[ Escaping from the shipyard was— difficult. Not so difficult as to be impossible, thankfully, but difficult enough that by the time they reach the outskirts, Faraday is ashen, entire body shaking with the effort of putting one bum leg in front of the other. His injured leg threatens time and again to buckle underneath his weight, but Emma steadies him, her arm wrapped firmly around his waist to keep him upright.
Fitting, really. Appropriate. Except Faraday doesn't bother to take the time to appreciate the artistry of it.
It's a wonder they escape without any further injuries, though Faraday doesn't have a mind to offer up his thanks as they make good their retreat. By the time the other agents are pulling him away, his head is clouded with a haze of pain, sweat standing out on his forehead. He has just enough smart-ass left in him to mumble, "When do I get the good painkillers?" as they drag him away.
After that, Faraday doesn't remember a whole lot. An ambulance ride and a tech cutting into his clothes. Someone telling him the bullet nicked an artery, and Faraday murmuring, "Yeah, that sounds right," just as he let exhaustion finally claim him. At some point, they must have taken him into surgery, must have patched him up, must have deposited him into a quiet, private room to recover.
It would logically follow, considering that's where he wakes up.
The machinery beeps around him quietly as he comes to, the blinds and curtains drawn to block out the worst of the mid-morning sunlight. (And thank God for that, because even that dim light is enough to make his head ache.) His skull feels like it's been stuffed with cotton – not too dissimilar from waking up after a long night of drinking, all things considered. He feels heavy. Tired. And oddly chipper, though a quick glance at the crook of his arm leading to an IV drip tells him that's probably the drugs more than anything. He runs a hand over his injured leg, finds the bandages there, and decides to leave well enough alone.
A quick examination of the room, then. One door, closed, leading out. One small window, covered. One red-haired woman in a chair, quietly dozing—
... Huh.
Faraday stares at Emma, caught between amusement and surprise, unsure why he's a little warmed by the idea that she might have been waiting all this time. (The drugs, he tells himself. It's the drugs.) She probably hasn't, though. She probably just dropped in, happened to pass out – unsurprising, considering the night they had. ]
Emma.
[ It comes out hoarsely, throat dry and sore. He coughs a little, licking his lips afterward. His voice is a little less of a mess when he tries again. ]
[ debriefing had been exactly as much fun as emma anticipated it to be (read: 'not at all'). some of that had been due to the fact that while her emotions are a roiling pit of confusion, she's constantly thinking about faraday.
what had happened. what could have happened. the fact that she'd let him down. that stings especially, because she knows, given their track record together, that if she'd been covering him like she ought to, the way she owes to him as his partner, he'd never have taken that bullet. he'd have been in that debriefing with her, blithe, sarcastic comments and all.
instead, she's been waiting at the hospital since chisolm gave her the all-clear to leave. he'd suggested she get some sleep, maybe consider some counseling (because emma may not be public about her history with bogue, but sam knows it all, from top to bottom; he gives her that kind of solemn, knowing look he's perfected when she shrugs him off, and a quiet, "call me, if anything comes up.").
but emma being emma, she doesn't want to talk about it — to sam, or a shrink.
she stops off at home to change, and now? she's been going from waiting room to waiting room, constantly bouncing around with little to no information about faraday's condition. concern has been a heavy rock in the pit of her stomach, guilt and anger still warring for dominance the entire time, but when a nurse finally comes out, calls her forward to talk to her about faraday, it's relief that wins over. she's even allowed into faraday's room, to sit beside him while she sleeps, and emma doesn't dare leave him longer than it takes to run off for a cup of coffee (which there still are a few empties sitting on the small table beside her chair).
it's his voice that actually wakes her, and her eyes immediately snap open, painfully alert, like she's expecting something other than—
—just faraday. there in his hospital bed, looking groggy and hazy-eyed, but looking at her all the same. ]
...Joshua.
[ it's a name she rarely (nearly never) uses, but the consolation of seeing him awake is enough to shake it out of her. soft as anything, without the same level of fury she'd carried with her the night before.
(she's still angry, but far less so at faraday; it's belied by concern, by a need to see him recover.) ]
How're you feelin'?
[ a stupid question, maybe, but hopefully the drugs are doing their job. ]
[ He smiles a little at the way she goes from asleep to wide awake in the span of a breath. She always did manage that better than he did. Waking up for him tended to be an ordeal. His gaze drifts over to the table nearby, to the paper coffee cups sitting there, and a thoughtful frown begins to form on his face.
The use of his name startles him, though. Breaks apart the thoughts and questions before they can form, and on blind instinct, he murmurs, ]
Don't call me that.
[ Though the correction isn't as sharp as it could be. No one calls him Joshua, not since he was a child. He prefers to keep it that way.
He takes a breath, pushing himself up to sit. It pulls at the wound in his leg, and the drugs do well to manage his discomfort, it's still a bit of a pain. ]
'M fine.
[ Which is mostly true. He's getting there, at any rate. ]
Did anyone find Bogue?
