Archive of Our Own

“What’s that?” Nick demands, jerking the postcard out of his hand, “Aw shit man, another postcard? This girl, man, I swear she has a thing for you. I don’t care what you say.”

Marcus grins, “It’s okay to be jealous. Feeling a little insecure?”

“Aw fuck you man,” Nick says, pushing at the side of Marcus’s head and dropping the postcard back into his lap, “I’ve got more girls throwing themselves at me than Bieber at a concert. I don’t need any help in that department.”

Marcus rubs his thumb against the edge of the postcard, listening to Nick do up his straps with sharp clicks. Nick slams the locker door shut and looks over at Marcus, “You know, I’ve always kind of wondered what the hell kind of name Esca was anyway. Short for something?” He grins, “Are you tappin’ some ethnic booty and never thought about mentioning it to your dear friend Nick?”

“Yo man, I told you—I’m not tapping that.”

“Why the fuck not?” Nick asks, hauling his rifle on his shoulder. When Marcus doesn’t answer, Nick reaches over and attempts to ruffle Marcus’s hair as Marcus swats his hand away. He grins, “Yeah bro, just think about that. Get your ass up Captain, we got a debrief in five.”

“Insubordination, Spence!” Marcus calls at Nick’s retreating back. Nick raises his hand in acknowledgement and disappears around the corner.

Marcus looks back at the postcard before exhaling and closing his eyes. Yeah, not tapping that, no matter how much he wanted to. Esca was probably half a world away and had likely forgotten all of the stolen moments, breathless laughter against sunwarmed skin—all of the stupid adolescent discovery that Marcus can’t help but associate with the four-by-six piece of cardstock that shows up in his mailbox every few months.

“Jesus Esca,” Marcus mutters, “You know just when to time things, don’t you?”

“Gentlemen,” Commander Stevens says, “I’m sure I do not need to impress on you the importance of this mission. This piece of equipment right here contains tens of millions of dollars worth of technology. It is absolutely imperative that the Eagle gets to Annapolis. You will ensure that this delivery is made. Have I made myself crystal clear?”

“Yes sir!” the men call out.

Stevens surveys them for a moment longer before dismissing them and handing Marcus the tablet, “Sign here Captain.”

Marcus scribbles his name across the line. Stevens is still looking at him when he’s done. “I hold you fully responsible for what happens to this package, captain.”

“Yes sir.”

When Stevens leaves, Nick whistles softly, “It’s like we’re delivering the atomic bomb or something.” He walks around the package, inspecting it from all angles, “Christ, you don’t think it contains an atomic bomb, do you?”

“No Spence, I don’t think they’re stupid enough to trust you with an atomic bomb,” Marcus says bending to pick it up. It’s surprisingly light—but Marcus doesn’t let that faze him. It could just as easily be samples of anthrax or something equally as dangerous.

“Let’s get going.”

It’s getting dark and Marcus feels a slight sense of apprehension as night draws closer. He keeps one eye out the window, half listening to the low chatter of his men over the headset as Nick taps out some song in his head on the steering wheel. The taillights of the humvee in front dips up and down as they bump along the mostly-gravel road. Nick glances down at the box wedged between their seats every once in a while, just to check that it hasn’t exploded.

“Alright,” Nick says finally, “Alright buddy, this silence is killing me. What I gotta do to make you talk to me?”

“You nervous?” Marcus asks.

“No man, but you’re making me nervous with all of this broody silence shit. C’mon man, you know something about the box that I don’t?”

“I don’t know anything more than you.”

“What the hell kind of name is Eagle anyway?” Nick asks, “Couldn’t they have just been upfront with it and called it some shit like probably going to explode if you go over a pothole, model three-oh-five, or hell, it’s okay to jostle me, version six.”

“Don’t go over any potholes,” Marcus says.

“You are the worst,” Nick informs him.

Marcus smiles and looks out the window. The sun has set

“Okay,” Nick says after a while, “Okay so. Captain. It occurs to me that even though you know my life story, down to the nasty details—”

“Please don’t remind me, Spence. I don’t particularly feel like recounting your prom night.”

“—down to the nasty details,” Nick repeats, “I don’t think we’ve ever had a heart to heart about your childhood, Aquila. Definitely not a fair trade. So let’s get on with it. Any repressed memories? Traumatic incidences?”

“You’re really grasping for conversation material here.”

“Answer the goddamn question. I bet you were a jock in high school, taking on all my fellow nerds—”

“With your Super Mario obsession.”

“Oh my god, Aquila, just tell me about your goddamn life.”

“What?” Marcus asks, “There’s not much to tell. Four generations of military officers and my dad was the first businessman. I never saw him around. Tutors and prep school—now I’m here.”

“Aw hell,” Nick says, “You never had a real prom?”

Marcus looks at him. “You get fixated on the weirdest shit.”

“I mean, prep schools—they can’t get social events right worth shit. Proms take place in skeevy hotel ballrooms. At least like, five percent of the girls have to be pregnant. Where the hell did your prom take place?”

“I didn’t go to my prom.”

“That,” Nick says, “Is really really sad. Next thing you’ll be telling me that you’re still a weeping virgin.”

“No,” Marcus says, trying not to think about Esca, “Did I redeem myself?”

“Depends,” Nick says, “Was she hot?”

Fucking hell. First the postcard and now this. He swallows and tries to focus on the taillights in front of them but an image of Esca forms unbidden in his mind’s eye. He sees the brightness of Esca’s smile, the span of his own broad hand over Esca’s heart and thinking foolishly that this was some form of forever. He remembers pressing his lips to the pulse in Esca’s neck, fingers curled against skin and thinking that he knew what love was.

Christ, this wasn’t the time.

“Sure,” Marcus says, and he tries to get his head in the game, “Watch the road, I think we’re coming up on an exposed turn here in a second.”

Nick glances at him but then looks back at the road. Marcus clicks on the flashlight briefly to check their position and then—

Something doesn’t feel quite right. Marcus peers out the window as he feels the hair on the back of his neck prickle, an anxiety worming up his spine.

“Hey, I think we should stop,” Marcus suddenly says, and then clicks on his transmission, “Alpha two to alpha one, do not proceed.”

“What the hell,” Nick demands, “We’ll be sitting ducks here. Have you gone insane?”

“There’s something wrong,” Marcus says, checking to make sure the Eagle is secured—

—and then it all goes to hell.

He sees it a fraction of a second before he hears it: orange and black ballooning in a deafening explosion—the silhouette of the humvee in front of them burning away like an overexposed photograph. Nick turns their humvee sharply and Marcus is thrown against the side of the car, ears ringing with the explosion. He can barely hear the shouts over the radio that filter through the sound of blood rushing in his ears. He’s stunned for a minute, eyes tracking the way that the fire leaps from the charred remains of the humvee in front of them. Nick is screaming something at him and he needs to get up, get up and check on his men—

A second explosion comes from somewhere behind them—gravel and twisted metal scattering like rain.

