Chapter Twenty-Two

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Author's Note:

Merry Christmas!

I know, I know, this chapter is super late and I'm sorry. :( Somehow the writing went really slow and was rushed at the same time. I got tired of this one so it's rough in a couple places, but I can't care anymore. :P

Anyway, the next chapter will be updated on a Wednesday like usual. Enjoy. :)

"Again."

Salt lined Demetrius' lips as beads of sweat trickled over the contours of his face to plop, plop, plop, on the concrete floor. He was so tired. His body shook from exertion and his bowed head preferred to idly consider the new, little, splattered stains rather than to scrounge up the nonexistent energy to force his head up. To force his body up. He wasn't sure if he could. His muscles burned with aching relief from where he'd finally collapsed and it was simultaneously the best and the worst feeling. Had he destroyed his muscles? Had they been ripped apart? It felt like it. It felt like he'd never be able to walk again, but he might not care if he could be allowed to lay down right here and never move again. Never wake up again.

He breathed the air greedily, never minding that he would have preferred it less stale. Fresher. He could feel small eddies swirl around his face as he exhaled and the muted, uncomfortable itch of hot sweat coating his skin. He might've wiped the most unbearable of it off his face that crept over his eyelids and sheened wet over his cheeks if he thought he could waste the energy left in his arms to do it. Even if he could, he wasn't all that steady to risk it as it was.

The quiet was a buzz in his ears. His breathing was probably loud, but he didn't feel like it. It was lost in the stillness finally settling for however short it would last. His huffing echoed off the walls and somehow accentuated the quiet all the more.

How many hours had he been down here now? Demetrius wondered passingly, though it was a pointless thought. It didn't matter. He didn't really want to know. Not until he was actually done and he wouldn't have to torture himself thinking about how much closer he was to finishing. How far he was from finishing.

The basement was cool, the only balm to the miserable heat thrumming in his rushing veins that urged him to keep going. His thumping heart, lying and telling him that it was possible. The basement had always been cool. The floor had always been the best place to lay flat on his back during the hottest summers when cold showers and fans just didn't cut it.

That was when he was young. Now there was a faint whiff of Demetrius' own, fresh sweat tainting the air that hadn't graced the obstacles and sparring gear in weeks. Where once the area was mostly empty; mats, a punching bag, an obstacle course, and even holds and knobs that created a sort of rock-climbing assimilation along the walls, had taken over the large, open basement of the manor. It had grown worn over the years. Old bloodstains from split knuckles still splotched the floor here and there. The punching bag was replaced every now and then, but the sand in the latest one had begun to make the bottom slightly wider than the top. The climbing ropes—though still strong—had begun to fray. The sheer, wooden hurdles of varying heights were scuffed and marked with the ugly shallow gouges it had earned from Demetrius' nails when he hadn't quite been able to make it. The monkey bars set three feet apart from each other had lost their sheen.

Still. It all remained intact. No good sense in replacing any of it if it still served it's purpose just as well as when they were new. Sometimes the course would change; rings instead of bars, a pole instead of a rope, one type of hurdle for another, and a slew of things Demetrius couldn't be bothered to remember at the moment. Whatever wasn't in use was put in storage until it was brought out again. Weren't thrown out. Still carried the bits of evidence and proof of thorough use when retrieved.

Escaping to the cooled basement in the summer didn't bring the comfort it once had when his training had started.

If Demetrius had to choose, he would always prefer the training courses out in the woods. Where the extensive obstacles, climbing and such ranged from all over the ground to in the trees. It gave another kind of skills to add to Demetrius arsenal and if Donovan was anything, it was prepared.

At least Demetrius got to be outdoors on those days.

Passing his tongue over the salty water that had strayed to his mouth, Demetrius managed to lift his gaze to the two men standing in the centre of it all. His father's gaze burned into him, eliciting more unease from his son than words ever would. Letting the single word hang uncomfortably between them. He wouldn't repeat himself. Donovan didn't like to repeat himself. He didn't need to repeat himself.

The trainer had let some uncertain expression briefly pass over his face, but it was gone too quick to be sure. If he was questioning Donovan's demands, he wouldn't voice it.

