Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Martin is going to love this.

Strawberries and pink melon fresh from Alice's farm are cut symmetrically, placed onto slices of milk bread baked that morning at Sweet Hearth. The cream in the middle Cecil made from scratch, and maybe isn’t the best ever whipped up, but he knows Martin will be able to taste the effort he's putting into this. The care.

He's arranging their places at the table, making sure Martin's spot has the sandwich with slightly more cream, when the front door opens.

“Hey!” Cecil lights up. “I was wondering when you'd get home.”

“What, am I late?” Martin says, barely looking at Cecil as he hurries to his room. Cecil watches from the doorway as Martin, in an obvious rush, strips off his top and tugs on a clean one. His hair is damp and wild, the mix of a day spent sweating by the forge and the sporadic Spring showers Rigbarth faces every year.

“Never too late for a homemade dinner,” Cecil informs him, grinning.

“Dinner...?” Martin is finally looking at Cecil, openly confused. “You made dinner?”

“Yeah, of course. See, look!” Cecil returns to the main room, where everything is set up at the table. “All ready to go!”

“Oh...” Martin follows, taking it in but not getting too close. He glances to the door, as if waiting to bolt out, then back to Cecil. “It looks great, it really does, but I'd already planned to meet up with Alice and Reinhard at Lackadaisy. To update them on the sword. I was gonna eat there.”

Throughout Spring, Martin has been working on a ceremonial longsword meant to be presented as a gift to Beatrice's father, the king of Norad, to commemorate his rightful return to the throne. Cecil's never seen him so hyper-focused on a project, which is saying something since this is Martin.

He's thrilled for his brother—this is an honor like no other—but it also means longer days, less time for them to see each other (which is already minimal, as it is).

“Yeah, I getcha. But tonight...” Today. “I was hoping it could just be you and me.”

“Then, how about you come along with me to Lackadaisy?” Martin suggests, and upon seeing Cecil's distress, quickly adds, “Let's wrap the sandwiches up, put them in the fridge.  Mine'll be perfect for lunch tomorrow.”

Any other time, Cecil would leap at the invitation; Alice is one of his best friends, and he admires Reinhard's diligence and dedication.

But today, of all days...

“Martin...?” Cecil ventures, not moving to clean up the sandwiches. His appetite has disappeared completely; his stomach feels like it's filled with stone. “Don't you know what today is?” Why I want it to just be us?

“It's... I don't know, what, Tuesday?”

“It's been thirteen years since...”

“Since...? Oh.” Martin sighs heavily, at least trying to look like the revelation pains him. But Cecil's not fooled. “Gods, Cecil, I wouldn't have... I had no idea. I've had other things on my mind, you know that.”

“I haven't,” Cecil says. “It's all I've been thinking about lately.”

“Not just lately,” Martin says darkly.

“Well, it's not like missing them has an expiration date!” Cecil shoots back. “You can't expect me to just forget.”

“Because you don't let yourself.” Martin sighs again. “Listen, I can make sure I'm not out too long. I'll be back in an hour, tops, if you really want the company, and—”

“No, don't worry about it.” The hurt spreading through Cecil seeps into his voice. “It's not important to you, it's fine.”

“Don't say that,” Martin says sternly. “Just because my life doesn't revolve around something that happened thirteen years ago doesn't mean it's not important to me.”

Cecil hates arguing. Even more so, he hates arguing with Martin. Everyone says that the two brothers are as different as can be, but one trait they both possess is an unwillingness to concede a point they believe strongly in. And Cecil knows, full well, Martin's uncompromising opinion on their parents' departure.

“But that's what it feels like! You don't act like it's important.  Heck, you keep telling me to give up, and you never have any reason for it! Just because you don't think Mom and Dad—”

“They're not coming back, Cecil. I know they're not. Why can't you take my word for it? That they're gone.”

“Because you’ve said that a million times! But your word isn't proof, or evidence that—”

WHAM!

Cecil's cut off by the chair's wooden legs slamming violently against the floor. Martin is gripping it with shaking hands, his face tensed from rage. Even with Ryker, he doesn't react this strongly, and Cecil's never been scared of Martin, but right now... he's scared for his brother.

“I don't mean that they're… away,” he says with deliberate evenness; he's obviously as rattled by the intensity of his anger as Cecil is. “Off exploring the world or whatever else you think they're doing. I mean that they're gone. They're dead. They've been dead... for years, now. They're—...”

Cecil can barely hear him through the thundering of his mind.  All he hears is a voice that must be his own.

“Martin—”

“Let me finish! They're—”

“No! You're lying!” The accusation comes out as a cracked sob.

“Why would I lie about this?! You think I want it to be true? You think I wanted to spend all these years watching you waste your time pursuing them, trying to chase down ghosts? I can't...!”

Martin turns, hammers his fist into the wall next to him. Cecil flinches.

He sees Martin's pain. Can feel it radiating from him.

All it does is pile on top of his own, pouring into the savage, bleeding wound that's been ripped open. He's crying now. Shaking. His knees are going to buckle. The world is going to collapse in on him.

He doesn't know how he's able to speak. Because he can't think, either. Can't picture Mom and Dad in his mind's eye. Can only see Martin, a streaky version of him, still turned away.

Cecil wants to throw himself at his brother, demand he explain himself. Demand he stop lying. Stop hurting him.

Somehow he strings a question together, chokes it out. “When were you going to tell me?!”

“I don't know. I don't know, ” Martin replies. “I don't... when you were older, or—”

“I'm nineteen! I'm not a kid!” No matter how much he's seconds from throwing a tantrum like one. “I was going to find them! You weren't...! Weren't s-supposed to... to...!”

