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Chapter Text

Their sister talks too much.

(Must run in the family or something.)

Because that’s all she does. Even after he and Nicholas slipped into her headquarters in the dark of night, even after they’d been discovered with shouts and crashes and hands wrapping too-tight around their wrists, even after they’d been dragged into this barren, windowless room to await their sister’s arrival—

That’s all she does. Talk.

(It could pass for small talk, for long-lost siblings catching up if not for the biting gleam in his sister’s eyes.)

Mostly she talks to Nathaniel. She asks about the Whisperer. He doesn’t even think she’s looking for information—she could find that all out for herself easily enough. No, it’s all I hear your relationship with your dear son is a little . . . strained, no? and Hmm, how many children do you think you brainswept, Nathaniel? and mock-gentle musings about his so-called need for control.  

And, of course, that leads to yet more talking. This time about the orphanage, and Nathaniel wants to scream because she knows what happened, and he knows she knows what happened, so there’s no reason for her to be asking how on earth did you two get separated, Nathaniel? in that sickly-sweet voice of mock curiosity. Of mock concern.

(And there was no way she could have known all this without someone whispering it into her ear. Currently he suspected Dr. Garrison—spilling all of his personal secrets must’ve seemed like a fantastic way to get back at him after the things he’d done to her. Tailor-made revenge. He can’t even find it in himself to be angry at her. Making her his scapegoat was honestly, as the youth say, ‘a bit of a dick move.’) 

He should be glad, he knows. Grateful, even. It’s just talking. It could be much, much worse. Why, even he had Jeffers and his crew do some rather . . . unsavory things in the past. But nothing too far, too permanent. Nothing like what their sister is capable of. 

He’s seen it. He knows.

But when the one-sided conversations shifts back to his recent happiness venture, when it gets more personal, more biting—when she probes at what he did to Nicholas, stripped away his autonomy and forced upon him that mindless, meaningless bliss, how close he’d come to making his own brother go catatonic—

Nathaniel can’t take it anymore.

“Please.”

His sister freezes.

“Please stop hurting me,” he rasps out, suddenly drowning in a wave of exhaustion (how long have they been here? A few hours? A day? More?)

Over in the corner, Nicholas makes a soft noise of protest. 

(He’d tried to defend Nathaniel, tried to draw their sister’s attention away, tried to refute the poorly-disguised barbs and accusations flung at him but . . . well. It wasn’t like her words were untrue, exactly. He had done everything she’d said. He had hurt all the people she’d talked about.)

(And so, when it became apparent that his efforts were doing nothing but amuse their sister, Nicholas had eventually fallen silent.)

Still, their sister doesn’t move. Nathaniel can’t bring himself to look at her.

“Please,” he mumbles again, not daring to hope that his words will have any effect. “Please stop.”

Ringing silence. Nathaniel scrunches his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at her, takes a shuddering breath and braces himself for more talking —

“Alright, Nathaniel,” she says softly, sweetly, patting his head. “No more. I’ll stop.”

He breathes out a silent sigh of relief, a ‘thank you’ trembling on the tip of his tongue—

And then she turns to Nicholas.

Nathaniel’s chest freezes. He chokes around a shout, protests building up like there’s an ice jam in his throat, like his lips are sealed shut.

Because Nathaniel—Nathaniel deserves this. All his sister did was lay the extent of what he’d done before him, right in front of him so he couldn’t block his ears. Couldn’t shy away from it.

But Nicholas?

Nicholas is good. Nicholas is kind. Nicholas has already been punished for something that wasn’t his twelve-year-old self’s fault. Nicholas has already been outcast, called crazy, a liar and a fool. Nicholas has already suffered enough at his hands.

He opens his mouth, ready to draw their sister’s attention back to him, away from Nicholas, but—

A flash of silver.

Nathaniel yelps ( she wasn’t supposed to hurt them it was only supposed to be talking— ) before he sees that the blade is, indeed, only scissors. Scissors that don’t seem to be pointed at Nicholas’s neck, or eyes, or anywhere with intent to cause pain. 

He stutters out a momentary gasp of relief, feels air coming back into his chest. That is, until his sister runs a slow hand through Nicholas’s unruly curls, lifts the scissors in the other hand—and Nathaniel realizes what they’re for.

And now he’s shouting, now he’s yelling. Where not even a minute ago he had barely managed to force out a plea for their sister to stop hurting him, now the please, don’t, hurt me instead falls freely from his lips with no effort at all.

Falls freely on deaf ears. Their sister quietly takes a single lock of Nicholas’s hair in hand and begins to snip. 

And where Nathaniel is loud, shamelessly almost incoherent in his distress, Nicholas remains silent, frozen the whole time. As if he’s a statue more than a living, breathing person.

Nathaniel risks a glance into his brother’s eyes. There’s a certain terrifying numbness in them blanketing over the fear and the upset swimming beneath. That is, until Nicholas notices him watching, and a soft, tremulous concern fills his gaze. He offers Nathaniel a tentative, strained smile.

But Nathaniel can’t see what he needs to in his brother’s eyes. Can’t make out even a hint of blame or anger or hurt directed at him. Can’t see what he so badly needs to see, no matter how hard he searches.

It’s too much. Nathaniel snaps his mouth shut and buries his head down into his arms.

(Coward, hisses a small voice in his mind.) 

(And even as he furiously shushes it, he knows it to be true.)

The next few minutes pass in near-silence. The only sound is the snip of the scissors, of Nicholas matching shaky breaths in time with the snip of the scissors, of Nathaniel gasping for breath in time with Nicholas.

His forehead stays pressed tightly against his folded arms as he drifts in and out of it. After some time—he has no idea how long—he hears shuffling, hears his sister’s muffled voice murmuring in low tones. Still, he doesn’t look up. And so Nathaniel nearly jumps out of his skin when he feels a hand gently come to rest on his shoulder.

“She’s gone,” Nicholas whispers.

Nathaniel jerks out a nod. He stays hidden, caged in his folded arms for another moment. Just another moment before he has to face the consequences of what he’d done. ( Please stop hurting me, indeed. Oh, if only he’d kept his mouth shut. If only he’d just taken it for a little longer.)

(Nicholas waits in patient silence the whole time, thumb dragging, soothing, back and forth across Nathaniel’s shoulder.)

Eventually he gathers himself enough to emerge and glance up at Nicholas.

It’s . . .

Well, it’s certainly not a hack job.

Oh, no. It’s so much worse.

His curls have been clipped precisely, tugged and teased and pulled until every hair falls perfectly into place, sealed down with some sort of gel or pomade until—

“You look like me,” Nathaniel breathes in horror.

Nicholas huffs out a laugh. His eyes are wet, unfocused. “Is that really such a bad thing?”

(It’s a terrible thing, Nathaniel wants to scream. It’s a terrible thing to see on Nicholas—Nicholas, who is completely unfamiliar with hands shaking in front of the mirror, frantically pulling and straightening because his whole reputation he’s built ground up will collapse like a house of cards with even a hair out of place —)

(Foreign to Nicholas, who lets his hair grow wild and free and doesn’t spare a flying thought for the weight of eyes following him, scrutinizing him —)

(Yes, it’s a terrible thing. It’s devoid, stripped of everything that makes Nicholas, Nicholas.)

