taxonomites | Haunted Holo [visual, eventually] the heart asks pleasure first

As far as Taxon life goes, monotonous and jarring, one after the other in never ending ups and downs, the past few months of relative calm have been a blessing. He ended the annual on an unexpected high - confident in himself at long last, self assured and brimming with affirmation and all the supportive words he'd told himself he could go without. He had friendship (and the best kind, too), he had love (which was familiar in all the important ways, and constantly surprising in ways he doesn't know matter until they pop up). It's still true now that the annual had moved into its second quarter. Friends die, they come back. It's a chilling thought that he might become so jaded that the death of a friend doesn't hurt him any more, but the wave of relief that crashed over him when Long re-Arrived tells him he isn't so far gone. Yet. He has yet to take the people he cares about for granted.

When he wakes to the smell of coffee that's the sentiment that lingers in the air. He lifts his head from the pillow, wondering silently to himself when (and how) Paul got access to his place, because these random bouts of cooking need to stop. Of course he doesn't mean a single word, but he's never had a sunny disposition this early in the a.m. Coffee will make it better. Coffee, and a kiss, and...

He sniffs. Is that...?

No. No, he did not--

He gets up, pulling on the loose fitting t-shirt he sometimes sleeps in. Usually he wouldn't care about pants, but there's a chill in the air despite the warm smells wafting from the kitchen. Drawstring pants will do. Yes, coffee and a kiss will do the trick just fine.

But it isn't Paul by the kitchen counter, his dark blond hair a halo around his head thanks to the early morning sun. It isn't Paul's voice humming a tune Wyatt knows better than the back of his own hand. There's no nicotine in the air, no ringlets of smoke dancing their way up from the embers of a freshly lit cigarette. It isn't Paul.

Wyatt sags against the doorpost, heart pounding in his chest. "Adora?"

His wife turns around, guided by her chin rather than her eyes. When she looks up and their eyes meet, she smiles, and some last little crater in his heart fills up. She's older than he remembers her, but her eyes are bright and full of love, and there's flour on her cheek.

"Wyatt," she replies, ducking her head with a small chuckle and wipes her hands on her apron. "Oh, Wyatt, look at you." She comes to him, framing his face with both hands and kissing his cheek and he thinks his heart will burst from the pressure building in his chest. "It's okay, love," she tells him. "I'm here."

Somewhere towards the end of a lengthy talk and slow breakfast of freshly baked bread and coffee like he remembers it from home, Cain's tablet blips on in the bedroom. From its vantage point on the bedside table, the view isn't all that informative or inspiring, but the conversation carries through in muted tones of sometimes awkward happiness. It's been so long, and so much has happened for both of them, and they need to figure things out, like how to fit their lives into this new setting. He tells her he doesn't expect her to like the way he's trying to shape his new life, that it needs to take time for both of them. And of course there's Paul, and she just has to meet him, but later. Of course later.

Then footsteps, as one of them moves to the other side of the room. The soft click of a door opening... Then silence for the moment where everything shatters.

The noise that follows isn't merely a scream, but the sound of a man losing what he's already lost twice, and breaking apart.

Over the sound of screaming, Adora's voice comes from just outside the bedroom door as she closes the door over. "Did you really think I didn't know, Wyatt? After everything we had, everything I did for you... I couldn't let you get away with it. But now we can be happy again. Start over. Can't we, Wyatt?"

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Wyatt doesn't draw his breath at the sight of the other man. The line of his jaw tightens, his eyebrows lowering. Paul's hurt. That takes precedent over this...this...this.

"I'm coming to get you," he says firmly, dismissing the thought of changing clothes or cleaning up. There's no time for that.

"What's your status? Any hostiles near your location?"

Paul's silent for several seconds, the light of the tablet casting a dull glow over the sharp features of his face, a scrape on his jaw.

Somebody more heroic than Paul Smecker might say, no, don't come, it's too dangerous, I'll manage. Paul is not a goddamn hero. Paul's an FBI agent, or he was a lifetime ago, and self-sacrificing stupidity has never been his thing. Martyrdom has never been his thing.

He leaves that shit to the Saints.

The ones hunting him now.

He closes his eyes, briefly, tries to mentally shut that down. Intellectually he knows it's not really them any more than Wyatt's wife was really her. It's a glitch. He knows that. Has to keep reminding himself of it.

"Keep in mind the tablets are fucking up," he says in that strained whisper, because he still needs to watch his volume. "I'm in a boarded-up hotel, name said Hyperion. Two, possibly three hostiles-- one older man, bearded, two younger men, dark coats, tattoos."

His tone is all business. They're just like any other criminal.

"They're very good with their guns, Wyatt, don't get yourself the fuck shot coming to be my personal John Wayne, alright?"

