Chapter Text
The inside of the safe was dark, the only sound his terrified gasps and the horrible, inevitable sound of rushing water. He banged on the walls over and over, over and over. His breath hitched as he realized he couldn’t even tell which tiny wall was the door.
But that wasn’t right. Where was the light? Where was the door?
The water started pouring in faster, and his thrashing intensified. He grasped at his wrist, there was meant to be something important there, but what WAS IT? There was almost no air left, and he took a final gasp as the water closed over his head.
There was no door, he realized, just four walls of immovable steel. His mind clouded in panic as the air faded from his lungs, and his thoughts were a racing current of
Safewaterairtrappedwaterpleasenonohorsemenkidstrappedhelpnoairsafedadnononono
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“PLEASE!” Dylan Shrike launched forward in his bed, thrashing against his sheets, failing for the edge of the mattress. He stumbled on a drunken man’s legs to his tiny window and ripped open the curtains covering it. The moonlight blinded him, and he flinched back and let the faint light flood his bedroom, erasing shadows and highlighting the edges of his furniture.
Dylan leaned against the wall by his window, running a shaking hand through his already tousled hair and down his face. He focused on his breathing and the feel of the rough stubble under his fingers as he attempted to allow the ragged edges of his dream to fade. As far as his nightmares went, it had been one of the tamer ones. Other visions, of the Horsemen taking his place, of a plane actually flying as they were thrown out the door. Those were the ones that had him on the floor, nursing bruises as he untangled his sheets.
Shaking his head, the eldest Horsemen turned back to his room, sitting heavily on the edge of his bed. Picking his phone up from the nightstand, he flicked it on to check the time. The faint white numbers read 4:56. Dylan sighed wearily. He knew that he wouldn’t be getting anymore sleep that night. Just like almost every night from the past three months.
Standing, he walked over to his closet, flicking on the overhead light as he went. Opening the door, Dylan let his thoughts wander as he mechanically dressed. He had tried everything short of hypnosis to get a full night’s sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, heavy walls and rushing water rise around him. He knew, logically, that he likely had PTSD. The lack of sleep, the claustrophobia, the way he knew he tensed when he heard running water. But knowing it and doing something about it were two different things, and Dylan preferred to spend his days looking after the Horsemen and prepare endless new show ideas. It was easier.
The feel of metal in his hand made Dylan pause. He looked down and froze, cataloging his own appearance. Neat business suit. Tie and jacket. Polished black work shoes. His FBI badge halfway to his inner jacket pocket. He let out a ragged sigh, dropping the badge on the bed and turning back to the closet. He slowly pulled off the jacket and tie, placing them neatly on their hangers, then popped the top buttons on his shirt. He toed his shoes back into the closet, and closed the door on them, hiding them from view.
Picking his badge up off of the rumpled coverlet, he ran his fingers over the insignia, then over his old name. Even after three months, the ex-agent had trouble remembering the “ex” part of that title. While the ability to use his father’s name again was something he was definitely happy about, he had been Agent Dylan Rhodes, FBI, for so long, that coming to terms with the fact that entire part of his life was gone was difficult to say the least. Sighing sadly, he pulled open his nightstand drawer. Shifting a few odds and ends out of the way, he flipped open the secret bottom panel and slid his badge into the hidden space.
Down to his socks and button down shirt, Dylan slipped out of his bedroom and padded down the spiraling staircase that led to the main floor. He flipped on the light over the sink and poured some of the strong brew he preferred into the coffee maker. As the maker started quietly bubbling and humming, Dylan opened the cupboard and pulled out the #1 Magician mug that Merritt had gotten for him as a joke. It was his favourite mug, and he used it almost every morning. Leaning on the counter, he watched the predawn light play across the waters of the Themes until the coffeemaker pulled him out of his musings with a quiet beep-beep. He poured a full serving of straight black coffee into his mug before shuffling towards the library that had become his study.
