

A tad reluctant, the Panamanian moves himself onto the opposite half, staring at the back of a pale, scarred head that moves only slightly with the deep, shaking breaths escaping his sickly carcass. He wants to roll over the other way, feign sleep until either morning or dreams manifest... Instead, he moves closer to the other... He slips one arm under a limp elbow and presses his forehead against Delta's shoulder blades in an awkward, loose hug. He screws his eyes shut when he feels the flinch.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he forces himself to quell thoughts of a less pure nature regarding the last time he was this close to another person in bed - oftentimes drunk and always with someone he couldn't care less to keep around. Prior to the pairbond idea, keeping Delta in his life had been up in the air. Now, it is going to have to be a necessity. In that way, Porter is right… Without even realizing it, he's been sabotaging Delta's chances of survival. The Panamanian lightly grinds his face deeper into the back of the younger man's suit. He draws a slight breath.

"Hey, big hoss…" He attempts to say with a more cheery tone. It comes out full of cracks. "I haven't… been actin' right lately... I know. I didn't mean to bother you with all my baggage. You don't need all that extra weight and I just went and lumped it all onto you. Didn't even realize…" He can't finish it. It's only two words and they are caught in his throat like he's regurgitating nails. No matter how hard he gags and stammers, they won't dislodge and he resigns himself to tightening his hold. If Delta knows what he is trying to say, he gives no indication. The pale face looks ever onward and the breathing keeps the same, horrible tempo against Augustus's strange embrace, distanced by the thick fibers of the suits.

Even if he could say those two words, though… They wouldn't help anything... They're just… words... Pointless words and yet so heavy that saying them seems impossible. They're anchored to the pit of his stomach with all the bile building with each passing second of muteness. Sinclair's eyes start to sting, hands start to shake, body starts to quiver under the raking hands of dread. The panic inside him builds like a tsunami, first with the fleeing tide as though collecting momentum.

But it stops.

All at once, the panic halts as his hands - wrapped firmly about Delta's torso - are joined by another pair of equal unease. An open, gentle palm encompasses the back of Augustus's right hand. It strokes it tentatively before taking it and holding on with barely any hint of force. The younger Alpha's thumb traces the knuckle of the other's index finger through small, incredibly controlled circles on the metal plate. It's almost loving. Even if the touch isn't skin to skin - or even glove to skin - the very concept of earning such placid attention shoots static from the point of contact on a steady course to every corner of his body. Warm… pleasant... Maybe a little frustrating.

Sinclair lets Delta do this for some time - maybe an hour - before the younger man seems to start to drift. It's at this point that Augustus knows he's allowed himself to be trapped, held in place by a desire to leave the younger man's rest undisturbed. Though he knows he'll have a few numb appendages when he wakes, he doesn't try to fight it. He presses further into the mesh prison and breathes a sigh of inner defeat. It's not as reluctant as he imagines. Even after Delta stops the idle stroking, he still feels that bubbling heat running up his arms and pooling in his chest. It webs off into his face, over his nose, cheeks and ears - growing more intense with each expanding breath the larger man takes.

Augustus has never held this much contact with the other. He's never been sure such things were allowed in spite of Delta's own inclination towards physical displays - using his hands to indicate what he wants in place of words, oftentimes touching or inviting others to touch. He's been very demonstrative where language has failed him and still Sinclair has only now gotten to be so close. Sleeping back-to-back on the freighter was one thing, but this…? He almost tries to yank his arms free when he realizes what the word for his actions is; however, even the slightest movement causes the larger man to stir and Augustus to cringe.

This isn't okay. This is a mistake. It's nothing and a massive problem at the same time. It's warm and pleasant and not at all unfamiliar and yet he can't stand it. It's all a massive contradiction. He wants to fall asleep to the sound of Delta's breathing against his ear and he wants to pull away and lay as close to the other side as he can possibly get. It's not Delta himself, it's what Delta is, he knows. It's that visceral reaction every man was supposed to have.

