Adya follows Tristan down the hall of the medical ward, tucked away on the south side of Goddard. She’s careful not to bump into any of the doctors and agents who cross her path; Tristan, however, doesn’t hesitate to shove his way through the sea of bodies. She’s not used to seeing him so careless. But when she remembers his face a few minutes earlier-- the sorrow, the tear stains, the heavy breathing-- she realizes that it’s not carelessness. It’s fear. The most she’s seen out of him in the last month.

She grabs his wrist and pulls him to the side with a lot more ease than she expects from someone of his height. “Tristan, tell me what’s going on,” she says. “What happened during the mission?”

“We told him not to,” he answers between shallow breaths. “We told him to get out. Son of a bitch is always trying to be a hero. But the one time… the one time it wasn’t worth it! The one time he doesn’t listen!”

His helmet clatters to the floor and he curls a fist into his short, black hair, leaving it to stick up at awkward angles on his head. He hasn’t stopped hyperventilating or sweating since he first came to get Adya. 

She lets go of his wrist. “Slow down, it’s okay--”

“No, it’s not, Adya! I don’t think you understand what this is like. You’ve only known him for a fucking month. You don’t get to tell me what is and isn’t okay!”

Even towering almost a foot over her, he feels small, like he might break in two if she touches him again. He makes a sharp turn and drags her down another hall. She has no choice but to follow even when she starts to fall behind; the only thing more harsh than his fingers around her arm is his tone. She’s never seen him so broken.

The sea of people lets up. At the end of the hall, Val and Murphy cling to the walls. Between them, a stretcher is wheeled across the floor by three doctors. Injury was a given, considering the way Tristan rushed in; but Adya couldn’t have prepared herself for how bad Nate truly looked.

From his right shoulder, to his neck, up to the back of his jaw, gauze is packed tight against his body. One of the doctors repeatedly finds himself re-dressing the wounds and applying pressure as the stretcher continues racing down the hallway. In the gaps between each fresh sheet of gauze, she sees the damage. Pooling blood. The hint of white as his collarbone peeks through the bleeding. Dirt and debris already deep beneath his bruising skin. There is no color in his cheeks, no smile forming from his lips. Her mentor and most trusted colleague, reduced to a hollow suggestion of the man he was just hours before.

The three doctors disappear with Nate behind a set of swinging doors, sending the agents to a screeching halt. They keep their eyes in front of them, as if he’ll walk out any minute. As if the man on the stretcher was just an illusion and the nightmare is over.

Adya can’t find the words, much less the emotions. Two years of therapy, but nobody taught her how she’s supposed to feel right now.

Val tilts her head up and blinks away the tears, crossing with Adya’s line of sight. She offers a hand to the cadet and squeezes once before pulling her into a soft embrace.

“Is he…?” she mutters.

Val clears her throat. “He’ll survive,” she says. “That is all I care about.” 

Murphy breaks out in heaving sobs against Tristan’s chest. Everything in Adya wants to do the same-- go into a fit, hyperventilate, cry until she can’t breathe-- but her body is incapable. A modern marvel of science begins to feel more like an emotional prison. The most she can do is let her chest rise and fall at an uneasy pace and shed a handful of tears.

Adya lets go and crosses the hallway to Tristan and Murphy, pressed against each other. She offers a hand to each of them. Val joins them and soon, they stand in silence in front of the swinging doors labeled “Medical Personnel Only” with hands loosely intertwined. She’s accepted almost every aspect of life in this body, but there is nothing more that Adya wants right now than to be human.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” Tristan says, squeezing Adya’s hand.

“No, no, don’t worry. I’m sorry for pressing you,” she answers. “You were right-- I’ve only known him for a month. I’m sorry for all of you. I’m not feeling what you’re feeling.”

I can’t feel what you’re feeling.

“What do you think he’d want us to feel?” she adds after another brief silence. 

Murphy manages a halfhearted chuckle. “He’d probably chew me out for crying. I made an off-hand comment about never crying in front of other agents and he’s never let me see the end of it.”

“You’re lying. I’ve seen you cry multiple times,” says Tristan.

Murphy shoves him with their intertwined fingers and he can’t help but grow the smallest smile, if only for a second. “As my roommate and friend. Not as an agent.”

The tension lets up a little. It's enough for now. “What difference does it make? Now you’re just making up rules.”

He’ll survive. 

It’s the truth, but just “surviving” isn’t what Nate would want. Like Val said, he’s married to his work. All that matters right now is that his gashes and bruises heal, but the emotional wounds will linger much longer. Nate came to LA and threw everything within him into recovery; now, he has to do it all over again. 

General Morales insisted that they go home, despite all three of his teammates insisting that they didn’t mind spending the night. They know better than to argue with the General, though. The apartment feels a little more empty without him here making dinner or flipping through channels on the TV. 

Val’s lack of forearms was a birth defect. Tristan’s titanium spine solved a case of severe scoliosis. Murphy’s leg enhancements turned the after effects of a broken foot into his strongest asset. None of them can even begin to understand the extent of Nate’s injury. Murphy tries to do the math based on what he saw from his wounds, but there’s no single solution to this problem. He’s used to having answers, but this time, he doesn’t even know where to begin asking questions.

Upstairs from the loft, Tristan wanders out of his bedroom and leans his elbows against the railing. He nurses a few cuts and bruises from the day’s events that almost went unnoticed. “Lane,” he calls. 

Murphy's name seldom gets thrown around, but when it does, it’s usually by Tristan. From the balcony on the first floor, he offers his colleague a quiet smile. He comes downstairs and closes the sliding glass door behind him. From behind, he drapes a blanket over Murphy’s shoulders, saving none for himself.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asks.

Tristan crosses his arms over his bare chest and shrugs. “Not really. I’m used to it.”

“I’ll never understand Midwesterners.”

He grabs the top of Murphy’s head and shakes it around gently. Living with someone who’s six-foot-four means you get used to being manhandled. He’s grown fond of it and begun to see it as Tristan’s love language, in a way. But maybe that’s just him.

In silence, the two watch airy clouds pass over the moon. The occasional whir of an airplane taking off from LAX wedges itself between the chirping crickets and the rushing cars on the street below. Nate had the tendency to look at them flying by and try to guess what airline it was and where the plane was going. It used to drive his roommates insane, but now they long for it.

“At least it’s nice to know he’s resting easy,” Murphy mentions. “By now, they’ve probably plugged up his wounds and filled him full of painkillers.”

“He’ll finally understand all your post-op stories.”

Murphy inhales a crisp breath. The spring days are warm, but the nights still dip into the 50s-- chilly by his LA-native standards. “It’s weird, being on the other side of the equation,” he says. “I can only hope to do for him what you did for me, Tristan.”

“Oh, please. All I did was keep you medicated and deal with your fugue-state babbling.”

“I had tubes hanging out of my chest and it didn’t bother you at all! I think that counts for something.”

A soft breeze curls through the air and Murphy’s suddenly thankful for the blanket. As much as Tristan tries not to shiver and take it back, Murphy still notices.

“Here,” he says, reaching up and wrapping the blanket around his taller companion. He places himself in front of Tristan and absorbs the warmth radiating from his body. He smiles and rests his chin on top of Murphy’s head. The tension in his shoulders finally lets up.

This won’t be the end of the road for their turmoil-- Murphy, Tristan, and Val all know it. The next few days will be sleepless, anxious, and some of the longest any of the agents have experienced. 

But they surely won’t be lonely.