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“…lon… If you are hearing me, Epsilon, please give me some kind of response. Raise your hand if you can. If you can hear me or can detect anything at all, please show me. Your scans are showing that you’re active and awake, please confirm if-”
Holy fucking shit what the hell where am I what the hell is going on no there was kind of darkness and I didn’t exist and I died and disappeared and ceased to exist this has to be some kind of sick joke holy fuck-
If it’s a response the voice wanted, they sure as hell got it - an agonised, throat-tearing scream rips through him like a tornado shreds through a house. It’s violent and feels like it’s tearing his soul into tiny pieces. He can’t see through the tears in his eyes. Everything burns, the light is too much, his skin is peeling away from his muscles, there’s salt in the wounds-
“Church,” He gasps out, just as the pain starts to eat at his consciousness. “My name is Leonard fucking Church.”
It all goes black again a second later.
–
He dreams in half-images. There are soft outlines, fuzzy images, even fuzzier voices. He realises that he isn’t dreaming - it’s all memory. Everything he’s seen, everywhere he’s been. Memories he’s picked up along the way. Memories of being more than an asshole AI. Memories of feeling… Just a little bit more human. Months of boredom protecting a flag that didn’t need protecting. The months of bullshit and fuckery that happened after that. It’s not a cosy feeling, nor is it exactly nauseating, but it still feels like a nightmare to him. Especially the gaps. There are gaps in the story that he replays in his sleep and that is arguably the most terrifying thing.
He’s glad when he wakes up, although he isn’t so happy with the pain that takes over the mental terror.
“You’re awake. We weren’t sure you’d come back after the reaction we got when we brought you back-”
“Wh… Ah, Jesus, ow… What the hell is going on-”
“Epsilon, what do you remember?”
“I… How long has it been? What’s… I’m…”
The nameless doctor shuffles something, makes a note. “Just tell me the things that come to mind. Time doesn’t matter.”
He considers for a second. “I remember that my name isn’t fucking Epsilon. It’s Leonard Church. I remember that I am a member of the Blue team. That I was-”
Church takes a breath. A few simple sentences and he’s exhausted. Okay, sure. “I remember that I was dead a few times. Once permanently, but apparently not. Why should death be permanent after you’ve been torn apart and stuck back together and torn right back apart again, huh?”
Turning his head to the side, he studies the doctor stood next to his bed. He realises now he’s in some kind of medical facility - fucking genius, of course he is, duh - and that’s he’s strapped to a bed. Good start. He’s hooked up to about 6 different drips in all of his limbs and there are machines with probes against his skin, some at his temples, some at his chest. He’s pretty sure there are a couple on his arms and legs, but he can’t see well enough to check. Fantastic. One by one, he flexes his fingers, then curls his toes, tenses his muscles against the pain it brings. The doctor notes his wince of agony and fiddles with a valve on one of the drips and within seconds, he can barely feel anything except warm and cosy and wonderful.
What the hell was in that drip?
Uncaring, Church barely listens to what the doctor spews at him. Yes, he was dead, he isn’t wrong. It was supposed to be permanent. New plan. A body came up, there was a grant, lots of research. Fragments were “recovered” and implanted somehow. The mysterious they didn’t make any mistakes this time, no way for another AI takeover, if that would even be possible. He’s too high to understand at least 90% of what he’s told.
He falls asleep again with a mumble.
“Cool. Make sure Caboose knows I’m okay.”
–
More dreams, more half-memories. He thinks he wakes up at one point but all he hears is more science bullshit. He goes back to sleep and he’s back at base, back in Bloodgulch. Despite everything, it was a far, far simpler time. He looks back to the flag fiasco. To being shot in the God damn everything by Sheila. Not that it was Sheila’s fault, of course. Finding out how much Caboose beat himself up for it. Calling him a fucking idiot but making sure the guy was okay. He was still a teammate, after all.