In a moment, Marcus is yelling into his headpiece, “Alpha One, Three, Four—status report!”

“Call for backup,” Nick shouts, trying to scrape their humvee past the burning remains of Alpha One, through the sheet of flames. The space is too small and they’re going uphill.

“ETA ten minutes for air backup,” Marcus says and he grabs the Eagle in one hand and a handgun in the other as he opens the door, “Fuck, if they have grenades we can’t just sit here. We gotta get to the cover of the trees. We just have to hold out for ten minutes.” He slaps a hand to his headpiece, “Alpha One, Three, Four—status report!”

Nick climbs out and they move towards the line of trees, ducking low. Marcus hears only static through his transceiver—Christ, how the hell did it break? There’s a sputter of machine gun fire behind them and he swings around, crouching low—god, if he left someone behind—

“What the fuck,” Nick says.

People have appeared out of nowhere—some are peering into the humvees still sitting on the road and others are prying open the burning vehicles.

“Guard this,” Marcus says, dropping the Eagle next to Nick, “And cover me.” He holsters his handgun and shoulders his rifle—if his men are still up there, he can’t leave them behind. He sights along the barrel, aiming for one of the men who is half bent into a Humvee, and shoots. The shot cracks loud and the man slumps face forward into the vehicle.

And then—there is a man next to him—he only sees the three stripes of white facepaint on each cheek and the mohawk as he swings his rifle around on instinct, feels the man grab his arm—

—he’s looking at the ground from fifteen feet in the air and falling—how the fucking hell?—manages to twist himself midair so he can hit the ground on the broad of his shoulder and roll into the momentum. It hurts like hell and he’s dropped his gun a good ten feet away. But this isn’t the time; he has to grit his teeth and suck it up because his men might still be alive and there’s only Nick with the Eagle somewhere in the woods.

He pulls himself into a decent crouch, using the bushes for cover. The man who threw him—Jesus Christ, from where? How the hell? Fuck, no time for that—was nowhere to be found. The men have assembled into a loose circle and Marcus counts them—maybe ten in total—and he lifts his rifle, ignoring the pain in his shoulder and aims.

He shoots, hits a man in the back of the neck and backtracks—they’re going to be looking for him based on the trajectory. What he isn’t ready for is the same man with the white stripes and mohawk materializing not even five feet from him.

“I thought I killed you already,” he growls—and Marcus knows better than to let the guy touch him this time. He doesn’t know what’s going on but he trusts his gut instincts. He shoots—the man disappears and reappears closer to him—and Marcus breaks into a run, weaving between the trees and looking for any sort of cover because he isn’t sure he can outrun—

The man appears right next to him and grabs his arm—and suddenly jerks forward. T1he outline of his entire body is wavering and Marcus takes the opportunity to get away. There’s a white-haired man dressed in black standing a few yards away, holding on to what looks like a whip. Marcus levels his gun at the man who looks back at him.

“Where’s the Eagle?”

“Give me one reason not to shoot you right now.”

“Boy,” the man says, “I just saved your life.”

Marcus doesn’t take his gun off the man.

The teleporting man lunges at the man in black and three wires whip out of the surrounding trees, trapping him. Marcus keeps his eyes on the man in black but watches the three people emerge from the woods in his peripheral vision.

“I admire your courage, but we are all on the same side.”

“Prove it.”

“My name is Roland. You were supposed to deliver the Eagle to me.”

Marcus keeps his gun steady. Roland reaches into his pocket—Marcus’s finger twitches on the trigger—and produces a set of credentials. Marcus’s jaw tenses as he looks around at the other three who are staring back at him. They haven’t drawn weapons so he moves toward Roland to read the proffered document. It’s an exact copy of the contract Marcus signed. He lowers his gun.

“Now,” Roland says, “Where is the Eagle?”

Nick is ten feet away from where Marcus left him. He’s face down on the ground and unconscious. Marcus had a moment of panic when he first saw the other man but Nick’s pulse was still strong. There’s an indentation in the dirt where the steel box had once been, but the Eagle itself is gone.

“I suppose I should have learned by now,” Roland says, “If I want a job done right, I should do it myself.”

Nick slumps against the side of the helicopter, holding an ice pack to the back of his neck. Marcus’s shoulder is stiff and it still hurts like hell but he’ll live. He has his rifle between his legs, eyes on Roland’s back as he paces the tiny space with his phone to his ear. He’s trying to pick out the words that Roland is saying but it’s hard to hear over the whine of the engine.

“Christ,” Nick says. There’s a purple bruise spreading across his temple, “They seriously came out of nowhere, man. I can’t think a single good point of entry—woods on one side and a cliff drop on the other side. Two explosions, front and back. We would have seen them if they came from the woods. It’s like they just fucking dropped out of the sky.”

Marcus doesn’t say anything, just keeps his eyes on Roland.

“And this guy, I swear to god, he just fucking—popped up,” Nick says, and then his voice drops, “God Marcus, look, I’m really sorry.”

Marcus turns to look at him then, “Hey, it’s not your fault.”

“I should have been more vigilant. I should have seen him coming.”

“You wouldn’t have,” Roland interrupts, taking a seat across from them, “They’re called Jumpers.”

“You know what they are,” Marcus says. He isn’t surprised—he wants more information.

“I spend my life hunting them down,” Roland says. He drops his phone into his pocket and looks between the two of them, “Try to stop them before they can do any more damage to the natural order of things.”

“Wait,” Nick says, “What are we talking about? Jumpers? Can we please fill a brother in?”

“You should count yourselves lucky that your convoy wasn’t completely destroyed,” Roland looks at Marcus, “And two of them dead. I’m impressed that you fended so well for yourself when you had no idea what you were up against. You might make a decent paladin.”

“I’ve never heard of you,” Marcus says.

“I wouldn’t have expected you to. We’re technically a civilian branch. Paramilitary, if you will.”

“Who attacked us?”

“A team of Jumpers we’ve been tracking for a long long time. I specifically requested the best team special ops had,” Roland appraises Marcus, “I guess I wasn’t clear enough.”

Marcus pushes the anger down and controls the tone of his voice, “I’ve never failed a mission before today, sir.” Nick is sitting up straighter, a frown on his face. “I promise you that we will do whatever it takes to retrieve the Eagle.”

“I don’t think you understand the full extent of the situation.”

“Then tell me.”

Roland just looks at them. The helicopter is starting its descent—Marcus can pick out the lights of Annapolis in the window over Roland’s shoulder.

“What are Jumpers?” Nick asks.

“Abominations,” Roland answers, “Things that can travel from place to place with a single thought. New York one moment, Cairo the next.”

“Teleportation?”

