Archive of Our Own

"Six."

An awful wretch filled the air.

"Six, do you copy?"

He nearly ripped the damn earpiece out. Miranda's voice was too loud, too close. The night breeze suddenly ripped through his jacket. Still, he pressed his hands against his abdomen and stumbled on forward.

"Six, do you—"

"Shut up," he managed in a single breath. Even that was painful.

Usually, if an injury occurred on a mission, he could compartmentalize. He could push it aside for a bit until he got to safety. Like an animal retreating to its den to lick its wounds. Except here, in the back alleyways of some city he couldn't remember, he had no den to return to. His blood dripped onto the pavement with his hunched posture, trying to conserve warmth and keep the thick liquid from escaping further.

"What's your position?"

Six tumbled, crashing into a brick wall with a low groan. He leaned against it for a moment to take deep breaths that aggrivated the hole in his stomach. Probably a bullet, maybe a knife. He couldn't remember. Some stupid asshole came out of nowhere before he could execute the target. He moved too fast for Six to see what kind of weaponry he used. The stinging pain with each step felt like a knife, but he couldn't be sure.

"Six—"

"Fuck off," he huffed. He looked up. Above the buildings, far far away, were the stars painting the dark canvas of the sky. He didn't like living in the city. Too crowded, and the lights never turned off. He couldn't see the stars like he could in a house a few miles from the city.

"If that target got away—"

"Target was eliminated. Another… asshole came outta nowhere. Headed down sixth."

He heard Miranda sigh.

"Preparing for interception. Get it together, Six."

He tore the earpiece out. Another breeze drifted through the alley lazily. He kept his eyes on the sky. The city was never silent. Not truly. There was always something going on: a car driving in the middle of the night, or emergency vehicles blasting sirens, or neighbors in a dingy apartment being rowdy.

Silence, in Six's life, was nonexistent. Someone was always talking in his ear, giving him the next mission. Someone was always shooting, stabbing, torturing. Screaming. Dying. His ears rang painfully at the end of every day when he'd find time to lie down. Never really getting to sleep soundly.

He knew why he took the job. It was the off chance that he'd get to walk out of that prison and keep his family together. Fitz had promised him security for the twins and he got it.

Now, with the twins nearly thirty and in their own careers, he was stuck doing the same thing. And he desperately wanted out. He wanted to visit Colt on set and see a cool stunt. He wanted to visit Ryland at his teaching job, seeing him do what he didn't expect to love so much.

The one time silence appeared in Six's life it nearly ended in Ryland's death at the hands of their father. He promised himself; never again would that man touch them, and he kept that promise.

He wanted quiet. He wanted peace. For once, he didn't want to get hurt or inflict pain. He just wanted his brothers back.

Yet there he was. Bleeding out in an alley, barely awake, clinging onto embers of energy. Begging silently to someone—a diety or something out there—to just let him go home.

He blinked. He was staring at the floor. Where'd the stars go?

Oh, right, his wound. His hands were stained red. The offending liquid continued to spill like an infinite pool. Six took a few breaths and pushed his hands down on the wound. He grit his teeth, telling himself it wasn't bad. Just a flesh wound, nothing he hasn't dealt with before. He'd had worse. His vision blacked out for a moment. He blinked again and he was suddenly on the ground, the concrete digging into his cheek.

From his sideways vision, Six could see the street. The yellow of the streetlamps illuminating the road, the chainlink fence of a park across the street. Empty. Void of life. He shivered violently with the breeze. It was so cold. Goosebumps rose on his skin. Something in his head told him that was a good thing—he had enough energy to get goosebumps to rise, which meant he had energy to get up. He kept one hand on the wound and put his other against the concrete.

He pushed. His arm shook. He couldn't get up.

He tried again, gritting his teeth as he pushed. He didn't move an inch.

He blinked. The alley disappeared. He was on the floor in his childhood home, watching his monster of a father drag Colt by the back of his shirt downstairs as he fought the stars in his vision. He was listening to Colt's horrified screams, Ryland's soft whimpers beside him as he tried to get up, their father's rage. He wasn't Six; he was Courtland.

"Court," Ryland sobbed. No eight year old should have such a devastating look in his eyes, or his expression twisted into agony. Ryland's hands—so small—enveloped his bloody one.

The realist in him told him that it wasn't real. It was in the past, over twenty years ago. Colt and Ry were alive.

The current Courtland—Six—that was growing colder by the second thought that he was back in that house. That Colt was in danger, and Ryland's nose was bleeding. He was failing in his promise to himself. He needed to get up.

Though his body shook, the hand Ryland held was warm. Six's heart squeezed as Ryland took a large stuttering breath, like his little body couldn't handle the capacity of which he wanted to cry. Courtland cried, too.

"Get up, Court, please!" Ryland pleaded, squeezing his hand. So warm.

