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Parrot knows he is dreaming because Wifies in the room with him. It at least looks like Wifies, in the barest physical characteristics. He has his fuzzy, floppy ears, he has his big, watery, puppy eyes. His hands are the same as they have ever been where they clutch Parrot’s wrists, and Parrot feels the stubby little fingernails digging into his wrist the same as they have ever been.
Parrot is sitting up in his bed in BAT, his back on the headboard. Wifies’ forehead is pressed to his chest, straddling Parrot. His weight is familiar, heavy and grounding, even if that grounding is made a little less functional by the way that Wifies is shaking like a leaf.
“I’m sorry.” Wifies says, and squirms himself ever deeper into Parrot’s hold. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m—”
Parrot knows he is dreaming because Wifies has no reason to be be sorry. But, of course, Parrot’s stupid selfish brain wants Wifies to have not been able to leave him. Parrot wants Wifies to be sorry. Parrot wants this all to not have been his fault.
But no amount of lying to himself will make that true, and so in lieu of doing literally anything else, Parrot buries his hand in Wifies’ hair and combs through it. It’s not your fault, he thinks, but cannot bring himself to say, it’s not your fault all of this happened.
But they could have run away together when Wifies made that choice. And maybe they would have died, but at least they would have died together, and that wouldn’t have left Parrot all alone. All alone against the director. Or, not all alone, but without a limb, without a best friend. What’s the difference?
Wifies wasn’t expendable, but he couldn’t get that through his thick fucking skull, and now he’s dead. And Parrot is alone, which is worse than if they both entered the mafia, or both died.
Leo is leaning by the coffee machine in the BAT kitchen, which is almost enough to make Parrot turn right the fuck back around and go back to his room. But, he is exhausted enough that he’s probably not going to be able to get any work done without the coffee, and he has to go through those goddamn expense reports today.
He walks up to the coffee machine. Luckily, Leo isn’t using it, and double-luckily, he looks about as willing to talk to Parrot as Parrot is to talk to him. Unluckily, that doesn’t stop him from staring daggers at Parrot.
Ok, well, daggers isn’t quite fair. It’s less angry and more assessing, more worried, more…guilty? Serves him right for being guilty, all that shit that he put Parrot through during this whole ordeal—beliving him to be the director, kicking him out.
He thinks this, and then immedicable recoils against it. Leo had lost more than most through this whole ordeal. At least no one Parrot actually cared about died here. At least BAT were the only people that Parrot was close with, and they could handle themselves.
Leo turns to face Parrot as he works on the coffee machine, packing the little filter with coffee grounds and pouring water in through the top.
He watches the coffee drip into the cup.
“Nice weather, yeah, bro?” Parrot asks, for want of something to say, to cut the tension.
Leo nods, “yeah.” and his voice cracks around sadness in a sharp, obvious way. Of course, Nufili died, what? a couple weeks ago? It makes sense that he would still be emotional. Parrot shouldn’t bother him.
Jumper ambles out of her office a little later, and wanders right into room full to the brim with an aching, hopeless silence. It is familiar to Parrot, and Parrot is sure it is familiar to Leo and Jumper, too. They all went through the mafia. They all felt the true sadness of having no real way out.
“Are you okay, Parrot?” She asks, watching him watch the coffee, “you look shaken up.” Abruptly, Leo pushes himself off of the counter he is leaning on and walks into the hallway.
“No, I’m fine.” Jumper doesn’t need the extra stress of all of his stress. She has enough, managing all of her spies. “I’ve been having some weird dreams lately.”
She swallows, “really?”
“Mhm.”
Jumper looks at him with her big, sympathetic eyes, and if she really wants to hear about his mental fracturing, her problem, he guesses.
“I keep dreaming about Wifies.”
Jumper sucks in a sharp breath, so sharp it almost sounds like a wince. For a second, there is fear in her voice. “Oh. That sucks, man, I’m sorry.”
“Yeah. I mean, they aren’t bad, but it just—the context makes them really really sad, and it reminds me—It’s like, I can’t rest. I can’t forget. You know.”
Jumper nods. “I’m sorry you feel that way.” She pauses, “I’m sorry that’s happening to you.” She stops for a long second, her eyes downcast, fiddling with the hem of her dress shirt. “If its—if it’s any consolation, that probably means you’re finally processing his death, right? You’re past the stage—the stage of grief—of denial.”
From anyone else, that wouldn’t have felt good to hear, but Parrot is used to Jumper’s brand of cynicism by now. It’s not an issue.
“You’re probably right. I just feel like maybe my brain can start mourning once we get out of this director mess.”
