Archive of Our Own

In the moments after Tom walks away, Russell can't help feeling that something has gone wildly, terribly wrong.

His instinct is not to believe it, of course.  Of the many words that can be applied to Tom Underlay, trustworthy is not one Russell would leap to use, and neither is surprised.  No doubt, these two facts go hand-in-hand --- Tom has kept fingers in enough illicit pies that he rarely, if ever, seems to be on the back foot --- but, regardless, the fact remains: nothing about their little moonlit scuffle should inspire confidence that Tom is telling the truth.  Add in all the complications of divorce and remarriage and extraterrestrial invasion, and Russell would be well within his rights to drive back home without another care in the world.  And yet...

And yet, that isn't what happens.

In fact, while he does get back in the truck, it takes him at least five minutes to get around to starting it, never mind actually driving off.  He's not exactly unused to arguing --- has gotten plenty more practice with it since Eve anyway --- but something about this argument sticks with him.  Niggles.  Hell, he's barely managed to take his eyes off the path Tom had taken, half-considering going out after him.  (Wondering what he'd try to do if he did: if he'd continue their argument or try to help somehow.)

Even when he brings himself to drive away, his head doesn't leave that clearing.  Doesn't leave the look on Tom's face as he'd turned back, moments from walking away.

There was something unnervingly, staggeringly unguarded about Tom throughout their whole exchange.   It's odd to say --- this, too, is not a word Russell would typically ascribe to Tom, of all people --- but it's undeniable.  Almost violently obvious, now that Russell has calmed down enough to really process the situation.  It's not merely cosmetic (though it would be a lie to say that there hadn't been something uncanny --- something oddly humanising --- about the replacement of Tom's typical sheriff's regalia with a rumpled pyjama set); it was everything.  The oddly exhausted way he carried himself, and spoke, and argued, and stood.  The genuine-seeming shock when he found out about Szura and the photos.  The slightly out-of-character frankness he wielded when not covering it with speeches and grandstanding.  The utter lack of caution that had left him open to Russell's punch (and the look of him after, bloodied and bruising because of Russell's actions).  The easy way he'd challenged --- nearly begged --- Russell to shoot him.  The way he'd paused, looking back at Russell with an expression perched so finely on the borders between lost and haunted, between despairing and understanding...

If it had been anyone else standing there, Russell wouldn't have let them go.  Would have listened to the frisson of visceral concern that Tom's expression had inspired and made sure not to leave with an empty truck.  Would have brought them back kicking and screaming if he had to, just so long as he brought them back.

He hopes he hasn't made a mistake by not doing so with Tom.  Finds himself more than a little concerned that he has.

– – –

Dave notices, because of course he picks up on everything Russell doesn't want him to see.  The morning is already rushed --- Larkin getting Rose ready, Jesse running predictably late, and Russell not quite able to focus on getting ready --- and then there's Dave gesturing him over with Szura's manifesto in a (failed) attempt at inconspicuity.

"I'm late, Dave."  He is.  More so even than usual, for he's still adjusting his uniform as he makes his way over.  "This important?"

"Well, Russ, I dunno: I'm only trying to unravel the hybrids' master plan with the ramblings of Special Agent Eli Darwin over here.  Do you think that's important?"  The pamphlet plops onto the table with typical Dave dramatics.  "Where the hell were you, Russ?"

"Out."

"Yeah, no shit.  Out where?"

Russell sighs.  Finishes tucking in his shirt and then leans against the counter.  Confesses, "I talked to Tom.  Last night."

"Huh."   Dave's eyebrows lift.   "How'd that go?"

There's a lot he could talk about.  He could repeat the whole thing: recite it for Dave's benefit.  He could talk about the way his stomach has twisted itself into knots with his own uncharacteristic anxieties.  He could try to explain that he's not entirely sure where Tom's gone after their fight, and that he's pretty sure it's nowhere good.

Instead, he says, "I confronted him.  About Szura and the island."

Dave's fingers twitch, and Russell does not doubt that he wanted to reach for his tape recorder, even if he has the sense not to follow through.  "What'd he say?"

"He--"  A beat, wherein Russell tries to figure out what to say.  (What's pertinent here?  The way Tom's voice had lost its steadiness more and more as they argued with only the moon to notice?  The fact that he would have let Russell pull the trigger without a second thought?  The glistening red of his blood on his skin, on Russell's knuckles, pattering to the dirt below?)  "He says he didn't know what Szura was doing out there."

"Yeah, right."  The snort that follows makes up for its lack of dignity with an excess of disbelief.  "Mr. Suspicious and Untrustworthy himself didn't know what his best bud partner was doing.  That tracks."

Russell means the nod of agreement he sends back.  (Really, he does.)

"Wait..."  Dave shifts.  Leans backward in his seat with squinted eyes and affront on his face.  "What was that, Russ?"

"Nothing."

The squint deepens.

"Nothing, Dave."

No shift in expression.  "You believe him?"

"I didn't say that."

"Did you have to?"  The question doesn't truly seek an answer; Russell doesn't plan to proffer one.  "You can't be serious.  What else do you need, Russ, a gold-plated confession?  You've got his plan right here--"  A half-wave towards Szura's packet.  "--and his life in a damn scrapbook in Szura's tent!"

Russell nods.  Can't deny the truth of those words.  Can't fight the fact that they change nothing about his concerns, or the fact that he's pretty damn sure Tom hadn't been lying.  "I know--"

"His name is Tom Underlay, Russ.  He might as well have named himself Joe Undercover at that point."

"Dave--"

"You were certain he'd lied to you about Szura a day ago; what changed?"