Six… Courtland's vision blurred with tears.

"Can't…"

"Colt's gonna die! Please, I don't know what to do! Court!"

Colt's screams echoed in his ears, sending shockwaves through his body. The sound of a clenched fist meeting skin. Alarm rushed through him like adrenaline.

Colt.

Colt.

He's gonna die.

Courtland pushed again with an animalistic yell tearing from his throat. He felt Ryland's hands move to his arm, an attempt to help him up. He managed to get to his knees before he swayed. He righted himself, seeing eight year old Ryland beside him still crying, pointing down the hallway. Courtland staggered to his feet, fighting the nausea that clawed at his body and the vignette darkening his vision.

Ryland's form blinked between the house and the alleyway. An anomaly glowing yellow. Why was he glowing?

"Come on!" he said hurriedly before starting towards the road.

Courtland held his wound and followed his brother. His pace was agonizingly slow, too slow to be able to save Colt, like he was in a dream. He forced his legs to go one after the other. Time seemed to melt together. Every blink, he found himself in between the staircase of his old home and the sidewalk. One thing didn't change, and it was Ryland, encouraging him and telling him to keep going.

Each step, Courtland remembered what it was all for.

The day he held the twins for the first time after their birth. The way they relaxed into him.

Their first steps and words. Their first smiles and laughs. Colt was a fussy baby, but he laughed a lot. Ryland was a crier.

Their first day of school. Courtland almost didn't want to let them go and was practically coddling them into the pre-school. Their father beat it out of him later. No coddling.

The school projects, the mention of fairs and fundraisers. Their first friends.

Courtland ran into a streetlamp. His muscles were beginning to disobey him. Ryland's glowing form tugged at his sleeve insistently, still crying. Courtland didn't know why anymore. Everything in him was trying to formulate words, to try and get the tears to stop flowing.

"We're almost there, Court! Please, you have to keep going!"

He leaned against the streetlamp. Sweat dripped from his forehead in buckets. He was shaking, exhausted, and he'd lost a lot of blood. He didn't know how much he had left in him. He could barely hear Ryland's pleading anymore over the ringing in his ears and the sound of his own breath slowing down as it escaped him.

The blinks grew heavier. The street grew blurry.

"Hey! Court!"

He forced his eyes open at the familiar voice. Behind Ryland stood Colt, still eight years old. He had a bandage over his nose and a large, toothy grin. Colt was glowing blue. He moved to stand beside Ryland, his hands coming up to tug Court's arm. The weight felt gargantuan.

"Come on! We're almost there!" Colt said with his big smile.

"Where…"

"You'll see! You've been wanting to visit for a while."

"Okay," he whispered.

He pushed himself back upright with much difficulty, having to take a second to stop the world from swirling. He let Ryland and Colt hold his hand, dragging him forward. All the while, he could hear their giggles, their laughter, ringing out in his head. It was so warm. A warm memory to fight the cold claws of death that wished to drag him under.

"Keep going! We're almost there!" Colt kept saying. He was jumping up and down. "Right, Ry?"

"Yeah, almost there," the youngest replied with a small smile. At least the tears were gone.

He didn't even know where the hell he was, or where they were leading him. He turned a corner and the twins stopped in front of a glass door. Ryland reached for the handle but was too small to grab it fully. He puffed his cheeks and tried again only to huff in annoyance.

"You're tall, Court, you've gotta grab it for us!" Colt said.

"'Kay."

He missed the handle by a few inches, smearing the glass with red. He found the silver handle and pulled the door open. It went without issue, and the twins pulled him inside. It seemed to be a lobby. An empty reception desk with small cubbies behind it, words on the wall he couldn't read through his blurry vision. Fancy lounge chairs in the corners. He spotted Colt running ahead down a hall to the left of the desk. He peeked around the corner, giggling as if they were playing hide and seek.

"Let's go!" he goaded.

Ryland took Court's hand again, following after his twin. Courtland went without protest, finding his tongue too heavy to use anymore. The night chill had evaporated and yet he continued to shiver. Colt was jumping in front of an elevator. He pressed the up button.

Courtland blinked and he was suddenly in the elevator. Colt and Ryland stared up at him worriedly. Courtland wasn't as tall as a teen as he was an adult. Late growth spurt. The twins hadn't been this small… well, since they were kids. Courtland's brain was fried; torn between trying to keep him alive and wondering what the hell was happening. Why he was seeing the versions of his brothers that nearly died.

Colt rubbed his arm. So warm. "It's okay, Court. You'll be okay."

Tears plopped uselessly onto the tile floor. Courtland was already having trouble breathing with the white-hot pain flaring in his middle. The tears made it ten times worse. He didn't know why he was crying. He hadn't cried in… a long time. He was in so much pain, not just physically. Looking into the faces of his younger brothers, he felt like he was fifteen again, being processed at the police station. Like he was leaving them behind.