[ because of course his mind would go immediately back to work. ]
[ the corner of emma's mouth twitches at the correction — not quite a smile, not quite her usual scowl. she doesn't think to say anything else about the name, instead focused on the way he works on sitting up, and she straightens in her chair, watchful in case he needs help, in case he's doing something to the newly-repaired wounds in his leg.
she breathes a soft sigh of relief when he doesn't seem to have shaken anything too important, doesn't seem to be hurting too terribly, and relaxes back slightly in her chair.
but with the mention of bogue, she's tense all over again, a brief flash of that rage from before flickering in her eyes. ]
No.
[ the word is quiet, but clipped. ]
We're still tryin' to track his location.
[ it's not the kind of news she wants to deliver, and the words feel like acid in her mouth. he got away, isn't something she wants to say aloud. ]
[ He rubs the sleep from his eyes, replaying the other night's events. He should've paid more attention to his six before he moved forward. Should've moved sooner, before Bogue had a chance to retreat. Should've done a lot of damn things, aside from getting shot in the back and through the leg. That had not been an ideal course of action.
But it's what happened, and the slip up had been a costly one. He grimaces to himself before wiping the disgust from his face. ]
We get Rivera, at least? Please tell me we at least got that bastard.
[ emma can see it plain on his face that he regrets how badly the night had gone — it's honestly why, once she'd stepped away from that all-consuming rage, she hadn't continued to blame faraday for bogue's escape. there had been too many factors, too much going wrong on all sides, and she's as much responsible as faraday.
he'd just come out of it with the higher price.
she nods, her expression not nearly as grave. ]
Yes. He gave himself up mighty quiet.
[ he'd probably thought surrender might buy him a better plea deal. it certainly didn't make him look as bad as bogue did now, in comparison. ]
Good thing too. He'd have probably taken a bullet of his own, if he'd tried runnin'.
Would've been the least he deserved for makin' me sit through him yappin' about yoga.
[ Rivera certainly had a mouth on him, that was for certain. And if Faraday had to choose between getting shot again or having to listen about stretching all over again, Faraday thinks he might actually prefer getting shot.
But that Rivera was a talker was a point in their favor. He might know a thing or two that he could leverage for a lighter sentence, but at least he could help bring down a few of the other key players on their shortlist. ]
[ plenty enough that a reduced sentence might give them more evidence to compile against bogue. if they could even get him to testify at some point, that would be better — if the details he coughs up are worth adding to the already-burgeoning file they have on bogue's exploits.
glancing down at faraday's leg under the blankets, emma hesitates for a long, drawn-out moment, her face not quite up to its usual impassive expression; there's clearly something she's struggling with, something she can't quite settle.
she opens her mouth, closes it for a second, then tries again. ]
...I let you down.
[ soft, apologetic, but still with a tense edge. ]
By lettin' you get shot. I wasn't doing my job as your partner.
[ she'd let her own need for revenge cloud her judgment; any other bust, any other night, she'd have watched faraday like a hawk, she'd have ensured his safety and probably managed to at least slow down their target long enough to give the other agents time to step in.
but she'd wanted to take him down herself; she'd craved that moment with a veracity that had led her to neglect her partner.
[ He frowns at her, once he notices that look – the one that signals she has more to say. He lets her work through it without pressing, though he wants to, impatient bastard that he is. But they both know by now that pressing just makes the both of them clam up. Have to let the other come at it on their own time.
What she says, though, catches him by surprise. Honestly, he had expected more of the same from last night – screaming. Yelling. Telling him just how terribly he had fucked things up for them. He would've let her, of course, would've suffered it until she got it out of her system. He wouldn't have liked it, of course, but he would've dealt with it all the same.
He falls quiet after that, frowning down at his lap, before he lets out a slow breath. ]
You didn't let me down. Told you to watch Bogue, didn't I? Gettin' him in cuffs was the priority.
I wasn't watchin' my back. That's on me. So— it's fine. You didn't do anything wrong.
[ emma doesn't expect him to admonish her in turn for the night's debacle, but she also doesn't entirely agree with him. she shakes her head, reaching for some of the leftover coffee sitting beside her. ]
Faraday, we both know that any other night, I wouldn't've listened to you. Or I would have— [ she sighs, pursing her lips. ] Or I would have at least been better at...multitasking.
[ it's not like her to completely turn her attention from faraday. despite the way they bicker and all of their disagreements, emma has never failed to keep a watch on him. other agents? slip-ups happen. accidents are par for the course in the dangerous work that they do, but of all the missions they've run, emma has never been so reckless to see faraday get this level of injured. ]
I'm the one responsible for watchin' your back. This shouldn't have happened.
[ she glares down at her coffee, hazarding a small sip from it. the cold liquid hits her tongue, and she wrinkles her nose in clear distaste, quickly setting the cup aside.
Shit happens. We've been lucky so far, but somethin' like this was bound to happen, one of these days.
