Mike Warren has endured so much in such a short amount of time. 

From his exhausting, demanding training at Quantico, to field missions gone horribly wrong in LA, there are very few dangers that Mike is unaccustomed to. 

He prides himself, for the most part, on being able to take most of his encounters in stride. When a gun is held to his temple, he fights down the rising panic and keeps his gaze steely and strong. 

He’s never quite gotten to the point of understanding the mechanics of a wave crashing over him, though, pommeling him and yanking him impossibly in every direction. 

Another thing about Mike Warren is that he is proud. He doesn’t take defeat lightly. When he falls off his surfboard, plunging into the churning water below, he usually laughs along with Briggs, ignoring the sting of seawater in his throat and nose. The alternative is too troubling to consider. 

On one instance, however, he cannot shake the feeling of unease as he gets up on his board, despite Briggs’ encouragement. 

“This is a good wave! You got this!” Briggs shouts over the roar of the current as a wave nears ever closer. It’s still in its infancy; the churning underneath its peak suggests its strength as it continues to grow. 

Mike makes haste in getting his legs underneath himself, staying low to the board as the wave begins to lift him, slowly at first but moving regardless. 

In his peripheral vision, Mike sees Briggs floating on his board behind him. He’s in this alone, Mike resolves, and decides he’s going to make Briggs proud. As the wave picks up, he finds his balance, feeling every muscle in his legs engage. 

For a moment, he feels as though he’s floating. 

The next, the wave is crashing, and Mike’s board flips, and his head goes underneath the deep, churning water. 

“Shit! What a wipeout!” Briggs calls over the swell, paddling toward where Mike’s board is being pulled by the current, further towards the shore. 

Something brushes against the skin of Briggs’ bare ankle, causing him to flinch. He’s accustomed to feeling seaweed and the occasional small fish out in the water, but this sensation is both foreign and familiar in a very disconcerting way. Steadying himself, Briggs reaches down into the water, grasping the unknown object. His heart sinks as he brings it up, and sees Mike’s surfboard move with it. The ankle tether is empty, broken open at the cuff, and Mike is nowhere to be seen. 

For a second, everything goes fuzzy as adrenaline and fear flood Briggs’ veins. He doesn’t have the time to panic; his subordinate is missing. Taking a deep breath, Briggs gives the horizon one final, cautious glance before diving under. The salt water burns his eyes as he forces them open, trying desperately to spot any sort of irregularity in the murky, almost unseasonably cold water. From above, Briggs can feel a wave coming and going, but he’s so deep beneath the surface that it barely touches him. 

Blinking to clear his field of vision, Briggs reckons with the fact that he can’t hold his breath forever. Making one final sweep with his arms, he resigns himself to pushing upwards, gasping for breath as he breaks the surface, surrounded by undulating white foam around him in the wake of another wave. 

This—a high-stakes rescue—is something Briggs was, in fact, trained for. He’s had to dive into freezing waters and dodge bullets to save lives before, but there’s something unshakably different about this situation. Mike’s been through too much, endured too many near-death experiences, for a morning surf to be his end. 

As Briggs contemplates this, treading water and trying to fight the steadily rising panic in his chest, he feels something else brush against him. It’s more natural than the soaked cord of the ankle tether, but it’s definitely not seaweed, or even a fish. 

“Mike!” Briggs’ voice breaks in his attempt to grab onto whatever part of Mike has managed to touch him—it could be a hand, it could be a foot—and pull him up. 

Finding purchase locked around Mike’s wrist, Briggs’ strong hands inch up to Mike’s torso, going under and filling his own nose and mouth with seawater as Mike finally resurfaces. 

Amidst the panicked rescue, Briggs has managed to inch ever closer to shore. It only takes a few strong strokes through the water, the current acting in his favor, for Briggs to be able to stand, dragging Mike with him. It doesn’t matter what state Mike is in right now, Briggs just knows that he needs to get out of the ocean. They both do. 

