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Distantly, he's aware of Delta talking-- talking to Allison, the AI provides after a moment of feeling York search for the name, for the word, for anything. Everything is shutting down, fuzzy and wrong and he chokes on something he realizes is blood, that dampness on his lips tasting too copper to be anything else.
The concern Delta's radiating registers, of course, but there's not much he can do about it, not right now when moving his arm is a feat he can't even consider right now, let alone the rest of him.
Delta's resignation is probably the worst thing to feel, honestly, but it doesn't matter because there's nothing more but a quiet apology in his head before Delta quietly injects double the dose of pain medication and he realizes why after just a moment; it's to make sure he doesn't feel anything when he--
This is what she's been lowered to, seriously? Cleaning up scrap that other members of the recovery team can't handle?
“On it, Command,” Recovery Four bites out, and shakes her head as she heads up the stairs, the remains still smoking, and just pauses a moment. Yeah, she fucking figured-- hell it fucking figured. How Wash missed the fact that he totally failed at blowing up the body is one thing, but Jesus, it wasn't like the guy was tiny or anything.
Rolling her eyes, she crouches down next to it, frowning as she realizes the whole reason his body didn't detonate was because the bomb had been set to--
What the hell?
Four's fingers edge over the place in his back where the bomb should have gone, and she notices the damage next to him; it was set to detonate away-- to launch away before it exploded and not damage the body, but why the hell would--
“Nngh--”
Four nearly jumps, realizing that noise didn't come from one of the other supposedly dead bodies, but this one, and is already radioing for Command by the time the body shifts again, slurring words at her that she supposes are English but entirely not able to be understood.
Still, they have air support in three minutes, and all that's left to do is stabilize him, which one quick sweep of her sensors reveals that he had been. Sure, he's in shitty shape, but whatever happened didn't kill him, which makes next to no sense.
Not your job to think about this kinda shit, just get in, get the stuff, get out.
The touchdown and loading is fairly easy, all things considered, but she doesn't expect the pilot to turn back a moment and just look at him, before lifting them up.
“What, d'you know him?” Four asks a little rhetorically, not really expecting any sort of answer as she leans over him while the field medic starts doing what he can, shoving her out of the way unceremoniously.
The pilot doesn't say anything for a moment, just getting them up and out of there, tilting the throttle forward and glancing back again as Four staggers and grunts, grabbing the nearest thing..
“You'll wanna sit down.”
Her tone, and the way things have been going lately only push it in further that yeah. She doesn't want to ask those kinds of questions. If they want her cleaning up scraps, she'd best just stick with that, rather than risking ending up like one of the ones she's tasked with cleaning up.
York wakes up, and promptly rolls, gagging on his own spit and god knows what else, mouth tasting like something died in it, reaching for the nearest thing-- it happens to be the hospital bed's side rail, and heaves off the end of it, directly into a bucket someone placed there with more forethought than he can really consider right then.
It's not neat, but it does its job, and soon enough he's reaching shaking hands for the water next to him, managing to pour a cup before he passes right back out again, his left side aching like a truck hit him.
The second time he wakes up goes just about as poorly as the first. The room is too white, the hum of the machines too loud, and he gropes for something to hold onto but just winds up with sheets. The bars are gone-- why, he's not sure, he can't figure it out, but the sheets are good enough.
One more shift, and he realizes why the bars are gone, why the room is too white, the hum too loud, and everything else.
Delta's gone.
There's nothing in his head, nothing in that space, nothing there, just this blank, empty quiet in his mind that he can't fill and he tries again and again to tug him in, but there's nothing there to tug, nothing but air, and he jerks up and tries to get out of bed, tries to reach a hand up to touch the nape of his neck, only to find his wrist and ankles are bound to the bed.
No amount of straining does any good- he manages three times before exhaustion swallows him up again, along with the sound of too-loud machines and emptiness.
The third time he wakes up, he's at least somewhat coherent. Somewhat aware. Delta's still gone, but when he opens one eye, it doesn't ache, and when he opens the other, there's nothing but the white from before.
Okay. C'mon, you can do this.
He's not sure how he got to the hospital, not sure how any of this happened, but he has to go-- has to get up, has to leave, has to find Delta.
There are still bindings on his wrists, though, and he tries twisting out of them, tries finding some weakness in them, but they're not locks, they're just velcro or something. One more jerk and he's just about to give up, when a hand presses to his shoulder, large and too soft to be one of theirs. Instead, it smells faintly of cologne, and it takes a moment for the smell to register but when it does, he feels like he's going to be sick all over again.