“I was trying to protect you!” Martin says as he wheels around. “To look out for you, like Mom and Dad never did. Why can't you just forget them? I'm your... your...” his voice breaks; he never cries in front of Cecil, but his breathing is trembling, wet, and part of Cecil feels an ugly sort of victory—that Martin made him cry, so now he's bound to the same fate. He finishes, after a thick swallow. “It's always felt like only having your brother isn't good enough for you.”

Cecil's sure not a single one of the hundreds of swords Martin's helped forge can cut any swifter or deeper. He has no time or ability to defend himself, can only let himself be struck, wounded...

...And then, through the debilitating pain, comes the will—rather, some animal-like urge—to fight back.

“More like I'm the one not good enough for you!” Cecil points fiercely to Martin for emphasis. “Keeping all these secrets, lying to me!”

Martin reaches for him carefully, meaning to corral his wild gesturing. “Cecil, that's not—”

He smacks Martin's hand away. “Yes, it is! Just admit it! The day Mom and Dad left, I stopped being a brother to you and became nothing but a burden!”

Martin takes a huge step back, as if he's been pushed.

Cecil means it, he means it, if only because it's how he's felt to this whole town at times. So why wouldn't it be the same with Martin, who treats him like they all do? An inconvenience, a joke. Martin's obsession with his work has always just been part of who he is, but Cecil's spent all this time ignoring what else it is: hard evidence verifying how badly he wants to put space between himself and Cecil, how ardently he wants to live the life he would have, had he not been saddled with a kid brother to raise.

“I need... I need to...” The sobs crash through him, a powerful wave. He blindly staggers back, meaning to head towards his room. He thinks. He doesn't know where he's going. What he's saying. What he's doing. Why or how he's doing it. “I'm going, I'm gonna... I have to go, Martin... I can't...”

Cecil finds his way to his room and stuffs the first couple pieces of clothing he finds in his dresser into his satchel. Doesn't know how clean they are, what they even are. His vision is entirely obscured by tears.

Martin blocks the doorway as Cecil tries to leave by ducking around him. No luck. He attempts to go around the other side, met with the same result.

“Let me go!” He whales at Martin with his satchel but is instantly stopped by arms around him, half an embrace and half meant to pin him in place.

“No, Cecil, I'm not mad at you, even though you're mad at me. I don't... I just don't know how...!” He sounds panicky, frantic—nothing like the brother Cecil knows... but did he know Martin, really? “Listen, this took me seasons to find out, I wasn't trying to... I was hoping they were alive. I never hoped they were dead, I just wanted confirmation of where they were, so I could... contact them, and tell them not to come back. I don't want them back here; I don't need them, not like I need you.”

The words flow off Cecil like the rain sluicing down their windows. He doesn't care, doesn't want to hear it, and struggles free from Martin, who finally steps aside. “You still lied to me, went behind my back...! You...” Took everything from me. “I could've... I could've done something! Found them, if you would've just let me, but now...!”

“They didn't want to be found, that's what I'm trying to...” Martin trails off with a sniffle. He still won't let Cecil around him. “They were living under aliases, had whole new lives, and—”

“Stop, just stop! Fine, you were right, is that what you want to hear? You were right. I wasted my whole life wanting to find them.” Finally, Cecil has to nudge at him, in earnest, to shove him aside. “I'll get out of your hair, quit being such a bother. I'm supposed to grow up, huh? Accept the truth, accept...”

He can't say it. Because he can't accept it.

“I don't know what I want to hear, I just... I didn't want... I don't want to hurt you.” Martin's hands go to his tipped-down face, covering his eyes. “Cecil, I'm sorry, it was never supposed to be like this. I just didn't know how to tell you...”

“No,” Cecil agrees with him quietly, swiping at the tears streaming down his own cheeks. “You really didn't.”

He can't stand looking at Martin any longer; through his blurred vision, all he sees is not the brother who raised him, doting on him with handmade outfits or rare books, but the only family he had left not wanting to be left with him.

“I'm sorry...” comes Martin's fractured voice again as Cecil makes for the door and exits, just in time for a fresh wave of sobs to be covered by the rolling thunder overhead.

His feet take him to the Agency at a full sprint. The stone steps leading up to it are slick from the rain, and Cecil stumbles, goes down hard on his knee on the second step from the top. His hand flies out to brace himself and keep from faceplanting. He doesn’t feel a thing, scrambling the last few steps to the door.

He’s never thought about knocking—this is his home away from home—and doesn’t now, either. His hand fits into the door's circular iron handle.

But it won’t open. The door is unusually heavy, the handle too wet and slippery, and he’s lost all the strength in his arm, in his entire body. Or it’s none of these things, and the world around him just doesn't feel real anymore, and that includes himself. This hole that's opened in his chest hurts too much to be something not completely made up.  No one could experience this much pain and still survive.

He slaps at the door uselessly. Then again, and again, when it doesn't feel hard enough to match the ache inside him. He wants it to spread, wants the soreness in his throat and the stinging in his eyes and the terrible pressure where his heart once beat to consume every inch of him and swallow him up.

“Terry...!” he cries, or thinks he does.

What if Terry's left too, unannounced? Would he do such a thing—but Mom and Dad wouldn't have either, except they did, and now they...

“Terry! A-Are you...!” Cecil can't find the end of his question. His palm smarts from the repeated striking, but he keeps it up, slapping more and more, harder and harder, until the door flies open and his next blow lands solidly on Terry's chest.

“Whoa, hey, Cecil! What's—... hey, calm down!” In the next second, Terry has him by the wrist, is grabbing at the other to still him, and it's the only thing that keeps Cecil from sinking to the floor as he collapses into another sobbing fit.