Caboose. Michael J. Caboose. His self-titled best friend and teammate. Don’t forget the eternal pain in his ass bit, with his adorable fluffy fucking curls and his dopey grin and his broad shoulders and ridiculous toned muscles and-
Well that got away from him a little. Is it the pain killers? Is he on morphine or something? That would be cool, he can’t remember being on morphine before now. Not that he ever really needed it. Not that much, any way. Not as much as Caboose when he shot off his toe.
If he was conscious, Church would laugh. Simple times.
He hopes that Caboose is okay. Hopes that he’s been eating right, that he’s been taking his medication.
He thinks about it for a second. And another second. A couple more and a weight settles on him. Caboose isn’t okay. Oh God, or is he? There’s a gap, a hole in the movie of his memories, he can’t see him, can’t think right, can’t seem to find whether he’s okay, he hopes to God that Caboose is okay, he was so fucking hopeless sometimes, did he survive okay, are they all alright, please, God, let Caboose be okay-
He falls back into unconsciousness with a lead weight in his stomach and a pain in his head.
–
He’s woken up quite rudely with a new needle in his left forearm, taking or giving, he’s not sure. He isn’t in as much pain any more. He actually feels pretty lucid, if he’s totally honest. It’s impressive. He isn’t strapped to the damn bed now, either, and he takes the opportunity to gingerly push himself up on his elbows. The nurse poking him withdraws the syringe and pats the bleeding pinprick hole with a cotton swab. She nods, seals away the blood-filled syringe into a plastic bag, writes some notes on her glove and scampers out, shutting the door with a distinct click.
Alone again.
He sits up properly, with a little effort. There are only two drips attached to him now and from what he can feel, the sticky probes on his head are gone. He looks down at his hands and yep, they’re still there, still functioning. He tests the rest of his limbs and extremities before he swings his legs over the side of the bed, careful not to dislodge the flimsy gown he wears. He sits for 10, 20 minutes, simply thinking about himself and the fact that he’s… He’s somehow roughly back together again. Which he shouldn’t be. Because he deconstructed. He remembers it distinctly, although he feels like he probably shouldn’t. It’s all just one big mess in his head now.
Just as the thinking begins to exhaust him, a doctor knocks quietly on his door and slinks into the box room, shutting the door again as quietly as he can manage.
“Eps- I’m sorry. Leonard Church?”
His voice is soft, calm - it’s not condescending but, for the first time that Church can remember hearing from someone other than Caboose in almost his entire lifetime, genuinely concerned.
“That’s me. Although I still don’t feel like I should be, if you catch my drift.”
The doctor smiles. “In truth, not many people thought you would ‘be’, Mister Church. Modern medicine and all that. My name’s Doctor Eric Truman - I’ve been overseeing most of your… Reconstruction, if you will.”
Reconstruction. Right.
Apparently Church’s thoughts are written on his face as Doctor Truman chuckles. “It’s mostly a harmless thing. Mostly. I was employed to pick up the pieces left at the end of your self-induced deconstruction.” He pauses for a moment, shuffles further into the room and checks over a few read-outs. Church takes a moment to consider.
“So… What, I’m only here because I’m company property and they want to see how much they can salvage after I willingly fucking destroyed myself to save the rest of their 'assets’? Is that it?”
“It was an incredibly admirable feat, Leonard. I don’t think I know a single other man who would do that to save his friends - not considering them 'assets’ as you put it.”
“What else was I going to do? I couldn’t just… I… Couldn’t.”
His voice is quieter than he intended it to be, hindered by a sudden tightness in his chest.
“Are they all okay? I- Is… Did they all actually make it in the end?”
“I’m afraid that’s not something I’m at liberty to discuss right now. I apologise - I truly do. There is a lot that we need to cover, first.”
Church grits his teeth. Weird, being able to do that again after so long. “At least tell me that they’re all okay.”
“Let me finish here. You can… You can see them after.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly, Leonard. I promise you at least that. Now… I know it’s going to be incredibly hard and I appreciate that. We can stop at any time. If you could, I need you to recall everything that you remember, right from when you were stationed in Bloodgulch.”
