The man across from her rests his scruffy chin on his hand. When he sighs, it's filled with clear irritation - not for her, but rather for every circumstance that has brought them together. Between them - on the battered, metal table - rests a stack of folders which he so very meticulously curated by hand, much to his dismay. "I'm sorry," he begins after a silence punctuated by sharp glares and deep scowls. "We did everything we could - in and outside of the law - and found nothing. It's like he up and vanished. His neighbors said they last saw him entering his apartment two days after the operation and that was it."
"People do not just vanish," she hisses, staring daggers into the table. She grips the hem of her skirt so hard that she nearly rips it. "I should know. I have tried too many times."
"I know. I get it." He puts his hands up placatingly. "That's just what it looks like, the point being that it's suspicious."
"Could it have something to do with us?"
"Can't say that's likely. It's a dice roll. Doctor Fabron had a lot of eggs in a lot of baskets and the likelihood of his disappearance being in relation to you is ten to one. I'm not saying throw caution to the wind, of course. I just don't think you should do anything rash under the assumption that you're on a surface-world hit-list."
"But it's possible."
"I- Yes, it's possible but you shouldn't work off of that assumption. We know nothing about the motive at all and our resources are limited as is. Even if it is what's going on, we need to consider all factors before taking action like money, transportation, housing, food and the conditions of all parties."
"Speaking of which…" His expression deflates even more at that. Tenenbaum releases her clothes and sets her hands on the surface before her as though preparing negotiations. "...I believe Delta and Sinclair are now strong enough to be removed from their suits." He obviously knew it was coming, seems to have prepared a response, even.
"That's going to be expensive, Brigid. The first operation ate almost seventy-percent of our funds. Do you really think this next one is going to be any less? We don't have one-hundred-forty percent or a head surgeon willing to work pro bono with Fabron gone!"
"This is not another brain surgery. It has been done before and is a simple operation. Augustus Sinclair still has some money in his own accounts. I am sure he would be very willing to donate to this particular cause."
"I want it in writing and the money on my desk before I okay anything, Brigid. No trickling it in like last time. I do not have the luxury of working with a payment plan right now."
"I understand. We will take care of it. All you need to do is gather the required people and equipment."
"Brigid, I can't work off of a trust system anymore. I need the money first. I want to work with you and help - I really do - but we're struggling here and I can't risk this. You have to see things from where I'm sitting." He motions to himself and slumps back in his chair, tone sympathetic.
"I do. We'll have it."
"Then call me when you do officially. Until then, my hands are tied."
"Very well." In some ways, it may seem as though she is bitter but Tenenbaum holds complete understanding as she gathers the important documents from the stack and makes her silent and blank-faced leave. His position is a difficult one - and one in which she herself had put him - thus she refrains from pointing any blade of anger in his direction. No, it isn't even anger… It's… as much as she hates to admit it, it's fear. Even if Fabron's disappearance has nothing to do with Rapture, she still wants to take the cautious step and have the group moved as soon as possible - better safe than sorry, of course - but her compatriots are right in their concerns over life expenses on top of the medical treatment of some of their more needy refugees, Delta and Sinclair included. Finding the little ones homes would ease that burden. That particular undertaking should be handled as soon as possible… for the children's sake.
Move them before they get too attached.
Before anyone gets too attached.
…
Porter eyes the exhausted figure sitting just across the room. His suit's wide frame takes up half of the couch, an effect hardly helped by his nearly splayed posture - knees far apart, hands resting loosely at his sides, shoulders sagged. He leans on his palms with closed eyes and head nodding off from time to time. Charles notes how one of his knees is bent somewhat strangely. When he moves it, even subtly, it quivers as though either weak or invoking pain. Previous experience relays that the aforementioned leg had been damaged in Rapture and current evidence points to it having healed incorrectly, damage that would likely affect him for the rest of his life - even if corrected. In Charles's eyes, a limp is far from justice. Walking with a cane as penance for hurting hundreds of the needy? Fate has quite the sense of humor.
Augustus Sinclair has, for many weeks, remained a fascination for Porter. Those around him are comfortable with him - Subject Delta even showing some level of affection towards him - which contrasts so starkly with the character worked into Ryan's great chain. He suspects it's a lack of honest understanding but it isn't his place to educate any of them with the matters of ages and conditions taken into account. No, this is an injustice the technician will have to bite his tongue on - at least after his outburst in the hotel. Augustus just sits there… Does that for a good while longer while his companion is feet away in the kitchen. There's a strange sensation in seeing a man he so vehemently despises totally at rest - nearly dead to the world. Delta returns eventually, a cup in each hand. He holds one just under Sinclair's nose so that the rich scent of black coffee shakes him from his near unconscious state. When he reaches for the mug, he almost knocks it from Delta's hand and they both scramble to right the cup before taking a breath and chuckling at their shared clumsiness. "Thank you, chief," the older man laughs, leaning back into the couch to practically inhale the beverage - much to the larger man's amusement. It would be an incredibly domestic display if not for the hundred-pound diving suits.