Cecil doesn't try to resist Terry, mostly because he can’t summon the strength to. He lets himself be dragged along. Distantly, he hears the rainfall—the door must still be open—and Terry’s saying… something. Seconds later, Cecil's dropped onto something sturdy, stationary. He's sitting in the agency's kitchen, and everything around him is smudged and splotchy, and there's so many sounds: faint squeaks of cabinet doors, the faucet running, the clattering of plates and silverware being moved.

Meaning to wipe the tears away, Cecil rubs at his dampened cheeks. A sticky warmth smears over his skin. He brings his hand up to look at it; there's a mottled red stain where his palm meets his wrist.

Terry's voice again, muffled and faraway, but discernible. “Here, let's take care of that.”

Cecil’s hand is gently pulled away from his face, and something wet and cool is pressed to the wound. He blinks profusely, watching as Terry gingerly cleans up his palm with a cloth. The injury isn't serious, but it’s raw, and Cecil can feel a bruise already forming beneath the scraped surface.

“Hold tight, I'll be right back.”

Cecil means to say “okay” but it comes out as a whimper, and he hears Terry's footsteps disappear out of the room. Sniffling and shaking, Cecil uses his sleeve to wipe all the rain and tears and snot, and now the blood, from his face.  He takes it upon himself to dab at his knee with the cloth; he has trouble seeing the abrasion, but it’s tender to the touch, so he knows it will bruise, like his palm. At least it’s not bleeding.

Terry returns a minute later, setting down the agency's first-aid kit. Its metallic clink! is loud in the empty kitchen. The rain continues drumming against the windows, the roof. It all feels too much to Cecil, in how ordinary it all is, when his world is irreparably shattered. Will never be whole or ordinary again.

“I-I'm... I'm sorry,” he starts, with no idea where he's going. “I d-didn't...mean to barge in like this. I just... I... didn’t know where else… a-and Martin… he…”

They're dead. They're gone. Martin lied to me. He's never trusted me, and I don't know if I can ever trust him.

He can’t finish, can only shut his eyes tight, Martin's irritated expression imprinted behind his lids. They’re forced open by tears flowing unchecked down his cheeks.

The kit clacks open.

“Woolies or ribbitees?”

“Wh-What…?” Cecil rubs at his eyes for what feels like the hundredth time, and blinks again, this time up at Terry.

“Woolies or ribbitees,” Terry repeats. “Band-aids. The only ones I’ve got have monsters printed on them. Take your pick.”

Cecil is slow to respond, and when he does, it’s not with his choice. “Y-You always had those ones at the General Store.”

“I did, yeah. You’d find a way to bang yourself up at least once a week when I’d send you off on an errand.”

“Errand?” Cecil sniffles, almost laughs. “Wait, no, I only ever w-went out on investigations you assigned me.”

“Wellll, maybe it was a little of both,” Terry says mildly. He picks two band-aids out from the kit. “Now, here, which one? I don’t wanna make assumptions.”

Cecil knows he’s talking about more than the band-aids, and as badly as he wants to tell Terry that he doesn’t care, and that it doesn’t matter—he can’t. He can’t talk to Terry like that, no matter how emotionally decimated he is. “Ribbitees, I guess.”

“Then put your hand out.”

Cecil does as he’s told, staring at the heel of his hand as Terry smooths the blue ribbitee-printed band-aid over it.

“Terry, I…” he starts, then stops.

“Yeah?”

He wants to say something, anything. But what? And how? He can barely function, and is amazed he was able to have something even vaguely resembling a dialogue with Terry just now.

And Terry could probably get it out of him, if he really wanted to. But he’s always let Cecil be the one to come to him about anything, instead of prying, even though nine-and-a-half times out of ten he already has it figured out long before Cecil does.

Words are failing him, and trying to mold his thoughts into an articulate sentence is far too painful, so Cecil uses what little remaining energy he has to ask an all-too-imperative question.

“Can... can I stay here tonight? I can go to the Blue Moon, if not, i-it's not a big deal but...” There isn't anywhere he could lay down here, although the chairs up front near the entrance are comfortable, and Cecil's small enough to curl up in them if they're pushed together as some makeshift nest.

“You can, yeah. Always. Anything else you need from here?” Terry nods towards the kit.

Cecil shakes his head. Nothing is going to mend the gaping hole in his heart. He says as much. Or, tries to. “No. It’s not… you can’t...”

“Do you wanna go see Simone, then, or—"

“No, no, I mean that I don’t think anyone…” He tests if the band-aid’s on securely, flexing his fingers into a fist. The pulsing pain makes it difficult, and he winces. He knows it sounds petulant when he says, “Aren't you gonna ask what I'm doing here...? O-Or what's wrong?”

“There's ways to get answers other than asking, but I don't think an answer is what I need right now, either.” Terry stands, snapping the first-aid kit closed. “All I need is to know if you’re… well, okay isn’t the right word. I’ve never seen you like this.”

Cecil supposes he hasn’t. No one has, not even Martin. He’s sensitive, sure, but he’s always tried to bounce back as soon as possible whenever he’s faced struggles and hardships. It’s how Terry is; resilient. So it’s how he wants to be, too.

But this feels like more than that. This isn’t a riddle or an obstacle. This is something… unsolvable.

“I’m… I’m h-here.” He’s glad his vision is still marred from so many tears; he might start crying all over again if he could make out the pity he thinks is being directed at him. He forces himself to say, as convincingly as possible, “So, yeah, I think… I-I’m okay as I’m gonna be at the moment.”

“I’ll take your word for it, and if you wanna tell me in the morning, you can do that. Here, now take a load off, alright?” He slides Cecil the book that had been resting at his spot at the table. “Why don't you try finishing up this cryptogram I was doing before you got here? I’ll get the place ready for you to stay over.”

As Terry leaves, Cecil picks up the puzzle book. A pencil is inserted a little more than halfway through, presumably where he left off when Cecil came banging the door down. Terry's so good at these; he'll usually finish off a whole book in less than a week. Sure enough, when Cecil opens to the marked page, the puzzle shows no signs of mistakes having been made—no overwritten letters or scribbles or eraser smudges.