“They can be in all places at once. They see a place, in a photograph, for a moment, and they can go there.” Roland looks from Nick to Marcus. “Can you imagine what it would be like, if everyone in the world had that power? It would be chaos.” They’re swinging low over the skyline now, shapes of buildings blurring against the night sky. “We Paladins hunt them in order to restore the order of things as they are supposed to be. All of them, they become criminals in the end, and we bring them to justice.”

“What is the Eagle?” Marcus asks.

“It was a code,” Roland answers, “A certain frequency that when broadcast, stops Jumpers from being able to jump. Broadcast it globally and you can trap them where they are, turn them back into people like you and me.”

“If you get the code—that means you can stop hunting.”

Roland smiles and the helicopter touches down on a rooftop. He gets up and Marcus stands with him.

“Let us join you.”

“You want to be a paladin?”

“We can get the Eagle back.”

Roland looks at him, then at Nick. He turns, “I’ve sent a driver to take you to the nearest hospital. You should check in with your commander.”

Marcus wants to follow and protest but Nick grabs the back of his jacket.

“Let it go, man.”

“Marcus,” Nick says the moment that the nurse leaves them alone, “That guy? Roland or whatever his name was? Total and complete whackjob. Are you serious about the whole Paladin shit? Are you not seeing the parallelism here? Are you not creeped out by this?”

“Thank you, Spence, I too took medieval history in high school.”

“No,” Nick says, “Normal people do not take medieval history in high school. Normal people trust their gut instinct when it tells them not to sign up for shit that would be way over their heads, lead by some nutjob who considers humans as things.”

“I’ve never failed a mission before, and I’m not going to start now.”

“Seriously?”

“Look,” Marcus says, starting to pace, “If my dad was here, you know what the hell he’d tell me? Told you so. Told you fucking so.”

Nick is quieter when he speaks, “Marcus, come on. One mission isn’t gonna ruin your career.”

Marcus stops pacing and looks at Nick. The television in the corner is on almost-muted enthusiasm and the tinny laughter of the anchorwoman grates on Marcus’s nerves. He breathes, in and out, and then says, “Look, a lot of people are probably caught in the crossfire of this thing. Give the paladins the Eagle—no more persecution. We’d be saving a lot of people in the future.”

Nick picks at a bandage on his arm, “You’re really not going to make this easy, are you?”

“No. Nick—I mean—you really don’t have to come with me.”

“Man,” Nick says, “I stick with you through thick and thin and you think I’d just abandon a brother like that?” He punches Marcus in the shoulder, harder than necessary, “You fucking crazy bastard.”

When Marcus opens the door to his debriefing, he doesn’t expect to see Roland sitting in a chair across from the commander. He throws a salute and closes the door after him.

“Take a seat, Captain,” the commander says. Marcus sits, keeping his eyes on his superior officer.

“I take it you’ve already met Roland.”

“Yes sir.”

“Roland has asked for your assistance in the retrieval of the Eagle.”

Marcus spares a glance at Roland.

“I told him we could spare you for a few weeks.”

“Sir,” Marcus says, “What about Lieutenant Spence?”

“I didn’t ask for Lieutenant Spence,” Roland says, “I only asked for you, Marcus Aquila. I have no use for anybody else.”

“The first thing that you should know about Jumpers,” Roland says as he drops two manila folders in front of Marcus, “Is that they are dangerous and unpredictable. You don’t know what angle they’re going to attack from, they attack too quickly for the untrained eye to follow. We’ve only found one effective weapon against them.” He sets a metal rod on the table and Marcus picks it up.

“There’s a series of charged capacitors in there that delivers a couple thousand volts of electricity, disrupting their ability to jump. Low current, since sometimes we’d like to them alive a little longer.”

Marcus turns the weapon over in his hands.

“They’re sneaky, they’re tricky. You have to be sneakier and trickier. Incapacitate them, then go in for the kill. You only get one shot, get them when they’re least suspecting it. Basic stuff—I’m sure you’ve learned all of this in training.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You can test that out later,” Roland says and flips open one of the manila folder, “For now, a little background information.” Clipped to the top of the stack of documents is a photograph of a man with the same facepaint and mohawk that Marcus saw before—only framing different facial features. “We’ve only ever had two real threats—the rest of the jumpers are disorganized. Many of them think that they’re the only one with their ability.”

Roland taps the photograph with a finger, “We call this group the Seal People, mostly because the bastard who started the entire group was a Navy SEAL himself. He went rogue after he discovered his powers. Most people do. It’s unfortunate that we taught him how to be such a capable leader.”

Marcus flips through the files. Other photographs are clipped with the data collected on each person.

“This isn’t the full team, but it’s a vast majority of them. They’re ruthless, they kill on sight. You’ve already had a little experience with them. Trust me when I say that wasn’t the extent of their powers.”

“Taking out an entire convoy with barely a dozen men,” Marcus says, “I’m afraid to ask what the extent of their powers is.”

“It may surprise you to learn that the other threat is a single man,” Roland says, opening the second folder, “One of the best reasons why you should never let your guard down around a jumper, and perhaps the best example of how dangerous jumpers are to the natural order of things.”

Esca’s photograph stares up at him. Marcus feels like he can’t breathe.

“He calls himself Griffin, though we’re certain that was never his real name. This is a very old picture of him—we haven’t been able to get a more recent photograph of him. He’s very good at finding camera blindspots.”

Esca looks older in this picture than Marcus remembers—the angles of his face are sharper and there are hollow circles under his eyes. He looks leaner and fiercer than Marcus remembers—but beneath the changes, Marcus can see traces of the boy he fell in love with.

“Griffin is unfortunately, very good at taking down Paladins,” Roland says, and then pauses. Marcus keeps staring at the photograph—he hasn’t heard Esca’s voice in months and hasn’t seen him in years. But this can’t be his Esca, because his Esca is a freelance photographer, a goddamn free spirit who couldn’t be caught and not for lack of trying. “Is there something the matter, Marcus?”

Marcus tears his eyes away from the photograph to look at Roland. “Just. Surprised that a single man could present such a threat.”

Roland smiles. “You’d need to meet the Griffin to understand why. And I wouldn’t wish that upon you.”

Roland doesn’t have any space for Marcus at headquarters so they give him enough money for a room at a motel on the outskirts of Annapolis, across the bay. Roland gives him the keys for an old blue Ford truck that takes three turns of the key in ignition to start up properly and tells him to be back at headquarters the next morning.

There’s a sign on the reception desk that says that patrons have to pay five dollars for wifi access and Marcus pretends not to see it as he hands over the money for his room and asks, “There wouldn’t be a place where I can check my email real quick, would there?”

The woman behind the desk has her eyes on the bars stitched onto his jacket when she says, “If you want, you can use the other computer back here real quick.” She meets his eyes and smiles, leaning forward slightly so he can catch more of her cleavage, “The other girl just stepped out for a quick smoke—you can have it as long as she’s out.”

Marcus knows that she’s only flirting because of the uniform but he doesn’t really have a choice. He nods, smiling back and she opens the employee entrance for him.