It wasn't uncommon for his father to come and oversee Demetrius' training. Every now and then he'd show up to see his son's progress and discuss his routine or any changes to be made with whatever trainer he currently employed, and—like his personality—he was always very meticulous about it. There were benefits to keeping exercise to a limit. It was important to moderate how far Demetrius pushed himself or for how long. To insure that he had time to rest. To insure that he didn't wreck his body in Donovan's pursuit of perfection.

But not today. His father wasn't happy with him. And to top it off, Demetrius' best time through the obstacle course had fallen by six seconds. Hence overworking him. Donovan knew it would take time to make those six seconds back up, but he wanted it back now. His son was regressing rather than progressing and he needed it fixed.

Demetrius knew better than to let his father wait for long, but he was just. So. Tired. After running, strength straining, sparring, and running through the course who-knew-how-many-times, Demetrius was having a hard enough time to not just disassemble right there. His leg shook something terrible when he planted a foot in front of him, intending to get up. He let out a huff when it gave out beneath him.

His father's eyes narrowed unhappily. "You have become complacent during your time away." He spoke the word with as much disgust as his monotonous tone allowed and Demetrius thought that was a little unfair. Donovan had never worked him so hard, of course Demetrius was tired

His father sighed with great displeasure. "You cannot train if you are physically unable. Shower and come for breakfast."

"What are you going to do with the kids?" The words left Demetrius before he could think better of it and Donovan halted on his way back to the stairs.

Demetrius rarely spoke to his father. If he had something to say to him, to scream at him, he held his tongue. It could only end in consequences, or at best, nothing fruitful. When Donovan spoke, Demetrius would listen and obey like the good soon he was, rarely having anything to say back. There was oftentimes nothing to say that would lead anywhere. So when he did speak, Donovan halted as he always did in those scarce moments it happened. Not for any sort of respect or care for his son, but because he knew that whatever Demetrius said or asked of him, it wasn't for anything frivolous that would waste his father's time. There was always a worthwhile point. Demetrius speaking to him was almost a novel concept, almost a surprise, like Donovan sometimes forgot that Demetrius could speak. The young Desmond could tell by the minute ticks he found in his father's face. Of the eyebrow that would sometimes twitch in an effort to squash the impulse to raise it. Demetrius rarely spoke to him—barely spoke to anyone at the manor—so it drew Donovan's attention when he did.

Donovan gave him the small acknowledgement of turning back half-way to look at him. "They are not your concern."

"Anya will need me." Demetrius tried. If he could convince his father that he can help with Anya's developing powers, he'll at least insure that he'll have access to her and make sure she's doing okay until he could figure out a way to get them all away from here safely. "And Damian is my brother."

His father sighed gravelly and Demetrius tried not to shrink under his narrowed gaze. "Damian will return to school under supervision." Demetrius blinked, surprised he got an answer. "And 007 will not be staying with us."

"What?" Demetrius said quietly, ice freezing over his bones.

"Your aid will not be required. You have other things to do."

"Where are you sending her?" Demetrius fought to keep his voice level.

"That is not your concern."

"But—" Demetrius was cut off by his father's glare, dousing his impulse to argue far too easily. "When?" He asked instead.

Donovan sighed again, growing irritated with this conversation. Other than the time at the police station, Demetrius didn't speak with him this much. "A couple days at most."

Demetrius couldn't say anything else as he watched his father and the trainer leave, panicked thoughts suddenly loosed upon him.

Anya was leaving. Going somewhere else. Where Demetrius couldn't keep an eye on her or help her. Where was she going?! To who?! What were they going to do with her there?! How did Demetrius keep them all safe if she wasn't going to be around to keep her safe?!

He thought he would have time! At least more than a couple days to figure something out! He couldn't wait for the Forgers to wake up, they were in a coma and who knew how long that would last?!