Jumper snorts. “Well, he has been pretty inactive, recently.”
“Yeah. Just makes me think they’re gonna come back with a vengeance soon.”
“Don’t let it worry you too much. That’s how he wins, it—by making us paranoid. If we’re paranoid, he’s gotten what he wants. That’s probably his goal here.”
“Bro, Jumper, you’re so smart. Why don’t I listen to you all the time?”
Parrot knows he is dreaming, because Wifies is sitting on the foot of his bed.
“Did’ya miss me?” He asks, and Parrot wants to ask if he’s talking about Parrot missing him in between now and the last dream Parrot had about him, or between now and when he died. The answer for both is yes. Parrot misses him so bad it hurts.
“You look sad. C’mon, Parrot, tell me what’s stressing you out. Maybe I can help?”
“You’re dead.” Parrot says, and immediately regrets it. But Wifies doesn’t look mad.
“Well, yeah, but I can give you, like, emotional counseling.” Wifies smiles, just the way he has always smiled, all teeth and sweetness, and the image of him is untainted by the loss that memory always gains. It is perfect enough to imagine that Wifies is really here.
It’s Wifies. Parrot tells him everything. He doesn’t even hesitate.
“That sounds terrible. Man, I’m sorry.”
“Why? It’s not your fault.”
Wifies huffs out a laugh. “Yeah, but can’t I feel bad for a guy in peace?”He pauses, his face returning to its normal, serious expression. “But seriously, bro. I’m glad you’re safer, now.”
“But—I’m not—”
“You said it yourself, the director isn’t around. You feel safer.”
“I—I don’t—they’re going to come back—”
“Do you know that? I think you might be being a little bit paranoid.”
“I—”
“And that’s okay, but you need to take a step back and think about if those thought patterns are reasonable or not.”
Parrot goes to say something else, but he stops, and takes a deep breath. Wifies notices—of course he does—and knee-walks across the bed to sit down next to him. He slings an arm over Parrot’s shoulder and starts to breathe deeply.
Parrot knows how this goes, him and Wifies have done this before. That’s probably how his mind knows how Wifies would do it. Parrot copies his breathing, until he gets calm enough to think.
It’s so quiet, in this room in the BAT base. It shouldn’t be this quiet. That’s another reason why he knows it’s a dream. How quiet it is. There is barely any sound, not of spies shifting around in their armor and splashing potions on themselves.
It feels ominous. It feels different.
When Parrot wakes up, it is still so quiet. He wanders into the main area of the base. He needs to see a person. One person. Just one person. He doesn’t—if the director shows up, who is going to help him? Will he have to handle it alone? Will he die alone?
There is no one in the first room he goes into, so he goes into a second, and a third. It takes until he goes back into the kitchen for a second time for him to see anyone. There are three spies, two of them at one of the kitchen islands, and one rummaging through the fridge. They freeze when Parrot walks in, but he waves his hand and they go back to what they are doing.
He walks to the sink to get a glass of water and chugs the whole thing. His heart is beating in his chest so fast and so hard he feels like he is dying.
Eventually, he sees Jumper.
“Yo, Jumper, is it just me—or, or, are there less spies here than normal?”
“Well, a lot of them are on missions. Were you—”
“I woke up and uh, there was no one there, and I don’t know, I think I freaked out?”
“If it’ll help, I can show you to the area that the spies usually hang out in? I don’t known, I don’t want to belittle your experiences, but I think—I mean, have you looked into anxiety-reducing strategies?”
“No.” He sighs. “But I will, I guess.”
“I’ll get you the book I give the spies after they’re diagnosed with an anxiety disorder.”
“You have one of those?”
“Mmmh. I mean it happens a lot. Just an effect of being on this server.”
“Are you—”
“Here, and do you have work to do today?” Jumper’s voice is sickly sweet and condescending. Parrot can’t bring himself to care. He nods. “You can do it in my office, mkay? That way you aren’t alone.”
It doesn’t help. Leo won’t meet his eyes or stay in a room with him for more than two minutes, Jumper won’t leave him alone. He comes into the kitchen one morning to find every knife three times as dull, he comes into the bathroom to find all the cleaning supplies gone and every medication more dangerous than child’s Ibprophen and a very diluted anti-nausea treatment hidden in a locked cabinet in Jumper’s spys’ nurse’s office.
And then, of course, he wakes up one morning, and Wifies hasn’t left, yet. And Wifies was waiting. And Wifies—the director—pull back the last curtian in Parrot’s mind, and fear rushes back in like air to a vacuum.