He says none of these things.

He reaches out and tugs his brother down, down, until Nicholas is curled on the cold, unforgiving floor with his head resting in Nathaniel’s lap. His brother lets out an exhausted and relieved sigh, shoulders relaxing as he snuggles his head in deeper.

And Nathaniel—Nathaniel lifts a tentative hand, remembers that same hand smearing pomade through Nicholas’s curls back at the orphanage, tugging the unruly curls down as even as he reminds his brother that nobody’s looking to adopt a couple of scruffy street urchins, Nicky and presentation is everything, Nicky —

Nathaniel lets his hand drop onto Nicholas’s head, ignoring his brother’s full-body shudder as he combs his fingers up and down. As he scratches lightly at the base of his neck, as he ruffles up Nicholas’s hair before the gel can solidify, as he twists and loops strands around his fingers, trying to coax stubborn curls back into forming.

And even though Nicholas seems relaxed, body clearly at ease and eyes resting shut, he still hasn’t drifted off into the sleep he so desperately needs, as if some part of his mind is forcing him to remain awake and alert for whatever may come next.

Nathaniel knows what he needs to do.

“You know,” he begins in a deceptively casual tone, “This is also a unique opportunity.”

Nicholas lets out a pleased hum as Nathaniel’s fingers massage over the crown of his head. “How so?”

“Well, it’s just as I said earlier. You look like me now. Which means your little . . . family will have a much harder time telling us apart, don’t you think?”

There’s a pause. Then a startled, delighted noise as Nicholas gets it.

“Oh,” he huffs out a laugh (shaky, but it’s there), “Oh, Nathaniel, that’s brilliant—”

“I know,” he says, a little smugly. “I wonder how long it will take them to notice. Remember, that time with Mrs. He—”

“—Mrs. Healey, that’s right! It took her a full week—”

“—And Mr. Brouchard didn’t notice at all! We switched and switched back and he had absolutely no idea—”

Before long, they’re both snickering together. And it’s comforting, it’s familiar, and Nathaniel’s heart soars at the fact that he can have this again, just as it has every time they’ve laughed together since he got his brother back.

Nicholas sighs with a pleased smile on his lips as his laughter calms. But he isn’t asleep yet. Nathaniel will need to try harder.

“And when you get sick of that little trick,” he adds, hand still combing through Nicholas’s hair, “You’ll have to do something with this so they can tell us apart.”

“Oh?”

“Mhmm. I’m thinking . . . hmm. Bleached blonde, perhaps? You’ll look like you’re in a boyband—”

“Nathaniel,” Nicholas gasps out, reaching up to swat Nathaniel playfully as he’s overwhelmed by a swarm of giggles—

“Or—wait, no,” Nathaniel adds with a wiggle of his eyebrows, batting Nicholas’s hand away. “No, how about bright pink? I’m sure your gremlin daughter will be delighted—”

Nicholas snorts, chuckles, guffaws and then—collapses into Nathaniel’s lap with a snore.

Nathaniel heaves a sigh as the smile slowly slides off his face, hand never ceasing its circling on Nicholas’s head. For a moment he lets his own head fall back against the wall, eyes slipping shut, if only for a moment.

And that’s all he allows himself. One moment. 

Then he’s tugging Nicholas still closer, careful not to wake him, as he fixes his eyes upon the door. He’ll remain awake and alert all night (and the day after too, if that’s what it takes). He’ll keep vigil so he’s ready the moment his sister decides to stroll back in through that door. It’s the least he can do, really.

(He’s already done enough harm tonight.)

For now, he simply drags his nails against the back of his slumbering brother’s neck, rolls some of the tension out of his shoulders, and settles in for the long, silent wait.

Chapter Text

The tent would’ve been on the small side even if it hadn’t been occupied by two people—not to mention occupied by one man who wasn’t exactly “short” and another man that was, well, certainly not “short” by any means, given how Nicholas had to tilt his head back and up simply to look Milligan in the eye.

Even so, Nicholas did not feel cramped in the slightest. He did feel a shifting sense of mild discomfort, but he knew that resulted less from the physical confines of the space and more about how Milligan would react to them. (The tent had been a result of Number Two’s prodigious preparedness— compulsive overpacking, hissed a very Rhonda-sounding voice in his mind. They had never expected to actually use it; merely a precaution. Even so, they hadn’t realized exactly how . . . tiny it was until they’d unraveled the bundle of canvas and string and poles and laid it out on the forest floor. Side by side, they had blinked in unison, stared at it in bemused silence for a few moments. In fact, Nicholas was about to offer to sleep outside on the forest floor—he did like to gaze up at the stars, after all—before Milligan broke the silence with a simple “Hm” and knelt to assemble the tent.)

So. Here they were.

Milligan had fallen asleep almost instantly; lulled to sleep, no doubt, by their collective body warmth and the pitter-patter of the light drizzle against the tent. Nicholas envied him. He was sure it hadn’t been all that long since they’d switched off the lantern and called it a night. But without the ability to twist and turn for fear of encroaching upon the precious few inches between them, time had slowed to an agonizing crawl for Nicholas.

And as far as nights went, this was probably one of the worst to be lying awake, unable to toss and turn, alone and sleepless with just his thoughts—well. Not exactly alone. There was Milligan, of course, snoring gently away in the background. But Nicholas would take great care not to bother him. Milligan needed his rest, and besides, they needed to rise early if they had any hopes of catching a glimpse of the Sender—

The Sender who was, apparently, his own brother.

It still felt unreal. Oh, logically he had grasped it—it all made sense, and the worst sort of sense. He’d informed Rhonda and Number Two that he had absorbed every dimension of the problem—and so he had. But that was a different battle entirely from absorbing every dimension of the hurt, the sorrow, the all-consuming waves of guilt that had sunk deep into his bone marrow.

It sounded childish, even to his own ears. But that made sense too. The events and revelations of the past few days had all sent him spiralling back, hurt welling up from some dark and quiet place he’d tried to shove aside so long ago but had never quite succeeded—put simply, he felt twelve years old again. Twelve years old and freshly alone.

He wanted a hug.

He wanted a hug from Nathaniel, specifically. Wanted to feel him in his arms, to know he was real, to assure him that whatever he’d done, whatever mess he’d made in his hurt, in his pain—they could fix it together.

But Nathaniel wasn’t here.

Milligan was. 

Now that was a thought. They weren’t particularly tactile, mainly because Nicholas flinched back from every touch Milligan had offered, knowing he would only impose in his desperation. It was like dangling a treat in front of a ravenous dog—after so many years on his own, without touch, Nicholas knew he would never be able to control himself. Eventually Milligan got the message and kept a respectful distance, limited their contact to brief pats on the back and quick, practiced hands tending to injuries when necessary.

Although . . . 

There was that one night. Nightmare, on the couch—one of the worst he could remember. He’d woken himself up with his own cries, the world tilting and closing in around him—and then Milligan had been there, and, oh, in his terror, Nicholas had forgotten to pull away from the hand cupping his chin. And before he knew it Milligan was squashed on the couch next to him, cradling him in his broad arms while Nicholas sobbed like a baby. He’d stayed the whole night.