His first thought was to fight his way out, but that would never work. He'd been training for years, learning all sorts of different martial arts styles, building his strength, speed, and agility, and yet, he knew he wouldn't be able to best any of his fathers people. Ever since he was eleven years old, Donovan had mentioned how weak he was in comparison to his father's highly skilled and trained agents, and how long of a ways Demetrius had to go. Demetrius had fought adults growing up, sometimes he would win—most of the time, he did as he got older—but they had always gone easy on him, letting him get a feel for how a fight with other people would really be like. That incident at Damian's dorm was a fluke when Demetrius got the drop on Barkley. That wouldn't happen again. Even if it wasn't, there were too many of them. Too many of them watching and waiting and he would be caught before he got very far if he tried to sneak out with the kids.

So what did he do? He couldn't just let Anya be taken away where she'd possibly never be seen again. Would he be able to find her?

Demetrius' hand absently covered the little scar on his shoulder he had found last night. A scar he hadn't thought much of before or how he had gotten it. He's had it for as long as he could remember and though it had faded considerably, it was still there.

Demetrius knew now how the assassins had found them. How his father had found them.

He couldn't really go anywhere with the kids until he was rid of it.

Demetrius needed a plan. He needed. . .he needed. . .

Demetrius curled over his legs, grasping at his hair and let out a muted scream

Demetrius' tired eyes blinked lazily up from his breakfast that he couldn't stomach touching and to his brother across the table. Damian didn't want to be here either. To leave Anya in her room where she apparently still hadn't really moved. Damian was worried about her, sure, but he had wanted to stay just as much for himself. Hidden away where his father couldn't see him and where he could bunker down with one of his friends until this all passed over.

Demetrius would have liked for him to do that, too. But honestly? It might be easier to rescue him when he'll be staying at the dorms again.

Damian's not going to like leaving both him and Anya behind. Especially Anya. Demetrius wasn't in much of a better situation than she was, but he's older. Anya is just a kid. Like Damian.

Demetrius clenched his teeth so hard, he could feel the light pressure on his cheekbones.

He still didn't know what to do. Sneaking the kids out undetected would be difficult. Demetrius could steal a car, but he didn't want to risk driving with the kids. It was a miracle he had made it to the lab and that was without anyone chasing after him. He imagined the agents would be notified he was escaping by car and roads would be blocked off before he could reach them. They'd shoot the tires, they'd do whatever they could to stop him. Going by foot was even less recommended. Donovan's agents were all over the place and they could have tranquilizers to take them out before they even got two blocks.

If Demetrius could even get them out at all.

How did Demetrius get them to a crowded area where Donovan wouldn't risk trying anything? How did he even get out of their subdivision with both Anya and Damian? Demetrius was going to be sent back to school—also under "supervision"—because it would be weird if he suddenly stopped attending(and while his father could procure excuses, it was easiest to just avoid unwanted attention when his father believed Demetrius was stuck between a rock and a hard place anyway[which he was]), but it's not like he could bring Anya with him and pick up Damian at his dorm later and leave just like that. If Donovan had any say—and he had a lot— Anya wouldn't be leaving until he said so.

The estate was crawling with Donovan's agents, so fleeing in the middle of the night through a window was out. (Demetrius had taught himself how to picks locks awhile ago, he could escape his room to get to Anya's if he wanted.) Besides. He had no idea how he'd get a six and four year old down from a third-floor window.

"Eat." His father commanded and Demetrius suppressed a grumble, leaning over his plate and picking up his fork. He poked at the food, trying to stall. He was hungry, his stomach was a big, gaping, hole, but the thought of eating, of lifting a bite to his mouth, was unthinkable. Made him sick. The thought of eating disgusted him. He had a very strong desire to throw it across the room.

Or maybe at his father.

Yes. Definitely at his father.

And then there was the tracker to consider. Demetrius would have to dig it out. Going to the hospitable to have it done was definitely not an option as there would be questions and Donovan would absolutely be notified. Demetrius had to remove it at the right time. Right before whatever plan he would come up with and leave it somewhere that his father would believe he would stay for a while.

And then, he'd have to find a way to lose whoever would be monitoring him without them realizing he had left, leaving them to think he was where the tracker was.

Oh, ****.