[ And it could've been worse. So much worse. But maybe this was the wake-up call both of them needed. They'd been lucky – or maybe skilled – enough so far to avoid any major mishaps, to avoid any hospital visits like these, but it was only going to hold out for so long.
He shifts his weight a little, trying to get more comfortable, but he spies the way she sips at her cold coffee, makes a face at it. The empty cups draw his attention again, and once again, they draw a frown from him. Sluggish as he currently is, it's taken him this long to finally put two and two together. ]
Hell, Cullen. [ Softly, and despite the words, there's no heat in his delivery. ] How long've you been in here?
[ well, he does...have a point, of sorts. luck and skill can only take them so far before the actuality of their work catches up to them. this could have been worse, all things considered, so...
maybe emma should count her blessings where she can.
the question, however, catches her by surprise, and she blinks at faraday for a moment, then looks away again. she's not embarrassed, per se, but the reality does kind of give away exactly how worried she'd been about him.
(almost like she actually cares.) ]
...since you were in surgery.
[ she'd have come sooner, but she'd been held up by the debriefing and chisolm's well-meaning concern. ]
[ That's still long enough, by Faraday's standards, and he grimaces, lifting a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. ]
Aw, hell. Cullen. That had to have been hours ago.
[ He almost sounds irritated, though that's mostly to cover his own embarrassment. It was guilt from last night, he's sure, that made her stay all this time. Because the alternative – genuine worry, genuine concern for his well-being – isn't something he knows how to deal with. ]
[ emma looks a touch defensive, straightening up in her seat and crossing her arms stubbornly over her chest. ]
I've been sleepin' just fine, thank you.
[ ...well, that's sure a lie.
but the point is that she had slept, hadn't just been sitting there worrying herself a hole in the ground. she'd honestly been sleeping off so many of her damned sleepless nights from the last week. all those hours in front of a screen, monitoring that shipyard, refusing to take some proper downtime because how could she actually sleep with the confrontation with bogue looming ahead of her?
she'd passed right out in the chair by his bed, in reality. ]
I want to be here.
[ admittedly, that desire may dwindle the longer faraday is awake, because that much concentrated time around him while he's yakking her ear off is not especially appealing — never has been, and despite whatever...weird concern she may be feeling, it certainly doesn't sound like the most enjoyable way to spend her evening. ]
[ There's a touch of good humor in his voice as he says it – and he has history on his side to back him up. Partners though they are, that's never exactly extended to spending personal time with one another. Faraday's not exactly sure where hospital visiting hours falls on that spectrum between personal and professional, but he has to assume it's more the former than the latter.
And he doesn't want to be treated like she owes him something. Especially not when she's the one who took the risk in finding him in the middle of a warzone and carting his useless ass out.
... He should thank her, he knows, but the words don't come easily. Not even while he's still at least a little high on painkillers.
So he tries for the practical approach instead: ]
Sleepin' in a chair ain't real sleep, Cullen. You don't need me to tell you that.
[ ah, there it is: practicality. one of the most effective ways to appeal to emma.
and damn him, if he isn't right.
the hours she'd spent in the prior week awake and focused, all of that stress and tension had simply been building up to that conflict with bogue, and...now it's over (for the time being). bogue had slipped through their fingers, and as enraging as she finds it, her body has also finally started to let go of that tension and anxiety.
it's a big change, after the week she's had. ]
...I suppose you're not wrong.
[ but she still doesn't say he's right.
she gives him another stern look, but she can only hold it for so long before it melts with a sigh, and she rubs a hand over her eyes and the dark circles that have gathered there. she feels like she needs to sleep for 72 hours straight, and given that there's no immediate mission to focus on...maybe she could manage that. ]
I could do with a real bed.
[ real bed. real sleep. actually unwinding.
she needs it, badly.
reluctantly, she pulls herself up from the chair, stretching her tight, aching muscles, and glances back at faraday on the bed. ]
Text me when you're about to be released.
[ it's not phrased like a request, because she sure as hell doesn't mean it to be one. ]
[ He lets out a quiet breath when she seems to give in, glad that he doesn't have to ford the waters of trying to convince her this hadn't been her fault while his head is still muzzy, hopped up on drugs.
And she looks as worn as he feels, besides. He remembers well enough those sleepless nights, finding her in their safehouse in the dark, face illuminated by the screens. Eerie, sometimes, the way she stared at those feeds with a mad sort of focus. ]
I'll text you.
[ A mild agreement, because her order didn't seem to brook any argument. (Although Faraday thinks if he gets bored enough, he might just make an escape before they sign-off officially on his release. It's something he used to do before they became partners, something he's since done on milder hospital visits, when some well-meaning doctor or nurse suggested overnight observation.) He licks his lips, hesitates, then just comes right out with it: ]
You're tellin' me about Bogue, after this.
[ He matches her tone. It's not a request, either, and he's tired of her dancing around it. ]
[ initially, she's startled by the order coming from him. she opens her mouth to protest, then forces herself to stop. if she owns up to the reality of this, the truth is that her obsession with stopping bogue had been a major factor in landing faraday in the hospital.
maybe the least that she owes him is an actual explanation.