The minutes tick by. After shedding his sopping-wet blazer, Cecil tries to lose himself in the puzzle, mentally swapping out letters to decode the message. Though it's difficult, and not just because his thoughts are otherwise preoccupied, it’s also stimulating and, of all things, oddly calming. The weight, what feels like a bubble of hurt lodged in his chest, has begun to deflate somewhat. Part of it is due to the activity in and of itself, but there’s also the fact that Terry’s offered to hear him out.

He doesn’t know if he’ll actually be able to follow through, if any of this will feel more real when morning comes, or if he’ll get the words to form, but there’s the smallest comfort in knowing someone’s willing to listen to him.

The gradually increasing hiss of an operating stove drills into his focus. He looks up, recognizing the kettle that's set to boil as the one he uses when he makes himself Relax Tea here at the agency. Terry is back in the kitchen shortly thereafter, and Cecil watches as he drapes a long navy blue tunic—one of the many articles of clothing packed away in the drawer full of disguises—over the back of the opposite chair.

“In case you want some PJs,” he says by way of explanation. “Think it’ll work for one night, right?”

The kettle’s shrill whistle cuts like a blade through the steady pattering of rain outside. Terry’s quick to move it off the burner, while Cecil, who has a hundred questions and twice as many thank yous threatening to spill out, can’t do anything except stare silently.

“Tell me I’m doing this right,” Terry continues, opening the cabinet to get out the mug Cecil has claimed as his own, along with a mesh sachet for the leaves. “I think the last time I made tea was… Well, today’s Tuesday so... maybe ten years ago?”

A laugh, sounding closer to a hiccup, comes out of Cecil. “What are you doing?” he asks. Whenever he makes Relax Tea at the agency, he does Terry the favor of drinking it out here in the kitchen, so its aroma doesn’t drift into the agency's main area, or, gods forbid, Terry’s room.

“You don't want any?” Terry’s still turned away from him, searching for the tin of tea leaves and finding it tucked behind a jar of honey, which Cecil occasionally likes to stir some of into his cup. “When have you ever said 'no' to Relax Tea?”

“Y-Yeah, it'd be nice…” He closes the puzzle book, sure that Terry will complete the spaces he’s left blank. “But you can’t stand the stuff.”

“More for you, then, right? Why don't you go change?” He nods to the blue tunic. “I’ll bring your tea up front when it’s done steeping, which… how long is that, again?”

“Five minutes, give or take.”

“Sounds good.”

Still slightly dizzy from crying so hard, Cecil gets to his feet unsteadily.  Tunic over one arm, soaked blazer in the other, he heads to the front.  With having to peel the rest of his clothes off, opposed to simply undressing, he wonders if they’ll dry overnight. If the rain will even stop.

He hopes Martin doesn’t get caught out in—

No.

His hands are still shaking, and only partly from the chill coursing through him, as he manages to slip into the tunic. He’s never worn it before, on account of it being so big that it’s more like a gown than anything, but that makes it work as pajamas. The sleeves are long and baggy, and whatever material it’s made from is smooth against his skin.

The chairs are pushed together so they’re facing each other, with a small divot left so he can inch between the armrest.  He climbs in and lays down, where he digs his heels into the chair’s cushion so he can drag it closed.

It’s then that he realizes he forgot to grab a sheet of any kind, and it’s also then that Terry emerges from the kitchen, carrying a steaming hot mug in one hand. Cecil sits up, relief shoving fatigue aside momentarily.

“Sorry that it's not really hospitality central here,” Terry says as he approaches Cecil. “Guess I should buy a sofa from Palmo in case you ever need to crash again.”

“I don't mind.” He really doesn’t. As he takes the mug from Terry, the scent of flowers and herbs envelops him, and the warmth emanating from the tea erases some of the fog that’s settled over him. He tries for nonchalance. “Not like I haven't fallen asleep here before.”

“Yeah, but that’s different. Not a whole night. Not here, anyway.” Terry wears a slight smile.

Cecil knows what he’s talking about, and smiles a little too.

When he was younger, Cecil would sleep over at the General Store from time to time. Mostly, these sleepovers consisted of him helping Terry clean the store after close and afterward reading some book Terry would lend him, which he could have easily done in the comfort of his own home, his own bed, instead of burrowed into a beat-up sleeping bag.

Looking back on it, he’s sure it was something of a hassle to Terry; Cecil had only been so keen about doing it because Lucy and Priscilla had sleepovers with each other, and since, in his eyes, they were so cool, he thought to emulate them and have a sleepover with his best friend too.

“And not under the same circumstances, either.” Cecil says quietly. It’s the most he can say about what he’s gone through tonight. The tea gives him a good excuse not to say more. It’s weaker than how he usually takes it, but it’s still flavorful and soothing.

“No,” Terry agrees. “Back then you couldn’t wait to tell Martin you were staying over. And I’m guessing this time, you haven’t told him you were coming here.”

“I… I don’t know what I said,” Cecil replies truthfully. He only remembers what Martin said. They’re gone. They’re dead.

Was it really not even an hour ago, that he was in their kitchen, eager to greet Martin with a smile and fat, fresh fruit sandwiches? It feels like a totally different part of his life, with Martin’s outburst staked like a post and marking when one chapter ended and this horrible, uncertain one began.

Cecil finishes his tea, and hands the empty mug back to Terry. He breathes in. Breathes out. Tries with all his might to get the words out.

“If Martin comes by tonight... I mean, I don't know if he will... but can you just… I don't want to talk to him right now. I can’t, you know?”