Dread washed over him once more, sinking tiredly into him with one more thing to think about.

Did Damian have a tracker, too?

Demetrius clenched his teeth again while his fisted grip tightened on his fork that he held upside-down in his food like he had been quietly stabbing at it. Which he had.

Everything was falling apart. Every avenue he searched came to a dead end.

After breakfast as the boys were being guided to the car, despair settled heavily on his shoulders as he struggled over and over to think of something. Anything. He only had a couple days and then Anya would be gone. It was likely he and Damian would never see her again and he couldn't tell him because then his little brother would be even more of a mess than he was right now.

Demetrius needed the perfect plan and he had to do it right the first time because he wouldn't have a second chance.

His father cared about his public image, but he had leverage now and would find some way to explain away any disturbance that might be caused if he had to use force on his sons.

There wouldn't be another chance. The Desmonds only had some modicum of freedom because they were stuck. Because Donovan did care of his image and of what kind of attention they got, but he would lock them up if he had to, under even heavier surveillance, and the public may have questions, but Donovan would undoubtedly come up with some flawless story or excuse. He might even say his kid's were mentally ill if his agents had to physically subdue them in public, because while his father wanted his family to seem "perfect", his plans came first. Demetrius wouldn't put it past him.

Or maybe he would just announce that the boys had been kidnapped. Yeah. Probably that.

Actually, that was worse. No one would wonder at the physical violence used on the Desmond boys—if the agents had to use it—if the public thought the agents were regular kidnappers.

By the time Demetrius had reached his class, he was more exhausted than he thought he had ever been in his life. Somehow this was worse than before.

Before, he was resigned. He had accepted that he'd never get out and it had only been him. Damian had been safe. Demetrius hadn't had to protect Anya. Knowing that two very young lives depended heavily on him when he wasn't sure he could do anything, scared and exhausted him more than he thought possible.

"Hey, you alright?" Killian appeared next to him on his bench and Demetrius smushed the impulse to growl and push him off. Until he was free from his father, he had to be cordial. To pretend he was the polite person he had always pretended to be to preserve his father's idiotic picture of perfection.

"Fine."

"Really?" His tone lilted up a little and his face scrunched a bit in obvious but concerned disbelief. He pulled out his books as he did so.

Great. He was staying.

"Mmhm." Demetrius sighed, keeping as much of his irritation as he could, contained. He didn't have the energy or patience for him right now.

"It's just. . ." Killian's movements slowed while he unearthed a pencil from his pencil case in contemplation. "You look really exhausted and you've seemed kinda. . .off lately?"

Demetrius held in another sigh. He had let himself be as apathetic towards them as he'd wanted while he was staying with the Forgers. Now it was coming to back to bite him. "Just had a lot on my mind."

". . .right." His seat-mate obviously didn't believe him.

"What are we talking about?" Fallon appeared on Demetrius' other sighed and he could have groaned. It seems the group had made up with her.

"Nothing, really."

"Something's bothering Demetrius." Killian answered like the traitor he was.

"Nothing's bothering me." Demetrius insisted again and wondered how Killian could even tell.

Fallon hummed thoughtfully. "Yeah, you look more tired than usual and a little murderous." She offered cheerfully.

"What?" Demetrius turned to her then.

"Yeah." Killian agreed. "I was kinda afraid to come and talk to you, honestly."

"And yet, here you are." Demetrius grumbled(probably not helping the case of how 'fine' he said he was, but he couldn't bring himself to care), pretty sure his classmates couldn't understand him, and slumped a little in his seat.

"Is everything okay?" Fallon's tone shifted slightly in an attempt to be subtle, though Demetrius heard the worry, anyway. He found it very annoying. "What's been going on lately? We haven't seen you as much."

"Been busy." Demetrius forced his usual neutrality over his face instead of the light scowl he didn't remember putting there. Which was odd. He was usually much more aware of which emotion or mood he portrayed to them. Which was almost always none of them.

"Well, we're all going for ice cream after school, you should come." Killian's hopes to get Demetrius to open up during the outing were really not hidden very well.