For that moment - that single moment - the world is quiet, at peace… or as peaceful as it ever could be among such company. In their minds, Porter knows no one is being silent, however. Just by looking at their eyes between each long, drawn out blink, he knows there's a race of thoughts and voices. Charles had never been a "protector" himself - had never experienced a real pairbond in spite of his former condition - but he still tries to imagine the clamor of two minds made one. How do they sort through it all? In fact, how do they keep things from one another? Brigid had once expressed a concern to him that Sinclair would withhold personal issues to the point of destruction if not monitored, but how would he do so when the person he'd want to keep them from is in his head? Sometimes, Porter sees them glance at one another. It's a knowing, understanding pair of looks indicating that they are, in some way, communicating through the external muteness so perhaps there is a way to just subconsciously filter it.
As nice as it had been, the silence is smote quite effectively by the waking children making their way through the modules to the largest room among them. They'll all be wanting breakfast, of course, and someone is going to have to cook it. Charles doesn't expect it to be Sinclair and Delta doesn't know much about working anything more complicated than the coffee pot. Eleanor is capable, but the older man hates the concept of a girl so young having the care of a dozen children thrust into her hands. She shouldn't have to play mother. Dutifully, Porter stands and crosses into the kitchen where he gathers a pair of skillets, some eggs, milk and other facets of breakfast which might satisfy the herd. Maybe seeing him already preparing their meals will lower the volume just a bit. Some of the girls do enjoy watching people cook - others liking to "help" said people cook to mixed results. He's wrong. It was worth a shot. They barrage him with questions and choose to circle the island in the center of the kitchen, loud voices likely carrying a good ways outside of the walls. Porter works as quickly as he can, but he only has two hands.
"Need some help?" comes a timid voice from the doorway. Two things about it don't add up quite right and that causes him to pause mid-cracking another egg onto the skillet. His head darts over and sees Sinclair standing there in his lop-sided stance, arms practically cradling one of the girls - Odette. He remembers her. She's the sickly one.
"I'm fine," Porter lies. Augustus doesn't push the issue. Instead, he seats himself and Odette at the island - her upon her own stool - and waits quietly with her, silently allowing her to run her fingers over the brass apertures on his fingers and palm while also attempting to open them with her tiny, weak fingers. Seemingly on a whim, Augustus flexes his arm and causes the ports to pop open with a metallic scrape. The girl jumps initially, but soon finds herself giggling weakly when she sees Sinclair's amused grin. He does this a few times on autopilot, losing actual focus when the second part of his bond enters the room, his daughter in tow. "Morning," Charles greets dryly as he slides two finished plates onto the counter to his right. Unlike her older companion, Eleanor doesn't even ask - simply pushes her aid upon Porter who lacks the energy to entirely refuse. In fact, if Sinclair had insisted, he wouldn't have tried to stop him, even if he'd really prefer he didn't. Before long, the entire brood is handed food and set off to their desired locations all save for little Odette who, when offered her plate, merely pushed it away in favor of continuing to mess with Sinclair's glove.
"Odette, hun," Augustus nervously addresses. "You need to eat. You didn't have any supper last night."
"I'm not hungry," she replies. The older man and Eleanor share a look from across the island.
"You should be starving, sweetheart. What's the matter? Does your stomach hurt again?" Odette nods and Sinclair offers a sympathetic cluck. "Right... I think it's about time we let ol' doc Tenenbaum have a look at you, huh?" The child says nothing - doesn't even object - entirely too absorbed in the twisting metal holes under her fingertips. Augustus's fingers close around her tiny hand. "Well, until then, doll, I think it's back to bed with you. Try and sleep it off." Now, to that, she protests - very loudly, in fact, with an aggressive whine. "If you're feeling bad, honey, you need to rest."
"I'm not sleepy."