“Sure,” Terry says, as though this request is perfectly normal. “What about Alice, tomorrow? You know she usually swings by pretty early every day. Send her away too, if she stops in?”

What about Alice? Other than Terry, there's no one in Rigbarth he's closer with.  But she's friends with Martin too. He worries she might hear about everything that happened tonight from Martin rather than come to him first. But when she does talk to him, will he even be able to tell her?

“I guess we'll see how I feel. Play it by ear.” Cecil scrunches up tighter, shifting around to get his legs bent at the proper angle. Finally, it doesn’t hurt to breathe, and he even manages a tired smile. “Thanks, again... for letting me stay.”

“Don’t mention it. You end up needing anything else, even more tea, just let me know. I’ll be up for a while.”

“Thanks,” Cecil says, again. “But I think I just wanna get this day over with.”

“Then get some shut-eye.” Reaching down, Terry ruffles Cecil's hair.

The simple show of affection makes Cecil want to cry again, but he’s pretty sure he doesn’t have any tears left. The tea’s done its trick in relaxing him, or maybe that’s just what he’s convinced himself of. After telling Cecil “good night” again, Terry leaves the front room for the kitchen, switching the light out on his way. Cecil hardly bothers to adjust the decorative pillow beneath his head.

His face still aches, and his chest even more so, and he feels… stuck. Mired in some proverbial swamp with no way out.

He sniffles again, finally getting comfortable on his side, almost diagonal with one leg hooked over the middle of the chair-bed where the armrests come together.

He’d meant what he’d said about wanting this night to end–about wanting it to be tomorrow. For as impossible as it feels that his life even can continue forward, one of the rules of being a detective is that, quite often, a new day brings with it a new perspective. That anything you’re stuck on after the sun goes down has a good chance of unsticking once shown under the light of the next morning.

His thoughts linger on how, no matter how many mornings he wakes up to, his parents won’t have that opportunity.

And how Martin, worse than not caring himself, sees no reason Cecil should.

The warmth of the tea dissipates as Cecil lets exhaustion overtake him, and pitch him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Chapter Text

When Cecil awakens early the next morning, there's no ambient sounds of rainfall.  Only a breeze, gentle and slightly damp, drifting through the cracked-open front window and bringing with it the faint scent of cherry grass. For a few minutes, he stays snuggled beneath the dusty lightweight quilt that’s been blanketed over him—which he definitely didn’t grab last night—but then the smell of frying eggs floats out from the kitchen and he’s powerless to resist.

Using his feet, Cecil pushes at the one chair to separate it from the other and create an opening to exit his bed. Still bleary-eyed, he staggers to Terry’s desk. His clothes are draped over the back of the chair (where he left them), along with his satchel resting on the seat (where he didn’t leave it). Though his blazer is incredibly wrinkled, it’s mostly dry and serviceable enough for him to change into, along with his vest and button-down.

As he dresses, he considers how his day will proceed—if he’ll be able to do anything. He’s nervous if he steps foot outside, if he leaves the safety of the Agency and of Terry’s guidance, that the world will flip upside-down again.

But there’s a solution to that—or, at the least, a way to buffer the damage he’s likely to incur.  He searches through his satchel for one of his many notebooks; he’d gotten in the habit, years ago and per Terry’s suggestion, of writing down one question that was on his mind when he woke up each day.

It gave him a reliable daily source of motivation; no matter how crummy he was feeling about any- and everything else, he could put his mind to coming away with having learned something new.  So even with his one and only goal in life having been destroyed and his own brother having betrayed him, he can try and do what Terry would do in a situation this dire: go about his day pretending he has a sense of purpose. If he keeps at it long enough, then there’s no doubt that he eventually will have one.

Just to pile on his already rotten luck, there’s no notebook to be found; he must've left it in his room. It’s too early to cry, he tells himself, which he knows doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it’s what gets him to momentarily forget about the notebook and head to the kitchen.

“Hey, good mornin’,” Terry greets him, sounding as if it’s the first thing he’s said since he’s woken up, which Cecil suspects wasn’t long before he awoke, himself.

Cecil mumbles the same in return. He takes in the sizzling pans on the stove, and what looks to be way too many things cluttered around it just for the sake of frying up eggs—because it is more than that. He’s about to point out how much this all is, but then it hits him, in the form of his stomach reminding him with a growl, that he hasn’t eaten since lunch yesterday.

Terry laughs. “Go on, sit down. It’s almost done. There’s tea, too.” He gestures to the table where, sure enough, the same teacup Cecil used last night rests on a saucer.

But not even tea can prevent Cecil from intervening. While he’s usually fine with deferring to Terry, he knows that he has the advantage when it comes to navigating a kitchen. He doesn’t sit down; quite the opposite, he moves to the stove and budges Terry out of the way—just in time, too. The eggs aren’t looking too hot—figuratively speaking, anyway. They’re overcooked, but at least they’re not burnt. In another, smaller pan, are hash browns, in mildly better shape. Crispy, if more oily than Cecil would prefer, likely on account of not being monitored closely if Terry was also paying attention to the steeping Relax Tea.

It’s the effort that matters most to Cecil though, and it’s not even that Terry’s a bad cook, but there’s a reason why his breakfast—and what he usually provides Cecil with, if he’s here early—is often a pastry from Sweet Hearth. Quick and effortless is the name of the game when it comes to a detective starting their day, not… whatever this is, thrown together when only half-awake.

Cecil is able to salvage the eggs, turning the heat to the lowest setting and using the spatula to chop and scramble the almost-hardened yolk in with the whites. His impulse is to make what he’s made practically a thousand times already, for him and Martin, and so he sprinkles in more salt and pepper followed by a dash of mixed herbs.

“Guess I’m no good with multi-tasking,” Terry says as he watches Cecil take charge. “Hey, but I got your tea right, twice in a row. That’s something.”