"I--"  Except what is there to say?  What can he mention that will explain his newfound uncertainty in his past convictions?   How can he possibly explain the slightly shattered, definitely stunned look in Tom's eyes when he'd talked about the photos --- the unusually visible dare-he-say-fear when he talked about the plane crash, about the fact that people knew --- in a way that Dave will understand?   "I was wrong.  I think."

"You think?"  Outrage flickers onto Dave's face: eyebrows lifting, mouth falling open.  "You're joking.  Tell me you're joking."

Larkin looks over from where she's chattering with Rose, expression gone somewhat worried.  She doesn't outright ask them anything --- wouldn't risk Rose hearing --- but she does tilt her head a little.  "You okay?" gets mouthed across the room instead.

Russell nods, mouthing a hopefully believable, "We're good," back, and then leans close enough for Dave to hear his slightly lowered voice.  "You weren't there."

"Damn straight I wasn't there.  Probably 'cause Tom knew I wouldn't buy his crap."  Dave's whisper-shouting now, quiet enough not to attract attention but loud enough to convey every ounce of his boundless aggravation.  "He's a hybrid, Russ."

A dangerous thing to say carelessly, that.  Russell feels his eyebrows lift before he thinks about it.  "So's Mariel."

"Sure, but at least she's not partner to a homicidal maniac with delusions of evolutionary grandeur."  Dave picks up the pamphlet again, trying to hand it over and then nudging it against Russell's hand when he doesn't take it.  "Read this and tell me we don't have to worry."

"I didn't say that either.  Dave--"

A laugh, which doesn't sound particularly mirthful.  "No, you just said that you've decided to trust the guy whose been masterminding all the weird ass shit going on since Eve.  Or did you forget about that so-called survivor's group he's got going there?  Hell, we know he's responsible for three of the people on that island, and two are definitely dead now."

It's hard to avoid the memories of watching Szura shoot Christina and Derek --- of Father Scanlon staying behind with "Mr. Dennison" in front of the Coast Guard (and probably getting disposed of by Eli Szura after) --- of processing the sheer breadth of the conspiracy involved.   It's harder to push away the ever-repeating memory of actually confronting Tom and knowing that his seeming omniscience had not extended to this.  "I know."

"You know.  You know?"  Dave frowns.  Tosses Szura's "book" back to the counter-top after Russell doesn't take it.   "You just... what, don't care?"

"I... I think Szura has his own agenda."

A flat stare from Dave, disbelief warring with an almost frustrated amusement.  "'Cause Tom said so."

Russell meets it.  "Because we don't have any real reason to disagree."  Then, at Dave's rolled eyes: "I'm serious.  That island's been registered as a relief centre for survivors since right after Eve hit.  I checked.  Szura's been working in Social Services as Andy Dennison for longer than that, with government contacts to boot.  Tom's ex-military himself; even if he did know about Szura and said nothing, we don't have any real proof as to why.  For all we know, Szura lied to him like he lied to everyone else."  Nothing but continued disbelief.  "Hell, Dave, you went to some of those church meetings yourself; you see anything suspicious there?"

This, at least, lands, just as Russell figured it would.  (What was that phrase?  Never ask a question to which you don't know the answer?)  "No," he admits, though the concession is grudging.  "I didn't."

"There you are, then."

Dave shakes his head.  "That's not not proof, Russ.  They knew I was there, and they knew I wasn't a hybrid--"

"Did they?"

Dave blinks.  "What?"

"You heard me."  Russell repeats it anyway.  "Did they know you're not a hybrid?"

"Yeah?"  A nod, though it's hesitant.  Considering.  Confused by the question.  "'Cause I'm not."

"No, but you got attacked by one of the creatures and sent to the hospital for it.  And they got enough off you to start the process, even if they couldn't finish."  No doubt the memory of that half-grown clone was as fresh in Dave's mind as Russell's own; he shudders at the reminder.  "How do we know that they didn't think you were one of them?"

Dave's breath leaves him in an exasperated huff, but he at least remembers to keep his voice low.  "We don't know anything."

"Exactly."  Russell nods.  Tries not to make it sound like the gotcha it is.  "And do you really wanna throw away a possible ally on a couple of assumptions that don't necessarily even hold up?  'Cause I sure don't."

Whatever he might be thinking, Dave doesn't immediately reject the point.  Doesn't immediately do anything other than shake his head for a moment and then warn, "You'd better be right about this.  I'm not gonna lose my sister because you thought the wrong guy was reliable.  Do me a favour: Ask yourself how much you trust Tom.  Be honest about what you see."

A weight latches onto Russell's leg before he gets a chance to answer: Rose, looking up at him with her wide grin.  "Are you going to drop me off at school today, Daddy?"

He smiles back at her, even as he pats her gently on the head and shakes his own.  "I'm sorry, Rosie; I've gotta go to work.  But Larkin and Uncle Dave are gonna take you, okay?"

Something like disappointment flickers across her face, but she brightens again a moment later.  "When do we get to visit Mommy and Daddy Tom again?"

Dave looks over at that, the motion sudden enough to draw Russell's attention to the look on his face: half I-told-you-so and half warning.  "Soon," Russell says anyway, not looking away from the challenge.  "I promise."