"This isn't that," he tells himself, hands starting to tremble. "I'm not going back to that. That wasn't real." Is that a lie? This warmth about Delta isn't a new experience. "You're tired, probably sick… Just go to sleep. You need sleep." He is tired, emotionally exhausted to boot. It's a perfect storm that has him practically fainting while still holding tightly to Delta's torso in the early hours of this already terrible morning. He swears he even feels the touch in his dreams.

…

They are steely eyes… cold as murder. They are eyes all of Rapture knows no matter if they know the man's name or face. They all know those eyes - those of Ryan's most diligent compatriot, one of his most loyal spies. Those eyes tear into him from the lobby of his own hotel and it takes every ounce of his strength not to turn and run like a bat out of hell as soon as Sullivan starts his way. Instead, Sinclair stands still and waits for the man with arms limply set in his own pockets.

"Your office, if you please." His voice is coarse with annoyance, even when attempting courtesy - still, Augustus walks shoulder-to-shoulder with Sullivan, his own face relaxed and voice as light as ever when agreeing. The officer almost jostles Sinclair in first before roughly jerking the door shut behind them both. There's hardly a second to breathe before Sullivan is snarling at the Panamanian.

"How long have you known Deschamps?"

"Pardon? Run it by me again, sir, I don't speak bloodhound."

"Cut the sly bullshit, Sinclair. Wayne Deschamps - one of my enforcers. I knew you were a different kind of degenerate, Sinclair, but this? Guess you're the case study on not judging a book by its cover. Suave Don Juan my ass."

"Holy hell, that was a lot. Release enough tension with that to finally explain to me what the issue is?"

"The issue," Sullivan takes a step for every word he speaks until Sinclair is backed against his desk. The former lawyer is forced to sit just to create some distance between their faces. "...Is that you've been in bed with one of my men for years."

Deny. Deny. Deny.

"One of your men? And who in their infinite insanity gave you that idea?"

'Don't emote too much. If you emote too much, you'll give it away. Balance it. Keep the top spinning.'

"Half of Rapture, to start! I didn't want to believe it. I kept hearing stories about you pulling him away from events and him not being seen for hours. I didn't want to believe it. Deschamps was a good kid. I trusted him. Then I saw it for myself. At Cohen's show last night, I saw you take off with one another at intermission. He was on the clock and you pulled him away from his job!"

'Was a good kid?'

Sinclair masks his voice's intense need to shake. "Excuse me, Mister Sullivan. I wasn't aware I was creating an issue. He never made any indication of it. Also, no. I have not been in bed with him. We met at a party years ago and have kept a decent friendship. He and I simply share a great many opinions on Rapture's upper echelon that make us less interested in staying for gaudy stage plays and over indulgent soirees. Not all of us are keen on watching people lick Ryan's boots."

The steely eyes grow even more focused. Sullivan leans in with a squint and an even lower tone that could have been a cousin to a hiss. "You can't lie your way out of this, Sinclair. He told us everything."

"Did he, now?" On the surface he's uninterested and jaded towards what most would assume is juvenile accusations. Below his thick skin, however, he's screaming.

"An enforcer running off with one of the big names in Rapture is suspect. Ryan wanted me to investigate. You walk a thin line with him as it is. When we got a hold of Wayne, he was all too willing to spill his guts. Better to be known as a flit than a traitor."

He's in a corner... If he denies again, he risks admitting to a mutiny that doesn't exist… If he comes clean, he loses himself to something far worse than death in Rapture... In response, he stares. Only stares.

"Where's your wit, Sinclair? All the swooning people do over that silver tongue… Not even knowing what you do with it."

Augustus, leans forward less than an inch, nose almost touching Sullivans to the larger man's near outburst of disgust. The smaller man's voice is laced with venom. "Ask any whore down in the alley and she'll tell you full well what I do with my tongue."