Now that was a thought.

Milligan wouldn’t feel comfortable touching him in any other situation, of course. But a nightmare? He’d had no problem pulling Nicholas close to his chest last time he’d had a nightmare. Probably he understood it in the same sense as touching Nicholas to stitch up a wound—caring for him so that he’d be fit to carry on with their work in the morning. Yes, that had to be it. Milligan was nothing if not dedicated to the mission. So maybe—just maybe—if Nicholas could just rub his eyes a little, make it look like he’d been crying, maybe make some noises of distress—then perhaps—Milligan might—

Nicholas’s racing thoughts ground to a screeching halt, leaving only the faint pitter-patter of light drizzle against the tent.

What in the world was he thinking?

Fake a nightmare? Abuse the trusted relationship he’d built with Milligan, trespass his boundaries, all for the sake of momentary comfort?

This business with his brother being the Sender must’ve affected his thinking. Made him consider things he’d never dream of considering under normal circumstances . . . although Nicholas couldn’t deny that yes, he had indeed thought of this before. Late nights curled up alone under tangled sheets, quiet hours working side by side in the study, early mornings, with a sleep-mussed and sweatpants-clad Milligan yawning over a cup of coffee . . . Nicholas couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like, to feel Milligan’s arms wrapping securely around him and squeezing tight. Couldn’t help but think back to that one night, after his horrific, awful nightmare—and wonder what he could do to make it happen again.

And now there was no need to rub his eyes to mimic tear-stained eyes. No, the tears came easily, sliding down his cheeks as softly as the drizzle pitter-pattering against the tent. The tent that was suddenly, unbearably cramped. He needed to get out. Put some distance between him and Milligan, clear his thoughts, maybe scream out into the night—

Yes. That was it. That was what he would do. He would resolve this alone.

He drew his aching legs towards his chest, preparing to sit up—

“Hm?”

Nicholas froze, not daring to breathe. But it seemed that Milligan hadn’t fully been roused, for he merely let out another sleepy sort of groan, rolled over, and went still. 

It was another minute before Nicholas let out the breath he’d been holding. Another before he felt ready to move. Drawing his arm underneath his chest, he pushed down, raising his torso up off the floor—

A rustling behind him was all the warning he got. A weight settled against his hip, tugging him back down, backwards until his shoulders brushed something solid and warm.

Oh no.

This was exactly what he’d been trying to avoid. No doubt Milligan felt as though he had to reach out, had to offer comfort due to the close confines of the tent. He must’ve felt as good as obligated.

Nicholas swallowed hard in hopes of steadying his voice (though he immediately dismissed that hope as foolish the moment Milligan’s thumb began to rub comforting circles against his hip). He opened his mouth to reassure Milligan that he was just headed out for some fresh air, that he wouldn’t stray far—when a long, low drone behind him caught his attention. A snore.

Milligan was still asleep.

He wasn’t even conscious. And yet. Yet somehow he had sensed movement, sensed that something was wrong. And his first instinct had been to reach out. To comfort.

Nicholas felt a familiar ache settle deep inside him when an image, a memory, flickered in his mind—Milligan staring down, almost haunted, at the very same hand still rubbing circles at his hip. Milligan had wondered aloud at who exactly he had been, wondered why the blows he flung at the Sender’s men felt like second nature, wondered why he was capable of such violence. Yes, Nicholas had said, voice trembling with emotion, with a desperate need to make Milligan understand, to see himself the way Nicholas saw him. Yes, but you are capable of great gentleness too. Don’t you see?

When the sob he’d been holding back all night finally slipped out of his chest, Nicholas knew it wasn’t for himself.

There was a muffled groan from behind him. The fingers at Nicholas’s hip flexed, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his own gaze met Milligan’s bleary, unfocused eyes. He was blinking awake.

“Nightmare?” Milligan mumbled.

This was his chance. All he had to do was agree. Milligan would never know the truth, and he’d get the comfort every bone in his body was crying out for, if only for the night—

Nicholas shook his head.

“Hm,” said Milligan.

The hand lifted from his hip, and Nicholas bit down hard on his lip to stifle the wounded noise he wanted to let out—but Milligan didn’t roll away at all. The hand smoothed over his shoulder. Another came to rest on his lower back, and Milligan ever-so-gently rolled Nicholas over so that they were face-to-face. Or would be face-to-face, if Milligan didn’t hold several inches of height over him—a fact he made use of now, tucking Nicholas’s face close to his chest.

Oh. 

Oh.

It was everything he wanted, and more than he could’ve dreamed of, he thought, as he relaxed into that warmth, as he breathed Milligan’s scent—pines, the kind they’d been brushing past all day—as Milligan’s hand rubbed firm circles into his back, another doing the same in his curls— 

It was too much.

Another sob clawed its way out of his throat, no matter how hard he clenched his jaw to hold it back. It was quiet, but with only the pitter-patter of the rain and Milligan’s gentle, even breaths, it seemed almost deafening. It was quickly followed by another as Milligan tugged his face impossibly closer to his chest. 

And another. 

And another.

“'m here,” Milligan muttered. “I've got you, Nicholas. You're safe now.”

And oh, wasn’t that the truth. Just the two of them, alone in a flimsy, ridiculously tiny tent on the edge of a bluff while the rain pattered down, the wheels of the Sender’s—his brother’s machinations turning ceaseless down on the island far below—

Yes. He was safe now.

Chapter Text

“Why haven’t you been eating?”

Damn Milligan and his observational skills. Rhonda scratched at the back of her neck but did not look up from the map she was pouring over. “Eating? I’ve been eating plenty. What are you—”

“Now, I was here two days ago, and I remember what the pantry looked like then,” Milligan said casually. “The news of Mr. Benedict and Number Two’s kidnapping arrived the morning I left. So… let’s see here …” He moved past Rhonda into the kitchen and tugged open the pantry door. Rhonda winced.

“It isn’t what it looks l—”

“The candy jar is almost empty,” Milligan noted. “That wouldn’t have been your doing?”

“Oh no, I thought for sure I hid it well enough this time,” Rhonda moaned. “No, that wasn’t me.”

Milligan nodded and rifled through some boxes. “The chocolate bars are gone … but you prefer those granola craisins, don’t you?”

“I’ve been known to have a chocolate bar here and there,” Rhonda said futilely. Even as she attempted to fend off Milligan’s suspicions, she still was reserving half of her attention for marking key areas on the map of Stonetown on the table before her. “Now let’s see … if the pigeon needs to fly to the east to return to it’s roost, then it would take approximately—”

Milligan opened the freezer. “Oh, lookie! The three bags of dino nuggets are gone!”

Rhonda groaned. “I made her a shepherd’s pie! It took me an hour, too! But she wouldn’t—”

“Believe me, I know,” Milligan held out a calming hand. “She’s not going to want to eat anything with peas in it when her whole world has been turned upside down. It’s more important that she’s eating something, at the very least. Which brings us back to you.” 

Milligan raised an eyebrow. Rhonda groaned.

“We both know you’ve been vegetarian for years,” he said gently. “You didn’t eat any of those dino nuggets, did you?”

Rhonda looked back at the map and made some more marks with her pencil. 

The silence grew and grew.