"No, thanks." Demetrius was too busy for that. He had things to plan, worry, and overall panic about. Even now, his heel bounced on the floor as his mind worked fruitlessly in overdrive. His mind wouldn't settle and he was almost afraid for it to. He felt he might dip too far into hopelessness and just give up. He might not get far with panicking, but letting himself slip into a defeated mindset was worse. If he let it sink it's roots in, he might not be able to pull them out. The exhaustion was too hard. Too long. The fear was too strong. It crept along the edges of his panic, poking for a way through, waiting for any crack to rip open and take over. The panic and worry kept his head above water.

"Aw, c'mon." Fallon swept her sandy-coloured hair out of her face and over her shoulder. "It'll be fun. Everyone misses you."

"Right. . ." Demetrius mumbled noncommittally and pretended to browse his notes.

Thankfully, the teacher started class before either of the teens could try to persuade him again and fell into reluctant silence.

The day went slowly and there wasn't a class he attended, a step he could take, without the ever present feeling of warbled minds lingering outside and inside the school grounds; A janitor, a groundskeeper, a teacher, and random agents hidden in nooks where no one but Demetrius would have noticed them. Demetrius had no doubt that Damian was under similar surveillance and it solidified his fears that he'd never get his brother out of here a little bit more with each second.

It was because of his father's measures that Demetrius was sure he could visit Damian at his dorm room. He could talk with him, maybe even be able to take him off campus, and it wouldn't make a difference because the agents watched them like creepy, stalker-y, hawks and would know where they were at all times, be able to stop them from doing whatever it was they were doing at all times. Could stop them if Demetrius tried to run with Damian. Could tranq them, separate them, and lock them up in the mansion, depriving him of any more chances of escape. And this without Anya. If he did manage to make it out with Damian, he knew he wouldn't be able to sneak into the mansion unnoticed for Anya. There were too many agents. Too many cameras. He couldn't fight off all the agents that would imprison him there, especially when security would be tightened up around Anya if Demetrius and Damian disappeared. His father was training him to be a spy, but he wasn't so arrogant to think his skills would be sufficient.

What did that leave him with? If he couldn't fight off all the agents, if he couldn't shake them, could he outsmart them? Even that felt impossible with how they watched his every move, every intake of breath, every nervous bounce of his heel, and the twitch in his fingers as he struggled to focus on writing notes. He could feel them outside, probably watching through aa window.

His father had to be the most paranoid person he knew. Demetrius wondered how many more there were that he couldn't feel if Anya's little horrifying revelation that the agents had inhibitors that blocked telepathy completely were true.

How many were spread throughout the city? How many would his father deploy if Demetrius tried to run?

Actually, Demetrius might make it on his own. His father had no use for a son who wouldn't do as he was told. Hence the years of blackmail.

Or was that a lie? Donovan had planned to leave Damian at the lab. He could very well just lock Demetrius up if he tried to run, even on his own, and kept him there until he forced some semblance of obedience from his son. How Donovan would accomplish that, Demetrius didn't know and he didn't want to. It was more likely that using Damian as blackmail rather than a telepath was easier to gain Demetrius compliance, now that he thought about it. The situation had been more of a convenience for Donovan more than a necessity.

Meaning. . .maybe Demetrius never really had the chance to run at all. . .

Demetrius heart skipped a beat.

Then what was stopping Donovan from taking Damian right now?!

No. No. Calm down. Breathe. He won't. At least not before Demetrius can get them all out of this. . . if he can.

Demetrius tried to blink away his thoughts and take a moment to resettle himself. He went to continue writing in his notebook and replaced his pencil with a new one when he realized he had snapped it. Demetrius slowly scratched symbols and unfocused lines into the paper, only half paying attention despite his attempts. He was already in his third class for the day and had come up with nothing.

Maybe he could spread lies. Tell someone that Donovan embezzled money or something. That he paid the cops off(Which he was pretty sure was true anyway), or that his father blackmailed people into doing what he wanted. Anything to discredit his image and get him arrested.

But no.