(finally.)
with a slow exhale, she finally, reluctantly nods. ]
...fine. But only once you're out.
[ when he's on (less) pain killers.
she'll explain it to him then, and it'll be...a lot. the first time she's openly discussed what happened to matthew, other than the debriefs with chisolm and the agency. she'd talked about it after the fact, then refused since.
this will be new for her — and difficult, to say the least. ]
[ Faraday, apparently, decides to take pity on the hospital staff, and rather than stage an escape attempt, he waits patiently through check-ups and examinations. Several days later, finally gets the green light to go home.
The text to Emma couldn't possibly go out any faster.
His leg isn't healed yet – won't be for some time, at least – so they offer him a pair of crutches, bring a wheelchair to his room, the latter of which he refuses immediately. A matter of pride rather than practicality. He's not so useless that he needs to be carted around because of his bum leg.
(Again.)
Emma arrives, brings him a spare set of clothes from the safehouse, which he quickly pulls on. (Or at least, as quickly as his injuries allow; the bruising on his back from the bullet impacting his vest proves to be a bigger problem than he initially expected.) A loose fitting tee and dark sweats. Nothing fancy or jaw-dropping, but almost anything would've been better than that damned hospital gown. He's glad to be out of it at last.
He signs all the forms he needs to (and probably gave away a kidney in his haste), but at last they say their goodbyes and let him loose onto the world. Faraday hobbles along after Emma as they leave, his crutches clicking and creaking as they bear his weight, and as they reach the elevator to ride down to the lobby, he leans back against the wall, looks her over critically. ]
[ emma feels a small measure of gratitude when faraday actually stays in the hospital until he's properly discharged. she's dealt with him ditching his doctors too frequently for her to find any humor in his escape attempts, but this time, at least he'd waited. crutches and all, she's there to take him back to the safehouse, where the agency intends to keep them until travel arrangements can be made to bring them home.
she isn't especially bothered by the extended stay, but while the safehouse is actually fairly nice, she misses her own place and her personal things. she doesn't get homesick frequently, but the stress of this particular mission has left her with a desire for the familiar, for something she trusts and makes her feel safe.
she's dug up a lot of old demons this time around, and hasn't much enjoyed seeing them again.
glancing at faraday in the elevator, she just nods. ]
[ Which isn’t entirely accurate. The wound had been stitched together, but it still twinges, still aches. The bottle of painkillers clicks quietly in his pocket, but pride keeps him from taking too many of those. He’ll just self-medicate with a few bottles of vodka if he absolutely needs to.
He peers at her, doesn’t seem entirely convinced that she’s slept at all, and it shows in the furrow on his brow, in the thin set of his lips. The look that silently calls bullshit.
The doors ping quietly, slide open to spill them out into the hospital’s lobby. A quiet flow of people in and out, soft and subdued, and Faraday hops along with Emma as they move through to the car waiting outside. ]
When are we going home?
[ Because Emma’s not the only one itching for something familiar. With their work being what it is, neither of them spend much time at home. But this job has been— rough. He has a fridge full of beer with his name on it, and sleeping in his own bed sounds like a goddamn luxury. ]
[ she catches the glance he throws her, but just meets it with the same unimpressed look as always; she had slept (sort of), but considering how bothered she is by these recent events, it's no wonder her rest has been fairly uneasy.
emma might have opened faraday's door for him, if she hadn't expected it to be met with protests, and instead, waits on the driver's side to watch him (make sure he doesn't drop his crutches or something else inconvenient). ]
It ought to be tomorrow, if we're lucky. Maybe we'll catch a flight tonight.
[ the agency had been waiting to book travel arrangements for them, at least until they knew when faraday would be on his feet again. ]
I'm waitin' to hear back on the situation.
[ she hopes it'll be sooner rather than later, because, admittedly, more days in the small space with faraday isn't too appealing as a concept. there's only so long she can spend concentrated time with the man before his constant talking starts to wear on her nerves.
maybe he'll spend most of that time asleep. that would be nice.
however, she remembers the conversation he expects them to have, and the dread of it just sits in the pit of her stomach. ]
[ Her answer is met with a quiet sigh of relief, and he mumbles out, ] Thank God.
[ It’s a good thing she doesn’t open the door for him, because he would have kicked up a fuss, would’ve pouted and complained about not being an invalid the whole way back. He manages getting into the car himself, if not a little awkwardly. He leaves the crutches in the back seat, balances and limps his way back to the front and slides in. Not ideal; his doctor surely would’ve frowned in disapproval at him, but what the doc didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
The ride back to the safehouse is mostly silent, what with Faraday riding out his exhaustion and the last dregs of the painkillers in his system. The rocking of the car is soothing, leaves him a little sleepy – but he keeps himself from dozing off by sheer force of will alone. Straightens in his seat to keep his head from tipping against the window. Once they’re there, he manages getting out of the car on his own, once again, retrieving his crutches himself.