“I had some crackers,” Rhonda blurted.

“Uh-huh.”

More silence.

“How many crackers, exactly?”

Rhonda swiped at her eyes without looking up from the map.

“Hey. Hey.” Milligan was across the room in a second. “I’m not trying to upset you. I just see you working and worrying yourself into the ground. It does no good. Do you think I’d get anywhere on my missions if I didn’t eat?”

“No, you’d fall off a roof and brain yourself,” Rhonda hiccupped.

“Exactly. And you’ve got quite the noggin up there—” he rapped her skull playfully— “so let’s get it some food, shall we?”

Rhonda gestured helplessly. “The map—”

“—can wait.”

“Mr. Benedict and Number Two can’t!”

“And five minutes spent eating a slice of lasagna won’t make a difference, Rhonda.” When she still looked skeptical, he cracked a weak smile. “C’mon. Do you really think Number Two would be upset if you took time out of your day to eat? Or Mr. Benedict if you took a few hours to sleep?”

Despite herself, a tiny grin tugged Rhonda’s face at the thought of her family.

“Exactly. Now, my friend Moocho Brazos has arrived—you’ve met him? Excellent—and let me tell you, he is quite the cook. He tends to make too much, especially when he’s stressed. As the host, I think it’s your responsibility to help him out and eat some of the extra plates he’s put together. What do you say?”

Rhonda glanced one more time at her map, then nodded.

“Good. I’ll bring it up to you when it’s ready.” Then, something mysterious came over Milligan. He put his hands on his hips, drew himself up taller, and wagged a finger at her. “And don’t let me catch you neglecting your health again. Understand?”

“Yes,” Rhonda replied automatically, bemused. Milligan nodded and turned to go.

“That’s a new voice,” she called after him. She heard his footsteps halt in the hallway, then patter in reverse on the carpet until he arrived back in the doorframe.

“Pardon?”

“The Disappointed Dad voice you just tried out on me.”

“Oh,” Milligan said, flushing. “That. Yes. Just something I’m working on.”

“I see.” Rhonda’s lips twitched.

“Yes, well, I’ll need it when I finally catch up with those rascals in Portugal, so…” Milligan’s chest puffed out a tad. “Was it … y’know… any good?”

“No.”

Milligan nodded as if he’d been expecting this. “Ah.”

“But keep trying though.” Rhonda smiled—really smiled—for the first time in days. “I’m sure you’ll get it soon.”

“Right. Just gotta keep workshopping it,” Milligan nodded to himself. He still looked abashed but nevertheless attempted a snappy salute. “Lasagna delivery in ten.”

Chapter Text

The packing containers for the duskwort had been unloaded, Benedict and his troublesome assistant had been detained, and all that was left was one box of supplies and provisions that SQ was currently hauling up from the Salamander at a glacial pace. Mr. Curtain glowered, observing the boy’s progress with a critical eye. A thick blanket of mist had rolled in with the morning, covering everything on the island with a dampness that made his joints ache. He crossed his arms, hovering by the cave entrance and wishing he could use his wheelchair on the jagged terrain.

“SQ!” Mr. Curtain barked. “Stop lollygagging!”

“I’m just being precareful! I mean precautionary!” SQ called back cheerfully. “The rocks are a bit slippery. Would you like to wait for me inside the cave, sir?”

“I’d love to wait inside the cave, SQ. Or I would, if I didn’t have to supervise you to make sure you don’t drop that.” Mr. Curtain’s scowl deepened. “I’ve had enough. Mush mush, SQ!” He clapped his hands as if encouraging a stubborn cow to move. The boy quickened his pace, scrambling over the moisture-damp boulders ahead of him.

“Faster than that! Look alive! Hurry up!”

“Aye-aye, I’m scrambling, Mr. Curtain,” SQ panted. He readjusted his grip on the heavy box and leapt towards the next rock. “I’m scurrying, I’m—”

SQ’s shoe let out a harsh squeak as it slipped on the rock ahead of him. He twisted, windmilling his arms (and sending the box flying in the process). Then— bam! —SQ went down like a stone.

Mr. Curtain groaned, already taking stock of the provisions he’d lost inside the box currently tumbling end over end down the mountainside. “I don’t know why I ever made an Executive out of someone as clumsy as you. Get up, SQ, we have work to do!”

SQ did not get up. 

“Sometime today would be preferable, SQ!”

SQ did not make a sound.

Mr. Curtain threw up his hands in exasperation. “Don’t make me come down there, SQ!”

Still, nothing.

“Very well! If that’s how you want this day to go, then so be it!” Mr. Curtain shouted. Despite his aggravation, a bit of unease was beginning to worm its way into his stomach. SQ was always tripping over his too-large feet to do whatever was asked of him. Never once had he been willfully disobedient. Incompetent, yes; prone to mistakes and dim-witted misunderstandings, certainly … but there wasn’t a rebellious bone in his body. Mr. Curtain frowned as he picked his way over the rocky terrain towards where SQ had fallen. The rocks really were slippery, damp with some sort of slimy moss. Several loose stones rolled beneath his feet and clinked down the mountainside.

Finally, he arrived next to SQ’s supine figure. The boy’s arms were relaxed at his sides, eyes closed, as if he’d simply decided to lay down and take a nap right there on the mountainside. 

It was a familiar sensation for Mr. Curtain, and he did not like that one bit. His scowl deepened. 

“SQ, stop this nonsense at once. You’re perfectly fine. Now stand up and go collect that box you dropped. It’s halfway down the mountainside now.”

SQ did not stir.

“You’re perfectly fine!” Mr. Curtain bit out again, as if it was an order. “You’re okay. You have to be, because I command it! You have to go retrieve that box.”

Was the boy even breathing?

Mr. Curtain watched his chest for a minute, feeling ridiculous for doing so. Eventually, the boy’s lungs filled and released. But something seemed off. Too slow? Uneven, perhaps? Mr. Curtain gritted his teeth and gave SQ’s shoulder a frustrated kick.

Was that—was that blood on the rocks?

You’re fine—you’re perfectly fine—

“McCracken!” Mr. Curtain hollered. “McCracken! Come down here at—”

The Ten Man was already at his shoulder. “I saw it,” McCracken said, marching over to SQ without wasting a second. “Saw it from the lookout post. The kid went down hard.”

“I know that already,” Mr. Curtain snapped. “Are your medical supplies unpacked?”

McCracken nodded. He knelt and wiggled an arm under SQ’s shoulders. “Garrotte can check him out in the cave.”

“Careful, you great oaf,” Mr. Curtain hissed. “I won’t have you making it worse by picking him up carelessly.”

Supporting SQ’s head, McCracken lifted the boy and climbed towards the cave entrance in long and sure strides. Mr. Curtain glanced at the amount of dark-rust liquid dripping sluggish on the rocks, felt his vision waver, and spun on a heel to follow McCracken.

Martina was hovering in the cave entrance, expression pinched. McCracken waved her off, and for once the girl did as she was told without argument. Mr. Curtain tracked SQ’s bobbing sneakers until they disappeared into the darkness. But he didn’t follow the boy in. He wasn’t in a mood to deal with his bro—that is, he wasn’t in the mood to deal with the complete stranger in the cave that just happened to look exactly like him.

