Another chapter, huzzah!
Thank you all (always!) for continuing to read along.
And thank you Woodscolt215 for your note! I am glad you're enjoying the story and finding it unpredictable - but not frustrating. Finding that balance where it is surprising but still satisfying is always my goal with any suspense. I hope you enjoy this chapter as well!
Thanks also to Natureliesbeneath for your super generous feedback! I've so loved seeing the wolfpack dynamics too, and I hope we get to see them develop more and more (in no small part because they are so much fun to write!). I love that they're starting to seem like brothers, and have that innate tension-but-bond relationship (yay!). Good eye on the red flags; I also tried to update you thoroughly in this chapter and I hope it continues to develop those blurred lines... I'll love hearing what you think!
Enjoy!
-Button
00000
Jughead jerked awake when he felt his bed being jostled.
It was still dark. Brand was moving luggage around.
"Brand?" Jughead sat up. "What's-,"
"Shhhhhh." Brand set down whatever he'd been carrying and tousled Jughead's hair – before firmly pushing the teen's head back onto his pillow. "I'm taking care of things. Go back to sleep."
"What time is it?" Jughead demanded stubbornly, sitting up again. He was wide awake now, but his head was already throbbing as if he'd only gotten three or four hours of sleep.
"It's five am. A little after."
Three hours, then. Jughead rubbed a weary hand over his eyes. "Did you get my phone charger from-,"
"Yeah. I got your charger. I've got everything under control. Now go back to sleep, kid." Brand dropped his hand onto Jughead's shoulder and pushed him back down again. "I won't leave without you. Or your charger. And you need more rest."
"I can't. I'll sleep in the car if I can, but not right now." Jughead could feel his whole body beginning to key up with adrenaline.
The events of the previous day might have him ever so slightly on edge.
Brand sighed and moved around in the dark room. He rifled through a backpack and then opened up the plastic sealing one of the disposable cups in their room. He filled the cup with water and then crouched beside Jughead.
"Take this." Brand carefully pressed a tiny, rough pill into Jughead's hand.
Jughead tossed it back and then reached for the water. He took a long swallow.
There was a silence.
Then Brand laughed sharply. "Just like that, huh?"
"What?" Jughead was quickly losing patience with Brand being cryptic; trying to figure him out was making his headache worse.
"Your father would not like what you just did. I'm not sure I like it, for that matter. You should have asked me at least three questions-,"
"What is it, what does it do, and how long until it's out of my system. I know all that." Jughead was still confused and a sharp, stabbing increase in his headache made him wince; Brand had regularly been handing him Ibuprofen and other meds since his most recent injuries and surgery and he'd never before given Jughead a pop quiz. "But… since when do you want me to fight you on stuff?"
"I don't." Brand gave another oddly sharp laugh. "I'm just… surprised. Maybe a little terrified. You trust me too much."
"Well, I thought I trusted you just enough. Only now you're scaring me, so maybe I need to rethink things. What did you just give me?" Jughead asked, still squinting in the dark room against his headache. Maybe it was turning into a migraine. "Am I about to go back to sleep, whether I like it or not?"
"No." Brand sighed. "That was exactly one quarter of an adult dose of an over-the-counter sleeping pill. If you fight it, you shouldn't sleep at all."
"Um, really? Because that sounds useless. Why even bother-,"
"Maybe don't fight it, huh? Did that ever occur to you?" Brand's tone made it an order. "Go back to sleep. And if your dad asks, I drugged you."
"Brand. Seriously?" Jughead would have rolled his eyes if they didn't already feel like they were being stabbed with ice picks. "After what we discussed last night?"
"What can I say? I was inspired." Brand suddenly sounded like he was grinning.
"Wow." Jughead sighed, massaging his forehead. "I guess it's your funeral. And it's not like I don't want to sleep. Got any aspirin? Or something for a migraine, maybe?"
Brand grunted and moved around the room again, returning with a smooth pill this time.
"Hmmm. What is this? What does it do? What's its half-life?" Jughead asked, holding the pill out dramatically even though he wanted nothing more than to take a triple dose of morphine and stop the jackhammer inside of his skull as quickly as possible.
"I take it all back. You can go back to trusting me." Brand's tone was dry. "I'll try not to take too much advantage."
Jughead tried to be casual, but he popped the pill before he replied. "Suit yourself."
He downed the pill with a second swig of water and then laid back on his pillow. Maybe a quarter dose of a sleeping pill would actually do something and he'd get some real sleep.
And hopefully Brand had only been joking about baiting FP with this information.
"Hey, kid?"
"Yeah, Brand?"
"I'm taking a load of stuff down to the car. Get dressed in something that makes you look… non-threatening. Or, uh-,"
"Weak?" Jughead offered. His mind was still in writing mode because it was suddenly flooded with synonyms. "Sickly? Frail?"
"Skinny," Brand said decisively. "Something that doesn't hide your weight loss, so cut it out with the layers for today. Keep the long sleeves, though."
It was December; that had not really been a question. Jughead frowned as he considered the options – and the ramifications of what Brand was implying.
"So… you want me to look like easy pickings, but not quite that easy?"
"Your wrists would muddy things." Brand's tone was hesitant. Maybe even apologetic.
"In other words, you don't want anyone thinking I hurt myself. Just that I'm hurt," Jughead concluded. "Or else I could be seen as a loose cannon instead of a weak link."