The safehouse is a welcome change, and he feels himself relax as they pass through the doors. It’s not home, by any means, but it’s a change of scenery from the whites and pale greens and constant murmur of doctors and nurses and patients. It’s quiet in a way Faraday doesn’t usually appreciate.
Too damn bad he breaks that quiet almost immediately, though. ]
[ emma immediately goes to the computer setup once they're inside, waking the screens to check for any possible flight information — because if the agency's already gotten their tickets, she'll probably pack everything up to get ready for departure. she is not, however, surprised by how quickly the silence is disturbed; he may be recovering, but he's still faraday. ]
No, I did.
[ said matter-of-factly. ]
Smoking slows your healin' time, you know.
[ (emma also thinks his smoking is disgusting, but this had just been a good excuse to get rid of the cigarettes.) ]
Buy more when we're back home, if you're really needin' some.
[ 'but don't do it around me,' is the unspoken addition. ]
[ He makes an aggravated noise, something between a sigh and a grunt, but there’s also a hint of resignation there. Like he knew the answer well before he had even asked the question. ]
I believe I might actually hate you, right now.
[ Though there’s no heat in his words, aside from a thread of irritation. Emma disliked his habit – but then again, which of his habits didn’t she dislike? – and he’s none too surprised to hear she had chucked his pack while he was laid up.
He sinks onto the nearby couch, propping his crutches up against the arm. His leg gives a little flare of pain, now that the drugs are wearing off, and he digs the heel of his palm into the top of his thigh, trying to relieve some of the pressure. He stays mum on the subject, though, instead grumbling, ]
You’ve got no one to blame but yourself when I bite your head off.
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healthy coping mechanism? what's that. can u eat it
Fitting, really. Appropriate. Except Faraday doesn't bother to take the time to appreciate the artistry of it.
It's a wonder they escape without any further injuries, though Faraday doesn't have a mind to offer up his thanks as they make good their retreat. By the time the other agents are pulling him away, his head is clouded with a haze of pain, sweat standing out on his forehead. He has just enough smart-ass left in him to mumble, "When do I get the good painkillers?" as they drag him away.
After that, Faraday doesn't remember a whole lot. An ambulance ride and a tech cutting into his clothes. Someone telling him the bullet nicked an artery, and Faraday murmuring, "Yeah, that sounds right," just as he let exhaustion finally claim him. At some point, they must have taken him into surgery, must have patched him up, must have deposited him into a quiet, private room to recover.
It would logically follow, considering that's where he wakes up.
The machinery beeps around him quietly as he comes to, the blinds and curtains drawn to block out the worst of the mid-morning sunlight. (And thank God for that, because even that dim light is enough to make his head ache.) His skull feels like it's been stuffed with cotton – not too dissimilar from waking up after a long night of drinking, all things considered. He feels heavy. Tired. And oddly chipper, though a quick glance at the crook of his arm leading to an IV drip tells him that's probably the drugs more than anything. He runs a hand over his injured leg, finds the bandages there, and decides to leave well enough alone.
A quick examination of the room, then. One door, closed, leading out. One small window, covered. One red-haired woman in a chair, quietly dozing—
... Huh.
Faraday stares at Emma, caught between amusement and surprise, unsure why he's a little warmed by the idea that she might have been waiting all this time. (The drugs, he tells himself. It's the drugs.) She probably hasn't, though. She probably just dropped in, happened to pass out – unsurprising, considering the night they had. ]
Emma.
[ It comes out hoarsely, throat dry and sore. He coughs a little, licking his lips afterward. His voice is a little less of a mess when he tries again. ]
Emma. Wake up.
no subject
what had happened. what could have happened. the fact that she'd let him down. that stings especially, because she knows, given their track record together, that if she'd been covering him like she ought to, the way she owes to him as his partner, he'd never have taken that bullet. he'd have been in that debriefing with her, blithe, sarcastic comments and all.
instead, she's been waiting at the hospital since chisolm gave her the all-clear to leave. he'd suggested she get some sleep, maybe consider some counseling (because emma may not be public about her history with bogue, but sam knows it all, from top to bottom; he gives her that kind of solemn, knowing look he's perfected when she shrugs him off, and a quiet, "call me, if anything comes up.").
but emma being emma, she doesn't want to talk about it — to sam, or a shrink.
she stops off at home to change, and now? she's been going from waiting room to waiting room, constantly bouncing around with little to no information about faraday's condition. concern has been a heavy rock in the pit of her stomach, guilt and anger still warring for dominance the entire time, but when a nurse finally comes out, calls her forward to talk to her about faraday, it's relief that wins over. she's even allowed into faraday's room, to sit beside him while she sleeps, and emma doesn't dare leave him longer than it takes to run off for a cup of coffee (which there still are a few empties sitting on the small table beside her chair).
it's his voice that actually wakes her, and her eyes immediately snap open, painfully alert, like she's expecting something other than—
—just faraday. there in his hospital bed, looking groggy and hazy-eyed, but looking at her all the same. ]
...Joshua.