"Stay with us," Ryland pleaded. He didn't have glasses yet, though he'd shown signs of needing them when he was seven. "It's okay. You don't have to be strong anymore."

Courtland hiccupped, hissing at the stabbing pain. He pressed on his stomach with a small whimper. Colt and Ryland put their small hands over his as the elevator dinged.

"Just a few more steps," Colt said.

Courtland swallowed, sniffling. "Few more steps," he repeated slowly.

"You can do it!" Ryland cheered.

"I can do it."

The twins led him into a hallway, turning left. Courtland couldn't recall ever seeing this place. Then again, his brain felt like mush. He kept his eyes on his brothers as they pushed forward. Dozens of doors littered the hall. Doors with golden numbers on them. Was he in an apartment building?

"Where 'r you… taking me?" he asked.

"Home," Colt answered as if it were that simple. It wasn't. It didn't answer anything, and yet it calmed Courtland considerably. It shouldn't have. He didn't have a home. No place to call his own. He borrowed places—safe houses—that could barely be lived in for too long.

Just as Courtland stumbled, falling against the left wall, Ryland stopped in front of a door. Courtland's knees gave out from under him. The carpet dug into his knees. He leaned against the wall, breaths coming in short, shallow bursts as the twins knocked feverishly on the door. Courtland had half a mind to chastize them about knocking on strangers' doors if he could just muster a damn word.

"It's okay, Court," Ryland said. He abandoned knocking on the door to hug Courtland.

A sob wracked his chest. There he was, dying in some random apartment building, hallucinating his brothers he loved so much comforting him, trying to save him in his moment of dire need. They weren't real. Nobody glowed blue or yellow unless they were radioactive or something. Courtland felt Ryland push further into him, resting his cheek on his shoulder like he used to when Court carried him to bed.

"Don't cry. It'll all be okay."

"How do—" he sobbed "—you know?"

"You're home," Colt said, knocking.

As Colt abandoned the door to join Ryland, hugging him, Courtland saw the door swing open. He closed his eyes and leaned into the twins' embrace, relishing in the warmth that plucked the cold off of his bones.

"You're okay," he heard them whisper. "We're here."

Courtland sniffled as the warmth slowly started to fade, same with the weight of their arms around him. He must've been drifting into Death's clutches. He thought he felt a hand against his shoulder. A larger one, but warm.

He followed the sound of his brothers' voices into the depths of the void, a smile crossing his lips for the first time in a long time.

Colt was having a relatively normal night until the knocks came.

He and Ryland were having a few beers and catching up in his apartment. He hadn't seen his brother in a few weeks with all of his stunt work taking him outside the U.S., but Ryland didn't change much. He loved to gush about his student, though, just as much as Colt loved talking about his new girlfriend. Jody was the best.

They'd been hanging out all day. First, it started with Colt picking his brother up from the airport. Then it was going out on the town, trying different places Colt hadn't been to yet, and then it was back to the apartment to hang out. Ryland had immediately commented on all the plants he owned. So what? Colt liked the greenery. It made the space pop a little bit. That, and it was nice to have something to care for. He watered them every day, thank you very much.

They had the TV on as background noise as the sun dipped lower and lower below the horizon. Ryland spoke about weird encounters with parents at conferences and Colt had to point out to him exactly why the encounters were so weird.

"Dude, every single parent that you talk to is for sure wanting to jump you."

Ryland spluttered. "Huh? Why?"

"Oh, I dunno, because we're conventionally attractive?" Colt sipped his beer, wondering how Ryland could wear his glasses in such a wonky way and not break them on the daily. "You're, like, every single mom's dream. Dad, too."

"Oh my God, don't say it," Ryland groaned miserably.

"Why? I thought this was a good thing."

"I can't start a sexual relationship with one of my students' parents! That's… so unprofessional in so many ways—"

"So?"

"—not to mention that I don't really… care for romance?"

"Oh, right. My bad."

Ryland shook his head. "Whatever. I just hope they can take a hint. I'm not interested."

Colt nursed the can, feeling the condensation drop into his palm. "Not even a little?" he asked.

"Colt."

"Fine, fine. What about life outside work? You've only been talking about school."

"My life is school. Teaching."

"Yeah, but you go out, right? Do things on the weekend?"

Ryland shrugged. "I go to this diner. They know me. I actually met one of my old college friends there a few weeks ago. It was nice to see her again. She works for a building company, which I thought was weird because she majored in bioengineering, but to each their own. What about you?"

"Eh, the usual. Get on a plane, do some dangerous shit, come home tired."

"Yeah, but you got a girlfriend," Ryland said, teasing. "What's she like?"