"Honestly? It's so we can control the narrative. Your wrists introduce too many variables; I can't predict how people will respond." Brand's tone had lost its unfamiliar apologetic tinge. "Self harm is one possible interpretation. But anyone who knows what they're looking at will be able to tell you got the injuries from being restrained. Nobody, however, will have the context to make heads or tails of what they're seeing, regardless of what they think happened."
"Nobody will have context for me being underweight," Jughead pointed out.
"It's subtle."
Jughead gave Brand a disbelieving look.
"Ish," Brand amended. "You look like any other malnourished kid who is both having a growth spurt and not eating properly. Maybe doing drugs. And overworked."
"Uh-huh."
"The wrists are messy. They raise unpredictable questions and provide misleading answers at the same time."
"Uh-huh." Jughead figured he was just going to repeat that until Brand was done listening to himself talk.
"So wear something that shows off your figure, but keep the sleeves long."
"Uh-huh." Jughead reached out a hand and motioned for Brand to hand him his backpack.
"What?" Brand looked down at his own backpack. "Why would you – oh. Now that is a good idea."
Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn't. That remained to be seen.
00000
Brand finished loading up the car and reclined the front passenger seat as far as it would go. He laid out his winter coat on the seat itself and then crammed Jones' heaviest winter coat between the two front seats; the kid could use them as a makeshift sleeping bag.
"What are you doing?"
Brand startled, whirling around to face Sarah Quinn.
Of course she wouldn't miss them making a stealthy exit from the hotel.
"Making sure Jones gets some sleep. I figured we'd get on the road now and secure the next location."
"Without telling me," Sarah said accusingly.
"I've already worked it out with Mary Andrews, and I was going to call you before we left. I didn't want to bother you any earlier than necessary." Brand motioned to the car. "It took me a minute to do all this."
"Mm. Okay. Well, how are you feeling? It's a two-hour drive." Sarah's expression changed from suspicious to concerned, so she must not be too upset.
"I'm good to drive." Brand couldn't help but smile when Quinn's eyes raked over him worriedly, as if he might somehow be visibly too impaired to drive. He stepped toward Sarah and held his hands out teasingly. "Observe: a perfect ten and two. Three and nine. Hand and shoulder."
Sarah couldn't stop an amused smile of her own when Brand stepped in as if to dance with her.
"Kidding. It's all serious security business for me," Brand said, aborting the movement before he made contact with Quinn. They might be able to joke, miraculously at that, but he was not about to overstep boundaries and get things screwed up. Again. "How's Clark doing? He buckle under the pressure of doing an honest day's labor yet?"
"He is doing fine, at least according to FP, whose only suggestion is that Clark either cut his hair shorter - or grow it out longer, but that's not really feasible - if he wants to fit in."
Brand smirked, running a hand through his own hair which was nearing the length Clark kept his own at. "Well, some of us are prettier than others. And hey, if that's FP's only suggestion, that's not too bad."
"Exactly. Clark's own report ranged from modest to painfully critical of himself, but I'm inclined to agree with FP. Clark is also a far more believable journalist than I am," Sarah said with a self-effacing shrug. Her eyes lingered on Brand's hair, so he smoothed it again self-consciously.
"I think it worked out, yeah. You also have more experience protecting..." Brand realized he'd been about to say 'me' and cut himself off. He had absolutely no idea what had possessed him to begin that sentence and he sure as all get out wasn't going to finish it.
"Yeah." Sarah seemed to take it as a full sentence. Good. "You should think about training him. Teaching him some self defense."
"Oh, I've taught him enough already. I sincerely doubt he needs any other bad habits to unlearn. You know as well as anyone that he's getting better training than I can offer him," Brand said mildly - but he felt some irritation. It wasn't like Sarah to stroke his ego; it felt both slimy and uncomfortable, and an urge welled up in Brand to end the conversation and hit the road. Now.
"You did teach him some things? I didn't realize that. He fights like… well, like he learned it. Formally." Sarah spoke carefully, her expression worried.
Maybe she could see how her attempt at flattery had made Brand's skin crawl. Brand wasn't sure he felt any better now that she was attempting to clarify her comment, either.
"That's because he is learning it formally. That's how it's supposed to happen." Brand closed the car door and briefly debated turning the car on to heat it up. Nope; better to keep everything secure, even if Jones had trouble sleeping for a few miles.
"Well. I'd like to see Clark better equipped to defend himself than he's supposed to be."
Brand inhaled deeply through his nose. Was that what this was all about? "Oka-ay. You can always teach him some moves, you know."
Sarah was no slouch. And if this was what it sounded like, then she might even thank Brand for an excuse to spend more time with the intern.
Former intern. Clark was getting to be all grown up – almost an equal – in the eyes of his colleagues.
"Not like you can." Sarah's tone was overly fervent and Brand felt the uncomfortable, slimy sensation rising once again. This time Quinn spoke as she peered into the car, at the makeshift bed Brand had made for Jones. "You always seem to cover the bases in ways I wouldn't know how to begin to-,"
"Eh, I'm sure you'd figure it out." Brand knew he was interrupting rudely. What he really wanted was to push past Sarah, ending this conversation and extricating himself from any further discussion of how to make Clark into more of an ideal agent. An ideal man. With any luck they could be done with this topic forever.