The beach is empty when Briggs finally steps out of the water, feeling the morning air hit his wet body all at once. He carries Mike over his shoulder, ignoring his instinct to find a pulse until he can get further ashore. Graceland is in sight, but getting there seems a Herculean task given the circumstances. 

The first thing that Briggs notices is that Mike is not breathing. He lets his training take over him; he presses down firmly on Mike’s chest, forcing breath down his airway, trying desperately to get Mike to wake up. His efforts seem entirely fruitless as Mike’s pale face remains slack and his chest remains still. Even so, Briggs continues, putting more force into his movements. Mike can endure a couple bruised ribs, but he cannot slip away like this. Briggs will not allow that to happen. Grabbing Mike’s jaw, forcing his mouth open, Briggs pushes more breath down his throat, sacrificing his own air for Mike’s sake. 

All at once, he feels saltwater rushing into his own mouth, falling back onto his hands and sputtering as Mike does the same, gasping raggedly. Briggs expects to feel all of his inertia and fear melt away at the sight and sound of Mike coughing up mouthful after mouthful of water, but he has enough field experience to know that he and Mike are both far from being in the clear. 

Mike’s eyes, which for a moment were wide with terror, now flutter between open and shut. “Hey, hey, stay with me, Mikey. Please stay with me,” Briggs pleads, lightly tapping Mike on the side of his head. 

At this, Mike does make a more pointed effort to keep his eyes open, wincing as pain shoots through his entire body like an electric shock. His lips possess a blue tinge to them that makes Briggs nervous, and his skin is clammy and cold to the touch. Against the warming sand and dawning rays of the sun, Mike shivers. 

Briggs knows that he has to get Mike up to the house, and then to a hospital. He’s known enough Navy seals to understand that one can only be without oxygen for so long without things going very, very badly. 

“Mike, I need you to listen to me,” Briggs says, angling Mike’s face so that his glassy blue eyes come into focus. “I’m gonna have to carry you. When we get inside, I’m gonna get you warmed up and then… we’re gonna have to go somewhere to get you taken care of. Does that sound okay?”

Mike manages a nod, his eyes going out of focus again as soon as Briggs finishes speaking. 

On the count of three, Briggs slowly lifts Mike into his arms, trying his best not to jostle him. In return, Mike coughs violently, too unaware of his surroundings to make an attempt to turn away from Briggs. 

From deep in Mike’s throat, he makes a noise that sounds like a very hoarse, very sad apology as soon as the coughing ceases.  

“Shh, it’s alright,” Briggs says, trudging through the soft sand, ignoring how it sticks to his damp wetsuit. “You can cough in my face all you want.”

Briggs intends this lightheartedly, but Mike’s brow furrows as he suppresses another cough. “Hey, just let it out. It’s alright.”

Weakly, Mike coughs again, the spasms of his chest building in intensity as Briggs reaches the back door to the house. Completely bypassing the doormat, tracking sand and ocean water into the house, Briggs stumbles across the threshold and into the kitchen. 

Overall, it’s a normal breakfast at Graceland. Paige is cooking, Charlie is assaulting the shitty coffee maker in the hopes that it’ll work, and Johnny and Jakes are locked in an argument about milk carton ownership. All of this ceases as soon as Charlie glances up at the sound of the door opening.

“Oh, my God,” she gasps, causing everyone else in the kitchen to look up as well. 

It’s a rather terrifying sight—the anguish on Briggs’ face alone is telling enough—but Graceland doesn’t operate on terror. If it did, nothing would ever get done.

“Johnny—the couch—” Briggs stammers, and Johnny shoves the carton of milk into Jakes’ hands and follows the orders given to him just as directly as if he were in the field in the middle of a bust. Clearing the couch of pillows, blankets, magazines, and takeout containers from the night before, Johnny waits expectantly for Briggs to set Mike down. 

“What the hell happened?” Charlie asks, dropping to her knees beside Mike as he whimpers, throat too wrecked to muster up much more than base, pathetic sounds. 

“We were surfing, I didn’t… the tether broke,” Briggs replies, avoiding eye contact with the others in the room. 