"I wouldn't say we're… together together," Colt started, unsure. "We just… kiss 'n stuff…"

"I'd say that means you're together." Ryland kicked his shin before moving to adjust his spot on the couch. "Come on, what's her name?"

"Jody," he said dreamily. "She's an aspiring director and I know she's gonna be amazing."

"Oh, so you work for her?"

"No. Aspiring, Ry. Key difference there."

"So what does she do now?"

"Director's assistant. Like an internship of sorts."

"And how long have you guys been kissing and stuff?" Ryland said with a smug grin.

Colt rolled his eyes. "A few weeks? Maybe a month, now? I dunno, I'm not good with time."

"That's good. And the stunt work…?"

Ryland was always worried about the stunts. He loved visiting set when it was a tamer day, when Colt was being set on fire or something similar. Something small. The one time he visisted set, Colt was being dropped from an eight story building. When he got off the rig, Ryland ran up to him with a horrified expression, questions spewing from his mouth as he assessed Colt. It was that day that Colt made the executive decision to never bring Ryland with him when he was being dropped more than five stories.

Even now, years after being a stuntman, Ryland worried. Colt didn't help much, either, with how he complains about people left and right. Particularly shitty actors who think they're the shit when they're not.

"Good. Not dead yet."

Ryland sent him a look. "Don't test it."

"I'll be fine."

"And since when do you care for so many plants?"

"Dude, just because you're jealous of my oxygen-rich apartment—"

He was cut off by a series of frantic knocks at the door that made him jump. He whirled around to look at the door. His heart raced in his chest. He wasn't expecting anyone else. Colt glanced at Ryland, who seemed equally confused and alarmed. The twins moved at the same time, setting their drinks on the coffee table and slowly rising to their feet as the knocking continued.

It sounded like two sets of hands. Colt padded carefully towards the door.

"What're you—" Ryland hissed behind him. "This is, like, horror movie rule number one! You don't go check it out!"

"I'm curious," he hissed back.

"You're so dead."

Colt ignored his brother's dramatic flair and peeked through the peephole. His heart sank through the floor. The knocks were still going, but there was no one there. Literally. No one stood in front of the door. Sure, they could've been sitting and knocking or lying on the ground for some reason, but who the fuck does that in the middle of the night?

Whatever it was, Colt got a bad feeling in his chest. But it didn't scream danger. It felt more… personal, somehow.

Ryland's hand found his shoulder. "What's going on?"

"There's no one there."

"What? Move." Ryland pushed him aside to look. He backed away with wide eyes after a moment. "You didn't tell me this place was haunted!"

"I—" he paused, ears straining. He raised a finger to his lips, silencing whatever bullshit Ryland was about to say. They listened.

He heard it again. A sniffle. Or a sob. A sound of distress. Colt's gut twisted. He couldn't ignore a cry for help, or a cry in general. What if someone needed help and he was sitting there arguing with Ry over if the apartment was haunted or not?

Colt reached for the lock and turned it, slapping Ryland's hands away. He opened the door and poked his head into the hallway. The knocking stopped immediately. He looked to the left, finding nothing but an empty hall, but when he glanced to the right, his world stopped.

Sitting up against the wall to his apartment was someone he hadn't seen in over a year. His own flesh and blood.

"Court?" he said, unsure. He kneeled beside the figure. Sure enough, it was Courtland. There was no mistaking the family resemblance.

He looked horrible. His face was covered in small scratches and bruises, tears staining his cheeks. His hair was unkept, sticking out like he'd been in a car with the windows down. His clothes were rumpled and dirty, some parts of his jacket having holes in it. Especially his midsection, where one of his hands covered a dark patch of fabric. His very red hand.

"Oh my God. Ry, get the first aid kit," Colt commanded.

"What? Wh-why?"

"Just get it!"

"Where is it?!"

"Under the sink!"

He heard Ryland's footsteps rush into the apartment. Colt studied his brother. He was barely breathing, his eyelids fluttering every few seconds like he was fighting to stay awake. Always a fighter. Colt's hand found his shoulder.

"God, Court, what happened to you?"

To his surprise, Courtland looked up at him. His eyes were tired, reflecting nothing but exhaustion and grief. Colt's heart stuck in his throat. Courtland didn't say a word. His eyes shut right after, his body going limp.

"Fuck fuck fuck! Shit! No, Court!"

Colt abandoned all reason and grabbed Court's arm, slinging it over his shoulder and pushing his aching legs off the ground. He stumbled into the apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. Ryland was still digging under the sink, muttering feverishly to himself. Colt could hear plastic bottles clinking together. He staggered to the couch, depositing Courtland's dead weight onto it unceremoniously. Courtland didn't respond. Not a good sign.

"Ry! The kit!" Colt barked.

"Got it!"