"Brand." Sarah locked eyes with him, and now her expression was pleading. Brand felt his stomach twist painfully. "I'm trying to say that you do a good job. And, for the record, I'm glad I have this opportunity to work with you, and to-,"
"Protect me," Brand interjected. "I got that."
Sarah winced, hard.
And sure, okay, it might have sounded like Brand had meant he felt emasculated and embittered about the protection detail – but he didn't, and for the record he had not actually said that.
It was honestly nice to know for certain that he was worth enough to the bureau that they were keeping him surveilled. Brand didn't mind that it meant Jones and FP had a little extra backup, either.
"Look, you do a good job too. I'm glad you're here." Brand said, relenting and giving Quinn his most sincere expression. "And I am fully aware that I'm not playing by the rulebook – and I know that bugs you."
Understatement of the millennium.
"But," Brand continued with a small smile, "however faulty my methods, this is the best way I know how to do things. Now," Brand motioned for Sarah out of his path, "I've got a sleeping teenager waiting for me and a very full day that I need to get him through – and he's not even one of my official charges. If you'll excuse me, I'll call you from the road and we can work out logistics then. Mary's already got the band up and moving, so the rest of you shouldn't be far behind us."
Sarah moved out of the way, nodding.
Whew.
00000
"So I'm a prop." Jughead held out his arms in order to show off his outfit and its slimming effects.
"You're a prop."
"Okay."
"So go back to sleep. You don't need to be an awake prop. Better if you're not, in fact."
"Yeah, that's not gonna be possible." Jughead shot Brand a look.
"Then just fake it, killer."
"I can only do my best. But Brand?"
"Yeah?"
"Drop me and I will kill you."
"Understood."
Brand schooled his expression into one of irritation and then he scooped up Jones and carried him to the elevator.
By the time the elevator had reached the ground floor, Jones was snoring lightly.
That gave Brand the opportunity to study the teen with a critical eye: he was dressed in Brand's clothing, and with his dyed hair it seemed to him that the resemblance was uncanny.
And the clothing draped on the kid dramatically enough that Brand was reassured that he himself had not lost a worrisome amount of weight; the belt was cinched on Jones far past its wear pattern, and the long sleeves of Brand's shirt did cover everything – but loosely enough that Brand was going to keep an eye on things so the wrist dressings were not obvious to all and sundry.
Brand was careful not to jostle the kid as he made his way past the breakfast area – with just a flash of eye contact with FP – and then strode purposefully toward the hotel entrance and the car he'd parked just outside.
"Brandon." FP was growling in his ear before Brand reached the doors. "Is this what it looks like?"
"You mean did I drug your son and then carry him down to the car for all to see?" Brand's voice was low and his tone intentionally breezy, even though he continued to glower; FP's expression relaxed.
Ten to one FP thought he was lying. Brand could work with that.
Then FP's eyes raked over Jones and his glower returned. "Oh, now, that is disturbing."
"Uh, well-," Brand was not sure where to begin.
"Why is he dressed as Brandon Davies Jr.?" FP asked. "He looks ridiculous in your clothing. It makes him look like… a little kid."
"I want him to look like a kid." Brand gave FP a meaningful look. Hopefully the man would understand that he needed to drop the subject.
FP did not look pleased that this was the plan. Well, fair enough, it went against all of Brand's instincts too. But they both had to get over their gut feelings in service of actually pulling off their plan.
"Need a hand?"
Oh. Dang it. Agent Sarah was still there, apparently waiting so that she could see them off.
She held the door open and motioned for Brand to exit the hotel.
This was a wrench in the plan, Brand reflected, but there was nothing for it but to play it cool.
"Thanks." Brand tried to smile pleasantly as he turned and exited sideways in order to keep the kid's knees from knocking into a doorframe.
It was a crying shame that the plan hadn't worked as he'd hoped.
Only then, just as Brand slipped past Sarah, she whispered to him. "Just so you know, Dax is over there by the coffee and he's staring. You should probably talk to him or else he's going to think something's the matter with..."
Brand shook his head slightly, hiding his relief and elation that the plan had worked, when Sarah's voice trailed off and her eyes widened in realization.
"Brandon knows," FP intoned quietly to Sarah before he turned to Brand. "Drive safely; call me when you get there. I'll help Mary and Sarah get the kids up and out, and I'll probably be on the road by the time you arrive."
"You got it." Brand gave FP a nod and then moved toward the vehicle.
Sarah followed close behind, and it was – annoyingly – a significant help when she opened the passenger door for Brand.
Once Jones was laid out on the seat, rousing just enough to curl himself onto his side around the buckled seatbelt, Brand patted the kid's head and closed the passenger side door.
"Here." Sarah handed Brand a blindfold that she must have retrieved from somewhere while Brand had gone to collect Jones from the hotel room. "This will help him sleep as much as he can."
Sleep mask. It was called a sleep mask.
"Thanks. I'll call you once we're on the highway and he's awake."
Sarah Quinn was staring at him, an odd expression on her face. "Yeah. You do that. And here, take this too."
Quinn scooped something from where it had been perched on a windowsill behind her.
It was a plastic plate, heaped with breakfast food and topped by a second plate in an effort to keep the pile from spilling all over the place.
The sausage alone resembled nothing so much as a wood pile that could last a miniature cabin all winter.
Brand let out a low whistle of surprise and appreciation. "Wow. Thanks, Sarah. This is perfect."
"Not yet it isn't. It will be perfect when he can actually fill your shoes. And your shirts, and your pants." Sarah gave Jones a soft smile that was nothing short of tender.