“If I wanted a five-star meal, I would’ve gone to Lackadaisy,” Cecil points out as he lifts the pan and carefully scrapes the hash browns in with the eggs, wanting to let their flavors mesh while they’re still hot. “Besides, this turned out fine. It’s teamwork, right? No different than an investigation!”

“Ha, well, sure. But a little different, maybe.” Terry steps away from Cecil, and retrieves a tied-off plastic bag bearing Sweet Hearth’s logo. “Here, let me do what I can handle best: the non-cooking part. How’s a croissant sound, to top it all off? I’ll slice it in half for you and everything.”

“No, hand ‘em over!” Cecil motions for the bag. “I can make us sandwiches!”

“What, did Lucas teach you how to snap your fingers and conjure one out of thin air? Sorry, kid, there’s only one left. But it’s all yours, if you don’t mind that it’s not fresh.”

“Open-face, then!” Cecil protests, stepping away from the stove to snatch the bag out of Terry’s hand. “And days-old is good! It slices better.”

“You don’t say?”

Cecil toasts up the croissant that Terry halves for him in the empty hash brown pan. He arranges the two pieces on separate plates, piling them high with the egg and hash brown mixture. Sitting down to eat together with Terry isn’t the most uncommon occurrence, but usually it’s for something case-related. Not like this, where it’s more personal; where it’s like what he’d do with Martin.

Trying to ignore all thoughts of his brother, Cecil tucks in to the same spot he sat last night. Pours himself tea into the same cup. Everything is the same, and everything is so different, and the worst part of it all, maybe, is that there’s no mystery behind why. It’s clear as day, and nothing can revert what’s been said and done.

For all that he managed to actually sleep, he feels restless in a way he hasn’t experienced in years. The days right after his parents would leave were always the hardest, when he’d want to do anything to occupy himself and make time speed by so it’d be the day of their return.

And then he’d found that something. That purpose and drive. And now it’s gone. Not just gone but taken from him. By his own brother.

How is his life supposed to go by now? For who, and to what end?

“You stare at that any longer and you’re gonna bore a hole through it,” Terry says between bites. “Come on; I know you would if you could, but I promise you can’t survive on Relax Tea alone. I’ll get Simone to back me up on that if you don’t believe me.”

He's aware that Terry’s just trying to fill the silence, but Cecil obliges his implicit request and takes his first bite of breakfast.

He can’t taste anything. He can barely swallow it, but manages to, with a gulp of tea to wash it down.

Cecil knows that he needs to eat, but he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stomach much of anything until he gets out what he can about the events of last night. Terrifying though the thought of recounting it is, it’s like he needs to purge himself of all the words, of all the emotions, to make room for food.

What he doesn’t know is exactly how to start.  But Terry will. Terry always knows what to do, and how to adapt; how to roll with the punches. Cecil’s sure he’ll help him through this, like he has so many other hardships.

Cecil forces another bite, then looks up at Terry. “So, um, is this when I have to tell you about… about last night?”

“If you want.  Or we can do it the twenty questions way.”

Asking direct questions does tend to get more accurate answers than inviting someone to give a statement in their own words.

“Okay,” Cecil agrees.

“Alright. Well, hate to be so broad about it, but what did Martin do?”

“I didn’t say Martin did anything.”

“No, but said you didn't want to talk to him, plus you’ve never been this upset. About anything. And I don’t think you would be, unless it involves him. That’s not any detective skills at play, that’s just from the fact that I know you, Cecil.”

Picking at his breakfast, Cecil clumsily summarizes the revelations Martin had unloaded on him last night. What he can remember, anyway; some parts are crystal clear, others a blur, but he manages to keep himself from dissolving into sobs again.

“It’s not even about what he did,” Cecil adds. Now that it’s all spilling out, he can’t turn it off. “It’s about him not telling me about any of it. About him not… well, it’s what it’s always been. He thinks I’m a kid, that I can’t handle… anything! That he can just go and decide things for me, because I’m too young and dumb to do so myself. And I’m supposed to just be okay with it because Martin thinks it’s what’s best for us.”

He finally pauses, realizing he hasn’t let Terry get a word in edgewise.

“You’re not supposed to ‘just be okay’, I can tell you that much,” Terry says. “But accusing him of doing this maliciously is a little… well, I’d say unprofessional. Other people might have a different term for it.”

Cecil thinks of his friends and neighbors. “Scarlett would say it’s childish, probably. And Ryker would say it’s a dick move.”

Terry huffs a laugh through his nose, smiling a little when he says, “I won’t disagree with either of those.”

“Okay, fine, and maybe it is both of those things, but that doesn’t mean I’m sorry about it! Because I’ll tell you one thing, and that’s that Martin's not sorry, no matter what he says. He still lied to me deliberately, even if it was by omission! So maybe it’s what he needed, you know, after all these years I’ve had to put up with him hounding me about quitting my detective work—saying that I’m bugging you and all that. Like if it makes him feel even… even half—no, even a smidgen—” Cecil holds his hand up, showing his thumb and forefinger pinched together only a millimeter apart “—as awful as I felt, then… then good!”

“Not good.” Terry shakes his head. “Imagine everything you’re feeling now, and not having anyone to talk to about it for a whole year.”

“But he did have someone,” Cecil insists. “He had me! And him telling me like he did felt like it was just so he could prove some point. All this time he’s had to deal with it—accept it—but I didn’t get anything. Just, wham, he hit me with it like a Buffamoo kick to the head!”

“Everyone shows their grief in different ways, though—and you know Martin isn't always the most open with how he feels. He'd rather puzzle it all out internally, and through his work, than talk about it.”

“You mean rather than actually face it head-on? He accuses me of doing the same. Says I'm too caught up in my detective work to see the truth when it's right in front of me—that I'm purposely blind to it!”