“What are you doing here in Annapolis?” she asks as he pulls up a new window and logs into his email. She laughs a little, “Or is that classified?”

“Classified,” Marcus figures it’s the best way to get her to stop talking. The last email Esca sent him was a month ago—he spent a paragraph telling Marcus about the vodka in Russia and signed off with the normal -E. Esca uses a different email address every time he sends Marcus a message and he’s never replied to any of the messages that Marcus has sent in reply.

He hadn’t thought it was strange before—maybe he was a little frustrated and thought that Esca was just terrified of commitments—like getting a reply to an email meant that he was obligated to reply, like never leaving a phone number meant he didn’t have to answer to Marcus. And reading these emails now: Hi Marcus, I wandered a little too close to Prypiat and took pictures that I’m hoping someone will buy, Hi Marcus, someday you should see the sun set over Mumbai, Hi Marcus, I was in Boston this week and thought about taking the train out but I didn’t think you’d be home—he can’t reconcile any of these with the Esca that stared at him through that photograph Roland showed him.

Marcus hates Esca—he hates him for taking everything from him and never giving anything in return—just these stupid messages that Marcus always replies to and never gets an answer, he hates that his heart always skips a beat when his phone rings from an unknown number like he’s fucking fifteen years old. And he hates that he lets Esca do this to him, that he answers the phone for a casual conversation like everything is fine and he’s not hurt that Esca left and won’t come back, that Esca’s pretends there was never anything between them, that Esca takes and he takes and he takes and Marcus just keeps giving until there’s nothing of him left.

He answers the phone because he wants to hear the sound of Esca’s voice, because he’s a masochist and he keeps fooling himself in thinking that making Esca laugh is going to make him stick around a little longer. It’s a fucked up relationship, and he doesn’t hold any of the strings and he keeps telling himself that he’s not invested in it, that he’s going to find a girl and settle down and stop thinking about Esca, stop replying to his stupid emails, stop stop stop.

But it’s too much of a coincidence, Roland’s Griffin and his Esca and it feels like all of the years are being pulled from beneath his feet, all of the lies and none of it makes sense or everything makes sense and he types Esca, Please call me. –M and hits send before he can reconsider.

“Hey, my coworker’s coming back,” the receptionist says. Marcus logs out.

“Thanks,” he says and shows himself out.

It’s been three days since he sent the email. No calls have been forwarded to him in that time. Marcus didn’t really expect Esca to call.

“You’re going to have to be much faster than that,” Roland says, leaning on the railing overlooking the warehouse where they set up a makeshift arena.

Marcus whips the taser back and it reels back into the rod, “In a real fight, I would be using an M16.”

“In a real fight, a jumper would disappear faster than the bullet can reach them.”

The laser target jumps from position to position on the floor—Marcus watches it for a moment before it gets into range and he lets the taser whip out, claws scrabbling along the concrete ground exactly where the tiny dot is.

“I’m here to tell you that your training ends today. We received a tip on where the seals are located.”

Marcus jerks the taser back.

“You’re a pretty quick learner,” Roland admits.

“Fast enough for the Griffin?”

Roland laughs.

It takes nearly four hours for them to get to Colorado Springs and then another two hours of climbing northwest through the mountains in an armored car before they even start to get close to where the seal people are located. Marcus looks out the window into the darkness with his rifle across his lap and wonders what Nick is doing, if he’s angry that Marcus abandoned him to do this on his own. He’s probably filling out paperwork—and Marcus feels another surge of determination: he won’t have let his men died for nothing—he’s going to retrieve the Eagle and they will have died protecting the innocent unborn.

He’s not looking forward to when the mission is over and he has to tell the families.

“Hey,” the man sitting next to him says and nudges the M16 on his lap, “You actually ever use that?”

Marcus looks at the other paladin. He’s smiling a little bit and eyeing the gun like it’s beneath him.

“I served four tours in the Middle East. This has worked for me pretty well, thanks.”

“I guess you never really understand how much more useful one of these is,” the other paladin holds up the taser, “Until you actually go head to head with a jumper.”

“And with some of them, even these are pretty fucking useless,” the paladin in front says. She looks over her shoulder at Marcus, “I don’t know how you managed to impress Roland, but until I’ve actually seen you in combat? It’s gonna take a lot more than Roland’s word to earn my respect.”

“Yeah, and if we run into the Griffin, good luck trying to get out of that one alive,” the man next to him says, “Maybe you can try shooting at him.”

“Stop being a dick, Antonio,” the woman says, turning around.

Antonio falls silent, but he’s still smiling.

“I don’t get it,” Marcus says, “Why the hell is everyone so terrified of this Griffin?”

“Terrified?” Antonio asks, “Terrified, no. Angry as hell, yes. Justifiably cautious, yes. You wouldn’t be asking that question if you knew how many paladins he’s killed.”

It’s not his Esca. He doesn’t believe it’s his Esca.

“You think you’ve got him pinned one minute, the next he’s pulling one over you.” Antonio lifts his chin, shows a thick scar across the underside of his jaw that’s barely visible in the dim light, “A present from him, years ago. I was fucking lucky he missed.”

“He’s fast. The last time anyone alive has seen his face definitely has to be, what? A year ago?”

“Shin,” Antonio agrees, “And that was only because he was winded after dropping a fucking train on her.”

Not his Esca.

“So don’t get cocky, kid,” Antonio tells him, “These jumpers are nasty.”

Marcus reaches to make sure that the taser he holstered at his side is still there—and there’s a prickling at the back of his neck again. He straightens, mutters a, “Shit!” and then—

The entire car is tumbling from fifteen feet in the air.

The impact against the ground winds him and there’s a sharp pain from where the seatbelt cuts into his skin through his clothes. His head hits the back of his seat in the whiplash and he blacks out.

When he comes to, there is shouting outside and the sound of gunfire. This is a situation he’s used to—he unbuckles himself—the woman is gone but Antonio is still buckled in next to him. He half considers shaking Antonio awake but climbs out of the car instead. Instinct tells him to trust his M16 over the stupid taser that these paladins love so much and he runs on automatic, ducking low and looking for cover as he assesses the situation.

The shouting gets louder as he follows the tracks that the woman left behind—notices burn marks scored into the trunks of the pine trees, singed pine needles every few hundred yards. Taser marks.

“You can’t run forever,” Roland is saying as Marcus slips into the clearing where the paladins are located. A moment later, he’s seizing in agony as one of the tasers strikes him in the chest, an involuntary shout ripping from his throat.

And then it’s gone and the woman from earlier is peering down at him, “Jesus Christ, are you retarded? You don’t fucking sneak up on paladins like that.” She pries the wire loose and reels it back into the rod. Nobody else is paying him any mind. He gets back to his feet as she rejoins the rest of them, feeling stupid for the amateur mistake. He had underestimated this group.