It was awfully distracting when Quinn got all thoughtful and generous and then started throwing around affectionate gestures.
Sarah broke the spell, though, by giving Brand a stern look. "Drive safely."
It irked Brand more than a little to hear Sarah echo FP. Those two were still on a whole lot of wavelengths together.
"I always do."
Brand smirked when Sarah gave him an exceptionally skeptical look; it seemed he could irk her as well.
And then he and the kid were off, hitting the road in silence, and giving Brand what was likely to be his only break all day.
00000
"How many more?" Jones asked, excited.
He was also brighter-eyed than he'd been since they'd begun the tour, Brand was pleased to observe. He'd slept most of the way to the next hotel.
"They told me three." Brand was driving, but he spared a smile in response to the kid's excitement. "They weren't sure about a third one until your article started making waves this morning. Now it's official."
"Wow. Because of my article? They said that?" His eyes were wide. "Do I get a commission?"
Brand's guffaw was deafening in the small car.
"...yeah, okay, forget I said that." Jones made a face as Brand continued to laugh. "Brand. It's not that funny."
"If journalism is your chosen profession, you need to get your head on straight. Nobody cares about you. And a commission would be wildly unethical," Brand managed. "Your father, on the other hand, has been talking to the union. Now there's a guy who might be in line for a commission."
"He wants to get paid more? For what, singing?" The kid was clearly confused. "Didn't he arrange that with Archie? Couldn't Dad just ask him directly-,"
"Hey. Calm down. I don't actually know what he's talking to the union about or why. Just that he is." Brand had stopped laughing, though his eyes were still crinkled with amusement. "Could be that it's related to our cover. FP might want to make a ruckus with the union in order to get some information."
"Oh." Jones grimaced; Archie would hate that, and it might even do some harm to the band's reputation if his dad got people riled up about how the road crew was being treated or compensated–
"Look, forget I said anything." Brand rolled his eyes. "You worry too much. Let the adults do their jobs and maybe focus on the many, many jobs that you're supposed to be doing right now. You got another article ready to go in that head of yours?"
"Two." The kid was probably thinking of the original ideas he'd come up with before, both of which had been displaced by the emergent events. "Provided I don't get completely derailed by as much happening today as it did yesterday."
Brand took one hand off of the wheel to make the sign of the cross at his godson.
"Or as long as you don't drive us to our fiery deaths," Jones said sarcastically, waving Brand's attention back toward the road. There was a pedestrian preparing to step into a crosswalk just ahead.
"How many points?" Brand asked with a smirk. "You're up for a game, aren't you?"
"Oh God, don't even start that again-,"
"Wait, wait. I have a real game in mind for you, kid. It's useful, too. Whenever you're ready to try and kick my butt at it, just say the word and I'll fill you in." Brand figured he probably looked far too innocent. Oh well. "It has to do with our undercover work and our recent training, so I think you're well positioned to run up the score, and I think it might help you get your head on straight. In a, uh, roundabout sort of way."
Jones glared, but Brand saw right through his expression and could tell that his curiosity was well and truly piqued.
"It's simple."
"It better be," Jones warned sternly.
"It is." Brand grinned.
Brand's phone began buzzing on the console between them.
"It's Agent Sarah," Jones reported. "Want it on speaker?"
"Nope." Brand's grin did not dim. He hadn't wanted to make phone calls until the kid had woken up, which had only been minutes ago, but apparently Sarah's patience had finally run out. "You take it. Tell her I'm fine. Driving, in fact, and not to be disturbed."
Jones gave Brand an unimpressed look. "Do your own dirty work. I am not getting in the middle of your relationship."
Brand raised his eyebrows. "So. You do learn. Huh. I'm weirdly conflicted about it now that it's biting me."
"Ha ha." The kid let the call go to voicemail and then leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. A moment later he began fishing around the seat until he came up with the blindfold.
The sleep mask.
Jones slid it over his eyes and lay back again. "You promised to let me sleep."
"Nobody's stopping you."
"Your driving has been stopping me."
"Your tension over my driving, you mean," Brand corrected.
"Letting me sleep means providing conditions in which I am physically able to sleep."
Brand was silent for a few seconds. "You make a good point. From here on, I'll drive like a grandma. As long as you make sure to tell FP and Agent Sarah that I did. Deal?"
"Perfect." The kid shifted slightly and sighed. "Wake me when we get there."
Buzzing filled the car again.
"Kid."
"Still not doing your dirty work," Jones said without opening his eyes.
"That's your phone."
Brand hid a smile when the kid groaned theatrically.
Jones reached for it, but was too late; Davies could already tell that he was going to miss the call.
A text came in before the kid could even get a good look at the phone number.
Jones read it aloud gingerly, as if he was disturbed by its contents. "'FP, you have to talk to me, even if you won't talk to him. He's not doing well.'"
The kid frowned. "Does SAC Wilson have Dad's number?"
Brand's eyebrows went a whole lot higher this time as he turned to look at Jughead for way too long.
"Fiery car wreck, Brand." Jones pointed emphatically at the road ahead.
"Just… that is a very weird leap to make. How did you come up with that from the text you just read?" Brand's eyebrows came back down, but now his eyes were narrowed. It was possible there was another text that had not just been read aloud, and if so, that would open more than one can of worms.