[ it's a name she rarely (nearly never) uses, but the consolation of seeing him awake is enough to shake it out of her. soft as anything, without the same level of fury she'd carried with her the night before.
(she's still angry, but far less so at faraday; it's belied by concern, by a need to see him recover.) ]
How're you feelin'?
[ a stupid question, maybe, but hopefully the drugs are doing their job. ]
no subject
The use of his name startles him, though. Breaks apart the thoughts and questions before they can form, and on blind instinct, he murmurs, ]
Don't call me that.
[ Though the correction isn't as sharp as it could be. No one calls him Joshua, not since he was a child. He prefers to keep it that way.
He takes a breath, pushing himself up to sit. It pulls at the wound in his leg, and the drugs do well to manage his discomfort, it's still a bit of a pain. ]
'M fine.
[ Which is mostly true. He's getting there, at any rate. ]
Did anyone find Bogue?
[ because of course his mind would go immediately back to work. ]
no subject
she breathes a soft sigh of relief when he doesn't seem to have shaken anything too important, doesn't seem to be hurting too terribly, and relaxes back slightly in her chair.
but with the mention of bogue, she's tense all over again, a brief flash of that rage from before flickering in her eyes. ]
No.
[ the word is quiet, but clipped. ]
We're still tryin' to track his location.
[ it's not the kind of news she wants to deliver, and the words feel like acid in her mouth. he got away, isn't something she wants to say aloud. ]
no subject
[ He rubs the sleep from his eyes, replaying the other night's events. He should've paid more attention to his six before he moved forward. Should've moved sooner, before Bogue had a chance to retreat. Should've done a lot of damn things, aside from getting shot in the back and through the leg. That had not been an ideal course of action.
But it's what happened, and the slip up had been a costly one. He grimaces to himself before wiping the disgust from his face. ]
We get Rivera, at least? Please tell me we at least got that bastard.
no subject
he'd just come out of it with the higher price.
she nods, her expression not nearly as grave. ]
Yes. He gave himself up mighty quiet.
[ he'd probably thought surrender might buy him a better plea deal. it certainly didn't make him look as bad as bogue did now, in comparison. ]
Good thing too. He'd have probably taken a bullet of his own, if he'd tried runnin'.
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[ Rivera certainly had a mouth on him, that was for certain. And if Faraday had to choose between getting shot again or having to listen about stretching all over again, Faraday thinks he might actually prefer getting shot.
But that Rivera was a talker was a point in their favor. He might know a thing or two that he could leverage for a lighter sentence, but at least he could help bring down a few of the other key players on their shortlist. ]
Maybe he's got dirt on Bogue we can use.
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[ plenty enough that a reduced sentence might give them more evidence to compile against bogue. if they could even get him to testify at some point, that would be better — if the details he coughs up are worth adding to the already-burgeoning file they have on bogue's exploits.
glancing down at faraday's leg under the blankets, emma hesitates for a long, drawn-out moment, her face not quite up to its usual impassive expression; there's clearly something she's struggling with, something she can't quite settle.
she opens her mouth, closes it for a second, then tries again. ]
...I let you down.
[ soft, apologetic, but still with a tense edge. ]
By lettin' you get shot. I wasn't doing my job as your partner.
[ she'd let her own need for revenge cloud her judgment; any other bust, any other night, she'd have watched faraday like a hawk, she'd have ensured his safety and probably managed to at least slow down their target long enough to give the other agents time to step in.
but she'd wanted to take him down herself; she'd craved that moment with a veracity that had led her to neglect her partner.
and that's on her. ]
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What she says, though, catches him by surprise. Honestly, he had expected more of the same from last night – screaming. Yelling. Telling him just how terribly he had fucked things up for them. He would've let her, of course, would've suffered it until she got it out of her system. He wouldn't have liked it, of course, but he would've dealt with it all the same.
He falls quiet after that, frowning down at his lap, before he lets out a slow breath. ]
You didn't let me down. Told you to watch Bogue, didn't I? Gettin' him in cuffs was the priority.
I wasn't watchin' my back. That's on me. So— it's fine. You didn't do anything wrong.
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Faraday, we both know that any other night, I wouldn't've listened to you. Or I would have— [ she sighs, pursing her lips. ] Or I would have at least been better at...multitasking.
[ it's not like her to completely turn her attention from faraday. despite the way they bicker and all of their disagreements, emma has never failed to keep a watch on him. other agents? slip-ups happen. accidents are par for the course in the dangerous work that they do, but of all the missions they've run, emma has never been so reckless to see faraday get this level of injured. ]
I'm the one responsible for watchin' your back. This shouldn't have happened.
[ she glares down at her coffee, hazarding a small sip from it. the cold liquid hits her tongue, and she wrinkles her nose in clear distaste, quickly setting the cup aside.
she'll get fresh coffee later, she decides. ]
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Shit happens. We've been lucky so far, but somethin' like this was bound to happen, one of these days.