There’s movement on the far side of the clearing and one of the paladins whips his taser forward—nothing.

There’s a shift of pine needles next to him and Marcus suddenly knows—he doesn’t have to turn his head, he just knows—

It’s Esca.

He’s thinner than Marcus remembers, all wiry muscle and silent strength underneath the too-big shirt. He stares at Marcus, and Marcus can feel his heart pounding—he wants to grab Esca and beg him not to leave again, he wants to tell Esca to go because he’s going to be killed. Esca doesn’t look away from Marcus’s face—even as the wire whips around Esca, five thousand volts conducted across his skin and making him cry out in pain.

“Kill him!”

Marcus has the gun, he can’t miss from this distance—he has a hundred things to say and no time to say them.

The moment of hesitation is all Esca needs—a flash of the knife, the wires fall away, and—

He is gone.

“There is no excuse,” Roland says as he gets into the front seat of the van. He doesn’t look at Marcus as he closes the door. Marcus doesn’t know if he’s even allowed to get into the van with the way that everyone is glaring at him. The woman from earlier shoves him towards the door and shakes her head at him and he figures that means he’s at least allowed a ride back to civilization.

He keeps thinking about Esca, the way he had barely flinched when the electricity had crawled over his skin. He wishes it hadn’t been so dark, that he could have taken the time to rememorize Esca’s face, ask him why. But the mission isn’t over, Esca is gone, and there’s no use trying to cling to what might have been.

“You really fucked up,” the woman tells him as he opens the door. He doesn’t say anything in reply, just climbs into the van.

They drive in silence for a while and Marcus doesn’t know how to apologize. He keeps gearing himself up to say something, then backing down just as he’s about to open his mouth in fear of saying something wrong. They pass by a sign that tells them that they’re in Fairplay when the woman speaks again.

“First time in years we get a clear shot?”

“Quiet, Michelle.”

She snorts and looks at Marcus like she would rather spit on him.

They stop at a motel. Marcus is half expecting to have to pay for his own room when Roland hands him a key.

“They teach you to kill in the army, don’t they?”

Marcus looks straight ahead, posture stiff—a yes, sir doesn’t seem right.

Roland turns, “I’ll let you know in the morning if you have a flight out.”

“Sir,” Marcus calls out, “It won’t happen again.”

Roland pauses for only a moment before he’s gone through the lobby doors.

The water runs down his shoulders and it stings when it slides across the broken skin over his collarbone. It hurt like fuck to peel the cloth and dried blood off his skin and his body is covered in bruises from being thrown around so many times. His shoulder still aches from where he landed on it.

He presses his forehead to the tiled wall and is too tired to care about how dirty the bathroom might be. He spent two weeks during the summer in Iraq without changing his clothes. This is nothing.

He’s too tired to think about anything and he wants to just sleep for a few consecutive hours without having to think about anything. Maybe he can make more sense of things in the morning—maybe he can make his case to Roland in the morning when he’s not shellshocked by the fact that Esca has been lying to him, possibly all of his life.

He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror as he spits toothpaste into the sink and hopes that he packed a soft shirt in his duffel as he opens the bathroom door.

Esca is sitting in the armchair across the room.

“What are you—?”

Esca gets up—and he’s immediately next to Marcus, eyes on the ugly red welt on his collarbone, his fingers hovering barely an inch from Marcus’s skin. He looks up at Marcus and his voice is faraway, “I did that.”

“You shouldn’t be—Roland’s in the next room.”

Esca isn’t listening—he’s tracing the outline of bruises across Marcus’s chest without touching his skin, close enough that Marcus can feel the heat and his body doesn’t seem to be getting the impending danger because he’s leaning in towards Esca like nothing has changed. His breathing shallows as Esca touches his side, feather light, and he wants to grab the other man’s wrist—what is this, what are we, why?

“You can’t,” Esca says, his voice breaking again and Marcus wants to curl up around him, shield him from the bright hurts in this world—he wants and wants and can’t have, what are we Esca? “You can’t be one of them.”

Marcus laughs and keeps his hands fisted in the towel across his waist because he wants to touch this man so badly but he won’t give in, this isn’t a game he can keep playing forever.

“You lied to me,” Marcus says and it takes all of his willpower to step back, to look in Esca’s face and see the pain written in the line across his forehead, “You lied to me for all twenty years that I’ve ever known you and you think you can fucking walk back into my life like it’s nothing?”

“Marcus,” Esca says and he sounds scared, looks terrified in the way that he’s hunching in on himself. In the brighter light, Marcus can see a scattering of faint scars along Esca’s temple, a twisted mess of skin underneath his jaw.

“Tell me,” Marcus says.

“When I left,” Esca says, “The fire that burned down my apartment complex. That was them, Marcus, they knew already. They killed my family and they left me for dead.”

“You could have told me. You could have trusted me—I would have protected you.”

“What would you have done? You can’t throw money at everything and expect it the problem to go away. You don’t know these paladins, Marcus.”

“I am one.”

“You can’t kill me,” Esca laughs on a faintly hysterical note and he steps closer, “You’re not a paladin.”

“You don’t even know me.”

Esca presses a knife into his hand, grabs his wrist and presses the blade to his own throat. He holds Marcus’s wrist steady and his eyes are on Marcus’s face, “Then prove it.” A sad smile breaks across his face, “I’m too much of a coward to do this myself—end it for me, Marcus.”

Marcus doesn’t move his hand but Esca moves closer, blood beading onto the blade as it cuts into the pale skin. Marcus jerks the knife away, throws it on the ground.

“I thought,” Esca said, “I thought that once I killed enough of them, I could safely come back to you.” He touches Marcus’s face, a sweep of fingertips across his jaw, “I never meant to make you wait. I never meant to leave for good.”

“I would have come with you.”

“You were seventeen and stupid. I wouldn’t have let you thrown your life away.”

“Esca,” Marcus whispers and he closes the distance between them, reaching up with both hands to cup Esca’s face, not caring that his towel in danger of slipping. Esca breathes, his eyes slipping shut and Marcus presses his lips to the scars at his temple, butterfly kisses along the arch of his cheekbone and Esca is shaking beneath his hands.

He pulls Marcus closer, and they tumble onto the bed, his fingertips tracing up the outline of Marcus’s ribs as he murmurs, “I never meant to string you along.” Marcus feels the sweep of lashes against his cheek as Esca opens his eyes—presses a kiss to the corner of Esca’s mouth, asking for permission until Esca turns his head and slides his hand carefully into the hair at the back of Marcus’s head, begging silently for forgiveness. It’s strange how familiar the kiss is despite all the years—Esca kisses him like he’s trying to memorize the shape of Marcus’s mouth, rediscovering the wet slide of his tongue, the way that he catches Marcus’s lower lip lightly between his teeth, the steadiness of his breathing. Marcus’s hands slip down, thumb tracing over the puckered scar on his neck as Esca shudders.