"I think… I mean, it sounds like she's trying to get ahold of Dad. About Max." The kid reread the text, which – he must be realizing – said no such thing. "I think. Maybe."
Brand relaxed. Jones did not have any additional information, then, which meant this was probably nothing odd. "Oh? What would your father know that Wilson doesn't know? And why wouldn't she go straight to Sarah with any questions about Max?"
"Agent Sarah was also calling you," Jones reminded Brand. "Maybe something's wrong. We should have picked up. Want me to call her back and then call Dad?"
Brand sighed longsufferingly.
"It sounds serious."
"Yeah. Sure, kid. Ruin your sleep. Again. But don't come crying-,"
"Agent Sarah?" Jones spoke loudly to signal Brand to shut up.
In case his godfather missed the subtext, he also mouthed 'shut up, Brand.'
Well. It was obvious that the kid had gotten caught up on at least some sleep; he certainly seemed more energetic.
And it was only costing the low, low price of Brand's sanity.
00000
They arrived at the new hotel long before they could check in – but Brand was able to get things in motion so that checking in would be a snap for everyone else once they arrived.
While Brand did that, the kid had discovered that breakfast was still being served and had been delighted to spot a waffle maker. The hotel staff graciously invited them to enjoy another breakfast, on the house.
So Brand sat with Jones and they had a second, leisurely breakfast of high-protein, calorie-dense foods.
"Dax will be here before long," Brand offered casually. "You come up with a strategy for that?"
"I think so." The kid looked cagey and avoided eye contact; no doubt he was still not convinced that the man stunk to high heaven.
What an innocent Jones was.
"He saw me hauling you out to the car. He'll use that if he can." Brand watched Jones closely for any sign that the kid himself was having a bad reaction to having been felled hard by an exceptionally small dose of OTC meds.
Jones smirked, though, which seemed like a good sign. "I'm a whole lot more worried about what my dad is going to say." Then Jones frowned. "To both of us."
"What would his beef be with you?" Brand asked.
"I'm not supposed to take things." The kid frowned and then continued nervously. "Not without a prescription. And definitely not for off-label-,"
"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Brand waved his hands in hopes of stopping the imminent train wreck that was his godson's guilt response. "Nothing about it was off-label. And it's not prescription. Besides, I already told him. He seemed fine." Even that last part was technically true.
Brand folded his arms. "Now, if you want to revisit things with FP for the sole purpose of stirring him up, I'm sure he'll oblige you and make a big deal out of it."
The kid frowned, confused – and maybe slightly troubled by this news. "Are you sure? I mean… he was completely fine with it?"
"He worries about you, but he knows you need sleep," Brand supplied. That would sell it a little better and keep Jones from having a crisis about whether FP was behaving oddly.
Which the man was, but that had nothing to do with Jones. It was mostly because FP fit in a little too well with the roadies on this tour.
To be honest, Brand was a little jealous of that; he did not often experience camaraderie, and FP was attracting new buddies like a powerful magnet among metal filings.
"I don't want him to worry." The kid looked existentially miserable.
Brand took a beat to weigh his options; Jones had a million reasons to have mood swings, and there was a part of Brand that wanted to see Jones get the chance to break down and have some real catharsis.
The rest of Brand was acutely aware that they were in a public place on an increasingly high-profile tour.
"Well, then, get stronger. Gain weight. Heal." Brand reached across the table roughly, seizing Jones' wrists and slipping his sleeves up just enough that he could see the dressings that the surgeons had sworn would eliminate all scars. Eventually. "Give your body enough fuel to rebuild itself. And…"
Jones looked up at him questioningly.
"Win the game."
Jones sighed gustily, but he was smiling.
Brand sat back and waited.
"Fine. I'll bite." The kid ran a hand through his hair and then planted his palms on the edge of the table as if to ground himself. "Tell me the rules."
Brand grinned.
00000
Clark wasn't sure what had changed, but he was glad that it had. They'd arrived at the new venue just before noon, begun unloading and somehow, miraculously, the process of setting up for the evening's concert had been a far more cordial experience than previously.
"Kent, you got that?" Patrick had a veritable twinkle in his eye as he offered Clark a hand with the duffels he'd grabbed from the trailer to carry into Breaking Fast's backstage space.
"Yeah, I'm good. Thanks, though." Clark returned the man's smile and was even more surprised when Patrick patted his shoulder companionably before he moved away.
This was… great.
It was hard to reconcile everyone being so friendly with the brusque, suspicious treatment he'd received before, but what a relief.
Although perhaps it meant that the crew had realized that Clark was not the reporter. Maybe what he was experiencing was simply the cloud of suspicion lifting from him.
Maybe they were always this welcoming and friendly to newcomers so long as those newcomers were not suspected to be undercover moles.
Clark frowned as he considered that possibility; Jughead would be less protected if that was what had happened. Not to mention it would mean Clark had failed at his current duty, which would make him 0-2 if he counted his failure to get into position to protect Special Agent Davies.
What a depressing line of thought.
Just then Burke walked past Clark, giving him a friendly nod and a wave.
Well. It was possible – and perhaps even likely – that the abrupt change in attitude, literally overnight, meant that some of his cover had been blown. Sort of.
It was probably bad news. He understood that. But Clark couldn't help it: he could not bring himself to feel regret over being treated well by the rest of the road crew.
And if something had made them change their minds about Clark being the reporter, maybe the situation could still be salvaged once he figured out what that something had been.