Ryland rushed into the living room, handing off the kit to Colt. As Colt dug through it, he saw his twin pause, his gaze firmly rested on Courtland. What was once a night of calm and happiness was now a race against time to fix their brother.

"Oh my God, Court," Ryland choked, moving to sit beside Court's body. He made their brother sit up, his fingers checking his pulse point. "Not good. Definitely not good."

"Check his stomach."

Ryland cringed as he peeled Courtland's bloodstained hands away from his abdomen. Colt ran into the kitchen and grabbed an old dish rag, running it under the sink with lukewarm water before rushing back to Court. Ryland had lifted his shirt and was actively trying not to vomit.

The wound was… not good. As Colt dabbed away at the blood, it became abundantly clear that whoever did this intended for it to hurt. It looked like two stab wounds, around two inches in length but deep. Courtland's jacket and pants were covered in blood and the wounds continued to ooze.

"Grab the bandages. We need to wrap them tight," Colt instructed as he continued to clean the wound.

"A-And gauze, right? We need gauze?" Ryland questioned, gratefully hovering over the first aid kit instead of the bloody mess that was their brother.

"Yes, hurry."

"Okay, okay…"

Ryland returned a second later, and Colt handed off the bloody rag in exchange for the gauze. He placed the white pads over the wounds and then grabbed the bandages from Ryland.

"Okay, now I need you to hold him up so I can wrap this around him."

Ryland nodded and hopped behind the couch. He reached his hands under Courtland's armpits and held him upright a few inches away from the back of the couch. Colt worked quickly. For the first time, he was thankful he had experience with injuries, as it made his job a whole lot easier. He didn't know why Ryland was being so squeamish around blood and stab wounds. It's not their first rodeo in that department.

Maybe because it was their brother. Because they hadn't seen him in God knows how long.

Colt reached into the first aid kit for the tape, ripping off a few pieces to secure the bandages in place. "We need to get his jacket and shirt off, check for any more wounds."

They worked quietly, the air heavy as they listened to Courtland's slow, ragged breathing. They tossed the ruined coat and shirt somewhere towards the door for later disposal. The twins checked their brother methodically, sharing a look as they finally caught glimpes of the hardship Courtland went through day by day. Colt found an earpiece hanging around his neck that he quickly disposed of.

There was a giant scar on his left arm, crooked like a hook. His entire torso was littered in bruises and scars. Some older, lighter, and some still jagged and prominent. Some were like little starbursts. Gunshots. Ones that tugged tightly at his skin and that Colt knew would cause his brother great pain for the rest of his life. Thinner ones. Knives. Some looked like burns. He took back everything he said about Ryland being squeamish.

This was…

Colt wanted to throw up. He almost wished his body would give him a visceral reaction because this wasn't right. Courtland considered himself a protector to them—the whole reason he has the scars in the first place—but Colt wished that he never had to step up like that. He wished their father wasn't such a dickhead that liked to punch kids.

He swallowed back his wishes. They could do nothing to change the past or present. He had to deal with the now while Court was still fighting for his life. He patted down Court's legs. No signs of injury. Still, his pants were covered in blood. He nodded for Ryland to hold him up again, and he complied with glistening eyes.

After awkwardly shimmying Court's jeans off, immediately throwing them towards the door, he was met with yet another litter of scars. And scraped knees. Colt went and grabbed two more towels, once again dipping them in warm water and returning to his brothers. Ryland had moved to where Court's head was in his lap. He took a new rag from Colt, throwing the other one somewhere, and started wiping away the sweat and grime and streaks of blood from Court's face. Colt focused on the scrapes, seeing that they'd stopped bleeding a while ago, for all that came back when he dabbed the cloth on the skin were flakes of blood.

The twins worked silently, though the questions remained like a fog between them.

Just what the fuck happened?

Who did this to him?

A selfish part of Colt wished he could find out and make the asshole pay, but he would just be putting himself in danger that would have Courtland yelling at him for days. That, and the enemies Court faced on the daily were a bit more dangerous than anything Colt had ever dealt with. He wasn't a trained underground CIA agent, no matter how much he wished he was in that moment.

Once Court's knees were bandaged, too, Colt grabbed the throw blanket off the back of the couch and draped it over him. Ryland handed him the other rag as he got up. Colt gathered the bloodied rags and clothes, putting them in his trash bin. He'd have to take that out immediately tomorrow morning.

He slowly returned to the couch, lifting Court's legs to sit underneath them. He and Ryland sat in silence. Colt drew circles in the blanket above Court's shins. Ryland gently brushed his fingers through Courtland's hair, untangling knots here and there. Neither twin dared break the fragile silence, the fragile insanity and dead calm that had transpired in the apartment. He didn't know if it was out of fear of waking Court or just because neither of them had the will to speak at the moment. Probably a mix of both.