– – –

Getting fired (suspended) brings with it a sting of fury that doesn't care about how sincere or not Tom looked when he swore ignorance of Szura's plan.  It clouds out the knowledge that Tom wouldn't lie about knowing less than he truly did --- that he regularly acts more confident than he is, for better or for worse --- and the thought of how damn upset he looked.  In fact, it's such potent anger that Russell leaves the station newly badgeless and charges over to the Underlay home immediately instead of heading home first.  (A quiet part of himself admits that it's not just the job.  That for all his ire --- which is genuinely plentiful, for being a park ranger has been part of his core identity for so long that he doesn't entirely know who he is without it --- he's worried about Tom.  That he wants to check on him just to settle his worries as much as possible.)

His knock is harsh against the wood door, and he'd feel bad for the way the glass rattles in its frame except that he's too upset to temper its force.  "Open the door, Underlay!"

He keeps knocking until his fist falls through empty air instead of striking the wood.  "What are you doing, Russell?"

"Mariel!"  He falters.  Drops his hand.  "Sorry, I just--"

"It was unlocked."  She's looking at him like he's off his head --- her eyebrows have drawn together and her eyes are clearly trying to catalogue his expression and stance to figure out why --- and he isn't entirely sure he's not.  "Tom's not here."

Russell nods, and she raises an eyebrow to see it.  "I know."  It makes sense, when he thinks about it.  There are plenty of perfectly normal reasons for Tom to not be home.  Hell, he'd said he was checking out the island, which isn't exactly a short trip.  He might just not be back yet.  "You shouldn't, uh..."  There's no reason something bad had to have happened for Tom to not be back yet.  "Leave your door unlocked.  It's..."  The time that's elapsed since their conversation might not even be enough to get back even if everything did so smoothly.  "It's dangerous."

Mariel blinks.  Points over at her car, sitting not far away with a fully open trunk loaded with full paper bags and plastic-bound bottled water.  "I'm unpacking, Russell."

"Oh.  Right."

She looks rather supremely unimpressed.  "What's going on?"

"I, uh..."  The fury flickers again.  It's never quite been gone, but it returns with a vengeance now from its temporary submersion.  "I just got suspended from my job.  Apparently someone at the top thinks I've become a liability."  She looks like she's about to say something in response, but he doesn't wait.  "Hey, uh, just... Ask Tom to call me when he gets home, okay?  I need to talk to him."

"About..."  Mariel blinks.  "About... your job?"

"Yeah."  Definitely.  Of course.  "About my job."

"Okay," she says, though she still looks more concerned than anything.  "I'll tell him."

Russell nods.  Turns.  "Thanks."

– – –

An odd sort of normalcy waits at home.  It grates against the ruffled feathers of Russell's unease, like bright sunshine in the wake of calamity: another of the inconsiderate ways in which life goes on no matter what lingers in your head.  He sets the table like he should --- helps lay out the plates as Larkin sets down all the requisite place-mats and napkins and utensils --- and listens to Rose ramble on about her homework --- admittedly, perhaps a parent-teacher conference is in order --- and tries to make his peace with this domesticity being his only future.  If he can't get his job back, it certainly might be, especially if word of his... alleged unsuitability... were to be intentionally spread among other potential employers, and --- as much as he loves Larkin and the kids and, yes, even Dave --- he thinks he'd go mad without something... more.

All the same, losing any of it is equally inconceivable, and he tells himself that this is the only reason he feels on edge.  He is concerned, that's all --- concerned about the conspiracy he has uncovered, about the consequences of going against it, about what waits in the wake of Szura's plan --- and that concern has unsettled him.  He doesn't feel at home in his own home only because it is not sufficiently secure.   He isn't satisfied with the calm rhythm of laying out the table right now because it means he's not actively preparing for the threat that waits beyond.  Once Szura is gone --- once they know more about the hybrids and their plans and their implications --- once everything settles down again... then, no doubt, he'll feel better.  (No doubt.)

– – –

Of all the things Russell has spent the last day worrying about, Jesse going missing was not one of them.  That it managed to happen anyway should, perhaps, have been predictable --- if only because this is the general trajectory of his luck these days --- and yet it nonetheless manages to be both a terrible surprise and an equally terrible relief.  (Jesse going missing could just be the action of a typical, reckless, frustrating teenager.  Perhaps Jesse's disappearance is the culmination of the sick, writhing feeling in Russell's gut, and he has merely to deal with this for everything to resolve itself.  Perhaps his argument with Tom was just that --- an argument, absent any abnormal consequences beyond the expected --- and nothing grander will come of it.  Perhaps.)

Either way, he resolves to find out.  Even through his conversation with Larkin --- as she pulls him aside, tangles her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, asks him to let her in more than he has been --- he knows that she has no chance of dissuading him.  The need to do something is burning through him too brightly for that, setting his palms itching and his pulse jumping with adrenaline.  He nods along to her gamely, because he should, and he apologises, because he should, but he also can't deny that he's largely just waiting for the opportunity to leave and find out where the hell Jesse has gone.

He makes it halfway through his apology before the phone rings, Mariel's caller ID scrolling across the screen, and he answers it before it registers that he should tell Larkin who's calling.  Shoots her a silent apology by way of his eyes instead.  "Mariel?"

"Hey, Russell."  The ambient noise of Homestead Memorial filters over the line, but it's not enough to obscure the thinly veiled worry in her voice.  Chills run up his spine just to hear it.  "Did you ever hear back from Tom?"

"No."  Larkin's face shifts at whatever expression has taken over his face, but he doesn't know quite what it is.  Doesn't care to change it, either.   "Why?"

"I'm at work and Kira just called.  Apparently, Tom's not home yet."

"Any chance he's still at work?"  Russell knows the answer even as he asks it, but tries anyway.  Hopes, in spite of himself.  (In spite of the truth.)