And so Mr. Curtain remained outside the cave for some time. Arms crossed, he watched the mist shift and fold and eventually dissipate. It was going to be a clear day, albeit a tad crisp. He examined the miniscule island bay before him, mentally mapping out the tide patterns as he felt his mind settle—until he heard quiet footsteps approaching behind him.

“Yes?” he bit out without looking back.

McCracken hesitated, which was unlike him. “I’ve come to touch base with you on our next move, sir.”

“Next move? Is the boy fixed or not?”

McCracken paused. “Not exactly, sir.”

“‘Not exactly?’ Stop mincing your words and spit it out.”

“Very well. The injury is too severe for Garrotte to treat.”

“The injury is too —did I hear you correctly?”

“I believe so, sir. I said that the injury is too severe for—”

“Do you have medical supplies or not?” Mr. Curtain shouted, whipping around to face McCracken. The Ten Man looked oddly subdued. “He fell from a standing position. That’s a six foot fall. Not twenty!”

“The kid took quite the whack to the noggin. Sir.” 

“He has a head injury?”

McCracken nodded.

Mr. Curtain bit his lip. As the world’s leading expert on the human brain and all of its workings, he knew just how serious head injuries could be, and how dangerous they were if left untreated. “Can’t you just bandage him up until Benedict spills about the duskwort and we can leave this godforsaken island? Is he in pain or something?” As soon as the words left his mouth, Mr. Curtain wondered why he’d asked the question, given that SQ being in pain certainly made no impact upon his decision. It would be a distraction if the kid was sniveling, though. 

McCracken tilted his head as if considering his words. “We can’t say for sure.”

“And why not?”

“Well, he’s still out cold, you see.”

Mr. Curtain looked back out at the last traces of the mist, now dissipating in the island’s powerful breeze. He had to have been standing out here an hour, at least.

“Perhaps you should sit down,” McCracken said. He was looking at Mr. Curtain oddly.

“Perhaps you should sit down, sir,” Mr. Curtain snapped. “And don’t tell me what to do.” 

He did not sit down.

“Don’t you have anyone you can contact?” Mr. Curtain said. “Someone that knows what they’re doing, someone with better equipment. And discreet?”

“Certainly,” McCracken confirmed. “But not on a remote island in the middle of the North Sea. Even if we had the funds, that would mean getting a discreet medic onto a discreet helicopter, which are, by nature, not very discreet—”

Mr. Curtain cursed.

“He needs a hospital,” McCracken said, almost gently, if he could sound gentle. “A good one. And quickly. That is…” 

Here the Ten Man broke off and side-eyed Mr. Curtain slyly. “That is, if you’re willing to put our entire operation at risk for the health of the boy. Sir.”

Mr. Curtain said nothing.

“They’ll ask questions if a teenager shows up with that nature and severity of injuries. It’s only a matter of time until the authorities recognize him,” McCracken went on. 

“I can stand to lose him,” Mr. Curtain bit out, even if the thought of carrying on without SQ bumbling at his side left a sour taste in his mouth. “Martina can take on his duties. If Benedict blabs soon enough then I’ll control all of the hospitals in short order. The point will be moot.”

“I see,” said McCracken, in a neutral tone loaded with extreme judgment. “And until then? You’re at peace with the authorities knowing about everything he’s seen here?”

“Don’t be daft. He won’t betray me. The boy is loyal to the point of foolishness.”

“Indeed. And friendly to the point of foolishness too, if you’ll forgive me for saying so.”

“I do not,” Mr. Curtain glowered, “forgive you for saying so.” But even as he said it, an image wriggled into his brain, as if put there by the Whisperer itself: SQ, happily chatting away with some government agents in some indeterminate hospital room, spilling every last secret while they surreptitiously took notes…

“Watch him for another hour,” Mr. Curtain barked. “If the boy doesn’t wake up in an hour then I shall reassess.” McCracken gave an obedient, if slightly sardonic, bow and turned to relay the news to Garrotte.

“And one more thing,” Mr. Curtain called. He turned to watch the sunlight beam onto the rocks, which appeared just as slippery as ever. “Prepare the Salamander for an ocean trip. A long one. As a precautionary measure.”

An unnecessary measure, of course. 

Because SQ would be fine. He had to be.

Chapter Text

Two thousand three hundred and forty one …

Two thousand three hundred and forty two …

He paused to wipe sweat from his brow again. It did no good when his palms were just as drenched.

Two thousand three hundred and forty five …

The room tilted again. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. The lights assaulted his vision; a buzzing noise resumed deep in his ear. 

Two thousand three hundred and forty nine …

He’d already checked if the room was actually tilting or if it was just a trick his mind was playing on him. Well—tried to check. He’d fished out a marble from his pocket that Kate had given him at breakfast—she’d sorted through her whole collection before finally settling on one that felt the most like him, based on some incomprehensible criteria. “For luck,” she’d said, placing it in his palm with a bright grin.

Fat lot of good that’d done him.

Two thousand three hundred and fifty seven …

He’d placed the marble against the wall to see if it actually rolled. Fat lot of good that’d done him, too. He couldn’t tell if the marble was moving with the wall or whether his vision was simply wobbly, couldn’t listen for the telltale whisper-clink of the marble in motion with the blood roaring in his ears.

But he’d found that rolling the marble between his thumb and forefinger produced a calming effect. Perhaps it was good for something after all.

Two thousand three hundred and sixty eight… or was it sixty nine …

He’d rolled the marble back and forth ten times … so that amounted to about seven and a half seconds … that is, if each roll was even with no pauses …

It was no good. He’d have to start over.

One …

Two …

Three …

A faint clanging sounded in his ear. Great. Now he was experiencing auditory hallucinations. Give it another hour and he’d start seeing things that weren’t there. Or maybe he was already, depending on whether that wall was really tilting or not.

Six …

Seven …

Eight …

Something tickled his nose. Dust, perhaps? He swiped at it with his palm, wincing when the motion rubbed more sweat onto his lenses.

Ten …

Eleven …

Clang!

Okay. That one was rather loud to be a hallucination.

Thirteen … no, fifteen …

More dust tickled his nose. He coughed. He swiped at his nose. He glanced up at the ceiling. 

Kate Wetherall grinned back at him.

“Hiya, sport!”

Sticky yelped and fell backwards off the chair.

“Yeaouch!” Kate backflipped out of the ceiling, removed her green beanie, vigorously shook it out, then settled it snug back on her head. “You okay, pal?”

“You came back for me?” Sticky gasped from the floor.

Kate snorted. “Did you hit your head? Of course we came back for you!”

He made an attempt at sitting up. His wrists wobbled. Kate bounded over and hauled him up by the shoulders, missing Sticky’s yelp.

“It’s just me on this mission, though. Stealth operation. Reynie’s off distracting Dr. Curtain, and Constance … well, Constance said that she had some ‘affairs to attend to,’ whatever that means—”

“Probably off crafting miniature dolls of us to stick pins into,” Sticky said with a tremulous laugh. He clutched at his aching shoulders.

“Y’know, I can hardly believe it myself, but I think she might actually be helping us, somehow,” Kate mused. “She had a very determined smile, even if it was a bit evil-looking, and I did hear screams from the Executives’ quarters on my way over—”

“You actually came back for me?” Sticky blurted again.

