"Post Hoc"

They let him walk out the front door. After hours of being detained without due process and the…interrogation methods, Bug had been dusted off and released without so much as an apology or means to get home. They'd left his car in the morgue parking garage when they'd grabbed him—at least, he assumed it was still there. If they had impounded it anywhere, they hadn't returned his keys. His house key, separated from the rest of his key chain, was in the clear plastic bag in his arms along with the rest of his personal belongings they'd taken off his person. His cell phone was inside as well, and he could call someone to pick him up…but he couldn't bring himself to reach for it. Something inside him was numb. Cold.

He was acutely aware of the looks people on the street were giving him. A man with his ethnic features, coming out of the Department of Homeland Security, his stuff visible through the clear evidence bag…he looked just as much the suspected terrorist the Homeland agents had insisted he was.

Bug turned and started walking as quickly as he could to get away from this place. His chest started burning all too easily from the exertion so soon after the ordeal his lungs had undergone. He spotted a bench at a bus stop and nearly collapsed onto it. He didn't know what route it was for, if it even headed in the direction of his apartment. His gaze slid down to the key in the bag. They would have gone through his place, probably torn it apart looking for evidence that wasn't there. Bug wasn't sure he wanted to go home to that…

He didn't know how long he sat there. A bus did stop at one point, waited a few beats for him to get on, then shut the doors and drove off when he didn't move fast enough. He didn't have fare for it anyway.

It was getting late, the sun sinking lower in an overcast sky. He couldn't sit here forever, but he still couldn't bring himself to move.

A patrol car pulled up and stopped at the curb. Bug's pulse jumped and he went ramrod straight.

"I'm just waiting for the bus," he blurted. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He hadn't done anything wrong.

"Dr. Vijay?" a voice called out.

His heart was hammering, blood roaring in his ears.

The uniformed officer came closer. "Dr. Vijay, it's Officer Lang."

Bug swallowed hard, his brain slow to catch up. "Officer Lang, oh," he said shakily.

"There was an APB out for you earlier," she said, gaze raking over him. He tried not to squirm. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," he managed to get out, though his voice sounded rough.

"Are you sure?" Officer Lang pursed her mouth. "Do you need a ride home?"

His mouth went dry. His chest burned. "Um, yeah," he somehow said and slowly stood up.

Lang offered him a smile and went to open the back of the police car. Bug had to tell himself he was getting in voluntarily. And this was a marked cop car, not a nondescript SUV. Still, the cage divider between the back and front sent an extra spike of adrenaline through his already taxed system.

"Want us to look up the address?" Lang asked.

Bug blinked. Her tone was careful, like she was being gentle for a reason. Did she know? "Um, no, that's okay." He told them the address.

They headed off. Bug stared wordlessly out the window, the cityscape blurring as he failed to focus on anything. The officers didn't speak to him. Maybe they knew. Maybe everyone knew. He may have been released without charges, but once that kind of accusation and rumor was spread, some people would always look at him differently, wondering…

"Do you want me to come up with you?"

Bug blinked and suddenly they were outside his building. "No, I'm fine," he said. "Thank you for the ride."

"Sure," Lang replied, watching him as he got out. The car didn't pull away until he'd entered the building.

Bug rode the elevator up to his floor. The moment he stepped off, he spotted the tape across his door. His pulse stuttered and he faltered. But there was nothing for it. He moved leadenly across the hall to his door, hesitated another moment, then broke the seal promising punishment upon unauthorized entry by the Department of Homeland Security. He idly wondered if they'd come back and arrest him for going into his own home. The thought, as irrational as it may have been, almost made him throw up right there on the doorstep.

It was dark inside, but the moment he flicked on the light, he wished he hadn't. As expected, his place was trashed. Every piece of furniture had been upended, belongings strewn across the floor. The refrigerator and freezer doors hung open, meaning anything inside had likely spoiled. Bug's chest was tightening again, constricting his airflow as the back of his throat burned and his eyes stung. He backed up against the inside wall and slid to the floor. How had his life been so utterly shattered by one, bureaucratic mistake? Something inside him felt just as broken as the physical state of his home…and sitting in the wreckage, it felt impossible to ever fix.

"Okay, so what's next?"

"I don't know," Garret replied, at a loss. They had done everything they could, but the feds just wouldn't see reason. "I don't know, we'll go public, raise a stink."

"Wouldn't that make things worse for Bug?" Nigel put in worriedly.

Garret shook his head. "We'll keep going until we get him back." He was not just going to let this go, "current law" be damned.

"Hey," Woody interrupted, hurrying through the open door. "I found the identity thief. The guy with the plastic knee. Works pretty good, too."

"Did you take him to the feds?" Garret asked.

"I handed him over to the District Attorney's office. Walcott is all over it."

"Okay." That was better anyway; no way for Homeland Security to bury knowledge of this impersonator.

Jordan continued to pace in frustration. They were all frustrated. This shouldn't be happening.

Woody's cell rang and he quickly answered it. "This is Hoyt. What? Okay, thank you." He hung up. "A patrol officer found Bug at a bus stop."

"What?" Jordan blurted first. "Is he okay?"

"I don't know. I mean, he looked fine. They dropped him off at his place."

Nigel surged toward the door. "I'm going."

"I'm going with you," Garret declared.