"No.  He was supposed to be back hours ago, and he calls or radios if something comes up.  We haven't heard anything."

"Shit."  Russell turns and heads for his truck.  Stops, momentarily, hand already at the door handle, to look back at Larkin.  

She stands just where he left her, one arm curled across her stomach as she's taken to doing since she first started to show, the wind buffeting her hair, her clothing.   Something like resignation has filtered into her eyes, but understanding accompanies it, and she smiles at him with both tucked into the curve of her smile.    "Go," she mouths at him.

"Thank you," he returns, and then he pulls on the door handle and slips inside.  Switches the phone on speaker and settles it on the dash.  "Listen, I talked to Tom this morning.  About--"  He pauses.  Falters on the name Szura until he remembers the lie they'd told her earlier.  "About that issue with the park.  He was going to check out an island--"

"No, that's not it.  Kira called Lewis before she called me; they've been back for hours.  Said that the island was empty, too.  Whatever happened--"  

A rustle on the other end, followed by the sound of a door opening and a muffled, "Doctor Underlay?"

"Yes?"

"We need you on the floor."

"Okay."  Then, louder, "Russell, you still there?"

"Yeah, Mare."

"I have to go.  But whatever you and Tom were working on doesn't seem connected.  They didn't run into anyone on the island, or on the way back, and Tom was at the docks when Lewis left, securing the boat.  Something else is going on."

"Alright."  Russell starts the truck, blankly surprised that he hadn't done so already.  "I'm on it.  I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thank you," he hears, and then the line goes dead.  (He can only hope that phrase isn't too fortuitous.)

– – –

Russell makes it to Black Point Marina in what is assuredly record time.  Speeds most of the way there, anyway, and cuts corners when he can.  Finds his breath caught in his lungs even though he's not sure what he might find when he gets there.  He's not sure which he wants more: to find something or to find nothing.  (From what Mariel said, the dock is the last place Tom was seen.  If Russell finds nothing, it could mean that nothing happened to him, but it also means no leads.  At least finding something --- bad though it might be --- would also provide more clues.)

Whatever he might have preferred, it's abundantly clear which is true once he arrives: the wet boards near Tom's boat are splattered darker with thick, viscous drops easily identifiable as blood.  A few are even smeared, in line with scuff marks on the boards and a few deep gouges, as if there had been a scuffle and bloodshed and then something --- or, if Russell's concerns were justified, someone --- had been dragged away.

Unfortunately, it is here that the leads end.  The trail itself isn't substantial --- good though it is that there isn't much blood, it also means that it's not the most easy to follow thing in the world --- and it ends abruptly overtop a patch of boards slightly discoloured compared to the others.  The boards in question are not as dry as the others, as if something had stood over them for an extended period of time back when the sun was up and prevented them from drying, but, aside from the fact that it was likely a medium-sized vehicle, nothing else can be gleaned; there are certainly no treads visible until far enough out that there are too many treads visible, including Russell's own.

All in all, it's a remarkably clean scene, and Russell curses to see it.

– – –

He hasn't decided what to try next by the time his phone rings, but the caller ID temporarily distracts him anyway: Jesse in scrolling grey.  He answers it before the first ring even ends, aimless stress almost certainly audible in his voice.  "Jesse!  Where are you?"

"Uh, yeah, hey, Dad."  He sounds upset --- winded, even, though Russell can't tell why: if it's pain or exertion or fear or something else --- and that only worsens when he adds, "I, uh--"  A pause, sounding suspiciously like an attempt to calm down shaky breathing.  "I need your help?"

"What's wrong, Jess?"

"I--"  Another hitching breath.  "I screwed up, Dad.  I need your help."

"What is it?"

A moment, then: "It's Tom."

Russell blinks.  Almost splutters over a word that ends up being, "What?"  

Jesse still sounds unsteady, a sniff --- sounding suspiciously wet --- carries over the line.  "We...  He's hurt, Dad.  It's... It's bad, I think.  I didn't know who else to call."

It takes a moment for the words to register, and Russell feels a return of that sick uncertainty in his gut.  Focuses on next steps lest he lose himself to it entirely.  "Send me your address.  I'll call for an ambulance."

"But--"

"Now, Jesse."

A beat.  "Okay.  On it."

"Good."  The truck's started again almost immediately, with force enough that Russell is genuinely surprised he didn't snap the key.  "And Jesse?"

"Yeah?"

"You better have one hell of an explanation for me when I get there."

– – –

As it turns out, the situation is more than merely bad.  It is, in fact, hospitalisation-levels of severe, with a side helping of utterly terrible.

It's admittedly not the worst Russell has ever seen Tom look --- the shooting was arguably worse, and he hadn't even been that close with the hustle and bustle of surgery preparation going on --- but it's alarmingly close.  The comparison is helped by the fact that either Mariel or another member of her staff has gotten Tom back into the same room, which also happens to be the same room as after his plane crash, and Russell finds himself musing on that first day (first meeting) as he waits in a remarkably uncomfortable, unremarkably rickety hospital chair nearby.  (Finds himself distracting himself with ideas about giving the room a sign to reserve it for Tom, as tribute to his recurring residence.)

He needs the distraction.  The only alternatives are talking to Jesse to get an explanation --- not a good idea, given how he's feeling now --- or getting lost in the sight of Tom hooked up to entirely too many machines and looking vaguely like he's been hit by a couple of trucks --- which is also not a particularly good idea --- and he's not that keen to do either.  (Can't quite avoid the latter anyway because, God, Tom looks like shit.  Bruises stand out starkly against skin gone pale with blood loss, and bandages have been wrapped around his head and abdomen with enough thoroughness to approach mummification.  The medical team cleaned off most of the blood, but some has persisted, caked and drying into a brownish-red crust at the very edge of Tom's hairline.  The worst of the damage is hidden --- partly by gauze and partly by virtue of being alarmingly internal --- and it chills Russell's blood to know that he can only see the better bits.)