Until Clark knew for sure what had caused the change, he could still hope for the best.
Besides, FP was around here somewhere. He always knew what was going on and he always had advice. Clark would consult him.
"Kent?" A huge, imposing man appeared in the hallway in front of him. He obviously knew Clark's name, but his eyes swept curiously over Clark all the same.
Clark shook his hair out of his eyes and squared his shoulders, trying to channel Special Agent Davies. "Yeah, I'm Kent. What can I do for you?"
"Can I steal you for a minute? I'm Dax, by the way." The man extended a meaty hand for Clark to shake.
Ah. It was that hulking security guy who had stepped in as backup for Jughead the night before. Clark nodded agreeably; he'd be happy to help the man out. "Sure. What do you need?"
"I need a second set of hands," Dax said, gesturing vaguely.
"Okay." Clark set down the duffel bags. "For just a minute? I can leave these here if it will be quick, but otherwise I should really get them stowed."
"One minute," Dax promised. "I may need a hand, and I've only got a kid working with me at the moment. I'd like someone who knows what they're doing. Just in case."
Clark nodded along with Dax's words, but the situation was still about as clear as mud to him.
They walked down an interior hallway and then stepped through a door into a room that appeared to house a whole lot of the theater's older electronics equipment when it was not in use. Clark followed as Dax moved swiftly toward a dense cluster of cords that all converged on a single power strip.
It was fairly dark in the interior room, so it took a moment before Clark realized that the overloaded power strip was plugged into an extension cord.
Huh. Clark was no expert, but that looked like the beginning of a scare-tactic homeowner's insurance commercial.
"This is… well, it's obviously not great. And it begs some questions. That's why I want more eyes on this: I think we need to figure out what's going on before I start yanking things out of the wall," Dax said. "And it would be helpful if we find out right away if there's anything else like this going on down here."
"Well, so far so bad. I already found another one." Jughead suddenly appeared, standing up from where he'd apparently been crawling behind some very old sound equipment. His gaze rested on Clark curiously. "Hi."
"Hi." Clark waved casually, taking care not to act like he knew Jughead. "Hey, you know what? I can probably take it from here; this is road crew business." Clark hoped that his voice sounded as casual as he was trying for. "Thanks for letting me know, Dax. You're right that this doesn't look good. I'll get some of the guys down here to look into it. I'll personally make sure that we're in good shape long before anyone starts plugging in amps."
The thought of spending time working alongside Jughead made Clark a little nervous, so this seemed like an elegant solution – though he didn't want to think too hard about whether he worried more about Jughead or himself somehow blowing their cover.
"No. I don't think so." Dax's response was flat and brooked no disagreement. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think we should leave this for another hour or two while you get people to 'look into it.'"
Dax shot a pointed glare back toward where they had left the road crew moving at their usual snail's pace.
Clark was caught flat-footed by Dax's response. "Um… I mean, really, it's fine; it's our job. You don't need to worry about it. Besides, if there hasn't been a fire yet, odds are–,"
Clark trailed off before he could finish his thought by suggesting that the power strips had already been there for a long time without incident: the one Dax held gleamed white, even in the low light, and was obviously brand-new.
That was bizarre. Everything else in the room seemed to range in age from outdated to obsolete.
"No. Cyrano already found another one," Dax continued curtly, seeming to lose patience with Clark. "That means there's no way of knowing how many of these time bombs are around, or how imminent a problem might be. Kid, can you hold it up so I can see what we're dealing with?"
Jughead avoided eye contact with Clark as he twisted in place and wedged himself back down behind an ancient, obviously-broken mixer. The teen reappeared with a second power strip in his hands; it was as overloaded as the first.
It was also every bit as shiny and new-looking.
"And let me guess: it's plugged into another extension cord?" Dax asked, dropping the one that he held so that it bounced on the thin carpeting.
Jughead nodded.
"Show me." Dax motioned impatiently.
Jughead didn't attempt to crouch in the small space again. Instead, he reached down and began to wind the cord up, drawing it toward himself.
A sharp crack echoed through the space and the room went pitch black.
Clark hit the deck, feeling his whole body surge with adrenaline. As he panted, taking stock as his eyes struggled to adjust to the sudden darkness, Clark ascertained that he wasn't injured – but everything about the situation was an uncomfortable reminder of the time he'd been dropped by a taser.
"Are you okay? Dax?" Clark asked, keeping perfectly still. If something had shorted – if something live was dangling, or an exposed wire was near him – it would not help for more people to get hurt.
"Cyrano?" Dax ignored Clark in favor of calling out to Jughead, but he sounded like he might be in pain. Maybe dropping the cords had caused a short and he'd received a bad jolt.
Clark found that he hoped that was the case. Any alternative could mean that Jughead–
"Cyrano?" Dax repeated, more concerned.
There was no answer.
"Kid?" Clark felt his heart pick up speed again. "Are you hurt?"
There was a click and suddenly a high-powered beam cut through the room.
"Stay there. Don't touch anything." Dax was still standing and he held a heavy-looking metal flashlight that looked as though it could double as a weapon. Dax was aiming the beam where Jughead had been just moments before.
Clark shook his head, but didn't bother trying to justify himself before he was on his feet and shoving past Dax to get a better view of where Jughead had disappeared.
Jughead was on the floor, wincing either from pain or because he was being blinded by the powerful flashlight. The cords he'd been holding when the lights had gone out were only inches away from the hand he was using to push himself up.
