Chapter Text
Claire reminds Six of the twins.
Headstrong and mouthy and confident in her own spaces. Easily claiming what's his – like his jacket, like his heart – for herself. She's witty and brave, with these big eyes that betray an emotional maturity that only comes from your life not allowing you anything else. When Six tells her that they're in danger, she doesn't whine or cry – which is what he would expect and eagerly allow – she simply swallows and nods tightly.
She knows just like he does that there isn't anywhere he can go where the CIA won't be following him. There aren't any allies that won't know about the price on his head. Eventually, his catalog of emergency safe houses will run out. Other than that, it hurts to see Claire in those hovels; showering in sinks, eating whatever he can scrounge for, getting her hands dirty only because they're the only other set of hands he has. She's great about it, because that's who she is, but she shouldn't have to be. She should get to scream when she's angry, or cry when she's sad, or push him away when she's irritated. She deserves to be a normal teenager.
Sometimes he looks at her, standing in the shadows of the moldy halls they have to hide in, and sees her brushing off her brown sneakers. He sees the inlay of them – the white and black polka dots. He sees her snatching pieces of colorful torn fabric to tie into her hair. He sees the braids that she needs to wear in order to keep her hair away from her face; how carefully she keeps them. She rakes through them every night with her fingers, then uses his backpack as a pillow and hums herself to sleep.
Six sees all of this, and aches in a profound way.
Ryland was the youngest of them all. Despite Colt and him being twins, Six always found that the fifteen point three minutes between them being born mattered. It made Ryland small between the two of them. And otherwise, he was different. He went outside and caught mosquitos and marveled at them as they bit the shit out of his skin. Colt wanted to smack them dead all for the red bumps lining Ryland's body, but Ryland insisted that every creature deserves to live, because they're just trying to survive. He would say, this isn't personal, as he talked about the bites or scratches or times he would throw up from handling bacteria from the chirping swamp. It's life.
This life is killing you, Six would think as he pressed wet washcloths to Ryland's burns in the bathroom after their dad went to bed. He was wary of the way Ryland's shoulders curled inward. He was wary of the tightness to which Ryland clung to sharp objects. He didn't know if his brother would turn the blade out to the world on in against himself.
The first one he could manage. He could teach Ryland to measure his violence and deal it in small doses; in ways that wouldn't kill him slowly. The other –
The other option he couldn't stomach.
That's why he did what he did. He knew that Colt would keep them safe and that Ryland would keep them together. He knew they would be fine without him.
The same would be true for Claire. As much as she soldiered through the terrible conditions and fear-soaked days and visions of violence, Six knew there would be a breaking point. And he couldn't protect her forever. She needed more than his bloody hands. She needed someone that could save her, inside and out.
“Who lives here?” Claire whispers as they walk up the drive. It's pitch black – three in the morning. She's holding to the back hem of his jacket with her small dirtied hands.
“Someone safe,” Six promises. He easily picks the apartment door lock.
“Safe like before all of this,” she asks, “or safe like after the maze?” When he doesn't answer right away, she tries again. “Safe like you, or safe like someone else?”
“Safe like family.”
That quiets her. He ushers her inside. Despite himself, he checks every dark corner. He feels ridiculous as he steps over welcome mats with daisies on them, and passes Christmas wreaths left over from months ago, but caution is always necessary. When he gets to the third floor, he hesitates. It's certainly the door on the left, with the little lopsided crochet sun hooked onto the metal knob. The idea of his brother getting that from the store, or making it himself, or even getting it as a gift from Colt or a student is just –
“Six,” Claire says.
Six moves, and knocks against the door before he can talk himself out of it. There's silence from inside. Six keeps his weight steady, though he wants to shift nervously. He knocks again, two quick, one long. Then again, two quick, one long.
“Maybe they're not home,” Claire peers around him. “Do you –”
The door opens.
Claire chokes. Ryland is standing there in blue PJ pants and an oversized PBS t-shirt. He's rubbing his eyes, which are missing his glasses, which makes it even more obvious how similar they look. When his hand falls away, Six watches him process what is standing at his door. His eyes go from Six, down to Claire, then back up to Six.
He laughs, high and stressed, then closes the door in their face.
“Okay – sorry,” Ryland says, bustling around the tiny living room. He's sweeping piles of papers – worksheets and diagrams and rubrics – off his beat up couch. “But it's three in the morning and I've been having these dreams recently and they feel too vivid. Really, really vivid, which – my therapist used to say they happened when I was stressed, and I will admit to being quite stressed right now, what with everything that happened to –”
“Ryland.” Six interrupts firmly. Ryland blinks owlishly at him, construction papers piled up and held to his chest securely.
“Yes,” he jitters a little. He doesn't look fully at Six, like he can't or something. Fine. Six can handle that. “Sorry. Um – tea?” His lips pull down. “Actually, do you want water? I have – I have tap water. It gets pretty cold so –”
“No,” Six says.
“Right,” he sounds strangled. “And your – small child? Does she – do you want some –”
“I'm good,” she says.
“Right,” Ryland's head bobbles. “Yes – yes. Okay.” He looks at Six's shoulder. “Why are you here?” Six doesn't flinch. But he would if he wasn't Six. “I mean – it's been years. I thought you were –”
His voice trails off and their eyes meet – actually meet – for the first time since Six has walked through that door.
Then Ryland’s gaze slides down to Claire, tucked all against Six’s side. “Hi,” his voice gets gentle. Really gentle. Six has a sudden image in his head of a small Ryland with permanent bedhead coaxing a toad out from under their porch with a tupperware of sink water. He was out there for hours, even getting sunburn across his freckled arms, but eventually the toad was back by the pond. “It’s pretty late. I have a couple of blankets and some clothes you can change into. Would you like a shower?”