All Colt knew was that he wasn't sleeping that night. He had a feeling Ryland was in the same boat. They steeled themselves for a sleepless night and watched the TV with disinterest, watching over their brother as he once did for them years ago and continued to do to this day.

Courtland's first thought as conciousness came back was: I'm dead.

Except he was still breathing evenly. His heart still beat in his chest. His muscles felt like lead, refusing to let him move.

That, and the hands on his legs and chest kept him in place.

Courtland sluggishly opened his eyes. It took a few blinks for his vision to clear up, but when it did, his heart leapt to his throat. Ryland was right there, head tilted back and soft snores escaping his lips. His glasses rested just below his chin. One of his hands rested over Court's heart and the other on his head. Warm, protecting.

Courtland looked down. Colt was sitting with Court's legs on his lap, his hands resting on his shins. Colt was asleep, too. Court could see the sun threatening to peek through the closed curtains. Little slivers of it cast upon the floor. How long had he been asleep? How was he not dead?

He had to be dreaming. His brothers were miles away from the sight of the mission. They had to be. What other explanation was there? That his hallucinations of his brothers brought him to the real deal? He wasn't that lucky. Life wasn't that fair to him. If anything, life sought him out specifically to break him, and he persisted in the force of nature.

The one time it kicked him down, something else took pity on him and allowed him the one thing he wanted.

He let himself fall back, every movement sending sharp pain through his stomach. He hissed through his teeth, his hands reaching for his middle. He felt soft but itchy bandages; the kind in at home first aid kits.

That was the other thing. His brothers surely would've called an ambulance if he showed up at their doorstep. They didn't have the same knowledge of wounds as he did. For all they knew, he was bleeding internally and dying while they slept. They should've… would've called an ambulance.

The sight before him defied all natural logic in his head. Because deep down he knew that the twins understood the consequences it would bring if he were brought to a hospital. They protected him.

He traced his fingers over the bandages, managing a small chuckle when he saw the tape holding the bandages in place. He looked back at his brothers, who slept soundly. They were posed as if they were prepared to jump up and fight with any little noise.

Courtland's resolve had been cracking for a while, now. He just wanted to go home. He wanted this—to come home and see his family alive and well and drink beer together. He wanted to stay, not sneak off in the middle of the night to his next mission while the twins were passed out on the couch.

He remembered how he felt stumbling through the streets last night and the emotions that came with it. The whirlwind. But it made one thing abundantly clear.

Sierra Six was done. He would make himself disappear regardless of what Fitz or Miranda thought. The Sierra program was going to be dismantled, anyway, which meant he would've been hunted down sooner or later. He'd beat them to it, cut off all ties and start fresh with a name he'd abandoned over twenty years ago.

Courtland Gentry would live again.

A Sierra was trained to be an emotionless killing machine. That meant no hesitating on your target regardless of the devastating life you read in the file or their begging. You did not hesitate. Ideally, it came from the fact that Sierras were chosen specifically because of their loneliness. No family, no friends, which meant no ties to keep you from pulling the trigger.

Courtland didn't know why Fitzroy chose him, then, knowing he was the eldest of two. Maybe it was a pity case. Fitz liked adopting wild dogs.

He was never truly a Sierra. He hesitated sometimes, which led to deviations in carefully constructed plans, which led to screaming matches later. He had living family that still loved him, still knew him, and that made all the difference.

Ryland's snores broke for a moment as he shuffled a bit, relaxing deeper into the couch. His hand rested right over Court's heart. He sighed and snored again. Courtland reached up to hold Ryland's wrist, feeling his pulse. Strong.

A sliver of light cast on Ryland's face. How he didn't wake up was beyond Court. But it reminded him of the golden apparition he saw the night before. He glanced down at Colt again. He experimentally nudged Colt's middle with his foot. Colt jolted, eyes tearing open and a deep huff escaping him.

Courtland frowned. Oops.

Colt took a deep breath and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Courtland watched with amusement as he yawned, stretching his arms over his head until something popped. How long would it take for him to notice?

Courtland counted ten seconds of staring off into space before Colt's eyes lazily found his. They widened comedically and Colt's entire body tensed, his grip on Courtland's shins tightening.

"Court!" he exclaimed. His sudden exclamation mixed with his frantic movements jostled Ryland awake, his snores abruptly stopping with a cough.

Courtland had two seconds before he was being pulled up into a lung-deflating hug. Colt squeezed him tight, with Ryland joining a second later, tossing his arms over Courtland's back. He panicked for a moment, his mind going back to the fight before he was stabbed when the man had grabbed him from behind in a choke hold. But he quickly relaxed as Ryland and Colt started talking at the same time.

"Court—"

"What the fuck happened—?"