Now the tears are starting to creep up. Cecil quickly swipes away one that escapes, as if Terry doesn’t obviously see him do so.

Though Cecil doesn't want Terry to coddle him like Martin does, he does want to be told he's justified for reacting this strongly. For feeling this hideously angry. This gnawing in his middle, this dread mixing with the eggs he could barely swallow—it can't be incorrect, can it? He's spent so much of his life trying to remain in good spirits… he’s allowed this, isn’t he? To stop trying and simply let himself be consumed.

Martin’s had over a year to accept that Mom and Dad are gone. Is it so unfair for Cecil to want just a day?

“I think there's certain subjects that you're not very objective about,” Terry says, and it’s nothing Cecil hasn't heard before, but it still stings. “And your parents are one of them. Just keep in mind, as much as you want to blame Martin, I don’t think he can be faulted for not knowing how to go about telling you. Okay, yeah, it sounds like it could have been brought up to you a bit less sudden, but it’s like I said: deep down I know that you know that Martin wouldn't ever do anything malicious towards you. He's incapable of it, I really believe that.”

Why does Terry always have a point? And good ones, too. Should he feel guilty then, for saying whatever he could think of to try and hurt Martin—to try and get Martin away from him?  He'd meant to inflict damage.

No.  He refuses to feel remorseful;  he'd only been reacting, and protecting himself. Self-defense. Martin was the aggressor in all this, had made the conscious choice to keep so much from Cecil for so long. Only if he apologizes first does Cecil think he’ll be able to issue one of his own.

Except, the thought of facing Martin shreds him up all over again.

“Sure, that's what I wanna believe too! But he'd known, all this time and didn't say anything. I feel like... like such an idiot, like a total fool! What was he thinking whenever I'd talk about them, then? Just like, laughing at me on the inside?”

“I sincerely doubt he was laughing at you, Cecil. Look, I know you're hurt, but there wasn't any way this wasn't going to hurt. You need to realize there was never going to be a good time or way for him to share this information with you.”

A good time or way.

All of this has been so difficult to piece together, but one certain aspect has been the most confusing, niggling at the back of his mind. Cecil darn well knows the why behind Martin doing what he did. But there’s no when or how that he can see. No good time or way, as Terry put it, that Martin could have uncovered something that would have required as much effort and legwork as confirming Mom and Dad’s whereabouts—or, in this case, their false identities and their very real deaths.

Cecil is useless at keeping his expression from showcasing that the gears are turning in his head, and Terry notices. “Something to share?”

“Yeah. Here’s what I don’t get: how would Martin even be able to find any of this out? I believe that he did—he wouldn’t make this up—but he wouldn't have the time, or the know-how, not like me...” Cecil's fingers curl around the teacup handle, and he brings it to his lips for a sip. It helps ease the growing lump in his throat, but only a little. “He’s at the forge or Lackadaisy if he isn’t at home. It just wouldn’t be possible.”

“He didn't say how he found out?”

“No! But he said he'd found out they were living under aliases. That's not something easy to uncover! He must've gotten ahold of some documents, something to confirm everything. Or had them sent to him...”

Terry eats a forkful of his own breakfast, not taking his eyes off Cecil. His silence is a signal Cecil can continue—except, he doesn't look particularly eager about it.

“I don't understand—he said it took almost a year for him to get confirmation, because of the aliases, a-and... I mean, I can't even tell you the last time Martin's left Rigbarth, and if anyone were able to dig up any leads on my parents, especially finding something as concrete as... as all that, well then, it'd be... it'd have to be someone who...”

Cecil trails off, staring at Terry, really taking him in and noticing all the little differences from what he's grown so familiar with. The gentle smile he usually wears is instead pressed into a tight line. His normally sharp gaze is unfocused, having slid away from Cecil and slightly to his right, to the wall behind him.

No. Even as the last piece of the puzzle clicks into place, Cecil mentally scrambles to rip it out. To furiously take the whole thing apart. No.

“You...” His voice breaks as everything else takes shape. “You... you knew? Y-You're Martin's source?”

“He asked me not to say anything to you about it,” Terry says, so careful that it sounded scripted. Like he's been prepared for this. For a very long time. “Confidentiality is part of the job, you know that. He trusted me and—”

“I trusted you!” Cecil shoves up from the table, causing the plates to clatter and tea to slosh out from the cup. He can barely stand, knees shaking, and thinks he might pass out from the sudden rush to his head. “I... That's what I am...? Part of the job?”

“That's not what I meant. And it wasn't a job, not really; I refused to take any money from Martin, for this.” Terry's standing too, now. He glances at Cecil's bandaged hand clutching the back of the chair in a white-knuckle grip. “He wanted you to have closure, and I do too. We both think...”

Terry pauses. He rarely leaves his thoughts, sentences unfinished.

“What?” Cecil squeaks out between a fresh release of tears. “Y-You think what?”

A sigh. “Cecil, we weren't sure if you'd ever be able to find them. Not for lack of trying, just... it wasn't easy. And Martin had a hunch that they didn't want to be found.  And he was right.”

That's exactly what Martin had told him. That Mom and Dad had covered their tracks, taken on whole new lives. He's tried to convince himself that it's Martin only wanting to think the worst of them, to make their deaths somehow easier to accept, but hearing Terry tell him in such a matter-of-fact way drives it home like nothing Martin could have said.

“But I could have...! I would have done anything to—”

“It's not about what you would have done,” Terry interrupts, firm but not unkind. “It's about what you're capable of doing.”

It’s not meant as a slight—it’s sheer fact. There’s only so much Cecil would’ve been able to do. And so much more that he couldn’t.

