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You're waiting in his room in the dark. It doesn't bother you. At this point, the darkness is an old friend. And of course, your sense of hearing and your sense of smell are better than most, so it's not an issue to navigate in the dark. It doesn't matter though. He'll be here soon.
You think back to the mission. Again. He fucked it up. Again. He's a good kid, and he has potential, but sometimes you worry that he has no concept of the future. (You can't be too harsh though. It's hard for you to conceptualize things more than a week out. The difference is that you have an excuse. He doesn't.) Once again, he rushed in when he should have waited for backup. Three times he's done this, and three times, you've had to run damage control. At least three, you think.
Nobody ever said being a mentor was easy.
You can hear his footsteps down the hallway. You'd know them anywhere. The thwack-thwack of those flimsy boots as they hit the tile, the swsh-flp-swsh of his cape, even the weird ss-ss sound of the padding in his suit moving around. You hear him humming softly to himself. Is that the Bee Gees? You sit up a little straighter when you hear him outside the door.
The door handle clicks open. The humming continues. Two harsh clicks as the light switches are flipped. Suddenly--
"Oh! Noir, fancy seeing you here," he says, beaming. He's certainly mastered the charming smile, you have to give him that. "I wasn't expecting you here. I just got back from Stillwell and she wanted to con...gratu..." He trails off, the politician's smile dropping. There's a shift in his demeanor. "Something on your mind, bud?"
"Don't 'bud' me", you sign at him. "You should have waited for backup. This can't keep happening. Your anger begs your hands to move faster, to "yell" at him, but you force yourself to slow down so he can understand you. You're never going to get a team if you're not a team player."
He smiles again, and you don't like it. There's too much of her in that smile.
"Come on," he says easily. "Everyone survived. Stillwell loved it. Wh--"
You clap, interrupting him. "Hands," you say, spelling it out for emphasis.
He sighs like a teenager being asked to do chores. "Fine," he says. He starts over, speaking slower as he thinks about both what he's saying and what his hands are doing.
"Come on," he repeats. "Everyone survived. Stillwell loved it. What's the problem?"
"The problem," you tell him, "Is that you didn't listen to me. It worked out fine this time, but what about next time? What about last time?" You pause, hesitant to say your next thought. You barrel forward anyway. "What about the first time?"
He's quiet. He looks at the floor. You fee like the world's biggest asshole. You wonder if maybe Stillwell wasn't as thrilled with the outcome as he'd said she was.
You give a small clap. Fingers to the heel of your hand. More of a golf clap than anything. He looks up.
"I shouldn't have gone there. You're just excited and nervous. Most of the time, you do okay. But to have a team, you have to trust that people will be there to back you up. You have to trust the plan." You take a step towards him and put a hand on his shoulder. He's only a few inches shorter than you, but he feels so small sometimes. You look him in the eye and give him the best smile you can. They don't come as easily these days; it's hard to emote when half your face is a solid piece of scar tissue, but you try. For him, you try. He can't see it, you know, but it feels like he can. "Do you trust me?"
He unknowingly returns your smile, looking a bit more confident than he did.
"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I do."