She glances at Six, then back at Ryland. “Why do you have clothes for a little girl?”
Ryland flushes – Six’s lip twitches. Fair question. “I’m in charge of the lost and found at school. I’m a teacher, so – school. That’s why. Anyway, we have to bring the box home every day to make sure no bugs nest in them. Most of the stuff is hats and scarves, but I’m sure there are some sweatpants in there.”
“Okay,” she allows.
Six watches as Ryland shows her to the bathroom. He follows behind at a distance, using the guise of keeping watch as an excuse to look around his brother’s home. It’s nothing crazy, really. A scuffed up dining table with more papers atop it. Cardigans and suit jackets are thrown over the backs of the chairs. There are textbooks and binders that say planning 2026 and scattered pens and pencils everywhere. The kitchen is open plan, with a bunch of take-out menus and random pieces of fruit on the counter. Six can imagine Ryland getting caught between a student and a staff meeting, missing lunch and swinging by some cafeteria to grab an apple, only to not eat it all day. He can also imagine students leaving fruit on his desk. Does that really happen in real life? He wants to ask. He wants to know about Ryland’s day to day; his favorite students; the things in his days that make him want to smack his head against a wall.
He can hear Ryland guiding Claire through the water temperature and offering her soap and a towel. He quietly steps over the hallway wall. It’s one of the few frames up. It’s almost as if Ryland never got to finish decorating after moving in and then never found the time. In it is Ryland doubled – only not. It’s Colt, younger, a little blonder, wearing a backwards cap and an unbuttoned crisp button-down that shows off a white tank. He’s got his arm around Ryland, who is wearing different glasses, as well as a hoodie that says USFD. There are other people on the edges of the photo, but Six doesn’t care about them.
He reaches out to touch the small space between Ryland and Colt’s bodies.
“College.”
Six’s gaze cuts to the side. The bathroom door is shut now. The shower is running. Ryland suddenly looks just as tired as the hour demands.
“Colt didn’t want to go far,” Ryland says. He sounds like he’s inside of the memory from the photo. “He thought I needed somewhere to anchor myself. He’s right, obviously, but it was clear that he was just waiting around until I could stand on my own two feet.” He looks over at Six. Six is caught by the gentle amusement in his eyes. “But you know Colt. He’s meant to go. Be out there.”
Six doesn’t know. Not really. He nods though.
“He joined this frat,” Ryland does a cross between a chuckle and a sigh. “They were insane, but he was entertained. It lasted a year before I told him to go.”
“Ryland,” Six says.
The amusement dies. “Right.” He steps around Six; back into the living room. Six follows his lead carefully, but when he sits down on the couch, Six remains standing. “So, you’re alive.”
This time Six does flinch. Ryland’s tone has shifted entirely. The edge of resentment is cutting. Six should have expected it. They were raised by the same man after all.
“I am,” Six says. “I have been. I’ve been watching both of you. Keeping tabs.”
“Keeping tabs,” Ryland repeats, sardonic. “Okay, and what – I’m an uncle now?”
“She’s not my kid.”
“Court –”
“Six.”
Ryland stares at him. “Seven,” he says. Six’s brow furrows. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought we were just saying numbers at each other.”
“My name is Six,” he grinds out. “That’s my name.”
Ryland pinches the bridge of his nose. “Colt is going to freaking flip.”
“You can’t tell him.” Six wishes he could break the news softer, but there isn’t any time. He’s been in one place for far too long. “You can’t tell anyone that I was here. That’s why I came. I –” for the first time, he hesitates. “I need help.”
Ryland’s dark – almost murderous expression – shifts. Of course Six knew he would push back about Colt. Of course. But Six needed to take this gamble. He needed to be sure that Ryland would care more about a hurting child than about petty grudges.
The way Ryland immediately helped Claire before anything else proved that Six knows him still.
“You died, Court,” Ryland says. Six doesn’t correct him this time. “They told us you died in there. You do realize that, right? I wake up at three in the morning to your ghost knocking on my door. I mean – what could I possibly help you with?”
“I need a safe place for her to be,” he says, voice low. Ryland’s eyes widen. “She’s not safe with me. No one is. I need some time so I can deal shit.”
“You’re giving me a child,” Ryland sounds distant.
“I’m – yes. I’ll get an alias for her. A new identity. I want you to enroll her –”
“You’re giving me an outlaw child.”
“I want you to enroll her at your school,” he says. He holds out his hands in a helpless way. “Ry. Her family is all gone.”
Ryland looks at him like Six is the most dense, unaware, stupid motherfucker on planet Earth. But then he looks at the carpet. And then he says, still looking down, “how long?”
“Summer,” Six says. “Three months.”
“Four,” he corrects dimly. “We end late May.”
“Four months.” He amends. “I’ll be back once things are tied up. Once she can be safe.”
Ryland looks up. Six can’t tell if the shine of his eyes is the light, exhaustion, or some misty form of tears. His voice is almost serene when he speaks. “Alright. Four months. I’ll make sure she’s okay.” Suddenly, he reaches out and takes Six’s wrist. He pulls back just as quickly as he jumped. “Right. Yes. Okay. Just – checking.”
He reaches out again, slower this time, and Six reaches to meet him. Not to hold his hand, but to let Ryland trace the back of his with the pads of his fingers. He lingers, and Six holds his breath. Once Ryland has slipped his fingers into Six’s palm, he says, “don’t die, Court.”
It isn’t Six making the promise when he nods deeply. It's Courtland.