Mike writhes; Paige looks away in response, something unsavory bubbling in her chest at the sight of her coworker, her housemate, her friend, in such a state. 

Meanwhile, the others are preoccupied in the present moment, Charlie taking Briggs’ hand and rubbing comforting circles into it with her thumb. Seeing Briggs panic, Charlie knows this situation is dire. “It’s no use keeping him here,” she says, “Kid looks like he’s on the brink of death.”

Briggs swallows hard, nodding. He breaks his gaze from the rise and fall of Mike’s chest in search of his car keys, but Charlie puts a hand out to stop him. 

“You’re too freaked out to drive, Paulie. Help me get him in the car and I’ll take him.”

There’s no point in protesting with Charlie once she’s made up her mind, so Briggs just sighs and steps back, nodding toward Jakes as he slips an arm underneath Mike’s back, lifting him up. Jakes leads a couple steps ahead, opening the front door and letting Briggs out into the driveway. 

In the arms of his training officer, Mike feels weak and sick and not much else. He feels even weaker when he’s being shuffled around, propped up in the backseat of Charlie’s car. 

“Hospital’s too risky, I’m taking him to the bureau clinic.”

Briggs opens his mouth as if to speak, but the words die on his tongue, washed away in the swell of the ocean. With Mike so deep into his case, and the downtown hospital’s wait times being egregiously long, he knows that it’s the right choice.

“Keep me updated,” Briggs says, low and serious, as Charlie opens the driver’s side door. 

Charlie just nods, rising onto her tiptoes to kiss Briggs on the cheek, an act of reassurance. The uneasy, involuntary twitch from him that follows fills him with guilt as the engine turns over and Charlie backs out of the driveway. 

When Briggs returns, face burning, his housemates are gathered in the living room, standing warily around the now-damp sofa. 

Before any of them can speak, Briggs turns, making his way up the stairs. Wordlessly, Paige strips the couch of its cushions to let them dry, and gets back to cooking breakfast despite the household’s collective loss of appetite, trying her best to work around the overcooked, rubbery egg residue in the pan.

“You alright back there, baby?” Charlie glances back at Mike as she takes the exit off of the highway. 

Mike has to clear his throat several times before he can get an answer out. “Yeah,” he rasps, coughing in a way that makes Charlie feel his pain. 

She wants to ask him what happened, since Briggs sure as hell wasn’t telling her anything. Still, she settles for silence over Mike’s loud, harsh coughing as she nears the FBI complex, trying to park closest to the entrance of the clinic. 

For the first time since he got on his surfboard this morning, Mike manages to stand. It’s a bit of a feat: Charlie has an arm around his waist and he has to stop every couple steps to catch his breath, limping and grimacing in pain. The stares from various agents that they both garner as they enter through the doors make Charlie feel uncharacteristically angry at everyone, and her field of vision narrows to Mike and only Mike. 

After signing in, there’s nothing to do but wait. Fortunately, between the time they sit down in the small, poorly-lit waiting room and the time a doctor steps out asking for one Agent Warren, nothing has changed in relation to Mike’s health. Unfortunately… nothing has changed in relation to Mike’s health. He heaves himself up out of the chair and Charlie sucks in a breath as she watches him lag behind the doctor, struggling to keep up. 

By the time she sees Mike’s knee buckle under him, she can’t get up fast enough before he hits the ground. 

Charlie swats the doctor’s hands away against her better judgment, watching helplessly as Mike gasps for breath. 

The secretary at the front desk approaches, leading with an awfully squeaky wheelchair. With the combined forces of the two clinic workers and Charlie, Mike is hoisted into it, damp hair hanging in his face as his expression crumples up in discomfort. 

“I’ll update you, Agent Demarco,” the doctor placates, patting Mike’s shoulder. Charlie’s jaw tightens, but she smiles and nods, masking her worry and desperation as the doctor and Mike disappear down the hallway. 