Ryan's attack dog bites back. "I didn't need to run to the alley to find your whore."

"So you say. Do you have any evidence aside from a captured man afraid for his life willing to tell you anything to save it?"

"What would he have to hide, Sinclair? If it wasn't being in bed with you, then what was it?" That's the game, then. Sinclair's personal antics obviously bother Sullivan, but not as much as the threat of competition towards Andrew. Trial by shame - forcing him to admit one fault to lower his standing as a means to save his literal skin... He is fucked no matter what he chooses to confess to.

"You're the one who marched into my office making accusations. You tell me."

"You're incriminating yourself."

"I own the prison."

"Ryan owns the city."

"Does he? You and I both know his power in Rapture is waning. I'm not gonna pretend like I'm interested in rising to claim it, but other people are sure pining for the position. Forgive me if the threat of incurring Ryan's wrath isn't what it used to be."

The barest hint of a twitch rings alarm bells in Sullivan's eyes. He stands up straight and takes one step back. "You have 'till monday to make a statement, Sinclair. Pick your sword."

"What happened to Deschamps?" He catches Sullivan with his hand on the door knob. The larger man snorts without even turning around.

"You know damn well."

...

As he had expected, Augustus awakens with one arm asleep and the other still holding a death-grip on Delta's hip. He manages to wriggle the numb appendage out from under himself and cradle it between both of their bodies until blood flow returns. It takes far longer than he'd like, but he can eventually wriggle his fingers through the intense pin-pricks roaming the entire length of it from hand to shoulder. As for his other arm, he can't find the strength to move it. Physically, he possesses the ability, of course, but in other terms he doesn't feel stable enough to release the larger man just yet. The same warmth that had plagued his increasingly negative thoughts just hours before now serves as an item of comfort.

Sinclair listens to Delta's labored breathing… Something inside Delta's chest cavity vibrates... It sounds like sucking little drops of water through a straw. All he can see past the deeply-rising shoulders is a pale, buzzed-bald skull that only moves marginally when the straw takes in a lungful. Maybe it's mucus? He thinks he remembers reading something that said living in a damp environment isn't good for the lungs so the idea doesn't surprise him - though he isn't sure how Delta's helm plays into that theory. He can take it off, but did he ever do so frequently enough to bring on such a side effect?

Delta rolls over a little more, sliding out of Sinclair's grasp to lay on his stomach. His face still aims away, but presses into the pillow. From a glance, Augustus thinks the protector looks so entirely at peace - maybe for the first time that either of them can remember. It's a relief. The action is just the motivation the older man needs to slide off the bed and slink away to the other side of the room where some gathered supplies have been neatly organized - not by him, of course. He sits partially cross-legged on the carpet and pokes around to find something light. He was told not to eat anything the night before or that morning since the surgery was scheduled to happen considerably early, but Augustus grunts to himself and chooses to hang the consequences over his shaking hands and twisting, empty gut.

He goes to reach for a box of some salted crackers… Then he hears a groan. His hand freezes mid-reach, finger-tips ghosting over the cardboard… another moan... He turns partially, looking at the unfocused shape of the other man over his shoulder. "You alright, big hoss?" he asks softly without knowing if the other man is even awake. Delta responds in kind with a low, vibrating sound that Sinclair can't describe as anything other than needy. He doesn't even have to look to know what the larger alpha wants. "Won't be coming back to bed, big fella. We're gonna have to be awake in not too long so I might as well already be up and about. You aching for anything? I know they said we shouldn't eat before the operation, but I think just a little snack shouldn't make much of a difference. I get bad low blood sugar anyway."

There's a more positive-sounding noise from behind the older man accompanied by a cacophony of groans, creaks and grunts. Two thuds shake the floor, then two more as Delta manages to sit himself partially behind and partially next to Sinclair. He must have slept well if he has the energy for that. Augustus was about to offer him one of the crackers when two arms slowly but firmly wrap themselves around his torso, followed by a lumpy face being buried in the meat of his armored shoulder. A shiver rolls up his spine.