The Panamanian groans dramatically. "As you wish, your majesty. Let's go to the den, then." Before she can respond, he lifts her back into his arms and limps his way back to the previous room where some of Odette's peers are devouring their meals on the coffee table. After cleaning up a tad, Porter follows for no other reason than to monitor any and all interactions between Sinclair and the girl's that he can. It's not for lack of trust, actually, as he's certain the man means none of them any harm. The older man sets Odette on the couch between himself and Delta. "Alright, honey, if you don't want to sleep, then what?" The girl merely shakes her head, an action which causes the already slightly frustrated Sinclair to sigh and clasp his hands together. The Panamanian darts his eyes around the room while tapping his two index fingers in a rhythmic set of metallic clacks. Finally, said eyes fall upon a notepad which Eleanor had left on the floor next to the couch the night before. "Here," he offers. Sinclair rips a manilla sheet from its bindings and presents the slightly-crumpled plane to the small girl. "Let's see if I can still do this…"
Much to the child's vaguely-tired wonder, Augustus starts to fold the sheet multiple times at strange angles. Said action is a difficult one with the added handicap of his now much larger and brass-tipped digits, though he seems to manage all while Porter makes his way back to the armchair across the way. About half-way through, Charles realizes what he's doing. Odette, however, has obviously never seen this before judging by her wide stare. A couple of times, Augustus folds a piece just to squint at it and straighten it back out to refold - even multiple times - resulting in a final product decorated with a few stray creases, though such trimmings matter little to the completely enraptured child to whom Sinclair gives the result. It's an origami swan.
Odette gawks at the paper creature, holding it as though it were the most fragile, delicate thing in the entire world. "A bird!" she declares with the most enthusiasm Porter thinks he's ever heard from her. Sinclair chuckles.
"That's right, honey. You know what kind of bird?"
"A duck!" Points for confidence. The older man laughs again.
"Close. It's a swan. They swim around and got big paddle feet like ducks, but they're big, fluffy and white with long necks. Hmmm… I'd say… They're about the size of you, actually." She darts her eyes to him and then back to the tiny, origami creature resting in her two palms. It seems there is a train of thought slowly chugging along, one promptly derailed when one of her peers jumps up and practically slams her little hands upon her couch cushion.
"Can I see?" And there's another behind her jumping to look at the craft. Feeling that her gift is being threatened, Odette reels back, scooting almost on-top of one of the nearest adults… Sinclair. And that is something that Porter cannot, nor does he think he will ever, understand. For any of the children to be attached to Sinclair feels almost sickeningly wrong, especially when Delta and Eleanor are always in close proximity. Granted, it's one child out of twelve, but that still doesn't feel right.
…
It's a dusty old tape tossed aside with long-forgotten papers in a derelict office underneath the tracks of the drop. Most people wouldn't have given it the time of day, but him…? Maybe it's fate. He's drawn to the devices whenever he finds them and sometimes they help his leaking mind understand the world in which he finds himself. This one, recorded by a man whose name is left unsaid, bores into his head...
"I don't know if I can stay here anymore… There has to be a way. People have gotten out before, right? I mean, Fontaine has those fishing subs. Maybe I can pay one of his boys to get me at least close to the surface. With Sinclair putting people behind bars at the say-so of the highest bidder and then selling them to Fontaine's lab-freaks, I don't have a harlot's chance in hell. Shiloh's gonna have me sent to Persephone, I know it! Gonna pay that sly bastard off and I'll end up a mute freak in a diving suit! I should've known better than to bet on a boat that's already sunk."
The tape rolls and then sputters to a stop, but he can't help but stare at it for a long time... He's seen the names 'Sinclair' and 'Fontaine' all over the city- two players in the civil war he's been caught in the tail end of. This, though… This digs into him. Was… this what happened to him? What happened to all the poor, entrapped souls he's seen all throughout Rapture? Part of the man wonders if either of these two are still around, one of the more resilient spliced monstrosities that made claim to parts of the dying utopia. Maybe then, even if it's petty or neither of them are in any state of mind where they'd remember where they are, he can reap some form of justice. From then onward, Sigma kept his eye out. If there were ever any instances of Sinclair or Fontaine spoken among the coral and debris, he listened. The tale he manages to piece together is not a flattering one - filled with human experimentation and manipulation; however, Fontaine, he finds, is dead. As for Augustus Sinclair - the opportunistic, uncaring bastard who supplied the scientists with their unwilling subjects.
As far as Sigma knows, he's all that's left… and he wishes he had time to pursue him. Fine. Let him rot in the remains of the hellscape he helped make. Let him drown when the walls start falling down. It's what he deserves. It's what they all deserve.