"Are you okay? Your stomach—"

"We thought you—"

He patted Colt's back and Ryland's hand, grimacing. "Not that I don't love you guys, but you're hurting me."

They immediately loosened their hold on him. Ryland moved to sit on the coffee table so he could properly see Court. He looked at the twins and their worried eyes. Identical. They may be individually different, but they shared the same expressions. Court managed a small smile, which only seemed to make the twins more concerned. Their frowns deepened.

"How's the stomach?" Ryland asked. He reached out, unsure, stopping halfway and instead putting his hand back in his lap. Courtland pretended that the action didn't break his heart.

"Stinging, but fine. You guys… did a good job. Thank you."

Colt nodded, lips pressed into a thin line. "Anything internal?"

"No. Just those two." Courtland gestured to his stomach.

Colt looked like he wanted to say more but didn't. Courtland could see him physically bite his tongue. So close but so far. A bridge that had been built for decades but rusted enough for Colt to question whether or not to step forward. Courtland understood. He wasn't exactly the best older brother.

"How are you here? You're not allowed to see us," Ryland spoke up after a moment of silence.

Courtland moved to sit properly, his feet on the coffee table and his back pushing into the couch cushions. He could fall asleep right then an there again.

"Short version: Mission went wrong. Someone got the jump on me and I ended up here on…" he trailed off. It could be played off as an accident, but it certainly looked deliberate. He came to Colt's door, not someone else's. The twins led him here for a reason. Home.

Colt picked up on his hesitancy. "Accident. But it wasn't an accident."

Court shook his head only to regret it as his vision swam. He touched the side of his head, blinking and seeing Ryland disappear into the kitchen. "I can't explain it. It's… crazy and impossible but it happened."

Ryland returned a second later with a glass of water and four small pills in his hand. Always considerate, he was, getting Courtland four painkillers instead of the recommended two. Courtland downed the pills as Ryland sat back down.

"What's impossible?" he asked.

Courtland swallowed the last pill, taking a swig of water just to be sure. He set the glass beside Ryland, who pushed it away. The twins' eyes never left him, eager to learn more. Hanging off his words like they used to for bedtime stories. Courtland always read the same one almost every night. It was Goodnight Moon. They loved it so much, always asking him to read slower than the night before so they could look at the illustrations for longer.

It felt like he was about to launch into a children's book again with his brothers curled into either side of him. Though, they were nearly thirty years old. They didn't cling to each other in sleep anymore. There was no reason to. Was it odd for Courtland to say he missed those quiet nights, when their father was passed out drunk on the sofa and Courtland would read until he fell asleep, the twins hugging him tight?

Courtland shook his head and wondered when the painkillers would kick in.

"I… got stabbed," he said slowly, recounting his very fuzzy memory. "Didn't get the guy who did it. Kinda stumbled around for a little bit and fell over in some dingy alleyway. But I…"

The twins never talked about the abuse they all suffered under one roof. They never discussed it. There was no need. The monster was gone—had been for years—and they were grown up now. If someone tried to fuck with them, they could fight back. But that knowledge didn't erase the memories or the scars. Court could still see the small scar lining Colt's thumb if he looked close enough. He got it from their father trying to gut him with a broken beer bottle. Little Colt had thrown up his hands to defend himself and the bottle cut his thumb deep. Courtland remembered how he cried and cried, how he tried to toughen up when Court stitched him up in the bathroom.

It was never easy bringing up their past. But it was necessary to climb the obstacles that faced them. In this case, it was necessary to get them to understand how close to death he was, even if they were the ones who patched him up.

"I was on the floor and I was back home. One night. Don't remember which one but you were being dragged downstairs," Courtland explained, meeting Colt's suddenly guarded gaze. He slowly faced Ryland. "And you were telling me to get up. I thought I was already dead by that point because you're not eight years old anymore, but I felt your hand."

Courtland reached to grab Ryland's hand, squeezing. "Like this. I felt it."

"You were hallucinating," Colt said pointedly. Ryland sent him a small glare.

"Yeah, but I kept hearing… screaming and I thought I… thought you were going to die. But Ry kept talking to me."

"So you got up," Ryland said.

He nodded. "But it was so weird, like I was clipping between that night and the present, but you were always there. You were glowing yellow and leading me down the street, telling me to keep going and that we were almost there. And then you showed up—" he glanced at Colt again "—when I about gave up. Kept following you guys and you led me here."

Ryland's gaze was heavy as he soaked up the information. Colt seemed to be in utter disbelief. Courtland didn't know if either of them were particularly religious or not, or if they believed in something because they weren't religious growing up, but there was something undeniable that happened last night that none of them could explain. How do you rationalize seeing your eight year old brothers, glowing, leading you straight to the ones living in the present?