If any of those things were true, Donovan would have it covered up before anyone was the wiser if Demetrius could even get the word out. With how connected Donovan was, it was more than likely that anything Demetrius tried to tell anyone would be taken care of before it could reach the public. And then, even if he did get someone to listen, Donovan probably wouldn't get arrested with no real evidence to back Demetrius' claims.

Besides. That would take too long. Demetrius needed a plan now. How long would Anya remain at the mansion? Until the end of the day? Tomorrow? He didn't have enough time!

A small, half-baked, phantom tendril of a thought intruded his mind.

No. Not that. Never that.

Demetrius was at a loss. Did it even matter if he planned? Could he even go through with it if he did come up with something? The agents watched his every move and the only bit of privacy he got was in the washrooms.

How did he distract so many agents long enough to make an escape? Could he? He was really starting to doubt it and he couldn't help the nauseating hopelessness he tried not to choke on. It was stuffed in his chest and lungs and it ached.

Even hiding in the bathroom and removing the tracker was pointless. The agents would immediately discern that the tracker wasn't on Demetrius anymore. Holding onto the tracker and discarding it later wouldn't work either. As soon as he disposed of it more discreetly, there was still the issue that they'd see him and tracker in two different locations. The agents wouldn't let him out of their sights and would stop the beginnings of any rebellion he made. Could he even make a phone call without them interfering? Would they be able to listen in? They would definitely know he was planning something and report it to Donovan.

Snap.

Demetrius replaced his pencil.

This wasn't working. He was too worked up to think clearly. He was supposed to have more time!

ThinkThinkThinkThinkThinkThink.

What weaknesses did Donovan have? What could Demetrius take advantage of that would take him down immediately?

Desmond was a perfectionist. He was obsessed with making everything work the way he wanted it to. To the point he compelled the compliance of the police forces and who-knew-who-else so he could manipulate any undesirable, possibly illegal circumstances in his favour. Demetrius felt like his father's perfectionism should have been his down-fall, but Demetrius couldn't find wobbly leg to pull out from under Donovan.

If Demetrius didn't count the one obvious thing glaring him in the face. The one thing that Demetrius couldn't consider. Was too afraid to consider. The very reason Donovan didn't view it as a weakness.

Demetrius' breath stuttered and he clamped his shaky hand tighter on his pencil to steady it. He didn't even try writing with it.

No.

Nononononono. That couldn't possibly be the only answer. There had to be something else. Literally anything else. His mind looped back to it again and again and again, unable to escape the cycle of desperately seeking for a solution, more panicking when he failed, only to inevitably return to a possibility he didn't want to entertain.

Ideas. Ideas, ideas, ideas. ThinkThinkThinkThink. Demetrius urged himself franticly, losing time with every second that passed.

"Demetrius?"

The boy jolted in his seat, eyes flying up to his friend across from him.

"Are you okay?" Violet's own gaze flickered from his face, to his fisted hand on his fork, and back to his face again.

Demetrius nearly barked out a laugh. A bitter, slightly hysterical laugh, of a sob he would choke down, but a laugh all the same.

No. No, he wasn't okay. He was on pins and needles, his legs twitching occasionally as if preparing to flee. To do something. To go somewhere when he didn't know where to go. He was wound in a coil, a spring being crushed under something heavy to make him tight, compact, and feeling so unnaturally on edge. It almost hurt under that weight as he was prevented from springing right back up. Squeezing the air out of him and pressing his nerves tight even as they buzzed underneath his skin. His stomach was in his throat and just looking at his food nauseated him.

"Fine." Demetrius surprised himself at the light laugh that came from his mouth instead, a ghost of a smile even gracing his lips.

Something about it must have seemed off though, because brows shot up, eyes went a little wide, and his group exchanged surprised glances. There were no thoughts with clear words coming through their minds, but the impressions of 'he's-definitely-lying' and 'he's-being-kinda-weird' flooded him as they hedged on whether they should be concerned or not.

Fantastic.

When did he become so bad at lying? Demetrius was usually so good at it.

"Um. . ." Robert interjected to his right with a look on his face that screamed awkward concern. "Are you sure?"

Demetrius scoffed. "Of course I am. Why do you keep asking me that?"