Paul licks his lips again. "I'm shot. One superficial, one in the side. It didn't hit anything important or I wouldn't still be conscious."

"Clear through or lodged?"

He gets up, bringing the tablet with him, going to the hatch in the kitchen to get what he needs, because he can't go into the bathroom for the medikit, he just can't. Glitch hovers in the background. Gauze, ointment, surgical tape... Lots and lots of ammo, just to indulge the boyscout syndrome.

He knows he should be feeling something other than the strict professional calm that now covers him like a warm blanket. He should be horrified for Paul's sake. He should be worried (and he is, he just can't feel it), and all sorts of emotions he can't put names to because they're too far out of reach. There's no contingency plan for this.

"Radio silence is active the moment I walk out the door. I'll find you. Can you walk at all?"

"Lodged," Paul answers with a little grunt. "I've got pressure on it but, you know, hard to manage that and move too. I... can walk."

He hopes that still holds true by the time Wyatt finds him. He doesn't know how much blood he's lost but he knows it's more than his body ought.

"...they're very good, Wyatt," he says again, because he doesn't know how else to say it, how else to say be careful, how else to say They scare me, Wyatt, these men scare me. "Don't get into a shootout."

Cain nods, quiet for a moment as he adds another item he needs to his to-do list: antibiotics. It will have to be after, because right now he doesn't want to waste any more time. He'll need to clean Glitch's head injury, make sure he's okay, because he's not leaving him behind (in here).

Unbidden but not unwanted, memories of one year ago come to the forefront of his mind. The frustration, dulled down by fever, knowing that Paul was holed up in his place above the shop and he couldn't get to him. Somewhere in the distance, he can hear the strings strumming out the thin fragments of music he'll never forget.

"I know," he says softly, warmly despite the chill. He wants to reach out so bad his fingers ache. "I promise I'll be careful. You just keep pressure on the wound, okay?"

"Hatch a bulletproof vest. And ammo. I'm out," is Paul's answer, again with the faint tinge of inappropriate humor. He closes his eyes.

Hey, if I'm gone already by the time you get here--

Hey, if I don't make it--

Look, if they kill me--

No, fuck it. He's not going to say shit. Cain's gonna come get him. On a fucking horse, Paul's mind supplies. Wild wild west, cowboys and sinners and saints.

Yeah. Yeah. That's a nice image.

He shifts his grip, the tablet's view wobbling a little, sliding until it's no longer directly focused on his face. His other hand sliding to keep the pressure on. He wishes he could tell if the bleeding's stopped yet. Breathing still really hurts.

"See you soon, cowboy," he whispers.

Inappropriate or not, it crinkles the skin around Cain's eyes; the back of his mind supplying he must look like one of the criminally insane.

"I'm on it. You'll owe me dinner for this, agent."

It's a bad joke, not even a real one, but it touches on something more familiar, less teetering on the sharp edge of a blade.

If you're dead when I get there I will kill you, he doesn't say. Couldn't say it if he tried, because he can just make out the glint of a knife in the corner of his eye. Over there. On the floor. By his wife's... He closes his eyes, squeezes them shut until pin pricks of light float before him in a sea of darkness.

"Cain out."

"So what's our plan?"

Diplomacy demands discretion, the need to know compels him to listen in, worry insists he stay vigilant (and so he stands guard by the sofa, hoping to direct attention up), and loyalty negates any question of if he's coming along.

Glitch holds a cloth to the top of his head, a couple inches right of the zipper. He'd caught the corner of a framing beam, and while it wasn't serious the bleeding remained stubborn. As it is the injury is pretty much the least of his concerns.

Cain ducks his head, jaw protruding as he works it back and forth. He's a hair's breadth from grinding his teeth to dust from the escalated tension, but he can't let it get to him. He has to keep it under lock and key, needs to focus.

"We're getting patched up," he says, all business. "I'm getting dressed. We gear up, we secure a suitable vehicle. In, out, no unnecessary risks."

It's only now that he looks up, bright blue eyes searching Glitch's dark brown pair. "I'm not as fast as I used to be."

He nods, accepting that. They'd executed flimsier plans - steal longcoat uniforms, sneak into the tower, sneak out again with the world's most valuable prisoner - and this would be...well. It'll be whatever it will be. Don't die remained the unspoken main objective.

"I think I'm faster," Glitch says with a little shrug. Healthier living and regular training will do that. "So that'll make up for...something."

Gingerly he removes the folded cloth from his head and scowls. "Stupid thing..."

"It's okay," Cain tells his friend in the shadowlands of reassurance.

"Let's see what we can do about that."

[ooc: ftb, get going with the other threads?]

Haunted Holo [visual, eventually] the heart asks pleasure first

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[location] /threadjack, keyword abuse

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