Cradling his liquid consciousness, the Horseman dropped into the chair behind his desk and pulled a pile of files toward him. Each file had a name stamped across it, all of them different job opportunities, meaning different corrupt companies and enterprises that the Eye had decided to intervene upon. As a fully initiated team, the Horsemen were able to pick their own shows, and it was up to Dylan to choose which one would be best for his magicians to go against.
Of course, each of the others had an opinion that Dylan tried to take into consideration. It was only a shame that none of them could agree. Daniel had been loudly “suggesting” the embezzling oil tycoons of Tri-Fountains, rambling about the large variety of water based tricks they (he) could do. Dylan listened with patience and well disguised amusement, then hid the Tri-Fountains file under his desk. Lula had also made a case, cheerfully chattering about the challenge of going for the logging scheme in Argentina, happily ignoring the fact that Jack was the only one in the entire group that spoke Spanish. When it was brought up, she had simply said “That’s the challenge of it!”. Dylan had also hidden that file. Merritt hadn’t made any extreme attempts to convince him one way or another, although he had expressed interest in the drug ring looping between Chicago and Mexico City. However, Jack must have been teaching him more slight-of-hand, because any conversation with Merritt ended with the file near him, or even in his hand. Dylan had yet to tell the mentalist that he saw him doing it. Jack was simply ecstatic to have an on-stage part again, and as such had declared multiple times that he didn’t care who they were going against.
Digging the Tri-Fountains file out of the pile on his desk again, he started going through the information the Eye had supplied them. The clock ticked on the mantlepiece, sunlight crept across the floor, coffee disappeared from his mug. Dylan kept an ear open for the other Horsemen waking up as the clock passed eight. There was the thud of Jack walking into the bathroom door because Atlas had shut it on him again. And Merritt growling obscenities at the coffeemaker for not brewing fast enough. The ridiculously chipper pop radio station that Lula played when she got ready. Danny yelling at Merritt for drinking all of the fresh pot of coffee as usual. “It’s a quart of coffee! How did you drink all of it?” “Should’ve gotten down here faster, Danny-boy.” Behind his closed door, Dylan rolled his eyes. His Horsemen may all be full grown adults, but at times like this, they were really little better than children.
He had just re-focused on what was possibly an exotic animal trafficking ring on the Mediterranean when the library door swung open and Daniel walked in, a contradiction of neat clothes and his hair, which was everywhere as it grew out. Plopping in the chair on the other side of his desk inelegantly, the young showman immediately launched into another long-winded spiel about the benefits of a show by the coast. Dylan let him talk for a few seconds, then gently interrupted when Atlas stopped to take a breath.
“What could the others do, Danny? How would this be good for the team?” Danny, with a facial expression that suggested he hadn’t thought about that at all, stopped. Dylan leaned forward. “A good leader always considers the talents and skills of everyone involved. Jack’s cards wouldn’t do as well around water.” Daniel opened his mouth to protest, but the older man held his hand up firmly. “If, and I mean if, you can come up for plausible acts for all of the team, I will consider your idea. Until then, Daniel, I am going to look at other options.” Danny’s jaw tightened, and Dylan sighed in his head. He had hoped that after the New Year’s show, Danny would be willing to open up more. But after a single awkward apology on the plane to London, everything went back to almost the exact way it was. Danny butted heads with him at every turn. (Although at least he had stopped sneaking out to look for the Eye.) He supposed it didn’t help that they were both Masters of Avoiding Feelings as well as of Magic.
Daniel had just opened his mouth to speak again when the fire alarm went off, instantly followed by Lula’s frantic scream of “My Poptarts!” Atlas rolled his eyes and Merritt’s rolling laugh echoed from the kitchen. Dylan stood up and walked to the door to go check and make sure his giant children hadn’t actually caught something on fire. He turned back to Daniel before he left the room. “I mean it Danny. I don’t want to see that file again.” The younger man rolled his eyes. “Yes, oh benevolent leader, as you say.” Dylan couldn’t keep in a sigh at that, but he decided to leave the room without responding. As he walked down the hallway, he heard a faint cry of indignant outrage from the study. He gave the slightest smirk as he pulled the file out from under his shirt. Tucking it neatly under his arm, he went to do food-related damage control.