Marcus slides his lips along the line of Esca’s jaw, following the path that his fingertips have laid out, feels the pulse of Esca’s rapid heartbeat against his lips as he kisses the broken skin where the blade had cut. Esca threads his fingers through Marcus’s hair, keens low in his throat.

“You never replied to my emails,” Marcus murmurs against Esca’s throat.

“I thought it would be easier,” the words register more as a vibration against Marcus’s lips than sound.

“Was it?”

Esca catches Marcus by the back of the neck, pulls him up, “No.”

There is a knocking at the door. Marcus freezes—suddenly remembers where he is and why he is there. He stares down at Esca who touches his face once and disappears.

He can’t—he’s caught between two worlds and doesn’t know how to even begin to reconcile the two. Already Esca’s words are beginning to feel like a vivid dream, one that he’s just having a hard time shaking and he doesn’t know which part of his life is more real.

There’s another knock at his door. Marcus pulls on a pair of boxers and goes to answer it.

It’s the woman paladin—Michelle. She doesn’t even look at him, “You sure took your damn sweet time answering.”

“Sorry.”

“Roland’s decided that we don’t have time to recruit backup. We’re debriefing at four-hundred in room 206. You’re expected.”

Marcus doesn’t want to go, “I’ll be there.”

“If you let us down again, I swear to god you’re going to wish the Griffin had got to you first.”

Marcus closes the door.

When Marcus wakes up, it’s still dark outside. He fumbles a moment for his watch on the nightstand—it’s nearly three-fifteen. He can either go back to sleep for another half hour or just get up. He rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling and breathes through his nose. The air conditioning vent is aimed at the bottom of his bed and causes currents in the air. It’s quiet—something that he’s not used to when sleeping with four other men in a shallow trench for a vast majority of his recent life.

He closes his eyes again and thinks about Esca. Almost nine years on the run, nine years of lying to Marcus—nine years of being hunted and hunting in return. Marcus wonders where Esca sleeps. He wonders if Esca has friends who are jumpers, hopes that he does. He thinks about the way that Esca had pressed himself against the knife.

He opens his eyes and sits up, suddenly angry. Why hadn’t Esca told him? Marcus would have believed him—he could have helped him—why had he kept silent for so long? He didn’t have to run—no matter what Esca thought, Marcus could have had the resources to fix it, to give Esca a new identity. He would have helped Esca hunt down the people who—

—the people with whom he was meeting in less than an hour, with whom he had to fight side by side to retrieve the delivery that he had lost to the seal people. The same seal people who had killed his entire convoy, who had rigged bombs and thrown him at the ground, expecting him to die. Was Esca working with the seal people? Was he one of them? Would he stop Marcus from taking the Eagle back?

He leans over to turn the light on just as his alarm clock starts to ring for three-thirty. Esca’s not here and there’s no compelling reason for him not to finish the last of this mission. He’s still a soldier first and he has duties to fulfill.

Roland stops him from leaving when they finish the meeting and Marcus keeps his eyes straight ahead, not looking at the paladins who are filing out of the room. Roland shuts the door after the last of them and stands in front of it, out of Marcus’s frame of view. Marcus knows that it’s to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible, he has no illusions about Roland’s anger.

“What I don’t understand,” Roland begins, “Is why he stopped for you in the first place. Griffin isn’t capable of sloppy moves—and he certainly wouldn’t have revealed himself before a pack of paladins.”

Marcus fixes his eyes on the window, counting the number of slats in the blinds.

“So this suggests to me that perhaps there’s more to you than I had initially expected, Aquila.” Roland actually steps into view now, moving around the table so he’s across from Marcus. He puts both hands on the table, leans in, “How do you know the Griffin?”

“I have never had prior contact with him.”

“Bullshit,” Roland says, “What’s his name?”

Marcus schools his face into a confused expression, “Griffin?”

“I’m not a big fan of people who pretend to be more obtuse than they actually are.”

“I honestly don’t know what you want me to say,” Marcus replies, “I’ve never met the man before in my life. He must have mistaken me for somebody else.”

“So then, the reason you didn’t pull the trigger was?”

“I’m ashamed to admit that I was surprised,” Marcus says, “You’ve been fighting jumpers for years. This has only been my second time. I swear that it won’t happen again.”

Roland looks at him. Marcus tries to maintain eye contact—he’s never sure how well he’s capable of lying.

“I don’t think you fully understand the importance of this mission to our organization.” Roland straightens and crosses his arms across his chest, “I’m putting a lot of trust in you, Captain.”

“I will do my utmost to fulfill this mission. Your trust is not misplaced.”

The sky is lit with a predawn glow, barely illuminating the branches of trees that are whipping past. The driver is a skinny kid who barely looks out of college—he keeps fiddling with the radio in attempt to get some station that isn’t overrun with static. Roland is talking quietly on the phone and Marcus only hears snippets of conversation: no, yesterday morning, added threat of the Griffin, no not confirmed that they’re working together. Michelle sits next to him, sharpening a knife with a stone. He wants to tell her it’d be easier and cleaner to use a gun but keeps his mouth shut.

They stop in the middle of the woods and get out of the van. Roland heaves a silver box from the trunk and nods towards a faint path in the trees. Michelle leads the way, moving silently over the dead pine needles until an encampment comes into view.

They’ve gone over the plan: the machine moves in to the center of the encampment to draw the jumpers into a fight while Marcus figures out where the Eagle is stashed and steals it back. He was the only one out of any of them who had training or experience in recon or retrieval missions.

Roland ushers the man carrying the silver box forward. Marcus had asked what it did and Roland had answered with a vague answer about preventing jumpers from jumping out within a certain radius of its effect. It’s new technology and one that Roland doesn’t seem particularly interested in explaining to Marcus.

Marcus watches a team of three jumpers move forward, silver box gleaming in the strengthening dawn. They climb down to the outskirts of the encampment, and then they meld into the shadows, grey outfits melding into the monochromatic tents. He touches the taser on his belt, the handgun holstered across his shoulders, just to make sure they’re still there. No rifle today—too conspicuous and bulky.

Roland waves forward the second team and they creep down the pathway, single file. It’s just him and Roland now.

“Everything rests on you, Captain,” Roland says, pulling out his own taser. Marcus nods and watches Roland follow his men down.

He gives them a few minutes head start, eyes fixated on the center of the encampment as he checks his ammunition. Ideally, he wouldn’t have to shoot a single person because ideally he wouldn’t encounter anyone—but he’s been on more than enough missions to even hope for the ideal. He pulls the taser out and waits for his signal.

It’s another two minutes before shouts from the encampment drift reach him through the still morning air. Marcus rises and starts making his way down, staying low to the ground and close to the trees. The closer he gets, the more aware he is of a buzzing sound, a combination between a high pitched electronic whine and the crackle of naked electricity. It’s probably the machine and not of his concern—he has to find the Eagle.