…
It isn't long before Augustus has made eleven more paper swans, each with their own quirks but all good enough to spark joy upon each child's face. Some of the girls get the idea to take their crayons to the animals as a means to distinguish their own swans from the ones of their peers, something that actually encourages the meek and antisocial Odette to emerge from her oh so very secure shell. Porter simply watches. He observes, he recalls and he wonders... In the wake of his work, Augustus relaxes into the couch, seemingly glad to be away from the attention for just a little while. He retreats to his silent sanctuary where only he and one other are allowed to tread. That "other" smiles at him… Smiles even if Sinclair is practically falling asleep and paying no mind, cheeks becoming dusted with a faint layer of pink that appears entirely too vividly upon his near translucent flesh. It's an expression of pride, of knowing, of adoration which Porter thinks is all so entirely misplaced.
So… he makes a decision.
"Hello, everyone," Tenenbaum huffs into the almost silent den, her entire being consumed by a constant state of existence known as her anxiety. She's sleep deprived, messy, urgent and nothing short of herself. Unto her appearance, nearly every soul in the room gives their undivided attention, some even a greeting - though she doesn't acknowledge them. "I'm afraid pleasantries will have to wait, we have much to do. Sinclair, I must speak with you." Augustus straightens and glances at Delta.
"Well… I have to talk to you, too."
"It will have to wait. More important issues have arisen. Come, come. Kitchen." Her commands are met without hesitation. That leaves the rest of them more than a little confused but unconcerned thanks to Brigid's tone being only a little rushed rather than her own brand of paranoid. Delta seems to know that this conversation doesn't require his presence, so he stays. He sits and watches the little ones color their swans or flip them around, pretending that they're flying... all subtle and simple joys brought about by the actions… of Augustus Sinclair. And perhaps that's where the pride comes from - from seeing his new partner do something admirable because, yes, it was admirable. Hoping to change him, perhaps? Fix him enough to live with so that what's left of their lives will involve less conflict? It's possible. It's about ten minutes before the two of them return and Sinclair's expression is more than satisfied. He limps back to the couch and clasps Delta's shoulder, relaying a private message to him that transfers his potent elation. Charles has an idea of what's going on.
It had to happen eventually, though he has to admit he's become less and less able to imagine either man without their suits… doesn't want to openly admit that he'd prefer Sinclair stay in said suit - even if those emotions still persist. More than once has Porter wondered to himself if he's being too cruel, but those thoughts are swiftly silenced when he remembers that very first tape... The fear in that young man's voice when referring to Sinclair like a boogie man that would snatch him up in the night... He imagines those were fears shared by many, especially when the prison warden could be bribed. In that, he instantly loses sympathy. Throughout that day, though, new thoughts start to grapple in his constantly-conflicted head.
From the warm looks to the paper birds, Charles Porter can't help but see counter-evidence to the image in his head and wonder... What of the man who took advantage of the needy? What of the man who imprisoned innocent people? What of the man who sold his prisoners to become genetic experiments? What of the man who has to look upon a survivor of his cruelty each and every day and bear the weight of being his lifeline? What of the man who gave up his freedom to save the life of his victim?
What of the man who sat down with twelve little girls and folded each and every one of them a paper swan?
Not in many years has Charles Milton Porter been so confused.
...
The laugh which escapes Augustus is one of relief - pure euphoria if Delta has ever seen such a thing. "Can you believe it?" he asks, turning on his heel to grin at his companion who sits casually on the steps of the porch while Augustus limps back and forth with one hand braced against the railing. "We're going to be free. Free, Del!" When was the last time the Panamanian had ever been this happy? Sounded this genuine? God, is it contagious. The older man slips down at Delta's left, gripping his arm excitedly. "I… I don't think I can even imagine you without that hunk-a scrap." Delta can't help the thought which rises within his head, thus allowing it to come forth clearly under a tinge of mischief.
'Eager to see what's underneath?' It almost seems like the implication goes right over Augustus's head- somehow - but the double take ensures that it does, eventually, hit home and send the Panamanian reeling - beat-red face and all.
"Ab- Ah- Wha- What?" he squeaks through nervous and confused laughter, soon joined by Delta's almost uncontrollable wheezing. "Where the hell did that come from?!" It's there that his words start to take on an almost offended tone though still entirely encased in a tomb of disbelief and embarrassment.
'You, probably,' the younger offers with a continuous and entirely unwavering grin. 'Your head is full of stuff like that.'
Sinclair grips the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle. "Been rooting around?"
'No. You're not great at keeping things from me, Augustus... You'd be shocked at what I know.' It's not a threat, Delta makes that painfully obvious. Rather, it's a nudge. It's a bid at bringing up something he knows is none of his business but is still eating him alive. In response, he feels the wall start to creep back up…
"I'm not, huh."
'You'll get the hang of it.'