Mariel is technically on shift, but she's been stopping in when she can: on rounds, between breaks, during spare moments.  It's nice, if that word can really be applied here, and her presence is calming enough that he doesn't feel quite so shaky as he has since he first arrived.

– – –

"What the hell happened, Russ?"

"I don't know yet."

"What do you mean you don't know yet?"

"Jesse was involved somehow.  Him and his friends.  I haven't talked to him yet."  It's partly for her: she deserves to be there if she wants to be.  It's partly because he's too furious --- too worried --- to approach the question rationally.  Partly because he doesn't want to go that far from Homestead Memorial.  "Larkin's watching him."

"Jesse--  Why--"  She pauses, hand lifting to cover her mouth.  "Is it because of--  Because he found out?"  She sounds like she already knows it.  Sounds like she doesn't want to believe it any more than Russell does.  "About us, I mean?"

"I don't know, Mare.  Stuff got out of control, though, I know that.  He called me.  If he hadn't--"

"Tom should probably be dead now, Russ, do you get that?"  For all her calm under pressure, she sounds scared by the mere idea, which makes sense but makes the situation terribly real at the same time.  "If he weren't already a hybrid, he probably would be."

The thought of how differently things could have gone --- of arriving too late, or never knowing at all --- sends a chill down Russell's spine to mirror when he'd first found out Tom was missing.  "It's that bad?"

Mariel nods, though the motion clearly costs her.  "Yeah, it's that bad."

– – –

Kira and Lewis, too, have stopped by, holed up on the other side of the room.  They'd chatted quietly at first, until Kira drifted off mid-sentence and rested her head against his shoulder in the process.  (It's a sweet scene, except for the context.)  

Afterwards, the only sound is breathing, accompanied by the beeping symphony of the machines Tom's hooked up to.  Afterwards, there's nothing to do but wait.

– – –

Jesse is pale by the time Russell arrives, eyes wide as he regards the EMTs bustling around.  The scenery is less than welcoming --- a half-decrepit house with clear signs of storm damage and dereliction, accompanied by a drained and litter-filled pool --- but it's rendered even less so by how viscerally the ambulance lights play across the destruction.  (Russell can't claim that he'd look any better; he felt nauseous before he'd even arrived, never mind the moments after, when he keeps getting glimpses of blood turned black in the moonlight and limbs lolled limply against rough, cracked pool tile.)

"Jesse."

He jolts at the sound, turning towards Russell with all the eagerness of any child caught in an illicit act.  His hands are plunged firmly into his pockets, shoulders hunched.  (It might, at any other time, have made Russell feel bad.  These are not other times.)

"Hey, Dad," he says, and he at least has the grace to sound upset.  He doesn't keep talking, either, which, for him, is a clear sign of contrition. 

Russell doesn't let himself flinch.  "Names.  Now."

"What?"

"Your friends.  I want their names and their addresses.  Right now.  Phone numbers too, if you have them."  He plans to wait, but then Jesse's shoulders square and his mouth opens with familiar combativeness and Russell doesn't bother waiting to hear the argument.  "Don't argue with me right now, Jesse; I promise you it won't go well.  Names, addresses, phone numbers."

"I don't have any phone numbers."  A beat.   "Actually, I think Larkin has Brett's home number, but--"  He gestures towards the house like the motion is self-explanatory, which, admittedly, it kind of is.  "He was here because this was better than home, so it won't get you anywhere."

"This Brett--"

"He ran off with the others.  And I don't know their names."

"Jesse--"

"I'm serious."  He does, in fact, sound genuine, and Russell allows the interruption as a result.  "I don't know them.  They're Brett's friends."

"Jesus, Jesse."  Russell sighs.  Brings his hand to run through his hair and then let it linger over his eyes so he won't have to keep watching.  "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I--"

"No, you know what, never mind.  Not now.  Just... Just stop.  We'll talk later."

"But, Dad--"

"I swear to you, it is in your best interest to stop talking and go home right now."  A restless kind of energy has slipped into Russell's skin, and flexing his hand into a fist can only provide so much catharsis... And, while an argument would sure help with that, it would definitely not help the situation, so he has the sense to take a breath.  "You're grounded.  We'll see what else later.  Give Larkin your phone when you get home and, I swear to God, if you do not, or if you go anywhere between here and there--"

"I won't."  He turns.  Starts to walk away.  Turns back for a moment.  "I am sorry, Dad."

No doubt, the best thing to say is something consolatory.  Something forgiving.  Instead, he just nods.  "Good."

– – –

Partway through the night, Lewis' radio crackles to life in the semi-silence.  "Sirk, you reading me?"

Kira doesn't stir at the noise, but Russell does, sitting bolt upright and leaning closer despite both the decently loud volume and the hospital bed between them.  Lewis deftly unhooks the radio, bringing it closer.  "Sirk, here."

"We got the kids.  Brett Hodge, a high schooler, and two older kids: Lee King and Gareth Beckman.  Munger's bringin' 'em in now."

"They say anything?"

"Not yet, but we haven't brought 'em into interrogation yet.  Will get there soon enough."

"Keep me updated."

"Will do, Deputy."

The radio crackles off again, and Lewis hooks it back into place.  "Well, that's a relief."