He makes a calculated decision to check the biggest tent at the far end of the clearing, farthest away from the center of the encampment. Just as he sidles up along the thick canvas to the flap in front, someone runs out towards the fight. Marcus stops and retreats briefly a spot behind a barrel, listening to make sure nobody else is inside before he slips into the tent.

There’s a makeshift table inside—just a huge board settled on top of a few barrels—scattered with maps. Marcus doesn’t bother with them, makes a clean sweep of the tent and doesn’t find the box.

Well. This would be tricky. He tucks the taser away in favor of his handgun and slips out again. There were still maybe a dozen other tents to check and he doesn’t know if all of the jumpers have been drawn out by the fight. Next most likely candidate: a tent half secluded in the woods, camouflaged beneath the branches.

He pauses outside the tent and listens for any signs of movement inside. When he doesn’t hear anything, he flicks open the flap and points the gun in—peering inside.

What he doesn’t expect is the hand that grabs his wrist and attempts to jerk him forward—and at the same time he feels the ground dematerializing. He’s ready though, and manages to twist the overbalancing momentum on his attacker—slams the jumper on the ground. The jumper has a vicelike grip on his wrist and they disappear again—rematerialize a couple feet in the air and the jumper uses the force of gravity to smash him into the trunk of a tree.

There’s blood running down the side of his face when he struggles to his feet—he’s lost his first handgun but he has another strapped to his leg and the taser still in his belt. He can hear the harsh breathing of the jumper as he fumbles for the taser. He hears the click of a gun and—

“I wouldn’t do that, Marcus.”

Esca is pointing the handgun that he had lost at his face and he’s wiping away blood from his lips with the back of his hand.

Marcus lifts his hand off the taser because Esca’s shoulders are squared and his jaw is set—he’s someone different from the Esca who showed up in Marcus’s room the night before and Marcus suddenly isn’t so sure that this Esca wouldn’t pull the trigger.

The sun is slanting through the trees, drawing long shadows against the ground and casting half of Esca’s face in shadow. Marcus finds that he can’t read this Esca at all—this isn’t his Esca, this is the Griffin who had hunted and killed countless paladins.

“You work with the seal people.”

“Not on a regular basis,” Esca says. He takes a step forward, eyes fixed on Marcus’s face. Marcus figures that if Esca was really going to kill him, he would have done it by now.

“The thing they stole from us,” Marcus asks, “Do you know where it is?”

Esca doesn’t answer.

“Do you know what it is?”

“It’s a tool to make it easier to kill jumpers.”

“It’s a tool to stop future jumpers from being found.”

“I know what it is, Marcus,” Esca’s almost close enough to touch now. The barrel of the gun touches the uniform over Marcus’s heart. Marcus can see the pale blue halo of iris in the strong light of the sun, the fine trace of stubble over Esca’s jaw. “I know it’s something to stop jumpers from jumping forever. No one will ever have to face the temptation again, the paladins can be disbanded.”

Esca moves the gun up, the metal rasping over the coarse fabric of his jacket until the cold steel touches the skin of Marcus’s neck. It traces up, follows the path of his jugular and rests underneath his jaw—Marcus can’t help the way that his breathing has become shallow: the way that Esca’s looking intently at him, the way that he’s half leaning forward towards Marcus like he can’t help himself either. Marcus knows that the smart thing to do would be to jerk the gun out of Esca’s hand and whip the taser forward and catch him in this unsuspecting moment but Marcus is frozen, pinned more by Esca’s eyes than the gun against his neck.

“If you think for a moment that Roland’s not going to stop hunting us, you would be wrong,” the words come out as a low murmur, “And it’d be like shooting fish in a barrel, Marcus, hunting down jumpers who can’t jump.” A bead of blood trickles down Marcus’s temple and the metal of the gun is warming against his skin. “Does this make me selfish, Marcus? That I’m condemning an entire generation of jumpers because I want to live a little while longer?”

Marcus thinks back to last night, a knife pressed to Esca’s throat, Esca’s eyes daring him to just do it.

“I know Roland,” Esca says, “I know he won’t rest until every last one of us is dead.”

Marcus swallows. His eyes are on Esca’s face. “You can’t kill me.”

Esca looks at him, then lifts the gun away from Marcus’s neck. “No,” he agrees, “You’re not a paladin.”

A flicker of movement and Esca’s a few yards away, tucking the gun into his pocket. Marcus thinks about how easy it would be to use the taser. Esca trusts him more than he should.

“How do you destroy it?”

“You can’t,” Esca says, “Don’t think we haven’t tried already. The box requires a retinal scan and a fingerprint to open, both Roland’s. There’s a tracking device inside that we can’t turn off until we open it.”

“Where is it?”

Esca doesn’t say anything, just looks at him.

“Do you trust me?”

Marcus sets off the flares to signal the paladins to retreat. Esca drops the Eagle onto the hood of the van and watches the twin lights rise, brighter than morning light.

A flicker of movement and Esca is standing next to Marcus, closer than he’s been all day. He reaches out and touches the dried blood on Marcus’s temple. His voice is soft, “Sorry.”

Marcus covers Esca’s hand with his own and looks down at the other man, “You should go.”

Esca turns his hand, closes it around Marcus’s fingers. He draws the hand towards him, presses a kiss against Marcus’s wrist. His lips trace out the shape of words against Marcus’s skin, “Good luck.”

Marcus has words half formed at the back of his throat, he wants to say things like what does this mean for us and I love you—but it’s not the time. Esca looks at him and there’s a half smile on his face before he disappears.

The paladins show up within a few minutes, climbing into the van almost immediately. Roland grabs the Eagle off the hood of the van and claps Marcus on the shoulder before he gets into the front seat. Marcus gets into the seat behind him. Michelle leans out the window and shoots at the jumpers who get too close as the car starts up and they start moving, spraying gravel behind them.

It takes a good fifteen minutes of tearing through the woods on unpaved roads before they manage to shake the seal people. Michelle turns and breathes through her nose before she looks at Marcus.

“Nice going. I was half expecting you to bail.”

“It seems as if I should apologize, captain,” Roland says, “My trust was not misplaced after all.”

“There’s no need to apologize,” Marcus says and looks out the window. They still have a few minutes before they reach the paved highway.

“You’ve recovered the most important artifact to this organization,” Roland taps the box, “This may well change the tide of the fight.”

“It was my duty,” Marcus says. He glances over at Michelle who is looking out the window before he slowly unlocks his door. He’s been palming a grenade in his pocket for the last five minutes.

“Sir,” Marcus says, “It occurs to me that I found the Eagle near a bunch of electronics and a schematic for the box, including the retinal scanner. Do you think they were able to open it?”

Roland regards him in the rearview mirror and Marcus wills himself to stare back, tries to keep his face as neutral as possible. “Well,” Roland says, “It would be a shame if we needed to go back.”