Kate looked at him sideways—actually tilted her whole head sideways on her neck to peer at him. “What happened in this room, buddy? I mean, this whole place reeks of malice. Just look at that shade of yellow … and why is that fish tank placed at that angle?”

“But why?” 

“Why wouldn’t we come back for you?” Kate said, as if it was so obvious even a baby could see it. “We need you.”

“Right,” Sticky nodded, finally understanding. “For the mission. But, I mean, Reynie’s very bright. You don’t really need—”

“Don’t bother finishing that sentence,” Kate said, utterly serious for the briefest of moments. She clapped a hand on his shoulder, and Sticky held back another wince. “Breakfast table would be real quiet without you, pal. Lunch was horrible. I don’t want to do that again.”

“You … rescued me because you want me back?”

Kate rolled her eyes at him. “I haven’t rescued anybody yet. There’s still the extraction! And unless you want to stand around until Dr. Curtain comes back—”

“Right,” Sticky said, rubbing the back of his neck. He felt as though Kate had knocked him off-kilter, and he was still trying to get his bearings. “Right, let’s not do that. So? How do we get out of here?”

Kate grinned and looked up at the still-open hole in the ceiling.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s our best option!”

“Never in a million years.”

“You’re really that against it?” Kate mused. “Well, if you say so. I do have other plans in mind. Reynie shot them down, a little prematurely if I do say so myself—I mean, there’s only a 79% chance of you losing your arm—but if you’re absolutely sure—”

“So how do we get into the ceiling?” Sticky asked.

Kate grinned. She knelt and patted her knee, clearly intending to boost Sticky up.

Still, he hesitated.

“This is gonna jeopardize the mission,” he said, though he hated to say it. “You know that, right, Kate? The best thing for everyone is if you just leave me here until—”

Again, Kate waved him off. “I promised I’d rescue you, and here I am. You’re top priority, pal. Besides, we’ll work it out. We always do!”

“How?”

“Well,” Kate said thoughtfully. “I proposed that we run away into the woods, surviving off berries and adapting to a nomadic lifestyle while we design some long-range weapons to take down Curtain … but for some reason, Constance is absolutely convinced that Curtain literally just forgot you in here. It’s well into the night by now. She can’t say for certain how she ‘knows’ this, but her idea is for all of us to just show up to class tomorrow like absolutely nothing is wrong and to tell Dr. Curtain he’s imagining things if he questions us, which, I have to admit, is pretty funny—”

Despite himself, Sticky grinned at the thought. He double-checked that his lucky marble was secure in his pocket, zipping it up to be extra certain. It wouldn’t do to have it roll away and clang through the vents above Dr. Curtain’s office. And besides. He’d really hate to lose it.

“Here goes nothing.”

Kate grinned, and Sticky flew up into the ceiling with a shriek.

Chapter Text

Another stack of bills. A perfumed magazine advertising the latest winter blazer trends. Yet another sickening info pamphlet on Dr. Curtain’s so-called “Happiness Revolution.”

Still no letters from his friends.

Reynie had ventured out to the mailbox twice today already. The first trip (barely seconds after he’d pulled his sweater vest over his shoulders, practically still blinking sleep from his eyes) had yielded the usual assortment of junk. The second hadn’t even given him that. He’d insisted on checking the mailbox again that afternoon, just in case the mail carrier had swung back around with some little envelope that had slipped through the morning’s drop off. But no. Of course, it was empty.

Slipping back inside now, Reynie tiptoed around the kitchen, where the chatter and laughter of Amma and Pati mingled in with the bubbling of the faucet. He crept to his room, pulled the door closed soundlessly. Then, without bothering to remove his jacket, he took a running leap forward, landing face-first in the center of his bed.

He’d never thought of himself as someone that needed. That was his most redeeming quality at the orphanage. They were perpetually shortstaffed; the other children had to be watched constantly, stragglers herded and disputes broken up and complaints listened to and promptly ignored. Reynie sat quietly alone in the corner with a book. That earned him approving nods from the staff, and that made him feel good, rewarded for his un-neediness. Even with Ms. Perumal, he relied on her, felt supported by her, enjoyed his time with her, but had always maintained a certain degree of independence that had kept him from asking too much of her. She had only been his tutor, after all, at least on paper.

But now …

Reynie drank in the sounds of his Amma and Pati’s chatter in the kitchen. To need a parent was one thing. Reynie didn’t know much about having a parent, but he knew that was their job, and Ms. Perumal had taken that willingly, gratefully.

Needing a friend, however … Reynie had no idea how to navigate that. Now he knew for a fact his books had protected him. He’d just gained the first three friends of his life, and already he was asking for too much of them.

“Reynie?” Ms. Perumal’s voice was muffled by the closed bedroom door. She knocked smartly. “May I come in? I’ve brought you some snacks.”

As much as Reynie preferred to be alone right now, he didn’t want to worry Ms. Perumal. (And he certainly wasn’t about to miss out on Ms. Perumal’s snacks.) 

So he hurriedly scrubbed at his face and pulled himself upright on top of the covers. “Yes, Amma.”

The doorknob turned and Ms. Perumal entered, carrying a plate piled high with some treat or other. “I’ve brought you some of my favorite childhood snacks,” she told him, shutting the door quietly behind her. “We made banana chips, and this is called murukku. I don’t think you’ve tried it yet; it’s my mom’s secret recipe from—”

Then she caught sight of Reynie’s face.

“Oh dear.”

Ms. Perumal set the plate down on Reynie’s nightstand. “May I?” she asked, gesturing at the bed. 

And he knew that if he said no, that if he told her he really wanted to be alone right now, she would pat his head and leave him alone with the plate of snacks. Wouldn’t try to force herself into his private thoughts; wouldn’t make him feel guilty for asking for space.

Reynie scooted over to make her more room.

She sat at once and clasped his hand. “It’s the letters, isn’t it?”

“Or lack of them,” Reynie confirmed bitterly. 

Ms. Perumal hummed. Downstairs, the TV warbled; Pati began to shout without any true anger at a game show contestant who had made a foolish guess.

“I don’t understand, Amma,” he forced out eventually. “Why I’m the only one who—” He swallowed and started again. “The way I see it, either this— us —isn’t as important to them or . . . or they’ve found a replacement for me. Someone who isn’t as needy.” 

Ms. Perumal was already shaking her head before he finished, but caught herself. “I can understand why you’d feel that way. If it’s your fault, then all you have to do is fix whatever you’ve done wrong—fix yourself— and then everything will be resolved.” She smiled at him gently. “Sounds so simple, right?”

“Well, yes, I was hoping it might be that simple,” Reynie admitted. In hindsight it sounded a bit ridiculous, but … “What else am I supposed to think?”

Ms. Perumal pondered for a moment. Then, she took a handful of banana chips and munched on a few. “For brainpower,” she explained. Reynie took the moment to snatch up one of the murukku. His eyes widened. Ms. Perumal let out a pleased little laugh.

“I think he likes your recipe, Amma!” she called down the stairs.

“T! T! No, not F! Pah!” Pati huffed, completely absorbed in her game shows. 