[ And it could've been worse. So much worse. But maybe this was the wake-up call both of them needed. They'd been lucky – or maybe skilled – enough so far to avoid any major mishaps, to avoid any hospital visits like these, but it was only going to hold out for so long.
He shifts his weight a little, trying to get more comfortable, but he spies the way she sips at her cold coffee, makes a face at it. The empty cups draw his attention again, and once again, they draw a frown from him. Sluggish as he currently is, it's taken him this long to finally put two and two together. ]
Hell, Cullen. [ Softly, and despite the words, there's no heat in his delivery. ] How long've you been in here?
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maybe emma should count her blessings where she can.
the question, however, catches her by surprise, and she blinks at faraday for a moment, then looks away again. she's not embarrassed, per se, but the reality does kind of give away exactly how worried she'd been about him.
(almost like she actually cares.) ]
...since you were in surgery.
[ she'd have come sooner, but she'd been held up by the debriefing and chisolm's well-meaning concern. ]
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Aw, hell. Cullen. That had to have been hours ago.
[ He almost sounds irritated, though that's mostly to cover his own embarrassment. It was guilt from last night, he's sure, that made her stay all this time. Because the alternative – genuine worry, genuine concern for his well-being – isn't something he knows how to deal with. ]
I'm fine now, see?
[ And he spreads his hands in demonstration. ]
Okay? So head home. Get some actual sleep.
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I've been sleepin' just fine, thank you.
[ ...well, that's sure a lie.
but the point is that she had slept, hadn't just been sitting there worrying herself a hole in the ground. she'd honestly been sleeping off so many of her damned sleepless nights from the last week. all those hours in front of a screen, monitoring that shipyard, refusing to take some proper downtime because how could she actually sleep with the confrontation with bogue looming ahead of her?
she'd passed right out in the chair by his bed, in reality. ]
I want to be here.
[ admittedly, that desire may dwindle the longer faraday is awake, because that much concentrated time around him while he's yakking her ear off is not especially appealing — never has been, and despite whatever...weird concern she may be feeling, it certainly doesn't sound like the most enjoyable way to spend her evening. ]
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[ There's a touch of good humor in his voice as he says it – and he has history on his side to back him up. Partners though they are, that's never exactly extended to spending personal time with one another. Faraday's not exactly sure where hospital visiting hours falls on that spectrum between personal and professional, but he has to assume it's more the former than the latter.
And he doesn't want to be treated like she owes him something. Especially not when she's the one who took the risk in finding him in the middle of a warzone and carting his useless ass out.
... He should thank her, he knows, but the words don't come easily. Not even while he's still at least a little high on painkillers.
So he tries for the practical approach instead: ]
Sleepin' in a chair ain't real sleep, Cullen. You don't need me to tell you that.
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and damn him, if he isn't right.
the hours she'd spent in the prior week awake and focused, all of that stress and tension had simply been building up to that conflict with bogue, and...now it's over (for the time being). bogue had slipped through their fingers, and as enraging as she finds it, her body has also finally started to let go of that tension and anxiety.
it's a big change, after the week she's had. ]
...I suppose you're not wrong.
[ but she still doesn't say he's right.
she gives him another stern look, but she can only hold it for so long before it melts with a sigh, and she rubs a hand over her eyes and the dark circles that have gathered there. she feels like she needs to sleep for 72 hours straight, and given that there's no immediate mission to focus on...maybe she could manage that. ]
I could do with a real bed.
[ real bed. real sleep. actually unwinding.
she needs it, badly.
reluctantly, she pulls herself up from the chair, stretching her tight, aching muscles, and glances back at faraday on the bed. ]
Text me when you're about to be released.
[ it's not phrased like a request, because she sure as hell doesn't mean it to be one. ]
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And she looks as worn as he feels, besides. He remembers well enough those sleepless nights, finding her in their safehouse in the dark, face illuminated by the screens. Eerie, sometimes, the way she stared at those feeds with a mad sort of focus. ]
I'll text you.
[ A mild agreement, because her order didn't seem to brook any argument. (Although Faraday thinks if he gets bored enough, he might just make an escape before they sign-off officially on his release. It's something he used to do before they became partners, something he's since done on milder hospital visits, when some well-meaning doctor or nurse suggested overnight observation.) He licks his lips, hesitates, then just comes right out with it: ]
You're tellin' me about Bogue, after this.
[ He matches her tone. It's not a request, either, and he's tired of her dancing around it. ]
No more dodgin'. You hear me?
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maybe the least that she owes him is an actual explanation.
(finally.)
with a slow exhale, she finally, reluctantly nods. ]
...fine. But only once you're out.
[ when he's on (less) pain killers.
she'll explain it to him then, and it'll be...a lot. the first time she's openly discussed what happened to matthew, other than the debriefs with chisolm and the agency. she'd talked about it after the fact, then refused since.
this will be new for her — and difficult, to say the least. ]
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The text to Emma couldn't possibly go out any faster.
His leg isn't healed yet – won't be for some time, at least – so they offer him a pair of crutches, bring a wheelchair to his room, the latter of which he refuses immediately. A matter of pride rather than practicality. He's not so useless that he needs to be carted around because of his bum leg.