Russell nods.  Feels something in his gut unclench.  Braces himself again to ask, "And Jesse?"

Lewis shrugs.  "He's obviously not a flight risk, so we aren't going to bring him in.  Yet.  We'll see how things go with the interrogation, and if the Sheriff--"  A beat.  "When the Sheriff wakes up."

Russell nods.  "Thanks, Lewis."

"Of--"

Something beeps.

Or, rather --- since the heart monitor has been beeping rhythmically for the last several hours --- it would be more apt to say that the beeping shifts.

It's not so much a jolt as it is a hop of some kind, but all the same: it's something, and it's unexpected, enough to shock Russell's tired system back into overdrive as he feels the stress kick back up, just in case he needs to... be useless in a medical emergency.  Great.

Except then the beeps are supplemented by movement --- the twitch of fingers against unwrinkled white sheets, a slight shifting of the eyes beneath slack eyelids --- and Russell leans forward for an entirely different reason.  Asks, inanely: "Tom?"

There is no immediate response, but then Lewis grabs the call button and passes it over for Russell to press.  He does, of course, immediately, with fingers gone shaky from a very different sort of adrenaline, and they wait, and they wait, and--

"Russ?"

Russell laughs in relief, gone a little bit breathless and a lot bit relieved.  "Hey, Tom."

"You look like crap."  The comment is dry and a little amused, but there's a bit of genuine concern there that almost makes Russell laugh in turn.  It's a bit rich coming from Tom, is all.

"Go home."

"And leave Kira here?"

"Nah, take her too."  Even as he says it, he turns his head.  Takes in Kira with her head on Lewis' shoulder.  "Hey, there, Lewis," he says, though these words, too, are tempered by wry irony.

"Sir."

Tom looks back.  "So, Russ--"

Except the door opens before he finishes and Mariel books it through the door.  "I saw the call light.  What--"  She notices the bed, the very awake inhabitant, and stops.  Lets relief seep into her voice.  "Tom."

"Hey, honey."  He smiles.  (There are times when Russell hates that ever agreed to Mariel's request for a divorce.  Hates that she ever asked at all, hates that she remarried.  Hates that the divorce was almost certainly because she'd already fallen for Tom and hates that he can't even blame her for that.  But sometimes --- when Russell actually sees them interact, sees the way Tom looks at her as if she's solely responsible for hanging the moon, sees how obviously and visibly he loves her --- that he can't stay upset.  Can't be anything but glad that Mariel has found someone who loves her so dearly.)  "You okay?"

She crosses over to the bed, hand taking his gently around the IV cannula, eyes flitting back and forth between him and the machines reporting his vitals.  "I'm not the one who was admitted to the hospital halfway to a coma, Tom."

He waves her off, though he uses the other hand so he won't have to let go.  "Eh, I'm fine."

"You almost weren't."  Her words are too loud --- enough so that she immediately has to look over at Kira and make sure she hasn't woken --- and Russell catches a glimpse of tears in her eyes as she does.  Then, quieter: "Don't be so cavalier, Tom."

"I'm sorry, honey."  She doesn't respond; he taps her hand.  "I mean it, Mare."

"You have to be more careful."

He nods and, for all his eyes are visibly trying to slip back closed, he keeps them open long enough to earnestly answer.  "I'll try."

Whether she believes him or not, Mariel nods with a watery smile and lays his hand back down.  "Then get some rest."

He huffs, but nods.  "Okay, doc.  If you say so."

She leans closer.  Presses, "I do," into his forehead with a kiss and a gentle combing of her fingers through his hair.  Tosses a look at Russ before tilting her head towards the door and mouthing, "Outside."

(Her efforts to be quiet are futile.  The moment she's walked out --- the moment before he follows suit --- Tom opens his eyes again, for just a moment.  "Thanks, Russ.  And get some sleep, damn you.")

Mariel's waiting immediately beyond the threshold when he walks out.  "Go talk to Jesse.  Find out what happened.  Please."

"Okay."  Russell nods.  Considers going immediately.  Asks, first, "Will it help?"

"I don't know," she says.  "But I guess we'll find out."

– – –

For all the drive home is tense, Russell has no doubt that Jesse's been feeling worse.  He'd almost regret it if it weren’t for the fact that stewing a little was probably good for the kid after what's happened.  Give him time to think about what he's done and get himself straight.  (And if Russell should probably take some time himself --- address his own failings over the past few days --- then that's his business.  At least he has the grace to feel guilty without being browbeaten into it.)

Larkin is in the kitchen when Russell finally arrives, and he's glad to see Jesse's phone sitting, confiscated, on the counter.  She hands it to him, then follows the action with a pass of her hand along his arm.  "What happened?"

Russell frowns.  "He didn't tell you?"

A shake of her head.  "No.  Just said that you'd said he was grounded.  Went up to his room before I even asked."

"Great."  Even Russell isn't entirely sure if he means it sarcastically or not.  (At least Jesse had done as he was told?)  He pinches at the corner of his eyes and just knows there's a headache building there.  "Tom's in the hospital," he says, in lieu of figuring it out.

Larkin's hands lift.  Press close, one to her mouth, one to her stomach.  "Oh, my god."

"Jesse was... involved, along with some of his friends."

"Involved how?"

"I don't know yet."  A sigh.  "Guess that's what I have to find out."

One of her hands runs the length of his arm again.  "You've got this."

"Thanks," he says, very much feeling like he doesn't.

– – –

Jesse's sitting on the edge of his bed when Russell walks in, and he looks up immediately.  Almost stands before Russell waves him back down.  "How is he?"  (He does, at least, seem somewhat concerned.)