"Kid, stop; don't move. I've got you." Clark leaned over the mixer and grasped Jughead by the shoulders to steady him. "Watch your hand. You don't want to touch the wires again, just in case anything didn't blow itself out just now."
Jughead was shivering, but he nodded. Good; he was alert and processing information.
"O-okay, up you go." Clark hauled Jughead upright and helped him step gingerly past the wires and into the middle of the room. "Can you talk?"
Jughead nodded again.
"Good. You need to see a doctor right away, though. If it crossed your heart-,"
The door to the room burst open before Clark could finish his thought.
"How did I know I'd find you here?" Special Agent Davies growled furiously, reaching Clark and Jughead in two quick strides.
It took a moment for Clark to realize that Davies did not mean him.
"Call 911," Special Agent Davies ordered.
It took Clark another moment to realize that, this time, Davies did mean him. "Yes, sir."
"No." Jughead seemed to have no difficulty forming the word, which surprised Clark – and reassured him. He remembered having a whole lot of trouble with speaking as well as with basically all motor function after he'd been tased.
"Yes," Dax countermanded, motioning for Clark to dial.
"Wait." Brand was glaring down at Jughead, but it seemed like he was relieved that Jughead had at least spoken. In fact, as Davies' expression shifted, it looked to Clark almost as if the two were communicating something silently through their eye contact. That was really impressive. "It will probably be faster – and more discreet – if I just take him. It's not even a block and a half to the ER."
Oh. Clark was even more impressed that Special Agent Davies knew that off the top of his head; his situational awareness really was–
"You should at least call ahead, so that they expect-," Dax tried again, but Brand interrupted him viciously.
"You should really leave me alone right now. Electrocuting a member of my team?" Brand looked like he wanted to spit at Dax, but instead he turned toward Jughead and began checking his hands, presumably for burns.
Brand must really not have been thinking clearly, either. Clark winced when he roughly shoved Jughead's sleeves up so that he could get a look at his wrists.
Dax's jaw dropped.
Clark wondered what the man's reaction would have been had he known that what he was seeing was a significant improvement over even one week prior.
Brand sucked in a sharp breath, obviously realizing his mistake, and reached for the flashlight. "Give me that. I'm getting him out of here. He could drop at any moment."
Jughead made a scared sound, but then clamped his mouth shut firmly. Clark had to stop himself from reaching for his friend to reassure him.
Only… Jughead shouldn't need reassurance. He knew that his wrists had not been injured by an electrical shock.
Dax, on the other hand, looked stunned. He handed Brand the flashlight without further protest.
When Jughead and Brand made their way toward the doorway, Clark moved to follow – but Davies waved him off. A moment later it became clear why:
"Jon?" Agent Quinn's voice came from the far end of the hallway. "Davies, did you find Jon?"
"Yeah. He's here. He was at ground zero. The kid's up and walking, but there are burn marks on both of his wrists. I need better light to see how bad they are, but the whole building's power went down, so it's probably not good." Brand bit out the words. "I'm taking him to the ER right now. On foot, so that we don't have to mess around, but I'll need your help in case he doesn't make it that far."
Clark blinked.
That was… a really smooth save. Or maybe showing Jughead's wrists to Dax had been a calculated move, since the healing marks kind of did look like burns under the harsh glare of the flashlight.
But everything else had been real. Did Davies actually believe that Jughead might pass out without warning? Or… drop dead?
Cardiac arrest was a possibility with severe shocks; Clark had learned quite a few things about electricity after his own experience being shocked into immobility. Clark studied Jughead, who still seemed pretty okay all things considered and was still avoiding eye contact with Clark. Had the teen been shocked badly?
In fact, Clark suddenly wondered, had he been shocked at all?
Jughead hadn't actually said one way or the other.
"Get Penn. There will be paperwork, and he can reach the kid's mother. Let's go," Brand ordered Agent Quinn.
Sarah cursed and they must have moved quickly, because in mere seconds Clark and Dax were left in the dark.
Dax let out a long, heavy breath.
Clark didn't say anything, but picked his way through the dark room toward the door. He'd need to help the crew deal with whatever had just happened to the building's power. And then, no doubt, he'd need to work double time on unloading the vehicles. Clark would make an effort not to seem overly – suspiciously – concerned, but nobody would look askance if he took a few moments here and there to monitor his phone for updates.
The app might have some gossip to share, Clark reflected. That had been a surprisingly effective source of intel already.
"Kent?" Dax called after him and it sounded like he was following at a swift pace. "Hold up. I'll come with you."
Clark was picking his way carefully through the dark hallway now. It was slightly lighter out here than in the room, but he'd feel better once he could see some windows and actual daylight. "Be my guest. I'm going to see what they need me to do."
As they rounded the corner at the end of the hall, all of the lights suddenly blazed back to life.
Clark looked around himself disbelievingly. "Wow. That seemed like it was going to be a whole lot worse."
Then a troubling thought occurred to him.
"Ohhhh, no. Come with me." Clark grabbed Dax's shoulder and he tugged the much larger man back toward the room they'd just exited. "If someone who doesn't know what happened forced the power back on, those cords might–,"
Wait a second.
Maybe the cords were about to wreak havoc on the building – and maybe that meant walking back into the small room was a terrible idea.