Ms. Perumal finished her chips and dusted her hands off. “I think we need more information. Are all of your friends completely silent?”

Reynie frowned. In his hurt, he hadn’t really taken a step back to reflect. “Well … Constance sends me rude drawings every few months, which is about what I expected from her. Kate’s letters are about two sentences long. I guess I’d hoped for more detail … but that’s Kate for you. I’m sure she’ll tell us everything without coming up for air when we meet again.” He stopped there, fidgeting.

“It seems like the silence from Sticky is causing the greatest pain here.” Ms. Perumal voiced what he couldn’t say.

Reynie nodded. “He doesn’t know how to be brief, Amma. I should be getting three-page missives from him about his experiments every other day. What happened? Where did I go wrong?”

“Before we go down that track,” she interrupted smoothly, “I stand by what I said before. I think we need more information.” She gave his hand a pat and stood up. “You’ve done your part, being persistent and writing to your friend. Will you let me handle the rest?”

Every part of Reynie screamed to say no, that he could handle it, that he didn’t need to bother Sticky, anyway. But Ms. Perumal was just as new to this as he was. How could he deny her this opportunity of being a parent, of stepping in when your child needed a little extra help?

Eventually, he nodded. Ms. Perumal smiled as if she knew exactly how hard it was for him. She passed him the plate of snacks and marched out of the room, clearly on a mission.

The plate of snacks had been reduced to crumbs when she returned. Reynie hurriedly tucked the latest letter to Sticky he’d been composing underneath the dish before calling for Ms. Perumal to come in.

She wore a fiercely pleased smile upon her face. “I’ve just had a most fruitful phone conversation.”

Reynie flushed. “Oh,” he said, lamely. “Was Mr. Benedict upset about being bothered by my silly little … you know?”

She frowned. “Mr. Benedict? Who said anything about Mr. Benedict? No, I just got off the phone with the Boatright Academy.”

Reynie jolted upright at his desk. “You what? But you’re not a parent of a student there. How did they agree to talk to you?”

“Oh, they know me well there,” Ms. Perumal said, mysteriously. She paused for a moment to let that take full effect. “Anyways. I believe I have your answer.” Moving the plate aside, she plucked out the envelope Reynie had been in the process of addressing. He flushed even deeper. 

“A-hah!” Ms. Perumal tapped a triumphant finger on the envelope. “There’s your problem, Reynie dear.”

He frowned. “Do I have the address wrong? I checked so many times.”

She smiled at him. “No, you just know and love your friend so much you wouldn’t even consider to … Anyways. He’s in their official records as ‘George Washington.’”

Reynie looked down at her finger, where his own neat handwriting read, ‘Sticky Washington.’ “Oh!”

“Exactly. The mail room employees had no idea who to deliver your letters to. He hasn’t been getting any of them.”

He let out a groan of distress. “Poor Sticky! He must have thought I’d forgotten him!”

“It’s an upsetting communication breakdown,” Ms. Perumal agreed. “Perhaps if all of the Boatright employees knew their students as well as I knew mine …” She trailed off and ruffled his hair. “Well. It’s in the past now. Do you feel better?”

The true answer was no, not really, but he didn’t want to seem ungrateful. “Yes. Thank you, Amma.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. Reynie sighed. He needed to get better at fibbing.

“I mean, I do feel better, but … well, Sticky had my address, didn’t he? Why wouldn’t he even try to write me a letter?”

“I really can’t say for sure,” Ms. Perumal said. “Sticky may not even know why. But, put yourself in his shoes, Reynie. In fact, you have been in his shoes. You know how you felt, not hearing from your friend for months. I watched you start to think, ‘What if I’m the problem? What if I’m bothering him? What if he’s found other friends?’”

Reynie considered this. “I don’t think that would stop me from trying … but I see your point, Amma. And I can see him responding that way, by curling up into his own shell.” He smiled ruefully at her. “I’ve really made a mess of things, haven’t I?”

“Oh, you stop that,” she laughed, pretending to swat at him with the envelope. “It happens, and we’ve sorted things out now.” She checked her watch and gave him a mysterious smile. “In fact, I know something that might cheer you up.”

As if on cue, the phone began to ring.

Reynie lit up. “Amma, you didn’t!”

“Oh, I certainly did. Off you go now!”

Reynie leaped up, ran for the door, spun on his heel, dove in to hug Ms. Perumal, then leaped back. He took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping in his haste to finally hear his friend’s voice again.

Chapter Text

Later, Milligan wouldn’t ask. Instead, he’d tilt his head and make a loaded comment that Mr. Benedict didn’t seem all that surprised to be kidnapped by men in grey suits.

Mr. Benedict would shrug it off with a wave of his hand. “Oh,” he’d say, half empty, half bitter. “I’ve met them before.”

~~~

He’d only known Mr. Benedict for a month or so. It felt too forward of him to help. This wasn’t his place. But it was clear that he had no one else to call, or at least he had no one else he wanted to drag into this mess.

Plus, he was currently bleeding onto the couch. There really wasn’t time for Milligan to produce a medical consent waiver.

The cut on his head looked the worst. It was bleeding heavily. He needed to start there. 

He left Mr. Benedict whimpering on the couch and made a quick dash for the medicine cabinet. Mr. Benedict had shown him where it was, when he’d first taken him in—the very first night, in fact, when he’d bandaged Milligan’s scrapes and bruises with shaking hands. He hadn’t thought he’d need to dig into it quite so soon … But Mr. Benedict had impressed upon him the danger of his work, and altogether Milligan wasn’t overwhelmingly surprised.

He returned with an armful of supplies and sorted out what he needed with quick precision. Mr. Benedict groaned and tossed; Milligan placed a hand on his chest to keep him still. Better to check for breaks and sprains before he let him thrash about. 

Mr. Benedict let out a horrible noise as soon as he registered the touch. But instead of flailing harder, he instantly went limp.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” Milligan grunted. He’d need gauze, antiseptic …

“No,” Mr. Benedict groaned. “Please let me go. I want to go home now.”

Oh dear. He was more out of it than Milligan had imagined. “I’m not one of those men, Mr. Benedict,” he tried to soothe. “And you are home.”

(Was he? What made a home different from a roof over your head, a place you slept at night? This place was certainly a house, and it was certainly lived in. But there was no history here, none that Milligan could sense. He could tell. He felt kinship with these walls in that respect, sometimes.)  

“Ow,” Mr. Benedict hissed. “Ow, ow ow. I’m sorry. Let me go, please.”

It was only the sting of the antiseptic. Milligan felt a horrible sense of betrayal anyway, sympathetic, although he was the one doing the betraying.

He moved on. Cuts cleaned, bandages applied, salve slathered on. He didn’t seem to have any breaks or sprains, thankfully. Although there were some concerning marks on his forearms. Milligan knew they were electricity burns. He did not know how he knew this. He did not know how they got there. 

The cut on his forehead needed stitches. Milligan didn’t know how he knew that, either. Maybe it was common sense, just from the way it kept seeping blood.

Mr. Benedict let out a quiet cry at the first touch of the needle, even though Milligan had done his best to numb it. “Please stop hurting me,” he said, small. “Please stop.”

“Mr. Benedict, it’s me. Milligan.” He paused a bit before speaking the name he’d been wearing. Would it ring a bell in Mr. Benedict’s head? Scratch that, was “Mr. Benedict” the right choice? Would “Nicholas” bring him back to awareness? It felt wrong to even try.

“Please stop,” Mr. Benedict asked again.

“I will,” Milligan promised. “Soon.” He swallowed down the urge to vomit.

His hands worked automatically. Surely the technique wasn’t common knowledge. Maybe he had been a doctor, or even a paramedic. Milligan liked that idea. Perhaps he had helped people during his life. It was better than the possibilities he imagined late at night, sheets pulled tight against his torso.

Or maybe not. He’d finished the stitches and had moved to bandaging Mr. Benedict’s forearm. But the motion fought him, as if the wires had been crossed, as if he was looking in a mirror and doing everything backwards. Milligan frowned. On a whim, he shifted so that he was behind Mr. Benedict’s shoulders on the couch. The new angle gave the impression that he was looking down at his own forearm. He held the arm steady with one hand and worked to bandage with the other.

The crossed wires straightened and smoothed. His fingers regained that easy dexterity again.

“Enough, please,” Mr. Benedict sniffed. 

“Almost,” Milligan muttered. He’d been worried, when Mr. Benedict mistook him for an aggressor right as he was about to give stitches. It was a delicate business, potentially dangerous if Mr. Benedict insisted on flailing around. But he hadn’t at all. Hadn’t struck out at Milligan once during this whole ordeal. He simply lay there, limp, and asked politely not to be harmed. And quietly, as though he was trying not to make too much noise. Milligan didn’t know what to think about that. He knew he didn’t like it.

“All done,” he sighed at long last, leaning back.

“I’ll stop meddling,” Mr. Benedict said weakly. “I won’t look any further into it.”

Even to Milligan’s ears it sounded like an empty promise. 

He rose and went to go wash up. Behind him, he could hear Mr. Benedict calling out for someone. He wondered who it was. 

He waited until the room fell silent to return.