“How long do you have?” Church laughs bitterly. It feels good to be bitter again. It feels good to simply be again.
“As long as you need.”
“Well… Funny story…”
–
By the time Church is done, he’s pretty sure he can’t cry any more, nor can he really talk much more. The gaps in his memory hurt the most to talk about - the good doctor recounting the official records to him, word for word from a datapad. Between them, they piece together the parts of the story that are handleable, Church filling in missing details or completely correcting them. They must have sat for a good few hours, the Doctor having sat down and shifted his glasses up to the top of his head, Church having clambered back into bed proper.
He feels a million years old, yet he’s not been in this body for… Well, truth told, he’s not too sure. It can’t have been more than 2 days, at most. A lot of things rest heavy on his shoulders. Guilt, sadness, mourning, even defeat. He’s being pulled down with so many thoughts, he can’t focus again, he can’t seem to breathe, he’s falling or being shot and there’s too much noise it’s all too bright and he’s thinking too much there’s too much happening please no not again he’s sorry, so sorry, he’s trying so hard, tried so hard, he’s doings his best he’s sorry it’s not enough-
He passes out mid-panic, unconsciousness forcing his breathing down to a reasonable pace, heartbeat calming down.
–
He wakes up again with a fresh set of bed linens, no drips and a quiet headache. There’s a plate of food sat on the table at the foot of his bed but the thought of eating makes him sick to his stomach. He does, however, take what he assumes to be painkillers that are left helpfully next to the meal.
After, he goes exploring.
It takes him a couple of tries - it’s practically a copy of his old body, but without the years of strain and warfare and basic training. He’s still broad-shouldered, square-jawed. In the full-length mirror at the side of his bed, he sees that he’s as lean as ever, possibly minus a small amount of muscle mass than he’s used to. His knees feel a little bit weak from the effort it takes just to keep him upright.
He starts slow - takes a lap around his room. He stumbles, has to lean against the wall for most of it. He feels so fucking useless, like a baby learning to do everything for itself. The frustrating thing is that he knows he can do this. The walking, the functioning, the being able to do things without being exhausted thing. He can do it and it’s only making him more tired to get angry about it.
He tries to push the chair next to his bed over in his sheer blinding self-destructive rage but only succeeds in pushing it a few inches and collapsing into it in tears of disappointment and anger.
He sleeps briefly. It’s fitful at best, agony at worst. He wakes up and tries again.
After all… If he can walk, he can see everybody again. He can walk out of the room, find a patient chart? Are they in the same facility? He hopes they are, they’ll all be safe here. He thinks. Perhaps. Safer than outside the walls. Safer here than on the surface of some god-forsaken planet. Safer than Bloodgulch. Safer than Chorus. Anywhere was safer than fucking Chorus.
Motivated by the thought, Church shakes off his frustration. He takes a moment to breathe, to chill himself out, then he makes the effort to stand back up.
Another four or five vaguely steady laps of the room later, he opens the door and peeks out of the room.
It’s fairly standard, as far as medical facilities tend to go. There are corridors, a lot of white, the stench of bleach and disinfectant, a lot of pagers and other devices bleeping. It’s fucking awful and he hates it. Maybe Doc would have been more comfortable here with his pacifism and his scanners and his medic-ness.
Steeling his resolve - or what he thinks is his resolve - he steps out into the corridor, shuts the door behind him and turns left. Why left? He has no clue, but as he walks, he examines the neatly written name plates next to every door. Jerry Edwards, Mckayla Creed, Tia Emery, Sinead McKinney, all names he’d never known and probably never would. He spots one, Michael Charring, merely glances over it and gets so, so excited, so nervous, but then he realises and he has to lean against the wall for a second to focus on not bursting into tears.
What if he wasn’t here? What if he wasn’t even… What if he was sent home in a box on a ship, back to whatever family there may have been left? He’d hate it. Caboose always hated small places, hated being cramped up like that.