(Again.)
Emma arrives, brings him a spare set of clothes from the safehouse, which he quickly pulls on. (Or at least, as quickly as his injuries allow; the bruising on his back from the bullet impacting his vest proves to be a bigger problem than he initially expected.) A loose fitting tee and dark sweats. Nothing fancy or jaw-dropping, but almost anything would've been better than that damned hospital gown. He's glad to be out of it at last.
He signs all the forms he needs to (and probably gave away a kidney in his haste), but at last they say their goodbyes and let him loose onto the world. Faraday hobbles along after Emma as they leave, his crutches clicking and creaking as they bear his weight, and as they reach the elevator to ride down to the lobby, he leans back against the wall, looks her over critically. ]
You manage to get any sleep?
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she isn't especially bothered by the extended stay, but while the safehouse is actually fairly nice, she misses her own place and her personal things. she doesn't get homesick frequently, but the stress of this particular mission has left her with a desire for the familiar, for something she trusts and makes her feel safe.
she's dug up a lot of old demons this time around, and hasn't much enjoyed seeing them again.
glancing at faraday in the elevator, she just nods. ]
More than I needed, probably.
[ and yet she still looks exhausted. ]
How's the leg?
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[ Which isn’t entirely accurate. The wound had been stitched together, but it still twinges, still aches. The bottle of painkillers clicks quietly in his pocket, but pride keeps him from taking too many of those. He’ll just self-medicate with a few bottles of vodka if he absolutely needs to.
He peers at her, doesn’t seem entirely convinced that she’s slept at all, and it shows in the furrow on his brow, in the thin set of his lips. The look that silently calls bullshit.
The doors ping quietly, slide open to spill them out into the hospital’s lobby. A quiet flow of people in and out, soft and subdued, and Faraday hops along with Emma as they move through to the car waiting outside. ]
When are we going home?
[ Because Emma’s not the only one itching for something familiar. With their work being what it is, neither of them spend much time at home. But this job has been— rough. He has a fridge full of beer with his name on it, and sleeping in his own bed sounds like a goddamn luxury. ]
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emma might have opened faraday's door for him, if she hadn't expected it to be met with protests, and instead, waits on the driver's side to watch him (make sure he doesn't drop his crutches or something else inconvenient). ]
It ought to be tomorrow, if we're lucky. Maybe we'll catch a flight tonight.
[ the agency had been waiting to book travel arrangements for them, at least until they knew when faraday would be on his feet again. ]
I'm waitin' to hear back on the situation.
[ she hopes it'll be sooner rather than later, because, admittedly, more days in the small space with faraday isn't too appealing as a concept. there's only so long she can spend concentrated time with the man before his constant talking starts to wear on her nerves.
maybe he'll spend most of that time asleep. that would be nice.
however, she remembers the conversation he expects them to have, and the dread of it just sits in the pit of her stomach. ]
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[ It’s a good thing she doesn’t open the door for him, because he would have kicked up a fuss, would’ve pouted and complained about not being an invalid the whole way back. He manages getting into the car himself, if not a little awkwardly. He leaves the crutches in the back seat, balances and limps his way back to the front and slides in. Not ideal; his doctor surely would’ve frowned in disapproval at him, but what the doc didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
The ride back to the safehouse is mostly silent, what with Faraday riding out his exhaustion and the last dregs of the painkillers in his system. The rocking of the car is soothing, leaves him a little sleepy – but he keeps himself from dozing off by sheer force of will alone. Straightens in his seat to keep his head from tipping against the window. Once they’re there, he manages getting out of the car on his own, once again, retrieving his crutches himself.
The safehouse is a welcome change, and he feels himself relax as they pass through the doors. It’s not home, by any means, but it’s a change of scenery from the whites and pale greens and constant murmur of doctors and nurses and patients. It’s quiet in a way Faraday doesn’t usually appreciate.
Too damn bad he breaks that quiet almost immediately, though. ]
You didn’t toss my cigarettes, did you?
[ because he would kill for one, right now. ]
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No, I did.
[ said matter-of-factly. ]
Smoking slows your healin' time, you know.
[ (emma also thinks his smoking is disgusting, but this had just been a good excuse to get rid of the cigarettes.) ]
Buy more when we're back home, if you're really needin' some.
[ 'but don't do it around me,' is the unspoken addition. ]
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I believe I might actually hate you, right now.
[ Though there’s no heat in his words, aside from a thread of irritation. Emma disliked his habit – but then again, which of his habits didn’t she dislike? – and he’s none too surprised to hear she had chucked his pack while he was laid up.
He sinks onto the nearby couch, propping his crutches up against the arm. His leg gives a little flare of pain, now that the drugs are wearing off, and he digs the heel of his palm into the top of his thigh, trying to relieve some of the pressure. He stays mum on the subject, though, instead grumbling, ]
You’ve got no one to blame but yourself when I bite your head off.
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