Half an hour later—although it could’ve been days, for all Charlie knows—she sees Mike’s face again, and this time he gives her a pitiful thumbs-up. He’s still sitting in the uncomfortable wheelchair, and his face has lost none of its sunken pallor from before. Charlie knows she has to talk to Briggs eventually, but right now, she doesn’t want anything to do with him. She just wants to make sure Mike is okay.

The engine of the car idles in the parking lot as Charlie holds her phone to her ear, listening to the monotonous hum of the dial tone. Right as she’s about to give up, the line clicks and she hears Briggs’ voice. 

“How’s he doing?”

“Mm, I dunno. Mikey, how’re you doing?”

Charlie glances over at Mike, who is now sitting in the passenger seat, leaning against the door. He gives her a truly sad attempt at a grin.

“He says he’s been better.”

Through the phone, Charlie hears Briggs chuckle. 

“They looked at him, said he’s mostly okay, just in shock. We just need to keep an eye on him in case anything changes,” Charlie says, putting the car in reverse and holding the phone between her chin and her shoulder. 

“Good, good. We don’t want anything happening to our golden boy.”

Charlie shoots Mike an incredulous look, pointing at her phone. This time, Mike’s smile looks more real and less pitiful.

“No, we wouldn’t,” Charlie says, stopping in front of the gate to the parking garage, waiting for it to rise and let her out. “Let’s talk when I get home, alright?”

As she turns onto the main road, leaving the imposing gray concrete building behind, Charlie sets down her phone, letting out a long sigh. 

While this is by far not the most stressful morning she’s ever had, she can’t get out of her head the way Briggs seemed so shaken up. It’s so unlike him, she knows, having seen him in many a crisis before. Panic typically rolls off of him in waves when it hits; he doesn’t let it leach into his skin and make a home there. 

In the midst of her thoughts, Mike coughs, snapping Charlie back into the present moment. He can’t seem to catch his breath as he hacks and hacks, doubling over in the passenger seat. Keeping one hand on the steering wheel, Charlie reaches over and pats Mike on the back with her other, feeling his chest spasm as he coughs. Charlie tentatively scans the road for good places to pull over, just in case, but right as she reaches for her turn blinker the coughing miraculously subsides. Mike clears his throat, resting his forehead on the lacquered wood paneling of the dashboard as he breathes in and out, slowly and methodically. The sound is familiar to Charlie, soothing even, until she realizes why: Briggs must have taught Mike that breathing pattern. 

The rest of the drive is spent with the windows cracked ajar to let some fresh air in, and with a trepid silence filling the void of conversation. The clock on the dashboard reads 8:30, and that alone is enough to make Charlie yawn and her stomach grumble at the thought of her interrupted early morning coffee.

For a Sunday morning, the traffic retains its sparseness, which just about halves the regular commute time from downtown to Graceland. It’s barely nine o’clock when Charlie pulls into the driveway again, courteously reaching over to unbuckle Mike’s seatbelt for him before she gets out. He insists at first that he doesn’t need her help, but the way he has to lean against Briggs’ car for a couple seconds while walking inside makes him change his mind. 

“Gonna maybe… lay down on the couch for a bit,” Mike tells Charlie of his plans as she helps him into the front hall. He winces at the noise of the coffee grinder churning angrily from the kitchen, but keeps steady on his path to the couch. 

As soon as he lays down, the coffee grinder halts, leaving the house feeling silent and uninhabited despite everyone still being home. “How’s he doing, Chuck?” Briggs appears from the kitchen, having showered and dressed for the day.

“We already had this discussion. We need to talk, you and me.”

Briggs glances at Mike—he somehow looks worse than he did earlier—and nods. 

“Oh, I, uh… I’m making you some coffee, if you want it,” Briggs offers, extending an olive branch of sorts. He figures it’s the least he can do. 

Charlie runs a hand through her hair, letting some of her reserve crumble as she fights back a yawn. “Some coffee might be nice.”

“It’s still brewing. C’mere, let’s talk.” Pulling Charlie into the kitchen by her waist, Briggs settles up against the cold countertop of the kitchen island, now void of ingredients and cookware from an earlier, bygone breakfast. 