"Aheh… Good morning to you, too, chief. That's, uh… That's real sweet." The warmth comes back with a vengeance. He clears his throat when Delta's yawn sends waves of goose-bump-raising breath over the back of his neck - far too pleasant for what it is. "Here," he says, sticking a cracker over his shoulder. Delta takes it between index and thumb, eating it with all the grace of a bulldog to Sinclair's amusement. Just hearing the mess such a tactless man is making is enough to stretch his lips into a gentle smile.

"Not looking is hurting him. You're just trying to spare yourself."

It drops like a sack of bricks. He hates admitting it - he really does - but Porter was right, is right… is always right. Delta is right there, bare face sitting on his shoulder in a hug far more affectionate than anything Augustus could ever deserve and all he has to do is look, is turn his head just a few degrees. Maybe what he's been telling Delta to do for weeks is advice he needed to take himself - rip off the bandaid… It can't possibly be that bad… If everything goes well today, it's a face he has to live with for the rest of his life either way…

Rip off the bandaid. It can't possibly be that bad.

Delta's hands begin to slide away and Augustus catches them. He holds Delta in place while he sucks in a deep breath and holds it. The larger man doesn't fight it. Rather, he sits there with twitching hands, quite possibly confused or concerned - maybe both… or maybe hopeful. Maybe Delta has been wanting this so desperately that he anticipates any leeway he makes to be this moment... It's far too romantic a notion to be anywhere near plausible, Augustus knows - the product of a fruity novel he might have picked up in passing many years ago. No, Delta is confused, most assuredly... He thinks the term "fruity," he realizes. All things considered, was fruity really bad?

Rip off the bandaid. It can't possibly be that bad.

He's stalling. 'Stop stalling, then.' Easier said than done but still doable. He isn't making the moment any less awkward with how long he's been gripping the larger man's wrist. His thumb softly traces the metal plate - What looks like a simple triangle etched into the brass… No matter what that face looks like, that symbol - that name - will never change. He's still Delta.

Rip off the bandaid...

A pull far too gentle is all it takes to bring the goliath of a man back into Sinclair's space. It can't possibly be that bad. He does it quick, turning his head to face the one practically on top of his right shoulder and finds his hazel eyes locked firmly in place by a pair of sea-green ones - wide and shocked beyond reason... One is marred by a swollen brow - his right. It seems the right side of his face is the one most affected… When he finally manages to break his gaze from those increasingly-bright orbs, he wanders over the troubled expanse with what he hopes is a neutral expression. Delta's jawline is jagged. The strong, straight line of it is interrupted by a divet about an inch deep and encompassed by scar tissue somehow lighter than the snow-hue of the rest.

On impulse, Augustus reaches up and taps his index finger on the missing chunk to no real reaction - like Delta doesn't mind the scrutiny, like he's expecting it. The response is encouraging. His hand turns palm-up and cradles the larger man's chin which has an x-shaped mark under the curve of it. Delta's lips are a surprise. Yes, they are chapped and bruised but also plump. Charming lips, Sinclair decides, feeling the redness consume his own face once again. He sweeps his thumb over them, wishes he could discern their texture on his bare skin. The scar tissue from the "cut" in the alpha's jaw extends in a slash to the corner of his mouth which makes that side twitch - nerve-damage, maybe. The slash looks like it had once been deep.

Augustus wanders, then, to the larger man's nose. It's hooked - not like Fabron's. It's far less dramatic than that. No, this nose was once beautifully angled - strong like the rest of his features behind the damage. It's crooked towards the brow and one of his nostrils has another slash through it, though small. The bruising and discoloration is everywhere. He'd heard Fabron mention it, but its extent is almost staggering. Some of it is from long-healed burns, some from more recent lacerations and blunt impacts. The rest is from nutrient deficit like the darkening of his eye-sockets. In a strange way, the shading accentuates the color of his irises.