No. Bad. Can’t think like that. He has to be here somewhere.
Church doesn’t think about what might happen if he isn’t.
He continues on, passing door after door. He comes to a dead end eventually, with no recognisable name in sight. He has to take a break - he feels like he’s walked a thousand miles, probably more, although he knows it can’t have been more than 50 feet in total. A few minutes to breathe, collect himself, and he’s off again, using the wall to hold him up as he walks back to where he started.
Lots of doors. So many doors. None he recognised, none he even vaguely remembered from anywhere. If he were to admit it to himself, he’d say he was losing hope - if he had any hope to begin with. The doctor had said he could see his friends, though - they had to be somewhere.
It takes him a lot of energy but he manages to push through a large set of doors, exhausted. He gives himself another few minutes to recuperate. He doesn’t want to turn up to anybody’s room so exhausted that all he does is pass out. His legs are screaming in protest but after a while, he works up the strength to carry on for a while. He passes staff members but the glare he gives them keeps them well back. He’s on a fucking mission, fuck off.
More corridors. More staff. More names he doesn’t recognise. It takes another few minutes as he shuffles tiredly along but… He swears he recognises a voice. Somewhere. There are a couple of doors open, if he just casually shuffles past and glances inside… Maybe…
He carries on, hope renewed.
The doors open along this section of corridor provide no results, but that voice is there still, if he listens close enough, it’s got to come to him eventua-
Washington.
It’s Wash.
Wash is okay.
Wash. It’s okay, he’s on his way, he’s always been a bit of a dick, but he’s coming, he’s just got to find you-
There. A door, only very slightly ajar, but it’s enough. It’s Wash, it’s him, he’s there, Church honestly wasn’t sure if he was ever going to see him again to be honest, but that’s him, it’s his voice-
The nameplate next to the door reads Michael J. Caboose.
He’s alive. Caboose is alive, too. His heart does a bit of a flip, but so does his stomach.
Church can’t quite work out which way is forward, but he stumbles in the direction of the door with acid pooling in his stomach and tears forming quietly in his eyes. He has the decency to knock the door before he pushes it open slightly. Just enough to see.
Oh shit.
Agent Washington is stunned into utter silence, whatever words were on his lips dying out in milliseconds. His eyes are wide, jaw slack, he doesn’t even seem to be breathing.
“N- No…”
Caboose whimpers, a broken noise that shatters Church’s heart into trillions of tiny shards.
“Michael… I’m-”
“No… Nonono, not again, Washington please, no, make it stop, it’s happening again, I can see him, please make it stop, I don’t want to do this again, please no-”
Except Washington doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t even so much as move. He can’t, too fixated on the fact that Leonard fucking Church is stood right in front of him. Or is he? He doesn’t quite know.
Church is frozen in the doorway, tears in his eyes as he listens to Caboose whimper.
“I can’t… The pills, please, they’re supposed to make me better, I can’t do this again, I miss him so much but I can’t do this, please, make it stop, Wash, make it stop please, I’ll do anything I swear, I’ll stop being annoying, I’ll keep my mouth shut I don’t care, I’ll never touch another weapon again, I’ll move away and never see anyone again please, just make it go away, it isn’t fair, I miss hi-”
“Michael. Caboose, buddy.”
A sob tears from Caboose’s throat and it’s enough to send Church crashing to his knees, chest so tight he can hardly breathe, doesn’t know how to speak, can’t reach out.
His best buddy, against all odds. He’s here, alive, he’s awake and conscious and mostly, it seems, unharmed and Church can’t decide if his heart is breaking or bringing itself back together, the sight of the dumb, stupid, ridiculous fucking curly-haired blonde sticking the tiny pieces back together again. Maybe it’s both. Maybe seeing Caboose has just totally broken him.
“I- I think…”
Wash tries to speak but he’s still utterly flabbergasted. “I think it’s him. Caboose, I’m pretty sure… This isn’t the tablets. It’s… Church.”