No no no no no no no.
“Hello, son,” Leonard says warmly, and pushes him back into the bed, smiling down at him. “Yet another one of the wayward children returns, it seems.”
Of course, it doesn't do much good, because York passes out all over again after that, breathing sharp and shallow, and Church doesn't miss the way that his heart rate leaps-- panic, most likely, though, as the Counselor murmurs, that's an entirely predicted response to the stimuli provided thus far.
“Perhaps,” Church drawls, fingering the edge of the velcro, frowning at it as he thinks, “Perhaps we ought to make our former agent more...comfortable. Certainly he's well enough for his own room, free of such crude bindings, don't you think?”
The room, as it turns out, is next to exactly what York remembers seeing Wash get wheeled into, screaming and babbling nonsense. It's exactly what he remembers Carolina being in for a short while, when things--
But the question remains, why is he there. He's not insane, he's not babbling, and any incoherence is easily chalked up to the fact that he'd spent the vast majority of the last god knows how long in next to a coma, breathing through tubes, too doped up to know the business end of a rifle from the butt. He's awake now, though, wrapped in bandages and on a cot, curled up under a thin set of sheets.
He's not crazy.
The room, as it's explained, is just a precaution.
The more the Counselor explains, the more furious York gets, until he lurches forward, and grips the bars tightly, muscles tense as he informs him that he is not goddamn crazy, thank you.
The level, even look he gets in return just makes it worse, really, and another little box gets checked, leaving York's hands twitching, wondering if he can reach out and grab that notepad and break it before someone stops him. No one could, damnit-- he's the best there is, right? Carolina's gone, Tex is off, so he could just take it and break it and demand to know where the hell Delta is.
“You'll understand, I'm sure, Sean,” the Counselor says easily, like he's explaining away the weather, “that we must observe certain...precautions, after certain events that took place before you left. The bindings, as crude as they were, were removed quite early at the Director's instruction. A sort of-- good will gesture, shall we say.”
York doesn't say a word, he just stares him down a moment, and then jerks back away from the bars, sitting heavily on the cot, rolling away from him, curling in a ball under thin sheets and on a hard cot.
He's not crazy.
He's not goddamn crazy, but if he has to stay in this stupid white room with the stupid white sheets and the Counselor staring at him behind stupid goddamn bars, he's going to be. The Counselor evidently tires of staring at his back, because he hears the click of perfectly shined shoes on marble, before it's right back to the dead silence and too-loud hum of machinery.
He has no sense of time in there, not really.
York knows he was unconscious for a long time-- judging by the wounds on his chest, he's thinking around a month or two, maybe, but hell, he doesn't know. He can't be sure. They're still pink and tender and when the doctor comes in-- a girl, young, probably on her first off-planet assignment (and he knows why they sent someone like this, and not someone else) and he doesn't do anything to her, just lets her work, gritting his teeth. He hates being predictable, but like hell he's taking anything out on some green newbie who was just here to do a job.
I'm not crazy.
The Counselor stops by to see him three more times before York finally says something, knowing that he has to eventually. They won't just give him Church, won't just give him answers, and he knows how they work. He gives something to get something.
Judging by the smug look on the Counselor's face, he probably predicted the date and time he'd crack.
“We have, of course, accounted for some...instability regarding the forced removal of Intelligence Program Delta,” the Counselor says, idly writing something down with the little pen of his, watching the way York reacts-- a tension to his shoulders, the way he jerks faintly at the name. “As soon as you've proven that you are no such security risk, the rather...strict security measures can be lifted somewhat. The Director himself would prefer to speak to you in person, really.”
“Then why doesn't he walk himself down here to talk to me, huh?” York asks, and is rather impressed with the way his voice stays even, at least a little bit.
Another little blip on the notepad, and York's hands clench and unclench again.
“Because if the Director did everything, there would be precious little need for my own services, of course. Now, Sean. Why don't you tell me how you feel, regarding the loss of Intelligence Program Delta.”
He feels like he's going crazy.
He thinks it's been two weeks since the doctor, hell, since the Counselor last came in-- evidently he's fine, because he unwrapped the bandages himself, and no one's come in to chastise him for it.
Clean clothes are delivered through a slot every day, and the shower activates itself every morning at eight for a whole ten minutes, and food gets shoved through another slot, but having no human contact, no voice in his head, nothing is wearing him down until when he looks in the mirror after the last shower, he sees the dark circles under his eyes, and realizes just how shitty he feels.
One last attempt for Delta, and then he gives up, raking his hands through his hair, and just sits, staring at the wall, waiting, because eventually, someone has to come, right?