As he comes back to those eyes, he knows he remembers them. He remembers a handsome young man with charming stubble and tanned skin… with feathery ginger hair… In its place, Delta is shaved bald, showing no sign of having his locks returned. Even his brows are void of it. Handsome still? Augustus won't say so. He won't lie… But when those chapped, quivering lips upturn into a nervous but earnest grin - surprisingly-white teeth and all - Sinclair can't help but return the expression with even more enthusiasm. Not handsome, but charming… Always charming.

And now, the first real expression on the smaller man's face is a smile. His first reaction is a smile. It causes Delta's own to widen into a radiant beam, one that has them both chuckling - Sinclair's hearty and Delta's the usual hissing. "My, my…" he breathes, still grinning ear to ear. It's not that bad. Bad, of course, but not in the way he'd been expecting.

All at once, it'll like a massive weight has been lifted off of Delta. He practically flops onto his side at Sinclair's hip, laying on folded arms and looking over his forearms with what almost seems to be bliss. He's been dreading it for longer than Augustus... Stressing... worrying... Wondering in agony... Augustus has been selfish. Where words fail, he simply prolongs the contact, running his thumb over the lower lip and chin. Touch - a language Delta has always understood, been able to convey.

In this moment, it doesn't even matter that all of his sins are staring Augustus right in the face.

Delta is frozen in place, grin becoming softer and a little amused at Sinclair's fascination. The patience of a saint… The face of a beast most feared and protector most adored. The face of a father - biological or otherwise. It's Delta's face. Sinclair says it a few times in his head before it really sinks in. This is Delta's face. This is the face of the man who spared his life against his wishes, the man who risked life and limb to find his daughter and get her and dozens of little girls out of the hell that was Rapture. This is the face of the man who made it through Fontaine's plasmid trials, though imprisonment at Persephone, through life in Rapture under Ryan's suspicions… through the ocean floor to find the city to begin with. No matter the drastic changes it has been through, this is the face of Subject Delta, Johnny Topside, whatever name he had before that he refused to share.

Sinclair follows Delta down, falling onto his back and stretching out his lame leg with a sigh of satisfaction. Delta's head is near his feet. Augustus's hunger is entirely forgotten. It's good silence that stretches on, now. Silence of sleep and of relaxation - lack of words for the reason of not needing to say anything instead of having nothing to say. They don't even move when the door unlocks and Eleanor steps inside. She says only two words when she finds them sprawled on the floor.

"It's time."

…

They don't go to a hospital for it. That makes him nervous… Well, more nervous than he already is along with the fact that the 'doctors' are no longer licenced and the equipment is old and rented when it isn't home-made. Yes, they've all done the procedure a hundred times before, just not under these circumstances with these parameters and not with only a theory as a guide. Too many variables. He refuses to object.

What has him more curious, though, is that he and Delta are in the same room, only kept apart by a dividing sheet as two surgeons take to them at the same time. He wants to ask, tries to, but is drowned out by more pressing issues. Before he knows it, he's strapped into more monitors than he even knew existed and being injected with god only knows what. One of said substances has to be the anesthetic… maybe something that numbs… He can't recall much from the time aside from one thing: Eleanor.

Before he completely loses himself to the fuzzy, black void of unconsciousness, Eleanor crosses the thin barrier between her father and him. She leans over him and makes sure to catch his eyes. She makes sure she's heard, that she's understood.

"Sinclair, listen to me. Focus for one moment." She snaps her fingers inches from his nose. He complies as best he can. "No matter what you see, what you hear, you need to remember one thing, okay? None of it is real. Not the sights, the smells, not even the pain. None of it…" She pauses to make her point as clear as daylight. "...Except for him. All that is real is him. Do you understand?"

He doesn't. In fact, he is even more confused than when they started. He doesn't remember voicing that thought, but Eleanor answers anyway.

"You will." It's the last thing he hears.