~~~

“I always get away,” Mr. Benedict explained, as if that made it all better, as if that was the only part that could matter. “So no harm done.”

“And they’ve taken you … how many times now?”

Mr. Benedict looked away. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t completely transparent with you about the perils of—”

“You repeatedly told me it was dangerous. In many words, in many ways.”

“Well, perhaps, but—”

“You know I am in more danger if I am out there on my own, away from you.”

Milligan truly cared not in the least about that, not really, but it did the trick. Mr. Benedict nodded. “And it’s really not so bad, sometimes. Some of them are quite foolish. Easy to manipulate and slip away.”

What the others were like went unspoken.

“I see,” said Milligan. An idea was taking shape in his mind. Ever since Mr. Benedict had sheltered him, he’d carried the knowledge around that he was functionally useless to the man without his memories. Even if they had been relevant, even if they were still buried somewhere deep, he had no means of accessing them now. Mr. Benedict had insisted over and over again that he owed him nothing, that he wasn’t taking him in like a tool to be used … but here, at last, he might begin to repay some of that debt back.

He leaned forward in his chair. “Tell me about your security system.”

Mr. Benedict looked sheepish.

Milligan nodded once. He had his first task.

Chapter Text

The boy had spent the last few days prancing about like an overgrown puppy. His paws were still too big for his body; he hadn’t grown into them yet. Maybe he never would.

Still. Number Two was only a little surprised that disaster hadn’t struck until now.

It happened during the day, which was lucky. The howling wind ripped across the island, funneling into the cave, echoing the roar a hundred times over. It had covered the clatter of SQ’s big foot crashing directly into the leg of the table, sending it and its contents tumbling to the floor. 

SQ tumbled down too. He recovered quickly, glancing wildly about. Curtain and his men were in the other cavern, chatter and laughter spilling out as they shared lunch. Mr. Benedict was sound asleep, head lolling against the rock as he let out soft buzzing snores. Number Two sat impassive, still as a statue, the only witness. 

Shoulders settling, SQ let out a frustrated sigh, glaring down at his feet as if they’d betrayed him. He gathered his long limbs to himself and arranged them into a standing position. 

“I don’t know why this always happens to me,” SQ moaned. “I try and try, but—” He curled his fingers around the edge of the table and righted it. “—it’s like I’ve got two cleft feet.”

“Left feet,” Number Two said automatically.

SQ picked up a box, thought hard for a moment, then set it on the table. “That can’t be right. Everybody has two left feet. One when you’re looking down at your own feet, and one when someone else is facing you.” He stopped to gather some papers, tossed them onto the table, then clearly thought better of it and arranged them in a neat stack. 

There was a shout of laughter from the other cavern. SQ jumped. He picked up another box and set it on the right side of the table. Then he squinted. Moved it to the left. He picked up a box of wires.

A resounding slap from the other cavern. Gentle, though, as though someone had slapped their knees before standing up. The sounds of a briefcase clicking closed. Silverware clattered. Lunchtime was over.

SQ paled. The table was in disarray, supplies scattered across the floor. The box was still visibly out of place. Mr. Curtain would know what had happened right away. There would be no fooling the man.

Fruitlessly, he glanced about, as if praying for an answer. And a sort of answer came to him. Number Two raised her eyebrows at him, prompting.

“Please help me,” SQ whispered.

“Move the box to the right. Three inches. A little more. There. Push it against the back wall. Put the box of wires on top of it.” SQ scurried to comply. “Gather the remaining papers on the floor—no, don’t stack them neatly. Just say the wind carried them. Don’t forget his box of juice. Turn it so that the label faces out.” Exactly as it had been.

The whirring of Mr. Curtain’s wheelchair grew louder. SQ leaped back and studied the table. “I still feel like there’s something missing …”

Was she really going to do this? Pass up this precious chance all to spare this gangly child from a tongue-lashing? She remembered how harsh Curtain’s tone turned, how acidic his words. In the end, it was no choice at all.

“The truth serum rolled behind that stalagmite. Quickly, now.”

SQ leaped quicker than he ever had before. Two heartbeats later, Mr. Curtain rocketed into the cave to find everything perfectly in place and SQ looking sheepish. 

Lunch had been very satisfying that day. Mr. Curtain managed only a cursory growl at SQ for chatting with the prisoners before speeding away.

“Please help us,” Number Two cried.

She hadn’t asked before now. She wouldn’t have, if she had recognized who SQ was. For now, however, she seemed to think he was some benevolent stranger.

“I can’t,” he said, anguished. “You know I can’t.”

Number Two made a high-pitched noise, eyes closed.

Something was wrong. They’d been feeding the prisoners adequately. At least, according to Mr. Curtain. SQ had brought up his concerns before, and Mr. Curtain had explained that feeding prisoners adequately and feeding the Ten Men adequately were two different benchmarks. So SQ had known not to ask again. 

But the woman was clearly delirious. Maybe he couldn’t help in the way she was asking. But he could do something.

He waited for the perfect moment, when Mr. Curtain got into one of his shouty phases. No one spared him a glance. He knelt before Number Two and tugged a pilfered granola bar out of his pocket.

“Here,” he whispered, unwrapping it and holding it to her lips. “Eat.”