Especially when Courtland didn't know where the twins lived. Fitz kept it a secret to ensure that if someone found out about Sierra Six's living family, no one could torture the information out of him. That, and he said it was the only way to keep them truly safe. Fitz gave him updates and pictures and letters the twins would send, but he never got to see them in person unless they requested it a million times and Fitz was feeling generous.

He'd never stepped foot in the apartment building. He had no clue what floor they lived on. It was completely by chance that the apparitions led him to them. But it felt… divine. Like someone was looking out for them, a real wake-up call to Courtland to get out of the Sierra program as soon as possible. He silently thanked whatever it was, because it really lit a fire under his ass. He was already coming up with a plan to fake his death. It was already halfway complete with how he dropped off the map last night.

"We—" Colt said, gesturing between himself and his twin "—led you here? A place you didn't know existed?"

"Yeah."

Colt seemed a bit perturbed at the thought. "How is that even possible?"

"I said I can't explain it, but that's what I saw."

Ryland stilled, his posture straightening as he whirled to look at his twin. Court knew that look. He'd connected dots, found something.

"The knocking," he said, as if it solved everything. He smacked Colt's arm when he stared back with utter confusion. "Remember? He wouldn't have been able to do it. There were—"

"Two sets of hands," Colt finished, tone light as he nodded slowly. He met Courtland's eye. "You were too out of it to move. You couldn't have… but it doesn't…"

"I know."

"We knocked, Colt. We had to."

"But what the… what does it mean? How?"

Courtland reached out to grab Colt's shoulder. "Stop thinking about it so much. It can mean anything—like the existence of God or some shit—but you guys brought me here. Home. And I… if you want me to, I intend to stay this time."

The twins' eyes bulged.

"You—" Ryland tried.

"Stay here?" Colt said. His gaze bore into Courtland, dissecting for any fallacy.

He swallowed, the ache of his wounds dissipating slowly. Though, his palms were sweaty and his tongue suddenly found it difficult to speak.

"I'm tired."

It was all he could manage and yet it conveyed every single emotion regarding the matter. He was tired. He didn't want to pick up a gun anymore if he didn't have to. He wanted to stay close to the twins, to watch them achieve great things and live. He wanted to live. No more safe houses, no more scars, no more.

Ryland and Colt got the message. They shared a look. Courtland could see the subtle glow, the excitement, the happiness. After years apart, never truly getting to stick together, they were finally going to be a family again.

"I'll get some breakfast going," Colt said as he stood. His smile was small but giddy. "Eggs fine?"

"Yeah," Ryland and Court said at the same time.

As Colt retreated to the kitchen, Ryland rubbed his palms against his thighs.

"I thought you couldn't get out of the program."

"Eh, I'll find a way."

"Meaning?"

"Miranda's already probably assumed me dead. I've been missing for a while and my last contact with her was… less than ideal."

"The CIA is persistent about Sierras, though, right? They can't risk you going all James Bond rogue."

Courtland shook his head with a small chuckle. He missed the twins. "Sure. But I'm always one step ahead of them."

"You've already got a plan," Ryland said with a small grin. There was the mad scientist. "Tell me."

"Hey, talk about that shit later," Colt called from the kitchen where he cracked eggs onto a pan. He grinned mischeviously. "How about you talk about your parent teacher conferences?"

Courtland raised a brow at the suggestive tone, looking at his brother who was bright red in the face. "Oh?"

"I told you, there's—! Ugh! There's nothing going on!"

"Ry's got the single parents of his school thirsty—"

"Colt!" Ryland shouted in embarassment.

"What? You know I'm just teasing."

Courtland laughed before regretting it. Stinging pain flared from his abdomen. He ignored Ryland's worried look and leaned back into the couch.

"I hear you called the leading scholar in your field a waste of carbon," Court said with a grin, watching Ryland grow red again from anger this time.

"How do you—nevermind, you know everything, but still! How did you hear about that?"

"You said it. I know everything."

"It's publicly accessible knowledge, Ry," Colt said. The sizzle of eggs filtered into the living area.

Ryland fumed, huffing. "Whatever."

"Nah, come on, dude! It was funny!"

"It got me kicked out of my field!"

Courtland watched the argument unfold with a small smile. He closed his eyes. He wondered if this is what life would've been like from the start if he didn't kill their dad. If they led a normal childhood. Would they be cooped up in one apartment together, unable to stay apart for too long, or would they have gone their separate ways?

He didn't care anymore. Once he was able to move around without sharp pain kicking him down, he was going to trick the CIA into believing Sierra Six had fallen. It would take a bit of convincing since he had a reputation for being elusive and unkillable. But he could do it. He would do it, because now that he'd spent time with his brothers again (wishing it were under different circumstances), he didn't think he could let them go again.

Courtland promised himself again. Nothing would keep him away from his brothers ever again. Just like the last promise, he intended to keep this one for as long as he lived.