Fallon answered for Robert where she sat on Violet's right. "Demetrius." Her voice lowered as she leaned just a tiny bit his way. "Your hand is shaking."

His gaze snapped to his hand, immediately and reflexively dropping the utensil and hiding the hand under the table before they realized it was more than his tight grip that caused it. This was obviously the wrong move as they shared another glance.

"And you've kinda been making the whole bench vibrate all through lunch." Robert added quietly with a glance to Demetrius' jumpy leg which stopped the moment it was pointed out.

Well, crap.

Demetrius couldn't have them knowing he was stressed out. That led to a whole can of worms that he was pretty sure would bite them and him if it was opened. No. Not worms. Snakes. Snakes with fangs and venom and a tail that would wrap around his neck and kill him after he was paralyzed by said venom and strangled to death when he wouldn't be able to do anything about it.

He took a breath.

It was fine. Itwasfineitwasfineitwasfineitwasfine. Just because they knew something was off, didn't mean they would ever figure out why. They wouldn't ever think to go prying into things beyond asking Demetrius about it and it's not like he would say anything. They wouldn't—they couldn't—know, there was no reason they'd alert Donovan that Demetrius was being weird and make things worse and have him pulled out of school and never see the light of day again until who-knew-when before he ruined the family's perfect image and he'd lose his chance to rescue himself and the kids before he even got to do anything!.

It was fine.

Itwasfineitwasfineitwasfineitwasfineitwasfineitwasfineitwasfine.

"Just a little hyped up on coffee, I guess." He said with another laugh. Another one. Demetrius doesn't laugh this much. Ever. Or at least around them. He just doesn't.

The worry deepened further in the others' minds.

Oh, just freakin' fantastic!

"You don't like coffee." Kira—the short brunette on his left—said with quiet surety.

Since when did she know that?! Sure, they had known each other for years, but he doesn't talk about himself all that much!

Demetrius shrugged. "I was tired."

"You were. . .smiling." Killian frowned at the weird sentence.

"And laughing." Violet added slowly, a similar expression as Killian's on her face.

"You've been weird all day." Fallon summed up. Everyone nodded in agreement.

Demetrius didn't like this.

"So, C'mon. What's going on?" Violet insisted. "Did something happen?"

Demetrius gave an exasperated sigh. "No." He was just glad he wasn't laughing it off again.

That just felt weird.

"Well, what is it then?" Killian said on Violet's left. "It's not school-related." He said it so decidedly and Demetrius had to admit that if he'd tried to use that as an excuse, it really just wouldn't be believable. He excelled at school, the teachers loved him, and nothing in school ever stressed him out like this. It just. Didn't. Happen.

"There's is nothing." Demetrius emphasized even if they didn't seem to be listening.

Fallon glanced around vigilantly before asking, "Is. . .everything okay at home?" Fallon spoke uncertainly in a near whisper and Demetrius called up every bit of self-control he had to stop himself from reacting.

"What?" He laughed again and cursed himself. So much for self-control. "No. Everything's fine."

This did not seem to make any of them feel better.

"Wait, what?!" Robert hissed quietly, making Demetrius' heart jump. "But I thought your family all got along?!"

No, no, no, no. This was not going how Demetrius wanted! What was wrong with him?! He could lie better than this! Crap. Crap. Crap. Crap! Screw trying to keep up appearances! He shoulda just avoided them all no matter what! This was going to ruin everything!

It seemed all they heard from Demetrius' reaction was: 'LIE! THIS IS A LIE! I AM LYING TO YOU!', because everyone's brows raised. Demetrius instinctively leaned back off the table as Killian leaned forward to speak softly. "Really?! It's not anything serious is it?!"

Demetrius huffed in annoyance and hated the little waver at the end. Maybe no one noticed. "Everything's fine. Seriously. You're making something out of nothing."

Demetrius was getting very irritated with all the looks and glances his group kept exchanging when they did it again, except now they were all loaded with deep, urgent worry.

Demetrius' stomach was in his throat again.

No. No. This was bad. Very, very bad. The agents were watching him. And the people around him looked so obviously and terribly concerned.