The spluttering of the coffee maker is the only sound in the kitchen now. Charlie refuses to break eye contact with Briggs, tilting her chin up to try to match his height. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Chuck. We were surfing, the kid hit a wave wrong, it happens.”

“How long was he out for?”

“Huh?”

“How long,” Charlie repeats, “was he out for? Paul, I need to know if he’s brain damaged or not, for Christ’s sake!”

“Hey, hey,” Briggs soothes, running his hands down Charlie’s arms, leaving goosebumps in his wake. “If the doctors at the clinic said he’s fine, he’s fine.”

“I don’t know if I can trust them. I don’t know if I can trust you .”

Charlie finally lets herself look away, lets herself escape from those dark eyes before they swallow her whole. All Briggs does is sigh again. 

“I gotta leave for work.”

Briggs leaves Charlie on the edge of the conversation as he maneuvers around her and out of the kitchen, adopting his cool-guys-don’t-look-at-explosions philosophy as he refuses to glance back at her, as if she’ll descend to the pits of hell if his resolve so much as cracks. 

Attempting to quell her frustration, Charlie pours herself a cup of coffee, forgoing any sugar or milk. She allows herself the simple pleasure of enjoying her coffee sometimes, but today all she needs is the bitter taste in her mouth and the pure caffeine in her blood. As she pours from the machine, feeling the plumes of steam roiling up from the surface to her face, she hears Briggs’ footsteps on the stairs, and the jangle of his keys. She doesn’t look up from the swirling, inky black in her mug. If she does, she knows she won’t like what she sees. 

Graceland is a big house. Charlie chooses to drink her coffee sitting where Mike is curled up on the couch, his heels digging into the side of her thigh as they share the space. Whether she wants to or not, she is going to spend the entirety of her and Mike’s impromptu day off following the doctors’ orders and making sure he’s okay, because Briggs sure as hell won’t. 

“Anything I can get you?” Charlie asks, setting her mug down on the coffee table. 

Mike stirs, trying to get comfortable. “No, no, don’t worry about it,” he mutters, reaching for a blanket. 

Charlie reaches down and grabs it off of the floor for him, watching him drape it over himself until his face is the only thing visible underneath the colorful woven threads. He inhales deeply, taking in the smell of fresh-brewed coffee and salty air. 

By the time Charlie drains her mug of the last dregs of coffee, Mike has dozed off, neck bent at an uncomfortable looking angle against the arm of the couch. Charlie so rarely sees Mike like this: truly defenseless, truly at rest. If it weren’t for the pale tint to his skin and the way he shivers unconsciously in his sleep, Charlie could say he looks peaceful. But alas, his life is one that so rarely invites in any sort of peace. This—a fitful, nightmare-filled sleep on the sofa—is the closest he’ll get.

The weight of the empty ceramic mug in Charlie’s hand suddenly becomes an anchor tethering her to the floor; she forces herself onto her feet anyway and sets it down gently in the sink, nestled between a haphazard stack of plates and a stained cast-iron pan that predates several of the residents of Graceland. 

Lost in her contemplation, she remains oblivious to the footsteps drawing nearer, until she senses that someone is right behind her.

“Hey,” she says, her smile softening when she sees Mike, still wrapped in the blanket, holding a glass.

“Hi,” he responds. “Came in here to get some water.” 

Gesturing towards the sink, Mike stands a few feet away until Charlie backs up, allowing him access to the faucet. “You could’ve asked me instead of getting up.”

 Charlie can’t help but grimace as Mike scans over the dirty dishes in the sink, knowing that his name is up on the chore wheel. She’ll have to fix that later, just like she fixes every other goddamn thing in this house.

Mike just scoffs as he carefully fills the glass, shutting off the tap slowly. “I don’t need to be taken care of, I promise. I’m okay.”

Something in Mike’s hearty confidence falters for a second as he takes a step, water sloshing dangerously against the glass, threatening to spill. Charlie does nothing but watch him make his way back to the couch, balancing the glass and his blanket, trying to stay in perfect equilibrium. It’s no wonder he’s not gotten the hang of surfing.