"He's woken up, at least.  Talked.  Seems fine, give or take the head trauma."

Jesse nods, accepting both the information and the dig.  "That's good."

"Alright, Jess."  Russell sits, the standard 45-degree angle of any parent chastising a child, hands on his knees like easing the process of sitting will ease the conversation too.  "Hit me.  What happened?"

A moment's hesitation.  Then he licks his lips, shifts forward, and lets loose.  "We were scared because the hybrids were--"

"No."  Russell stops that train, shakes his head.  "No.  Mariel was scared because her husband went missing and turned up in the hospital.  Kira is scared because her dad could've gone comatose or dead without saying goodbye."

Jesse frowns, half a scoff accompanying it.  "You haven't seen it, Dad.  School isn't... It's not right.   Everyone's either in or out, and we're all divided into groups, and everyone fights these days, and--"

"And what, precisely, is different about that from the way it used to be?  You said that kinda stuff about school long before Eve."

"It's just different."

"How?"  Russell waits a moment, eyebrows raised.

"I got punched, Dad!  Because th-- the hybrids think they can push anyone around and--"

"Oh, the hybrids do, do they?  Because I didn't see any hybrids pushing people around today, Jess; you and your friends did all that on your own."  He is, at least, gratified when Jesse doesn’t immediately open his mouth to argue back.  "Try again.  What happened?"

"We wanted to know what the hybrids were planning.  And... and Brett said that, you know... He knew some guys.  That they'd be able to... to talk to Tom and get some answers out of him.  Could get him to say what he'd been hiding, you know?"

Russell sighs.  "Talk to--"  Breaks off as the image of that hospital room flashes forth --- as he thinks about what had to have been done for Tom to end up there, about what talk to him really meant --- as the thought of Jesse and his friends planning this sinks in.  "Go on."

"I didn't know they were--"

"Jesse!"  The kid falls quiet, and there's enough in his posture --- his avoidance of eye contact --- to make it clear that he had known.  Had only pretended to himself that he didn't.  "Stop making excuses.  Tom's in the hospital--"

"I don't care!"  The words rasp from his throat, torn free like they had only barely been held at bay before, and they don't stop.  "I don't care, Dad.  He killed Mom; don't you care about that?"

"Of course I would."  Russell nods.  Does actually mean it, too.  "But that's not what happened.  And even if it were, it wouldn't excuse torture, Jess!"

He looks away, shamefaced, and his teeth have found his lip like it'll calm him.  "They didn't say that was their plan."

"No, they just told you they'd make him talk and you threw your common sense out the window."

"I made a mistake--"

"No, you don't get to pull that here.  A man almost died.  Very much on purpose.  You're lucky you're not in jail, and all I've heard you do is try to justify decisions that actively and intentionally hurt someone."

Silence.

"Now.  Brett proposed this... plan.  What happened next?"

"I--"  The words cut off with a click, the back of Jesse's throat giving up partway through.  Eventually, though: "I told them where he kept his boat."  Some of Russell's disappointment --- anger? --- must show on his face, for Jesse hunches and averts his eyes.  "I know--"

"Stop."  More excuses are not what Russell wants to hear right now.  (What he wants is to charge down to the station and get a good, long look at the punks involved.  Or maybe to go to the hospital and make sure Tom is still recovering okay.)  What he does is stay seated, (try to) calm his breathing, and say, "What else?"

"By the time we got there--"

"You and Brett?"

"Uh..."  Jesse nods.  "Yeah."

Russell's eyes narrow before he even consciously registers the lie.  Narrow further once he does.  "Who else was there?"

"What do you mean?"

"You just lied, about it being you and Brett.  Who else was there?"

"I don't--"  He cuts himself off.  Maybe he's figured out how little of his shit Russell's prepared to take right then because he amends it all on his own.  "A couple of the other guys.  From school."

Russell's knuckles creak with the force by which he clenches his fists in the name of self-control.  "And you didn't tell me this why?

“They didn’t even know why we were there, okay?  Not really.  They weren’t involved."

Whether it is true or not, Russell resolves to accept it as such for the time being and ask questions later.  "Fine.  So you get there and--"

"And they'd started without us.  He's already in the pool when we get there and they've got his gun--"

"How'd they get that?"

"Beats me, Dad," Jesse says with a shrug, and Russell finds himself pretty damn sure that the answer is a lot closer to beats Tom than he likes.  "I called you immediately.  I swear I didn't mean for this--"

"Then you'd best think about what the hell you did mean and what you want to do about it.  You owe your mom and Tom each one hell of an apology."

 "I know."

"Good."  Russell nods.  Decides, "You're still grounded.  You go to school and back, and no more.  I don't want you hanging around those other kids.  Ever.  We'll talk about Brett when you're done being grounded."

A nod, then: "How long?"

"However long Tom, your moms, and I damn well please."

– – –

Lewis phones with the full story later.  How they'd approached Tom at the docks.  How they'd told him they just wanted to talk.  How he'd seen through them almost immediately and tried to diffuse the situation.  How they'd taken offence to that.  (How there had never been any plan to keep things peaceful, not really, because one of them had been stationed nearby with a crowbar for just this purpose, and it had been utilised quickly.  How it had been utilised again later in colourful ways less about extracting information than about extracting pain.)

Russell's blood boils to hear it.  It's probably a good thing that the kids in question are already in jail.

– – –

Tom's alone in the room when Russell gets back.  He's watching television --- halfway engrossed in what Russell is amused to notice is an ocean documentary --- but he's obviously antsy if the periodic roving of his eyes or the tapping of his fingers can be trusted.  He is also surprised by the visit, evidenced in both look and tone.  (And words.)  "Russ?  What are you doing here?"