Jughead had seemed okay, but that didn't mean they needed to tempt fate a second time.
Clark hesitated in the doorway to the small room.
Dax, however, did not get the memo; he plowed into Clark's back like a landslide of solid muscle.
"Oof." Clark stumbled forward a few steps before he managed to stop himself. Looking down, he made a dismayed sound and then hopped nimbly backward: he'd very nearly stepped on the power strip that Dax had dropped.
Clark's heel landed hard – and crunched sickeningly on something that felt a whole lot like a cellphone.
"Oy. That didn't sound good." Clark moved his foot and bent to retrieve whatever he'd just destroyed.
At a glance, it was apparent that the device was not actually a cellphone – which was either good news or very bad news.
Dax's hand closed over the object, jerking it from Clark's grasp before he could get a better look. "Are you insane? Picking things up without knowing what you're doing after what just happened?"
"Uh, I'm pretty sure it's dead, Jim," Clark quipped dryly. "Give it here. I'll figure out what it is and make sure I get things squared away with whoever it belongs to."
Clark held out a hand for the crushed device.
Dax was shaking his head and his words were harsh: "No. Absolutely not. You're nothing but a liability; don't even think about touching anything else."
Clark stared up at him in shock, his gaze meeting a cold, measured stare. The two men were suddenly locked in what amounted to a staring contest.
Clark felt his instincts start to hum. His body was tensing unhelpfully; he tried to relax and play it cool, even though he wanted nothing more than to put some distance between himself and the much-larger man.
The silence stretched uncomfortably before Dax finally broke it with an uncomfortable laugh.
"Ahh… I'm sorry I said that. You startled me. I'm jumpier than I should be, but someone's already gotten hurt." Dax spoke slowly, and it sounded like he was also making a heroic effort to relax.
The larger man's expression was unreadable, but Dax slowly stepped back a pace and finally broke eye contact. "You've been a big help, Kent, but I think by now it's obvious that you don't have experience with this sort of thing. But don't you worry, I know that it was an accident. I'll vouch for you and insurance should cover everything. I'm sure nobody would even think of blaming you."
Huh. That sounded pretty dang close to a threat that Dax was prepared to throw Clark under the bus if he didn't get exactly the response he was hoping for.
Clark forced himself to nod sheepishly, as if in complete agreement with Dax's assessment. He managed to get his shoulders to relax once more as he considered the situation.
His back still hurt from Dax stumbling into it like a freaking train – and Dax's shoulders were so immense that they currently eclipsed Clark's view of the small doorway.
The only exit.
If Dax didn't want to let Clark out of this room, Clark wasn't getting out.
It was paranoid, and perhaps even bordering on delusional, but Clark had a nagging feeling that if Dax thought for even a moment that Clark was going to follow up on the teeny, tiny matter of a mysterious electronic device that had been left mere feet away from a mysterious electrical incident… then Clark would not be getting out of this room.
Clark considered his options for another few moments and came to a conclusion: given the range of possible outcomes, it didn't matter that he was most likely reading the situation wrong and perhaps also losing his mind in real time. It only mattered that he might be right.
He would need to tread very carefully.
"Thanks, Dax. That – all of this, I mean –," Clark waved around himself vaguely, "was dumb of me. Sorry. Do you want to just… keep an eye on things here while I get some guys who know what they're doing to check this out?" Clark asked the question as casually as he could manage. "At this point I don't think either of us should try anything. Not with our current track record."
Clark waved around himself once more and attempted humor. "At this rate we could burn the place down."
Dax weighed the idea.
Clark held his breath.
"Yeah. You're right; we need backup, and someone should keep eyes on this powder keg. I can be the one to do that." Dax smiled magnanimously.
Clark returned the smile wanly. He held his breath as he moved toward the man.
And then past him.
Clark closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath as he turned his back on the larger man – and almost jumped out of his skin when a massive hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him up short.
"Whoa. Steady there, Kent. I'm jumpy too, but man, you need to calm down." Dax laughed, but then frowned seriously. "After you find someone to fix things back here, will you follow up on Cyrano for me? The kid? I can give you his cell number, and I'd really appreciate it if you could drop by the ER and check up on things. Maybe let me know what you find out? I'd feel a whole lot better knowing the kid had another set of eyes on him." Dax was silent for a moment and worry creased his forehead. "And let me know if Davies says or does anything weird. You mark my words: that man is a creep, and he's got some kind of an angle."
"Y-yeah. Yes. I will check on him for you." Clark felt himself nod one too many times as Dax rattled off familiar digits and he pretended to add them to his cellphone.
And then, blessedly, he was free and moving briskly down the hallway.
Clark let out a long, slow breath.
Dax had been shaken up; he was clearly worried about Jughead, and to be fair Special Agent Davies was the type of professional that might be alarming to someone who did not know and trust him. These sorts of circumstances could make anyone behave oddly, and perhaps more aggressively than they needed to.
Clark was probably just shaken up as well; no doubt he had some PTSD from having been tased, too, which could be making him paranoid. It was also clear that a lot was going on that he had not yet been read into.
But every instinct within him was screaming that something was not right.
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I feel like Archie and the band are going to get the entire next chapter. You know, since it's their tour and all. :-D I hope you enjoyed - and I hope you have a wonderful weekend ahead of you! As always, I will love and draw much inspiration from notes, even if you just let me know you're there and reading. (hello!) I'll be hard at work on the next chapter!
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