“I wanted Martin to tell you ASAP—trust me, I did.” Terry takes a step towards Cecil. Cecil backs away. “I didn’t think it was right for him to withhold all this from you, but it wasn’t up to me. I’m not your…” He shakes his head, resigned. “It was Martin’s call.”

Cecil doesn’t want to hear any more from someone who willingly kept the truth from him. He storms out of the kitchen, food and tea left behind.

He makes a beeline for his satchel, but instead of grabbing it, he’s stopped by what he sees on Terry’s desk. That he somehow hadn’t noticed while he was getting dressed—or, maybe it’s just because he’s that no-good of a detective, that he skipped over the obvious.

There it is, near the corner of the desk, beside a small stack of pocket directories of Norad that are likely older than Cecil himself.  A silver badge, modeled after the SEED Ranger crests; Cecil’s gift to Terry for his birthday last year. Cecil’s own is in his blazer pocket, where he always keeps it. He digs it out. Stares.

He’d gotten the idea from seeing Lucy and Priscilla wearing matching friendship necklaces—two halves of a heart that fit together like lock and key. And while the badges didn’t piece together, they did match, with their respective names and titles engraved at the top of the crest, and the image of a magnifying lens underneath.

He’d asked Alice to help him with crafting them, and when he’d given Terry his, had shown off his own and explained how the badges were a pair. Just like they were.

Cecil realizes, then, it likely wouldn’t have been long after Martin had gotten the news about their parents. After Terry had been the one to get it for him, behind Cecil’s back.

Pain swells up inside him again. Holding his badge feels so stupid and pointless now, like it was just some toy. Like he was a kid playing dress-up, fancying himself a detective instead of ever really being one, and Terry had let him do it, had accepted his own badge, just to go along with the whole charade. Here he’d thought Terry had believed in him, unlike Martin, who made it clear Cecil’s aspirations were too lofty, more of a dream than an actual attainable goal.

“Cecil?”

He hadn’t heard Terry come in from the kitchen, but he looks up to see him a few steps in front of the desk. Cecil turns his back to him, signifying he’s not willing to discuss this, but for once Terry doesn’t pick up on the clues.

“Look, can you cut me some slack? I haven’t had to make a decision of this magnitude before, and I didn’t think everything would come out the way it did, in the middle of you and Martin arguing. You were having an emotional breakdown... I wasn’t gonna add to that. I wanted to wait until you really calmed down, and you and Martin talked it out, or—”

“You didn’t think I’d figure it out though, did you?” Cecil snaps. That’s what he’s hearing. It makes sense now. “On my own. So that’s why you were biding your time.”

“No, I mean exactly what I just said. That I wanted you and Martin to get it all squared away first. I can still help you do that if you want.”

Of course that’s what I want. He continues to glare out the window, wishing it weren’t such a nice day. How can it be so bright and sunshiney when his whole life has been upended? And how can Terry talk about it like it’s so easy? Like he’s observing it from the outside and wasn’t—and still is—a very integral part of it?

“I don’t have to do anything—it’s on Martin, not me.”

“Okay,” Terry says, like he’s agreeing not because he actually does, but so that he doesn’t further fan the flames of Cecil's anger. “So what do you want to do now?”

“I don’t know! What should I do now?” He turns to stare Terry down, and sniffs back more tears. “The whole reason I asked you to mentor me was because I was going to use everything you taught me to find my parents. What reason do I even have to be a detective anymore?”

“There’s plenty of reasons. It doesn’t have to end here.” Terry pauses, gaze lingering on the badge and how Cecil’s toying with it so roughly, a futile attempt to siphon his anger into some kind of physical action. “I get it if you need to take a break, to sort everything out—like Alice did with SEED. But you can still be my apprentice, and—”

“No.” Cecil slams the badge down on the desk, his frustration at Terry’s ability to keep cool and logical boiling over. “I think I’ve learned all I can from you. I don’t need you anymore.”

A heavy silence fills the room—save for the echoing of Cecil’s words in his own ears.

Don’t need you. Don’t need you.

The words that no one has ever said to him, but their actions have so often implied. He’s sick of everyone babying him, tiptoeing around the truth—of doing everything but being honest with him. It looks like it’s up to him to get the ball rolling, and get it all out in the open.

Hunches and gut feelings are well and good, but a real detective does his best to state objective facts based on the clues he’s gathered. So, keeping his tone as clear and untainted by emotion as he can manage, he poses his theory.

“And you never really needed me, did you?”

Another weighted pause.

“Cecil…” Terry says his name in this uneasy way that makes it almost seem like he feels something, which Cecil can’t imagine he does, or he wouldn’t have gone and done this. “We can talk about this... later. Whenever you’re ready.”

Cecil blinks, voice tight as he forces the tears back. Did Terry not understand him? Classic, him being asked a question and deflecting to avoid giving too much away. “What’s there to talk about? It’s just one more case you can say you closed the book on.”

He snatches his satchel up and crosses to the door. Stops, turns.  Terry doesn’t make to follow him, only stays where he is, in front of the desk and watching with a calm that had once been a comfort, but right now is nothing short of infuriating.

A million scenarios flash through Cecil's mind. Memories, what he’d once thought of as happy ones, have shattered. Are sharp and painful and cut at the unhealed wounds inside him the more he tries to get a handle on them.

How had he ever believed Terry was any different than everyone else in town? Like any good detective, he just disguised it better. Cecil was someone to be entertained and humored, but not respected. If Cecil really was skilled in his own right, he would’ve seen it a mile away: that Terry had a job to do, and when it came down to it all, Cecil had become part of that—nothing more and nothing less.

If he hurries out, and slams the door, it’ll be seen as rash and immature. A kid throwing a fit because things aren’t going his way.

But so what? That’s how they all see him anyway, and he doesn’t care anymore what they think. Martin and Terry included.

Cecil wrenches the door open and, with all his might, slams it shut behind him.