"Hmm… And what do you know…?" Is that an invitation? No, it's too easy. It's bait. He can't just say something innocent or slightly compromising as Sinclair isn't an idiot. It's all too late that the younger man realizes that Sinclair has sprung Delta's own trap onto him, slyly working his way around and tying his partner's hands. He can't just say nothing, either or pretend to have been joking. He'd been too earnest, tempted fate too boldly, but how does he approach it? Can he even do it lightly?
Isn't this what he wanted?
Delta takes a deep breath and bites his quivering lower lip. 'I… Know you like men.' The response is like a punch to the gun, a silent revile from the other side of their bond. Delta can practically see that doorway that he'd only just opened into Sinclair's head starting to slam shut.
...Until he laughs… Until Augustus… laughs.
With a wide grin and kind, warm chuckle in spite of the internal alarms that the younger can feel from the other side, Sinclair looks at the other man and says "What gave it away?" Delta can't think of anything to say, inadvertently opting for a wide-eyed stare instead. This only server to make the older man chuckle, still appearing warm over his apprehension. "You… Saw him, didn't you?" Though instinct wants otherwise, Delta slowly nods. His eyes never leave the Panamanian who, in turn, never drops his gentle grin. "I figured. If I saw your memories, you had to see mine, too, right? Or at least something… You know, Del, I realized something last night: This whole… process we've been trying to get moving has been insanely one-sided. You're always asking what I've seen and how I feel, but I don't think I've ever asked about you. I'm not the only one with an entirely other person in head, after all, so… Go ahead and ask." Now, that is an invitation.
'Who's Wayne?'
"Figured that part was obvious."
'I just want confirmation.'
Augustus takes a deep, bracing breath. "Well, I don't think we were ever official. To be official, both people have to agree on that but… until the end, I didn't see our relationship for what it was. Guess I was dense in my youth, but I loved him. I really did. Just wish I saw it sooner. Hm… What exactly did you see?"
'I didn't really see anything. I heard things. Heard you two talking a lot.'
"About what?"
'Mostly arguing. You were both frustrated.'
"Towards the end, yeah. I don't blame him; though I think he'd blame me very much." More chuckling. He's taking it shockingly well and that causes Delta to reel back a little - like it's the calm before a storm. "Well, then?" Delta cocks his brow. "What do you think?"
'About what?'
"Me, I guess."
The younger man shrugs nonchalantly. 'Do you expect me to change my mind over this?'
"A lot of people do. It's why I kept it a secret."
'Stop doing that.'
This scoff is a mixture of genuine amusement and hurt, though Delta isn't convinced that he's hurt the other in any way. That pang comes from somewhere within. "You remind me of an old friend of mine. She was a… well, I'm going to be blunt so forgive me, but… She was a sex worker. First time I met her it was for… those reasons, but we kept in touch because she claimed she liked the way I talked. She was always there for me, always pushed me to be honest… wanted me to live honestly, she claimed. She was convinced that I couldn't be happy if I didn't…"
'I think she was right.'
"Of course you do. Cut from the same cloth, I guess... It's a good cloth, though. I'm lucky to have you, Del." To that, Delta grins wider than he can ever remember grinning.
'Without you, I'd be dead… literally, so I can say the same.' One more laugh… one more warm, genuine, velvety, humor-filled laugh and Delta thinks he's going to melt. God only knows what his face looks like right now. Sinclair gently bites his lip.
"I'll try not to change your mind."
'You'd have to try to change it.' And there it is. There's that god damned chuckle. Delta averts his eyes to the sky peeking out from the overhang of the porch where a cloudless blue sea awaits. A flock of songbirds flutter from tree to tree in the cooling temperatures of the breeze. He feels Sinclair's hand clap his shoulder twice before the man stands and starts back inside. He'll have to follow soon, but not yet… He can't face it, yet. 'I just need a minute,' he thinks to himself. Just a minute to wash away the hellfire billowing his face.
-AN-
So, there's something I need to talk about before the story continues (and it will. Don't worry about that when you read the following.) I recently graduated college and ever since I have been scrambling to get things squared away on top of working on this. I keep worrying about when I release each chapter, how long each chapter is, if the content is good enough compared to what came before and a lot of other issues.
I'm stressing so much over something that I originally started for fun. I still enjoy it, of course, but not as much as I should be. That said, I wanted to bring this up:
I don't want to sacrifice quality for the sake of time. If it takes me a month to put out a chapter or two, then you know I really worked hard as opposed to chapters I released a week or even days apart because I was scared that you would all get content starved. I'm not going on hiatus, I just need breathing room, is all, so forgive me if content doesn't come out super often.
Thank you for sticking with me this far.