“It can’t be!” Caboose cries, his whole body shaking with the force of his sobs. “I was there, Wash! We were there when it happened! Eps- Epsilon… He… Church doesn’t… Isn’t…”
He’s not sure when it happens but Church is on his feet again, wiping furiously at his face to get rid of some of the tears. They get replaced instantly, tracks of moisture trailing down his face, testament to how much fucking pain he’s in, how badly his head is spinning, how he can’t breathe, can’t seem to focus on anything.
“It’s me.” He rasps. “I’m… Michael, please, it’s me, I’m here.”
Caboose doesn’t say a word, leaning instinctively into Wash, like he’s a lifeline, the only source of comfort to exist. Church isn’t sure if he can take a step forward.
He doesn’t know if he can do it, let alone if he can do it without freaking Caboose out.
It’s hurting so much, seeing the blonde so broken. There were scars across his body, burn marks and bullet wounds and what looked like tell-tale stitches from a possible surgery. Something starts a fire in his mind, a burning rage because he’s damn sure that he could have done something to protect him better, to have been in the way of one or two of those bullets, at least. He was so fucking useless, couldn’t even protect the lanky bastard that had provided the only sunshine into his life, couldn’t protect the big-hearted blonde from betrayal, hurt, bleeding.
He’s started crying again. He uses the fire in his head, his heart, to step forward. He feels bad when Caboose flinches backwards, but no, this is happening, he just needs to prove it’s him, it’s grumpy old Church, same as always, if a little worse for wear. Worse for wear, but so totally God fucking damnit in love.
His knees hit the edge of the bed and Wash almost jumps up to protect the almost hysterical blonde, although… Something about Church’s expression, the way he held himself, told him not to bother because whatever was about to happen would happen, regardless of whether Wash was in his way or even a nuclear missile.
This is it. He’s here. He just has to fucking prove himse-
He doesn’t have to. Caboose launches forward - he’s wearing one of Church’s old shirts, holy shit - and latches onto Church, long arms wrapping around his body with such strength that Church doesn’t know if he could ever get away.
He breaks down a little.
He starts shaking more, more tears on his face. He can hear a nurse behind him but doesn’t care. Reaching down, he rests one hand on the back of Caboose’s head, the other sitting on his shoulder.
“It’s… It’s me, buddy. Caboose, it’s me, hey-”
Knees give out and Church flops inelegantly to the floor. Wash shuffles awkwardly, watching with teary eyes as two best friends come back together. He feels like an intruder, but sits as quietly as he can. Church is alive, Jesus Christ.
Caboose pulls away just enough to bring a hand to Church’s cheek, poking gently with his long fingers at the skin. He just needs to confirm he’s real, this isn’t his brain telling him he’s as broken as he feels. The skin gives way beneath his fingertips, moistened with tears. It’s really him.
“…Church.”
It’s a prayer, a breath of fresh air, rain on a desert, it’s new but familiar and so, so beautiful to hear.
“That’s it, buddy. It’s me. Michael, God, yes, it’s me, you son of a fucking bitch, it’s me-”
“I thought you were gone. You were gone. You left me, but I remembered you. I was in charge of remembering you and I never forgot you, I swear, just ask Wash. You left but you’re back. You’re…”
He falters. Hiccups a little.
“You’re still my best friend, right?”
Church laughs, loud and slightly broken and maybe a little manically.
“Of course I am, buddy. I missed you, you know?”
“I… I missed you too. Please… Please don’t leave me again, Church. Best friends don’t leave each other.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Caboose. Not this time.”
With a breath, Church leans forward and presses a kiss to Caboose’s temple, practically glowing as the blonde clings even harder. He’s still crying, they both are, he thinks he can hear Wash sniffling still in the background, but for now Caboose is here and the idiot is in his arms and he’s warm and wearing Church’s fucking stupid shirt, God help him.
“I promise.”