"Me too," said Jordan.

Garret turned to deter her. "No, you're recovering from brain surgery."

"And I can sit in a car and stand on my own," she argued. "This is Bug."

He sighed. If he didn't let her come with them, she might just try to drive on her own, which wouldn't be good for anyone. "Alright, fine. Let's go."

They all headed out, piling into Woody's car instead of taking separate vehicles. Why hadn't Bug called any of them if the feds had let him go? Maybe his cell phone wasn't working. And Homeland wouldn't have given him the decency of a phone call in their lobby either, Garret was sure of that.

They arrived at Bug's building and hurried up to his floor. The door to his apartment was ajar, which gave them all pause. Woody put a hand on his gun holster and took the lead. Garret fell into close step behind him. Even from out in the hall, he could see the inside of the apartment looked like a tornado had blown through it. Woody inched the door open wider and poked his head in, then straightened and took his hand off his weapon. Garret took that as a cue it was safe to enter.

"Bug." He dropped to his knees next to Bug, who was sitting against the wall, knees drawn up and just staring at his decimated apartment. The others crowded in behind him.

Bug turned his gaze up blankly at them. "What are you doing here?" he asked, voice sounding hoarser than usual, and also worryingly hollow.

"The officer who picked you up called me," Woody answered. "The feds let you go?"

"Yeah."

"Are you okay?" Jordan asked.

"Fine."

Garret frowned as he gave Bug a closer inspection. He didn't look fine. And not just from the shock of sitting in the wreckage of his home. Garret caught a glimpse of red flecks in the whites of Bug's eyes and immediately reached to clasp his face and get a better look.

"Petechiae. Son-of-a-bitch, what'd they do to you?"

Bug tried to pull away. "Nothing."

Garret caught him by the shoulders, and his heart dropped into his stomach. "Your shirt is damp."

"My god," Nigel breathed.

"What?" Woody asked.

"I'm fine," Bug insisted, but the dullness in his voice belied the declaration.

Garret ignored the protest and slipped an arm under Bug's to haul him up. "Come on. Come sit over here." He faltered when he saw the couch cushions had been slit open.

"Here." Nigel grabbed a chair from the kitchen that hadn't been broken and dragged it over.

"Do you have a stethoscope lying around somewhere?" Garret asked.

"Probably" Bug said bitterly, gaze flitting over the scattered arrangement of his things.

"I'll check the bedroom," Nigel quickly volunteered.

"What is it?" Woody asked again, this time in Jordan's ear.

Garret glanced up at her equally composed yet fraught expression.

"They waterboarded him," she replied.

Woody's eyes went wide with shock. Even after all he'd seen in his years working Boston homicide, there was still some Wisconsin naïveté that had yet to be trampled out of his soul.

Bug kept his gaze on the floor, his shoulders slumped like he was crumpling into himself.

"Found it," Nigel announced as he returned.

Garret took the stethoscope and listened to Bug's lungs.

"I'm fine," he insisted again. "They were careful not to cause permanent damage." Again, his expression twisted bitterly.

"Be quiet," Garret instructed. He listened for several moments longer than necessary before pulling back. "Not too much fluid buildup." He checked his watch. "You should get checked out by a doctor tomorrow to make sure it stays that way."

"I'm sorry I missed my shift," Bug said, tone changing to contrite as he half turned toward Jordan. "I had soup, too. I think they spilled it in the parking garage."

Jordan shook her head and moved around to his front, setting a hand on his shoulder and wrapping the other arm around him. "Don't worry about that. I'm just glad you're back."

Bug raised his arms to return the hug, albeit half-heartedly. "You shouldn't be here." He looked at Garret. "Take Jordan home. I'm fine."

"You don't have to be after that," Garret said firmly. "You shouldn't be."

Bug looked away again. "I'll be fine," he amended. "Really, I appreciate you guys coming, but you should be taking care of Jordan."

"Like hell I'm letting you out of my sight for a while," Nigel huffed. "Although, this isn't exactly a good place to stay. They also obliterated your mattress. You can stay at my place."

Bug's eyes were red and wet again as he looked around. "Nige…"

"No, you'll stay with me," Jordan put in. "I need a full-time babysitter anyway, and this way we can all make sure you don't disappear again."

"I didn't mean to the first time."

"Yeah, well, if the feds decide they want to come at you again, they'll have to go through me."

"You're supposed to be resting," Garret chided. "Whoever's on shift can handle taking a tire iron to any federal goons who come knocking."

Bug raised a hand to cover his eyes, and his voice came out choked. "I think I'd just like to be alone…"

"That is absolutely the last thing you need," Garret said sternly. He clasped his friend's shoulder. "Look, Bug, what happened to you was wrong and despicable, and a whole host of other things. Let your friends help you."

Jordan cocked a smirk at him. "You know, how you all badgered me into accepting help."

Bug let out a shuddering breath.

"I'll pack you a bag," Nigel said and disappeared into the bedroom again.

Woody continued to stand back, a protective and loyal presence in his silence.

Bug finally looked up with watery eyes at Garret. "Thank you," he mouthed, too choked up to get the words out.

Garret bent down to pull Bug into a hug. Jordan wrapped her arm around his back. They were going to get through this, Garret kept telling himself. They were going to get each other through all of this.