4. Chapter Four #5
“I’ll tell him. Yeah. Just - scrap the cigarettes and booze, get some food, probably a shower, then go to fucking sleep. Okay?”
“Yeah, yeah. You do some self-care too, though. You sound exhausted and Adam said you’ve barely left your office.
Are you sleeping on the couch you’ve got in there?
Please tell me you’ve at least been taking naps on it, man.
I don’t approve, like at all, but it’s better than nothing, right?
And stop telling people they can skip their shifts and pretending like there’s a reason why you need to be the one on the monitors.
There isn’t a reason. Go to your room. Get some actual fucking rest.”
I frown deeply. Adam. “That fucking traitor…”
“Hey now. If you can tell on me to Kellan, Adam can tell on you to me.”
“I don’t tell on you!” I argue. “And I’m a grown ass man. I can handle myself.”
He makes a sort of ‘eh’ sound, as if he’s not so sure. If he was here right now, I’d smack him over the head or toss something at him.
Instead, I have to settle for playing a little dirty. “You know, maybe you shouldn’t get to go on the mission with Travis. I could always-”
“Hey, no, not fair! No takebacks!” he all but squeaks.
I can’t help but grin. He sounds just like the barely-adult man who pulled me from that dark closet all those years ago.
At the time, he’d seemed so old and mature, so knowledgable.
Now, I know he was just in the right place at the right time, with just enough power and resources to pull a rescue off, and not a true fucking clue what he was doing as he did it.
Sometimes I wonder if he regrets not just letting himself be that barely-adult man, even for just a little bit longer.
Sometimes I don’t think I want to know.
Sometimes I think I already do.
“No takebacks,” I promise him, trying to match the lightness in his tone. Trying to pretend. “How about this - we both get some rest?”
He sighs, but it's fake. Playfully dramatic. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”
“Alright.”
“But Ace?”
“Yeah?”
“Just…” He clears his throat. “Thank you. So fucking much.”
I’m suddenly little again, tucked against a broad chest, a set of arms wrapped around me in a gentle sort of way that I didn’t even know was possible. I can hear his voice, low and steady. I’ve got ya, Ace.
I can hear the words echoing across time, sometimes with me against his chest, or with his arm hooked around my shoulders, or with him shooting me a wink across the table.
After nightmares where I screamed the whole house awake.
During a panic attack at the grocery store.
Every time Kellan denied my requests to go to a real school.
When I watched My Girl for the first - and fucking last - time.
In 2008 when the polls closed in California and the winner on the screen looked like me.
I’ve got ya, Ace. I’ve always got you.
My throat aches as I say, “I’ve got ya, Keaton. Always.”
He sniffles, but it’s from happiness this time. I can hear it in his voice when he says, “Goodnight, kid.”
I smile, but the ache is still there. “Night, Superman.”
I mean to stick to the deal. I really do.
I think about how I’ll go grab Jake and ask if he can take his shift a little early.
I’ll tell him about Ellis too, so he doesn’t have to learn about it when the notification comes in.
Then I’ll get some food and take a nap in my own bed.
Maybe I’ll even send a goofy selfie of me there to Keaton, just to make him laugh.
Then I stand up and turn to the corkboard on my wall, the one full of survivor’s photos, and get stuck.
Ellis Woods’ photograph is in the second row, to the left.
He’s seated on a couch with his daughter.
The baby is standing with one chubby little foot on each of his thighs, her fingers wrapped around his thumbs as he helps keep her steady.
Their grins match, both with a dimple on the right side. The happiness is palpable.
It’s the kind of photo that you can’t help but smile at.
He’s dead.
That man, right there, with the dimpled smile and a daughter he’ll never get to see again - he’s dead.
Maybe I shouldn’t have started filling the board so soon. Maybe it’s too early to even call any of them survivors. Maybe it was naive to think their most dangerous battles were over.
I should have known. I’ve been there. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve lived it.
I knew the risks weren’t over.
I knew we’d lose some.
We always fucking lose some - operatives and victims alike.
It’s inevitable.
I knew.
I thought I was prepared.
Why is this so goddamn hard?
Why can’t I fucking breathe?
I step closer, until I’m right in front of the corkboard, staring at that photograph.
I stare at it for a very long time.
Then I carefully remove his picture and place it image-down on my desk, exposing the back where his name and designated safehouse is already written.
With a hand that shakes, I carefully write the date of his death at the bottom.
Then I open the bottom drawer of my desk, take out the leatherbound journal inside, and slip the photograph between the pages.
I wait until my eyes stop burning before going downstairs. I might not be able to sleep, and I definitely don’t have it in me to hand the monitors over to Jake right now. I can’t lose my last semblance of control. Not right now. Not when it feels like everything is falling apart.
I can at least keep part of the deal with Keaton, though. I can get some food. I can eat. Maybe I’ll even drink some water.
That’s good self-care, right? Baby steps?
Plus, downstairs has coffee.
I’m going to need a lot more coffee.
I don’t want to risk sleeping any time soon.