Marcus tightens his grip on the grenade. Roland lifts the box to his eye and Marcus plucks the pin out. The box beeps and the locking mechanism clicks. Marcus drops the grenade and swings the car door open in a swift moment, rolling out with practiced movements just as Roland opens the box. The car makes a sharp turn just as the grenade explodes and sets off the other rigged explosives in the trunk and hood. Marcus comes to a stop yards away and looks back, shielding his eyes from the bright illumination. In a moment, he realizes that the force of the explosion with the turn of the car is sending it rolling, straight at him—

He hears his name being screamed just as he thinks he’s about to die, burning shrapnel and chunks of twisted metal are dropping around him, the bright burning car looming over him—

These are the things he thinks he remembers:

He’s playing poker with Nick who keeps telling him that he’s lying, that Marcus doesn’t have the jack of spades even though it’s right there in his hand. Nick throws his hand down one moment and the next he has a new hand and none of them are ever and good and he just wants to know, what gave Marcus the right to think that he has the jack of spades and he never pulls the card out to show Nick, at all.

He’s laying in the sunlight in the woods behind his home and Esca is pressed up against his side and reading from a book. He’s long forgotten what book but he has a hand on Esca’s chest, his wrist pressed against the curve of ribs and he can’t remember ever feeling at peace like this before.

He’s in Afghanistan and it’s raining with the sun out. The raindrops hit the roof of his humvee and makes him think of windchimes and the hiss of cars over slick pavement. It’s over in a few minutes, the spots of water in the sand already drying up and Nick says, well that’s a pity.

He’s ten and Esca’s mom is fixing his tie. He doesn’t want to go to his father’s event but she insists that it’s important, touches his hair and smiles at him. Esca is sitting at Marcus’s desk grinning because Marcus has already made plans to escape and they’re going to sneak into his father’s downstairs theater to watch movies for the rest of the night. His father won’t even notice anyway—he’s always too busy talking to important people. Esca’s mom smoothes out the lapels of his jacket and he hugs her and says thanks Ms. Cunoval but all he really wants to do is call her mom.

He’s fifteen and terrified and Esca has his back turned to him and he’s saying things like, this isn’t how it’s supposed to go, Marcus, we can’t and Marcus is trying to keep his voice steady when he says why, why not, it’s you Esca, it’s always been you and maybe they can blur the lines between expectations and forget about four generations of military leaders and the way that his father’s lip curls when he says the word gay.

He’s nineteen and on a date with a girl in his Negotiations class and the way that the candlelight in the Italian restaurant illuminates her eyes reminds him of Esca and he can’t, he can’t—

He remembers Nick laughing and saying bro, special ops—are you excited? like it’s all they’ve ever aimed for and Marcus manages to forget, just for a moment between phone calls and emails.

He thinks he remembers:

White white white, hazy faces blurring in and out of focus, a touch of lips on his forehead.

Beeping.

When he opens his eyes, he realizes that he’s in a hospital room. He’s not a stranger to the smell of antiseptic but the tube running down his trachea is an entirely different matter. He grips it, trying not to gag, and pulls it out of his mouth, coughing as it comes up.

“Dude.”

Marcus drops the tube onto the bed, already exhausted and turns his head. Nick is looking at him with a grin.

“Hey sleeping beauty,” Nick says, “Except you know, the whole beauty part. Your face is still ugly as hell, man.”

“Fuck you,” Marcus says, and then coughs.

“Jesus. You know, you’re one lucky son of a bitch to still be alive right now.”

Marcus wants Nick to go away so he can go back to sleep.

“I’m calling a doctor,” Nick informs him.

“Whatever,” Marcus mumbles and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up for real, the doctor doesn’t have anything good to tell him.

“We managed to get the big pieces out of you, but I’d advise against MRIs in the future. I don’t think that the small pieces still in there are going to cause you any trouble.”

Marcus tries to look at the doctor but his eyes keep slipping to a place over the doctor’s left shoulder. He already knows the extent of the damage—he can feel where parts aren’t responding as well, the twinge of pain even through whatever painkillers they have him on.

“The greatest damage was done to your left leg,” the doctor says, “From our understanding, it was partially crushed by a piece of falling debris. We got you into surgery as soon as possible. With some physical therapy, I’m very optimistic that you’ll be able to walk again.”

“Great,” Marcus says.

Nick gives him a look of warning.

“Thank you,” Marcus adds.

“I’d like to keep you under supervision for a few days, since you’ve been unconscious for so long. We could probably get you out of here by Monday.”

“Thanks,” Marcus repeats, and the doctor leaves.

“Hey,” Nick says, “It could be a lot worse. They could have had to amputate.”

Marcus doesn’t look at him. He looks at the heart monitor instead. “So when do I get my discharge slip?”

“Marcus man, you don’t have to leave.”

“I’m not going to spend the rest of my life sitting at a desk pushing pencils at HQ and kissing ass for clerical promotions.” Marcus wants the words to sound angry but they come out as tired instead.

“Bro,” Nick says, and then stops. Marcus doesn’t blame him—he feels bad for putting Nick on the spot.

“I’m going to sleep,” Marcus says. Nick takes it as a dismissal and shuts the door quietly behind him.

They give him a purple heart with the discharge letter. Marcus doesn’t know what to do with it so he puts it with the rest of his junk on the kitchen counter. He has seventy-two new voicemail messages because he hasn’t been back to his apartment in Boston for months.

He hobbles through the hallway on his crutches and doesn’t bother to change the dusty sheets or shake out the comforter. He leans the crutches up against the nightstand and eases onto the bed, trying not to disturb the stitches in his leg. It doesn’t take long for him to get to sleep.

He only wakes up to take more painkillers and goes back to sleep.

The third time he wakes up, there’s someone curled up next to him on the bed. The breath catches in his throat and he struggles to sit up, trying to make out the intruder in the dim streetlamp light filtering through the closed curtains. He thinks he knows—

“Marcus?” it’s Esca’s voice and Marcus eases back down onto the bed, moving closer to the other man. Esca curls a hand behind Marcus’s ear, fingers threading through his hair, and presses closer. Marcus closes his eyes and falls asleep to fingertips stroking along his back, steady breathing against his ear.

When he wakes up again, the sun is setting through the half opened curtains, lighting the entire room in a haze of gold. It smells like cooking and Marcus is suddenly aware of how hungry he is.

He can’t sneak up on Esca because the crutches click against the hardwood floor. Esca doesn’t turn as he pauses in the doorway of his kitchen, watching Esca move about the stove. This scene feels surreal.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Esca says, setting the cover on one of the pots. He washes his hands as Marcus takes another step into the kitchen. He wipes his hands on one of the dusty dishtowels as he turns around to face Marcus.

“I didn’t know you cooked,” Marcus says.

“There’s probably a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

Marcus takes another step closer.

“So what now?”

Esca’s smile is bright and familiar as he looks up at Marcus, “You decide.”