His father would know he was failing.

Before he could find a way to dissolve their concerns and erase those looks from their faces, however, Kira spoke first. "Demetrius. You can tell us." She said softly. "Maybe we can help."

And Demetrius paused—could almost call himself startled—at the words she should not be saying, words he didn't expect or was prepared for, as his own words were ripped harshly from the tip of his tongue with his stolen breath. They were spirited away somewhere he would never find them again as if fate itself took his voice just so Demetrius wouldn't be able to deny her offer. Just so the building anxiety that had halted it's ascent to form a lump he couldn't swallow down would make him quiet. So that when he tried to move, he couldn't, frozen in place, eyes glued to her's while he took in her words and the impossible way it made him feel.

He hated it. The crawl up his lungs that globbed and choked and the way he was almost afraid to breathe, to let his chest rise properly. He couldn't think past the ache settling in the centre that writhed with contrary desires.

"What?" He to managed breathed quietly, not trusting himself to speak any louder as his racing thoughts that had flown down a hill like a boulder, was stopped by one, small, perfectly manicured hand.

"Yeah, man, whatever you need." Killian followed up and Demetrius detested the shiver that ran up his throat, at the all-encompassing instinct to clamp onto the offer like a life-raft and he involuntarily sucked in a small breath.

Demetrius wasn't entirely sure what was happening. Why this was affecting him so much. He hadn't even considered asking for help and didn't think he should. What could anyone else do? How could anyone else actually help? But then, why did he think the Forgers could help? They were a spy and an assassin, highly trained, but even they would have difficult hurdles to jump.

These were high school students. What could they do?

He should turn it down.

Turnitdownturnitdownturnitdown. They can't help. They'll only drag you down. You'll get in trouble with father when they fail. You'll be stuck in that house again—

He shouldn't. He should say no. He wanted to say no. He wanted to accept it.

Why was this affecting him so much!? He didn't consider himself all that close with them. He understood them for the most part. How their minds worked. What lens they viewed the world through. They had been "friends" since middle school and yet he had kept an appropriate detachment from them.

But Kira was offering help and Demetrius couldn't reconcile the two parts that warred between maintaining his detachment and taking the help like he was a man dying of thirst in the desert.

He wanted to turn it down. He couldn't bring himself to do it. As accomplished and intelligent as Demetrius was, he didn't know how to do this on his own. He didn't want to. Keeping himself together was hard enough and the simple gesture of support had his throat thick and his lungs shaky all over again.

And. He. Hated. It. Despised the way it made him want to cry and sob as claws dug into his chest to dig and pry it open, to let everything pour out. Trying to break him down as he contemplated it.

He was better than this. He could deal with this alone. He had always been alone before the Forgers and he had always persevered. They had made him weak.

He didn't want to deal with this alone.

Really, his "friends" didn't know what they were offering. What they were asking to know. This was a whole lot bigger than they were probably prepared for and this would only bring them trouble. If Demetrius failed, if they failed, then Donovan could ruin their lives.

. . .But since when has Demetrius ever cared?

And then he blinked, realizing he had been staring for much too long, much too intensely, and much too still at Killian.

Demetrius didn't think he could do this on his own. He didn't—he didn't have to. . .maybe. . .

He could keep most of it to himself. Just accept their help. Not let them know what they were helping with. Not yet. He couldn't say it yet, not yet. This was too much already.

He exhaled silently and he felt it shudder down through his insides as the group cast more uneasy glances at Demetrius' odd behaviour.

He turned to Fallon, his stomach slowly filling with weight, dread coating it with led and casing his muscles in it. His tongue was heavy and thick as it tried to choke him, to stop the words coming out of his mouth, to tell him this was a bad idea.

But he didn't know what else to do.

Fallon's eyebrows rose questioningly, expectantly, as he continued to look at her without saying anything.

Demetrius swallowed. He licked his lips.

He couldn't believe he was doing this. He couldn't believe he was saying this. His stomach did flips and tightened and lanced waves of nausea up his throat.

"I need you to make a call for me."