"Visiting."  Russell pauses.  Rifles through his pockets for the now-slightly-crumpled card Rose had given him before he left.  (It's cute, with all the endearingly crude styling of a child's artwork and the rainbow lettering of an all-caps message.  FEEL BETTER!)  "Rosie asked me to give you this."

Tom takes it.  His hands shake a little in the process, fingers wracked by fine tremors that set the card quivering too.  Still, his smile is warm as he regards it and he takes the time to smooth it out along the sheets as he does.  "She's very sweet.  Tell her thanks for me."

"Tell her yourself.  She's already got Larkin to agree to a visit tomorrow."  Tom's smile grows at the comment and there's something infectious about it because Russell grins too.  Hides it by looking away, remembering the two empty chairs.  "Kira and Lewis leave?"

Tom nods.  "Cleared out a couple of hours ago."

"Good," Russell says, not quite thinking, and is immediately left to hope it came across more as she could use the rest than it's good that you're lonely.  "Listen, Tom--"

"Russ, I--"

They both break off, as simultaneously as they had spoken, and Russell is very unsurprised when Tom gestures at him to go first.  "I owe you an apology.  Several, actually."

He gets a look of pure confusion in return.  "Why?"

"Jesse, if nothing else.  We didn't handle telling him well, and I didn't mean for that --- for any of this --- to happen."

Tom waves it off.  "Eh, don't worry abut it.  The kid's scared, that's all.  Cut him some slack."

"He almost got you killed--"

A shrug.  "Didn't stick, though."

"But it could've."  Russell almost gives into the urge to throw his hands up.  Laughs, instead, because, at least this time, Tom's risk-taking didn’t end too badly and so he still can.  "Mariel's right; you do have a death wish."

No immediate answer.  (No denial, either.)  Only a delayed, indirect, "Don't be too hard on the kid, Russ."

"He's grounded.  I haven't decided how long.  I'll talk to Mariel about it before I leave.  I was going to talk to you about it, but apparently I'm the hard-ass this time."

Tom shrugs again.  "It worked out fine."

Russell shakes his head.  "Agree to disagree."

For a moment, silence reigns, save for the omnipresent beeping of the still-running machines and the documentary running quietly in the background, partway through a segment on bottlenose dolphins.  Then... Well.   It would be incorrect to say that Russell fails to hold back a snort because it's a great deal more appropriate to say that he doesn’t try to.  "Are you communing?"  It is, perhaps, a risk --- it's always possible that the whole hybrid thing is an even touchier subject now --- but he hopes it's softened by his laugh.  "Those your cousins?"

He needn't have worried; Tom laughs too.  "Yeah, you got me, Russ.  I'm related to Flipper.  How'd you guess?"

"You never know."

A huff from Tom --- part amusement, part exasperation --- and he lifts the remote to mute the screen.  "You really come here to talk about Jesse and the family tree of the bottlenose dolphin, or've you got something else to get off that chest of yours?"

"No, I..."  Russell kinda dreads the conversation, even as he knows it needs to be had.  "I've got an apology of my own, actually."

Tom rolls his eyes.  "Not this again."

"I mean it.  It's not just Jesse who's been unfair lately.  When we talked the other night--"

"You were protecting your family, Russ, I get it."

"You're my family, too, Tom."

It's almost cruel how genuine Tom's blink of surprise is.  It has the feel of something he'd tried to conceal, but the cracks let shock filter through too clearly to miss.

"I was angry, but... I shouldn't have taken it out on you.  Shouldn’t have let you walk away like that."

"I was fi--"

"If you say fine, Tom, I swear--"

He looks vaguely guilty but does, at least, change course (albeit only barely).  "You were within your rights."  A beat, then: "I didn't know.  About Szura and the military.  Wouldn't have worked with him if I had."  Something haunted fills his expression, then --- the same look Russell saw in his eyes that night amid the trees --- and his eyes fix a little more distantly on the muted oceanscape before them.  "The military’s got a lab, Russ.  Filled with hybrids, like... Like lab rats."

He can imagine it.  Can see some of what Tom might have seen in that lab: superimpositions of every unethical lab experiment conducted over decades because now there's a new dataset to explore, new information to weaponise, new guinea pigs on which to experiment.  Thinks about what it must've been like to be there, to see it, to not be able to help because the bars between outside of the cage and in it were all too thin a line.

"I'm sorry," he says, though it cannot approach enough.

Tom doesn't immediately answer.  Eventually refocuses, only to say, "I didn't know."  It's audible, how much he hates that fact.

"I know," Russell says, nodding, and he means it.  Knows it now even if he wouldn’t’ve have before.  "I believe you."

Whatever comfort he’d intended those words to bring, Russell can only hope it got through; instead of staying on that topic, Tom says, with remarkable urgency, "You need to talk to Mariel."

"Okay..."  Russell nods.  Waits for an explanation that doesn't come.  "Why?"

"Ask her about the closet," Tom says, instead of answering.  "Tell her I said that you should borrow the key and go look."

"Why, Tom?"

"I think Szura's planning something."  Tom shrugs.  Gestures around them feebly.  "Can't exactly go check it out myself, but that closet's a good place to start."

"Okay."

"Thanks," Tom returns, and Russell winces a bit to hear it because there’s more of that surprise there.  "I appreciate it, Russ."

"No worries," Russell says, meaning every word.  "Like I said."  A smile, also meant.  "You're family."