Three weeks, by his estimate.
He's kept a fork and he scratches into the plexiglass or whatever is holding him, every time he takes a shower. By his estimate, he had a week of not keeping track before he managed to, but he's still not sure how long he's been there, why Church is so held up.
No one's come to see him, but every so often, he thinks he hears a voice.
Nothing's there, York, but you keep thinking like that and people really will think you're crazy.
Four weeks, and York jumps at every noise, even though he realizes most...probably aren't really there.
Four weeks, and York looks like a former version of himself, forcing himself through the motions of push-ups, sit-ups, everything else he can, forcing himself to eat, forcing himself to stay up and active and do this, because he he'll get out.
He'll get out somehow.
Four weeks, and he still hasn't stopped hearing Delta's voice, even if he's sure it's the air conditioner. It has to be.
Five weeks, and the lights go out in the building, leaving York pressing to the bars, trying to see anything, hear anything, straining and yelling down the empty hall to someone but no one shows up.
He sits in the dark for a solid five minutes, before the lights flicker, and the one in his room dims, edging green.
Yeah. Yeah, congratulations, buddy, you really did lose it this time. Great.
Delta fades into place, static and uneven, and York just stares at him, he doesn't dare to hope, doesn't dare to do anything until he speaks.
“--York. I only have a short time. I have briefly overloaded this section of the medical ward in order to be able to speak with you, but I estimate we have only minutes before the systems are brought back up online. Previous attempts have ultimately been failures, and I apologize. The Director is keeping me in--”
“Delta-- oh god D, you're--” York scrambles forward, stumbling over his bed and reaches out, cupping his hand around the hologram, the desperation clear in his voice, all the way up until the light fades, and York's left staring at his hand, the lights flickering back up and on, and the hum is back again.
He doesn't hear Delta's voice in the air conditioners again, just the maddening hum as they kick on.
“Good morning, son,” Church murmurs, leaning casually away from the bars, with a floating green hologram over his shoulder, leaving York to practically tumble out of bed as he scrambles over and reaches, but he's inches too too far, just staring at the AI with wide eyes.
He's alive he's alright it'll be okay.
Distantly, he realizes Delta's not talking, though, and it's the Director who is; he jerks his attention there by sheer force of will, breathing shallow and sharp.
“I have a deal for you, son. Program, go into shutdown while we speak,” he says easily, and Delta's hologram flickers out, just like that, leaving York straining against the bars, gritting his teeth. Yes, the Counselor was quite right-- this long and he would be much more...willing to go with this. “It's simple, actually. Your time, for your partner. Since certain...events took place, I've found myself rather lacking, and to have you fall into my hands is a rather fortuitous event that neither I nor the Counselor could have expected.”
get on with it.
York's hands clench around the bars a little tighter, and he forces himself not to look like how he feels, which is half-crazy because Delta's right there, he's being held and they escaped goddamnit, they got out, why couldn't it stay that way?
“Son.”
His attention jerks back up and he realizes he hadn't been paying attention, and judging by the small smile on the Director's lips, he'd obviously noticed.
“I would quite enjoy getting you out of this place, son, and I have the security clearance to get all of those...shall we say dark marks against your record expunged, but I do need the assurance that you'll be able to do what I'm going to ask of you, in return for the favor I spoke of. It does seem fair, does it not?”
No. No, it doesn't seem fair, but he's holding Delta, and Delta knows-- God, he knows that York would do anything for him.
“I understand, sir,” York says quietly, holding the bars tight enough his knuckles go white. “I agree.”
It will take time, of course, to expunge a record that has as many...colorful items as Agent New York has on his, but it's possible, of course. It's not on the top of his list of things to do, though; no, he has more pressing matters to attend to now that he has Agent New York back and willing to work for him again.
The green AI hovers at his shoulder as he pushes the papers across the table to the man, watching him read over the new mission assignment, wearing the same armor he'd worn before, just newer, better, even.
“Are there any questions?” Church asks after a moment, propping his chin up on his hand, watching York shake his head. “Wonderful. Then you're dismissed. Program Delta and I will be waiting for you to return, of course.”
York walks out of the room stiffly, grabbing his helmet and the doors whoosh shut after him, leaving Church to idly remove the line in to the psych ward's light and hologram system, as he no longer has any need of it any longer.
“That will be all, Program Gamma,” Church says distractedly, waving a hand and watching the green leech to pale gray, as the program vanishes from sight and Recovery Six shows up on the panel in front of him, blinking pale gold.